Worship and Grief

A few Sundays ago the topic for worship was... worship. Our text was Psalm 100, one of the twelve texts our church has chosen as foundational. Our sermon included the truth that worship is active.

• Make a joyful noise
• Come before him with joyful songs
• Know that the Lord is God
• Enter his gates
• Give thanks
• Praise his name

It also included the truth that we worship because of who God is and because of who we are. God is good. God is creator. God loves forever and is faithful forever. We are created, the sheep of his pasture.

Worship is a return to the foundational truth of our lives.

It is good to ponder this when some foundations seem to be shaken by the deaths of our fathers. No matter what happens, these things are still true.

I know that grief is different for everyone. Some find that heaven seems very near when someone close to them has died. That has not been true for me. The most real thing to me is the finality of loss. It doesn't matter how many times I walk into a living room and glance toward a recliner, there will not be a dad in that chair.

I've always been slow to be able to adjust to loss. It seems to be almost organic in the way it happens for me. I know that my mind will fight with reality for a time, and that I can't control how long that fight will last. I know that there will be several days in a row when it seems like that fight is over, and then it will come back fresh. I know that if several days go by without any sadness, that tears will come unbidden even when I'm absorbed in something unrelated to my losses. And I know that when I struggle with sadness or any other difficult emotion, for me it will be a spiritual struggle as well as an emotional one.

This time around, I have been so aware of how wrong death seems. Not wrong as in too soon, for both our dad's lived full lives, but wrong because it is so hard to comprehend it being over, at least in this world.

I know that with our physiology, living forever is not possible and that wishing for it would be wishing for an everlasting helplessness after our vigorous years are over.

At the same time, the change from here to gone is so huge. It is abhorrent.

There is something that fights against it even as I push to accept it.

It is a mystery. Maybe that is all that can be said.

During that Sunday morning worship service about worship, several from the congregation shared about what worship means to them. One thing especially was memorable to me.  “Worship is a place where the distance between heaven and earth becomes small.”

Those words came back to me this week when I had a dream about Dad.

In the dream, I was going to the local private college to hear a concert of sacred music sung by a men's choir. I knew that Dad would be there. As I entered the auditorium I was surprised to see Dad seated in the front row of the choir, with other older men I did not recognize filling the row on either side of him. The rest of the choir was made up of younger men, including my son, who was in the row behind Dad. As the singing began, Dad sang with a smile on his face, enjoying the music. A bird had somehow gotten into the building and as it flew among the rafters, the choir smiled and watched it as they sang. All of their faces brightened, and they seemed to be singing to or with the bird as it flew above us. But mostly I remember Dad's face. It wasn't some ethereal smile or anything like that. It was just him, enjoying singing together while something delightful was happening in the room. I did not have a sense that he was aware of me.

I don't know anything about the interpretation of dreams, but I'm grateful for this one. The bird seems important, as does the smile on Dad's face as he sang sacred music and watched the bird soaring above him. I'm grateful for the dream, and for the ability to remember it daily. I'm grateful for the words of my friend. 

Worship is a place where the distance between heaven and earth becomes small.

thanks to Jerry Jost for sharing his photograph