Edited
One
of the things I do is conduct funerals. And at a funeral, one of the things I
often do, on behalf of the family, is to tell the story of the deceased. To
offer the eulogy (Greek: to speak well [of the dead]).
This
has not always been the way. Until 2000, the Church of England funeral service
made no provision for a tribute or eulogy. Until 1980, the deceased was not
even named, beyond our brother/sister, the focus being presenting the
congregation with their own mortality and the sure and certain hope that Jesus
has defeated death. After 1980, the deceased got a mention by name, but only at
the point, towards the very end of the service, where they were commended to
God.
But
the population is no longer sure or certain about death having been defeated,
and we do not want to be confronted with our own mortality, and so we want a
funeral to be a celebration of a life, and the Church has sought to navigate a
middle way, to help people move towards the hope they have mislaid.
And
so, before a funeral, I meet with the family, and help them to do some
detective work, to piece together the life we will remember. What do you know
about your father or mother, your husband or wife, before you were a part of
their life? And at every funeral, the congregation, even family members, find
out something they did not know.
The
story of siblings Martha, Mary, and Lazarus, told in the Gospels, is such an
example of family history. Here are some parts of their personal histories that
might be news to you. Some scholars (see, for example, Mary Stromer Hanson)
believe that Martha was a minister, who in our language and context might be
the parish vicar. Twice, she is described as ministering in the same way that
is used of Moses in relation to the people he led out of Egypt, and of the
apostles, and by Paul of those in whose homes the churches he wrote to meet. Some
scholars believe that Mary was a peripatetic evangelist, or in our language a
missionary. The biographer Luke describes her as ‘sitting at Jesus’ feet,
learning from him,’ which is a way of saying that she was one of rabbi Jesus’
apprentices, or disciples, one of the seventy-two he had recently sent out
ahead of him to every place he intended to go. Lazarus is unmarried, is not the
head of the family (that is his sister Martha) and does not speak. Some
scholars believe that he was significantly disabled, which would also imply
that his sisters were what today we would call his carers.
These
overlapping, interwoven lives resulted in tensions between them, as for so many
families. Once, when Jesus was travelling about, having sent seventy-two
apprentices ahead of him to every place he was about to go, Mary among them, he
arrived in their town and entered their home. The biographer Luke tells us that
Martha was anxious about the demands her ministry placed upon her (perhaps due
to the added demands of caring for Lazarus though Luke does not mention him)
and asked Jesus if he shared (if he could relate to) her anxieties? She asked
him to tell Mary, when he next came across her in whichever place she had gone
(for neither Martha nor Jesus address Mary, and neither does she reply to them,
suggesting that she is not present), to return home and share the burden with
her sister. But Jesus would not, instead helping Martha see things from the
perspective of her sister Mary, and at the same time to refocus on the
essentials of her own ministry and family commitments. If extraneous things are
left undone, they are left undone.
I
am not Jesus, but people confide such sibling tensions to me all the time. This
is common to family life, especially where there are elderly parents or other
family members with additional support needs.
The
biographer John recounts the events surrounding the death of Lazarus. And like
the traditional Church of England funeral service, the focus is not Lazarus but
his sisters who survive him (Lazarus having neither wife nor children).
John
recounts their grief, which is uncontainable. He also notes the way in which it
flips their behaviour. Martha, who ministered in her own village, leaves the
village behind in search of Jesus on his way. Mary, who had left the village to
carry the good news to other parishes, cannot face leaving home. Again, while
grief does not follow a formula, this is not uncommon. They will need support
to find a meeting place, common ground, literally and metaphorically at the
boundary edge of the village.
John
also recounts the empathy Jesus shows, and his engagement with his own grief at
the death of a friend. The outpouring of his grief is described both as noisy
and noiseless, making a sound like a stallion and shedding wrenching silent
tears. John describes Jesus as stirring up his spirit, and as stilling his
spirit. Like a horse-whisperer, he trains his grief, so that something wild,
untamed and free, becomes something useful, something he can partner with,
something that can carry him from where he is to where he will be. This is a
masterclass in grief-work, in acknowledging what has been lost and fashioning a
new future that is different (and it is different, even though in this instance
Jesus will resuscitate Lazarus).
John
also tells us that the other mourners (unhelpfully translated as the Jews: but
they are all Jewish; these are better translated as the Judeans, in contrast to
Jesus and his closest apprentices, who are Galileans) pass judgement on Jesus.
Some see his grief as evidence of how much he loved Lazarus; while others are
critical: if this man heals the sick, why could he not bother to heal his own
friend before it was too late?
It
is important to recognise that these Judeans are, themselves, grieving, and
that grief can skew how we relate to others. We want people to make allowances
for us but may find it harder to make allowances for them. While grief is raw,
we can be hurtful. In our pain, we can inflict pain. Again, this experience is
readily recognisable, one that a vicar comes across all the time, that calls us
to help family members navigate this liminal space. Grieving people need to be
gentle on themselves and others. We are all grieving people. We all need help
to not lose sight of this.
Luke
and John are both master story tellers, and between them help us to weave
together a story of a family, a story that takes in each member, and brings
together life and death under the care of Jesus, in sure and certain hope not
only of the resurrection of the dead at some future point but of the remaking
of our world every time it comes to an end.
For
those of us who belong to the Church, this is our family, our story. Our
tensions, our grief, our faith, and our hope.
And
we rehearse this story again and again in our own lives.
