Nancy’s Funeral by Dr. Bruce
The Intrusiveness of Dogma
Greetings,
Have you ever known one of those Dogmatic Christians who will take any opportunity to proselytize, even if it’s cringeworthy? Like, when you have the flu and your Christian neighbor tells you that with enough faith you wouldn’t be ill? Or, when you are in difficult financial straits, through no fault of your own, and are told by a believer that God has a lesson in it for you? And then, of course, the follow-up is “Come to church and find out what that message is!” Or, you have lost someone very important, and a religious person sees the grieving process as the perfect opening to guilt you into giving your life to God? Horribly insensitive, you say? In the least! I’d like to say that it’s unbelievable, but I’ve witnessed and experienced it multiple times. One example that stands out to me occurred at the funeral of a dear family friend, Nancy. Dogma was the influence, grief the catalyst, and my fanatical mother, the agent.
Before I take you to that time, you’ll need some context. My mother was an evangelical, Bible-thumping, born-again, fundamentalist Christian. Enough descriptors there for ya? My father mostly just went along. Growing up, my view of the world was imbued with this ideology and all the dogma that came along with it. Since I have a naturally inquisitive mind, my childhood in this household, and decades of my adulthood thereafter, was intellectually confusing and emotionally painful. My mind’s propensity to question everything caused my mother much consternation. I wanted to know how Jesus, or anyone for that matter, being sacrificed for people’s sins was ok. And why it was acceptable for people to be obliged to follow Him when they may not have wanted His sacrifice in the first place? Well, my mother’s answer was that Jesus bought us with his blood, end of story. “And if that isn’t clear enough,” she would continue, “He owns us because He made the ultimate sacrifice on our behalf.”
Despite all the nuttiness of my mother and the religion, there were two ladies in the church whom I liked, Nancy and her sister, Jane. They lived together in a small apartment near my family’s home and, although seeming very old to me at the time, were probably in their late fifties. The adjective “kind” does not begin to describe these sisters. Since the time I was a small child, we took them to church every Sunday. Despite not having much money, they always had packs of gum for my brother and me. Then, suddenly, when I was about eighteen, Jane unexpectantly died. It was a very sad time for my entire family, and for Nancy. She was incredibly lonely.
But all was not lost! She had a nephew from out of state who was struggling with some type of teenage angst and needed a change of scenery. Thus, he came to live with Nancy. He was a nice enough fellow, about my age and built like a bear: strong, tall, broad-shouldered with a full head of bushy black hair. I didn’t know him well, though, and really wasn’t interested since I didn’t attend church anymore and had my own life. My mother, on the other hand, was very interested in him. Well, she was interested in bringing him into “the fold,” as she referred to the church. Yet, there was a problem. The nephew, let’s call him Trent, wasn’t interested. He had been raised Catholic and thought that Southern Baptists, the religious community of my youth, were, for lack of a better word, crazy. He didn’t exactly say it that way, but he really didn’t like the church or the people in it. So, he began attending the Catholic church in his neighborhood while his aunt continued to go to church with my parents.
Just as Trent seemed to be straightening himself out, making friends and coming out of his shell, Nancy died, also suddenly and unexpectedly. We were all devastated. Trent was inconsolable. Not only did he love Nancy, now he would have to go back and live with his family. At the funeral he sat by himself, not engaging with anyone. He was a quiet person to begin with, but it was obvious that he was overcome with grief. In the receiving line afterwards he stood silently, shoulders slumped, head down, shaking hands perfunctorily, not making eye contact, uttering indiscernible words in response to people’s condolences.
After the church service, there was a brief homily at graveside. Let me take you to that moment. Although the temperature is mild for a spring day, in the fifties, the air chills. Light breezes sweep down from the sky and circle around the trees in random bursts. Even Trent and his family, although from cold country, wear wool coats and scarfs. Most people attending the graveside wear gloves, but a few mill about with unprotected hands shoved deeply into warm pockets. After a few words by the pastor, Trent goes off by himself, eschewing his own family and everyone else. He stands by a tall evergreen tree, its intense color a stark contrast to the dead grass and gray, dreary sky. The young man’s head droops. He stands facing away from the casket and mourners, about thirty or so feet in the opposite direction. To any observer, he wants to be left alone to process this event, and everyone understands and respects that, except my mother.
She just can’t resist the opportunity to take advantage of a nonbeliever’s vulnerability. Like a horse shoots out of the gate at a racetrack, alerted by the starting bell, so my mother jets off, motivated by her internalized dogma. I look at my dad, my eyes filled with concern for what I suspect she will say. My father, accustomed to her behavior and not one to rein her in, stands stiffly, staring at her back as she goes on her mission. On she marches, chin up, back straight, striding with purpose and conviction. Upon reaching the youth, she places a hand on his arm and whispers into his ear for a few moments. Suddenly, Trent, all six-feet five inches worth, jumps back like he has just discovered a snake coiled at his feet. “Get away from me! Leave me alone!” he bellows. Mother jumps back as well, a startled look on her face, raising her arms in a defensive manner as if she fears being struck. Like a wounded gazelle which has escaped the mauling of an attacking lion, Trent storms off in a blur, creating as much space as possible.
Mother stands there silently for a few moments, watching him before turning towards us. Looking down and shaking her head, in the manner in which she always indicated disappointment in someone, she returns to us. Embarrassed, I chance a glance at those nearby and see heads swiveling back and forth between Trent and us. I know what she has done! Why can’t she just mind her own fucking business?! So, gritting my teeth in an attempt to control the anger in my voice, I ask what she said to him. Raising her chin and speaking with a smug expression on her face, she replies that she merely explained to him that Nancy really wanted him to come to our church and had expressed worry about him remaining Catholic. Let me translate my mom’s language for you. The message was basically this: His dead aunt, whom he loved like a mother, had yearned for him to come to the one true church and give his life to Jesus Christ, blah, blah, blah. No guilt there. I don’t think that my mother went as far as to say it was Nancy’s dying wish, but, knowing her fanaticism, probably close enough. Then she defends herself by stating that she is shocked by his behavior, yelling out like that and everything. Needless to say, we never saw Trent again.
Who knows if Nancy actually expressed that sentiment to my mother. More than likely, mother had expressed those concerns to Nancy, and being nice, Nancy merely didn’t disagree, which my mother took as concordance. Mom had a penchant for altering the truth, or completely fabricating statements, when she thought it necessary. In her mind, she was following the commands of the Bible and the church. Yes, evangelical dogma tells believers that they are correct to go out into the world and harass (my word) or preach the good news/gospel (their words) because it is commanded in the Bible. But here’s my view about divinely inspired dogma: It’s just words, people, written down by flawed human beings. Get over it! It is petty and cruel to take advantage of someone’s vulnerability. And if you have experienced this type of emotional cruelty and you have felt the same frustration and disgust as Trent, you have the right to be indignant.
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