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It is not good for us to be here. There is something wrong, there is something almost obscene, about parents being at their own child's funeral. We are hurt beyond grief by the suddenness and by the waste of ____________ death and we need to talk about that. We want to shake our fists at the sky and curse God for the unfairness of the burden he has given us and we need to talk about that. We wonder how we will ever get through this day, and how we will get through tomorrow, and if we will ever smile again and we need to talk about that.
We need to talk, but I am as speechless as you. I feel drained by the crying and the mourning of the past days; I feel, as you do, desolated by thoughts of the loneliness that lies ahead. I say with the psalmist, ''My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?'' And God answered me by saying, ''Let me tell you a story.'' This is the story God told: God tested Abraham, God said to Abraham, ''Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love and go to the region of Moriah. Sacrifice him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains I will tell you about.'' And Abraham did as the Lord commanded. When they reached the place God had told him about, Abraham built an altar ... reached for the knife to slay his son. But the angel of the Lord called out to him from heaven, ''Do not lay a hand on the boy. Now I know that you fear God, because you have not withheld from me your son.''
That is a painful story, I know. Painful because its details so closely parallel the manner of ____________ death; and

doubly painful because God spared Isaac and did not spare ____________. Nevertheless this is the story that God has left us, and if we would speak as Christians about ____________ death, we must come to grips with it as Abraham had to come to grips with the possibility of Isaac's death.
The story of Abraham and Sarah and Isaac - the story of ____________ and ____________ and ____________ - compels us to face the reality of parenthood: the possibility that we might lose our child, and the question of our willingness to risk so much love against so great a loss.
____________, so far as this world goes, you have lost ____________. He died in an accident in a profession where accidents are common. He died, as we see it, too young, with too many dreams unfulfilled, with too many hopes unrealized. If only, we want to say, he could have lived to 40, or 60; if only, we think, he could have done this or seen that; if only, if only ... if only, from this day forth, will be part of the litany of our lives. Yet ____________ had already achieved his greatest ambition: he was a good son. And you had achieved your greatest goal: you were good parents. ____________ died, and nothing can change that, but he died in the fullness of his health, in the spring of his manhood, and his last moments were spent doing what he loved more than anything in the world, he was farming with his dad. If only ____________ had lived to 120, he could not have been happier or more fulfilled, more proud of himself or more a joy to you, than he was that last bright morning of his life.
The possibility of death is the reality of life. To face that possibility, with our hands turned cheerfully to our work, with our hearts open to others, with the certain knowledge that we have loved and been loved - that is the test of life, and ____________ passed that test with flying colors.
We have a test to take and to pass as well. Remember how our story began? God tested Abraham. God is testing ____________, and all of us who knew ____________ and loved him: our test is whether we can accept that God loves him even more; that God is taking care of ____________, and that God is even now taking care of us.

____________ is not alone. The Bible tells us that the saints are gathered around the throne of God. ____________ is there, surrounded by people he knows, and waiting for us. The Bible says that while we wait, we are surrounded by a cloud of witnesses.
And so we are. Within an hour of the accident, everyone at our church knew about it and were doing what they could to help. By evening our entire community knew, and everyone pitched in to help with the milking, to bring food, to sit and visit, to hug and cry and remember and mourn together. And we will be here, with you, and for you, as long as you need us. Out of our common weakness and helplessness, God will give us the strength to carry on.
____________ was a fine man. He was a good Christian. He was a skilled farmer. He was a loving son, and a devoted brother. If you regret all the things you did not get to say to him on that last day, be comforted by the thought that everything important you had to say, you said with every word, with every gesture, with every moment you had together in these 20 years. There was nothing of your love, or of your pride, or of your hopes and dreams, that ____________ did not know. And be comforted by the knowledge that ____________ lived the values you taught so faithfully that anyone who knew him knew you, and was proud to know you both.
I have heard a father cry out, ''My son is dead.'' I have heard a mother scream, ''My baby is gone.'' I have seen a sister racked with sobs, and watched a brother struggle to contain himself. And I have anguished with them, as so many of you have done. But above the sounds of our shared grief, I have heard another voice, and I would have his words be the last words to you: ''Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord; Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them.''
Our beloved ____________, rest well from your labors. God loves you. We love you. And we will be with you again.