Honoured today to have taken the memorial service for a remarkable gentleman whose life spanned many decades of change and whose friends and family remember him with genuine affection and honour. We were hosted kindly by a central London church - a Wren building I'd never been into before.
Writing my talk/sermon, I sat with the second reading chosen by the family - not one I've preached on before in any context...
There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven:
a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot,
a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build,
a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance,
a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain,
a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away,
a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak,
a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace.
Here's what I said (leaving out the gentleman's name) following on from the (very moving and beautifully put) eulogy delivered by a close relative...
"...it's true of all life, looked at a day at a time or a decade at a time: we realise that all of us live through experiences that can plunge us into the deepest darkness and at other times make days sparkle with the brightest of joy. We experience the pleasure of friendship as well as the ache of loneliness, trust alongside betrayal, times when we have felt sick to our stomachs with failure and others when we enjoy the giddy high of success...
It's that roller-coaster ride of life that the writer of Ecclesiastes picks up in the reading we've just had. He recognises that the life we lead - this time we spend "under heaven" - sweeps together the best and the worst: from war to peace, loss to gain, mourning as well as joyful dance.
And I want to suggest that the challenge he places before us is simply this - not to live life in compartments, but to recognise its wholeness before God.
It's a great survival mechanism, isn't it, to box off different areas of our life - family life, work, friendships of different types and depths. We can present ourselves slightly - sometimes radically - different in each one and bottle up emotions from one area that might spill over and damage another.
Hearing this passage, and remembering the book as a whole, I'm struck by the fact that the writer never winces at the thought that all this mess of life is lived before and, in fact, with God. This is no God just of high-days and holidays, of Sunday mornings at church, or Christmas in a Carol Service. The God he speaks of through his writings seems as interested in the darkness we walk through, at times in fear and confusion, as the light we enjoy.
And that's a pattern we see lived out in the life of Jesus: God made flesh - far from finding a pain-free well-insulated life of luxury, but walking the muddy paths and hungry days of a poor carpenter in first century Palestine - knowing deep friendships alongside heart-breaking betrayal; enjoying the sights and sounds of God's created world and weeping at the harshness of death and disease; experiencing the joy of seeing God at work, yet aware even of those times when God seems distance, even absent.
And in all of that, Jesus lived out a life stubbornly refusing to box things in - a life of wholeness before his Heavenly Father - knowing that God was not just interested, but utterly committed to walking with him through it all with a love stronger even than death itself.
As we remember today the richness of this particular long life, lived before the God who made and loves us, let's hear the challenge of the wise writer of Ecclesiastes to recognise the presence and love of God in Jesus, walking with us through the whole of live and hand-in-hand, even through death itself.




