MINNESOTA BAPTIST ASSOCIATION

The President's Corner

(Apr-Jun 2006)

I once again attended a funeral. Not being the officiating minister afforded me the opportunity to just sit and listen. Obviously my heart was aching. The people had lost a mother, a sister, a co-worker, a friend. Such grief is eased by the knowledge that she had long before trusted Jesus Christ as her Savior, and now, even now, she was in the presence of her Lord. Yet...Death is separation: separation of a loved one from those who love them...and it hurts. It really, really hurts.

I have suffered the loss of separation. I lost my mother when I was only 7 years old. Within a short span of time, I had also lost an aunt, a grandmother, and an uncle, and then, a grandfather. So every time I go to a funeral, whether I am performing it or watching it, I feel the pain of the separation. Being a Christian gives one hope of eternal life but it does not exempt one from the pain on earth.

And pain makes you cry. You cry till tears no more; a deep abiding cry that cleanses. Absolute separation brings the kind of tears that seem to empty the soul. It is the admission that you have lost someone so loved that you seemingly cannot bear the stress of losing them. You go though the events of each day wondering when you will stop grieving. It is precisely at that time you realize that the comfort and promises of Christ are not only all you have, but in truth, all you need.

I did not perform my father's funeral in 1997. My pastor did that. But I had the privilege of doing the graveside service following. There is a small phrase that I have used when I perform funerals. It refers to the promise Jesus Himself made to Believers that he would return for all the saved and take them home to be with Him. It is the blessed hope of His return and our resurrection. At the end of my prayer, as is my custom, I placed my hand on his casket and uttered the phrase, pretty much without thinking. I guess that lack of mental preparation overcame me as I melted into a pile of tears. I thought that was the end of it. It was...at least for one week. His funeral came literally before a week of special meetings with an evangelist at our church (fortunately, a good, personal friend of mine) and so I threw my self into the week.

That next Sunday I preached for the first time since the loss, and, from every outside standard, it was fine. But that night, sometime in the early hours after I couldn't sleep, I began to have what they would later call an "event." I thought it was a heart attack. I learned firsthand what pent-up stress can do to a sleep-deprived, pressure weakened body. As I sat in the emergency treatment room on my bed contemplating all the hassle I had been to my wife and two (then) young, scared children, I remembered the words I had uttered the week before...and they brought me instant comfort. They reminded me this life is not the destination. It is merely the way station. And so I have learned that with pain comes hope. And every time I think of that, I remember the words..."Until then."