Obituary

Facebook decided the other day that I should know about the passing of a high school classmate. I recognized the name and remember him as someone I knew from the halls of my high school. I don’t think I ever had a conversation with him beyond the occasional upnod in the hallway back in the early 80s. I’m sure he was a swell guy. But we ran in different circles. He was a good student, never in trouble, always attended classes, etc. If I wasn’t in trouble I was out looking for it.

So I decided to read his obituary. It was a sad obituary, but not for the reasons you might think. It was completely written by AI. I think most of us (other than the Amish) are becoming familiar with the voice of AI. And this one was unmistakable. I thought it was pretty bleak to have one’s life summary reduced to a product that has the word “artificial” in its name.

I’ve never been much of a fan of obituaries. They’re exaggerated, fictional, inaccurate, bestowing sainthood on the departed where sainthood is undeserved. Well, sainthood is probably never deserved, but the truth gets pretty altered in most obituaries. So I’ve never had much use for them. In another life I presided over a number of funerals. And I’ve attended a few as well.

My great grandfather’s funeral was probably the longest. They had 17 preachers take to the podium. It was a Regular Baptist funeral that took place in Eastern Kentucky. I don’t recall understanding anything that was said during that service. But I do remember everyone talked about what an amazing and godly man he was. That was also my experience with him as well, but I got to know him after he turned his life around. As a younger man (between WWI where he served in France and England and when he settled down) he was frequently drunk and managed a few prostitutes with the assistance of his mother in law. That part was missing from his obituary. From his obituary, written by Anna Sue Clarke: “He walked straight and tall, even though he was 100 years of age (not true). He had no drooping shoulders (also not true). His mind was clear and he never ask (sic) for anything (not even a little true). I never heard him complain (I did). Church dinners with him were always happy even if he said my pies were sour enough to make a pig squeal (that might be true, I never had her pies).” The thing is, at least in my mind, the fact that he laid up drunk and helped run a whorehouse during a season of his life spoke volumes to me, and it made his later season in life that much more powerful. Because he did become a kind, gentle, sober, faithful man. But that wasn’t always the case.

His son, my grandfather, was another study in contrasts. He was (mostly) kind to me. According to family members, when I was born he took a liking to me and I was spared (mostly) from his rage and drunken violence. Others were not so lucky. My grandmother spent decades dealing with his whisky and his girlfriends and his violent rages. His two daughters (my mom and her sister) spent a lifetime undoing what he broke. He was feared, not respected. I loved him, but I was among a small group of people who did so. He and my grandmother had two burial plots next to one another. Years after his passing my grandmother bought another plot, far away from him in another cemetery, as her final resting place. And yet, you can probably guess what was said at his funeral. There weren’t 17 preachers at this one. His daughter, my aunt Patty, a wonderful, thoughtful pastor, delivered the message. As required, she left out the bad stuff.

It almost feels like obituaries and funerals are some kind of sales pitch, trying to give God the reasons a person ought to be let into the pearly gates. I don’t think it works like that.

I do remember when I worked with adolescents in an inpatient facility I taught a monthly group called, “My Obituary.” I would have the teenagers write out their own obituary, having met an untimely death due to their drug or alcohol use. I thought if they were to read about their own overdose it might lead them to rethink their current relationship with chemicals. I thought it was an impactful group at the time. Now I’m embarrassed that I wasted time and insurance dollars on such a ridiculous exercise. I can’t think of many things more futile than talking to an adolescent about their own mortality.

My former classmate’s obituary got me thinking. I wondered what would happen if I asked AI to write my obituary. Now, I’m not against AI. Quite the opposite. I think it is a fantastic tool and I use it regularly for a variety of tasks. In fact, AI is getting to know me quite well! It has read most everything I’ve written and it seems to have a pretty great memory. So I gave AI this simple prompt: Write my obituary. It took all of about 2 seconds. The result was beautiful. Poetic even. It was also a complete work of fiction. I mean, it had the “good” stuff in there. The accomplishments. Goals achieved. The best parts of my character. But here’s the truth: I was unfamiliar with the person described. At best, it was a half measure. So I went back to AI and took it to task: “That was awful. I’m not looking for a standard obituary. I want the truth. The whole unvarnished truth. I don’t need you to make me feel better about myself. And you don’t have to drone on like it’s some sort of soliloquy. Do better.” AI apologized for missing the mark, the said, “Here’s a real obituary, no halo.” And followed with this:

“He lived a meaningful life, but not a tidy one. He cared deeply and sometimes inconsistently, offered insight to others while occasionally avoiding his own, and spent long stretches knowing what mattered without always doing it. He could be generous, present, and funny, and also distracted, stubborn, and harder to reach than he realized. He wrestled with doubt, fatigue, and the quiet fear of not fully using what he’d been given. He hurt people at times—not out of cruelty, but out of impatience, self-protection, or simply not paying close enough attention—and he carried regret for that. Still, he showed up more often than not, tried again after missteps, and learned slowly but genuinely. He was unfinished, imperfect, and human, and in that way, entirely real.”

opus perfectum.