Funerals

A friend's mom died over the weekend -- I'm officiating the funeral tomorrow night and just finished up preparations for the service.

Funerals are tough from just about every aspect. I think that what's weirdest about them though is how in such a stark presence of the reality of death, that grim reality is not truly there.

Just ask anyone who has gone through the difficult loss of a loved one -- the funeral can oftentimes consist of a rush of adrenaline, full of plans to be made, the presence of family and sweet memories of a life well-lived. The depth of the death, while terribly painful, is hard to fully realize. A few weeks or months down the road though, that's when it gets tough. That's when the nights are lonelier. That's when great memories bring tears instead of smiles. That's when key times when you would have been together bring back the sting of what should have been.

It's hard to have hope there.

I've had a lot of friends lose people they love over the last few years: Justin and Naomi, Larry, Kati, Ann, Kurt and Sue, Leonard and Mary, Lois, Megan, Julie, Josh, Betty -- to name a few.

I've been reading John 11 pretty often lately; it's the passage where Jesus declares Himself "the Resurrection and the Life". It's also the passage where Jesus weeps. I don't think that Jesus was sad about Lazarus being dead. The passage begins with Jesus finding out that Lazarus was sick. So He, the One who heals the sick, decides to wait a few more days before going to see the family. On the way, Jesus hears that Lazarus died. When He arrives on the scene, the mourners are gathered, the body is buried, the family is grieving. Jesus isn't surprised by any of this -- He intentionally waited.

Have you ever been so angered by something that it brought tears to your eyes? I have. I've gotten so angry and frustrated that I've cried. I think that's what happens with Jesus in John 11. Jesus sees this wreckage that death brings -- a wreckage that He never intended, that is a result of the brokenness and fallenness of this world, and He weeps because this is not the way it was supposed to be.

I wish I could have heard Him say "Lazarus, come forth!". A commentator I read once, I think it was J. Vernon McGee, said (paraphrase here), "Had He not prefaced that statement with Lazarus' name, every grave in Israel and Samaria would have opened and ushered out resurrected bodies!"

Jesus, the Creator of life and Giver of life, hates sin and hates the sting that it brings humankind. It was never supposed to be this way. His children were not designed to feel this pain. When He made the world, there were no plans for graveyards, hospitals, ambulances, or funeral homes.

This is the beauty of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, because in Christ, the way things were meant to be has now been restored. In Christ, the sting of sin and death is gone. In Christ, death is a new chapter in the reality of our present eternal life. In Christ, funerals take on new meaning.

That's not to say that in Christ, there is no pain in the loss of people we love. But it is to say that in a venue of hopelessness, there is hope. In a place that is so dark, there is light. In the presence of death, there is life. The call of suffering is a call to a higher plane of life in Christ.

So to you, my friends who are hurting, I give you these words:

I look up to the mountains--
does my help come from there?
My help comes from the Lord,
who made the heavens and the earth!
He will not let you stumble and fall;
the one who watches over you will not sleep.
Indeed, he who watches over Israel
never tires and never sleeps.
The Lord himself watches over you!
The Lord stands beside you as your protective shade.
The sun will not hurt you by day,
nor the moon at night.
The Lord keeps you from all evil
and preserves your life.
The Lord keeps watch over you as you come and go,
both now and forever.
-- Psalm 121