We must all go our own way

For this was no ordinary funeral but one that began and finished with rock music, where people not only cried but belly-laughed out loud. There were no prayers or blessings. And no one sang except, perhaps, in their hearts.

I’ve been to too many funerals in the past few years and until this one, most of them have struck me as an occasion of muted ordeal, a timed slot on a conveyor belt, an end of life process to be endured rather than celebrated.

Words of the funeral service are said because they’re always said, the prayers quietly mumbled, the hymns sung sparsely, waveringly as tears spill.

For many, the traditional way of doing things, the very method and ritual of saying the words we always say, of singing the hymns we always sing, of praying the same prayers we always pray, are of enormous succour and comfort at the time, not to mention in the dark days ahead.

But for others, who might not believe, who choose not to have a religion as a focus in their lives so aren’t necessarily used to the way of such things, singing the hymns and saying the prayers because people feel that’s what you’re supposed to do, perhaps in their eyes doesn’t befit or do justice to the person they’ve come to say goodbye to.

Some might say I have a jaundiced view of how we handle funerals in our society, and in a way it’s not surprising – when my dad died 25 years ago this winter, we were shuffled into the local crematorium and shuffled out again.

The vicar, whom we’d never met and came from miles away in rent-a-rev fashion, failed to read out the eulogy I’d painstakingly and tearfully written, during the one-size-fits-all service. The much-loved person we were saying goodbye to could have been any old bloke – and probably was – as far as he was concerned.

I’ve never forgotten the indifference with which our family was treated, the ‘move-along-there’ production line approach of the crematorium staff (I suppose they were really busy – it was the depths of winter, after all), the feeling that this was just one more service to cram in on a hectic day.

So to attend an event that genuinely did celebrate the life of the person who had left the here and now, for all its sadness and deep distress (to watch a mother say goodbye to her child surely has to be one of the worst things any of us can ever witness) it really was a privilege to be part of such an occasion.

For even if you were one of those who didn’t know too well the person at the centre of it all - he that was no longer with us - you really did feel that his funeral captured the essence of all that he was and everything that he meant to those who loved him.

It reminded me of another funeral I went to some years ago where we all tramped up a hillside behind the wicker casket, the son of its dead incumbent carrying a ghetto blaster on his shoulder that was belting out rock band Lynyrd Skynyrd’s ‘Freebird,’ his dad’s favourite music track of all time.

We stood overlooking the Vale of York, a gentle zephyr hissing through the trees and rough grassland as one after the other, people spoke of their memories and thoughts, cracked jokes and generally just had a thought-provoking and emotionally satisfying good time.

A good time it really was too, because the family were saying goodbye their way, because their way was what the person they were saying farewell to had said he wanted to happen to him when he was no longer able to.

And isn’t that what it’s all about? There’s nothing so sure in life as our death, and whether we want the comforting ritual of hymns and prayers or we don’t, we shouldn’t be frightened of saying how we want our loved ones to say goodbye to us when we go, even if we’re young and carefree with our lives stretching before us.

Talking about our own death is still taboo for many. But when our time comes don’t we want our families and friends to capture the essence of the person we are as they say farewell? For surely, therein lies the comfort we all need as we go through the most difficult of occasions life can throw at us.