July 30, 2006 (Jimmie Johnson)

II Corinthians 4:16-5:1

So we do not lose heart. Even though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed day by day. For this slight momentary affliction is preparing us for an eternal weight of glory beyond all measure, because we look not at what can be seen but at what cannot be seen; for what can be seen is temporary, but what cannot be seen is eternal. For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.

John 11:17-27

When rmonJesus arrived, he found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb four days. Now Bethany was near Jerusalem, some two miles away, and many of the Jews had come to Martha and Mary to console them about their brother. When Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went and met him, while Mary stayed at home. Martha said to Jesus, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask of him.” Jesus said to her, “Your brother will rise again.” Martha said to him, “I know that he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.” Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?” She said to him, “Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one coming into the world.”

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                                 Sermon

When you experience the death of a loved one or even the real possibility of your own death, the natural first response is fear and sorrow -- even if you are possessed by strong faith.

Death always, at first, looks like an annihilator and a destroyer. And, there are some deaths in this life that always are felt as a painful open wound. A loss that requires God’s help daily, even hourly, if as a survivor, you are to go on with any kind of life that is not self-destructive. Such a death calls everything we believe into question, and it always will.

Such deaths can never be seen as purposeful. Such deaths are an absurdity in God’s world. And this kind of death will remain an absurd, irrational fact unless, with God’s grace, we can overcome our pain and chose to honor our loved one’s life more than the pain of his or her death. (This idea owed to Prof. John Leith in a funeral sermon in his book, “Pilgrimage of a Presbyterian.”)

And then there are some deaths that do not remain an open wound for us, but by God’s grace become a place of gentleness in our life -- a place that keeps us grounded and connected to all that really matters. This gentleness makes each day lived more profound.

The journey toward this kind of death does not begin this way. In the beginning, death looks like a horrid creature hiding outside the door, stalking us, and mocking us. At first, we do all we can to keep death away. We bolt the door and forbid death’s entrance. But when we peep out the window, there is “old death” waiting and grinning.

And then one day, we get to a different place in our heart. We begin to wonder if there are not some things worse than death. On this day, when death knocks at the door, we open it and discover “old death” has been transformed. There’s death standing there with head bowed humbly, looking like a white winged angel, wings folded upward, pointing the way home. (This image owed to Prof. Fred Craddock in a
lecture I once heard him give.)

It takes a while to get there. It takes a while for you to be comforted in your grief.

Think about this. It even took God three days to get from Good Friday and the death of His only Son to Easter morning. If it took God some time, the mystery of three days, shouldn’t we expect a year, a year and a half, or more for us to experience a healing consolation in the midst of our grief?

A Christian funeral conducted in the Presbyterian fashion honors God for the gift of life and gives us the beginning we need to see death transformed.

But there is always the sadness. The sadness can come from the wasted life of the deceased where their selfishness hurt so many, including you-- a waste still working it’s way through the family and the next generation.
Sometimes the sadness, though, is from exactly the opposite kind of life. The sadness comes not from a wasted life but from a life lived large now gone. The absence of a face you couldn’t wait to see come through the door at the end of any day. It was a face that never brought you disappointment or pain. It was the face of one whose eyes were always full of you.

But let’s be clear: No person lives a perfect life of love. Every person has shadows of failure and fear. We all let down the people we love. No one can handle the burden of perfection but God, alone. We don’t pretend in the face of death that a sinner was a saint, nor that a saint was without sin. That’s why we have a Prayer of Confession in a Presbyterian funeral.

Every funeral conducted in a Presbyterian fashion also expresses joy. Joy is a spiritual gift from God’s Spirit breathing within us. Joy is the gift that enables us to be the people who say, “With death all around us, we still see life.” The first hymn of this morning: “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee” sung as the first hymn of a funeral is a powerful witness to the gift.

Our core belief is that in the gift of Jesus Christ, we are loved all the way through life and death, and into the life without end. “Though our outer nature is fading away...our inner nature is being transformed day by day.”
St. Paul proclaims that the truest thing about us is that God’s love is our true home, and that we are never more real than when we dwell in God’s love. Christians believe in the realness of this world and the importance of this life, but we also believe more. We believe there is the invisible world and life.

And one compared with the other, in the thinking of St. Paul, is like living in Motel 6 rather than in Buckingham Palace. A pup tent compared to a magnificent building.

My guidance to you is that a decision to have the funeral here in the sanctuary is a good choice. There is no better, more appropriate, or safer place to cry than in this sanctuary. And there is no more appropriate place to deeply breathe the joy of God that you might be steadied.

There are times that a graveside or a service in a funeral home chapel is the choice to make. I buried my own mom and dad in a simple graveside service. It seemed to be the right call on my part. I was glad my brothers agreed.

There is enough hurt and exhaustion wrapped around the experience of death without the pain of family squabbles over decision making.
The family can suggest to the pastor the scriptures to be read. The family can request the hymns. Actually, you would be doing such a kind service for your family, if you, yourself, would jot down the Scriptures you want read and the hymns you want sung. Bring them here to the church office, and we will file them away until needed.

In a Presbyterian funeral, a family can request a family member or friend speak remembrances--but this is a difficult task, and not one I encourage.
I’ve seen it done well. I’ve seen it done poorly. We believe God’s love is the final word spoken over us. Death does not have the last word. Therefore human ostentation expressed through flowery words or needless recitation is to be avoided.

The reading of Scripture, the singing of hymns and the traditional prayers declare the only hopeful and eternal words that can be spoken in the presence of death-- God’s word of love toward us and our loved one.
It’s the work of a Presbyterian pastor in partnership with the Elders to see that this heritage of honoring God’s Word is followed in a funeral so that comfort can come.

As I said earlier, there is no set time when the sting of death is removed. Six months, a year, a year and a half? I don’t know.

All I know is that one day you are at a place in your heart you weren’t at the day before. At this new place in your heart, you still feel their absence, but you know, you just know, you have their blessing to go forward.
You know it all counts, and is kept somehow. Life counts, and love shared and received is not tossed away, but is somehow woven by God’s love into a beautiful meaningful pattern that ends in fulfillment, not nothingness and waste. Sure, it is easier to believe on some days more than others. We don’t pretend otherwise.

You and I, together, simply believe that if the story of Jesus is true -- that there is always more mercy in God than sin in any one of us-- then we believe an extravagant kindness carries all our love and life along in a grand evolution toward joy.

But what about all that we wish we had not said? All that we wish we had not done? All we wish we could take back? All we wish we could make up for? All the tenderness and good we left undone?

Or, conversely what about all that that was hurtfully said to us, done to us, withheld from us? What about all that past and its frightening finality?
I always read the 23rd Psalm at the grave. Remember these words from the psalm, “Surely the goodness and mercy shall follow me.”

It was several years ago when these words broke open and over me with healing. I was at Oakwood Cemetery standing by a grave. It was cold, and we were all bundled tightly in our coats. It doesn’t matter who was in the grave. What I remember is that as I read the 23rd Psalm, it was as if I had never heard before the deliberate placement by the Psalmist of the goodness and the mercy. The Psalmist promises the goodness and the mercy “follow” us. They follow us. They come along behind us. The mercy forgives. The goodness completes. Yes, that’s where we need the mercy and the goodness. They are behind us, where we can no longer go.
I can not go back and undo or finish. The past is beyond my reach. I can do something about today. I can do something about tomorrow. But, I am helpless about the past, and all I did or didn’t do, or that was done or not done for me. I am helpless before the past.

But the Good Shepherd isn’t. The Good Shepherd promises that behind us all comes “goodness and mercy”.

What does this mean? It means I am hopeful about all and each. It means God in Jesus redeems my past, and your past, and our loved one’s past. God redeems in such a way that forgiveness heals and goodness completes. God redeems so beautifully that in this life we can not even imagine.

Look, there is forgiveness, if that is what you need. There is freedom from the abuse, if that is what you need. There is comfort for sorrow, if that is what you need. Jesus said, “Come to me, all of you that are weary, carrying heavy burdens. I will give you rest.”

A Christian funeral done the Presbyterian way helps us begin letting go of the hurt and taking hold of the joy.

In life and in death, we belong to God.