There are some things you should never do at a funeral. And after more than sixty years of living, preaching, and standing beside more graves than I can count, I can tell you that some mistakes made in a funeral home can stay with a family for decades. I have watched people say the wrong thing, carry the wrong bitterness, and make the wrong decision, walking away from a funeral without ever realizing that something important had just shifted inside their own hearts. My name is Pastor Thomas Hail.
I am eighty-four years old, and I have spent most of my life serving people through their hardest seasons. I have stood beside the beds of dying men and women. I have prayed with families in hospital hallways, and I have stood at gravesides in freezing rain and summer heat. I have buried people I knew for fifty years, and I have buried people whose names I only learned a few hours before.
If there is one thing all those funerals have taught me, it is this: a funeral is never only about the person in the casket. It is also about the people still standing. It is about you. It is about what death brings to the surface in your own heart.
So today, I want to share ten things I believe you should never do at a funeral. I have changed the order because some lessons need to be heard before others. And I want to start with the one I believe can quietly destroy a family long after the flowers have dried up. The first thing you should never do at a funeral is leave your own house in disorder.
Now, I know that may sound strange as the first thing on my list, but stay with me. I have seen some of the ugliest family arguments happen after a good man or woman died simply because nobody knew what that person wanted. Who gets the house? Who gets the jewelry?
Who has the bank information? Where is the insurance policy? Who was promised the old truck? One child remembers one conversation.
Another remembers something completely different. And suddenly, brothers and sisters who sat beside each other in the same church for thirty years won’t speak to each other. Grief is already heavy. And when you add confusion to grief, you can create a terrible storm.
That is why, if you are an older person listening to me right now, I want you to take this seriously. Put your affairs in order while your hands still work and your mind is still clear. Have a proper legal will. Write down where important documents are.
Make your wishes known about burial or cremation, songs, scripture, and the people you would want involved. And do not hide everything in your head and assume your children will somehow figure it out. They won’t. Not when they are standing in your kitchen three days after your death with tears in their eyes and a hundred decisions to make.
There is one more thing I would encourage you to do. Write a letter to your children and grandchildren. Don’t make it fancy. Don’t worry about perfect handwriting.
Tell them that you love them. Tell them what you are proud of. Tell them what you learned the hard way. Tell them what your faith has meant to you.
A sermon may be forgotten, but a handwritten letter from a grandmother or grandfather who is no longer here can become something a family keeps for generations. So please, don’t leave your family a puzzle to solve on the worst week of their lives. Give them clarity. Give them peace.
Give them your words while you are still here. Now, the second thing you should never do at a funeral is turn the funeral into a performance. I have seen this happen more times than I care to admit. Somebody wants to prove they were the closest friend.
Somebody wants to prove they were the best son. Somebody wants everyone in the room to notice how broken they are. And I am not talking about genuine emotion. Crying is not a performance just because other people can see your tears.
Some people cry loudly. Some people cry silently. Some people don’t cry at all until they are alone in the car three days later. None of that tells me how deeply they loved somebody.
What concerns me is when grief becomes competition. I once watched two grown relatives argue in a hallway about where they were going to sit because each one wanted to be seen as the person closest to the deceased. The person in the casket couldn’t care less where they sat. But the living were turning sorrow into a stage.
So before you walk into a funeral, ask yourself a very simple question. If nobody were watching me today, would I still behave this way? Would I still say these things? Would I still tell this story?
If the answer is yes, then carry on. Grieve honestly. Love honestly. But if you realize you are trying to impress somebody, stop and remember why you are there.
You are not there to become the main character. You are there to honor someone who can no longer speak for themselves. And if you are asked to give a eulogy, don’t be afraid to write it down. I have heard people say that reading a prepared eulogy isn’t heartfelt enough.
I disagree. Sometimes writing it down is the most loving thing you can do, because grief can make the mind wander. You start talking about yourself. You tell stories that nobody needs to hear.
And before you know it, the person you are supposed to be honoring has disappeared from their own funeral. Keep it simple. Tell the truth. Tell one or two meaningful stories.
Say what you loved about them, and then sit down. The third thing you should never do at a funeral is gossip about the dead or their family. Now, I know that sounds obvious, but you would be surprised how quickly a funeral gathering can become a place where people start talking about things that should never be discussed. I have heard people whisper about how someone died.
I have heard people speculate about marriages. I have heard people discuss old family failures, financial problems, addictions, arguments, and even where they think the deceased person might be spiritually. Let me tell you something I have learned after all these years. The person you are talking about may be dead, but the people who love them are still standing right there.
Your words can reach them. I remember one funeral many years ago where two people were talking quietly in the hallway about the dead man’s private struggles. They thought nobody was listening. A family member heard every word.
She didn’t argue. She simply walked away. Years later, she told me that those few sentences changed the way she looked at that church forever. That is how powerful words can be when somebody is already wounded.
So I have developed a rule for myself. If somebody starts a sentence with, “Did you hear what happened? ” I don’t need to hear it. I don’t need another piece of information.
I need to find somebody who is hurting and stand beside them. If someone tries to pull you into gossip, you don’t have to lecture them. You can simply say, “Not today. Let’s honor him.
” Or, “Not today. Let’s honor her. ” Then change the subject. And here is something even better.
Look around the room. There is almost always somebody standing alone. Maybe it is a son-in-law who doesn’t know anybody. Maybe it is an old friend sitting in the back.
Maybe it is a grandchild who is too young to understand what everyone is saying. Walk over and sit beside them. Ask, “How did you know him? ” Then listen.
You may do more good in ten quiet minutes than you could ever do with a hundred clever words. And that brings me to the fourth thing you should never do at a funeral. Never say something careless to a grieving person just because you don’t know what else to say. I understand why people do it.
Silence makes us uncomfortable. When we see somebody crying, we feel like we have to fix something. So we reach for familiar phrases. Everything happens for a reason.
God needed another angel. At least they’re not suffering anymore. God will never give you more than you can handle. Please be careful with those words.
You may mean well, but meaning well doesn’t automatically make a sentence helpful. A grieving woman doesn’t need you to explain why her husband died. A father who just lost a child doesn’t need a theological lecture in the hallway. Sometimes the most loving thing you can say is, “I don’t have the right words.
” Sometimes it is, “I loved him, too. ” And sometimes it is simply, “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. ”
Then be quiet. Sit down.
Let the tears come. You don’t have to fill every silence. One of the greatest lessons I learned from an elderly man who mentored me when I was young was this: when someone is suffering deeply, your presence can speak louder than your explanation. And if you want to help practically, don’t tell a grieving person, “Let me know if you need anything.
” They probably won’t call you. Grief makes ordinary tasks difficult. Instead, be specific. Say, “I’m bringing dinner Thursday evening.
Is six o’clock okay? ” Or, “I’ll come by Saturday morning and take care of the yard. ” That is love that actually shows up. That is compassion with hands and feet.
Now, the fifth thing you should never do at a funeral is disappear after the funeral is over. This is one of the things that has bothered me more and more as I have grown older. We are often very good at showing up when everyone else is showing up. The first week can be incredible.
Cars fill the driveway. People bring food. The phone rings. Flowers arrive.
Friends stop by. The church surrounds the family. And then, suddenly, the funeral is over. The casseroles disappear.
The flowers begin to fade. Everyone returns to work. The house becomes quiet. And that is when the real loneliness can begin.
I have seen a widow hold herself together for two weeks because there were so many things to do, only to collapse emotionally six weeks later when the house finally became silent. She hears her husband’s chair creak in her memory. She sees his coat hanging where he left it. She reaches for the phone to tell him something, and then she remembers.
That is when she needs you. Not just on the day of the funeral. Weeks later. Months later.
On the birthday. On the anniversary. On the first Thanksgiving without him. And don’t forget the older men either.
I have seen widowers disappear into themselves because nobody thought to check on them. Men often don’t ask for help. They sit alone and tell themselves they are supposed to be strong. They’re not.
None of us were designed to carry grief completely alone. So, if someone you love loses a spouse, put a few dates on your calendar. Call them after a month. Call again after three months.
Call on the birthday. Call on the anniversary. And don’t send a quick message just because it is easier. Sometimes a real human voice on the other end of the phone is what somebody needs.
You can say, “I was thinking about you today. I remember him. How are you really doing? ” Then listen.
You don’t have to rescue them. You just have to remind them that they haven’t been forgotten. And those are only the first five. But there are five more things I learned the hard way.
And one of them involves something that can follow a grieving person for years if they don’t deal with it. It has nothing to do with flowers, funerals, or what happens at the graveside. It has to do with what we carry inside our hearts when the person we are angry with is no longer here to hear us say it. Now, the sixth thing you should never do at a funeral is bury your unforgiveness with the person who died.
I know that is a hard thing to hear, and I don’t say it lightly. There are people listening to me who were deeply hurt by a parent, a spouse, a brother, a sister, or even a child. Some wounds are not small. Some things cannot simply be brushed aside with the words “just forgive and forget.
” I would never tell you that. Forgiveness does not mean pretending something terrible never happened. It doesn’t mean saying what they did was acceptable. It doesn’t mean you have to put yourself back into an unsafe relationship.
But there comes a point when you have to decide whether you are going to carry that debt for the rest of your life. And here is something I have learned after sitting with grieving families for so many years. When the person dies, the anger doesn’t necessarily die with them. Sometimes it gets worse, because now you can’t confront them.
You can’t ask questions, and you can’t hear an apology. The person is gone, but the wound is still sitting in your heart. I remember a man I knew many years ago who had spent almost his entire adult life angry with his father. His father had failed him in ways I won’t describe here.
And I understood why he was angry. But when that father died, the son thought the anger would finally disappear. It didn’t. He carried it into his marriage.
He carried it into the way he raised his children. He carried it into every relationship where somebody disappointed him. The person who had hurt him was gone, but the wound had found new places to live. So, if you are carrying something like that today, I want you to hear me carefully.
You don’t have to call evil good. You don’t have to deny what happened. But you can tell God, “I am no longer willing to carry this debt. I give it to you.
” Sometimes I recommend people write the person’s name on a piece of paper and write down exactly what happened. Don’t make it pretty. Don’t lie about the pain. Then, underneath it, write, “I release this debt.
I will not spend the rest of my life collecting it. ” Tear that paper up if it helps you make the decision real. Not because the paper has power, but because sometimes our hands need to participate in a decision our hearts are struggling to make. And if reconciliation is possible and safe, don’t always wait.
I have seen people find each other in hospital hallways after years of silence. I have seen brothers shake hands beside a dying mother’s bed. I have seen grown children say, “I’m sorry,” before the door closed forever. You don’t always get that opportunity twice.
The seventh thing you should never do at a funeral is put your hope in a ritual, an object, or a superstition instead of putting your trust in Christ. Now, I am an old man, and I have seen plenty of traditions in my lifetime. I have seen families place photographs in caskets. I have seen people put favorite possessions beside the dead.
I have seen people turn clocks around, cover mirrors, carry bodies out in a certain direction, light particular candles, or insist that something must be done a certain way, or the deceased person’s spirit won’t rest. Some traditions are simply traditions. They can be beautiful. A rose placed on a casket can be a symbol of love.
A family recipe served after the burial can be a beautiful way of remembering somebody. There is nothing wrong with that. The problem begins when we start believing that the ritual itself has spiritual power. Watch for the little words.
So we do this so he can rest. We say this so her spirit will be at peace. We place this here so they can take it with them. That is where a harmless tradition can become something else.
A symbol points toward meaning. A mechanism claims to control an outcome. Those are not the same thing. And I want you to remember this, because it can bring tremendous peace to a grieving family.
You are not responsible for performing some perfect ceremony that determines the eternal destiny of the person you loved. You cannot save someone with the right flower, the right object, the right number of candles, or the right words spoken over a casket. And you cannot accidentally condemn someone because you forgot a ritual. That is not where our hope comes from.
So, when your family follows a tradition that is meaningful and harmless, you can participate with love. But if somebody tells you that the tradition itself has the power to change what happens to a soul, step back. You don’t have to fight with anybody. You can simply say, “I understand why this is meaningful to you, but I’m going to put my trust in God.
” And then pray for the living. There are plenty of people in that room who need prayer. The eighth thing you should never do at a funeral is try to contact the dead. I want to slow down here, because grief can make even sensible people vulnerable.
When somebody you have loved for forty or fifty years suddenly disappears from your daily life, the desire to hear their voice again can become overwhelming. You may think, “If I could just have one more conversation. If I could just know that they’re okay. If I could just hear what they would say to me.
” I understand that longing. I have felt it myself. But longing does not make every answer trustworthy. Over the years, I have watched grieving people become involved with mediums, psychics, spirit boards, online services, and people who claim they can communicate with deceased relatives.
Some of them charge money. Some of them present themselves as harmless entertainment. Some speak very softly and use Christian language to make people feel safe. But I would tell you to stay away from all of it.
Your grief belongs with God and with people who are alive and can walk beside you. Don’t go looking for your dead husband in a stranger’s living room. Don’t pay somebody on the internet to read your mother’s energy. Don’t let loneliness convince you that every mysterious voice is a message from heaven.
When you’re grieving, you are vulnerable. And there are people who know exactly how to take advantage of that vulnerability. So, if you have already gone down that road, don’t sit in shame. Don’t hide.
Tell someone you trust. Turn away from it and bring the pain back into the light. Talk to your pastor. Talk to a mature Christian friend.
Talk to your family. Cry. Pray. Tell God that you miss them.
You don’t have to pretend you’re okay. But don’t hand your grief over to someone who claims to have access to the dead. And now we come to the ninth thing. This one may sound strange coming from an old preacher.
Never grieve like someone who has no hope. Notice what I said. I didn’t say never grieve. I didn’t say stop crying.
I didn’t say smile at the funeral because you’re a Christian. No. Please don’t do that to yourself or to somebody you love. Grief is not a failure of faith.
If you love somebody deeply, their absence is going to hurt. There were times when I sat alone after losing someone and didn’t know what to do with the silence. There were mornings when getting out of bed felt like an act of courage. Faith did not remove the pain.
Faith gave the pain somewhere to go. That is the difference. The Bible doesn’t tell grieving people to stop mourning. It tells believers not to grieve as those who have no hope.
There is a difference between saying, “This hurts terribly, but God is still here,” and saying, “This hurts. Therefore, God has abandoned me. ” Both people may cry. Both may struggle to sleep.
Both may have moments of doubt. But one still has somewhere to look. So, when you are in those first terrible days, be careful about what you declare. Don’t build an entire theology around the worst five minutes of your life.
You may say things in grief that you don’t mean. God knows your weakness. He knows that you are dust. But sometimes people spend ten years haunted by something they screamed in a hospital hallway.
So cry if you need to weep. Scream into a pillow. Sit quietly. But when you don’t know what else to pray, borrow a simple prayer.
“Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief. ” That prayer has carried many people through dark valleys. And if your faith feels small, don’t be ashamed.
A small hand can still hold tightly to a strong hand. And finally, the tenth thing you should never do at a funeral is walk out exactly the same person who walked in. Of all the things I have told you today, this may be the one I want you to remember most. A funeral gives you something that ordinary life rarely gives you.
For a little while, death stops being an idea. It becomes real. You see a casket. You hear the silence.
You watch a family say goodbye. And for a few minutes, every person in that room knows something they usually try not to think about. One day, that will be me. And yet, somehow, we leave the building and immediately start thinking about traffic, dinner, work, the bills, the weather, the next appointment.
We get back into our cars and return to normal life as though we weren’t just reminded that our days are numbered. I have done it myself. I am an old man, and I still catch myself rushing past lessons that should have stopped me in my tracks. So now, whenever I attend a funeral, I try to take one quiet minute before I leave.
I stand still. I look at the casket, and I ask myself a question. If that were me today, am I ready? Not, “Have I been a good person?
” Not, “Did I attend church enough? ” Not, “Will people remember me kindly? ” I ask, “Am I at peace with God? ” That is a question worth answering while you are still alive.
Because there are questions you can answer tomorrow, and there are questions you cannot. Death eventually closes the door on our opportunity to make certain choices. That is why a funeral can be a warning, but it can also be a gift. It reminds us to call somebody we have been avoiding.
It reminds us to forgive while we still have time. It reminds us to tell our children that we love them. It reminds us to put our affairs in order. It reminds us to stop wasting years on things that won’t matter when we are old.
And for those who have faith, it reminds us that death does not have the final word. I learned that lesson in a way I never expected. Several years ago, I stood beside the casket of the woman I had loved for more than half my life. Her name was Margaret.
We had been married for fifty-seven years. I had stood beside hundreds of grieving families, and I thought I knew something about grief. Then suddenly, I was the man sitting in the front row. I was the one hearing the prayers.
I was the one looking at the empty chair beside me. And let me tell you, knowledge doesn’t make grief painless. My hands shook. My voice broke.
There were moments when I didn’t know how I was going to get through the day. But I discovered something. The faith I had preached for decades had to become my own faith in the darkest room of my life. I couldn’t borrow somebody else’s hope.
I had to hold on to it myself. And that is what I want for you. Don’t wait until the funeral of somebody you love to think about what matters. Start now.
Love your people while they’re alive. Forgive where you can. Make peace where you can. Put your house in order.
Guard your tongue. Stay close to people who are hurting. And when you grieve, grieve honestly. But don’t let grief convince you that love was a mistake or that God has forgotten you.
So let me leave you with the ten things one more time. Not as rules carved in stone, but as lessons an old man wishes somebody had taught him sooner. Put your house in order. Don’t turn a funeral into a performance.
Don’t gossip. Don’t speak careless words to the grieving. Don’t disappear after the funeral. Don’t bury unforgiveness with the dead.
Don’t put your hope in superstition or ritual. Don’t try to contact the dead. Don’t grieve as though you have no hope. And don’t walk out of a funeral unchanged.
If you remember even three or four of those things, I believe you will be better prepared the next time you stand in a funeral home. And more importantly, you will be better prepared for the life you are still living right now. If you are watching this because someone you love has recently died, I want you to know something before I go. You don’t have to pretend you’re strong for everybody else.
You don’t have to have all the answers. Take the next day one day at a time. Eat something. Get some rest.
Let somebody sit with you. Pray, even if your prayer is only three words. And if the grief becomes too heavy to carry, please tell someone you trust. You were never meant to carry everything alone.
Thank you for spending these few minutes with me. At my age, I don’t take that kind of time for granted anymore. Every conversation matters. Every person matters.
If something I said today helped you, even a little, pass it along to someone who may need it. We never know when a funeral is going to come into somebody’s life. And we never know how badly they will need a friend when it does. Take care of yourself.
Call somebody you love while you still can. Tell them what they mean to you. And the next time you walk into a funeral, don’t just think about the person you are there to remember. Think about the life you are still being given.
God bless you, my friend.