Psalm 148, Isaiah 65. 17-end, Hebrews 11. 32-12.2
During the year that is past this church has seen funerals for those who have passed peacefully away having reached a good age in a good way; and we have also seen more painful occasions in which we have grieved the loss of those whom we might think died before their time, and those who came to the end of their lives, enduring unlooked for and painful illnesses. This church has heard many life stories, stories of achievement and creativity and humour and much love.
And yet the funeral service also contains a prayer which we sometimes use, a prayer which asks God to ‘heal our memories of past hurt and failure’. The prayer doesn’t go into any detail as to what that might mean. Are these memories of the times when we might have hurt or failed the person we are saying goodbye to, or are they the ways in which that person has hurt and failed others, including, perhaps, ourselves?
A funeral service acknowledges both what we have to give thanks for in a life, and also what might have to be forgiven in that life.
One of the readings from Scripture that a funeral may contain is a passage from the book of Revelation where the author looks forward to the time when God will create a new heaven and a new earth, when all tears will be wiped away and there will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain. Whether consciously or not the author is echoing the words of the prophet Isaiah which we heard this evening; Behold I will create a new heaven and a new earth – the former things will not be remembered, the sound of weeping and crying will be heard no more. Both authors are decisively turning their backs on the past. They are expressing a powerful vision of hope, and of God’s final victory over sin and death and suffering.
And such words are not inappropriate for a funeral. But in a funeral that is truly Christian there must also be a place for a painful honesty about the present as well as a hopeful vision for the future.
There is a psalm sometimes used at the bedside of someone who is dying, which begins with the words, ‘Out of the deep have I called unto thee O Lord’. It is a psalm for those who feel almost submerged by suffering or pain, loneliness or grief. And it is a psalm too for those who almost feel angry with God: ‘O let thine ears consider well the voice of my complaint.’ It is a psalm for those who turn to God when there is no-one else to hear what they really feel.
The church is a place for naming these things. The church is a place where grief and anger and fear and doubt are allowed. The church is a place where we can cry out of the depths. And the church is not a place for simple answers; not a place where we can get control of our grief by explaining things. The church is a place for something much more delicate than explanations – a place for a different kind of knowledge. It is a place for hope, but not a hope that can easily be named – this is certainly not hope as a panacea or a facile optimism. The hope you may find in a church is a hope that our worst fears can be acknowledged, our deepest grief held, and that there is still something to look for beyond our grief and fear, something which is beyond us, yet will not let us go. However much we may fail, however much we may become caught up in ourselves, God is still there. However much we may seem through old age or disease to cease to be ourselves, God still knows us, still retains and sustains all that we are and have been. Our souls are held by God because only God knows the full story of who we truly are. And our hope lies in the fact that behind us, and around us, and beyond us God is there. God gives us meaning when all seems meaningless. God remains the source of strength in us when we are tempted to give up. God is the love which sees and holds us when we feel most alone. God reassures us that there will indeed come a time when the weeping will be no more and we can be glad and rejoice together in the glory of his eternal presence. Amen.