Sermon: The Funeral of Marge H., widow of LCMS Pastor, Rev. H.
Dear family and
friends: Grace to you and peace from God our Father and from our Lord and
Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.
At a pastor’s
funeral, he is traditionally dressed in his alb and stole and he is buried with
the full rites of the church – if possible, at the congregation he served as a
servant of Christ. There is solemn pomp and circumstance as district officials
and pastors – also dressed in white albs and red stoles – accompany the casket
from altar to the graveside. It’s a reversal of the rite of ordination into the
office of the ministry from serving the church militant to joining the church
triumphant at rest, awaiting the resurrection he preached and taught to
Christ’s people.
But we don’t do that
for his wife. For a pastor’s wife, it’s different. It’s even more marked today.
Instead of being in the sanctuary among the people her husband served, we are
at the cemetery among the tombstones. A filled sanctuary is reduced to the two
dozen of us, and pews of white-and-red clad pastors are notedly absent. But
even if things were “normal,” the reality is that the church doesn’t do such
things for a pastor’s wife. It’s a sad commentary because the pastor’s wife
stands alongside her husband in so many ways that her service, too, should be
recognized in some way. And, if a pastor is honored for service in the
apostolic ministry, then the faithful pastor’s wife ought to be honored for her
service in fulfilling the role of both Mary and Martha.
But, if a pastor is
buried with his alb and stole, what should his wife be buried with?
If we needed a
symbol of her role as a Martha, I suppose we could use a church apron. A
pastor’s wife certainly knows something about service. Marge spent plenty of
time, over the years, helping make coffee, set out the pot luck dishes, iron
clerical shirts, take care of you, [daughter], while your dad was at a church
meeting, and managing the parsonage on a pastor’s salary. She joked that some
nights, as she fell asleep, she prayed, “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the
Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, that’s one less cake I
have to make.” Even after your dad passed, she still served: I watched her help
set up communion and get things ready for Sunday school. And you told me that
after she moved into the nursing home she still helped care for others as long
as she was able – “ever the pastor’s wife,” you said.
But, if we needed a
symbol for her as a Mary, we could use a footstool. A pastor’s wife knows what it is to sit down
at Jesus’ feet and hear His Words for her. Marge knew, believed, trusted and
relied that Jesus didn’t just die for the world, or for the congregation her
husband served, but specifically for her. A baptized child of God, she firmly
believed that Jesus died for her, forgave her, blessed her, and carried her
through those great and challenging moments in the valley of the shadow. I know
this because I heard her confess it Sunday after Sunday. Even as her memory
began to fail, even as names and places started slipping into the fog of lost memories,
she knew her Savior, and she knew Him by name: Jesus, the Good Shepherd, the
Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world.
Marge knew: there is
a time and a place for Martha-like service and there is a time and a place for
sitting quietly and listening like Mary.
There’s another time
in the Scriptures when Mary and Martha are mentioned. The sisters sent a
message to Jesus that Lazarus, their brother, was dying. The message, part
prayer, part demand, filled with expectation for a rapid response: “Come Lord
Jesus, come!” He didn’t hurry; Jesus didn’t hustle. In fact, John noted that
Jesus deliberately delayed. That delay cost Lazarus his life. When Martha saw
Jesus in the distance, she hurried out to greet Him: if He had only hurried, if
He had come when asked, Lazarus would not have died. But, she quickly added,
even in the face of death, “I know that whatever you ask of God, God will give.”
Her confession showed her faith rested solely in Jesus, not in her work, in her
service, in her best-of-intentions. Her sure and certain confidence in Christ
and the promises of God, even in the face of death, allowed her to say, “I know
that Lazarus will rise again in the resurrection at the last day.” Jesus, the
Lord of Life and death, answered with the words we know so well and, on days
like this, you hold dear, trusting in His promise for not only Lazarus, but for
our loved ones who die in the faith: “I am the resurrection and the life.
Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall live. And everyone who lives
and believes in me shall never die. Do you believe this?”
“Do you believe
this?” If you asked Marge that question twenty years ago, she could have
answered with Martha, “Yes, I believe you are the Christ, the Messiah, the Son
of God.” She could have said the Apostle’s Creed, that we believe in the
forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body and the life of the world to
come. She could have spoken of what it is to receive the body and blood of
Christ for the forgiveness of her sins, and she would have remembered the
resurrection promise of Christ for herself. She could have prayed the Lord’s
Prayer and the 23rd Psalm as she saw herself entering the valley of
the shadow of dementia and memory loss, knowing her Lord would never leave her
alone.
Over the last
fifteen years, Mary and Martha’s prayer of Jesus, “Come, Lord Jesus,” took on a
new meaning for you and for Marge. It was no longer just a table prayer, asking
the Lord’s presence during the meal, but a true request for His return to release
her from this veil of tears. As age and illness robbed her of the memory of those
words and confessions, Christ’s promises for Marge never changed. “I am the
resurrection and the life,” Jesus said. “Everyone who lives and believes in me
shall never die.” Faith rests in Christ,
not on our ability to explain it, to be alive and active. As surely as an
infant believes, by the power of the Holy Spirit, so also an elderly saint, by
the same Holy Spirit, clings to faith. And nothing, not even dementia, is able
to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. Christ has
destroyed death with His death; His empty Good Friday cross and open Easter
grave stands as visible promises of our own death-to-life story. Even if we
cannot remember because the knowledge is stripped from us, the power of the
empty cross and empty grave does not change. Baptized into Christ’s death and
resurrection, Marge has received the full adoption of God as His dearly beloved
child. God’s love for His children does not fade.
And, when Marge fell
asleep in Christ last week, I want you to know that she was not alone. Christ
Jesus was at her side attending Marge in her last moments. That evening, she
fell asleep in Christ, accompanied by the angels of God. Our Lord brought Marge
through this veil of tears, with all of its struggles and hardships and losses,
to her time of rest. “Well done, thou good and faithful servant. Enter into the
joy of the Lord.” Her time of service in the footsteps of Martha has ended;
it’s now time for rest along with Mary. Marge waits, with her husband – your
father – and with the saints of old, awaiting their own Lazarus moment when
Christ will return and with call “Marge, come forth.”
On that day, when
the trumpets sound and the dead in Christ are raised, Marge shall step forth,
body, mind and soul, whole and holy, strong and sound. And you shall see her
again. And, when you do, I have a good guess what she – a good Greek woman - will
say: Christos Aneste! Alethos, Aneste! It was her Easter cry, and on
that day of Resurrection I have no doubt she will speak it clearly and loudly.
And you, with all the saints, will join the eternal celebration. Christ is
risen. He is risen, indeed! We are risen. We are risen, indeed! Alleluia.
In the name of Jesus, our resurrected Savior. Amen.
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