Death Shall Be No More
Sermon
Times of Refreshing
Sermons For Lent And Easter
Someone I love very much goes each year to a cemetery near her home, carrying a small teddy bear. She stands beside a tiny grave, thinking about what-might-have-been, about a terrible grief only partly assuaged by the years -- remembering. Then she places the bear on the grave of a little fellow who never got to hold it and quietly returns to her car. The passage of the years, and the hope of a some-day reunion help, but the inward pain will never completely disappear 'til then.
Isn't this the world in microcosm? Don't we all have to walk through that dark valley, either in the loss of someone who means so much, or at least when we ourselves must enter that "undiscovered country"? America's papers daily feature pictures of the anguished faces of mothers and fathers, of children, or friends who stand beside the graves of those who have died in unnecessary ethnic or urban violence. I once stood in the midst of a seemingly endless sea of white crosses at Omaha Beach and realized that for each of those thousands of white crosses so lovingly tended by our French friends, word went out to moms and dads, to wives and children, that a young man had courageously waded ashore on a beach he'd never heard of and there, to the sounds of hatred, had died. So grief swept across our land. And it was multiplied by so many other nations of the world.
A young woman in a friend's church was found dead some time ago, a suicide. She was a nurse in the children's cancer ward of a large hospital. Her close friend said she could no longer bear to see the suffering, both of the children and of the loved ones who prayed and hoped until the end. She'd seen too much. So Wordsworth caught the pain of loss:
She lived unknown, and few could know,
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and oh,
The difference to me.
What a profound word, that of Isaiah, then: "He will swallow up death forever. Then the Lord God will wipe away the tears from all faces, and the disgrace of his people he will take away from all the earthÉ." Of course this is Easter and supposed to be a day of joy and hope. One may question a beginning on such a seemingly morbid note. But the joy of Easter is not to be a trivial one. The light of Easter's triumph must be seen beyond the darkness of the valley of the shadow.
Isaiah began with a hope for the day when all the people of the earth might sit down in peace together, a hope which appears vain in view of the contemporary turmoil throughout the world. The changes in human nature necessary for that hope to come to pass seem hopelessly beyond possibility. Surely, Isaiah was speaking of a time beyond this time and place. Surely, of all that this great prophet said, these words propel us into the promise of the New Testament. So Saint Paul would write: "If there is no resurrection of the dead, then Christ has not been raised, and if Christ has not been raised then . . . your faith has been in vain." Poet John Donne wrote: "And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die."
I heard one preacher tell of a high school football player in his church who was to lead his team, as quarterback, in the final game of a winning season when word came that his father, who was blind, had died. The funeral was scheduled for a distant city on the day of the game. The reserve quarterback was preparing to lead the team but the star quarterback showed up. The coach said, "But your dad has just died and is being buried, surely you don't plan to play today?" "Coach," the boy replied, "you don't understand. My dad was blind and this will be the first time he's been able to watch me play." That's faith.
There is, of course, no proof. Of all the promises of our faith, belief in life beyond death requires the most faith. Dr. Weatherhead once told of a church leader in England who was being interviewed about the teachings of the Anglican Church. The question was asked, "Sir, what do you believe about life after death?" The man paused briefly then replied about like this: "We believe life after death will be a beautiful experience, free of pain, reunited with loved ones, but let's not talk about such a depressing subject." He was revealing the ambivalence nearly all of us feel. Our faith holds out a glowing promise of that which lies beyond, and yet there is little or no evidence to support this promise. It comes to us on trust alone. Yet many of us are willing to stake our lives on the promise. C. S. Lewis once observed that Jesus was either the Son of God or loony as a fruitcake. There's no middle ground. His teachings and his promises leave no other choice. Any of us who have been empowered by that risen Son of God know which to choose, and he promised life beyond.
Isaiah also pledged that God will take away the disgrace of his people. In other words, we need not fear the judgment. Judgment: that's another matter for faith alone. Shakespeare wrote of "the dread of something after death." We don't know, of course. The Bible's use of imagery and hyperbole allows many interpretations of the idea of divine judgment. There are those who subscribe to the teachings about hell and punishment. Debates on this subject are unwinnable since the Bible's word is unclear. Speaking as one who believes profoundly in a God of love, however, I find those threats out of character for the God of whom Isaiah spoke in the words of our text. Any loving parent knows that the proper purpose of punishment is not to be punitive but to reform. Using today's terminology, a parent who would punish a child once that child realized he or she was wrong and shows genuine remorse would be considered abusive and the relationship dysfunctional. One refuses to believe that God is less kindly in dealing with us than is a good and loving dad or mom.
But how does the universe hold together if we're not held accountable? Speaking for myself, a day rarely goes by but what I say or do something which, upon reflection, I know was wrong. Blanket forgiveness without remorse would be license to do wrong. What, then? Doesn't it make sense to believe that we are in a state of process, becoming what we are to be but are not yet? Maybe it will be like Oscar Wilde's story of "The Portrait Of Dorian Gray," the man who lived a totally selfish life, yet was widely acclaimed for his dashing good looks and witty manner. He had a painting, a portrait, in the attic of his home. When first completed, he often went to admire his own attractiveness in the painting. But as the years went by, the painting became ugly, hateful. Then one day Dorian Gray died. They found him, his handsome face now distorted by the sins of a lifetime, grotesque and ugly. His inner being was at last revealed.
Something like that, perhaps, is happening to each of us in the process of becoming a certain kind of person. By guile and subterfuge, we may, for a time, maintain the outward illusion of respectability and charm. But inwardly, in the "attics of our minds" there is the true person. Death may at last reveal the finished product. One author used the analogy of two men who attend the symphony. One has learned to understand and appreciate good music. The other has pedestrian tastes, caring nothing for the beauty of the classics. So at the concert, the former sits transfixed by beauty, time racing past, while the other fellow fidgits in misery, wondering if this will ever end. So, in the presence of sheer perfect love, those who have learned to give and receive love will bask in its warmth. Those who lived in self-love, interested only in their own welfare, could discover the presence of true love is "hell" itself.
Perhaps this is oversimplified. But somewhere in there may be the dynamics of judgment. "To sit alone with my conscience would be judgment enough for me," wrote Bishop Stubbs. "What I think will be hell to most of us," wrote Leslie Weatherhead, "will be the slow realization, in a further life É of how much sin has hurt and hindered the loving God." In Jesus' familiar analogy of the last judgment, he commended some for their thoughtful kindness to him and when they expressed surprise, he explained that each kindly act performed for "the least of these" other people was performed for him as well. However, the reverse was also true. A hurtful word or a selfish act which injured another had the same effect on Jesus. The discovery of this, looking back upon our own lives vividly revealed, could indeed be "judgment enough for me." "Crucifying the Son of God afresh."
If Isaiah was right, the life beyond will be free of punitive punishment, however much we may still have to learn and change ourselves. We will, whatever else we may believe, exist in an atmosphere of accepting, kindly love. We need not fear a punishing God. We need only fear separation from divine love by our own choice.
I'd like to share something very personal. Years ago, my wife died in a tragic car accident. After many years of happy marriage, my life seemed in ruins. Compounding my grief was an overwhelming sense of guilt over the fact that I had let her drive a car with brakes I knew to be defective. It was her choice, yet I should have insisted. For weeks I struggled with that combination of grief and guilt until I was just beside myself with inward pain. Then late one night, unable to sleep, I went to the sanctuary of the church I was serving. The time was close to midnight. The room was dark, save for a shaft of moonlight through the skylight windows. Too distraught to kneel or sit quietly, I paced the deserted room, praying for an answer. Suddenly, I sensed a presence. Not a physical presence, not one discernible by sight or hearing, but a presence. I have always been skeptical of this sort of thing, passing up the sensational books that spoke of such reports. But this was real, too real to ignore. It was as though I was suddenly offered the opportunity to say those things I'd never said, to ask forgiveness for what I felt I had done. For some time I found myself talking in the darkness, as though to the woman I had loved. I also felt replies, heard in the depth of my being. It was a word of forgiveness, of understanding. It was as though she was saying: "I understand. I can read the thoughts of your mind, the grieving of your heart. It's all right. I'm well, and off to a new life. I wish you much happiness in the journey that lies ahead for you." She set me free, I'd swear. And in that profound experience, I realized that life beyond the grave is not only real, but tangible in a new way, one I could not truly understand as yet. But I felt, I knew, she was happy. I left that place as a man set free. Though grief would still be my companion for yet some time, it was as though all would now be well. I knew I had been given a special gift from God.
There are those, even among my clergy colleagues, who have difficulty with this report. For me, though, it has shaped my faith and empowered my belief in the truth of Isaiah's promise. Nothing like it has ever reoccurred. It was, for me, a one time gift. But it was priceless.
This is Easter, then. Its joy is not based on warm spring Sundays, on new outfits and dinner with loved ones after church. Easter is JOY which shines back from beyond the grave with a promise which bespeaks a power beyond imagining, a power which can "swallow up death forever ... wipe away the tears from all faces, and take away the disgrace of all people from all the earth."
Isn't this the world in microcosm? Don't we all have to walk through that dark valley, either in the loss of someone who means so much, or at least when we ourselves must enter that "undiscovered country"? America's papers daily feature pictures of the anguished faces of mothers and fathers, of children, or friends who stand beside the graves of those who have died in unnecessary ethnic or urban violence. I once stood in the midst of a seemingly endless sea of white crosses at Omaha Beach and realized that for each of those thousands of white crosses so lovingly tended by our French friends, word went out to moms and dads, to wives and children, that a young man had courageously waded ashore on a beach he'd never heard of and there, to the sounds of hatred, had died. So grief swept across our land. And it was multiplied by so many other nations of the world.
A young woman in a friend's church was found dead some time ago, a suicide. She was a nurse in the children's cancer ward of a large hospital. Her close friend said she could no longer bear to see the suffering, both of the children and of the loved ones who prayed and hoped until the end. She'd seen too much. So Wordsworth caught the pain of loss:
She lived unknown, and few could know,
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and oh,
The difference to me.
What a profound word, that of Isaiah, then: "He will swallow up death forever. Then the Lord God will wipe away the tears from all faces, and the disgrace of his people he will take away from all the earthÉ." Of course this is Easter and supposed to be a day of joy and hope. One may question a beginning on such a seemingly morbid note. But the joy of Easter is not to be a trivial one. The light of Easter's triumph must be seen beyond the darkness of the valley of the shadow.
Isaiah began with a hope for the day when all the people of the earth might sit down in peace together, a hope which appears vain in view of the contemporary turmoil throughout the world. The changes in human nature necessary for that hope to come to pass seem hopelessly beyond possibility. Surely, Isaiah was speaking of a time beyond this time and place. Surely, of all that this great prophet said, these words propel us into the promise of the New Testament. So Saint Paul would write: "If there is no resurrection of the dead, then Christ has not been raised, and if Christ has not been raised then . . . your faith has been in vain." Poet John Donne wrote: "And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die."
I heard one preacher tell of a high school football player in his church who was to lead his team, as quarterback, in the final game of a winning season when word came that his father, who was blind, had died. The funeral was scheduled for a distant city on the day of the game. The reserve quarterback was preparing to lead the team but the star quarterback showed up. The coach said, "But your dad has just died and is being buried, surely you don't plan to play today?" "Coach," the boy replied, "you don't understand. My dad was blind and this will be the first time he's been able to watch me play." That's faith.
There is, of course, no proof. Of all the promises of our faith, belief in life beyond death requires the most faith. Dr. Weatherhead once told of a church leader in England who was being interviewed about the teachings of the Anglican Church. The question was asked, "Sir, what do you believe about life after death?" The man paused briefly then replied about like this: "We believe life after death will be a beautiful experience, free of pain, reunited with loved ones, but let's not talk about such a depressing subject." He was revealing the ambivalence nearly all of us feel. Our faith holds out a glowing promise of that which lies beyond, and yet there is little or no evidence to support this promise. It comes to us on trust alone. Yet many of us are willing to stake our lives on the promise. C. S. Lewis once observed that Jesus was either the Son of God or loony as a fruitcake. There's no middle ground. His teachings and his promises leave no other choice. Any of us who have been empowered by that risen Son of God know which to choose, and he promised life beyond.
Isaiah also pledged that God will take away the disgrace of his people. In other words, we need not fear the judgment. Judgment: that's another matter for faith alone. Shakespeare wrote of "the dread of something after death." We don't know, of course. The Bible's use of imagery and hyperbole allows many interpretations of the idea of divine judgment. There are those who subscribe to the teachings about hell and punishment. Debates on this subject are unwinnable since the Bible's word is unclear. Speaking as one who believes profoundly in a God of love, however, I find those threats out of character for the God of whom Isaiah spoke in the words of our text. Any loving parent knows that the proper purpose of punishment is not to be punitive but to reform. Using today's terminology, a parent who would punish a child once that child realized he or she was wrong and shows genuine remorse would be considered abusive and the relationship dysfunctional. One refuses to believe that God is less kindly in dealing with us than is a good and loving dad or mom.
But how does the universe hold together if we're not held accountable? Speaking for myself, a day rarely goes by but what I say or do something which, upon reflection, I know was wrong. Blanket forgiveness without remorse would be license to do wrong. What, then? Doesn't it make sense to believe that we are in a state of process, becoming what we are to be but are not yet? Maybe it will be like Oscar Wilde's story of "The Portrait Of Dorian Gray," the man who lived a totally selfish life, yet was widely acclaimed for his dashing good looks and witty manner. He had a painting, a portrait, in the attic of his home. When first completed, he often went to admire his own attractiveness in the painting. But as the years went by, the painting became ugly, hateful. Then one day Dorian Gray died. They found him, his handsome face now distorted by the sins of a lifetime, grotesque and ugly. His inner being was at last revealed.
Something like that, perhaps, is happening to each of us in the process of becoming a certain kind of person. By guile and subterfuge, we may, for a time, maintain the outward illusion of respectability and charm. But inwardly, in the "attics of our minds" there is the true person. Death may at last reveal the finished product. One author used the analogy of two men who attend the symphony. One has learned to understand and appreciate good music. The other has pedestrian tastes, caring nothing for the beauty of the classics. So at the concert, the former sits transfixed by beauty, time racing past, while the other fellow fidgits in misery, wondering if this will ever end. So, in the presence of sheer perfect love, those who have learned to give and receive love will bask in its warmth. Those who lived in self-love, interested only in their own welfare, could discover the presence of true love is "hell" itself.
Perhaps this is oversimplified. But somewhere in there may be the dynamics of judgment. "To sit alone with my conscience would be judgment enough for me," wrote Bishop Stubbs. "What I think will be hell to most of us," wrote Leslie Weatherhead, "will be the slow realization, in a further life É of how much sin has hurt and hindered the loving God." In Jesus' familiar analogy of the last judgment, he commended some for their thoughtful kindness to him and when they expressed surprise, he explained that each kindly act performed for "the least of these" other people was performed for him as well. However, the reverse was also true. A hurtful word or a selfish act which injured another had the same effect on Jesus. The discovery of this, looking back upon our own lives vividly revealed, could indeed be "judgment enough for me." "Crucifying the Son of God afresh."
If Isaiah was right, the life beyond will be free of punitive punishment, however much we may still have to learn and change ourselves. We will, whatever else we may believe, exist in an atmosphere of accepting, kindly love. We need not fear a punishing God. We need only fear separation from divine love by our own choice.
I'd like to share something very personal. Years ago, my wife died in a tragic car accident. After many years of happy marriage, my life seemed in ruins. Compounding my grief was an overwhelming sense of guilt over the fact that I had let her drive a car with brakes I knew to be defective. It was her choice, yet I should have insisted. For weeks I struggled with that combination of grief and guilt until I was just beside myself with inward pain. Then late one night, unable to sleep, I went to the sanctuary of the church I was serving. The time was close to midnight. The room was dark, save for a shaft of moonlight through the skylight windows. Too distraught to kneel or sit quietly, I paced the deserted room, praying for an answer. Suddenly, I sensed a presence. Not a physical presence, not one discernible by sight or hearing, but a presence. I have always been skeptical of this sort of thing, passing up the sensational books that spoke of such reports. But this was real, too real to ignore. It was as though I was suddenly offered the opportunity to say those things I'd never said, to ask forgiveness for what I felt I had done. For some time I found myself talking in the darkness, as though to the woman I had loved. I also felt replies, heard in the depth of my being. It was a word of forgiveness, of understanding. It was as though she was saying: "I understand. I can read the thoughts of your mind, the grieving of your heart. It's all right. I'm well, and off to a new life. I wish you much happiness in the journey that lies ahead for you." She set me free, I'd swear. And in that profound experience, I realized that life beyond the grave is not only real, but tangible in a new way, one I could not truly understand as yet. But I felt, I knew, she was happy. I left that place as a man set free. Though grief would still be my companion for yet some time, it was as though all would now be well. I knew I had been given a special gift from God.
There are those, even among my clergy colleagues, who have difficulty with this report. For me, though, it has shaped my faith and empowered my belief in the truth of Isaiah's promise. Nothing like it has ever reoccurred. It was, for me, a one time gift. But it was priceless.
This is Easter, then. Its joy is not based on warm spring Sundays, on new outfits and dinner with loved ones after church. Easter is JOY which shines back from beyond the grave with a promise which bespeaks a power beyond imagining, a power which can "swallow up death forever ... wipe away the tears from all faces, and take away the disgrace of all people from all the earth."
