"Jesus Began to Weep" (Reflections on All Saints, Year B 2024)

 

I lost my dad to a sudden massive heart attack in December of 1990. I took some time off from my teaching job with the Los Angeles School District to be with my mom. My mother suffered with emphysema, and my father had been her major caregiver. With him gone my sisters and I would have to make some arrangements for her care. But life, as it has a tendency to do, still went on, and a few days later I found myself getting back to quotidian tasks like grocery shopping. At my local supermarket I ran into Randy, a huge teddy bear of a guy who was the sexton of our church. He stuck out an enormous hand when he saw me and said, “Gosh, Owen. I sure am sorry about your dad.”

It occurred to me that there hadn’t been a Sunday in between the time of my father’s death and my meeting Randy at the Ralph’s Market. This took place in those dark, barbaric days before the internet or the ubiquitous cell phone. The people of St. Luke’s Lutheran Church actually took the time to get on their land lines and call one another and pass along the word that Evan Griffiths had died. They reacted to the death of one of their own as a community.

If the Christian Church has nothing else to offer, it provides a space where we can all grieve, mourn, and console one another together as a family. We gather together in the empathetic knowledge of our shared humanity. We all love, we all fear loss, but we all will experience it.

Since the fourth century the Church has set aside a special day to remember our dead. When Christianity was first legal and later official as a religion of the Roman Empire, the faithful departed—mostly those martyred for their faith during the Church’s “unofficial” times—were remembered after Easter. The springtime observance was possibly meant to remind Christians of the promise of the resurrection of the faithful. By the twelfth century the Feast of All Saints was moved to November 1, around the time of the final harvest when Northern European pagans, feeling the changing season somehow eroded the barrier between the physical and the spirit worlds, celebrated their dead. So, for the last thousand years we’ve been setting this time aside to look back, remember the ones we’ve loved and lost, give thanks to God for the influence they’ve had and the joy they brought to us, and, quite simply, while in each other’s understanding company, allow ourselves to miss them.

The gospel lesson appointed in the Revised Common Lectionary for All Saints, Year B (John 11:32-44) is the famous story of the raising of Lazarus. I like this story. It mirrors so many of the feelings we all have about death and bereavement. Lazarus’ sisters both express some bitterness because their brother’s death might’ve been prevented.

“Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died,” they both say.

Another expresses perplexity about his friend’s untimely demise.

“Could not he, who opened the eyes of the blind man, have kept this man from dying?”

Martha expresses despair.

“Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days.”

But she also expresses hope.

“I know he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.”

And Jesus joins with this family—and with us—in sharing our grief.

When Jesus saw her weeping and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved…Jesus began to weep.

And that’s what I love about John’s gospel. Yes, he makes Jesus very God-like, but he also makes Jesus very human. He reminds us that it’s God’s desire to be Emmanuel, God With Us. We could never worship or understand a God who doesn’t understand us. Whether we are grieving or consoling, we are experiencing a form of love—and that love is the holiness of God.

Please allow me to share a little about a few of the saints we’ll be remembering this All Saints Sunday.

Shirley Hosack was the last charter signatory of Faith Lutheran Church. She was with us from the very beginning. A delightful, friendly, cheerful lady who sang in the church choir and encouraged her neighbor, Jean MacLeod, to join her. While their Catholic husbands went to Our Lady of Calvary every Sunday morning, Jean and Shirley donned their choir gowns and sang for Faith. Even after our switch to a more contemporary music style, Shirley would worship from her pew with Jean and the other “retired choir ladies” until age and physical disability kept her from us.

Agnes Myers was a dedicated Woman of Faith. It was said she could make a charming handcraft out of just about anything. She was the mastermind behind the crafts the Women made for the fall Festival, and she was always present to man the tasting table or deliver a fascinating recipe for a potluck. Like Shirley, she was dedicated to helping this congregation, courageously volunteering despite her health struggles.

Flo Wilson was friendly, slyly witty, and more energetic than a mature woman ought to be. Had she made it to her birthday in February, she would’ve been 100 years old—and still more mentally alert than I am most days! Flo loved to roller skate and did so well into her eighties. She was tough, keeping her faith in spite of surviving three of her six children. In her 100^th year she taught her home health aid how to crochet. She was a community volunteer, a great mom and grandma, and a faithful supporter of this congregation.

We didn’t get to know Cloreen Russell for long. Faced with some serious health problems, she took a chance and decided to give this little church a try. She had a dazzling smile and quirky sense of humor which helped her to power through any number of distressing reports from her doctors. No one can deny she had faith. I will always remember how she introduced herself, “I’m Cloreen—like the bleach.” She was courageous. She wasn’t one just to sit in the back pew. She got to know us, jumping in with both feet. We were blessed to know her, and her strength is an inspiration.

There are two non-members we remember on All Saints this year whom I would like to highlight.

I only met Rich Sodouski, Cindie’s late husband twice, and I only know two things about him. One, he did everything his own way and on his own terms. Two, he loved Cindie. That’s enough for me.

Finally, I want to mention my young friend—or co-worker, or colleague, I’m not sure what to call her—Anne Weiswasser. Anne died a few weeks ago unexpectedly at age thirty-five. She was a funeral director, and she’d often call (mostly text) me to do services for folks who didn’t have their own clergy. I can’t say I knew Anne too well. If we weren’t discussing a service, we mostly talked about our dogs. Still, I liked her. She was a good soul. She was professional and compassionate and too young. 

I appreciated the trust Anne and her colleagues in the funeral industry have placed in me over the years. I never intended to be the Barry Bonds of neighborhood funerals. It was just something that became part of my ministry and I consider it to be an honor to speak for the departed. I also consider it an honor to work with funeral directors. I think I prefer the old-fashioned term “undertaker” (even if it conjures up images of John Carradine in a top hat) because it more accurately describes what these kind, decent folks do—they undertake the burden of creating meaningful tributes to people we love. They are there as Jesus was to comfort people on some of the worst days of their lives. They help people understand insurance policies and often suggest grief counseling and they don’t make a whole lot of money doing it. But Martin Luther would point out that what they do is a priestly profession.

May Shirley, Agnes, Flo, Cloreen, Rich, Anne, and all the departed rest in peace. May the peace of God which passes all our understanding keep our hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.