The 4th-century pastor and Bishop, Gregory of Nyssa, expressed the difficulty of preaching at family members’ funerals. When eulogizing his brother, Basil the Great, Gregory noted the “burden” of honoring his life. Despite the personal strain, he viewed his oration as “good medicine” for the grieving.
In addition to pointing people to Jesus Christ at a funeral, as Gregory did, appropriate humor can also be “good medicine.”
I’ve often pondered, at the many funerals I’ve presided over (including family members: my father, mother, two older brothers, wife, two uncles, and father-in-law), how readily people laugh. After all, by its very nature, the funeral is a sad occasion: someone has died; people’s hearts are heavy and broken by loss.
Yet, depending on the nature of the loss, humor relieves people of the stress associated with the event.
Dr. Jeff Moore, Pastor of First Baptist Church in Altus, Oklahoma, welcomed people at my brother’s funeral. Looking at the church packed with people, he said, “It’s a shame Mark didn’t have any friends.” The congregation laughed, welcoming his humorous observation about my brother’s popularity.
I’ve sometimes worked Woody Allen’s line into the early part of a funeral, when appropriate: “I’m not afraid to die,” Allen quipped, “I just don’t want to be there when it happens.” People chuckle; it’s an immediate relief of tension.
There’s a reason why we generally respond positively to this repartee.
Have you ever noticed how uneasy people tend to be at funerals? It’s a high-stress environment.
We don’t know the day or hour of our death; we have little or no control over it; death yawns at us with mystery. Funerals are stark reminders that the statistics on death are quite impressive: one out of one of us dies.
Making jokes about death can provide a sense of control over a situation that feels uncontrollable by placing the situation in perspective. It helps us look away from our own demise and its permanence.
So, people chuckle at stories about what the deceased may be doing in heaven because it blunts the reality of their absence, making the sadness of the grieving more manageable. Laughter triggers the brain to release endorphins, which are natural painkillers that help relieve both emotional and physical discomfort.
Ministers are not immune to grief either, and humor can lift the parson’s emotions, enabling them to deliver a funeral sermon with controlled emotion.
On one occasion, some time ago (not my brother’s funeral), I was about to walk down the aisle with the funeral director. I turned off my cell phone, whispering to the director, “I always make sure my phone is on silent,” to which he responded, “Oh yes, I lost mine one time and found out the hard way to make sure it’s off.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I called it during the funeral,” he said, “so I could find it. And I found it.”
“Where was it?”
“In the casket,” he sheepishly told me.
But my personal favorite came at my brother, Mark’s, funeral. Actually, it was after the funeral, as the kitchen volunteers prepared the meal for family and friends. One lady who did not know me complimented my funeral sermon. And then she added, “He should have been a preacher.”
How could I not laugh? I’d rather people not know I was a preacher and think I should be one than for them to know I was a preacher and say I shouldn’t have been one.
I’m grateful I was and am. As heavy as preaching my brother’s funeral was, it placed me in a position to, as Gregory of Nyssa said, gladden the hearts of the grieving by turning grief into the hope of resurrection.
Yes, the hope of resurrection. As Gregory said, that’s “good medicine.”
Good medicine with no expiration date. od medicine with no expiration date