Angered Mourning

There’s a funeral going on right now.  I’ve got my office door open and am listening to people remember a man who was deeply involved in the life of my church.  I couldn’t find a seat, there are so many people here.  So, my door is open and I’m listening.

This man killed himself.  I don’t know the details, and I’m not sure I want to.  I knew him enough that I’ve felt the oppressive sadness that comes with not being able to understand a suicide, not being able to reconcile that someone was so heavy hearted that he or she takes his own life rather than face whatever they are struggling with.

Needless to say, death has been on my mind these past days.  And not just Jim’s death, but the death of others as well.

My friend and classmate Ryan died two and a half years ago from overdosing on pills and alcohol.

My friend and classmate Chuck died just over two years after a short battle with cancer.

My friend and fellow seminary worker John died just under two years ago after a short battle with cancer.

My friend and classmate Dean died from a massive heart attack just 10 months ago, right after we graduated together.

This is the third person that is a part of my congregation that has died since I arrived 10 months ago.

The funny thing is, I can’t stop thinking about the weather.  After two full days of nonstop rain, its beautiful outside.  The sun is shining and warm on my back.  The clouds are big and puffy.  Trees are bursting with leaves and budding flowers.  The air smells of new life and spring and hope. 

It almost makes me angry that the weather is so nice.  Chuck’s funeral, which is one of the hardest things I’ve ever been a part of, was marked by intense rain.  It seemed fitting to be dripping wet, not a creature making a peep, everyone huddled under umbrellas as they made their way into the church.  Sunshine and warmth and spring?  Shouldn’t the world be weeping too?

I’m not angry at the weather.  I’m angry at the senselessness of these deaths.  Of cancer that eats away at your body until you can’t even stand anymore.  Of unexpected heart attacks that steal the heart’s constant pump.  Of the selfish act of taking one’s own life. 

This is when I feel least like a pastor.  I know all the correct lingo – “God’s promises were for him too!  We find comfort in that.”  But sometimes, in the darkest moments, when I sit alone on my couch crying, I don’t believe that at all.  All I can do is whisper, “Why?” and hope God hears me.

It’s been a difficult week. Pentecost Sunday is in two days and I helped plan the service.  It’s hard to plan a celebration of the blessing of the Spirit of God coming to dwell in our hearts when my heart feels so heavy, so angry, so oppressed by grief.

I picked our opening song with Ryan, Chuck, John, Dean, Chris, Margaret, and Jim in mind. Because sometimes comfort comes from unexpected places.  Like the loud sounds of a congregation singing the lyrics of an old familiar hymn.

Amid the thronging worshipers the Lord, our God, I bless;

before his people gathered here his name I will confess.

Come, praise him, all who fear the Lord, the children of his grace;

with reverence sound his glories forth and bow before his face.

The burden of the sorrowful the Lord will not despise;

he has not turned from those who mourn, he listens to their cries.

His goodness makes me join the throng where saints his praise proclaim,

and there will I fulfill my vows with those who fear his name.

He feeds the good the humble soul and satisfies the meek,

and they shall live and praise the Lord who for his mercy seek.

The ends of all the earth will hear, the nations seek the Lord;

they worship him, the King of kings, in earth and heaven adored.