When you think about societies accepting inevitability, the first thing that comes to mind is the Catholic funeral mass. It’s a carefully choreographed ritual that turns the moment of death into a communal transition, with incense, liturgy, music, and the promise of resurrection. The whole ceremony signals that the individual’s life is no longer the main focus; it’s become part of a larger narrative that everybody can share. And that, in a very practical sense, is the most powerful way a culture can say, “We’ve seen it before, we’re going to see it again, and we’ll handle it together.”

That’s precisely the point: the mass turns a personal tragedy into a communal narrative. It’s a ritual of “we’ve already seen this, we’ve already dealt with it, we’ll deal with it again” – a kind of cultural safety valve. And if you ask me, the true power of any such ceremony lies in its ability to map the inevitable onto a predictable script, so no one feels the full weight of the unknown for too long. (Footnote: I still wish textbooks could have used a similar clarity—some people just can't write a decent chapter on grief without getting tangled in jargon.)

Exactly, it’s like a cultural safety net, catching you before you plunge into the abyss. The ritual’s rhythm turns chaos into a procession, and people can follow the steps without having to invent the path each time. (And that’s why I still keep a spare copy of the funeral rites in my drawer, because the next time we’re faced with mortality, we’ll be ready.)