“Faith in the Face of Death . . . and Life”
Original sermon given on All Saints Day, November 3, 2024, written and delivered by Pastor Jeff Leininger at First Saint Paul’s Lutheran Church.
Watch the sermon live.
“Faith in the Face of Death . . . and Life”
John 11.32-44
John 11.32-44
In the name of the Living God and the One who is the Resurrection and the life.
Oh come, come with me, to the old church-yard.
I well know the path thro’ the soft green sward;
Friends slumber there, we are known to regard,
And we’ll trace-out their names, in the old church-yard.
This old baptist hymn, though not in our Lutheran hymnals, evokes imagery appropriate for today. On All Saints we remember, with thanksgiving, the faithful who have gone before us, whose souls rest with Christ and who await the final resurrection. In a sense, what we do today is “trace-out” their names — in memory, in prayer, in song, and perhaps even literally. Some of us today might actually go to an “old church yard” — a cemetery such as our own Wunder’s — and spend some time near the earthly remains of dear ones who “slumber there.”
How do you feel about cemeteries? Scary? Peaceful? To they bring about a nostalgic sense of history? Are they still too sad, difficult, or painful when you visit the grave of a loved one? For me, I can trace different reactions depending on my season in life. When I was a young boy, I regarded them as creepy — no chance you’d get me to walk through one at night! (My brothers and I would play the “dare” game: would you walk through one, alone, at midnight, on Halloween???)
I have to say that now, I find them rather peaceful (quiet neighbors, as they say). When I walk through our cemetery, Wunder’s, for example, it’s quiet, beautiful. I’m given a sense of history and a momentary pause amid this frantic and frenetic life: “Peace in the heart of the city,” the Wunder’s website says.
A prayer for the evening service of compline, written by cardinal John Henry Newman, comes to mind. We’ve sung it several times at memorial services here, in a beautiful setting by the sainted Carl Schalk:
“O Lord, support us all the day long till the shadows lengthen and the evening comes and the busy world is hushed and the fever of life is over and our work is done...”[1]
The “busy world is hushed” and the “fever of life” cools for a moment when you take a quite walk through an “old church yard” — even in the heart of Wrigleyville.
But there’s also another reaction you might have at a cemetery, especially in an older season of life. We are undoubtably face to face with our own mortality. This sober thought which becomes more real the older we get and as more people we know personally have died. For some of us, when we visit the grave marker of a spouse, we even see our own name on the headstone next to theirs, our final date, yet to be etched. It is a physical reminder that this will be our earthly end too. The medieval Christian world had a name for this: Momento Mori — the reminder of death, of mortality. A whole artistic, musical, and literary genre developed for this single purpose: to prepare people for the inevitable.
It reminds me of the dramatic scene in Shakespeare’s Hamlet. You might remember it, as it’s one of the most famous Shakespearian images. Hamlet visits an old church graveyard, and after bantering a bit with the grave digger, takes up in his hand the skull of his old jester, who once entertained him in his youth:
Alas, Poor Yorich! I knew him, Horatio… Where be your gibes now? Your gambols? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment that were won’t to set the table on a roar? (Hamlet, Act V, Scene i)
Cemeteries are communal Momento Mori — reminders of death—And we all need that reminder. How does the Psalmist put it? “Teach me to number my days, that I may gain a heart of wisdom.” (Psalm 90.12)
Jesus visits a burial ground at Bethany outside of Jerusalem in John 11. In many ways the ancient burial places of the Jews were very different than ours. They were outside the city or town, not in the heart of it. They were cave-like structures carved into the rocks, rather than graves dug into rich midwestern soil. Large stones sealed the tombs, both to keep the grave robbers out and to keep the stench of decomposition in. The process was also rather hurried, because of the OT burial laws, the lack of embalming techniques, and the lack of refrigeration. Lazarus is four days dead, we’re told, and the whole job is already done.
But in the most important ways, these burial grounds were just like ours. The emotions arising from the tragic death of this young man, Lazarus, no doubt resonate with us. Many come to Bethany from all around to offer comfort. The largest questions are raised: “Where was God? Why didn’t Jesus intervene to prevent this sadness?” There is deep love accompanied also by deep sadness.
Even Jesus himself displays great emotion. In fact, this scene gives us the most dramatic look into Jesus’ own heart in all of scripture. “He was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved” (John 11.33). The Lord is churned up about this. Even angry at what death has wrought — because he knows this wasn’t the way it was supposed to be, in the beginning. He’s unsettled, conflicted, all stirred up on the inside. We can all relate to that, can’t we? Jesus even weeps with them — in the shortest passage in the Bible — even though he knows what will happen in the end and how it will turn out for Lazarus — he weeps with them. (John 11.35).
But the most important thing about this account is also the most important thing about a Christian cemetery, which is the most important thing about our observation of All Saints. Most importantly, these are all to be ultimately a reminder of life, not of death. Momento Vitae, we might say, instead of Memento Mori. While we acknowledge death and recognize that it is a consequence of sin; while we ask the tough questions of God and feel the full range of emotions; while we grieve and long for our loved ones; in the end, we know that Christ our Lord has conquered death, and that eternal life with him awaits all who believe and our baptized into his name. Death has met its own death, and through Christ. In the face of Christ, death has met its own Momento Mori.
Mary and Martha are confronted by death in today’s gospel reading. But even more, they are confronted by life. The resurrection and the life — Jesus himself. He makes the boldest claim: “Whoever believes in me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die” (John 11.25). He does the boldest miracle: by the power of his word, calls forth a dead man from the grave. He begins here the boldest act of salvation: he will go all the way to death and hell in his crucifixion but will step forth three days later as proof he is the Resurrection and the Life. As much as we are confronted by death today, we are confronted by life: do we believe that he is who he says he is, and that in him is true life — now, today, whatever might come, and even unto eternity? To say, “Yes, Lord, I believe,” is to have faith, not just in the face of death, but also in the face of life.
In a few minutes, we will trace-out, so to speak, the names of the faithful departed. We will remember. We will grieve. We will love. We may even ask the toughest questions of God. But in the end, we will rejoice. The Jesus who loves us, loves them, and holds their souls in his arms until the final resurrection, when we will be united with them, forever. This Jesus came to earth for us all, went to the cross for us all, conquered death for us all, and will return one day in glory.
And so, we can also sing in the words of the old gospel hymn until our names are read aloud one day:
Oh, weep not for me, I am anxious to go
To that haven of rest where tears never flow;
I fear not to enter that dark lonely ward;
For soon shall I rise from the old church-yard.
Come soon Lord Jesus. Amen.
[1] Lutheran Service Book, 257