Advent Day 15: Funeral

“In Aramaic talitha cumi means “little girl, get up.” It’s the language Jesus and his friends probably used when they spoke to each other, so these may well be his actual words, among the very few that have come down to us verbatim. He spoke them at a child’s funeral, the twelve-year-old of a man named Jairus (Mark 5:35-43).

The occasion took place at the man’s house. There was plenty of the kind of sorrow you expect when anybody that young dies. And that’s one of the great uses of funerals surely, to be cited when people protest that they’re barbaric holdovers from the past, that you should celebrate the life rather than mourn the death, and so on. Celebrate the life by all means but face up to the death of that life. Weep all the tears you have in you to weep because whatever may happen next, if anything does, this has happened. Something precious and irreplaceable has come to an end and something in you has come to an end with it. Funerals put a period after the sentence’s last word. They close a door. They let you get on with your life.

The child was dead, but Jesus, when he go there, said she was only asleep. He said the same thing when his friend Lazarus died. Death is not any more permanent than sleep is permanent is what he meant apparently. That isn’t to say he took death lightly. When he heard about Lazarus, he wept, and it’s hard to imagine him doing any differently here. Gut if death is the closing of one door, he seems to say, it is the opening of another one. Talitha cumi. He took the little girl’s hand, and he told her to get up, and she did. The mother and father were there, Mark says. The neighbors, the friends. It is a scene to conjure with.

Old woman, get up. Young man. The one you don’t know how you’ll ever manage to live without. The one you don’t know how you ever managed to live with. Little girl. “Get up,” he says.

The other use of funerals is to remind us of those last two words. When the last hymn has been sung, the benediction given, and the immediate family escorted out a side door, they may be the best we have to make it possible to get up ourselves.”

Frederick Buechner, Whistling in the Dark

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