Words We No Longer Avoid: Grief ~ Matthew 10:29-31

 

There are some words we would rather avoid. Not because they are bad words. But because they frighten us. Because they hurt and ache. Grief is one of those words. We are often remarkably good at talking about healing, resilience, recovery, and moving forward. We know how to celebrate victories and milestones. We know how to encourage one another to find the silver lining. But grief? Grief makes us uncomfortable. Often, we treat grief like an interruption—something we need to get through so that we can return to normal life.

But Scripture refuses to treat grief as an interruption. The Bible is not simply a book of victory and celebration. It is a book filled with stories of lament. Israel worshipped with its grief. Hannah prayed her grief. Job wrestled with his grief. Jeremiah wept through his grief. Even the son of God was called “a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief.” And even after the resurrection, Jesus still carried his wounds.

The Bible does not imagine a faithful life without grief because it does not imagine a faithful life without love. Because grief is not the problem. Grief is what love looks like after something precious has been lost. The great poet Mary Oliver once wrote, “To live in this world you must be able to love what is mortal.” And that is the great risk of being human. Every child we love. Every parent. Every spouse. Every friend. Every animal who becomes part of our family. Every ordinary moment that becomes precious because it cannot happen again. To love what is mortal is to accept that grief will one day come knocking. But we love anyway. Because love is worth the risk. Grief is the testimony that love mattered.

C.S. Lewis, writing after the death of his wife, described this vulnerability of love: “To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken.” And he was right. The only way to avoid grief completely is to avoid love completely. But avoiding love is not the way of Jesus. So listen to Jesus – who loved God and suffered terrible grief. Or maybe, listen! Jesus loved God and suffered terrible grief.

In Matthew 10, Jesus speaks words about God, love, and grief.

He says: “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. And even the hairs of your head are all counted. So do not be afraid; you are of more value than many sparrows.”

Most of us have heard these words. God sees you. God knows you. God cares about you. And that is true. But I think Jesus is saying something even deeper. Because notice where these words appear. Jesus is not speaking to people having a peaceful afternoon picnic. He is speaking to disciples he is sending into a dangerous world. He tells them they will be rejected. They will be hated. They will be dragged before authorities. Families will turn against them. Some will suffer. Some will die. These are not sentimental words spoken to people who have never experienced pain. These are words spoken to frightened people. And Jesus does not promise them, “You will never suffer I” because love suffers. Instead, Jesus promises: “You will never suffer alone.”

There are three things Jesus wants us to know about grief.

First, Jesus tells the truth about the falling. The Greek word Matthew uses for "fall" is piptō. It means to fall, collapse, or perish. It is not a gentle word. It is the language of things breaking. Things coming undone. Jesus does not pretend that beautiful things do not fall. Bodies fail. Relationships break. Dreams collapse. People we love die. Jesus does not give us a faith that requires us to pretend these things are not painful. The Bible gives us permission to talk honestly about the falling. To ask questions. To cry. To rage. To lament. Christian faith is not the denial of suffering. It is a faith that can always tell the truth and still believe that suffering does not have the final word.

Second, Jesus tells us that God notices what the world overlooks. And this is where Jesus' image is a bit silly. He chooses sparrows. Not eagles. Not majestic creatures. Sparrows. The Greek word is strouthia—a tiny bird. Something ordinary. Something cheap. In Luke's version of this saying, Jesus says that five sparrows are sold for two pennies (In Matthew, it’s two sparrows for one). In other words, the fifth sparrow is thrown in for free. That is how little value the marketplace placed on these creatures. But Jesus says: “Not one of them falls apart from your Father.” The world says “disposable.” God says “beloved.” The world says “insignificant.” God says “noticed.” Listen to Jesus! There is no such thing as an insignificant grief to God. You do not have to say: “Other people have suffered more.” Perhaps they have. But your grief is still real. You do not have to say: “It was only a pet.” You do not have to apologize because you are still sad. You do not have to hurry yourself toward closure. If God notices a sparrow sold for pennies, then God certainly notices and honors the ache in your heart.

And then Jesus says something almost astonishing: “Even the hairs of your head are all counted.” It’s such an absurd and extravagant image. Jesus is not describing a distant God who vaguely cares about humanity. Jesus is describing a God who knows you intimately. A God whose attention is not general. It is particular. God does not simply love humanity. God loves you.

But there is one final thing Jesus wants us to understand. And I believe it is the most astonishing thing of all. God does more than notice the falling. God enters the falling. Jesus says: “Not one of them will fall apart from your Father.”

That phrase is easy to miss. Many translations add the word “care”—that nothing happens without God's care. And certainly that is true. But the Greek is even more provocative. Jesus does not say that God causes the fall. He does not say that God wants the fall. He does not say that God stands above the fall and explains why it had to happen. He says that nothing “falls apart from your Father.” Nothing is abandoned. Nothing is forgotten. Nothing is separated from the presence and love of God. What if Jesus is telling us that even in the falling, God is there?

What if God does not merely watch the sparrow fall? What if God falls with the sparrow? Not because God causes the suffering. Not because God delights in our pain. But because love refuses to remain distant from the beloved. This is what we mean when we call Jesus Emmanuel—God with us. Emmanuel isn’t only the name of God becoming present in one moment of history. Emmanuel reveals who God has always been. The God who refuses to be apart. The God who enters every place we enter. Even the places we fear most. Even grief. Even death.

The cross is where Christians discover who God truly is. It overturns every picture of God as a distant ruler watching suffering from a safe place. In Jesus, God does not stand above our wounds. God enters them. In Jesus, God does not explain suffering from a distance. God shares it. The cross tells us that there is no place of human abandonment where God has not already gone ahead of us. There is no place where we can fall that Christ has not already entered. God would rather die with us than remain safely above us. That, my friends, who God is.

And that means that even in our deepest grief, we are never in a godless place. Christ has already filled even death with his presence. This is why Jesus weeps at Lazarus' tomb. Think about that moment. Jesus knows resurrection is coming. Jesus knows the tomb will not have the final word. If anyone could have skipped the tears, surely it would have been Jesus. But when Jesus arrives at the grave of his friend, Scripture says simply: “Jesus wept.” Why? Because love grieves. Hope does not eliminate tears. Hope makes room for them. God is revealed most clearly not in power that controls everything from a distance, but in love that enters everything with us. The boldest Christian claim about God is not that God explains suffering. It is that God shares it – truly, utterly, definitively.

And remarkably, much of what we are learning from grief research points us in the same direction. For many years, psychologists believed healthy grieving meant detaching from the person who had died. The goal was to move on, find closure, and return to normal. But many grief researchers today recognize that healthy grief often looks different. Healthy grief needs a “with.”

Healthy grief is not forgetting. It is not leaving someone behind. It is learning how to carry love in a new way. Researchers describe this as “continuing bonds.” We continue to love those we have lost. We remember them. We tell their stories. We carry pieces of them forward.

Neuroscientist Mary-Frances O'Connor describes grief as the brain learning a world that no longer matches the map of what love should be. That is why grief can feel so disorienting. You still reach for the phone. You still expect to hear their voice. You still think, “I need to tell Mom this.” You still turn to share a joke with someone who is no longer sitting beside you. Grief is not a failure. It is love trying to make connections in a world that seems “apart.”

And this is why Paul does not tell Christians not to grieve. He says: “We do not grieve as those without hope.” Notice what he does not say. He does not say we do not grieve. He says we do not grieve without hope. Christian hope does not erase grief. It gives grief a future. The goal of healing is not to stop loving. The goal is to learn how to love in the presence of loss.

And Scripture, psychology, and centuries of Christian wisdom all point us toward practices that help us do this.

·       Tell stories. Speak the names of those you love. Memory is not an obstacle to healing. Often, memory is part of healing. You can even talk to the dead. Christianity is a religion where we believe the dead truly aren’t – dead.

·       Accept that grief comes in waves. A song. A smell. A birthday. An anniversary. A familiar place. All of these things can bring grief rushing back. That does not mean you are failing. It means you loved deeply and that love always refuses to remain “apart.”

·       Stay connected to community. Grief convinces us that we are alone. But one of the great lies of suffering is that we must carry it by ourselves. The church exists because God never intended us to grieve alone. We gather. We pray. We share meals. We tell stories. We light candles. We break bread. We remember.

·       Create rituals. Ritual gives love somewhere to go. That is why Christians have always gathered around tables and waters and graves. Every Eucharist is an act of holy remembrance. Every baptism is a declaration of dying and that death does not have the final word. Every funeral is a community saying: “This person mattered.” “This love mattered.” “This life mattered.” Rituals do something very important. They “incarnate” our thoughts and feelings. They embody them.

·       Practice compassion toward yourself. There is no single right way to grieve. Some days you may cry. Some days you may laugh. Some days you may feel numb. Some days you may feel grateful. All of these things can belong and you can always be honest. Grief is not a straight line. It is love learning a new shape.

And perhaps this is why the risen Christ still carries scars. Resurrection did not erase Jesus’ scars. Love had no need to erase them. The scars are not evidence that resurrection failed. They are evidence that love remembers. The wounds tell the story of what God was willing to enter. And one day, Scripture tells us, God will wipe away every tear from our eyes.

Notice what God does not say. God does not say: “There was never any reason to cry.” God honors every tear before removing it. Because every tear matters. And every love matters. Death remains the last enemy. But love has already won the decisive battle.

So perhaps our calling is simple. Become people who make room for grief. Stop trying to fix each other's sorrow. Stop rushing people toward closure. Stop treating grief as something embarrassing or inconvenient. Sit beside Lazarus’s tomb with Jesus. Weep with those who weep. Remember together. Hope together. Love together. Because no sparrow falls outside the Father's embrace.

Not Lazarus. Not your mother. Not your child. Not your spouse. Not your friend. Not you. The Father still falls with every little thing.  And because Christ has entered death and come out the other side, we dare to believe: Grief is not the end of love. Grief is love's testimony. It is love refusing to remain apart. Amen.

 Friends, Jesus did not promise that sparrows would never fall. He promised they would never fall alone. He still makes that promise. Today we make room for grief—not to solve it, but to carry it together. You were each given a paper sparrow when you entered worship today (if not, you can find them at the back). I Invite you to take a moment to consider what grief you carry and to write it on the paper sparrow. When Harris begins to sing Love Came Down, you are invited to come and place your sparrow on the altar-table as a way to acknowledge your grief and the ever-present falling love of God.

[NOTE TO SELF: When the song finishes, leave a full minute of silence.]

Finish with this prayer:

 

 

 

God of every sparrow,

You know every name written here.

Every story.

Every wound.

Every absence.

Every love that still lives in our hearts.

Teach us not to run from grief,
but to discover you already waiting there – always willing to break our fall.

Until resurrection has the final word,
make us a people who remember well,
love faithfully,
weep honestly,
and hope stubbornly.

Through Christ,
who still bears scars, Amen.

 

 

Words We No Longer Avoid: Sex ~ Genesis 1:26-28, 31; 2:18-25

 

The Texas singer/songwriter Butch Hancock once made a joke that most people in church can get. He said, “In Lubbock, we grew up with two main things: God loves you and he's gonna send you to hell, and that sex is bad and dirty and nasty and awful and you should save it for the one you love.” There are certain words that, when spoken in church, make everyone a little nervous – even confused. And Butch Hancock is right. Sex is certainly one of those words. So perhaps it’s good to laugh a little as we begin.

I imagine that some of you have been waiting for this conversation with anticipation. Others have been dreading it all week. Some of you are wondering what I’m about to say and if you should take your kids out of the service right now. And you can – no judgment – but I’m hoping not. The truth is, Christians have become remarkably uncomfortable talking about what God was apparently comfortable creating. And that “uncomfortableness” been more than unfortunate. It’s been destructive and disastrous. The “purity culture” of 1990s and early 2000s evangelicalism was trauma-inducing and damaging to so many.

They learned about sex not through joy, but through fear. Not through wonder, but through warning. Not through delight, but through shame. The first messages they heard from the church about sex sounded nothing like the joy and shamelessness of Genesis but something like this: No. Wait. Resist. Avoid. Shame.

Now, hear me clearly. There’s wisdom in caution. Sex has enormous power. It can bring tremendous enjoyment, but it can also leave deep wounds. The church has always been right to say that what we do with our bodies matters. But somewhere along the way, we forgot to say something equally important. We forgot to tell people that bodies are very good. That desire itself is not dirty. That sexuality is not God's embarrassment. It is God's gift, which means that our sexuality and our spirituality are deeply connected.

The Bible doesn’t begin with sexual sin. It begins with sexual blessing. Genesis doesn't begin with a list of rules about sex. It begins with God celebrating: “God saw everything that he had made, and indeed, it was very good.” “Very good.” Not merely our souls. Our bodies. Our laughter. Our skin. Our capacity to embrace another human being. Our ability to delight in beauty. Our longing to belong. All of it. Very good.

The theologian, Marva Dawn, reading Genesis, makes a distinction that I have found incredibly freeing in this discussion. She says that part of the challenge is that we've confused sexuality with having sex. Those are not the same thing. Sexuality is much bigger. It’s the image-bearing longing God places within every human being to move beyond isolation toward communion. It’s the desire to know and to be known. To love and be loved. To give ourselves away. To belong. That's why Genesis says, “It is not good that the human [the adam in Hebrew] should be alone.” (Gen. 2:18) Notice what God calls “not good.” Not desire. Not the body. Loneliness is the first thing in Scripture declared “not good.” Because we were made in the image of a God who is eternal communion—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit – giving love and receiving love. We were made to belong to one another.

We bear that image of togetherness. Which means every one of us, whether married or single, young or old, experiences this holy longing to connect. That's sexuality. You see it in parents who cuddle their children. You see it in lifelong friends around a dinner table laughing until they cry. You see it in artists losing themselves in creating something beautiful. You see it in neighbors clearing fallen trees after a storm because they simply want to help. That's sexuality. It's the eros-energy of moving outward. Jesus himself was never married. Yet no one was more fully human. No one loved more deeply. No one connected more fully. Jesus was fully alive because he embodied a healthy sexuality– and that didn’t necessarily require sex.

Now, having sex is one beautiful expression of that larger reality. But notice the order. Genesis gives us relationship before it gives us intercourse - connection before consummation. Why? Because God isn't interested in bodies using one another. God desires persons giving themselves to one another – feely and without fear. We were made for faithful love.

Yet, rather than talking about the goodness and joy of faithful love, the church became famous for often fearfully talking about sex. But Jesus hardly did. Think about that. Jesus rarely talked about sex. But he talked constantly about love. About faithfulness. About mercy. About seeing people instead of using them. Maybe that's because Jesus understood that when love is rightly formed, sex becomes much easier to understand. And when love is distorted, no list of rules will ever be enough. That's why, when Jesus encounters people whose sexual stories are complicated or painful, rules or shame is never his answer – ever. Jesus always chooses people over a position.

For far too long, the church has practiced shame rather than the way of Jesus – believing that shame produces holiness. It doesn't. Shame produces hiding. Shame doesn't lead people toward health; it convinces them they are unworthy of it. It says, “You are the problem.” Guilt may tell us we've done something wrong. Shame tells us we are something wrong. And when people believe that, they don't become freer. They become more secretive, more isolated, more afraid. That’s how we know that our discussion around sex has become distorted. We are mirroring the story of Adam and Eve not from chapter 1 but from chapter 3 – They hid because they were ashamed (Gen. 3:10).

We’ve seen how the gospel works differently. Jesus brings things into the light, not to expose us, but to heal us. As the psalmist says, “When I kept silent, my bones wasted away.” Healing begins when someone finally says, “Can we talk about this?” That's been one of the church's greatest failures – silence – a refusal to talk about sex honestly, a refusal to listen to people’s pain openly, the turning of a deaf ear to hard questions asked authentically. I imagine that most of us experienced “The Talk.” One awkward evening. One embarrassed conversation with our parents or youth pastor. Then a shameful silence. In the Harry Potter series, Voldemort, the villain and arch-enemy of Harry, has such a hold on everyone that just to say his name conjured fear and despair. Instead of saying his name, people would refer to him as “You-Know-Who” or “He-Who-Must -Not-Be-Named.” Part of Harry’s courage is his refusal to do this. We must refuse to do so as well. Because healthy sexuality isn't formed by one conversation or anatomy lesson. It's formed in communities where bodies – all bodies - are cared for, prayed over, welcomed, fed, touched, and honored. Where children learn their bodies are gifts. Where singles know they are not incomplete. Where married couples can speak honestly. Where LGBTQ+ friends are welcomed. Where people struggling aren't treated like projects. Where no one has to pretend. Where grace is bigger than secrets and all bodies are fully embraced. And if you hear in that an invitation for an open conversation rather than a definitive answer on all the sexual questions we might bring – you are hearing me rightly. But here is one thing I do believe.

Why does Christianity care about sex? Not because Christians are called to be prudish or to police each other. Not because God is anxious or a kill-joy. But because people were made to be cherished and bodies are sacred. Sex is sacred because people are sacred. When we give ourselves physically to another person, we are never just exchanging pleasure. We are exchanging trust. Vulnerability. Hope. Bodies remember. Hearts attach. Love leaves marks.

Science increasingly confirms this: our bodies are involved directly in our emotional attachments. We are wonderfully integrated creatures. What happens physically affects us emotionally and spiritually as well. We know that when people engage in sex their bodies release chemicals in the brain that form attachments, that forge connection. Biologically there is no such thing as casual sex. We are not souls trapped inside disposable bodies. We are embodied beings. Which is why the Christian vision of sex has always been to link intimacy with faithfulness. Not because God wants less joy. But because God wants a deeper joy born of faithful love. And that is more than “putting a ring on it,” friends. It’s the kind of love that grows from knowing, “I am safe with you.” “I am cherished by you.” “I don't have to perform for your affection.” “I don't have to earn your love.” That kind of love has the power to drive out shame and to hold people in their most fragile states.

The novelist Martin Amis tells a story that captures this beautifully. After years of severe dental disease, every one of his teeth had to be removed. While he waited for replacements, he felt ashamed of his appearance and deeply undesirable. One evening, his wife came dancing toward him in a silk robe—not ignoring his vulnerability, but embracing him in it. Reflecting on that moment, Amis wrote, "This was the war against shame. The next morning I woke early and lay there quietly laughing and weeping into the pillow. I felt fragile, guileless, and exquisitely consoled." Fragile. Guileless. Exquisitely consoled. Those are remarkable words. They describe not simply good sex, but holy intimacy – connection without shame.

Anyone can have sex. But it takes faithful love to come to someone at their most vulnerable—when they are ashamed, aging, sick, grieving, or convinced they are no longer desirable—and love them in a way that restores their dignity. This is why the Christian tradition connects sexual intimacy with covenant. Not because it fears pleasure, but because it knows our bodies and souls are separated at our own peril. Love deserves a home sturdy enough to hold the extraordinary vulnerability that sex awakens.

Friends, Christianity offers a story about our bodies. In creation, God makes bodies – very good. In the Incarnation, God takes a body. Christianity is the religion in which God gets a body in order to restore bodies so that we might become one body. So perhaps our bodies have never been the problem. Perhaps forgetting they are beloved has been. The Christian story has never been about escaping the body. It has always been about restoring it and cherishing it. I wonder if our greatest mistake has been believing that holiness means becoming less human. Jesus shows us the opposite. Holiness looks like becoming fully human. Fully alive. Fully loving. Fully present. What if the opposite of lust isn't purity but reverence?

Reverence for another person's body. Reverence for your own body. Reverence for the image of God that every human being bears. And perhaps that's where healing begins. Hearing again what God said over humanity before there was ever a commandment to keep. Before there was failure or hiding or shame. God looked at us— Bodies. Souls. Desires. Relationships. Longings. Sex. —and smiled and said: “It is so very good.” Friends, I pray that reverence and delight are the words we have needed to hear all along. Amen.