Hidden Treasure
Sermon
Life Everlasting
The Essential Book of Funeral Resources
Object:
For someone who lived in fear
Hidden Treasure
Colossians 1:1-14
I was fifteen years old when my grandma died. I had lived most of those fifteen years with her. I went to live with her after my grandfather died when I was five. So she was more like a mother to me than a grandmother. She died after a thirty-month battle with cancer of the kidneys, and for her, as it was for Russ, the last months of her life were torturous. She was bedridden and in pain all the time. Each new day was renewed combat with the pain. She was miserable and so were all those of us who had to watch her suffer and die.
When she finally did die, it was universally acclaimed a blessing. Everyone was glad. Her suffering was ended. Her place in heaven filled, and a wearying burden lifted from the shoulders of the family. Everyone seemed relieved, even happy it was over. I, however, was grief stricken. Grandma was the most important person in my life and I couldn't imagine life with out her. And, being that I wasn't a Christian then, I also dreaded the thought that I had seen my grandma for the last time. I worried over what had become of her.
It was the first time I had really faced, and dealt with, death. At the funeral home, I refused to go to the casket. I didn't want to see my grandma that way. I didn't want to deal with the fact that she was dead. Finally, though, as our second night at the funeral home neared its end, I went up to the casket, alone. I stood there staring at my grandma's cold face, and began crying the tears I'd held for her for days. Years of loving her and being loved by her were at an end. All of the lessons that she had taught me, all of the ways she'd influenced me to be a better person, all the wisdom she had shared with me, all over and done. I just cried and cried.
I wondered through my tears, "Who would love me like Grandma had?" I wondered who would teach and guide me the way she had. I told her how much I would miss her and the tears got fatter and faster. Then came the thought I'd been trying so hard to keep away, the terrible thought that this was the end of my grandma and my relationship with her. And for the first time in my life, at least the first time I can remember, I said a prayer. I said, "Oh, God, don't let this be the end. Please let there be a heaven for my grandma." And just at that moment, as I was saying my prayer, my father came to the casket and put his arm around my shoulder and a memory from my childhood flooded over me.
When I was a kid, I'd been afraid of the dark. I lived with my grandmother then, and she would always put little lights in the room for me so I wasn't afraid. But then, one night when I was six, as Grandma was tucking me in, I noticed that the night-light was gone. "Grandma, what about my light?" I asked.
She informed me that there would be no light this night. It was time for me to learn not to be afraid of the dark. I was, as you can imagine, appalled that my grandma would do such a thing to me. I tried the sympathy angle. I said, "But, Grandma, I'm just a little boy. I'm supposed to be afraid of the dark." It didn't work. Grandma thought it best for me to conquer this fear. She knew a better life, a freer life, lay ahead for me if I did. She went to my closet, got out my big stuffed animal, Charlie the horse, and said, "You sleep with Charlie tonight. Hold him tight if you need to and I'll be in the next room if you need me."
I took Charlie and held him tight, but my grandma could see that I was still scared. So she leaned down and whispered in my ear words that I will never forget. She said, "Does Grandma love you?" I knew she did.
"Do you trust Grandma?" With my whole heart I did.
"Would Grandma let anything happen to you?" And I knew that she wouldn't let me alone in a place that was dangerous; the dark must be safe, it was okay. I slept fine that night. Darkness overcome!
That same feeling came over me standing beside the casket staring at my grandmother's body. Grandma had gone into the darkness, and in some ways I went with her, but now, somehow, I knew it would be okay for my grandma and for me. I heard a voice, with which I have since become familiar, say, "Don't you know I love her? Don't you know you can trust her to me? Don't you know I never let anything happen to my children?"
At that, my tears dried up and I turned to my father and said, "It's okay." And we strode away from the casket. They closed it for the last time just a couple of minutes later. That was the last time I saw my grandma.
Russ, ornery cuss of a guy that he was, was afraid of the dark, too. The last few months, as the darkness got deeper and deeper around him, we talked often of the things he feared.
"Sometimes," he said to me one day, "I have so much trouble believing. What if there is no God and no life after death? What if this is all there is?" Then he added, "Then I'll never get to see Joan again."
He was very much afraid of the darkness of death. It is one of the reasons he managed to live so much longer than most people with the cancer he had. He was holding on to the light of life with all his might because he so feared the darkness of death. But like me at six years old, he ultimately had no choice but to face it. The lights were being turned out on him and he had no control over it.
I remember a couple of weeks ago, a few days after the doctors had made it pretty clear to Russ that the chemotherapy no longer offered any hope of a cure and that he was going to die, probably soon. He said to me, "So, I guess this is it. I'm going to die now."
"I guess so, Russ."
He was quiet for a minute and then he said, "And no one will even miss me."
I thought he was going into one of his melodramas. You know how he could be so dramatic sometimes, but he wasn't. He went on, "Even Joanie. And you know I wouldn't even blame her. I've not always treated her as good as I should have."
He was confessing. "If I could do it over again I'd do a lot of things different."
Then he sprung this on me, "What if there is a God and what if I haven't lived a good enough life to go to heaven? I've not been too religious you know."
I said, "I know, Russ."
Then I told him that I believed with all my heart that there is a God and that God is more loving than is to be believed. I told him that when God looked at him, at Russ, he wouldn't see all the faults Russ had, or the mistakes he'd made in his life, but God would see past that to the beauty of the person inside. God would see the person who was saddened by his sins. The person who had such a tender heart for animals, and respected God's creation, and was so good to his mother-in-law, and beloved Joanie.
Russ broke in to my little sermon and asked, "Will you miss me?" His vulnerability caught me off guard, but in my heart I knew I would miss him. He had become my friend during this long ordeal of fighting his cancer. "I'll miss you, Russ. You know I will." And he reached out to me and hugged me.
I've been privileged, and I think that's the right word, to be with many people who were dying, but this was an unusually beautiful moment. And I couldn't let it pass without saying to him, "Russ, don't give up on the hope that this is not the end. God is real and his love is greater than death. He will raise up even the sinful likes of you and me. We will meet again."
I have a friend named Ron. Ron's business is junk. He spends countless hours traveling to rummage sales, garage sales, and flea markets. He loves nothing more than spending an afternoon sorting through someone's garbage. He is always looking for some hidden treasure. You should see his barn. He has bins full of old pieces of terribly tarnished jewelry. He has whole floors full of broken down, darkened furniture. The world's ugliest paintings take up one corner. Lamps and clocks reside in another. Junk to most people. Junk to me. But treasures to Ron, and the truly amazing thing is that this junk often turns out to be -- after Ron gives it some tender love and care -- exactly the treasure that he saw it to be when everyone else saw only junk.
He has turned awful looking furniture into sparkling showpieces. Dirty, discolored jewelry has been transformed into magnificent bracelets and necklaces. Shabby picture frames have become works of art in their own right. He is a master artist who sees the treasure in what others call junk, and is able to bring the beauty to the surface.
God is such an artist. And he will do for you and me, what Ron does for all that refuse in his barn. He will do for you and me what he has already done for Russ. He will clean away all the grime of selfishness, mend all the broken bits of character that we compromised in this life, polish away the tarnish of sin, and shine us up until we become the masterpieces he intended us to be when he made us in the first place.
Russ was afraid of what the moment of death held for him because he was afraid that God would take one look at him and say, "What junk. Toss this one on the garbage heap." But when he died, as the darkness finally fully engulfed him and we all stood around his bed with tears in our eyes, at that moment he was being filled with the transforming magic of the king. Russ may well be very much surprised today that he is not a piece of junk but one of the Master's prized possessions. And though there was a lot of grime on him, when next you see him, the grime will be gone; the demanding nature; the self-centeredness, polished away. And in its place, the fullness of the beauty God placed in him long ago. It is my hope today, that as you sit here and listen, it is my hope that you will hear the voice I heard as I stood by my grandmother's casket. The voice that said, "Don't you know I love her. Don't you know you can trust me? You know I never let anything happen to my children, and Russ was one of my children." Amen.
Hidden Treasure
Colossians 1:1-14
I was fifteen years old when my grandma died. I had lived most of those fifteen years with her. I went to live with her after my grandfather died when I was five. So she was more like a mother to me than a grandmother. She died after a thirty-month battle with cancer of the kidneys, and for her, as it was for Russ, the last months of her life were torturous. She was bedridden and in pain all the time. Each new day was renewed combat with the pain. She was miserable and so were all those of us who had to watch her suffer and die.
When she finally did die, it was universally acclaimed a blessing. Everyone was glad. Her suffering was ended. Her place in heaven filled, and a wearying burden lifted from the shoulders of the family. Everyone seemed relieved, even happy it was over. I, however, was grief stricken. Grandma was the most important person in my life and I couldn't imagine life with out her. And, being that I wasn't a Christian then, I also dreaded the thought that I had seen my grandma for the last time. I worried over what had become of her.
It was the first time I had really faced, and dealt with, death. At the funeral home, I refused to go to the casket. I didn't want to see my grandma that way. I didn't want to deal with the fact that she was dead. Finally, though, as our second night at the funeral home neared its end, I went up to the casket, alone. I stood there staring at my grandma's cold face, and began crying the tears I'd held for her for days. Years of loving her and being loved by her were at an end. All of the lessons that she had taught me, all of the ways she'd influenced me to be a better person, all the wisdom she had shared with me, all over and done. I just cried and cried.
I wondered through my tears, "Who would love me like Grandma had?" I wondered who would teach and guide me the way she had. I told her how much I would miss her and the tears got fatter and faster. Then came the thought I'd been trying so hard to keep away, the terrible thought that this was the end of my grandma and my relationship with her. And for the first time in my life, at least the first time I can remember, I said a prayer. I said, "Oh, God, don't let this be the end. Please let there be a heaven for my grandma." And just at that moment, as I was saying my prayer, my father came to the casket and put his arm around my shoulder and a memory from my childhood flooded over me.
When I was a kid, I'd been afraid of the dark. I lived with my grandmother then, and she would always put little lights in the room for me so I wasn't afraid. But then, one night when I was six, as Grandma was tucking me in, I noticed that the night-light was gone. "Grandma, what about my light?" I asked.
She informed me that there would be no light this night. It was time for me to learn not to be afraid of the dark. I was, as you can imagine, appalled that my grandma would do such a thing to me. I tried the sympathy angle. I said, "But, Grandma, I'm just a little boy. I'm supposed to be afraid of the dark." It didn't work. Grandma thought it best for me to conquer this fear. She knew a better life, a freer life, lay ahead for me if I did. She went to my closet, got out my big stuffed animal, Charlie the horse, and said, "You sleep with Charlie tonight. Hold him tight if you need to and I'll be in the next room if you need me."
I took Charlie and held him tight, but my grandma could see that I was still scared. So she leaned down and whispered in my ear words that I will never forget. She said, "Does Grandma love you?" I knew she did.
"Do you trust Grandma?" With my whole heart I did.
"Would Grandma let anything happen to you?" And I knew that she wouldn't let me alone in a place that was dangerous; the dark must be safe, it was okay. I slept fine that night. Darkness overcome!
That same feeling came over me standing beside the casket staring at my grandmother's body. Grandma had gone into the darkness, and in some ways I went with her, but now, somehow, I knew it would be okay for my grandma and for me. I heard a voice, with which I have since become familiar, say, "Don't you know I love her? Don't you know you can trust her to me? Don't you know I never let anything happen to my children?"
At that, my tears dried up and I turned to my father and said, "It's okay." And we strode away from the casket. They closed it for the last time just a couple of minutes later. That was the last time I saw my grandma.
Russ, ornery cuss of a guy that he was, was afraid of the dark, too. The last few months, as the darkness got deeper and deeper around him, we talked often of the things he feared.
"Sometimes," he said to me one day, "I have so much trouble believing. What if there is no God and no life after death? What if this is all there is?" Then he added, "Then I'll never get to see Joan again."
He was very much afraid of the darkness of death. It is one of the reasons he managed to live so much longer than most people with the cancer he had. He was holding on to the light of life with all his might because he so feared the darkness of death. But like me at six years old, he ultimately had no choice but to face it. The lights were being turned out on him and he had no control over it.
I remember a couple of weeks ago, a few days after the doctors had made it pretty clear to Russ that the chemotherapy no longer offered any hope of a cure and that he was going to die, probably soon. He said to me, "So, I guess this is it. I'm going to die now."
"I guess so, Russ."
He was quiet for a minute and then he said, "And no one will even miss me."
I thought he was going into one of his melodramas. You know how he could be so dramatic sometimes, but he wasn't. He went on, "Even Joanie. And you know I wouldn't even blame her. I've not always treated her as good as I should have."
He was confessing. "If I could do it over again I'd do a lot of things different."
Then he sprung this on me, "What if there is a God and what if I haven't lived a good enough life to go to heaven? I've not been too religious you know."
I said, "I know, Russ."
Then I told him that I believed with all my heart that there is a God and that God is more loving than is to be believed. I told him that when God looked at him, at Russ, he wouldn't see all the faults Russ had, or the mistakes he'd made in his life, but God would see past that to the beauty of the person inside. God would see the person who was saddened by his sins. The person who had such a tender heart for animals, and respected God's creation, and was so good to his mother-in-law, and beloved Joanie.
Russ broke in to my little sermon and asked, "Will you miss me?" His vulnerability caught me off guard, but in my heart I knew I would miss him. He had become my friend during this long ordeal of fighting his cancer. "I'll miss you, Russ. You know I will." And he reached out to me and hugged me.
I've been privileged, and I think that's the right word, to be with many people who were dying, but this was an unusually beautiful moment. And I couldn't let it pass without saying to him, "Russ, don't give up on the hope that this is not the end. God is real and his love is greater than death. He will raise up even the sinful likes of you and me. We will meet again."
I have a friend named Ron. Ron's business is junk. He spends countless hours traveling to rummage sales, garage sales, and flea markets. He loves nothing more than spending an afternoon sorting through someone's garbage. He is always looking for some hidden treasure. You should see his barn. He has bins full of old pieces of terribly tarnished jewelry. He has whole floors full of broken down, darkened furniture. The world's ugliest paintings take up one corner. Lamps and clocks reside in another. Junk to most people. Junk to me. But treasures to Ron, and the truly amazing thing is that this junk often turns out to be -- after Ron gives it some tender love and care -- exactly the treasure that he saw it to be when everyone else saw only junk.
He has turned awful looking furniture into sparkling showpieces. Dirty, discolored jewelry has been transformed into magnificent bracelets and necklaces. Shabby picture frames have become works of art in their own right. He is a master artist who sees the treasure in what others call junk, and is able to bring the beauty to the surface.
God is such an artist. And he will do for you and me, what Ron does for all that refuse in his barn. He will do for you and me what he has already done for Russ. He will clean away all the grime of selfishness, mend all the broken bits of character that we compromised in this life, polish away the tarnish of sin, and shine us up until we become the masterpieces he intended us to be when he made us in the first place.
Russ was afraid of what the moment of death held for him because he was afraid that God would take one look at him and say, "What junk. Toss this one on the garbage heap." But when he died, as the darkness finally fully engulfed him and we all stood around his bed with tears in our eyes, at that moment he was being filled with the transforming magic of the king. Russ may well be very much surprised today that he is not a piece of junk but one of the Master's prized possessions. And though there was a lot of grime on him, when next you see him, the grime will be gone; the demanding nature; the self-centeredness, polished away. And in its place, the fullness of the beauty God placed in him long ago. It is my hope today, that as you sit here and listen, it is my hope that you will hear the voice I heard as I stood by my grandmother's casket. The voice that said, "Don't you know I love her. Don't you know you can trust me? You know I never let anything happen to my children, and Russ was one of my children." Amen.
