Preaching text: Matthew 5:1-12
Valar morghulis. That’s a phrase that has
entered into semi-popular parlance thanks to GRRM’s Song of Ice and Fire series
of fantasy novels or (probably more accurately) from Game of Thrones, the HBO
TV production based on the same. Valar morghulis. It’s well known enough that
the spellcheck on my word processor knew how to spell it. It’s from a fictional
language, from High Valyrian, and is the catchphrase of the dark and sinister
group of assassins known as the Faceless Men. It means “All men must die.”
All men must die. Well, doesn’t that fit our
theme for today? Today is All-Saints Sunday, when we come around each year to
remember and honor those who have gone before us in the Christian faith. We
remember beloved family, friends, people who have impacted our lives and we
reflect on how much more empty our lives are now that they are gone. This is
hard day for many people. Some of you may remember a few years ago when I
preached this Sunday in the shadow of the unexpected death of a friend of mine.
I finished my sermon, said my Amen, sat down, and burst into tears. All men
must die, yes, but when it’s OUR men or OUR women or OUR people, it hurts. A
lot.
We don’t want them to go.
Today, I’m feeling a bit of ambivalence however.
I certainly share with you a sense of loss on this day. I remember my friend
Dan and my grandfather Bup and a whole slew of congregation members from every
church I’ve served. All of whom had an impact on me. All of whom I wish were
still here. But I think I have more of an Ash Wednesday perspective today and
I’m not sure what to do with it. Valar morghulis. All men must die. What does
it mean when I am the man?
Before you all panic, no, I am not making some
grand declaration of a terminal illness or anything like that. I know that’d be
an easy assumption to make after my stay at Memorial Hospital last week. But I
will say that the reason I went to the Hospital was because my name very nearly
appeared on today’s lists. I did go right to the edge. I very nearly died in
the ER on last Tuesday morning. I did not, obviously, but I’ve been processing
what that whole experience is supposed to mean ever since. Who wouldn’t?
What does it mean to die? We know many things
about that. We understand the physical process of death, of how the brain
starves of oxygen and its cells die. We understand very well the impact of
death on others. We’ve been there; that’s why we have this day on our church
calendar. We’ve all experienced the pain of the death of people we love. But
there’s something detached to these approaches. They’re either too clinical or
too external. What does it mean for us to die?
That’s a whole different animal. We don’t know.
And we will never know until it happens. Yes, we
have what our faith believes and teaches. We have God’s wonderful promises. But
there will always be that doubt, that lack of certitude in that reality. What
if God isn’t out there? What if he really is a fiction? What if he doesn’t
really love me? I’ve wrestled with those questions before. Most everyone of us
probably have. Doubt isn’t the absence of faith, it’s part of it and wrestling
with doubt is how we grow.
But I’m going to confess to you something. When
the moment came for me, when I was lying there in the ER with half the staff in
the hospital working on me, when my BP was 40/20 and my heartrate was near 200
because there was so little blood left in me to pump, those questions were not
in my mind. It was what should have been the most terrifying moment of my life
and I felt no fear. A lot of pain, a lot of curiosity about what was going on,
but no fear.
Yeah, maybe it was because I didn’t know at the
time how close I was. But I’ll tell you something else. I’ve obviously learned
since how close I was but the questions still haven’t come. The fear, the
doubt, it just isn’t there. I can’t explain why. I’m baffled as to why. But
maybe I shouldn’t be. Maybe there’s something to this God stuff after all.
That peace and calm cannot be coming from within
me. It has to be something outside. It has to be from firm conviction that I am
loved by the Almighty, that he is watching over me, and that he will (as he has
promised) take care of me NO MATTER WHAT. The promises are real. And I
understand that now not just on a head level (which is where I spend most of my
energy) and not even on a heart level, but deeper still. On a gut level, in my
soul of souls and bone of my bones.
God isn’t blowing smoke. We hear beautiful
passages like today’s Gospel, the Beatitudes from Matthew where God promises in
Christ to put all that is wrong in this world right. It sounds great, but is it
real? Yes, it is real. I know that now in a way I never did before. I’ve always
believed, always had faith; I was not up here BSing people in my sermons for
the past 15-20 years. But now, I believe it so much more than before. It’s hard
to put into words. I’m not sure human language is even remotely adequate to
convey what I’m trying to say.
But I can and will say this. All that God has
promised to me, he’s promised to all. And our loved ones, yours, mine, have
received those promises in their fullness. All for them has been put right. No
more illness. No more pain. No more sorrow or hurt. No more hate and anger. The
Beatitudes are not just words on paper; God’s promises are not just smoke and
fairy dust and false hope. This is our gift. This is the grace we have received
and will always receive from the one who loves each one of us beyond
expression. Your children, your parents, your spouses, your friends, all who
have gone before were loved in the same way. God has taken care of them. He has
welcomed them home. Just like he’ll do with us one day. Valar morghulis. All
men must die. But thanks to God through Christ, all too shall live. Amen.
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