“…weakness is sown, strength rises up…”
1 Corinthians 15:43b
I went to a funeral Saturday. Often when I tell someone I am going to a
funeral they will say how sorry they are.
But –I have to say—I’m never sorry to be going. Though I am often sad for the loss of a
friend or for the family who mourns a loved one, I am almost always touched by
a kind of lightness of spirit when I am dressing for a funeral. Something about
it, lifts me up –oddly enough.
This funeral was for a friend:
Norma. A widow in her 80s, she was a
woman filled with life. She had been
married and had several children, yes, but more than that, Norma was a
life-bearer. She brought life with her wherever she went; into whatever room,
or situation she entered there walked a breath of life, an exuberance that felt
contagious.
I did not know Norma particularly
well, but I truly considered her a friend. We first met when I brought Holy
Communion to her homebound husband. Her
husband (Ernesto) had suffered a stroke and needed almost constant care at that
point. Their home was one of the first
houses I visited when I began working in that ministry. I remember going to the door and feeling
nervous about entering someone’s home, their privacy, and about what I would do
or say,,, But I needn’t have worried. Norma welcomed me in and treated me like
I was a dear friend. She wanted to know
about my family and when she found out I had three daughters, she was eager for
me to bring them to visit her some time.
It was close to Christmas and she had decorated her house with her
collection of Santas and wanted me to bring the girls to see them. I left her home touched by her kindness, her
warmth, her generosity of spirit and feeling like we were friends.
After her husband died, I didn’t
visit the house any longer, but I would see Norma at church or occasionally at
a local concert (we apparently had a shared interest in baroque music).
Wherever we would run into each other, she would make a point of giving me a
hug and asking me again about the girls.
When my wife was with me, Norma’s joy and exuberance would overflow to
her as well. (And though she may have treated everyone this way, she made each
of us feel special.) At some point Norma
even began calling my wife on her birthday every year. And I have to say, the first time it happened
was pretty strange. I (of course) assumed
Norma was calling me, because she was my friend... Last year (I think) she was on vacation in
Colorado with her family, but still called with birthday wishes. For me, that is Norma: oddly, delightfully,
joyfully generous and caring. And so, to
go to her funeral was not a duty or an obligation–but a pleasure. There was
nowhere else on earth I would have rather been that morning.
When I learned of her death, I prayed
the Office of the Dead and as I was reading it, I stumbled upon those words
from Paul:
“…weakness is sown, strength rises
up…”
And I thought for a moment not of Norma but of her
husband. Wondering what his stroke had
done to their marriage, to the life they had planned, and wondering about the
life that unexpected and life altering change had forced upon them… What had it
done to Norma?
Had she always been so kind? So
generous? So full of life? I don’t
know. But I do know this: clearly it had
not driven the life out of her. It had not embittered her, or devastated her in
the way that we see depicted so often in books and movies.
During the
homily, I was struck by the aptness of Norma’s death coming in the Easter
season. Looking around at the people
near me, I could see that some were very uncomfortable; uncertain what to do,
where to look, when to stand or kneel, and also uncomfortable with the fact of
death –I imagine. The looks on their faces made it clear they would rather have
been somewhere else. But, that’s the point. We come, despite what we would
rather be doing. We come to stand (or sit, or kneel) and gaze into the great
tomb that we all face –death. And part of what makes a funeral so uncomfortable
is the not knowing. We all sit there, praying, hoping, trusting even –but often
(maybe most of the time) not really certain… Is that it? A coffin and some
incense and a few prayers… And then what? Coffee and sandwiches in the church reception
center?
“What is sown is perishable, but what is raised is imperishable;
what is sown is contemptable but what is raised is glorious…”
(cf.15:42-43)
We sow our weakness, our
imperfection, our brokenness; we plant it in the earth that is our life, in the
day to day of living, and from this broken, imperfect, weakness, God raises up something
imperishable, glorious, strong. But in
our weakness and fear and anxiety and imperfection we wonder: does is really
work that way? Or is it just some words on a page? Is it just magical thinking, as some people
say?
Maybe we can’t know for certain, we
can’t find concrete proof, but we have an example. Our Lord was quite literally sown in weakness
at conception. He became flesh, submitting
Himself to the care of a human mother, to the frailty of a human body, the need
for food, for warmth, for attention and care, diapers and tears, to hunger and
sickness, bruises and scrapes, splinters and stubbed toes; vulnerability, insecurity.
And submitted
to it willingly: Not mine, but thy will
be done (cf. Luke 22:42). In that submission we have the example of Jesus
dying to His power and authority, letting go of His glory; in other words –dying
to self. And we are told that Jesus lived not in fear, anxiety, and insecurity,
but in faith, in hope and in charity. God became flesh, submitted himself to
the care and authority of His creation --even to the point of being put to
death on a cross--- yet it is through that “weakness” that He revealed His glory
and His strength.
And I
wonder if Norma didn’t reveal her true glory as she let go of her dreams and plans
and tenderly cared for her husband after his stroke. Certainly, that was not the life she signed
up for when she married Ernesto, but she submitted to it, accepted it and from
all accounts I heard –only grew stronger and more joyful through it. She was sown in weakness, but raised up in
strength.
As the mass ended and they took Norma’s
body from the church, it occurred to me: it is the finality of the tomb is what
we fear. The finality of death. The fear that we will be trapped forever in
that cramped tomb (or urn) stuffed full of our unfulfilled dreams, unachieved
goals, unspoken words; trapped forever in that box with all our regrets and
remorse and sins and fears and memories of what we did and what we wished we
had done….
We’re afraid of the tomb of our
mortality; but we don’t have to be afraid.
As the disciples learned on that first Easter morning— thanks to Jesus,
the tomb is empty. We have nothing there
to fear.
Isn’t it appropriate when Mary first
sees the risen Jesus, she thinks He is the gardener. Why that odd detail? Maybe because it’s true. And maybe the tomb is empty, not just for
Jesus, but for all of us --because the harvest has begun. How beautiful this
Easter season has become thanks to a friend’s funeral.
