Two addresses given at the funeral of Brian Munday on 17th December
Every other Thursday, more or less, Brian would receive Holy Communion at home. Even when he was still able to get to church fairly regularly he would also enjoy that experience of a quiet and prayerful communion in the home he fought so hard to stay in. He enjoyed it partly, I think, because it gave him the opportunity to ask questions about the Bible which you couldn’t ask in church. Brian struggled with the Bible, with what it meant and how much of it was historically true. History appealed to Brian; not just Biblical history but also especially the history of his family which he spent so much time researching, wandering round the country looking at tomb stones and church records even though he never quite got down to putting it all on paper. I remember him speculating on what it must have been like for people in the 19th century moving into a tenement block in the East End, coming from all over the country and probably not being able to understand each other’s local accents until all those accents boiled down to the cockney he grew up with. He loved too the history of England found in the pages of his favorite magazine, This England, its stories and legends – and he was always asking questions.
In another way I think his questions were also a way of coping with these last long years of illness. Brian was a man who didn’t give in – he was a stubborn man which at times perhaps may have made him just a little difficult to live with. He didn’t give in to the local council in getting his home equipped so he could go on living there and enjoying the view from his window. He didn’t give in to his illness but forced himself to live as much of a life as he could. And he didn’t give up on questioning God. Atheists say faith is a crutch – for Brian faith was a challenge – like the other things life threw at him and he met it full on wanting to know more, wanting to question and discuss and discover and yet at the same time wanting to belong to the community of faith and meet the people and share in their experiences. Questioning and communion went together. And those regular communions at home kept him linked into the community even when he couldn’t come to church.
And now the struggle is over – Brian has handed himself over to God. It is the final challenge to us all – to give ourselves back to the God who has made us and sustained us and challenged us with his questions about what we will make of our lives for him. And now Brian finally has his questions resolved, his pain healed, his sins forgiven. In the final presence of God Brian joins in the one communion of which all those holy communions in his home were a first rehearsal for being at home in heaven.
Stephen Tucker
The first time I remember seeing Brian was about five years ago in the Flask Pub; he was sitting in his wheelchair with Teri and Bruce Weber, whom I knew: I thought he was probably Teri’s father. In fact Teri had met him, I think during a visit to Branch Hill, and from then on helped him get to our church. When Teri and Bruce went back to the United States, I and other helpers got him to church whenever possible.
Brian was introduced to our church by his late wife Sheila, to whom he was devoted. But he had his own theology. We would sit in his flat looking out at the sky, the trees, and the birds, and at night at the moon and stars. And he would say to me “Stephen – all that did not just get there by accident, you know.” We discussed his illness (brought about by a spinal tumour) which had made him use a wheelchair for many years; and whether the pain he experienced was compatible with a God who loved mankind. He commented “maybe the world we see is just an experiment.”
Brian and I were almost exactly the same age, and both of us had the privilege of serving our country in the ranks of the Army during our National Service. When Brian was called up around 1957 the London regiments were full, but those in outlying parts of the UK were not. They asked him his surname. “Munday”. “First name” “Brian”. “Right, you are in the Irish Fusiliers”. It seems that at that time anyone called David was packed off to the Welch Regiment, and if your first name was Jimmie you ended up in the Black Watch.
Brian was sent to Armagh in Northern Ireland; his job was to guard his unit’s weapons in case the IRA tried to steal them. The sergeant major told him “Fusilier Munday, you will be stationed inside the armoury, with a loaded rifle. If anyone rings the bell, open up, demand the password and if they do not give it shoot them.” Around midnight came a ring on the bell. Brian, absolutely terrified, swung open the door and demanded the password of the man standing outside. It was the sergeant major in his dressing gown. “Well done, Fusilier”, the sergeant major said; he seems to have been a brave man, or one with time on his hands, or both.
Unlike most people in our congregation, Brian was working class and proud of it. At one gathering people were mentioning what jobs they did. One, say, was an eminent lawyer, another chairman of a City firm, another a successful playwright. Brian got ready to say “my last job was pushing beer barrels round a warehouse”, but the conversation went off in a different direction.
On another occasion, when the talk was of education, he was able to display his celebrated wit. All the others present had been to distinguished universities. When it came to Brian’s turn he said “I was actually at both Oxford and Cambridge. Oxford Street and Cambridge Circus.”
Later his long standing illness was complicated by cancer which caused him even more pain; he went first to the Marie Curie Hospice, and then to the Magnolia Court care home in Golders Green. About two weeks ago I was at his bedside at the Magnolia Court – he was sedated and half conscious. It was 3pm in the afternoon. In the United States, in Delaware, it was 10am. By arrangement, Teri called Brian and I held the mobile phone up so he could hear her voice. He recognized it; they exchanged a few words, then he drifted off. Three days later he passed away. He was a fine man. I shall miss him a lot.
Stephen Clarke