Homily – John 11.21-27, Cemetery Memorial Service, March 19, 2016

Tags

cemetery, darkness, death, Easter, eternal life, grief, homily, if only, Jesus, joy, Lazarus, light, Martha, memorial, resurrection, spring

“Lord, if only you had been here, my brother would not have died.”  These are the words Martha says to Jesus in our gospel lesson today.  The weight of that phrase, “if only,” is heavy.  We all know that weight.  If only he hadn’t caught pneumonia.  If only she hadn’t taken the car out that day. If only we had known about the cancer earlier.  If only they were here now.  We know the sickening power of “if onlys.”

One of my favorite movies is a movie called Sliding Doors.  The movie follows a woman who is fired from her job.  As she makes her way home she has seconds to catch a train.  The movie divides into two at that point.  In one storyline she catches the train home only to find her boyfriend cheating on her at home.  In the other storyline she misses the train and is none the wiser about her boyfriend’s affair.  The two stories unfold in parallel, letting her life unfold from that one moment of a missed or caught train.  Her story is the ultimate “if only” story.

Martha knows the feeling of “if only.”  She knows that if only Jesus had been there, he would have healed Lazarus.  She also knows that if only Jesus had not taken so long, he probably could have made the trip in time.  That phrase, “if only,” hangs in the air for Martha.  But Jesus does not let Martha linger in the past, dreaming about what might have been.  Instead, he points Martha to the future – reminding her that her brother will rise again.  Martha already knows this.  Resurrection life was standard Jewish teaching in their day.  By Martha’s quick response to Jesus, we know that his reminding her about the future of resurrection doesn’t offer Martha much comfort.  But then Jesus does a funny thing.  He twists time all around, telling Martha that “the future is suddenly brought forwards into the present.”[i]

When Jesus says to Martha, “I am the resurrection and the life,” he is not just talking about a doctrine.  He is not just talking about a future fact.  The resurrection is a person, standing here and now in front of Martha.  Jesus invites Martha to exchange her “if only,” for an “if Jesus…”  As one scholar explains, the “if” changes:  “If Jesus is who she is coming to believe he is…If Jesus is the Messiah, the one who was promised by the prophets, the one who was to come into the world…If [Jesus] is God’s own son, the one in whom the living God is strangely and newly present…if [Jesus] is resurrection-in-person, life-come-to-life…”[ii]  You see, when Jesus changes Martha’s mourning to a pondering about what resurrection means, Jesus pulls her out of the past, with an eye on the future, that bursts into the now.

The last time we gathered, we did so in the darkening days of winter.  We watched Christmas approach, and the grief of “if only,” was heavy upon us.  But today, out tone shifts.  Spring is trying to emerge, the days are gifting us with more light, and Easter is approaching.  We have journeyed through a season of darkness.  The Church now invites us to journey toward the light.  The way that we make that transition is not by mourning the “if onlys,” but cultivating the joy of the possibility of “if Jesus.”

Isn’t that how we ever truly face death, though?  That is the eternal gift of our faith in Jesus Christ.  We are promised eternal life through the Savior who came among us, who taught us, loved us, died for us, and rose again.  And through his existence, resurrection is no longer a future longing, but a promise for the here and now.  Our loved ones are celebrating in the resurrection life, because as Jesus says, everyone who believes in Jesus Christ, even though they die, will live and everyone who lives and believes in him will never die.[iii]

As we approach Holy Week and Easter next weekend, I invite you to journey with Christ through the last bits of darkness, holding fast to the promise of the light of Easter – when we shout our joy to the world for the Savior who makes resurrection life possible in the here and now.  The church will journey with us as we loosen our grips on the “if onlys” of life and we attempt to embrace the “if Jesus” ponderings of life.  Today we recognize the ways that the “if onlys” try to haunt us.  But today we also lean on the church for support to hold fast to the “if Jesus” part of our loved ones’ stories.  When we hold on to the power of the future made present, we are able to rejoice this Easter with fullness and joy.  Amen.

[i] N.T. Wright, John for Everyone, Part 2 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), 6.

[ii] Wright, 7.

[iii] John 11.25-26

Homily – John 10.11-16, Cemetery Memorial Service, December 21, 2013

Tags

Blue Christmas, Christmas, funeral, God, Good Shepherd, grief, Jesus, light, memorial, shadow, winter solstice

Last week I attended the funeral of a parishioner’s mother.  As I sat in a cold pew, on a messy, snowy day, I remember thinking how hard Christmas would be for the family this year.  When death is so fresh at your door, hearing songs that proclaim this to be the “most wonderful time of the year,” do not exactly ring true.  When the loss is so new, finding the energy to send cards or get presents sometimes feels half-hearted, if not impossible.  When the absence is so overwhelming, even preparing a favorite recipe of the lost loved one can feel like ripping open one’s heart as you measure, stir, bake, and taste the memories.

I would love to tell families that coping with the loss gets easier over time, but my experience is that no matter how long ago your loved one passed away, the loss still creates an ache in your heart that never really goes away – especially during Christmas time.  Society, and even the Church, tells us that the Christmas season is supposed to be filled with joy, light, and hope.  But for those with grief, Christmastime just reminds us of all the Christmases that we enjoyed with our loved ones – the memories we have, the traditions we enjoyed together; even the bickering and disagreements would seem preferable to not having our loved one at all.  As time goes on and the family grows, you mourn all the new life that they will never see.

Part of the reason we gather today is to honor the shadow side of Christmas.  We acknowledge the pain, suffering, and grief that Christmas can bring.  We acknowledge the incompleteness, however slight, of the joy of this season.  We acknowledge that we might relate more to the Jesus who is in the tomb this season than the happiness of the Jesus born in a manger.  Today, on this winter solstice – the one day of the year with the least amount of light – we honor the fact that there are times of darkness in our faith.  And the Church stands with us, giving us permission to claim the darkness because, ultimately, we know that the light and the darkness cannot be separated.

That is why I find the gospel lesson today so affirming.  In John’s gospel, Jesus tells the disciples, “I am the good shepherd.  I know my own and my own know me.”  This is the reason why the Church encourages us to acknowledge grief today:  because Jesus already knows the hurt is there.  That is what makes him such a good shepherd.  There is no need to hide the fullness of who we are.  There is no need to try to fake good cheer.  There is no need to pretend to be constantly festive if we are not.  All we have to do is look around this room to realize that not only is Jesus with us in our memories or grief, our brothers and sisters gathered here today are also struggling with the conflicting nature of this season.

Acknowledging that hurt, we come together today to shine a little bit of light into that shadow side of Christmas.  Though we name the shadow side of Christmas, we also reclaim the light we find in Christmas.  Both in our gospel lesson and in the 23^rd Psalm we proclaim the Lord to be our Good Shepherd.  We remember that the Lord is with us, that God’s rod and God’s staff comfort us.  We remind one another that we are not alone.  And we light a candle as we leave this place.  In the midst of darkness, we cling to that light – even if only a small flicker from our one candle.  We take that candle to our loved one’s grave remembering all the light that they brought to us.  But that flame goes with us too.  Perhaps we will find that just naming our pain today allows that flame to shine slowly, but steadily, in us.  Perhaps as we see the candles flicker at Christmas services in a few days or in our homes over this next week, we will remember the light of Christ reaching out to us, inviting us to remember that the darkness will not overwhelm us.  Or perhaps that flame will remind us of a deeper joy – not the joy of presents, eggnog, and parties – but the joy of a Good Shepherd who knows us, who loves us, and who will continue to shine a light onto our path.

On this winter solstice, I invite you to remember that after today, our days start claiming more light.  No longer will our days keep getting shorter.  Our days will slowly start to lengthen.  The light will refuse to let the darkness take over.  That is the good news that we proclaim today as we remember our loved ones.  Though there may always be a part of us that hides in the shadows of Christmas, Christ still shines a bit of light in our lives too – sometimes only as little light as is found on the winter solstice – but sometimes as much light as we find in the summer solstice.  So hold fast to the Good Shepherd.  Hold fast to the light.  Hold fast to the promise of resurrection life that is for our loved ones and for us.  Those promises can make even the shadow side of Christmas a little brighter.  Amen.