I think I first started hating funerals when my brother died. That was a sad funeral. It was terribly sad. Fast forward twenty years, and there I am with complete disdain for funerals, yet officiating over the funeral of my own father. Sharhonda had filled in some of the details; a lot of which was breaking news to me. And as the weeks wore on, I slowly picked up bits and pieces of the story; complete with all types of fanciful details including a failed suicide attempt around Thanksgiving, a separation from his newlywed wife, court-ordered probation, anti-depressant medication, and then some.
I remember standing there as they closed the casket and comforting my family as they wound the casket bed down. I don't remember for sure but I think that the casket remained open during the duration of the service, but there was one final viewing at the end and then they closed the casket for good. I remember that it was taking a little longer than normal. It's an old pastor's tactic to comfort the family while the casket is being closed so that everyone isn't so laser-focused on the casket. When the casket closes there is this sense of finality for many people. But there I was; I had done all the greeting and comforting that I could possibly have done but they still hadn't finished closing it. There was this dark silent moment right then at the front of the sanctuary. Everybody's crying; and everything that my grandmother had been holding back just broke loose.
“He's never coming back!”
“He's never coming back!”
“He's never coming back!”
“He's never coming back!”
Over and over again; she kept repeating it. It was a paralyzing moment. Theoretically, theologically, I wanted to object and correct her reasoning, but this was not a moment made for philosophical discourse. This was a deep gut-wrenching cry for relief from excruciating emotional pain. This was grief in it's rawest, realest form. But that's when Jesus often shows up.
He touches the coffin and says in the most calm and assured tone, “Young man, I say to you, get up” (Lk. 7:14 NIV).
I've always been amazed by the voice of God. For He spoke, and it was done; He commanded, and it stood fast.” He “calls the things that are not, as though they were” (Ps. 33:9 NASB, Rom. 4:17b WEB) He created the entire world with His voice. Birds, trees, ocean, stars, fish, mountains, planets, and plant-bearing seeds: all with reverberating syllabic vocal intonations. And with that same voice He healed people, turned water into wine, quieted a raging sea squall, and now He intends to literally raise the dead.
The sound barely leaves His lips before it is accompanied by the very life-force that flows from the throne of The Almighty God of the Universe. This voice carried with it the electric energy of life deep into the dark caverns of the cold corpse, and before the most minute measurement of time might make itself manifest, life found it's place where it had so recently escaped and the young man began to speak.
I wonder what he said...
“What happened?...What's going on?...Mom?!”
The text says that, “Jesus gave him back to his mother.” This is what seems so unfair. This is why I can't argue with my grandma. In a sense she's right. Jesus is not present to deliver my dad back into her arms. Jesus was not there at my brother's funeral to bring my brother back to life. That's what stinks about death. It seems so final—so unfair. How is it that the widow get's her son back, but I don't get my dad back. How come I can't have my brother back?
Death makes the world seem totally out of synch. We all know we're going to die, but it's always bad timing when it's our turn. Nobody wants to die...well...more on that later. Yet, truthfully it's not in our nature to want to die. We want to live and thrive, and so when death comes, he is always an unwelcome guest. But thank God, God restores. He finds a way to restore life...in the ones we've lost. And in us after we have lost. God restores.
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