An observation, nothing more: I feel the gulf between belief systems most keenly when discussing death. My friends offer me condolences for the loss of my stepbrother, many of them fused to prayers of support. Such intercessory claims in no way offend me, and I understand and accept that, even if offered sincerely, they are more cultural platitudes than actual promises. How many times in my life have I proffered exactly the same? Momentary comfort is the ultimate aim, and while I believe these prayers are just as effective at altering reality as those who claim, with a less sectarian stance, that I am in their thoughts, they can indeed blunt the sharp edges of ragged emotions for those who sincerely believe.

But I feel uncomfortable taking such condolences on board. This loss is mine only by reason of proximity. The real agony is felt by the wife, the mother… And to these I come just like all my well-meaning friends, hat in hand, trying to transliterate unwieldy and ponderous words of support. I would be dishonest if I claimed I was praying for those at the shredded heart of this agony. Just as I would be dishonest if I claimed that the one lost now resides in a better place. I do not believe that. But I find, as a person who has divested himself of faith, that I have lost nearly all of the vocabulary our culture regularly uses to give aid and comfort to the grieving. I lack the verbal resources to sling sympathy. The compassion is real, but the verbal vehicle is no longer available to me. I am left only with action. But what can I do? How can I make a tangible, physical difference? I am willing, but for the time being, becalmed.

We all, I am coming to recognize, whether we feel heaven or oblivion lies beyond death, are equally ill-equipped to do anything more than draw up a chair next the one grieving, a weep along with them.

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