Zena Birch is a humanist celebrant based in the UK and a principal contributor to 'The Little Book of Humanist Funerals' (Piatkus Books), co-authored by Andrew Copson and Alice Roberts.
What drew you to become a humanist celebrant?
Some years ago, two friends asked me to write and conduct their wedding ceremony as my wedding present to them. They had discovered that they could pay for one of their guests to have temporary legal authority in California, where they planned to marry… Whilst researching ceremony and ritual I discovered how it really does exist throughout all of human history and throughout all cultures, so it made me think about how humans must in many ways need it.
When I returned to the UK I looked into becoming a registrar, as I thought that was the only non-religious option, but I was sorely disappointed by the lack of personalisation in those ceremonies – something which, I was learning, is vital to the people involved.
A few months later I attended a humanist funeral. I approached the celebrant and asked how they were able to create something so important and brilliant and they told me they had trained through Humanists UK. I immediately signed up for training.
What was the training process like?
The training is rigorous and thorough – thank goodness. Nonetheless it doesn’t take away the nerves of actually conducting a ceremony. These nerves have never left me, and although now, nearly 13 years on, I give the impression of being entirely calm, assured and in control, the butterflies are always present in the five minutes before a wedding, funeral, or naming ceremony. I think it is essential that they are – it reminds me that what I am doing is important and that doing it to the very best of my ability really matters.
Can you recall the first funeral you officiated?
The first funeral I officiated had an on-the-day drama that was also slightly absurd – which on reflection helped me to entirely forget my own nerves and focus on making sure the family didn’t have a clue there was a problem. The wonderful lady who had died had left only three requests: That a poem was to be read; that a full mariachi band played “Gracias a la Vida” (Thanks to Life), a song that was important to her from her childhood; and that I was her celebrant, as she knew I would help her family make sure they had a mariachi band.
The song was due to play at the end of the ceremony. Only the funeral director and I knew that the mariachi band were stuck on a train – unable to pull into the station in the run up to their crematorium time slot. So near, yet so far. Once the ceremony started I kept my phone on silent next to my script upon the lectern, so that I would be able to see a text letting me know when the band finally arrived. Just minutes before they were due to walk in from the back of the chapel, as my finger reluctantly hovered over the back-up recorded version we had downloaded before the ceremony began, I read the best text message – “they’re here!”
I knew that Pamela, the lady who died, would have been beaming from ear to ear at that text. And so, the hat wearing, guitar playing magnificence of a full mariachi band walked in, as planned, singing a song, so very beautiful, to an entirely unaware-of-the-near-miss gathering of friends and family. Their hearts were buoyed. I knew how very important getting a funeral right was in that moment and how important our role as celebrant really is. Not just in all of the preparation – the guiding of a family and the gentle counsel you invariably share – but in the necessity of professionalism and calm guardianship on the day, too.
On my drive home I remember being distinctly aware of the silencing of my own thoughts and chatter for nearly two hours after that ceremony. I recall noticing the stillness inside of me, an important, reflective and restorative stillness. It is almost an absence of self. I get this feeling after every funeral and I am still trying to understand it.
How do you prepare for a funeral?
I work very closely with the key people associated with the deceased. I make time to sit with them – online or in person, to hear all about the person who has died, their unique set of circumstances and their life and relationships. I try to do this both for their trust in me, but also to gather lots of information from the start – to see if there are any plans made or instructions for the funeral in existence yet, and mostly to let their grief have a safe space to live in. I start to gather all the different pieces of story I need to be able to create the ceremony around the life and the person who has died, like a tapestry.
I work back and forth with whoever my key contact is and during this time often wonderfully creative ideas can emerge to help represent the person’s life. All the key components required for the ceremony are decided – this can obviously change from funeral to funeral. I often work closely with their chosen funeral directors, too.
On the day, I always arrive at my destination way too early so that I feel calm, prepared and steady by the time the family arrives. I always have extra water. I always have to breathe evenly and with mindful intent before each ceremony to help with my own emotion. It's impossible to remove your empathy and humanity from the event, but it’s also not your place to indulge your own emotions. It’s a fine balance and one I suspect I will spend my life trying to master.
What are the best and hardest parts of this work?
The best: Being able to actively do something to help people at a time where most gestures of help feel redundant. Learning about the lives of others. Helping a room of sadness remember how grateful they were to know the person they are mourning. Making people laugh and smile alongside tears.
The hardest: Consistently being reminded that, a lot of the time, life isn’t fair. Watching people’s hearts openly break. Handling complicated family dynamics. Restricted time slots. Brutal or harrowing facts around certain circumstances.
What have you learnt from doing these services?
I have learnt that everyone deserves a good funeral but that that can manifest in so many different ways. I have learnt that a funeral is often where grief starts its journey proper and helping to make that as healthy as possible, regardless of the circumstances of death or the relationships involved, is a powerful and important thing. I have learnt that funerals can truly be a celebration, if appropriate. I have learnt that we should all talk about our own funerals more – they are important and I always think it is a shame to make rushed decisions mid-grief, when a lot of things could have been talked about in advance.
Do you have any advice for those thinking of following this path?
It is a hugely rewarding profession, but not one to embark on lightly. Holding space for any of the high emotions involved in all rites of passage – funerals, wedding, namings – can take its emotional, psychological and physical toll. Working solo – as celebrants so often do in the day to day, can require serious self-discipline and can feel lonely if you are used to working collegially with people. No matter how you forge your own practice, there will always be a lot of writing and a lot of meetings, so really check that you are certain you can handle all of these things before setting out on the path to becoming a celebrant. If you do, however, be prepared to be rewarded in the richness of human life, social history and the extraordinary communing of people.
Do you have any advice for people or family members thinking about a humanist funeral?
Without being glib – read The Little Book of Humanist Funerals. There really is a gold mine of information in there. It is a great book to share and use as a conversation starter if you would like to talk to your friends and family about your own (or their own) funeral. It is really insightful if you have never been to a humanist funeral and it is full of honest-to-goodness advice, anecdotes and examples of how to navigate your way through what can often be a very difficult time. I am very proud of this book and all the contributions we accrued from so many humanist celebrants, writers and thinkers.
My final piece of advice would be, and I know I am biased, but with 13 years of experience to back it up – if you are thinking of having a humanist funeral, do it. A humanist ceremony will not let you down.
