Rev. Ellen Alston
Some of the most profound ways I have known God in my life have been through experiences of hospitality. As an itinerant PK (“preacher’s kid”), I know well what it means to be the new kid on the block, and I have been given space and welcome time and time again. On a mission trip to Russia, I was bowled over by the sacrifices made by Russians who had spent nearly a month’s precious and scarce income to make sure that we were “hosted” well, when our purpose for making the journey was to be of help and support to them! Whether in another time zone or in the aisle of my local grocery store, I am in awe of the way encounters with seemingly perfect strangers can have the quality of connecting as long-lost friends.
I keep learning how God truly lives in relationships, in the spaces between and among and in and through us - whose coming together really doesn’t much happen without some intentionality, or at least openness, on someone’s part. And opportunities abound: as Lauren Winner points out in Mudhouse Sabbath, “To throw a dinner party is not to abandon the poor; it is to begin hospitality with people you know.”
If your schedule is anything like mine, it is a rare occurrence to have some company over for a formal meal, much less an overnight. But what difference might it make in our lives, our journey, our day, to regard strangers as those to be welcomed and received on our pathways as family and friends? What would it be like to regard our family members and close friends as strangers about whom we are deeply curious and whom we seek to welcome in fresh ways? How might I intentionally choose an “extra step” to take that moves in this direction? I believe these musings and descriptions can well fit under the ample and gracious umbrella of “hospitality,” whose roots include the meaning of “shelter,” “power,” and “protection.”
And the ways I have experienced hospitality become reminders and teachers for the promise of my offering the same.
Would you sing (or at least hum) with me today…
“Lord, prepare me to be a sanctuary, pure and holy, tried and true.
With thanksgiving, I’ll be a living sanctuary for you.”
AMEN!
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Hospitality
Ellen Blue
Hospitality is on my mind these days.
One reason is that my seminary will welcome Rev. Lorenza Andrade Smith to campus on April 17. Most of Lorenza’s life is focused on hospitality, though not so much in welcoming others as in giving others a chance to welcome her.
An ordained elder in the Rio Grande Annual Conference, Lorenza is a compact, 40-something woman with long, dark hair, whose head maybe reaches my shoulder. She’s intelligent, well-spoken, engaging. She radiates authenticity. She is full of humor, but absolutely serious about her mission.
Lorenza follows Jesus. And she is homeless.
At her own request, she is appointed by her bishop to a ministry to the streets. Last spring, she sold or gave away her possessions. Now, her backpack holds a chalice, a Bible, and the rest of what she owns. She sleeps on the streets or in homeless shelters.
Except sometimes, she sleeps in jail.
A photograph of Lorenza went viral last fall. Handcuffed and wearing a clerical collar, she is walking through the night next to her arresting officer. To look at that photograph is to see her as a saint; God’s hold on her shines on her face.
She was arrested at a peaceful protest at Kay Bailey Hutchinson’s office in San Antonio after the Senator withdrew her support for the DREAM Act, legislation that would provide a path to citizenship for students brought here before they turned 16. Students who were also arrested had exams, so Lorenza remained incarcerated on their behalf, fasting and praying. Other religious leaders persuaded her to take liquids and food by promising to fast on her behalf. People took turns fasting to cover the first year, and the project still continues.
Lorenza was arrested again, standing with housekeepers on strike against a Hyatt. She’s been ticketed several times for sleeping on park benches. She is free now because the jail is too crowded. Despite her refusal to pay her fine, a judge sent her away, hoping she would just stay out of trouble. Fat chance.
Her bus pass lets her travel around to talk about being in solidarity with people who are homeless, in exile, poor. She doesn’t stay in private homes, choosing to be where other homeless people could also stay. We’ll be looking for a shelter that might be able to welcome her for a few days in April.
In Mudhouse Sabbath, Lauren Winner makes a rhetorical move from talking about hospitality as welcoming someone into her home for a meal, to talking about it as welcoming someone into her life. I hope that I can celebrate Lorenza’s visit to Tulsa by advocating more strongly for the U.S. to show hospitality to the DREAMers; by practicing hospitality myself through sharing more of what I have with those who need it; and as Lauren suggests, by opening my own heart a little more to others.
Follow her journey on Facebook by friending Lorenza Andrade Smith. Participate in the fast through the Facebook page “365 Day Fast in Solidarity with DREAMers.”
Hospitality is on my mind these days.
One reason is that my seminary will welcome Rev. Lorenza Andrade Smith to campus on April 17. Most of Lorenza’s life is focused on hospitality, though not so much in welcoming others as in giving others a chance to welcome her.
An ordained elder in the Rio Grande Annual Conference, Lorenza is a compact, 40-something woman with long, dark hair, whose head maybe reaches my shoulder. She’s intelligent, well-spoken, engaging. She radiates authenticity. She is full of humor, but absolutely serious about her mission.
Lorenza follows Jesus. And she is homeless.
At her own request, she is appointed by her bishop to a ministry to the streets. Last spring, she sold or gave away her possessions. Now, her backpack holds a chalice, a Bible, and the rest of what she owns. She sleeps on the streets or in homeless shelters.
Except sometimes, she sleeps in jail.
A photograph of Lorenza went viral last fall. Handcuffed and wearing a clerical collar, she is walking through the night next to her arresting officer. To look at that photograph is to see her as a saint; God’s hold on her shines on her face.
She was arrested at a peaceful protest at Kay Bailey Hutchinson’s office in San Antonio after the Senator withdrew her support for the DREAM Act, legislation that would provide a path to citizenship for students brought here before they turned 16. Students who were also arrested had exams, so Lorenza remained incarcerated on their behalf, fasting and praying. Other religious leaders persuaded her to take liquids and food by promising to fast on her behalf. People took turns fasting to cover the first year, and the project still continues.
Lorenza was arrested again, standing with housekeepers on strike against a Hyatt. She’s been ticketed several times for sleeping on park benches. She is free now because the jail is too crowded. Despite her refusal to pay her fine, a judge sent her away, hoping she would just stay out of trouble. Fat chance.
Her bus pass lets her travel around to talk about being in solidarity with people who are homeless, in exile, poor. She doesn’t stay in private homes, choosing to be where other homeless people could also stay. We’ll be looking for a shelter that might be able to welcome her for a few days in April.
In Mudhouse Sabbath, Lauren Winner makes a rhetorical move from talking about hospitality as welcoming someone into her home for a meal, to talking about it as welcoming someone into her life. I hope that I can celebrate Lorenza’s visit to Tulsa by advocating more strongly for the U.S. to show hospitality to the DREAMers; by practicing hospitality myself through sharing more of what I have with those who need it; and as Lauren suggests, by opening my own heart a little more to others.
Follow her journey on Facebook by friending Lorenza Andrade Smith. Participate in the fast through the Facebook page “365 Day Fast in Solidarity with DREAMers.”
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Making room for God
Rev. Matt Rawle
Early in ministry I thought hospitality was a mastery of entertaining: making sure invitations were beautiful and informative, table settings were thematically appropriate, background music subconsciously audible, and gathering area open and spacious and full of greeters. I also prided myself on hospitality of the mind: entertaining an opposing idea. Superficially this seems to translate well in a local church, at least a hospitality team equips themselves to be ready for visitors to a worship experience or funeral service or open house of the new renovations, but hospitality as “entertaining,” seems hopelessly shallow when I meditate on what God has accomplished and is accomplishing through Christ in the power of the Holy Spirit. I certainly don’t think that God is entertaining humanity, at least, that sounds so incredibly shallow.
Hospitality is more than entertaining. It is making room. In John 14 Jesus tells the disciples that he goes to prepare a place for us. It is not a guest house, but a permanent dwelling place within the heart of God. Through Christ, in the power of the Holy Spirit, God is making room for us within the Godhead. We see it each Sunday when we gather for worship. Saint Augustine said that the Trinity is the Lover (God), the Beloved (Christ), and the love that they share (Holy Spirit). When we gather for worship we see a manifestation of the Trinity: God and the body of Christ lost in mutual adoration (not sure if this is theologically orthodox, but it’s a good picture anyway: “Ceci n’est pas une pipe”—Google it). When we make room for the stranger in a real and abiding way we find that God’s heart is bigger on the inside than it is on the outside (I know what you’re thinking, and yes, God’s heart is like the TARDIS).
Hospitality is part of the discipline of losing your life in order to find it. Our lives are filled with holy
(and not so holy) spaces: your home, your workplace, your church, your car. When we hopefully and intentionally make room for the stranger, these places are permanently transformed. They no longer fill our personal wants and desires, but are begging for the presence of “the other.” If we cannot make room for “the other,” how can we ask God, who is wholly (holy) other, to abide with us? So, we don’t make room in case those around us happen to be angels. That would be self-centered entertaining. In a way we make room in order to detach our soul from the stuff which so readily defines us. Making room is a sign of the kingdom. Making room points to the heart of God. We make room because God makes room for us.
Early in ministry I thought hospitality was a mastery of entertaining: making sure invitations were beautiful and informative, table settings were thematically appropriate, background music subconsciously audible, and gathering area open and spacious and full of greeters. I also prided myself on hospitality of the mind: entertaining an opposing idea. Superficially this seems to translate well in a local church, at least a hospitality team equips themselves to be ready for visitors to a worship experience or funeral service or open house of the new renovations, but hospitality as “entertaining,” seems hopelessly shallow when I meditate on what God has accomplished and is accomplishing through Christ in the power of the Holy Spirit. I certainly don’t think that God is entertaining humanity, at least, that sounds so incredibly shallow.
Hospitality is more than entertaining. It is making room. In John 14 Jesus tells the disciples that he goes to prepare a place for us. It is not a guest house, but a permanent dwelling place within the heart of God. Through Christ, in the power of the Holy Spirit, God is making room for us within the Godhead. We see it each Sunday when we gather for worship. Saint Augustine said that the Trinity is the Lover (God), the Beloved (Christ), and the love that they share (Holy Spirit). When we gather for worship we see a manifestation of the Trinity: God and the body of Christ lost in mutual adoration (not sure if this is theologically orthodox, but it’s a good picture anyway: “Ceci n’est pas une pipe”—Google it). When we make room for the stranger in a real and abiding way we find that God’s heart is bigger on the inside than it is on the outside (I know what you’re thinking, and yes, God’s heart is like the TARDIS).
Hospitality is part of the discipline of losing your life in order to find it. Our lives are filled with holy
(and not so holy) spaces: your home, your workplace, your church, your car. When we hopefully and intentionally make room for the stranger, these places are permanently transformed. They no longer fill our personal wants and desires, but are begging for the presence of “the other.” If we cannot make room for “the other,” how can we ask God, who is wholly (holy) other, to abide with us? So, we don’t make room in case those around us happen to be angels. That would be self-centered entertaining. In a way we make room in order to detach our soul from the stuff which so readily defines us. Making room is a sign of the kingdom. Making room points to the heart of God. We make room because God makes room for us.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Stranger danger changer
Rabbi Dr. Jana L. De Benedetti
Lauren Winner discusses the importance of welcoming guests in two different places. First she talks about ways she felt welcome at Church, and then she discusses the importance of welcoming guests into your home. She laments that her home is too small to be able to invite guests. It is impressive that she is moving to a larger apartment, with the primary goal of finding a place that will allow her to have guests.
On a personal level, I would rather not talk about what it takes to have guests in my own home. She lives alone. I have two young adult sons at my house. My space is not my own. My mess is not my own. She is very insightful and inspiring when she describes working on your own space so that it becomes a place that is welcoming to others. Opening ones home and heart to the possibility of guests helps people to see the world with open, caring eyes.
It is not just important to welcome people in your home, it is also important to be welcoming in our congregations. I have to admit that I was surprised that she began the chapter with admitting that she feels uncomfortable when she goes to a new house of worship. One of the things that I love is getting to visit other synagogues – I know that there will be some different customs, but I cherish the fact that wherever I go in the world, the liturgy will be basically the same. The Hebrew will be the same. The order of the service will be the same. Wherever I go, I will be at “home.” Feeling comfortable with the liturgy is not the same as feeling welcome by the congregation.
My congregation prides itself on being a welcoming place. It is a house of worship, which means that anyone searching for a fulfilling spiritual experience should feel at home. I am proud when I hear from visitors – Jewish and non-Jewish – that we are accomplishing this. There are times when people feel uncomfortable at my congregation, and it is something I find hard to fix. Sometimes individuals feel that they are strangers in their own congregation. They see that others have groups to go with after services, or exclusive conversations. These are people who see themselves as strangers. That is a more difficult stranger to welcome. We obviously can tell when there is a new face in the crowd. It is easy to greet them, introduce ourselves, help them find their way around our building, congregation, and our worship. When the “stranger” is someone we see frequently, it is not as easy to know that they need help and guidance.
I hope that we are also very aware and welcoming to these “strangers.” However, I realize how very difficult it can be to help them. I believe that even God gets frustrated when it is hard to tell who is seeing the possibilities and who is seeing the negative. It reminds me of when the scouts were sent to see the Promised Land. Some came back and said that they saw themselves as small compared to the people already there. God decided that if they couldn’t see the reality, they didn’t get to go to the Promised Land at all.
I like to think that we learn from these lessons. I hope that we can learn to welcome new faces and old. We certainly remember what it was like to be strangers, and we remember what it was like not to be treated well because we were strangers. And we know what it means to be human, as we strive to be holy, that we have a responsibility to be welcoming. Perhaps we should also recognize that we have a responsibility to recognize when we are being welcomed.
Lauren Winner discusses the importance of welcoming guests in two different places. First she talks about ways she felt welcome at Church, and then she discusses the importance of welcoming guests into your home. She laments that her home is too small to be able to invite guests. It is impressive that she is moving to a larger apartment, with the primary goal of finding a place that will allow her to have guests.
On a personal level, I would rather not talk about what it takes to have guests in my own home. She lives alone. I have two young adult sons at my house. My space is not my own. My mess is not my own. She is very insightful and inspiring when she describes working on your own space so that it becomes a place that is welcoming to others. Opening ones home and heart to the possibility of guests helps people to see the world with open, caring eyes.
It is not just important to welcome people in your home, it is also important to be welcoming in our congregations. I have to admit that I was surprised that she began the chapter with admitting that she feels uncomfortable when she goes to a new house of worship. One of the things that I love is getting to visit other synagogues – I know that there will be some different customs, but I cherish the fact that wherever I go in the world, the liturgy will be basically the same. The Hebrew will be the same. The order of the service will be the same. Wherever I go, I will be at “home.” Feeling comfortable with the liturgy is not the same as feeling welcome by the congregation.
My congregation prides itself on being a welcoming place. It is a house of worship, which means that anyone searching for a fulfilling spiritual experience should feel at home. I am proud when I hear from visitors – Jewish and non-Jewish – that we are accomplishing this. There are times when people feel uncomfortable at my congregation, and it is something I find hard to fix. Sometimes individuals feel that they are strangers in their own congregation. They see that others have groups to go with after services, or exclusive conversations. These are people who see themselves as strangers. That is a more difficult stranger to welcome. We obviously can tell when there is a new face in the crowd. It is easy to greet them, introduce ourselves, help them find their way around our building, congregation, and our worship. When the “stranger” is someone we see frequently, it is not as easy to know that they need help and guidance.
I hope that we are also very aware and welcoming to these “strangers.” However, I realize how very difficult it can be to help them. I believe that even God gets frustrated when it is hard to tell who is seeing the possibilities and who is seeing the negative. It reminds me of when the scouts were sent to see the Promised Land. Some came back and said that they saw themselves as small compared to the people already there. God decided that if they couldn’t see the reality, they didn’t get to go to the Promised Land at all.
I like to think that we learn from these lessons. I hope that we can learn to welcome new faces and old. We certainly remember what it was like to be strangers, and we remember what it was like not to be treated well because we were strangers. And we know what it means to be human, as we strive to be holy, that we have a responsibility to be welcoming. Perhaps we should also recognize that we have a responsibility to recognize when we are being welcomed.
Get Over It!
Rev. Mimi McDowell
My first job out of graduate school was as the neonatal/pediatric social worker for a large hospital. While I was leading a support group for parents who had lost a child, one mother reported that a psychiatrist had told her, “It has been six weeks. You should be over it by now.” Oh my! That is not only rotten psychiatry; it is awful theology! To suggest that any death is “gotten over” within six weeks, especially a parent’s loss of a child, is unfathomable.
Lauren Winner not only dispels the myth that death is to be gotten over, but she presents a compelling argument for the rituals of communal mourning. When I was in college a sorority sister of mine died suddenly at the age of 19. In the days following her death and funeral we all wore black ribbons pinned just above our sorority pins, as an outward symbol of our mourning. There was something powerful in that. Many people stopped and asked about the black ribbon, and each time we would have the opportunity to tell the story of our friend and our grief at having lost her. Being able to tell the story, and having others honor your grief, helps to bring healing to the mourner.
For several years I have offered the reflection at a local hospice’s annual memorial service. As a part of the reflection, the congregation is always invited to speak aloud, in unison, the name of their loved one who has died. In the cacophony of voices, there is a feeling of community – of a diverse group united by a shared pain. In my reflection I almost always refer to the Psalms because I find them to be so genuinely honest in their expressions of pain and lament. One of my favorites is Psalm 30. “Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes in the morning,” the Psalmist David tells us. He doesn’t deny that there is cause for weeping. There was no pretense that life is all about joy. But he also offers assurance that the weeping will not last forever, but for only a night. Now we can quibble over how long that night really is. Certainly it is more than what we normally think of as one night, eight to ten hours of darkness at the end of a day. The truth is that the darkness of grief has no set time; no definition of when that night is over.
But the good news that the psalmist gives us is that weeping does not have the last word. At the end of human suffering comes rejoicing. God will even turn our mourning into dancing, according to the psalm. “You have turned my mourning into dancing; you have taken off my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.” (Ps. 30:11) But notice that weeping precedes joy, and mourning precedes dancing. David doesn’t give us false hope that life will be easy or pain-free. He acknowledges the cycle of life – suffering and relief, pain and joy, crying and laughing, mourning and dancing. And, as this season of Lent reminds us, perhaps even death and resurrection!
My first job out of graduate school was as the neonatal/pediatric social worker for a large hospital. While I was leading a support group for parents who had lost a child, one mother reported that a psychiatrist had told her, “It has been six weeks. You should be over it by now.” Oh my! That is not only rotten psychiatry; it is awful theology! To suggest that any death is “gotten over” within six weeks, especially a parent’s loss of a child, is unfathomable.
Lauren Winner not only dispels the myth that death is to be gotten over, but she presents a compelling argument for the rituals of communal mourning. When I was in college a sorority sister of mine died suddenly at the age of 19. In the days following her death and funeral we all wore black ribbons pinned just above our sorority pins, as an outward symbol of our mourning. There was something powerful in that. Many people stopped and asked about the black ribbon, and each time we would have the opportunity to tell the story of our friend and our grief at having lost her. Being able to tell the story, and having others honor your grief, helps to bring healing to the mourner.
For several years I have offered the reflection at a local hospice’s annual memorial service. As a part of the reflection, the congregation is always invited to speak aloud, in unison, the name of their loved one who has died. In the cacophony of voices, there is a feeling of community – of a diverse group united by a shared pain. In my reflection I almost always refer to the Psalms because I find them to be so genuinely honest in their expressions of pain and lament. One of my favorites is Psalm 30. “Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes in the morning,” the Psalmist David tells us. He doesn’t deny that there is cause for weeping. There was no pretense that life is all about joy. But he also offers assurance that the weeping will not last forever, but for only a night. Now we can quibble over how long that night really is. Certainly it is more than what we normally think of as one night, eight to ten hours of darkness at the end of a day. The truth is that the darkness of grief has no set time; no definition of when that night is over.
But the good news that the psalmist gives us is that weeping does not have the last word. At the end of human suffering comes rejoicing. God will even turn our mourning into dancing, according to the psalm. “You have turned my mourning into dancing; you have taken off my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.” (Ps. 30:11) But notice that weeping precedes joy, and mourning precedes dancing. David doesn’t give us false hope that life will be easy or pain-free. He acknowledges the cycle of life – suffering and relief, pain and joy, crying and laughing, mourning and dancing. And, as this season of Lent reminds us, perhaps even death and resurrection!
Saturday, March 3, 2012
The Dead Walking
Rev. Valerie Robideaux
My husband and I are big fans of the AMC show, The Walking Dead. Well, let me correct this statement. Thrilled to learn of the new zombie apocalypse series, my husband urged me to view the horrific scenes and I somehow lost myself in the emotional angst of the drama. The series is set in the outskirts of Atlanta, GA during the aftermath of an epidemic that leaves over 90% of humanity in a resurrected zombie state postmortem. Following a group of survivors, viewers watch with anticipation (possibly through their hand covered eyes, like me) during the survivors’ endless search for life and signs of hope in the midst of chilling and devastating debris. Life as they knew it is over and they are left to figure out life in this new reality.
As I read Lauren Winner’s chapter on the Jewish practice of avelut/mourning, I was surprisingly reminded of The Walking Dead. She states, “While you the mourner are still bawling your eyes out and slamming fists into the wall, everyone else, understandably, forgets and goes back to their normal lives and you find, after all those crowds of people, that you are left alone” (Winner, Mudhouse Sabbath, 28). Have you ever lost someone close to you and at times felt like you are walking dead? Mourners can almost take on a zombie like state in their grief, carrying the foggy weight of sorrow, bereavement, and anguish while everyone else forgets and goes about normal routines. For the mourner, life as she knew it is over and she is left to figure out how to live in this new reality.
Winner encourages the Christian church to develop a ritual of mourning that honors the beautiful theological reality of death and resurrection. A crucial part of Christianity is the act of remembrance. To remember is to recall, to participate with, and to act in solidarity with the past, present, and future. While a Christian people are quick to jump from death to resurrection, Winner challenges the church to remember the present, the in between.
The season of Lent is a season dedicated to remembering the in between; to participate with and act in solidarity with the past, present, and future, to carry the foggy weight together allowing it to disrupt our normal routines.
Who do you know that may still be grieving after you have resumed life again?
During this season of Lent, how can you remember this person and honor their mourning?
My husband and I are big fans of the AMC show, The Walking Dead. Well, let me correct this statement. Thrilled to learn of the new zombie apocalypse series, my husband urged me to view the horrific scenes and I somehow lost myself in the emotional angst of the drama. The series is set in the outskirts of Atlanta, GA during the aftermath of an epidemic that leaves over 90% of humanity in a resurrected zombie state postmortem. Following a group of survivors, viewers watch with anticipation (possibly through their hand covered eyes, like me) during the survivors’ endless search for life and signs of hope in the midst of chilling and devastating debris. Life as they knew it is over and they are left to figure out life in this new reality.
As I read Lauren Winner’s chapter on the Jewish practice of avelut/mourning, I was surprisingly reminded of The Walking Dead. She states, “While you the mourner are still bawling your eyes out and slamming fists into the wall, everyone else, understandably, forgets and goes back to their normal lives and you find, after all those crowds of people, that you are left alone” (Winner, Mudhouse Sabbath, 28). Have you ever lost someone close to you and at times felt like you are walking dead? Mourners can almost take on a zombie like state in their grief, carrying the foggy weight of sorrow, bereavement, and anguish while everyone else forgets and goes about normal routines. For the mourner, life as she knew it is over and she is left to figure out how to live in this new reality.
Winner encourages the Christian church to develop a ritual of mourning that honors the beautiful theological reality of death and resurrection. A crucial part of Christianity is the act of remembrance. To remember is to recall, to participate with, and to act in solidarity with the past, present, and future. While a Christian people are quick to jump from death to resurrection, Winner challenges the church to remember the present, the in between.
The season of Lent is a season dedicated to remembering the in between; to participate with and act in solidarity with the past, present, and future, to carry the foggy weight together allowing it to disrupt our normal routines.
Who do you know that may still be grieving after you have resumed life again?
During this season of Lent, how can you remember this person and honor their mourning?
Friday, March 2, 2012
Mourning Guidelines
Rabbi Dr. Jana L. De Benedett
I recently buried a congregant. A short time later I was speaking with his relative, and she said that she felt that grief is like a blanket. At first, you wrap it around yourself, covering your head, keeping everything else out. Eventually, you feel like you can leave the house, but you keep the “blanket” wrapped around your shoulders. At some point you realize that sometimes you feel like you can leave the blanket at home when you go out – but you know it will be there when you get back.
This isn’t to imply that grief is a source of comfort, but rather that for many people it envelops them, and slowly fades to a point that they can participate again in life activities. For some, it will never fully go away, however for everyone, it changes over time.
That is what our tradition teaches about mourning as well. We don’t have guidelines about grief, but the stages of mourning help us move slowly back into life. Also, at a time when we feel depleted from our loss, the traditions provide us with steps to take that we don’t have to think about. We don’t have to decide what to do next.
Ideally, we also don’t get left alone for too long. Returning to life includes having a support system. These traditions help with that in many ways. People around you, often telling wonderful stories about what they remember of your loved one – often happy stories that help you remember how to laugh.
Many people do not use these guidelines to help them with their mourning. I believe it makes the process of returning to life more difficult.
I recently buried a congregant. A short time later I was speaking with his relative, and she said that she felt that grief is like a blanket. At first, you wrap it around yourself, covering your head, keeping everything else out. Eventually, you feel like you can leave the house, but you keep the “blanket” wrapped around your shoulders. At some point you realize that sometimes you feel like you can leave the blanket at home when you go out – but you know it will be there when you get back.
This isn’t to imply that grief is a source of comfort, but rather that for many people it envelops them, and slowly fades to a point that they can participate again in life activities. For some, it will never fully go away, however for everyone, it changes over time.
That is what our tradition teaches about mourning as well. We don’t have guidelines about grief, but the stages of mourning help us move slowly back into life. Also, at a time when we feel depleted from our loss, the traditions provide us with steps to take that we don’t have to think about. We don’t have to decide what to do next.
Ideally, we also don’t get left alone for too long. Returning to life includes having a support system. These traditions help with that in many ways. People around you, often telling wonderful stories about what they remember of your loved one – often happy stories that help you remember how to laugh.
Many people do not use these guidelines to help them with their mourning. I believe it makes the process of returning to life more difficult.
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