Many of you have messaged me to ask for the funeral sermon for Joshua, the 6th grade boy in our community that we buried this weekend. He died of cancer. The sermon is by no means adequate. I can only pray by its inadequacy it testifies to how there is no ‘explanation’ to a child’s suffering apart from a suffering, incarnate God.
As the school choir planned to sing ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow” I chose Genesis 9 to pair with Matthew 18.1-6 for my texts. At a time when many grumble about public schools being antagonistic towards churches and when many lament the alienation between black and white communities, Josh’s tragic death proved the begrudgers woefully wrong on both counts. Both school and church partnered to shepherd Josh to the grave, and his funeral service proved that the name of Father, Son, and Spirt unites many of us in a way that transcends color or culture.
Two weeks ago tomorrow, when I first went to visit Josh in the hospital, Josh’s bed was decorated with sheets of printer paper scrawled in different colors with sharpie-written Jesus speak:
“Thy will done.”
“In my Father’s House are many rooms”
“Let the little children come…”
The faith papers were arranged around him like flowers. Josh had written them.
Joshua knew his bible. And why should he not know his bible backwards and front? Josh didn’t just enjoy music and video games and basketball; Josh wanted to be a pastor when he grew up too.
If I’d had more time with Joshua I might’ve tried to talk him out of being a pastor. After all, it’s not a gig that pays very well but, then, Josh is smarter than me and he already had a plan figured out for that wrinkle.
He thought Richard should go to med school, become a doctor, and that way Richard would earn plenty of money to support his little brother the pastor.
The truth is-
Josh already was a pastor. To you all.
Josh already was a pastor.
He played the peace-maker among his friends, with his siblings, and even to his parents.
Everyone’s takeaway attribute about Josh was his kindness and kindness, in the bible, is what St. Paul refers to as the fruit of God’s Spirit. So St. Paul would agree Josh was already a pastor.
Ever since he got sick last March Josh was the one who consoled his Mom and Dad. He’s the one who calmed their fears and worries. He’s the one who comforted them in their grief. He was their pastor.
And he was the one who gave me the words to pray over him that Sunday in the hospital.
That same Sunday some of Josh’s classmates from Stratford Landing were here at church for our sixth grade confirmation class.
They were learning about the Book of Genesis, at the very beginning of the Bible, and they were at the part in the story, just after the story of Noah, the part where God calls Abraham and makes his covenant-his promises- with Abraham.
I wish so much Joshua had been here at church that Sunday instead of in a hospital bed. I wish Josh had been a part of our confirmation class that day. Whenever I teach our confirmation lesson on Abraham, I act out the story with the kids.
“I need a volunteer for the lesson” I always say.
If Josh had been in the class that Sunday I’m sure I would’ve seen a kid wearing a Redskins jersey and sporting a sideways, wise-guy grin shoot his skinny arm up in the air to volunteer.
Joshua wasn’t self-conscious at all, after all, so I’m willing to bet his hand would’ve been the first to go up.
If Josh had been in the confirmation class that day, then I would’ve picked him out from all the other raised hands and called him forward so that he stood in front of me with the crowd of students around us.
And then I would’ve put my hands on his shoulders, and I’d set the scene for Abraham’s story. But before I did, I’d probably need to stop and look down to the boy standing there in my arms and I’d probably need to ask: ‘Wait, tell me your name again.’
And he would’ve said: ‘Josh.’
‘Josh,’ I would’ve said, ‘today you’re Abraham.’
And he probably would’ve shot me his sideways grin and said: ‘Cool.’
Then with my hands on his shoulders, I would’ve told the story of God calling Abraham to come near and look up at the stars in the night sky and to imagine that all of those stars in the sky every one of them was like a promise of God.
A promise that would come true for him.
With my hands on Josh’s shoulders I would’ve explained how those stars were signs of the all great things God wanted to do through him.
The next night, the night he died, I held Josh’s head and I rubbed his hair and, with my voice caught in my throat, I whispered a prayer: ‘Father, receive Josh into your Kingdom. Receive him, God, with the same love and joy we have for him.‘
That’s what I said, but really what I was praying was: ‘God make it not so.’
God make it not so.
And that’s been my prayer since that night.
Sylvester and Alice, Richard and Caleb and Elizabeth-
There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to bring Josh back.
And there’s nothing any one of us here wouldn’t do to make you whole again. And just because that sounds impossible doesn’t mean every last one of us won’t try.
Ever since I let go of Joshua in the hospital room, I’ve wanted to one-up Job. I’ve wanted to shake my fist at the sky. I’ve wanted to curse and shout at God.
Because it’s not fair. It’s not fair.
I think even Jesus Christ would agree that those may be the truest words we can speak in this sanctuary today.
I know I speak for everyone when I say I don’t want to be here. I don’t want any of us to need to be here. Because I want Josh to be here still.
I want his sideways smile and warm, wise guy grin to greet me on the Stratford Landing sidewalk.
I want his skinny arms to shoot basketballs on the playground with my son.
I want him to go to college and realize the potential God gave him.
I want to advance to the next level of Sonic and get old enough to play Mature Rated Xbox games.
I want him to sing at the Kennedy Center again, as a teenager, when he knows firsthand the romance in the love songs he could sing so well at 12.
I want Josh.
I don’t want to wade through questions that will never have answers.
I don’t want this grief that right now feels more real and nearer than our faith.
And I don’t want to celebrate memories.
Because there weren’t enough of them.
And there are too many dreams still remaining.
These last two weeks I’ve realized there’s not a lot of which I’m certain. I can’t answer the question: ‘Why?’
I don’t know why Josh is not here.
- I don’t know why God calls this creation “very good” yet so often it feels “very bad.”
- I don’t know why God can’t create a good world without cancer in it.
- I don’t know why the prayers of mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters and friends and teachers and neighbors go unanswered.
I can’t answer the why question.
And anyone who tells you they can answer the why question is a liar.
I can’t answer the why question, but I can tell you what is the wrong answer to the why questions.
God’s not the answer to the why questions.
Why did this happen to Josh?
Why did Josh get sick?
Why did Josh die?
I can’t answer those why questions, but I can tell you that God is not the correct answer to any of them.
Josh would know. Josh was a pastor. Josh knew his bible.
So you can bet that Josh knew the scripture passage Stephanie read today from Genesis 9. Josh could tell you that what’s important about the Noah story isn’t the when of the flood or the where it happened or the how of Noah getting all those animals inside the ark.
No, Pastor Josh could tell you what’s important about the Noah story isn’t the when, where, or how. What’s important about the Noah story is the who.
The Book of Genesis isn’t trying to teach us about an ancient flood; it’s trying to teach us about the heart of God. And from that heart God makes a promise to Noah and to all of us. “I will never bring hurt and harm to any of my creation,” God promises.
And Pastor Josh could explain to you that in the Church we call a promise like that from God “covenant.” That is, neither Noah nor any of us have to do anything in order for God to keep that promise.
“I will never hurt and harm any of my creation,” God promises, “and just in case you forget I’ll put a rainbow in the sky as a sign of my promise.”
When suffering and tragedy comes to you, let the rainbow help you remember, God says, I will never do anything to hurt you.
That’s the heart of God.
And Josh believed- enough to want to give his future to it- that that heart of God was revealed to us again and perfectly so in Jesus Christ.
That in Jesus we see that the heart of God responds to our lack of faith with Christmas. God doesn’t reject us; God comes among us in the flesh.
And in Jesus we see that the heart of God responds to our sin- to our cross-building- with Easter. God doesn’t punish us; God raises from the dead.
I can’t answer the why questions about Josh, but I can testify that God- the God Joshua loved- is the wrong answer to them.
Let the rainbows help you remember.
I can’t answer the why questions. But the one thing I do know, the one certainty I can lean on, the one question I can answer isn’t why, it’s: ‘Where? Where is Josh?’
The where question comes up several times in the Gospel stories. It happens more than once where the disciples interrupt to ask Jesus questions about heaven.
The disciples, like a lot of grown-ups, always want to worry themselves with questions about heaven, like: Who’s in? Who’s out? Except when it comes to heaven, the disciples just assume they’ll make the cut. After all, they’ve earned it.
The disciples don’t doubt they’ll make it to heaven, but they want Jesus to tell them their place in it. They want to hear Jesus tell them that one day they will sit closest to God’s throne.
They want to hear Jesus reassure them that of all the creatures in the world they are the most cherished.
“The disciples asked Jesus: Who is the greatest in the Kingdom?”
And Jesus responds-
Jesus responds by picking a child out of the crowd.
Matthew doesn’t say- maybe Jesus picked the child out at random.
Or maybe…maybe the little boy in the crowd was a boy who loved to participate. Maybe he was the sort of little boy who never tired of helping and who was everyone’s best friend. Maybe Jesus picked him out of the crowd because his skinny little arm was the first to go shooting up in the air when Jesus said: ‘I need a volunteer for the lesson.’
And I imagine the boy in that crowd he might’ve had a Redskins cap on top of his head.
Jesus calls on this little boy and calls him over.
And Jesus puts his hands on his shoulders. Matthew doesn’t say- but maybe Jesus starts to explain, starts to answer the disciples’ question, but then stops and asks for the little boy’s name.
‘Josh’ he says.
And then to all the grown-ups who think they have things figured out, to all the adults who think they have the answers to life, to all the disciples with their assumptions about heaven- Jesus tells those grown-ups that if they want to get into heaven, then they have to be like this little boy.
That if they want to know heaven they have to know this little boy. They’ve got to get to know this kid.
This kid who’s:
kind and innocent and consoling who always tells the truth and doesn’t have a mean bone in his body
so alive and curious it reminds you life is a gift
You’ve got to know this kid, Jesus says.
This kid who could make any parent seem like a great parent and who made you look forward to the kind of parent he would be one day.
This kid would could remind you why you wanted to be teacher in the first place.
And who could make every rotten day as a principal seem worth it.
You’ve got to know this kid, Jesus says.
If you want to get into heaven, Jesus says, if you want to know about heaven then you’ve got to get to know this little boy.
No, you’ve got to become just like him.
It’s going to be hard for me to read these Bible passages from Genesis 9 and Matthew 18 and not think of Josh in the future.
And on the one hand, that terrifies me.
And on the other hand, I think that’s the way it should be.
Because Josh was filled with a spirit that could’ve only come from Jesus Christ.
I can’t begin to answer why Josh isn’t here, but I do know where Josh is now.
I know because whenever anyone asks Jesus about heaven in the bible, Jesus responds by saying ‘You’ve got to know this kid.’
Whenever Jesus talks about heaven, he doesn’t say anything about billowy clouds or streets of gold. He never points to Peter and says: ‘You’re going to be manning the gates for eternity.’
No, he talks about kids:
“Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”
‘Let the little children come to me, for it is to such as these that the kingdom of heaven belongs.’
‘Let the little children come to me…Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.’
And then at the end of the Bible, St John paints a picture of a day when tears and sadness will be no more.
And at the end of that passage is a picture of God with children.
I can’t answer the why question. But I do know where Josh is now.
Somewhere else in the Gospels Jesus says the door to heaven is ‘small.’
But I think it’s small in the sense that its like 4 1/2 feet tall.
Because when the disciples ask about heaven, Jesus says it’s kids like Joshua who are the greatest in the Kingdom.
And there’s another time when they ask Jesus about heaven.
Jesus says heaven belongs to those who mourn.
Those who cry. Those who grieve. Those who ache. Those who wish it weren’t so.
And that may not be good news, but it does means we’ll see Josh again soon.