When a eulogy becomes a pilgrimage
Today's Times asks the inevitable question following the in the French Alps: What kind of God would allow something like this to happen? The question seems more pointed given the context -- a group of devout believers making a religious pilgrimage -- but the same question is struggled over every day by people of faith who experience suffering or have to watch a loved one suffer. Less sceptical commentators may point to mechanical -- and possibly human -- failure on a notoriously dangerous road. Some will even argue that God has a purpose in allowing the accident and will use this tragedy to provoke moral growth in the world (though one hopes that this explanation will not be offered in the hearing of any grieving family members). It is difficult to know how to theologise about a tragedy of this order without descending into cliche, trivialisation or offensiveness. There are many kinds of silence, and one of them is a humbled, respectful, listening silence.
But if anyone dare speak in response to this tragic accident, they could learn much from , the American justice activist who died last year, about what not to say to someone whose heart is breaking. In 1983, Dr Coffin's son Alex was killed in a car accident. Ten days after Alex's death, he delivered this extraordinary sermon to his congregation at Riverside Church in New York City.
"Eulogy for Alex" by William Sloane Coffin
As almost all of you know, a week ago last Monday night, driving in a terrible storm, my son â Alexander â who to his friends was a real day-brightener, and to his family "fair as a star when only one is shining in the sky" â my twenty-four-year-old Alexander, who enjoyed beating his old man at every game and in every race, beat his father to the grave.
Among the healing flood of letters that followed his death was one carrying this wonderful quote from the end of Hemingway's "A Farewell to Arms":
"The world breaks everyone, then some become strong at the broken places."
My own broken heart is mending, and largely thanks to so many of you, my dear parishioners; for if in the last week I have relearned one lesson, it is that love not only begets love, it transmits strength.
When a person dies, there are many things that can be said, and there is at least one thing that should never be said. The night after Alex died I was sitting in the living room of my sister's house outside of Boston, when the front door opened and in came a nice-looking, middle-aged woman, carrying about eighteen quiches. When she saw me, she shook her head, then headed for the kitchen, saying sadly over her shoulder, "I just don't understand the will of God." Instantly I was up and in hot pursuit, swarming all over her. "I'll say you don't, lady!" I said.
For some reason, nothing so infuriates me as the incapacity of seemingly intelligent people to get it through their heads that God doesn't go around this world with his fingers on triggers, his fists around knives, his hands on steering wheels. God is dead set against all unnatural deaths. And Christ spent an inordinate amount of time delivering people from paralysis, insanity, leprosy, and muteness. Which is not to say that there are no nature-caused deaths â I can think of many right here in this parish in the five years I've been here â deaths that are untimely and slow and pain-ridden, which for that reason raise unanswerable questions, and even the specter of a Cosmic Sadist â yes, even an Eternal Vivisector. But violent deaths, such as the one Alex died â to understand those is a piece of cake. As his younger brother put it simply, standing at the head of the casket at the Boston funeral, "You blew it, buddy. You blew it." The one thing that should never be said when someone dies is "It is the will of God." Never do we know enough to say that. My own consolation lies in knowing that it was not the will of God that Alex die; that when the waves closed over the sinking car, God's heart was the first of all our hearts to break.
I mentioned the healing flood of letters. Some of the very best, and easily the worst, knew their Bibles better than the human condition. I know all the "right" biblical passages, including "Blessed are those who mourn," and my faith is no house of rest, came from fellow reverends, a few of whom proved they knew their cards; these passages are true, I know. But the point is this. While the words of the Bible are true, grief renders them unreal. The reality of grief is the absence of God â "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" The reality of grief is the solitude of pain, the feeling that your heart is in pieces, your mind's a blank, that "there is no joy the world can give like that it takes away." (Lord Byron).
That's why immediately after such a tragedy people must come to your rescue, people who only want to hold your hand, not to quote anybody or even say anything, people who simply bring food and flowers â the basics of beauty and life â people who sign letters simply, "Your brokenhearted sister." In other words, in my intense grief I felt some of my fellow reverends â not many, and none of you, thank God â were using comforting words of Scripture for self-protection, to pretty up a situation whose bleakness they simply couldn't face. But like God herself, Scripture is not around for anyone's protection, just for everyone's unending support.
And that's what hundreds of you understood so beautifully. You gave me what God gives all of us â minimum protection, maximum support. I swear to you, I wouldn't be standing here were I not upheld.
After the death of his wife, C.S. Lewis wrote, "They say 'the coward dies many times'; so does the beloved. Didn't the eagle find a fresh liver to tear in Prometheus every time it dined?"
When parents die, as my mother did last month, they take with them a large portion of the past. But when children die, they take away the future as well. That is what makes the valley of the shadow of death seem so incredibly dark and unending. In a prideful way it would be easier to walk the valley alone, nobly, head high, instead of â as we must â marching as the latest recruit in the world's army of the bereaved.
Still there is much by way of consolation. Because there are no rankling unanswered questions, and because Alex and I simply adored each other, the wound for me is deep, but clean. I know how lucky I am! I also know this day-brightener of a son wouldn't wish to be held close by grief (nor, for that matter, would any but the meanest of our beloved departed) and that, interestingly enough, when I mourn Alex least I see him best.
Another consolation, of course, will be the learning â which better be good, given the price. But it's a fact: few of us are naturally profound. We have to be forced down. So while trite, it's true:
I walked a mile with Pleasure,
She chattered all the way;
But left me none the wiser
For all she had to say.
I walked a mile with Sorrow
And ne'er a word said she;
But the things I learned from her
But oh, the things I learned from her
When sorrow walked with me.
--Robert Browning Hamilton
Or, in Emily Dickinson's verse:
By a departing light
We see acuter quite
Than by a wick that stays.
There's something in the flight
That clarifies the sight
And decks the rays.
And of course I know, even when pain is deep, that God is good. "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" Yes, but at least, "My God, my God"; and the psalm only begins that way, it doesn't end that way. As the grief that once seemed unbearable begins to turn now to bearable sorrow, the truths in the "right" biblical passages are beginning, once again, to take hold: "Cast thy burden upon the Lord and He shall strengthen thee"; "Weeping may endure for the night but joy cometh in the morning"; "Lord, by thy favor thou hast made my mountain to stand strong"; "For thou hast delivered my soul from death, mine eyes from tears, and my feet from falling"; "In this world ye shall have tribulation, but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world"; "The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it."
And finally I know that when Alex beat me to the grave, the finish line was not Boston Harbor in the middle of the night. If a week ago last Monday, a lamp went out, it was because, for him at least, the Dawn had come.
So I shall â so let us all â seek consolation in that love which never dies, and find peace in the dazzling grace that always is.
Comments
I agree about the need for silence regarding those grieving.
But I think much of our exasperation could be tempered if we could see our lives more from God's perspective than our own.
God gave man dominion over the world at the beginning - and free will - and man so man has had the responsibility for his conduct since then, and for infecting all of creation with his sin.
I read someone say recently that this is only a training ground for eternity.
If we (me included) could only get a fraction of a grasp between the difference between time and eternity we would cling much less to time and be closer to God's perspective.
Paul said he would prefer to be in eternity (where all pain and suffering ends), but worked all the harder here in time until he left.
PB
I read through this with utter esteem for the sentiments therein and Will is right to say that those who speak in response to a tragedy like this they could learn much from this eulogy, which said it all, so very very well. Then, as I began to re-read it, I noticed that the guy's name is William Sloane Coffin. Would it be abhorrent to find that intensely funny?
What an interesting article William
I think it will serve as a reminder of many stupid things we all have said to people who are grieving the main one probably being
âI know how you feelâ I think you raise an important point when you say âThere are many kinds of silence, and one of them is a humbled, respectful listening silenceâ
All too often we speak when we should be listening
and what an inspiring Eulogy by William Sloane Coffin concerning his Son and his Faith.
I'm puzzled by all of this. I was impressed by the Amish last year when that young girl was killed. They said it was god's will, that she is in heaven now and they moved on without the tearjerking remorse many who call them true believers in a faith feel. They accepted that it was god's will. After the tsunami, some Moslem clerics said it was god's punishment for their sins. I'm not a believer but at least I appreciate when people demonstrate that they actually believe in what they say they do. Why would someone grieve for a loved one who is in heaven or in paradise. I'm always puzzled at these Moslem women who wail like Banshees when their terrorist sons are killed as what they believe to be martyrs. Why are they unhappy if they think he is in paradise with 72 virgins or are they just feeling sorry for themselves?
This brings up additional illogic in religion. For instance, the Christians persecuted the Jews for nearly two thousand years because as they said, they believed the Jews killed Jesus. But assuming they did, if they hadn't (it was supposed to be god's plan all along) there would be no Christian religion and no savior who died to save everyone else. So why were they angry?
It seems to me for those believers who grieve, their religion brings them little more comfort than those who don't. The older I get, the more I accept that death is the inevitable consequence of life, why can't believers?
Until one has personally experienced the loss of a loved one, one can not understand the feelings about the death both positive and negative. In my case on the death of my wife they were summed up well in a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay entitled âDirge without Musicâ.
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the cold ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind.
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely.
Crowned with lilies and Laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers into the earth with you.
To be one with the dull, indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, A phrase remains....but the best is lost.
The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,
They are gone. They have gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave.
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know, but I do not approve, and I am not resigned.
Anonymous- I think people are grieving because they're sad to see someone go. Is that so hard to understand? No matter where they're going or what they're going to experience, the primary reason people mourn a death is because they know they'll miss the person who died and won't see them again. The fact you find that puzzling makes me glad not to be in your family!
Wind your head in John!!
Thousands of people have died without the benefit of a poetic father!
Will was tyring to elicit thoughts about the whole concept of a god's will.
Have a think about the bigger picture!!
Either it is god's will or there is no god!
There is no god!!
Realist- I'm struggling to understand how what you said relates to anything I posted above whatsoever. Did you perhaps mistake me for someone else??
John Wright #5
That makes two of us. But I'm an atheist. As far as I can tell, when you die, in the words of Art Bell, it's....."lights out" (I love the way he puts it.) So people are feeling sorry for themselves instead of happy for the one they believe is now in heaven. Well, that really is selfish and here I thought some believers like Christians are supposed to be charitable. Continue the suffering of living in preference to going to heaven just so you'll have their company around. That's the puzzlement of it all. How much suffering? Well compared to heaven isn't all of life suffering? I'm sure there must be something somewhere in the Bible which says words to that effect. (There's words for everything else.) So why the grief, self pity?
There was a funny one on the Twilight Zone where as I recall, the story opens with people from all over a small Western town sitting around in a bar lamenting the loss of their beloved dearly departed. Then a miracle working preacher comes to town promising at midnight, all the dead will rise from boot hill and come back to life. And that's what happens to the horror of all those townsfolk. I think in the end they pay him a fortune to make the dead go back to their graves. Then he moves on to the next town.
BTW, anonymous was I ere I saw Suomynona WTB, but I'm sure you guessed that right away.
yeah
A powerful eulogy. I was moved to tears, to be perfectly honest. Thanks for posting this. I do hope that many will learn what not to say to a grieving loved one. As for the theological issues, I agree with William on the need for respectful silence. The silence of God over the cross is our model here.
Different cultures have different views of death. In the fascinating documentary movie Mondo Cane' which was released in 1962, among the strange and seemingly depraved (to Western eyes) behavior is one segment about old people in China who wait around in the upper floor of a house to die while their families are downstairs at a party celebrating their deaths. To them Western attitudes would be incomprehensible.
Well yes this is all very well but why, then, do Christians _thank_ God when something goes right. So he has a hand in making our lives better but not worse? Thought he was omnipotent and omnipresent. Seems a good deal for him - get all the praise when things go our way but none of the blame when things go wrong due to no fault of our own.
very good question Anne. Very on the point I think.