Roll Away Your Stone

"It was sin that made death so frightening and law-code guilt that gave sin its leverage, its destructive power. But now in a single victorious stroke of Life, all three—sin, guilt, death—are gone, the gift of our Master, Jesus Christ. Thank God! " 1 Corinthians 15:56-57

In the Jewish tradition of Shiva, when a family is mourning the loss of a loved one, they sit at home for seven days. During this time, visitors bring food, providing an important physical and relational presence. Conversation, however, is practically non-existent. These seven days, for the most part, are spent in silence.

Words are sticky. It seems, as God laid out the guidelines for navigating grief, that He understood this fact. Even in His own experience, when faced with Lazarus' death, Jesus said little. Instead, he knelt down next to Mary, and wept. His tears did not seem to be trickles of polite droplets, but instead hot, angry streams of compassion and frustration. The comfort he could have provided with words, was much better demonstrated (and, most likely, better felt) through His presence alone. His actions. His silent commiseration. And even with his full knowledge that, in five minutes, Lazarus would be hugging his sisters, Jesus did not immediately say this. Instead, the Holy One cried on the ground.

I think there's something innate in our humanity that has us desperately wanting to remove others' pain. We want to use words. Words that will just make everything better. That will just make it all go away. Words like, "It was God's timing," "He had a plan," "It will be OK." Things that, in the moment, do more harm than good. However, it is hard, as a human being, to stay silent. At least, it is for this human being. I tend to over-use words. I ramble. And in times like these, when silence is more comforting than verbosity, I struggle. Because I want to fix things with my words. I want to offer comfort.

I forget that I'm not the One who does that.

I'm prefacing this post, because I want it to be known that no matter what I say, no matter how many paragraphs this takes, I will never be able to express myself as eloquently as that simple act of Christ in front of Lazarus' grave. Death is a complicated thing. One that God approached with a very hands-on, love-infused, way. One that I handle clumsily. But as my family lives far away, and I have no arms to offer or tears to share, I am only left with my words.

I will try to use them wisely.

This weekend, my family is mourning the loss of a bright and shining star. My Uncle Ken's unwavering faith, fierce love, and cheerful spirit grace heaven tonight. Our loss, however, is bitter. As a husband, dad, grandfather, uncle, brother, he touched many lives. He built relationships. Relationships that, in their own right, are special and sacred. Relationships that will have to be put on hold until that joyful day when we're reunited.

Thank God, He has the final say in this story.

Because my Uncle Ken, the man whose smile was infectious, whose life was radiant, whose purpose was clear, was not defeated by illness.

He was redeemed.

God has rolled away his stone.

A single, victorious stroke of Life: this is what God has offered us in His infinite wisdom and unyielding grace.The beauty of God's grace, the beauty of believing in a Savior, is that in times like these, mourning is turned to dancing. The beauty of death is hope. Uncle Ken believed this with all of his heart. I know, that as he is cutting a rug with the angels in heaven, he is also waiting anxiously to show us what we're missing. And when Christ comes back to call us home, he'll be there too, smiling knowingly, as a man who has been bought with the blood of the Lamb.

In the meantime, we weep. We weep for our loss. We weep for his pain before his final breath. We weep for the ugliness of death, the memories of a full life, of 82 years of service, and the family that's left behind. But we don't weep alone. He's not called the Great Comforter for nothing.

As my family "sits Shiva" in California, I am reminded of His words in 2 Corinthians:

"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God. For just as we share abundantly in the sufferings of Christ, so also our comfort abounds through Christ." 2 Corinthians 2:3-5

May His comfort be thick in the lives of my loved ones.