Godless Grief

When a little seven year old girl throws herself into your arms and wails, “Will I ever see my Oskar (the family’s recently deceased Schnauzer) again?”, how is an agnostic atheist Grief Counselor meant to respond? Is it dishonest to say, “I don’t know, sweetheart, perhaps.”? I don’t think so. Or indeed when an elderly gentleman, grieving over the recent loss of his wife of fifty years, asks, “Will she be waiting for me when my time comes?”, do you say, “Don’t talk rubbish.”? Of course not. All I ever say is, “I don’t know”—there’s no need to add, “but personally, I don’t think so.” Curiously, very few clients feel the need to push the issue much further. They know that it’s an unanswerable question and I suspect that most people here in the US also assume that I share their various theistic beliefs (which I don’t).

As a Grief Counselor, I am confronted on an almost daily basis with these kinds of questions. Questions relating to heaven, hell, ghosts, angels, the soul, and some version of an afterlife. It’s not too surprising, given that I’m meant to be a certified expert in death and dying, but of course discussing the travels of a soul or the nature of an afterlife is rather above my pay grade.

All of which doesn’t mean to say that I’m not fascinated by the psychology, sociology and anthropology of death and dying here on earth. Because I am.

For as long as humans have walked upright, we have been obsessed with the concept of cause and effect: If it rains, the grass grows on the savannah and the animals turn up. If it doesn’t, the grass doesn’t grow and the animals are nowhere to be seen. The natural world is full of such connections, all crucial to our evolution. Hot on the heels of the concept of cause and effect, came the quest for meaning. What’s it all for? What does it all mean? Why am I here? Pretty soon, those ruminations are going to lead to the necessary (pre-scientific) intellectual invention of supernatural agents—i.e. gods, demons, devils, angels, spirits and so on. The ancient religion of animism—the belief that everything in nature has a soul—is hardly surprising in an environment where most of the detailed mechanics of the universe were still a complete mystery. And as humans’ sense of self-awareness, identity, and “personhood” (horrible word, but appropriate) grew, so too did the concept of a life after death—a persistence and continuity of the “self”.

It can be seen from archeological digs dating back tens of thousands of years that the deceased were revered, buried with rudimentary ritual gifts, and supplies for their “journey”. The persistence of the “soul” was a given.

Today, when you look across the death rituals of every religion and society the same common theme persists. Death, they all insist, is not an end, but rather should be seen as the beginning of the next chapter for the soul’s continuing journey.

On the face of it, it’s an attractive idea. Surely it’s better to imagine that dear old Uncle George has been reunited with his beloved Sally in heaven, than to believe the evidence of one’s own eyes, namely that Uncle George has quite simply gone? Actually, I don’t think so. Asking “Where did he go?” is pointless and assuming that he continues to exist “somewhere” (just not here with us) is in my view, rather cruel.

So many religions seem to offer the promise of a “better place” beyond the travails of earthly existence, if only you adhere to their customs, practices and commandments. Our temporal existence and behavior is secondary to our spiritual destiny they suggest. Or even insist.

So what is an agnostic-atheist/humanist Grief Counselor to do when confronted with these powerful beliefs? My view is that more benefit derives from celebrating the decedent’s life, lived among the living, than to concentrate on their absence and their “new circumstances” in whatever afterlife suits the prevailing religious narrative.

To be fair, most religions and communities do incorporate some sort of celebration of the decedent’s life in their traditional rituals, which from a psychological standpoint can be very comforting for the mourners. It offers a degree of “closure” (another horrible word) to the process of acknowledging the loved one’s death. Unfortunately, the prevailing mood at many of these ceremonies is one of “Bon voyage” rather than “Congratulations on a race well run.”

One of the greatest challenges faced by a grieving client is in acknowledging the new reality. A reality in which the decedent is no longer physically present. And in my opinion, that transition is absolute and irreversible. There is no heavenly “arrivals hall” where the loved one will be waiting when you die. I don’t condemn such beliefs, however, when a client clearly wants to believe that such a reunion is possible and derives comfort from that belief. In my view it is good psychological practice to avoid rocking that particular boat, whatever the counselor’s own beliefs might be.

So the objective of a grief counselor’s job is to focus the client’s attention on celebration and legacy of the departed whether personal or public. I encourage journaling, which serves to organize one’s thoughts and emotions. I encourage organizing photos and other memorabilia, which enables the mourner to assemble such items in one location, to be referred to whenever desired. And I encourage embarking on new experiences or activities, laying down happy memories that do not involve the departed, but which they too might have enjoyed.

These and other steps lead a client from acute grief to integrated grief—a state of mind where the decedent is never forgotten, nor is the grief ever denied, but the new chapter in the ongoing book of the client’s life can continue to celebrate a life in which the decedent’s loving influence can still be felt.