The pastor died at the tender age of
94 having spent over seventy years serving the Lord. My thoughts and feelings
at the funeral were filled with gladness rather than sadness. The last I had
seen him was three weeks ago, and we talked for half an hour. He was lucid and
articulate in casual conversation as he sat on a couch. It was a pleasure and a
privilege to be in this man’s presence. This brother was finally home and happy, and I mean really happy based on the truth of Scripture!
His wife of so many years had died
four years earlier. Shortly before his death, he had asked to be taken off life
support for he was ready to go home. The day of his home going he had raised
his arms in bed that morning toward heaven and smiled. His son had asked him, “Dad,
what do you see?” His glazed eyes were looking up, and he was unresponsive to
the question. By 6:30 PM he would be forever with the Lord.
“He wasn’t a perfect man,” said his pastor son, “but none of us are.” Another pastor referred to him as a good soldier of Jesus Christ. He talked of his position, possessions, and profession throughout the years and how his work followed him. He left a legacy of faith to his family of never turning his back on the Lord. As his casket rolled slowly along the church aisle, I thought of what General MacArthur once said to a joint session of Congress, “… old soldiers never die; they just fade away.” Followed by these words before saying goodbye to 52 years of military service, “And like the old soldier of that ballad, I now close my military career and just fade away, an old soldier who tried to do his duty as God gave him the light to see that duty.”1
Truly, this saint of God was a good and faithful soldier to the very end, Semper Fidelis (always faithful). He loved to be around God’s people and to be at church every time the doors were flung open wide. In time, the memory of his existence will fade as a new generation ushers in, but His name is found written in the Lamb’s Book of Life and that is all that really matters.
Beverly described her uncle’s funeral as more of a church service rather than a funeral. This is how the heart of an evangelistic soul would have wanted it, and it was great! The battles of life were forever over for him. Most of the people there was plain old country folk who loved the Lord. They were deeply saddened by his departure but rejoiced that he was finally home. It was a pleasure to be in their midst to wallow in the old-time Gospel-styled music and atmosphere of a small church. It was here the Lord revealed to me that I was becoming too sophisticated by only raising my hands in silence, the new amen of the modern Church, back in my own church! I love my church even though it is big, fast-paced, and progressive for that is where God called me to attend, worship, and serve.
On this day I heard precious truths from three old-timey southern preachers. I thought at any moment I was going to lose it with their words. I thought the floodgates of my tear ducts were going to burst at any moment. When they played a recording of my brother in Christ singing a song of His love for the Lord, I caught myself fighting back the tears because I was too sophisticated to let it rip. One rogue tear did course down my right cheek in rebellion against my will. The crescendo was when my thoughts were directed toward Jesus’ persecution before the cross. As the cat of nine tails was tearing into His body, the pastor said, “I’m bleeding for you, they are ripping Me!”
Those words bulldozed all over my soul. I couldn’t get the images from Mel Gibson’s movie, The Passion, out of my head, even knowing that the scenes were a softer version of the brutal reality imposed on our Savior’s body. My eyes were filled and ready to spill, but I composed myself. What would the people think? They don’t know me, and I don’t know most of them, maybe a dozen on an occasional basis, struggling even to remember their names. In reality, these people wouldn’t have cared. Somebody would have said, “Bless ‘em, Lord” rather than wonder if I was under conviction.
“He wasn’t a perfect man,” said his pastor son, “but none of us are.” Another pastor referred to him as a good soldier of Jesus Christ. He talked of his position, possessions, and profession throughout the years and how his work followed him. He left a legacy of faith to his family of never turning his back on the Lord. As his casket rolled slowly along the church aisle, I thought of what General MacArthur once said to a joint session of Congress, “… old soldiers never die; they just fade away.” Followed by these words before saying goodbye to 52 years of military service, “And like the old soldier of that ballad, I now close my military career and just fade away, an old soldier who tried to do his duty as God gave him the light to see that duty.”1
Truly, this saint of God was a good and faithful soldier to the very end, Semper Fidelis (always faithful). He loved to be around God’s people and to be at church every time the doors were flung open wide. In time, the memory of his existence will fade as a new generation ushers in, but His name is found written in the Lamb’s Book of Life and that is all that really matters.
Beverly described her uncle’s funeral as more of a church service rather than a funeral. This is how the heart of an evangelistic soul would have wanted it, and it was great! The battles of life were forever over for him. Most of the people there was plain old country folk who loved the Lord. They were deeply saddened by his departure but rejoiced that he was finally home. It was a pleasure to be in their midst to wallow in the old-time Gospel-styled music and atmosphere of a small church. It was here the Lord revealed to me that I was becoming too sophisticated by only raising my hands in silence, the new amen of the modern Church, back in my own church! I love my church even though it is big, fast-paced, and progressive for that is where God called me to attend, worship, and serve.
On this day I heard precious truths from three old-timey southern preachers. I thought at any moment I was going to lose it with their words. I thought the floodgates of my tear ducts were going to burst at any moment. When they played a recording of my brother in Christ singing a song of His love for the Lord, I caught myself fighting back the tears because I was too sophisticated to let it rip. One rogue tear did course down my right cheek in rebellion against my will. The crescendo was when my thoughts were directed toward Jesus’ persecution before the cross. As the cat of nine tails was tearing into His body, the pastor said, “I’m bleeding for you, they are ripping Me!”
Those words bulldozed all over my soul. I couldn’t get the images from Mel Gibson’s movie, The Passion, out of my head, even knowing that the scenes were a softer version of the brutal reality imposed on our Savior’s body. My eyes were filled and ready to spill, but I composed myself. What would the people think? They don’t know me, and I don’t know most of them, maybe a dozen on an occasional basis, struggling even to remember their names. In reality, these people wouldn’t have cared. Somebody would have said, “Bless ‘em, Lord” rather than wonder if I was under conviction.
My heart was broken by what they (we) had done to our
Lord. My sin your sin put Him there on the cross, but He was not a victim by any stretch of the imagination. He willingly chose to pay our sin debt by sustaining the torture leading up to the cross and being crucified at Calvary in order to satisfy the just demands of the Father for the penalty of man’s sin. Purely out of grace and mercy, God offers man a way of escape from damnation (Jn 3:18) by receiving the gift of salvation through faith in His Son (Jn 3:16; Eph 2:8-9).
Though this funeral was for a precious brother in the Lord, for me I think it also was an opportunity to leave my sophistication in the graveyard way out in the country. A sweet older lady told me recently that true tears are a sign of humility. Pride was at the root of this look of coldness or detachment though inwardly my heart was feeling the pain and joy. I was too collected or too reserved with my feelings. After all, I am supposed to have it all together, right? It was more than time to bury the testosterone-driven side of my masculinity, an expression of my military past.
A soldier is supposed to be tough, right? Yes, standing strong for the Lord and courageous in battle. But also, on the battlefield tears of compassion are the instruments of war to help the wounded. Weeping is not a weakness; it is strength and humility all bundled into one. Somehow, we think we need to be strong for others who are hurting by not shedding a tear as if words are in some way sufficient enough; they aren’t (cf. Rom 5:8; 1 Jn 4:10). Actions are stronger than words, and similarly genuine tears express things in a way words cannot. As powerful as words can be, tears last longer than words. I have long forgotten the words told to me but never the compassion when I was down. The strongest and humblest man I know wept publicly – Jesus. So should we; it’s part of being like Christ, a part of being human. I was reminded of that of all places at a funeral service. Unbeknownst to me, I had also come to bury my pride.
Eccl 3:1 To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven:
Eccl 3:4 A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
There is a time to quit hiding behind our sophistication and pride (education, profession, reputation, or position) and just let it rip! People might think we’re human after all and have a heart, God forbid…! The French call the ability to do the right thing in any given situation savoir-faire. Maybe, some of us are just too sophisticated for our own good and for the good of others; we might be in need of some spiritual savoir-faire and just let it rip, plucking that fancy plume right off of our self-righteous demeanor! <><
Though this funeral was for a precious brother in the Lord, for me I think it also was an opportunity to leave my sophistication in the graveyard way out in the country. A sweet older lady told me recently that true tears are a sign of humility. Pride was at the root of this look of coldness or detachment though inwardly my heart was feeling the pain and joy. I was too collected or too reserved with my feelings. After all, I am supposed to have it all together, right? It was more than time to bury the testosterone-driven side of my masculinity, an expression of my military past.
A soldier is supposed to be tough, right? Yes, standing strong for the Lord and courageous in battle. But also, on the battlefield tears of compassion are the instruments of war to help the wounded. Weeping is not a weakness; it is strength and humility all bundled into one. Somehow, we think we need to be strong for others who are hurting by not shedding a tear as if words are in some way sufficient enough; they aren’t (cf. Rom 5:8; 1 Jn 4:10). Actions are stronger than words, and similarly genuine tears express things in a way words cannot. As powerful as words can be, tears last longer than words. I have long forgotten the words told to me but never the compassion when I was down. The strongest and humblest man I know wept publicly – Jesus. So should we; it’s part of being like Christ, a part of being human. I was reminded of that of all places at a funeral service. Unbeknownst to me, I had also come to bury my pride.
Eccl 3:1 To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven:
Eccl 3:4 A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
There is a time to quit hiding behind our sophistication and pride (education, profession, reputation, or position) and just let it rip! People might think we’re human after all and have a heart, God forbid…! The French call the ability to do the right thing in any given situation savoir-faire. Maybe, some of us are just too sophisticated for our own good and for the good of others; we might be in need of some spiritual savoir-faire and just let it rip, plucking that fancy plume right off of our self-righteous demeanor! <><
%20MG%20t-bkgrd%2060x44%20png.png){kind=small}
%20Blk%20Camel%20for%20posts%20T-bkgrd%20right%2053%20x%2044%20png.png){kind=small}
1 http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/amex/macarthur/filmmore/reference/primary/macspeech05.html
