The Covid pantomime at my father’s memorial

This last weekend I attended the memorial service for my father, who died in July. This isn’t a bid for sympathy. Everyone’s father dies; most of us expect to suffer our bereavements in private; you didn’t know him. But in a larger sense, this is a bid for sympathy. That is, sympathy for us all.

Beforehand, Riverside Church — a grand, storied edifice on Manhattan’s Upper West Side — had sent out an email circular to prospective attendees. Perhaps recipients might have anticipated a ministerial reaching out: ‘We treasured Dr Shriver’s membership of our congregation, and Riverside’s clerics wish to convey our sorrow at your loss. We regard his passing as our loss, too.’ Or even: ‘At times of mourning, it’s vital for those left behind to experience closeness and community, and we are glad to provide a venue for this fortifying togetherness.’ But no.

The advisory was stern, chiding and chilly, full of underscoring and capital letters.