Good Grief

“Good Grief” FPC 6-28-09
    2 Samuel 1:1, 17-27, Mark 5:35-43
    The lectionary suggested an unusual text for this Sunday–the reading from 2 Samuel, a lament for Saul and Jonathan. And it occurred to me that since I’d never preached on this text, or even a similar biblical text, I better talk about it today. So there you go.
    But this sermon is not for everybody right now. You see, many of us gathered here are not in the midst of lament. We’re in the midst of happiness, gladness, fun. And that’s good. Enjoy it. Celebrate it. It’s summertime in Ohio. It’s beautiful out there. So wallow in fun and slosh it around. Catch some happiness like a ball and toss it to somebody else. God is good. Life is good. Woo hoo! It’s party time!
    But it’s not party time for everybody here. Some of us see our dreams for careers and families evaporate like mist in the sun. Some of us have physical pain that saps our energy and slops a cold, wet blanket over our spirits. Some of us return to homes with an empty kitchen chair and we linger over photos of loved ones we wish we could see, hear, and touch again. For some, it’s not party time; it’s grieving time. So if you’re grieving now, this sermon is for you. And if you’re not grieving, then you can pack this sermon away for a rainy day. You see it’s not a matter of if we will grieve or not; we will all grieve eventually. This morning’s scripture readings ask a deeper question. How shall we grieve? What’s bad grief and what’s good grief?
    I remember conducting a funeral in another congregation a few years ago. The patriarch of one of our families had died. This man had been kind and playful, and in younger days had been very athletic, a fine baseball player, a tremendous booster for youth sports in the community. Likewise, his children and grandchildren were superb athletes. So it was doubly hard that when this patriarch was only in his early 70s he was struck by a disease that slowly took away his ability to move and talk. He was taken to the top specialists at the Cleveland Clinic, but still we watched him die inch by inch. His family walked that long, painful journey with him. And the church and I accompanied them as best we could. It was hard, very hard.
    Finally, he died and funeral arrangements were made with a local funeral director I’d never met. Now I’ve appreciated most of the funeral directors I’ve worked with over the years. The majority of them have conducted their work with quiet dignity and class. Well, this funeral director (who was a friend of the dead man’s family) must’ve missed some mortuary school classes. At the cemetery, he pranced around and acted like the class clown. When one of the mourners left the mausoleum to begin the walk to the grave site, the funeral director pretended to hand an armload of flowers to him, but then snatched them back giggling. As the somber-faced and crying mourners reached the grave site, he flashed a smile and kept chirping, “No crying. Remember, folks! This is not goodbye, just so long. This is not goodbye, just so long.” And as the sniffling mourners shoveled dirt over the urn that had been placed in the ground by a family member, he continued to make silly comments. Now I think it’s generally not a good idea for the officiating pastor at a funeral to yell at the funeral director in front of the grieving family, but I can tell you I desperately wanted to.
    Grieving people deserve courtesy not slapstick, empathy not belittlement of their loss. Of course, we Christians grieve with hope of reunion in the future, but the present loss is still real. As one writer put it, this is “the authority of death.” (Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Love in the Time of Cholera, 3.)
    Retired preaching professor Fred Craddock tells this story. He says, “I remember upon the occasion of my mother’s death–she had been kept as an invalid at my sister’s home–we had gathered, the brothers and sisters, we were there, and she lay in state at the home. Friends and neighbors came, church members came, and it was a beautifully heavy time for us. There came running through the house a woman not of the family and not of the church, and she was telling us all how to interpret my mother’s death. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? Isn’t it thrilling that Marie has gone to be with Jesus? No tears, no tears, isn’t it wonderful?’ She came up to me and said, ‘You’re the one that’s a preacher?’
    “I said, ‘Yeah.’
    “‘Then you’re the one who really knows what a thrilling thing it is that she’s no longer here, but . . .’
    “‘Well, I wish she were here. In fact, I wish that she could make some biscuits again.’
    “And I said to her, ‘If you think you’re going to be making me feel guilty because I miss my mother, then you need to go to another house.’” (Fred B. Craddock, Craddock Stories, ed. Mike Graves and Richard F. Ward, 132-133.)
    There is a better way to approach loss. In 2 Samuel we read David’s lament over the death of Saul and his son Jonathan killed in battle against the Amalekites. Not only has Saul been killed, but his body has been desecrated–head chopped off, corpse nailed to a wall. Not only has Jonathan been killed, but he was David’s best friend. How does David mourn these deaths?
    He chants or sings a dirge. (Isn’t it true that when it comes to expressing our sadness, sometimes only a song will do?) So David sings. And the text says, he orders that this song of sadness be kept in a book and “be taught to the people of Judah.”
    You know we live in a society that so often denies sadness and grief. Instead of grief, we’re taught simply to turn up the radio. Change the television station to a sitcom. Have a stiff drink. Talk about something cheerful. Pretend there’s nothing to be sad about.
    But one of the great gifts of our faith community is that, as David ordered, we also teach each other how to grieve. The church is where children and adults learn the stately rhythms of grief in funerals. The church is where we gather around the Bible, a book of life that also teaches the nuances of grief. The church is where we come to support and comfort each other in grief. The church is where we sing songs not only of gladness but also songs of grief. (And shouldn’t we be at least a little bit wary of those churches whose bouncy ever-cheerful music never mentions the shadow, broken side of life–grief?) The church is where we learn our grief ABCs and finally write our doctoral dissertations of grief.
    And notice the details of David’s dissertation. He cries, “Your glory, O Israel, lies slain upon your high places! How the mighty have fallen!” There is no denial of loss here. The loss is real and it is not only personal, it is communal.
    “Tell it not in Gath, proclaim it not in the streets of Askelon; or the daughters of the Philistines will rejoice . . .” In other words, David does not want enemies to be glad about these deaths and to wag their tongues with malicious gossip. This is a time for sorrow not celebration, a time to be angry about lives cut short. “Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” (Dylan Thomas)
    And finally David makes utterly clear what has been lost. He says, “Saul and Jonathan, beloved and lovely! In life and in death they were not divided; they were swifter than eagles, they were stronger than lions . . .  I am distressed for you, my brother Jonathan; greatly beloved were you to me; your love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women. How the mighty have fallen . . . ” There is no attempt at deception here. These were strong vibrant people suddenly lost. No changing the subject. “Well, at least it’s a pretty day.” No minimization. “At least he died quickly.” No. David’s love for Jonathan is shockingly obvious and his anguish gut-wrenchingly deep. “Your love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women.”
    Have you ever known such a loss? If so, how did you honor that loss?
    Bible scholar Eugene Peterson writes, “Lament is not an animal wail, an inarticulate howl. Lament notices and attends, savors and delights–details, images, relationships. Pain entered into, accepted and owned, can become poetry. It is no less pain, but it is no longer ugly . . .  All wise families and cultures honor lament. Without lament, a nation is gradually but surely dehumanized into a military force or an economic function. If all a nation does is wave its flag in parade or boast of its standard of living, go to war, and make money, it ends up sooner or later a husk. Lament keeps a people in touch with leaders and friends, losses and defeats, limits and suffering–with its humanity. Lament keeps us connected with reality, with the actual–with God.” (Eugene H. Peterson, First and Second Samuel in The Westminster Bible Companion Series, 144.)
    It’s interesting that the lectionary pairs David’s lament with Mark’s account of Jesus bringing a dead little twelve-year-old girl back to life. A girl’s father had come to Jesus and begged him to heal his daughter. But Jesus was delayed and the girl died before he arrived. The mourners were weeping and wailing when Jesus got there. And when he said, “What’s all this fuss about? She’s just sleeping.” they laughed at him. So Jesus shooed these “realists” outside and brought the girl back to life with a touch and a few kind words.
    Sometimes that’s the way our faith works. Sometimes that’s how God works. We pray for a healing, and it comes. We ask for a miracle, and it appears. Sometimes that’s how it is, and we, like the crowd, are amazed and grateful.
    But other times, death is what we experience for now–death of a loved one, death of a dream, death for ourselves. And when that happens David’s lament and Jesus’ healing guide us along. Like David, we mourn honestly. We sometimes rage about our loss. We dare to acknowledge and to feel deeply what is gone. And so we honor what’s lost. We honor our humanity. We honor God.
    And at the same time, or maybe after a long time of grieving, we do cling to the promise of God we know in Jesus Christ. In Christ, God does, and will do, what seems laughably unlikely. God brings life from death. God wins victory over all suffering and death, for you and me and for the universe. This is what we hold onto in spite of our grief, as a part of good grief.
    An old “hermit-saint” in one of Frederick Buechner’s novels says this, “The secret that we share I cannot tell in full. But this much I will tell. What’s lost is nothing to what’s found, and all the death that ever was, set next to life, would scarcely fill a cup.” (Frederick Buechner, A Room Called Remember, 189.)
    When we grieve, we grieve honestly, sometimes raging, and feeling deeply what’s lost. But we also grieve as a people who know that in Christ our God has brought life out of death. And all the death that ever was, set next to life, would scarcely fill a cup. Amen.