Another day, another funeral. Incorrect word. One other day, another “memorial service.” It was that you simply have been interred and then remembered a yr or so later, when individuals have been beginning to overlook all about you. Now the burying and the remembering are elided, partly, I suppose, to save lots of time and money, however more by means of euphemism. How long before we start throwing memorial providers for the still-alive in an effort to skip the nastiness of dying altogether?
So here I am, sitting on the again row of just a little urban chapel, giving thanks for a life that ended only last week. But at the very least the service isn’t taking the humanist route. No breezy gathering of unintentional mourners sporting cardigans in a room resembling a bridge membership and everybody determined to not point out God. As an alternative, a real vicar in a real surplice; a reading from St. John’s Gospel; many in the congregation sporting black; and correct hymns as an alternative of “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.”
Even so, the hymns make me really feel uncomfortable. They all the time do, though there’s typically no discernible spiritual difference in sentiment between a hymn and a psalm, until the hymn happens to be a type of that ends with an invocation of the cross. The mourners, I notice, transfer without any type of religious jolt between “Guide Me, O, Thou Great Redeemer,” and “The Lord Is My Shepherd,” although the primary is unmistakably theirs and the second definitively ours. So if the Anglicans make no distinction, in the face of bodily dissolution, between Previous Testomony and New, why should I?
Let’s rephrase the question: Am I right in considering there’s a qualitative distinction—religiously talking, and poetically speaking as properly—between a psalm and a hymn? How determined the gravity of Psalm 77: “In the day of my trouble I sought the Lord: my sore ran in the night, and ceased not: my soul refused to be comforted.” How jaunty, by comparability “Be Thou My Vision”—Thou my greatest thought, by day or by night time;/Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my mild.”
Isn’t a psalm a extra elevated type, as totally different from a hymn as a hymn is from an ironic music in a Monty Python movie?
Not as elevated, within the English translations by which we now largely know the psalms, as they have been of their unique Hebrew, Adam Kirsch has argued. Even within the King James version some unwarranted Christianizing was afoot. But when meaning important distinctions between psalms and hymns have been elided, there remains distinction enough for a Jew to feel that hymning is a species of trespass.
After which there’s the singing itself. I don’t take part although I do know a lot of the tunes and the words are written out in a bit of pamphlet marked Order of Service. Singalongs have by no means been my cup of tea, whether or not at a memorial service or a soccer match, and I’m going to extra memorial providers than I’m going to soccer matches. I am very a lot a Jew in this. Conventional Jewish funerals eschew singalongs.
We are fastidious in the matter of the emotions we unloose, and hymns open the gates to the forbidden. Separate, separate! Hymns are treyf. Our souls are kosher.
As with all features of Jewish dying—and Jewish life, come to that—there’s a lot to be stated for this separatist austerity, and there’s a lot to be stated towards it. “Is this all there is?” asks the wicked son. “Of course this is all there is,” replies the clever one, wishing his brother long life, warning towards any resurrection nonsense and providing to drive him to the shiva home.
I have some feeling for both their positions. What mush the gentiles go in for with their crystal fountains and crosses shining via the gloom. Then again, is there to be no healing stream for us? Must all mild be ceaselessly extinguished by these cruel slabs of unresponsive stone?
The primary funeral I ever attended was my grandmother’s. I was 19, and easily delivered to tears, and she or he was a lady I’d beloved deeply. When she held me to her and comforted me in Yiddish I was again within the Previous World. Now that she was gone I felt alone in the new.
How a lot the extra callous, subsequently, seemed to me the banter of my uncles as they climbed out of the large black automobiles at the cemetery gates and stood waiting for the arrival of the hearse. Was this a place for exchanging jokes and checking soccer scores? I might hardly accuse them of being too austere, but their matter-of-factness served the same objective of turning emotion from its course.
The womenfolk had not been permitted to attend. They have been at residence, getting ready the bagels and pouring out the glasses of kummel. Had my mother been on the graveside with me we’d have dissolved into one another’s arms.
The corporate of males permitted no such solace or indulgence. Their demeanor, the stony ground, the absence of ornament or ornament on the graves, the solemnity of Hebrew prayer—all froze my tears. But had anyone began to sing “Abide With Me” I’d have thrown myself howling upon my beloved grandmother’s coffin.
D.H. Lawrence wrote a fantastic essay describing the pull that probably the most commonplace of hymns exerted on him all through his life. “It is almost shameful to confess that the poems which have meant most to me, like Wordsworth’s ‘Ode to Immortality,’ and Keats’s Odes and pieces of Macbeth … all these lovely poems woven deep into a man’s consciousness, are still not woven so deep in me as the rather banal Nonconformist hymns that penetrated through and through my childhood.”
At one degree Lawrence is saying not more than the television dramatist Dennis Potter used to say when he described the facility of low cost, fashionable music to arouse emotions in us which are not in themselves low cost. But Lawrence is saying one thing else concerning the power of reminiscence and language, too. These hymns which are woven more deeply into his consciousness than his favorite poems are the hymns of his childhood, and thus are consecrated by reminiscence and previous affections.
No such memory explains why “Immortal, Invisible, God Only Wise” awakens associations in me. I grew up in no colliery village. I attended no chapel that was “tall and full of light,” with an organ loft that had the words O worship the Lord in the great thing about holiness inscribed above it.
I did, though, catch hold of the hymns sung during faculty meeting every morning. From this, the small variety of Jewish pupils at my faculty have been excluded, as much in deference to our supposed sensitivities as anything. We have been tucked away into a room on the gallery that ran across the corridor, the place we turned boisterous beneath the weak steerage of a trainee Hebrew instructor who taught us nothing.
“Will the Jewish boys have the consideration to shut up,” the headmaster would name out between hymns. Then, when the singing was over, we might troop out to listen to the secular bulletins, gazed upon by the rest of the varsity, greater than ever acutely aware of our alien standing.
Nothing here, you’d assume, to elucidate why hymns would weave themselves into our consciousness. But assume again. Our very separateness—the straightforward physical separateness of being in another room by way of which the sound of singing penetrated just like the calls of shepherds from distant mountains, and the psychological separateness that made us feel that whatever magnificence there was in this mawkishness it was not a beauty that was made for us—discovered a path into our hearts.
Music you possibly can’t fairly reach; music that makes you are feeling a great distance from house; music that causes you to lengthy for a wholeness and integration that must all the time be denied you; music whose efficiency you can’t ever absolutely account for; music that calls you in and then shuts you out; music whose sentimentality you despise and yet which plays you like a stringed instrument—what resistance can even probably the most guarded of us put up towards music of this type?
For a Jew of my complexion, for whom observance is both irrelevant and threatening, obedience a degradation, and all ritual a species of mental sickness, the self-indulgent emotionalism I describe above is doubled. Not only am I exiled from gentile liturgy I’m exiled from Jewish liturgy as nicely.
A cantor who can hit the high notes like Pavarotti is not any more my brother than the Anglican vicar presently leading us in “Guide Me O Thou Great Redeemer,” but the sound of his singing, like the invisible God of Whom he sings, still reaches me from afar. I really feel it much less of a sin to be moved by the cantor than the vicar, however isn’t the supply of my dolorousness the identical in both instances? For it can’t be that I’ve a chamber of my heart reserved solely for gentile sentiment and another for Jewish.
Which brings me back to the question of whether or not it’s right we should always die fairly so in a different way. Should our stern refusal of sickly sentiment, trite tunes, and hand-me-down devotion, consign us to the chilly irrevocability of the Jewish burial floor wherein the parched soul is left to wander between rows of unforgiving stone like a homeless ghost, without the solace of beauty—music, timber, a solitary daisy? Should finality be fairly so ultimate?
Learn Booker Prize-winner Howard Jacobson’s monthly column in Tablet magazine right here.
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