Only Celebration

The early morning sun rose over the cemetery, and the long shadows cast by hundreds of gravestones shortened. Though the day was young, sweat already trickled down my forehead. Like a pack-mule, I carried my year-old daughter in a carrier on my back, and the walk to the graveside service was long. A couple of decades had passed since, as a boy, I last attended a funeral, and this was my first since fully arriving at adulthood. Uncertain emotions flooded my soul.

We moved into our neighborhood shortly before our daughter was born and we didn't know a person there. The Browns, an elderly couple living in the mobile home directly behind ours, soon adopted us as part of their family, and they served as "grandma" and "grandpa" to our daughter. Only a few years before, I had taken the Christian faith as my own, and these two old, veteran believers modeled well for me a vibrant and authentic life of faith.

Mr. Brown, Asa, struggled physically with severe emphysema. He breathed only with the assistance of a nasal cannula, attached by a long, green vinyl hose to an oxygen tank in the corner of their living room. The affliction severely limited his mobility. His life consisted of the short path from his bed, to his recliner chair, to the bathroom, and back– with a single daily exception. Each morning, Asa would rise from his recliner and with agonizing, slow steps, trudge from the living room, out the door, down the few steps from their little porch, to the tiny garden in their postage-stamp yard. Asa surveyed their many rose bushes and other flowering plants, searching for the perfect bloom. He then carefully pulled a folding pocket knife from his pants pocket and used it to lift the single blossom from its parent. Finally, he retraced his short, but difficult climb back inside, and presented the perfect flower to Helen, the love of his life. She received the treasure with gratitude and a kiss, and carefully placed it in a bud-vase with water, proudly displaying it on their coffee table.

Helen always claimed that in the more than half a century since they wed, Asa "never, ever" missed giving her this daily bouquet. Whether literally true or not, this statement demonstrated that Helen certainly felt loved in a powerful and genuine way. Without attempting to, these two showed me in a practical way what it means for two people to love each other, long term.

As I neared Asa's graveside, a group of people were already assembled there. Except for Helen, I knew not a face in the crowd and felt somewhat an outsider. A pastor stepped forward at the front of the gathering and began to speak. He spoke not eloquently, but plainly about Asa's life and long-held faith in his Savior. Unlike any previous funeral I attended, the mood of the speaker was not somber, but he unashamedly exuded joy. The group around me shared this upbeat perspective of Asa's death and burial. The words spoken called up the solid hope of an eternal and rich life in the One called Jesus, and I found myself contagiously adopting this glad attitude. Instead of the expected dirge, spirited singing peppered the event, and the music swept me up into its good cheer. This atmosphere of joy transformed my experience of that ceremony– from one of somber reflection and sadness of loss, to one of appreciation and, ultimately, celebration. I experienced this as the first significant death in my life since my initial steps of faith, little more than two years previous, and I unexpectedly reaped the benefits.

How can something with the dreadful finality of death possess the seeds of celebration? Death presents itself as an ugly interloper in this creation of God we call home. Life abundant and unending comprised His original intent for the people He created, but death intruded to break the bliss. Ever since, death of all sorts saturated our existence. We see around us not only the death of our physical bodies, but also the death of relationships, the death of family, the death of innocence and goodness, the death of truth. These stand as things to be loathed and avoided at all costs, not to be celebrated.

But standing next to the open grave that morning, I found myself worshipping, praising, and, yes, celebrating, rather than feeling the gravity of gloom pulling me downward, and into that grave. This paradox surely stands above all others– a dead man, cold and embalmed, laid in a coffin, with an open grave waiting there to receive him– and yet, those who loved him and were loved by him stood around that cold pit, singing joyfully of the hope they possessed that they will see him again, in life and in strength.

This is no paradox, but the reality and power of a God of love Who sent His only Son to rescue us completely and finally from this thing we call Death. That Son willingly entered this universe of gravity and allowed Himself to come under its sway, to be pulled down by its firm grip, even into the grave. He did this knowing that it could not hold Him forever, that its grip, though strong, was not as strong as He. He knew that His life would conquer this death. That dark day, because we conspired to kill the Author of Life, should have been forever called Black Friday, but today we know it as Good Friday– "good," only because hope sprang into life before dawn on the third day.

The hope that I experienced that morning in the cemetery, we can hold confidently because of the demonstration of power and love on that Easter Sunday morning two thousand years ago. This hope is attested to in countless ways throughout the Word of God. A few spring immediately to mind:

"Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who according to His great mercy has caused us to be born again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead..."   (1 Peter 1:3 NASB)

"But we do not want you to be uninformed, brothers, about those who are asleep, so that you will not grieve as do the rest who have no hope."   (1 Thessalonians 4:13 NASB)

"...we who have taken refuge would have strong encouragement to take hold of the hope set before us. This hope we have as an anchor of the soul, a hope both sure and steadfast and one which enters within the veil, where Jesus has entered as a forerunner for us..."   (Hebrews 6:18-20 NASB)

Finally, we have no hope, and there is no hope– except in the God of Hope alone. And this hope is not an abstract matter of wishful thinking, to be preceded by the phrase: "if only..."  No, this hope is certain, solid, and substantial– based on such a firm foundation as the Creator and King of this universe. Hear Paul's words to those in Rome:

"Now may the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that you will abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit."   (Romans 15:13 NASB)

"...and hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out within our hearts through the Holy Spirit who was given to us."   (Romans 5:5 NASB)

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>>> Except for quotations, all text and images are Copyright, Bill Brockmeier, 2015.  All rights reserved.