A Funeral Text [Easter 5A]

The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

John 14:1-14

A Funeral Text

Do not let your hearts be troubled. In my father’s house there are many dwelling places. I go to prepare a place for you…so that where I am, there you may be also. I’ve read, heard, pondered, proclaimed, and preached this gospel passage so many times I’ve lost count. This Gospel is now for me about grieving families and ashes under the funeral pall. It is about saying goodbye and holding desperately to hope. This Gospel is to me “funeral” every bit as much as 1 Corinthians 13 is weddings.

But this week, as I considered this Gospel, I could only think about one funeral: my grandpa’s funeral. His funeral was Friday – just two days ago – in Zanesville, OH. And my grandma asked me to officiate and preach. And so this time, this time I read and pondered this Gospel, sitting on planes and waiting in airports – traveling to bury my grandpa, and then returning back home to the loving support of my wife and kids.

My grandpa, Robert Williamson, loomed large over my life, in that way that ones’ forebears are supposed to loom large. In my childhood he felt like a mythic figure – a wise sage in sweatpants and slippers – both inviting and intimidating. As I came into adulthood, the myth gave way to a man – flawed but somehow just as great.

His impact on my life precedes my memories. He was the man who poured water on my head and welcomed me into the household of God at a small United Methodist Church on the banks of the Ohio river. He prayed for me to know and love Jesus. He was delighted at my interest in his library of Bible books. He listened to my questions and engaged me in conversations about God and life and things too mysterious to ever truly know. We sat together in his study, as pipe smoke filled the air like incense. I look back and it feels as holy as it was ordinary.

There comes a time in life, when look back is all one can do. And then you watch as the bloodline that was once laid out so far before you starts to fade, and you find that even as it fades before you it is growing behind your back. Families can be so complex and flawed but still there is an undeniable bond – formed by blood and by name. Our roots are grounded in a past that most often is both blessing and curse, that breeds embarrassment and pride.

Family. I carry my grandfather’s name. One day my boys will do the same. That was special to him; that is special to me. And yet, he my grandfather, Grandpa Williamson, was also the one who baptized that name away. He had to; there was something that meant so much more to him than the bloodline. He was the one who invited me into another family – a family more eternal than our last name. He welcomed me into the household of God; he took his baby grandson and called me his brother in Christ. Water is thicker than blood.

And that is what we were: brothers in Christ. It was a relationship than ran deeper than blood or name. We were born of the same waters – ancient waters upon which the Spirit danced before there was time. Both children of the same Heavenly Parent, both burst forth from the Divine Womb from which the Church has emerged since ancient days – prolific and yet ever fertile.

We were brothers in Christ, sustained by the same nourishment. We found our salvation renewed each time we shared in the cosmic meal of Christ’s Body and Blood. We have tasted the flood from his precious wounds and have found not only is it essential but also we have tasted that the Lord is good.

We were comforted by the same loving arms, held in the same tender bosom. We were committed to the same way; sought after the same Truth; found in Christ that same source of life.

And ultimately were even called to the same vocation – to be midwives in the service of God – those who pull newborn Christians from the water of Life. We were called to the same vocation – to be practitioners of the sacraments, purveyors of holy mysteries. We were called to the same vocation – telling Gospel stories, trying to make some kind of sense of our sacred texts. He a United Methodist pastor; me an Episcopal priest.

Do not let your hearts be troubled. In my father’s house there are many dwelling places. I go to prepare a place for you…so that where I am, there you may be also. I’ve read, heard, pondered, proclaimed, and preached this gospel passage so many times I’ve lost count. And it is always true. It speaks that truth into the valley of the shadow of death every single time.

Each of us, born in the waters of baptism, made brothers and sisters in the household of our Heavenly Parent, both those who have paved our way and those of us still walking, follow in the footsteps of the Risen Lord and his assurance: I am the Way and the Truth and the Life. Death stands before us like an impenetrable fog, a future into which we cannot see. It stands before us beckoning us to approach it alone – which is an undeniably terrifying thought. Only we are not alone; we are never alone. The one who has seen beyond the darkness, who has tasted death and yet is alive, takes our hand and walks us into the fog. Nothing, not even death, can separate us from Christ. And it is he who stands before us, today, tomorrow, and even at the moment of our death, as the Way, and the Truth, and the Life. Do not let your hearts be troubled.

This was not the sermon I intended to preach after looking over these Scripture lessons on Monday. But then Tuesday morning rattled me awake with my father’s mournful tears. Life and death rarely keep a tidy schedule. This Friday I buried my grandpa, the Rev. Robert Williamson – my brother and your brother. I wish you could have known him. Someday you will.