by jphilo | Aug 21, 2015 | Uncategorized
This Fantastic Friday remembers my Uncle Marvin who died four years ago this week. The legacy of hope he left his family and the hope his descendants carry into the future remain a source of hope today.
Sadness kept me company on this morning’s walk. No matter how hard I tried to steer my thoughts to smoother ground, they continually strayed to the uneven place where we stood and buried Uncle Marvin yesterday.
All I could think about were his grandchildren, the honorary pallbearers, gathered from Minnesota and Iowa, North Dakota and Illinois, and one recently returned from Egypt. They stood tall and straight and lovely, in the tiny country cemetery where their grandfather joined his parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents, only a few miles from where he’d been born and lived all his years.
These sweet carriers of our family’s future stood guard over the coffin, grave and composed during the pastor’s committal service, through the military gun salute, the folding of the flag, and it’s presentation to their grandmother. But when haunting notes of Taps filled the air, they began to cry, realizing for perhaps the first time in their young lives, that there is an end to every good thing.
Will this be the end of their connection to the family farm? I wondered, as they placed flowers on their grandpa’s coffin and said good-by. Will they return to their homes far away and forget their family’s long history in this place, the connection to the land that binds their parents together?
Sadness weighed heavy on me, and my head drooped lower. It’s over, I thought, and tears came to my eyes. For a moment, the sky wept, too, and raindrops wet my shoulders and hair. Maybe I should just give up and go home, I thought, too sad to fight life’s changes or the weather anymore. I looked up to check the sky.
And there against the grey clouds in the east was the beginning of a rainbow. A small, faded streak at first, it grew brighter and brighter the longer I looked up. Slowly, my sad weight lifted, and when I turned the corner I walked beside the rainbow. The further I went, the brighter the rainbow grew, until finally it stretched across the sky, bold against the grey clouds.
When those sweet grandchildren and their far-flung adventures came to mind again, the rainbow whispered to me.
Hope, it said so softly I had to strain to hear the word.
Hope.
by jphilo | May 3, 2013 | Church Newsletter Columns
“For thus says the Lord:
Do not enter the house of mourning, or go to lament or grieve for them….
Behold, I will silence in this place…the voice of mirth and the voice of gladness…”
Jeremiah 16:5,8
I love celebrations. Weddings. New babies. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Graduations. Reunions. Housewarmings. Funerals of saints who have entered the promised land. I love them all. So the other day, I was horrified by God’s warning in Jeremiah 16 about what would happen to the kingdom of Judah if the people didn’t shape up in a hurry.
In a nutshell, God said, “Don’t go to funerals and comfort grieving family members. Don’t console hurting people or mourn for the dead. Don’t join in celebrations either. But that won’t be hard, because I’m ending weddings and all other happy events because you have forsaken me and followed after other gods.”
My party-loving heart shriveled at this picture of a world devoid of consolation or celebration. “My God,” I whispered, “You are describing hell on earth.”
I can imagine nothing worse than a world without God’s compassion and kindness displayed by those who reach out to others in times of great sorrow, by those who gather to rejoice in times of great celebration. Without these simple acts of shared sorrow and joy, we don’t fully experience the presence of God. He is still there, of course, because He is omnipresent. But when we forsake Him and put anything–work, family, material possessions, pleasure, power, reputation, and a host of other idols–ahead of Him, we are not in the place where He chooses to rain down grace through fellowship with His saints.
My faithful heart doesn’t want to be in that place, though my wandering eyes and fickle feet often lead me there. It’s not the place God wanted Judah to be, or He wouldn’t have sent Jeremiah to warn them to change their course. It’s not a place where God wants you, His adopted child in Christ to be, either.
God wants His children to be in right relationship with Him and one another. He made us for relationship with Him. He places an emptiness in each of us only He can fill. Only when it’s filled with Him are we able to share the kindness and compassion of Christ with lost and hurting people. Only then are we able to mourn with those who mourn and rejoice with those who rejoice.
Only then is the power of Christ unleashed in the lives of others. Stony hearts grow soft. The deaf hear Jesus calling to them. Blind eyes open to the presence of God. Thirsty souls drink the elixir of life. The hungry eat everlasting bread. The lame walk in the place where the grace of Christ rains down.
When we mourn with those who mourn and rejoice with those who rejoice from the vantage point of a right relationship with God, we experience the certain presence of God. Our daily offerings of the kindness and compassion of Christ in fellowship with the saints are, most certainly, glimpses of heaven on this earth.
