grief (a sermon on John 11:32-44 for All Saints Sunday)

This sermon was preached on Saturday, November 3 and Sunday, November 4 at Trinity Lutheran Church in Connellsville, Pennsylvania using the texts for All Saints Day.

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The texts we hear for the festival of All Saints this year are ones commonly chosen for funeral services. In Isaiah, mourners are reminded the day is coming when God will swallow up death forever, wipe away the tears from all faces, and provide for everyone a feast of rich foods.

Revelation reiterates the same promises, adding the reminder that we have a God who comes near to us, whose home is with and among us, and that we are God’s people, now and forever.

These are both wonderful texts, but my favorite is the honesty of the Gospel of John. In this story about the death of Lazarus, we hear of the deep grief of those present.

Grief sometimes looks like anger and desperation, as when Mary says to Jesus “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” Some of the gathered crowd, too, found their grief manifesting in questions – surely Jesus ought to have done more. Could not the one who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?

Other times, grief has no words, only weeping. Even Jesus, greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved, weeps with those who are gathered here following Lazarus’ death. This deeply primal response is part of being human, and the weight of emotion that is too big for words is shown through our tears.

At other times, grief is displayed as practicality. Doing the necessary things, preparing food, making arrangements. Martha here, ever concerned with care for others, tells Jesus, who wishes the stone to be rolled away from the tomb, “Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days.”

For those who grieve, however they may grieve, often some measure of comfort is found in being together. As Jesus gathers with the mourners, they weep together, comfort one another, and go to the place where Lazarus had been buried.

In that place of stench, longing, grief, anger, distraction, and desperation, Jesus speaks a word of hope, resurrection, and life. He shares with those gathered the promises of God – that God’s glory is still present even when things seem too far gone, that somehow resurrection and life can always be found, even in the midst of death.

Grief is a long and varied process. We grieve loss of all kinds – certainly the death of those close to us, but also changes in our abilities, health, work situation, relationships, and other central parts of our life. We grieve for unmet expectations, unfulfilled hopes and dreams, change that is inevitable and beyond our control.

Grief is good, expected, healthy. It takes time, and looks different over time. I’ve heard it said that the deepest kind of grief we carry never really goes away, we just grow accustomed to carrying it, and so it feels lighter and takes less of our immediate attention as time goes on.  

Grief is good, expected, and healthy, but as a culture, we aren’t so good at dealing with it. When faced with death and loss, we may not know what to say, so we resort to platitudes that are ultimately unhelpful and untrue - that it was God’s will, or that God needed another angel, or that they’ll “get over it” if only they do x, y, or z. At other times, we’re uncomfortable with death, so we stay away entirely, leaving those who grieve to figure things out on their own. Or perhaps we have a skewed sense of grief’s timeline, so we check in immediately after a death, and stop by the funeral home to pay our respects, but then as time goes on we forget, or we expect that they’ve gotten over it by now.

It is hard to know how to be present in the midst of grief. But the best thing you can do is keep showing up. Check in by phone, send a card, acknowledge birthdays and holidays and anniversaries, which can be particularly difficult times. Tell stories, share memories as they pop up, pass along encounters that remind you of the deceased, or just be there, even if you don't say anything.

Most importantly, don’t be afraid to name the person who has died. Sometimes people say that it’s uncomfortable to speak that name, or that they don’t want to remind the person grieving of the one who has died and make them sad. Don’t worry - they’re already sad, and they can’t be reminded of that which they have never forgotten. Instead, by naming the deceased, you communicate that you’re willing to be present in the midst of the hard stuff, that you haven’t forgotten even if the rest of the world has moved on, and that the one who grieves is not alone. Those are powerful, gospel promises.

As the Church, the festival of All Saints is the day that we do the important work of naming, remembering, and being together. We name individually those persons who have died in the year since our last All Saints Day gathering. We light candles, and ring chimes, and sing, and listen, and sit together with our grief as we remember those dear to us who are no longer among the living.

Some years that work of remembering and naming is harder than others. This is one of the hard years.

We also take time to remember those whose lives passed with little notice - miscarriages, the homeless, those without close family or friends. In doing so, we point out the expansiveness of God’s promises. Saints, to us, are not just those who have lived exceptionally holy or good lives. They are not just those who have been canonized by the Church. Instead, on this day we recognize that the saints are all who have been named “Child of God” in the waters of baptism, all who have received the abundance of God’s saving love, mercy, and forgiveness.

These saints have more than their share of rough edges, of regrets and decisions they wish they’d made differently, of brokenness and sin. But each of us, by the grace of God, are both one hundred percent saint and one hundred percent sinner. Named and claimed in baptism, God’s promises for us are more powerful than anything we do or fail to do.

Today, along with all the saints, we are reminded that we are loved, forgiven, and held close by God in times of celebration and in times of grief. Together, we await that day when tears are wiped away, death is no more, and we are all gathered around the great heavenly feast. In the meantime, we come together to comfort one another in our grief, cling to God’s everlasting promises, and gather in hope around the table for a foretaste of this feast. Around this table, we hear that God is for us and with us always and no matter what, and for this we say thanks be to God. Amen.