ReFocused or not, here I come. . .

I’m not trying to be funny. Indeed, there’s nothing funny about a dead man at church even when he’s laid out by the finest funeral director.

Our dead man was in the shrubs behind the church. More precisely, he was behind the butterfly bushes, surrounded by ornamental evergreens just beyond the church and right by the Family Life Center. The irony of a dead man at the Family Life Center only now occurs to me.

It was Sunday morning. July 13, 2008, to be exact. The senior adult class was entering the educational wing of the Family Life Center when one of their members saw — or thought he saw — a homeless man sleeping among the shrubs in the butterfly garden. With one hand to his lips and the other gesturing toward the prone form, he shushed his companions.

But something — exactly what it was we are not certain — yet, something wasn’t right. Maybe it was the slightly unnatural color of the skin. Maybe it was the absolute stillness of the human form. Whatever it was, something led the good man to check further, to investigate the condition of this “sleeping” man.

That’s when he discovered that the man was dead.

It was about that moment that my eye was drawn beyond the confines of the church office out to the backyard where this good man now paced back and forth gesticulating and talking earnestly into his cellphone. Moments later there were sheriff’s deputies everywhere, ambulances and police dogs, yellow crime scene tape and, then, coroner’s officials swarming over the yard.

It was the Sunday to introduce our new children’s ministry. Awana is well-known throughout the States but new to our congregation and our local missionaries were present to share the beauty of ministering to children with our people. Of course, when they entered the church no one was out front to greet them . . .everyone having gone out back to watch the police work.

What is there about the human body in death — especially in death — that so attracts and fascinates? This, as much as anything else, speaks to me of the sacredness with which God has infused our humanity. It is as if the lifeless human form holds some magical power over the living which renders us incapable of ignoring the fact that there lies one who once inhabited the same world of the living as ourselves.

The short of it is this. . .

He was a 23 year old young man. I will not now discuss the police theories of how he came to be where he was or how he came to die. Suffice it to say, it was apparently neither suicide nor homicide. It was just a boy, a mother’s son, a son of this community, who came to sacred ground, laid down and died.

—

The next evening as I was much pressured to return to our Conference Ordination Service and was leaving toward that end, I came upon a car and a group of the family gathered in the church’s backyard. I quickly parked and began walking toward them, taking note of the fact that these were among the number of those whom Jesus had in mind when He said “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

They turned to meet me. . .mildly defiant in stance and attitude, as if daring me to run them off from this ground rendered sacred by their loved one’s death. It was the same response I have seen hundreds of times when poor trespassers are confronted by “the landowner” (though this land belongs to none but God and His Church). I continued walking toward them and spoke the words I had intended to speak from the beginning: “Are you the victim’s family?” “Yes.” “Ah! Don’t be afraid. You are welcome here! We are all grieving with you; our hearts are broken, too.”

The tears flowed and great sobs shook their bodies. Defiance melted and instantly they were around me. . .touching MY body, embracing ME, stroking me like a mother soothes her worried child. They came touching, touching.

“Where did he die?”

“Come and see.”

Fresh tears. . .

“Will you pray for us?”

“Yes, of course.”

And prayer came easy for tender hearts like these. Prayer that boiled with passion as it swirled like liquid lava from my soul and through my lips. Prayer that ignited my own heart until it turned back to strangle the same voice it had prompted. Then in silent tears I stood weeping among them, our tears a common fount to sanctify the earth where once had lain their loved one.

But in those sorrowful silences we were not alone. I swear by all I know to be real and good that Jesus of Nazareth also came and stood among us. . .put His bleeding hands upon us. . . soothed our broken hearts as only He can do.

—

Then, as if I were some priest-confessor, our corporate prayer gave way to individual prayers. “Pray with me.” And things would be whispered in my ear and passed along to God. Requests which He alone knows how to answer. . .and will.

Our church continues to reach out in ministry to the family. Enough food to feed them for a week or more was produced in short order by some of the cooks of the church. Money was raised to help defray some of the burial expenses. Visitation in the home and prayer, prayer and more prayer has been the order of the day.

They are lovely people.

They are the people Jesus loves.

They are His “other sheep” and I long to be with Him, bringing them home.