Providence and God’s Presence

Most days I’m oblivious to the fact that there is such a thing as 5:30 AM.  I’m not a morning person.  Never have been.  Never hope to be.  But a ringing phone will awaken even me at such an hour.

It was the police department.

One of our church members had died.

At 5:30 AM I have enough trouble finding my pants, much less finding God’s presence.  If I can’t find it, though, how will I hope to take it with me as I visit with the family?

I learned a long time ago in Clinical Pastoral Education that those of us in ministry tend to put too much pressure on ourselves to say and do the right thing in a time like this.  Reality is that there is no "right thing" to say or do.  What’s done cannot be undone and the grief and loss will not go away with a well-crafted sentence or two.  Often the simple fact of being there is more than enough.  We do not want to be alone in our grief.  That would heap pain on top of pain.

So I go.  At 5:30 AM I don’t think about taking my Bible with me.  I’m hoping I remembered to brush my teeth.  I’m hoping I can find the apartment in the dark.  My old eyes aren’t what they used to be and they are about half of what they presently are when it’s 5:30 AM and dark.

But now that it’s later in the day I’m reminded of a couple of things I’ve read recently that will help me today.  One came from reading Walter Brueggemann’s Finally Comes The Poet.  In it he mentions that as we look at the history of Israel in the Bible we often notice that, in the midst of their pain and despair, God comes to them nearly always after they have given words to their pain.  They have cried out for help.  In her slavery in Egypt Israel cries out and God says that he has heard the cry of his people, and before long Moses appears on the scene as God’s messenger to bring deliverance.  In smaller ways this scene is repeated time and again as God’s people cry out for help, give voice to their pain, and God hears.

And so this morning we sat around and gave voice to the pain.  There will be many more words and sentences and paragraphs spoken and unspoken that will give voice to the pain in the days and weeks ahead.  Barbara was loved by the children in our church.  She had worked with them in Sunday School and VBS for years upon years.  Many of the children she taught are not children any longer.  Some of them had grown up to work alongside her with succeeding generations.  We will tell our own children today after they get out of school and we expect that they will struggle with what it means and how to voice their own pain.

The second thing I read is the reading from the Psalms in the Book of Common Prayer that is given for this coming Sunday: Psalm 139.

As we struggle with Barbara’s absence and in the midst of it try to find God’s presence it seems Providential that Psalm 139 begs us to read it this week.  And to speak it as our own.  Even today.  Especially today.

Where shall I go from your Spirit?
Or where shall I flee from your presence?
If I ascend to heaven, you are there!
If I make my bed in Sheol, you are there!
If I take the wings of the morning
and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,
even there your hand shall lead me,
and your right hand shall hold me.
If I say, "Surely the darkness shall cover me,
and the light about me be night,"
even the darkness is not dark to you;
the night is bright as the day,
for darkness is as light with you.

Even so, Lord, be present with us today.
Amen.

Kennedy On Death

Most of you will know by now that Dr. D. James Kennedy died last week.  Kennedy made a huge impact on the church in North America.  I often thought he focused too much on warring with the culture in his latter years, but there’s no doubt that he was a strong voice of faith in this country.  I liked listening to him because he seemed so learned in such a broad range of subjects, and he told great stories.  Here’s what he had to say about his own death:

“Now, I know that someday I am going to come to what some people will
say is the end of this life. They will probably put me in a box and
roll me right down here in front of the church, and some people will
gather around, and a few people will cry. But I have told them not to
do that because I don’t want them to cry. I want them to begin the
service with the Doxology and end with the Hallelujah chorus, because I
am not going to be there, and I am not going to be dead. I will be more
alive than I have ever been in my life, and I will be looking down upon
you poor people who are still in the land of dying and have not yet
joined me in the land of the living. And I will be alive forevermore,
in greater health and vitality and joy than ever, ever, I or anyone has
known before.”

We do not grieve like those who have no hope.

[HT: Ed Stetzer]