A Funeral On Good Friday It wasn’t going to be one of those died-peacefully-in-her-sleep-in-her-nineties funerals. It was the other kind. The sad kind. The why-did-God-allow-this-to-happen kind, the kind where the preacher doesn’t really have much to say… She was looking for an excuse not to attend the funeral. “She” wasn’t there, in the coffin. What it really was…was not wanting to sink into the sadness of it, to not have her heart sliced and have her eyes run…she didn’t want to avoid sadness, but better to be sad here and not-there, be sad, but sad-controlled, sad-in-private… ______ _________ She went. She wept. I saw her that evening and she gave me a gift of insight. “What better day to be buried than on Good Friday?” O my goodness! It never crossed my mind! The symbolism! We Christians, take our Bible and throw it before a den of unbelievers and let them shred it, shred it, yes, take away The Begats, let’s make it simple, take away the entire Old Testament, take away and take away and let us make our stand with John 3:16 and “It is finished!” and “On the third day He rose again” and angels saying, “why look for the living among the dead?” _____ _______ We can’t prove anything. We stand on Faith. We hold our souls at peril or in hope of heaven, for our Faith. At some point in all of our lives we have to cast our vote of Faith. We believe in nothing, or something else, but always something, whether we want to or not…as onward we go, living, living, days and years, living, and then it’s over, and death. At death we are as dependent as we were in life. We had no choice in being given a life, and now in death we have no choice in being given another life, especially eternal. ___ ____ If you are a Christian, what a fine and perfect day to be buried, than on Good Friday! As was He, as are thee. As He rose, so shall thee. He arose in three days. We may measure in tens of thousands of years. What matters is faith in His promise, “My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; no one will snatch them out of my hand. My Father, who has given them to me, is greater than all; no one can snatch them out of my Father’s hand. I and the Father are one.” I quoted this at my mother’s funeral. No one – not even death – can snatch them out of my Father’s hand. That’s a meal, there. It either Is or it ain’t. He either Was or he wasn’t. I believe. I vote my soul to the Mary Did You Know… _______ _______ This is an edition of Uncle P’s Bedtime Stories.
Posted on: Tue, 22 Apr 2014 13:45:25 +0000
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