A Funeral Sermon for the Living

A sermon on Romans 8.26-39

Trinity Lutheran Church was founded by German settlers in the 1840’s. The imposing church structure, one red clay brick stacked upon another, sits resolutely atop a hill in the western Carolina countryside. Walking up the meandering road that leads to the church, its imposing and steely gray steeple juts into the sky, demanding your attention like a glass lightning rod on a tin roof. The ancient stained glass windows, spread along the sanctuary’s length, were long ago covered by a protective layer of glass. Since then decades of condensation have built up in the space between, leaving windows that can only be enjoyed from the inside and the impression that the church like her windows are well defended. It is bordered on one side by the cool, crayfish-filled waters of a meandering brook, on another by a few strands of limp barbed wire clinging to a litany of wayward fence posts, and on another it is bordered by a small patch of cleared hillside in which my ancestors lie.

This church has been the setting for the most important events in the life of my family for generations that stretch back as far as the mountains painting the horizon from its aged concrete steps. Around weddings, baptisms, confirmations, and funerals my family has gathered atop this hill. For the first twenty odd years of my existence, the passing of each year was marked as the whole of my extended family dutifully assembled in the last three pews on Christmas Eve.

Paul’s words to the Romans are powerful and eloquent, perhaps some of the most hopeful words in the entire bible and we hear them fairly regularly. Because of their bravado in the face of discouraging circumstance this passage is quite often read at funerals. When the church gathers to mourn, this text celebrates the God whose love neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all of creation, will be able to separate us from. These words of hope find their way into our lives when we need to hear that first phrase, “neither death.”

This was the case at the funeral of my Grandfather held within the tall brick walls of Trinity Church five years ago. I was set to begin seminary in the fall. As the grandson who was almost a seminarian, thus almost, almost a pastor, it was decided I would read the lessons at the funeral; two familiar passages, one from Isaiah and the other our reading from Romans this morning. We met early that morning at the funeral home in town and loaded into a couple of black Lincoln Town Cars that slowly weaved their way out to this rural hilltop. As the funeral progressed I held the readings tightly in my sweating palms, focusing on each word and the difficult task that lie ahead. Finally, the time arrived for the first reading and I made my way up to the steps to the lectern, where I opened my grandfather’s time worn bible brought back from Korea. The passage from Isaiah lay in front of me. I took one long, deep breath and began; “Comfort, O comfort my people, says...

I had to stop.

Refocusing my eyes on the words, I opened my mouth...

and...

I began to bawl. I slowly made my way, one phrase at a time, through the sobs and to the end of the reading. I walked the few short steps to the chair behind me to await the second lesson, as the old oak floors groaned under my shifting weight. While the cantor chanted the psalm, I stared through the appointed page from Romans. In those few, fleeting moments, an eternity in the midst of an instant, I took some of the deepest breaths I have ever drawn. In an attempt to find some semblance of composure, I found myself gasping for air, groaning audibly, as my lungs stretched helplessly beyond their limits.

The psalm ended and I rose to my feet. I finally lifted my head to find the reassuring nod of my father as I stepped into the lectern. But as I began, ‘Likewise the Spirit helps us,’ the scene of the first played itself out again, until I finally uttered ‘The word of the Lord’ and mercifully returned to my seat.

The most forceful part of this reading from Romans comes at its conclusion, with a resounding and rolling list of the things that cannot separate us from the love of God. To be honest, most often set in the context of a funeral, I’ve never made it very far down that list. All I’ve needed to hear is the assurance of “nor death.”

But this Sunday we do not gather for a funeral. Rather this morning we give thanks for the life God has given us in baptism, we proclaim God’s living Word, we are nourished at the table for life, and we welcome camp counselors for a week of effervescent ministry. So, following each successive phrase in Paul’s letter, all I must cross is one comma before I am perplexed. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life.  Nor life. Death I understand, but how is it that life, the very thing God brings, which we celebrate in worship this morning, could stand between us and God? What might this funeral letter, this funeral sermon, have to say to the living?

I have considered those moments repeatedly. Each time I prepare to lead a funeral, this scene will flash in my mind. Each time I step in front of a congregation, every slow breath I take before I begin, is the same gasping breath from that summer funeral. The tears that fell in the chancel of Trinity Lutheran Church were tears that fell certainly in mourning the death of my grandfather. But after years of reflection, I believe those tears and gasping breaths were also for me. Standing in the lectern, called to proclaim God’s promise, I feared not just death, but life. I feared the prospect of walking in life now wounded, to continue in life void of a certain loving presence. I think that’s what Paul is getting at with ‘nor life’, that the prospect of life wounded, the life of the scarred, that the future, can be, for some, a thing to fear.

It is against this fear that Paul forcefully proclaims the promise God holds for those who live. He does not dismiss the reality that we walk hobbled, that the scars we carry are real. But he proclaims the reality of the One who embraces us in our time of wounds and pain, in the midst of this life.

“The Spirit helps us,” Paul writes, “in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray but the very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words.” Paul proclaims that it is not our labored gait which carries the promise of life, but rather it is God, whose Spirit fills our lungs in these deep, gasping sighs and carries us. God’s compassionate Spirit carries us as we stumble along, carries our prayers, our dreams, and our hopes, all into the future and the life God holds for us.

God’s promise, this morning, is not only for those who mourn the dead, but also for those of us who mourn life. It is the promise that this life, life wounded, not only fails to separate us from God and God’s dreams for us, but that in the midst of this life, through the staggering walk of wounded disciples, God is present and working.

With this promise for the living, let us go out and exhaust ourselves in faith! This week, counselors, campers, volunteers, go out and sing songs, play games, and build crafts with such passion and enthusiasm that you fall to the ground gasping for breath. At work, at home, and out on our streets, let us embrace the tasks to which God has called us with such fervent intensity that we end up doubled over, hands on our knees, gasping to catch our breath. Let us sprint forth in faith that in those inevitable and racing breaths, whether in a church courtyard filled with energetic day campers or a funeral chancel, God is with us, filling our lungs with hope for life. Let us walk in the promise that in our exhausting work, in our most desperate breaths too deep for words, God is with us and preparing us for all that is to come. Amen.