An Easter meditation on funerals and empty tombs

“…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.

On Dying to self and welcoming Christ: more thoughts

“Anyone who does not welcome the kingdom

of God like a little child will not enter it.” –Mark 10:35

“Welcome” is the word that troubles me in this passage. For me, it creates an image of the kingdom of God coming to us, coming for us, and what matters most is not was how prepared we are, but how we receive it. Will we let go of all that we cling to so that we can open our hands and receive it, or will we (like the rich man) go away sad because we have a great many possessions and letting go can be very hard.

Before I go any further, I want to say that I owe this meditation to a friend who commented on my last post (on dying and Lent). She reminded me that dying to our identity can be particularly hard when that identity is a false one that we have chosen for our self. We can become so wrapped up in our chosen identity that we might refuse to let it go.  Her kind note inspired me to go back to Mark’s gospel and reread the story of the rich young man, partly as a way to engage in a conversation with her, but partly to see if there was something I had missed. And as I did, my eyes strayed and I noticed something interesting; something I had missed. I noticed the ending of the seemingly unrelated story just before it (about the disciples trying to stop some apparently unsupervised children from coming to Jesus). It ends with this:

“Anyone who does not welcome the kingdom

of God like a little child will not enter it.”

Seeing that, I realized: These two stories are together for a reason.  Like most readers, I tend to accept that the stories in the Gospels are structured basically in a chronological order to tell a story from beginning to end as best they can.  I don’t tend to think of the author(s) trying to construct their narrative in a thematic or pedagogical style. And so, when things like this happen, I assume that is a sign of God’s authorship.  God wanted to say something that required these stories to be next to each other and so through fallible memory or through happenstance or through inspiration, the earthly author has divined a profound lesson by placing these unrelated tales next to each other.  Separately they are interesting vignettes from the life of Christ, together they become a profound lesson about the kingdom of God.

Let me move backward, as my eye did when it strayed; starting with the rich man, who is called the “rich young man” in Matthew’s version of the story. This man (young or not) comes to Jesus to ask how he can inherit eternal life.  After a brief discussion of the law, Jesus adds this:

“You lack one thing. Go and sell what you have,

give to the poor; you will have treasure in Heaven;

then come and follow me.” (Mk 10:21)

“Follow me…” Jesus is inviting the man to join Him, to –right then and there—enter into the kingdom of God, but we are told that instead the man “went away sad.” It was overwhelming to him, I would assume. The Lord was asking too much, it must have seemed.  Or the man simply lacked the faith.  We don’t know. Nor do we know if he later reconsidered and did as the Lord told him.  All we know is that he went away sad, “for he had many possessions.”

            And we can argue over what he should have done, or what we might have done in the man’s place, but what we have in that previous story is the answer; he should have welcomed the kingdom of God like a child –openly, freely, eagerly!

            Interestingly enough, at the very end of this chapter that is the image we are given.  Mark 10 ends with the story of a blind man named Bartimaeus.  Read it.  This blind man learns that Jesus is near and begins calling out to Him. As with the children at the beginning of this chapter, the disciples try to manage this scene. In fact, they rebuke the man for yelling.  But the man keeps on, and Jesus calls him over.  And when Jesus does, he throws off his cloak and springs up eager to meet the Lord –not unlike a child when Grandma comes for a visit, or they find out there’s no school.  But even more interesting is this: as soon as his sight is restored, the man “immediately” begins to follow Christ.  He gives up all he has in the world, his little piece of security –the place and the people he knows—and follows Jesus. Immediately. Like a child.

            Reading the Bible has opened my eyes to the beauty of God’s word, but again and again and more importantly it has opened my heart to the truth of it. 

            Too often when I seek something out, seek some sacrifice or some holiness even, I find myself rejecting it as soon as it arrives. This Lent was a bit like that. I had good intentions, but… overwhelmed, I turned away and often grew sad. But, it isn’t over yet. There is still time to make a good Lent.  In fact, there is still time to welcome it –like a child.

 

Lent and the practice of dying

“I will place my heart law within them

And write it upon their hearts…” –Jeremiah 31:33

“Unless a grain of wheat fall to the earth

And die, it remains but a grain of wheat…”  --John 12:20-33

 I’ve been thinking for some time about that grain of wheat.  It is an image that speaks to my soul.  It feels like something inexhaustibly true; as if that is exactly how God will write His law upon my heart –upon our hearts.  He will give us opportunities to die, to die to something, to our ego, to our security, to our dreams, to our appetites, to our self, and each time we die to something –no matter how small—God will write another piece of His law upon our hearts.

            This morning I read the passage in Mark about the rich young man (10:17-22). The young man comes to Jesus asking Him what he must do to “inherit eternal life,” and Jesus reminds him of the commandments.  The young man affirms that he has followed all these, and Jesus tells him this:

“One thing you lack: go and sell all you possess and give

it to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven;

then come, follow me.” (10:21)

And it is then, scripture tells us, that the young man went away sad.  Because Jesus was asking him to die to his wealth, his power, his place at the table.  Apparently, the young man had received God’s law, thus far. He had lived a life honoring that law –thus far.  But now Jesus is asking him to take the next step; to die to himself, to let go of everything that protects him and keeps him safe from the hardships of life and the insecurities of the world, and “come and follow me.” And he went away sad.  Dying is hard. Letting go of control and security and comfort (and potato chips –for me!) is very hard.  I imagine the young man was looking for some kind of affirmation from Christ, and maybe an easier kind of dying.  But the easy that Jesus offers us, looks too much like the cross.  We tend to not want that. We tend to turn away from it, trying to rationalize our decision to hold onto things like wealth and treasures and comforts, not because we are bad people, but because we need them, or we plan to use them for some future good or just in case!

            It is hard to die to our wealth, yes; but even harder to die to our identity.  This is the “rich” young man, and Jesus is asking him to go and sell everything he owns and give it to the poor.  He will no longer be the “rich” young man in the eyes of the world. He will no longer be a man of importance and distinction.  He will no longer be the self he has become.  His charity, his righteousness, his success –they are his; they are who he is.  But Jesus is asking him to die to himself; to let go of that identity and come and follow Him.  And the promise is this: if we die to ourselves, if we fall to earth –like that grain of wheat—then, we will bear much fruit.  We will become a fruitful vine.  And I’m wondering if it isn’t through that fruitful vine that God reaches out to the world; and through that vine taking root inside us that God writes His law upon our hearts.  But for that vine to take root, there must be a death. And dying can be hard gift to receive –as we see in the rich young man’s reaction.

            But there is no sign that Jesus has given up on this rich young man. What we see is that Jesus looked at the rich young man with much love (cf. 10:21).   And that Jesus understands how hard it is for the rich to let go of their wealth and enter empty handed into the Kingdom of God: harder than a camel passing through the eye of a needle.  

So we must put our trust in God’s love, and in God’s patience. And we must day by day learn little by little to let go.  Most of us are not going to be Dorothy Day or Francis of Assisi. We are not going to simply let go of everything in one glorious gesture of dying to our old lives. For most of us, we must trust in God’s patience as He waits for us, like the soil waiting for the seed.  Trust that God waits for us to let go that we might receive the gift He has instore for us; in fact, that He might write it on our hearts.  

Lent is a time to practice dying.  And I was told by a priest last week (during confession) that it is never too late to begin a good Lent.  This was a difficult Lent for me, but I finally started mine.  And I have already failed --twice-- and started again. And like that other wonderful example from Mark’s gospel, I continue to pray:  Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief. (9:24)