From Genesis 3 through
Revelation 20, this world is a tragic world. And because our lives,
our psyches, were made to be responsive to the world around us,
created to filter and reflect our circumstances, our lives are tragic
lives in this fallen world. We know what it means to hunger and not
be filled, what it means to thirst and not be quenched, what it means
to yearn and not be satisfied. We experience the dreadful gap
between how things ought to be and how they are, the chasm between
God's design and the wispiness of our fragile life: “For what is
your life? It is even a vapor that appeareth for a little time, and
then vanisheth away” (James 4:14). And so, seeing the chasm in our
woundedness, our sickness, and the inevitability of death stalking
our every step, we respond to tragedy with grief.
Sometimes, when we're
grieving, or when we see someone in the pains and passions of grief,
we want to take a shortcut out of the grieving process. We want the
quickest route back to sunny skies and the balmy summertime of the
soul, away from the cold, cloud-choked doldrums and their dreadful
drizzles of despair. We want to pave over the potholes in the road
of life, pretend that smooth sailing on stormy seas is the norm. And
so we invoke our array of platitudes, trying to prematurely leap from
those choppy waters to terra firma.
Or sometimes, we're just
so caught up in what the Bible says about the “joy of the Lord”
that we can't see how the Christian life leaves any room for grief,
no matter the circumstances. Just look at our hymns! “At the
cross, at the cross, where I first saw the light / and the burden of
my heart rolled away, / it was there by faith I received my sight, /
and now I am happy all the day” – happy, happy, happy, is it any
wonder we have so little room for grief and silence? So many classic
hymns have a sequence that tells the story of a believer up through a
confrontation with his or her own mortality, but we excise those
final stanzas when we print our hymnals. When we sing “Amazing
Grace,” who even knows the lost fifth verse about “when this
flesh and heart shall fail, / and mortal life shall cease”? When
we sing “O God, Our Help in Ages Past,” what about the verse:
“Time, like an ever-rolling stream, / soon bears us all away; / we
fly forgotten, as a dream / dies at the opening day”? And though
it's in our hymnal, how often do we meditate on some of the closing
lines of “Rock of Ages, Cleft For Me” that deal with the time
“while I draw this fleeting breath, / while my eye-strings break in
death”? For most of us, not so often.
Why? Because in this
country, we don't do the cross well. We're drawn to dazzling light,
to messages of fantastic prosperity and instant healing. American
churches are full of the truncated gospel of the quick fix. We have
so little space for lament and outcry; we have no time for stillness
in God's presence; if it doesn't resolve, our disquiet speaks
volumes. Who preaches the grittiness of Leviticus, the mournful
plaints of Lamentations, the dreary outlook of Ecclesiastes, or the
psalms of woe? Who would stay to listen? We want a sanitized world
of emotional highs and easy plots. Underlying many American churches
is the unspoken conviction that the godly life is a life that either
escapes tribulation altogether or else bears it undisturbed.
That is not Christianity.
That is warmed-over Stoicism in pious coating – but Seneca didn't
die on the cross for you. Jesus did, and he models the godly life.
And in the Gospel of John, we read how the eyes of the
Word-made-flesh dripped and gushed with hot tears in pained anguish
over the graveside of his best friend Lazarus, whom he loved dearly
(John 11:5). Witnessing the sorrows of his sister, the wailing of
her companions, Jesus “was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply
moved” (John 11:33), and he himself “began to weep” (John 11:35). If Jesus, who knew that Lazarus' death wouldn't last even a
few more hours, grieved in the face of that most poignant instance of
tragedy, the marring of God's creation by death's invasion, who can
deny that godliness and grief are compatible after all? “The heart
of the wise is in the house of mourning” (Ecclesiastes 7:4). Just
so, the Apostle Paul “served the Lord with all humility and with
tears” (Acts 20:19).
And so away with our
platitudes, away with our shortcuts, away with our secret allegiance
to prosperity preaching and our addiction to joyful noises. There is
such a thing as holy lament, such a thing as sanctified suffering,
such a thing as godly grief. But what is it that makes grief godly,
if it can also be ungodly? The answer is hope – hope makes grief
godly or ungodly, healthy or unhealthy, by its presence or absence.
Paul writes to the Thessalonian believers in a time of distress to
reassure them so that they “may not grieve as others do who have no
hope” (1 Thessalonians 4:13) – not that they won't grieve, but
that they won't grieve hopelessly. Hopeful grief is not in vain:
“Thou tellest my wanderings: put thou my tears into thy bottle: are
they not in thy book?” (Psalm 56:8).
Hope makes all the
difference. And this hope is not wishful thinking, not an optimistic
outlook, not a wistful expression of desire, like when we say, “I
hope it doesn't rain today,” or, “I hope it doesn't get too hot
out” – the latter hope being, alas, sorely dashed today. This
hope is something else, something greater and more tangible. This
hope is a faithful disposition that prioritizes God's promises over
current transitory circumstances. That's what hope is. “It is
good that a man should both hope and quietly wait for the salvation
of the LORD” (Lamentations 3:26). Consider
Abraham, Paul's hero of hope. Confronted with the physical reality
of advanced age, God asked him to believe the impossible, the absurd,
that he would yet father a son who might look upon him with his own
eyes, maybe bear his mother's nose and charming smile. As far as the
fertility of his own body, Abraham was “as good as dead” (Romans 4:19; Hebrews 11:11-12). Staring death in the face, both then and
atop Mount Moriah when asked to make a stunning sacrifice, Abraham
chose to look past what his eyes saw and choose faith in “the God
who gives life to the dead” (Romans 4:17). Abraham chose the
hopeful faith of resurrection. An irrational faith, a faith against
reason? No, say the scriptures: “Abraham reasoned that God is able
even to raise someone from the dead” (Hebrews 11:19). With reason
daring to build on faith's foundation, Abraham saw hope lead him
through the valley of the shadow of death and beyond.
Paul says that it's
suffering that brings endurance, and endurance that builds character,
and character that makes way for hope (Romans 5:3-4). Hope in God's
promises emerges out of the endurance of suffering, not out of escape
from suffering. Hope is not the opposite of grief, but actually is
birthed through the wails of sorrow and distress, when grief is made
fertile by faith. Hope is born from the psalmist's words, “I am
weary with my moaning; every night I flood my bed with tears; I
drench my couch with my weeping” (Psalm 6:6), ultimately issuing in
the psalmist's relief that “the LORD has heard
the sound of my weeping; the LORD has heard my
supplication; the LORD accepts my prayer”
(Psalm 6:8-9). But that's just it: there are two ways to grieve –
fertile and infertile.
Many in this world grieve
with no hope. They don't recognize that God has acted decisively in
Jesus Christ, who “died and rose again” (1 Thessalonians 4:14).
And in denying outright or giving no space in practice to this
world-changing confession, they have to make do with
hope-substitutes. Some might try to employ a universal optimism, an
unfounded wistfulness that just anyone who dies must surely be in “a
better place”. These are just the pirated trappings of real
Christian piety, a boiled-down residue that treats heavenly life as a
matter of due course and not as an astounding penultimate stage in
the radical saga of God's grace bursting into the world in his Son
and his Spirit. Those whose lives are hid with Christ in God really
are in a better place – not because they were so good, but
because Jesus was so good to them and in them (Colossians 3:3).
Or some who grieve with
no hope, grieve in godless resignation. They might admit that death
is the end, as it appears to the natural eye to be. They might
confess that a person's story is, in a cosmic perspective,
insignificant. They might concede that this proverbial “tale told
by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing,” finally
comes to a close when the heart stops beating; that its epilogue
trails off as the casket and its vault are lowered into the earth;
that there will be no sequel and no re-make; that “neither have
they any more portion forever in anything that is done under the sun”
(Ecclesiastes 9:6). And they might try to evade the inevitable
ticking clock of their own mortality through distraction. All that's
left to do in the meantime is chase after the wind (Ecclesiastes 2:11). But this hopeless grief is too fearsome and vain and
pointless a thing to stare in the face.
Yet one need not grieve a
hopeless grief. One can grieve, but grieve not
“as others do who have no hope.” Our grief can recognize that
the Last Enemy has lost its sting (1 Corinthians 15:55). Our grief
can recognize that the Last Enemy will be defeated and destroyed
forever (1 Corinthians 15:26). Our grief can look forward in
anticipation to the final victory given to us by God in Jesus Christ
(1 Corinthians 15:57), the victory that swallows that Last Enemy up
and puts it out of sight and out of mind for all eternity (1 Corinthians 15:54). Even our grief, our lament, our sorrow, our
flood of tears, can drown the shattered jaw of our Last Enemy.
But
what does it look like to overcome? What does it look like to
conquer death? In light of the end of the story, the Apostle John
calls for “the patience of the saints,” expressed in active
obedience: “They keep the commandments of God, and the faith of
Jesus” (Revelation 14:12). We need this obedient, faithful
patience – a patience expressly rooted and anchored in a God made
known to us in the cross and resurrection of Jesus Christ; a God who
knows what it's like to mourn, even what it's like to be buried in
the tomb; a God who offers himself as the “Joy of the Desolate.”
Only with such obedient, faithful patience can we have this certain
conviction. Only then do “we have this hope, a sure and steadfast
anchor of the soul” (Hebrews 6:19), a “hope in the glory of God”
(Romans 5:2).
Through
such hope, we know the last word on human existence is not, “Dust
thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return” (Genesis 3:19). Not
even close. Hear these words instead, recorded in the Revelation
given to John: “Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from
henceforth.” Death is a curse, death is an enemy, make no mistake;
but God holds its leash and uses it to precious ends, even now.
Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord, having shown the patience
of the saints, having kept the commandments of God and the faith of
Jesus. And the Spirit answers, “They may rest from their labors,
and their works do follow them” (Revelation 14:13).
Followed
by their works they go
Where their Head had gone before,
Reconciled
by grace below;
Grace had opened mercy's door:
Justified
through faith alone,
Here they knew their sins forgiven,
Here
they laid their burden down,
Hallowed, and made fit for heaven. (Charles Wesley, Poetical
Works
2:189-190)
Just
twenty-four hours ago, beneath the heat of the day amidst the
greenness of God's persevering earth, the Rev. Dr. Gordon R. Lewis
recited the words of Revelation 14:13 in the small village of Pitman,
standing at the graveside of the Rev. Melvin H. Stehr – a patient,
obedient, and faithful servant of the Lord if ever I've known one.
Not too many yards away, in that same hallowed ground, stands a
fractured marker above the mortal remains of Melvin's
great-grandmother Elizabeth Kehler, whose sixty-six years on this
earth didn't last so long as Melvin's ample ninety-two. And on that
slim stone slab, barely above the blades of grass, is etched a
reference to that very verse. So, like his believing fathers and
faithful mothers before him, we know that Melvin is blessed with rest
from his labors. It may fairly be said – nor could be gainsaid –
that all the way, his Savior led him. He lives on now as a blessed
“upper saint / who can praise and never faint, / gazing on [God]
evermore / and with flaming heart adore.” The earth has spun on
its axis a mere five times since he departed to be with Christ and so
gained even in the tragedy of death (Philippians 1:21-23). And while
no earthly riches or titles could go where he's gone, the works God
worked through him do follow him – and oh, what works! Over a
century ago, the great Evangelical preacher William Yost closed his
Reminiscences
with these reflections:
Had I wrought upon marble, it would perish; had I worked upon brass,
time would efface it; had I reared magnificent temples and splendid
palaces, they would crumble into dust; but having wrought upon
immortal minds and imbued them with sacred principles, with the fear
of God, I have engraven upon their tablets something which time can
not efface, but which will brighten to all eternity.
As
an ardent preacher of the word of God and a minister of his grace,
Melvin, too, engraved upon immortal minds the sacred principles that
will brighten to all eternity in the lives of each man, woman, and
child here today, and so many others who are not – as we should all
aspire to do, all being servants of the grace of God and doers of his
word. And so the epitaph that Charles Wesley wrote for Thomas
Forfitt could be affixed to Melvin just as perfectly, and may we live
worthily of it likewise:
Of
gracious riches full and happy days,
A Christian here concludes his glorious race;
Disciple
of a meek and lowly Lord,
He labored on and longed for his reward,
'Til,
ripe for bliss, he laid his body down,
And faithful unto death, received the crown. (Charles Wesley,
Poetical Works
8:434)
What's
more, those who rest from their labors now will one day return with
Christ, being the first to rise: “For if we believe that Jesus died
and rose again, even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring
with him. … For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a
shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God;
and the dead in Christ shall rise first” (1 Thessalonians 4:14-16),
being “revealed with him in glory” (Colossians 3:4). The credits
have not rolled on the life of Melvin Stehr, nor Elizabeth Kehler,
nor William Yost, nor any of our blessed and beloved who've died in
the Lord and gone to join the church triumphant. The credits have
not rolled. Only the pause button has been pressed, giving rest to
them before the face of God and calling us to live, even through
grief, in the suspenseful silence of the still screen. But that
silence, however truly long and pained and mournful for us to whom a
thousand years are a thousand years and not a day (cf. 2 Peter 3:8),
lasts only until Jesus descends with the exuberant exclamation,
“The pause is over; press play!” And oh, the harmony that awaits when all those stories
resume and when we who remain catch up with them!
In
light of God's promises, we have a sure and certain hope that shapes
the patterns of our grieving. Because we have faith that “Christ
died for us” and hope that “whether we wake or sleep, we should
live together with him” (1 Thessalonians 5:10), we live out this
hope socially in the church. We comfort one another, we build each
other up, bearing one another's burdens (Galatians 6:2), sharing our
griefs and encouraging one another in bearing them: “Comfort
yourselves together, and edify one another, even as also ye do” (1 Thessalonians 5:11). Ah, “even as also ye do” – because at
Pequea as in Thessaloniki, we see many examplars of hopeful grief in
the face of tragedy. Look around, and you'll see people who know how
to put hope into practice.
In
supporting each other, our grief does not vanish. It does not
disappear in a flash of light. It does not immediately subside and
restore us to the freshness of spring. But it becomes something
else, something greater than itself, something holy. It becomes part
of the life of Christ's body on earth, belonging to that “man of
sorrows, and acquainted with grief” (Isaiah 53:3). And by being
made Christ's grief and one another's grief, even our grief becomes a
living witness to the hope that will never, ever, ever
disappoint (Romans 5:5). That hope will prove true in its time,
through the patience of the saints bearing burdens together in
obedience to Jesus, our faithful Lord, a Lord who “doth not afflict
willingly nor grieve the children of men” (Lamentations 3:33), a
Lord who sends his Spirit of Consolation to guide the patient through
times of grief and trial. And when the time has come, “may
those who sow in tears, reap with shouts of joy” (Psalm 126:5) in
the name of Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
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