Out of Death, Life;
Out of Darkness, Light; Out of Despair, Hope
2 Corinthians 4:1-9
and I Thessalonians 4:13-17
In the novel The Brothers Karamazov there is a scene in which a priest and an elder attempt to comfort a bereaved mother who has lost her son:
"He was a great saint," said the priest, "and he could not have spoken falsely. Therefore you too, Mother, know that your little one is surely before the throne of God, is rejoicing and happy, and praying to God for you, and therefore, Mother, weep, but rejoice." The woman listened to him, looking down with her cheek in her hand. She sighed deeply. "My Nikita tried to comfort me with the same words as you. 'Foolish one,' he said, 'why weep? Our son is no doubt singing with the angels before God.' He says that to me, but he weeps himself. I see that he cries like me. “I know, Nikita," said I. “Where could he be if not with the Lord God? Only, here with us now he is not as he used to sit beside us before.”
"She drew out of her bosom her boy's little embroidered sash, and as soon as she looked at it she began shaking with sobs, hiding her eyes with her fingers through which the tears flowed in a sudden stream. “It is Rachel of old,” said the elder, “weeping for her children and will not be comforted because they are not. Such is the lot on earth for you mothers. Be not comforted. Consolation is not what you need. Weep and be not consoled, but weep. Only every time that you weep be sure to remember that your little son is one of the angels of God, that he looks down from there at you and sees you, and rejoices at your tears, and points at them to the Lord God; and a long while yet will you keep that great mother's grief. But it will turn in the end into quiet joy, and your bitter tears will be only tears of tender sorrow that purifies your heart."
This story from the writer Dostoevsky captures the complicated truth of today's Scripture and our own experience. To the church in Thessalonika Paul wrote, "We do not grieve as those who have no hope." His choice of words is interesting and honest. He does not deny our grief. He rejects the shallowness and superficiality of all "Be-Happy Christians;" such folk distort the truth of God in their counsel to put on a happy face, to laugh with joy "for your loved one is in a better place." No, such is not for Paul. It is not that we are not to grieve, but that we are to grieve differently from others. Yes, indeed, we grieve...but we grieve with hope. In the words of Dostoevsky's priest, "therefore, Mother, weep, but rejoice." Weep but rejoice: grieve but grieve with hope. And so we too, in the face of death, may weep bitter tears but in the mercies of God these tears become the tender sorrow that purifies our hearts. They become grief with hope.
William Sloane-Coffin lost his son Alex when Alex was 24. Sloane-Coffin later wrote that,
Everything in life represents an opportunity; but unfortunately, when opportunity knocks, many people complain about the noise. Many people who have had experiences similar to mine know that when someone they dearly love dies, their soul goes through many more seasons than the four ascribed to nature. There is a season of shock, and another of sadness. There is a season of anger; in fact, several such seasons – times when all people want to do is beat their bloody fists against the bronze doors of heaven, or throw another futile appeal over the wall. Then there is a season of peace, one of hope, and another of despair. And they do not come in orderly fashion, these seasons; they come in a terrible jumble: one moment I'm going to make it, the next I'm sure I'm not; one hour my heart is light, the next it weighs down like an anchor. But having made it through all these seasons, people probably find, as did I, that Camus had it right: "In the midst of winter, I finally learned that there was in my heart an invincible summer." I learned to say with Nietzsche, "If it doesn't kill me, it will make me stronger."
Once again we are on familiar ground with Paul who described his own experience to the church in Corinth: "But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed." In the midst of winter, Paul discovered that there was in his heart an invincible summer, the Son whose light never dims but shines upon us even in the darkness. Opportunity knocked for Paul, and he took the chance to learn that what didn't kill his faith, only made it stronger. Paul was no "Be-Happy Christian" that ignored the reality of human sorrow; rather Paul was a "Be-Thankful Christian" that pointed to the faithfulness of God in the midst of it. Weep but rejoice: grieve but grieve with hope.
The Reformed theologian Karl Barth said that people come to church on the Sabbath with only one question in their minds: Is it true? The providence of God, the saving power of Jesus Christ, the comforting presence of the Holy Spirit, the resurrection from the dead, the forgiveness of sin: Is it true? And when we come to church to remember our loved ones, on a day when the gospel hope must not be an abstract truth but a living promise, the question is even more compelling: Is it true? Can God be trusted on a day such as today?
There are other questions, of course: Why did it happen? Why did it happen like it did? Why couldn't something have been done? These are the questions one wonders late at night when sleep won't come, and our minds demand an explanation. We are only human after all, seeing through a glass dimly, trying to figure things out, wanting to know why things like death happen to good people, why they happen to young people of whom we are not ready to let go, wanting to know why it happened so quickly or took so long?
Do you remember Rabbi Harold Kushner's best-selling book a few years ago? Most people thought the title was Why Bad Things Happen to Good People; actually it was When Bad Things Happen to Good People. The Christian faith begins at the same place as the rabbi's book. Faith doesn't spend a great deal of time explaining why bad things happen. In a world that fell from grace long ago, brokenness, illness and our sorrow that comes from these things are facts of life: universal, inevitable, unavoidable.
Because we are human we have questions, we want to know why; because we are only human, we cannot know why. The Scripture promises that someday we will know, but that day is not today, and so we are left to abide in God's three great gifts: faith, hope and love. God knows that what we need is not an explanation; what we need is faith to trust; we need the hope that the resurrection is real; we need the love of God that protects our hearts from all doubts that would lead us to ask too much the question "Why?" God knows that beneath all of our “why's” is the only question that truly matters: Can he be trusted with the death of our beloved? We can live without an explanation of all life's mysteries, but we cannot live without knowing it is true that God can be trusted.
In answer to our question, God says, "Yes, it is true." Christ died and was raised so that we who follow Christ can live again. Eternal life is true. Even when sorrow and sadness beat their restless wings close around us, the promise of God is true. The promise is trustworthy. God is trustworthy. Even in the midst of the shadow of death – and especially there! – it is true that the comfort of God is gifted to us by the God of comfort who seeks us out and who never leaves nor forsakes us. The gospel is exquisitely clear and simple at this point: "Abide in Christ," it says. "Come to me all you who are weary," it says, "and I will give you rest." "Trust in God, trust also in me," says our Lord Jesus. Weep but rejoice; grieve but grieve with hope.
David Baldacci's The Simple Truth is the story of two men, John Fiske who is a well educated, professional type who has forgotten how to believe in God and Rufus Harms who is an undereducated, downtrodden type whose belief sustains him. Here is a scene that captures what I want to say about grieving with hope. Here is a scene that captures the essence in what I see time and again in many of you.
Now his brother was dead, and John Fiske was kneeling in front of his grave. Mike was not coming back. He had lost him. He had to say good-bye and he didn't want to. He desperately wanted his brother back. He had so much he wanted to do with him, suddenly so much love he wanted to convey. He felt his heart would burst if he didn't get it out.
"Oh God," he said with an outward breath. He couldn't do this. He felt his body start to give on him. The tears suddenly poured with such force he thought his nose was bleeding. He started to go down, but a strong hand grasped him, easily held him up; Fiske's body felt light, fragile, as though he had left part of it somewhere else. Through the blur of tears he looked at Rufus Harms. Rufus had one hand under Fiske's arm, thrusting him up. Yet his eyes were still closed, his head looking to the sky; the lips still rising and falling in the narrowest of ranges as he continued his prayers.
Right then John Fiske envied Rufus Harms, a man who also had lost his own brother, a man who really had nothing. And yet in the most important way, Rufus Harms was the richest man on earth. How could anyone believe in anything that much? Without doubt, without debate, without an agenda, with all his substantial heart?
As Fiske looked at the calm face of his friend next to him, he thought how very fine it must be to know for certain that your loved one is in a better place, embraced and held for all time by the phenomenon of unassailable good. So comforting a notion at the precise time you needed to feel it. How often did such timing occur in life? Death as joyous. Death as the beginning. Meaning life was both more and less precious because of it. Fiske looked away from Rufus and stared down at the grave. He dug his knees into the earth, closed his eyes, bowed his head, placed his hands firmly together and started making his peace. With his brother below. And with whatever lay above.
Hope means moving beyond seeing all there is, knowing all there is. Hope means trusting that when we cannot see, yet can we have faith that God is beyond the limits of our vision. Hope means that when we cannot know, yet can we have faith that God walks with us through the uncertainty of today into the clarity of our future that is found in Christ. Hope means that when our strength and wisdom and courage fail, yet can we trust that God's will not. Hope means that, in Christ, we trust that out of death, comes life; out of darkness, light; out of despair, hope.
And so we weep, but so also do we rejoice; so we grieve, but we grieve with hope.