The pain of separation

I am in the middle of a tough day.  Fairly early this morning I received a phone call informing me that D., a church member to whom I felt very close, had died.  Though his death was not unexpected, it has still come as a blow.  It is sad to think that one of my final duties as a minister in Doncaster will be to take D.’s funeral service.  He was very well loved and respected, and I am sure that his funeral will be attended by a good number of people.  In one sense it will be an honour to conduct the service, but I know that I won’t find it easy.

Some of my fellow clergy like to try and put on a ‘mask of invincibility’, and pretend that they are not affected by the ups and downs of life like ordinary people.  I have to tell you it’s a sham.  Church leaders really are human!  We get hurt by unjust criticism, we get tired, fed up or even depressed sometimes, we feel the whole range of human emotions like everyone else.  Although I am very much looking forward to the challenges and opportunities which lie ahead of us when we move to Leicester, I am already beginning to feel the emotional strain of getting ready to leave behind some very close friends here in Doncaster.  And it’s even harder when a close friend dies - somehow the parting seems to be so much more permanent.

Following the death in 1910 of King Edward VII, Henry Scott Holland preached a sermon which included his famous poem, “Death is Nothing at all”.

Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference into your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity. What is this death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner. All is well. Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost. One brief moment and all will be as it was before. How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!

So was he right?  In one sense, absolutely not.  The death of a loved one is immensely painful - it doesn't feel like "nothing at all".  I’ve only got to know D. over the past 12 years, but as I sit typing these thoughts I feel something of the very real pain of parting from a good friend, knowing that I will never see him again in this earthly life.  D. will be greatly missed by me and by many people – he will leave an enormous gap in the lives of his family and friends.

And yet, at the same time Henry Scott Holland was right.  Jesus died and rose again – he overcame death, and promises eternal life to all who put their trust in him.  For the person whose trust is in Jesus, death is not something to be feared, it is the doorway to a perfect life in the very presence of God!  I know that my friend D. is with Jesus right now; he is free from the pain, sorrow and suffering of this earthly life.  I know that one day I will see him again, and I rejoice in that.   But he is not here right now, and that hurts; I guess that the pain of separation is part of being human.  Jesus himself wept at the grave of a friend; thank God he understands our pain, and is with us in it.