A dove-white drapery is placed over a casket which cost several thousand dollars; white gloves are placed on hands so as not to directly touch the vessel that carries the body. The beautiful casket is pushed down an aisle of onlookers; each of whom is, undoubtedly, considering the day when a similar pattern will be followed at their own funeral Mass. A (male) priest sips wine from a shimmering golden goblet and elevates the body of Christ. I notice he’s wearing plain black shoes – and a silver watch that appears occasionally as his robe pulls up and down in the rhythmic motions encapsulated in this collective prayer about the hope of resurrection. A pianist plays the melancholy notes of “Ave Maria” and other songs capable of interpreting pain and sorrow through sound waves at a frequency that can penetrate grieving hearts.
Every one of these actions has been assembled by a combination of direct revelation, theological intrigue, and traditional repetition. Their performance this day was no spontaneous expression of directly communing with God. I say this as a respectful, yet plain, description of the importance of these spiritual rites. Friends can be decidedly judgmental against such “programmed” events, but our claim to some version of celestial purity because we “don’t x, y or z” is a form of hubris. Even though we might be called to other “simpler” forms of liturgy, our forms are also inherited, traditional, and products of social consciousness.
Similar to the way that we all experience prayer as transmitted through our ancestors, I perceived this funeral Mass with apocalyptic (unveiled) eyes which were informed by James Joyce’s detailed analysis of the Mass in Ulysses. In that massive tome, Joyce brought forward elements that I may have otherwise missed; my experience was not direct revelation but transmitted by literature. The form of the modern novel, like forms of prayer and sacred rituals, is also a collection of social memory.
I sat in the pew, carefully coddling the white gloves I’d been handed upon arrival at St. Mary’s Cemetery and Funeral Center. Unknown to anyone there, I had never served as a pall bearer. I was schvitzing at the idea of accidentally letting go of the coffin or making some other blunder that would interrupt this rhythmic expression of social consciousness.
The form of our prayer, “Our Lord who art in heaven,” has been encrusted over centuries of repetition. (Our Landlord who art in heaven, hallowed by thy name.) Much of what we crudely interpret as transcendent or extraordinary experiences are actually ones that draw strength from experiences that have come before. Jesus, for example, explicitly “fulfills” (traces) the steps of sages, priests, and the wider social consciousness of his culture.
I ponder the spiritual “co-pilot” we refer to as “God.” Perhaps my own voice, perhaps something transcendent. God might surprise by taking shape as a caring grandmother rather than the flowing-bearded old man who sprang from Michelangelo’s hand. Our tradition of sounds, images, and smells – all quite human – inform and limit what we can experience when we turn to God.
If I were to seek guidance from a digital version of the Oracle of Delphi, maybe it would respond with frenzied inspiration, maybe with constructed reason – quite similar to the range of responses I might expect from God. A collection of social concerns formed this ritual Mass whereby the priest wafts incense around the coffin. Gigabytes of text data form this search engine where I type my question in natural language. I don’t know whether my anxiety about what to do with these white gloves would be answered more transcendentally by looking upward to God or outward to the social consciousness held within ChatGPT or PerplexityAI.
Sitting next to a body in a coffin creates a useful context for reflection. I routinely talk with my Quaker elders who have died, and I am convinced they are present. In many ways, prayer is a query hurled up into our social intelligence. A transcendent wisdom resides among all the ancestors who have held faith that God had not abandoned them, even through the horrors of crucifixion, slavery, and the lynching tree. That is a wisdom which promises Life and sets people free.
Zae Illo recently received his M.Div. from the Earlham School of Religion. He works as an operations manager for Youth Spirit Artworks, leads the Bible study and street outreach ministries at Glide Church, and recently began a biweekly laundry ministry at the San Francisco Friends Meeting, which is described at cyberglow.org.