The April 8 anniversary of the funeral of Pope John Paul II recalls a
question asked of a Catholic writer by an Evangelical Christian: Why
wasn't the pope buried in a simple shroud, like Jesus?
The email goes on
to ask:
I'm asking this because I
think you will answer me respectfully. The service today was beautiful
but wasn't it too much? Jesus was buried in a simple shroud, and he was
God. What we saw today bordered on idolatry. I have no problems with
Catholics, I do believe you are Christians, but I think you are
misguided on this.
I am not sure it makes any sense at all to compare the burial of Pope John Paul II to the burial of Jesus.
Jesus
was buried in the manner of a wealthy man of his time—in a private cave
hewn for that purpose and originally purchased by Joseph of
Arimathea—so it could be argued that outside of pyramids and kings'
tombs, Jesus' burial arrangements (though rushed for Passover) were
slightly better than average.
He was wrapped in a shroud because that's
what was done, and is still done in that part of the world.
Currently,
the average American citizen who dies has a wake, then a funeral
service, flowers, an expensive casket, pall bearers with dignified
bearing, readings, grieving, and usually a supper to follow—a
celebration of that person's life.
All in all, a much more elaborate
burial than Jesus, who was (is) God.
Times and customs and cultures do
have an effect on things.
If a beloved family member of yours dies, are
you going to limit his or her burial to a shroud and a howdy-do, because
that's all Jesus got?
Remember, when Jesus was buried, his apostles didn't know he was God. They thought he was a prophet.
They'd thought maybe
he was the messiah, but then, you know—things didn't work out as people
expected; he was tortured and killed and his followers went into
hiding.
They didn't know what-and-whom they had, among them, until
later.
Had they known, there might have been quite a different send-off!
The
Holy Mass you saw broadcast to the world—beautifully sung, beautifully
carried out, calling on the prayers of the great Cloud of Witnesses who
have gone before us—was not exclusively for John Paul.
Yes, it praised
and worshiped God, and it commended His Holiness to heaven while
celebrating his faithfulness, but the liturgy was meant in part, for us.
We are not machines, but humans, and when something important happens,
as the loss of a loved one, our hearts hunger for meaning, but also for
beauty, which is another transcendent means to God.
Millions
traveled to Rome to prayerfully, lovingly see off a servant of Christ,
and for their efforts, they saw beauty, they heard and felt beauty, they
had the opportunity to pay their own tribute ("Sancto!") and,
most importantly, they got to participate in the communion of faith, and
to commune personally with the Lord Jesus Christ in the Blessed
Sacrament.
The people kneeling on the cobblestone of St. Peter's
Basilica were not kneeling for Pope John Paul II; they were kneeling
while Communing with the Lord.
Liturgy does not only instruct; it
also entertains, by engaging mind, soul, and senses in a way that moves
us forward with interest and curiosity, until it enables understanding
to become transcendent.
The writer Rumer Godden put it more succinctly:
"the blessing of the liturgy," she wrote, "is that it wipes out self."
If you belong to an Evangelical church, you probably have musicians
and singers at your service, and if the music they provide is uplifting,
it brings another dimension to worship. Just so with the liturgy, and
with all of that pomp you found disturbing.
Far from being idolatry in
the name of Pope John Paul II, it was the vehicle used for the delivery
of our uplifted hearts to Christ. John Paul didn't care; he was already
in heaven!
Our beloved pope was remembered with love. He was
dressed in fine robes (when we buried Grandma we put her in her best
dress—what else?).
His casket was incensed, because incense reflects our
Judaic heritage, it echoes the psalmist: "let our prayers rise like
incense."
The angel in Revelation dispenses cleansing incense pretty
liberally, so God would seem to like it.
Then, after the mass, his body
was solemnly processed and laid to rest.
It is all we would do for
any of our loved ones, just on a scale calculated to uplift not just
thirty or forty mourners, but a couple billion.
Perhaps you were troubled by the crowds chanting "Sancto! Sancto,"
and that is what seemed idolatrous to you, but consider this: at my
son's high school, one of the athletes died, tragically, of cancer.
The
funeral convoy drove past the school, and all of the students had
assembled outside.
They stood solemnly and then applauded and waved to
the hearse and to his parents, shouting his name, his team number—they
shouted "we miss him!" and "your son was great!" loud enough for the
parents to hear it.
Was that idolatry, or a simple, heartfelt last
opportunity to praise a much-loved fellow?
It's just a tribute.
No one left St. Peter's having worshipped Karol Wojtyla, and no one left there unsure of who is the Savior of the world.
But
they did leave St. Peter's with full hearts, having had a chance to do
what my son's classmates did for their fallen friend—to remember and pay
a little tribute—and they got to do it surrounded by visual and aural
beauty so that all of their senses participated in the worship of the
Creator of so much that is still so mysterious to us all.
I'm glad
you wrote to me about your concerns, and I hope I helped put them to
rest.
If I haven't all I can say is, well, I am not that smart, and
someone else may do better job of explaining it all.
But, as John Paul
himself said many times, do not be afraid!
It may seem very strange to
Christians with no traditions or rituals to fall back on.
But don't be
afraid to dip a big toe into the lake of liturgy.
It doesn't burn, I
promise!
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