Jews and Death

Julia Samuel "psychotherapist specializing in grief" on TVO in soft pink and gold,
whose job is to help ease the pain of grief

The erudite and smart Steve Paikin of Television Ontario's The Agenda had on a "psychotherapist specializing in grief" as his main guest this evening. The full interview is below, or online here.

There was a fascinating discussion on death and grief which Paikin's guest, Julia Aline Samuel, adeptly maneuvered. But not once, not once, in her discussion did God feature.

How can one discuss death and grief without mentioning God? How can one discuss death and grief without God being the center, the axis, of the discussion?

Incredible.

I looked up Samuel, and through various associations she is clearly a Jew (by marriage).

Here are the brief details:

- Hon. Michael John Samuel was born on 2 November 1952. He is the son of Peter Montefiore Samuel Samuel, 4th Viscount Bearsted and Hon. Elizabeth Adelaide Cohen.

- He married Julia Aline Guinness, daughter of James Edward Alexander Rundell Guinness and Pauline Vivien Mander, on 6 March 1980.

- Children of Michael John Samuel and Julia Aline Guinness:

Natasha Vivienne Samuel b. 25 Jun 1981
Emily Elizabeth Samuel b. 11 Jul 1983
Sophie Alexandra Samuel b. 1986
Benjamin Peter Marcus Samuel b. 1989

- The last child (a son) of Michael's and Julia's has the first name Benjamin (as in the youngest son of the Biblical Abraham).

Nowhere is the full religious and cultural background of the Samuel family disclosed, but their backgrounds can be clearly surmised through these associations.

Therefore, Julia Aline Samuel (nee Guinness - aristocratic Anglo-Irish Protestant family in brewing, banking, politics, and religious ministry.) clearly had to convert to Judaism for this marriage to be sanctified by Jewish religious and legal procedures.

But like all Jewish families who have mixed (converted) members, their affinity to the religious side of Judaism is minimal, while they may follow cultural and societal rules and regulations of the religion.

They can for all practical purposes be called "atheist" Jews. (This is a profound oxymoron, to be discussed at a later date. Without God, Jews are nothing. They cannot profess to be Jews and NOT believe in God).

Therefore Samuel "counsels" people who are plunged into the abyss of grief with psychological props to handle their grief, and not once does she ease the terrible burden off people's shoulder's by saying: There is God. He will help you.

The iniquities of the modern world are beyond belief.

Paikin is not to blame for the discussion, nor the direction of the discussion. He makes himself vulnerable by telling Samuel a personal anecdote. He was asking her for help. But the callous Samuels simply smiles and gives "advice" in her voice softened, and trained, for therapy. (The section is around the 23 minute point - full video is below).

Samuel is part of the great failed Jewish tradition of psychoanalysis. How many Woody Allen movies show a man who goes his whole life sitting (lying) on a psychiatrist's couch with no personal improvement to show for it? It was simply a narcissistic addiction which served patient and doctor.

You can watch the full TVO interview here.

Cacophony

Statue of St. Paul, facing Larry's grave

Dean Ericson left a couple of comments on my post Like as the Hart and a Cacophony of Cicadas .

One made me laugh:

Good to see Lorenzo's resting place in summer, and his sheltering oak tree in leaf. It was bare branched the early April day of his burial. I see St. Paul is clutching an assault weapon and wearing a determined expression. About cicadas: earlier this summer my wife and I were north of the city, along the Hudson River, visiting an historic estate. The air was alive with millions of cicadas, buzzing, humming, and flying -- they filled hundreds of acres of woodland with a vast, deep droning that rose and fell in waves of synchronicity. Wikipedia tells us they are edible (the females being "meatier"). Cicada pie, anyone? The Choir of St Paul's Cathedral selection is heavenly. Great post, thank you.
-Dean Ericson

Yes, I can imagine Larry being defended with an assault weapon, even in heaven. His words must be affecting even in the pious settings. Actually, I believe that we continue with the roles we undertook on earth after we depart. That is why it is so important to be brave, and to seek truth and goodness, despite the adversary and antagonism which we undoubtedly receive here, as Larry constantly did. What we do on earth will continue up there, in all its bravery, or its limitations. It is up to us what we chose to do here.

The other comment on that post is Dean's explanation of the sound of cicadas:

It was not a cacophony. Groups of cicadas were synchronizing themselves into choirs. It would start with a few cicadas then all of them in that locale - perhaps they organized by tree, "all right elm #46, hit it!" -- would join in until the buzzing reached a crescendo then it would decrescendo in the space of about a minute. Probably each tree had a conductor who looked like an insect Herbert von Karajan. Listening, you could discern various choruses rising and falling throughout the depth of the woods. It was music, but of a strange and primitive kind, with great vigor, and weirdly moving.
-Dean

Yes, that is right. It was a surge, then a decline. And there were various "voices." And while it lasted, the peak of the surge was loud and almost deafening. So it was music. And this fits Larry's aesthetics perfectly, where he would choose art rather than noise.

But, I think I was reacting to the strength, or the power, of this "noise." I think to travel all those distances, literally and spiritually (as I wrote in the post), a strong medium was necessary. And these cicadas became the perfect channel.
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Posted By: Kidist P. Asrat
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Like as the Hart and a Cacophony of Cicadas

One of the reasons I took the trip to New York, a lengthy and beautiful bus ride through the Adirondack Mountains in New York, and the Poconos Mountains through Pennsylvania, was to pay my respects to Lawrence Auster. I was unable to attend his funeral in April.

The cemetery is in a town called Springfield Pennsylvania, about twenty minutes from Philadelphia. It is off a "throughway" called Sproul Road. I got there by a combination of the Greyhound bus (from New York), subway through Philadelphia, and bus to Springfield. Then the walk up Sproul to the cemetery is a fifteen minute stretch without a sidewalk. At some point, I thought I would be a good candidate for the cemetery!

Here is my visual collage of my visit, and my trip.


Woods on the road to Philadelphia


Entrance


Aerial view of the cemetery, showing the surrounding woods and Sproul Road


The chapel at the far end of the cemetery's entrance


Drive through into the cemetery, with beautiful lawns and tall trees


Closer view of the chapel, which was closed when I went




American flags, waving in the Veterans section


The Irish flag reminded me of Larry's love of Yeats


Sculpture of St. Paul, in the area where Larry is buried. I believe the grave is the one
I've photographed here. It is underneath an oak tree, as indicated here.


Pressed oak leaf I collected from the grave site

Three independent identifiers were able to verify for me that this plot is Larry's (the receptionist in the chapel, who told me to look for a plot in the corner, next to a tree and in front of a statue of St. Paul, and two groundsmen, who counted the plot from their grid map of plots).



To the best of my knowledge, this is Larry's plot. It will acquire a stone within the next six months, according to the receptionist.


Statue of St. Paul, facing Larry's grave



The writings on the marble are from the Racolta:

Thou art the Vessel of election, Saint Paul the Apostle, the Preacher of truth in the whole world.

V. Pray for us, Saint Paul the Apostle, R. That we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ.

Let us pray

Almighty and everlasting God, Who, of Thy Divine mercy, didst instruct Thy blessed Apostle Paul what he should do that he might be filled with the Holy Ghost; by his admonitions directing us and his merits interceding for us, grant that we may serve Thee in fear and trembling and so be filled with the comfort of Thy heavenly gifts. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

Larry would have also liked the Latin version:

Tu es vas electiónis, sancte Paule Apóstole, prædicátor veritátis in univérso mundo.

V. Ora pro nobis, sancte Paule Apóstole, R. Ut digni efficiámur promissiónibus Christi.

Oremus

Omnípotens sempitérne Deus, qui beáto Apóstolo tuo Paulo quid fáceret, ut implerétur Spíritu Sancto, divína miseratióne præcepisti; eius dirigéntibus mónitis et suffragántibus méritis concéde, ut serviéntes tibi in timóre et tremóre, cæléstium donórum consolatióne repleámur. Per Christum Dóminum nostrum. Amen.

It was a quiet and magical day. I was the only one around Larry's grave. There were a few cars driving in to find their plots. Groundsmen were present, but unobtrusive. It was quiet and peaceful.

As I stood before the grave, a sudden cacophony of cicadas overwhelmed the serene and quiet place. It lasted for about a minute, or forty-five seconds. The cicadas must have been in the nearby maple tree.



Song of the cicada, in ancient mythology:

Socrates: But let me ask you, friend: have we not reached the plane–tree to which you were conducting us?

Phaedrus: Yes, this is the tree.

Socrates: By Herè, a fair resting–place, full of summer sounds and scents. Here is this lofty and spreading plane–tree, and the agnus castus high and clustering, in the fullest blossom and the greatest fragrance; and the stream which flows beneath the plane–tree is deliciously cold to the feet. Judging from the ornaments and images, this must be a spot sacred to Achelous and the Nymphs. How delightful is the breeze:—so very sweet; and there is a sound in the air shrill and summerlike which makes answer to the chorus of the cicadae. But the greatest charm of all is the grass, like a pillow gently sloping to the head. My dear Phaedrus, you have been an admirable guide.

Phaedrus: What an incomprehensible being you are, Socrates: when you are in the country, as you say, you really are like some stranger who is led about by a guide. Do you ever cross the border? I rather think that you never venture even outside the gates. [Phaedrus: Written by Plato. A dialogue between Plato's main protagonist, Socrates, and Phaedrus, an interlocutor. The Phaedrus was presumably composed around 370 BC - source: Wikipedia]

It was eerie, strange but beautiful. More so because cicadas have a very long life cycle of about seventeen years, and I was there to hear them proclaim their presence. [More on the cyclical appearance of cicadas here].

But I simply thought it was Larry, communicating to us (or if I can be a little conceited, to me). I suspect the sounds and sights from beyond the grave are nothing like what we know here on earth. And Larry's sonorous voice would need sturdy and strong carriers to travel those distances.

I posted part of Yeats' poem The Song of the Happy Shepherd in my post I must be gone: there is a grave, with my photograph of daffodils, and later on in the post an image of Larry reclining, next to a photograph of mine I took of a tree in the Cloister gardens in New York.

I wrote:

I have juxtaposed a photograph of a tree with one of Larry leaning back as though resting on the trunk of the tree, with the paradisaical gardens of the Cloisters within his arm's reach.

I must be gone: there is a grave
Where daffodil and lily wave,
And I would please the hapless faun,
Buried under the sleepy ground,
With mirthful songs before the dawn.
[From “The Song of the Happy Shepherd” by W.B. Yeats]

I could substitute the American flags, right across in the Veteran's section, for the daffodil and the lily, which were gently waving in the breeze.


Presence of Deer

I saw these droppings in front of Larry's grave, and asked the groundsman if they were rabbit. He told me they belonged to deer, which apparently frequent the wooded cemetery.

I thought it was apt, and they reminded me of Herbert Howells' Like as the Hart (from Psalm 42), which I have sung many times as a chorister.

Psalm 42, King James version:

As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, O God.

2 My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God: when shall I come and appear before God?

3 My tears have been my meat day and night, while they continually say unto me, Where is thy God?

4 When I remember these things, I pour out my soul in me: for I had gone with the multitude, I went with them to the house of God, with the voice of joy and praise, with a multitude that kept holyday.

5 Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted in me? hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise him for the help of his countenance.

6 O my God, my soul is cast down within me: therefore will I remember thee from the land of Jordan, and of the Hermonites, from the hill Mizar.

7 Deep calleth unto deep at the noise of thy waterspouts: all thy waves and thy billows are gone over me.

8 Yet the Lord will command his lovingkindness in the day time, and in the night his song shall be with me, and my prayer unto the God of my life.

9 I will say unto God my rock, Why hast thou forgotten me? why go I mourning because of the oppression of the enemy?

10 As with a sword in my bones, mine enemies reproach me; while they say daily unto me, Where is thy God?

11 Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God.

Like as the Hart Desireth the Waterbrooks
Herbert Howells
Choir of St. Paul's Cathedral

All the photos were taken by me, except for the aerial map of the cemetery.
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Posted By: Kidist P. Asrat
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Sarcophagi in the Cloisters

From Lawrence Auster's View From the Right: "What happens to us after we die?"

The truest Christian picture of the afterlife that I have seen are the sleeping statues of the dead on the sarcophagi from twelfth century France in the crypt in the Cloisters in New York City. These men and women are depicted not as dead, but as asleep, with an expression of joyous anticipation on their faces as they await their resurrection. They were devout followers of Christ in life, and they are sure of their reward. Are these statues literally true? No. But they are an expression of the truth, a truth we cannot know directly.

I have seen those sleeping statues at the Cloisters. One thing that struck me about the faces depicted on some of them was their youthfulness (combined with the peaceful and joyous expressions), despite the older age of the deceased. Perhaps we do go into the afterlife as youthful, joyous and peaceful.


Sarcophagus of Armengol VII, Count of Urgell (d. 1038)


Close-up of Sarcophagus of Armengol VII, Count of Urgell


Double Tomb of Alvaro I, Count of Urgell (d. 1038)
and His Wife Cecilia of Foix

Here's what Metropolitan Museum of Art says about Alvaro I:

Documentary evidence suggests that this tomb ensemble was made for Àlvar Rodrigo de Cabrera and his wife, Cecília of Foix, the parents of Ermengol X. The monastery of Bellpuig de les Avellanes was abandoned and badly damaged during the Wars of Succession that began around 1700. When the monastery was reinhabited in the 18th century, the church with its burial chapel was reconstructed. The sarcophagi with the arms of the counts of Urgell and Foix were probably made at that time to fit the original effigies.

Sacrophagi Exhibition Hall