The Neighborhood Podcast
This is a podcast of Guilford Park Presbyterian Church in Greensboro, North Carolina featuring guests from both inside the church and the surrounding community. Hosted by Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing, Head of Staff.
The Neighborhood Podcast
"Grief & Hope" (April 20, 2025 Sermon)
Preacher: Rev. Stephen M. Fearing
Grief and hope stand in profound tension on Easter Sunday, though our culture often encourages us to keep grief private and celebrate only the triumph. This powerful message invites us to hold both realities simultaneously, recognizing that authentic resurrection hope emerges not despite our wounds, but through them.
Drawing on Rumi's wisdom that "the wound is the place where the light enters you," we explore how Easter begins not with celebration but with women carrying burial spices to a tomb, experiencing perplexity and fear before joy. Their initial experience wasn't triumphant—they were confused, terrified, and when they shared their testimony, the disciples dismissed it as "an idle tale." This reminds us that resurrection disrupts our certainties and challenges what we believe possible.
The striking personal story of sitting on a recently deceased horse named Luke while comforting its grieving owner, then immediately returning to write an Easter sermon, perfectly captures the Easter paradox. This juxtaposition—experiencing death and writing about resurrection in the same afternoon—mirrors our daily reality of finding hope amid suffering. As the sermon powerfully states, "grief gives our hallelujahs teeth," making our praise authentic rather than hollow.
Easter isn't merely spiritual comfort but revolutionary resistance against powers claiming final authority. When we proclaim that death isn't the end, we challenge every system suggesting things cannot change. The resurrection empowers us not to escape suffering but to transform it, allowing divine light to shine through our wounded places. Have you considered how your wounds might become channels for light and healing in this world that desperately needs authentic hope?
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Let us pray. God of hallelujahs and empty tombs, god of garden plots and good news. It is Easter. It is finally Easter In a world full of grief and heartache, in a world full of violence and oppression, in a world full of loss and separation. We long for this day because Easter sings a different song. Easter sings a song of hope. Easter sings a song of new life. Easter sings a song of love that makes you want to jump out of your chair and run barefoot to the tomb. Easter smells of fresh flowers and baked bread. It sounds like trumpets and laughter. It feels like a crowded table and a warm hug. Yes, easter sings a different song. So, in a world full of grief, help us to cling to Easter's hope. In a world full of grief, help us hear this story of good news. In a world full of grief, we're ready to jump out of our chairs and run barefoot to the tomb. With hope we pray, with hope we listen Amen. Our scripture reading today is from Luke, chapter 24, verses 1 through 12.
Speaker 1:On the first day of the week, at early dawn, they came to the tomb taking the spices that they had prepared. They found the stone rolled away from the tomb. But when they went in, they did not find the body. While they were perplexed about this, suddenly two men in dazzling clothes stood beside them. The women were terrified and bowed their faces to the ground. But the men said to them why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen. Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the son of man must be handed to the eleven and to all the rest. Now it was Mary Magdalene, joanna, mary, the mother of James, and the other women with them who told this to the apostles. But these words seemed to them an idle tale and they did not believe them. But Peter got up and ran to the tomb, stooping and looking in. He saw the linen cloths by themselves. Then he went home amazed at what had happened. Holy wisdom, holy word. Thanks be to God.
Speaker 2:Friends, let us pray, o Lord. May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all of our hearts be acceptable and pleasing in your sight, o Lord, our rock and our redeemer. Amen. In your sight, o Lord, our rock and our redeemer. Amen. The wound is the place where the light enters you. These words from the 13th century Persian poet, rumi, resonate deeply with me on this day as I stand before you. The wound is the place where the light enters you. This simple yet profound line articulates the intricate relationship between grief and hope.
Speaker 2:During this Lenten season, each worship service has embraced two elements in creative tension with one another, delving into how faith often operates within the nuances of a world that tends to categorize experiences into black and white extremes. We have explored the connections between intention and action and action, stranger and neighbor, faith and works, rest and growth, righteousness and mercy, shouting and silence, power and humility, and acceptance and resistance. And on this Easter Sunday, we confront perhaps the most intimate and intricate pairing of all grief and hope. The wound is the place where the light enters you. It's tempting to avoid discussing grief on a daylight today. It's hard to grieve in a culture that sees vulnerability as weakness. It's hard to grieve when we're taught that it's something done best in private lest it contaminate the rest of us. It's hard to grieve when we live in a world that presents us with so much to grieve for on a regular basis. But the church is where we gather to speak the truth, and the truth is there is no hope without grief, because grief is a part of being human friends, and if we can't bring our grief to church, it means that our full selves aren't welcome in church, and that's unacceptable. So today I ask you to hold grief in one hand and holy hope in the other, for such is the work of a living, active faith, grounded not only in the truth of the resurrection but also acknowledging the complexity and the hurt of the world in which we live.
Speaker 2:If the tension between grief and hope overwhelms you, consider the emotions that Jesus' disciples experienced on that first Easter morning, the day begins without an alleluia. The day begins without an Alleluia. Instead, it presents a group of women who arrive with burial spices to anoint the very dead body of their cherished Savior. Their tears echo the sorrow of those among us here today who have lost loved ones since last Easter. These tears reflect the pain of those witnessing the world's brokenness, those mourning family members battling addiction, friends striving to navigate these uncertain economic times, and our neighbors who are unsure about where their next meal is going to come from. Or perhaps their tears are your own this day, bringing into this sacred space your burdens that feel as though they are keeping you from hope's warm embrace. Yes indeed, friends, grief and hope are strange bedfellows.
Speaker 2:Exactly ten years ago this month, I was pastoring a small congregation on eastern Long Island. It was the day before Easter and I was preparing to walk to the church from the manse to write the Easter sermon. I had been neglecting. On my way to my office I received a curious text message from a congregant that said, and I quote Pastor Stephen, quick question it's never a quick question, just so you know it's never. Pastor Stephen, quick question, how much experience do you have burying horses? It turns out you receive some really interesting text messages when you're a pastor. This was one of them. I replied truthfully, saying I'm afraid I have zero experience with equine funerals. But how can I help? She responded a dear friend of mine just lost her 25-year-old horse and she's devastated. She could really use a pastor. I assured her I'd be there, and then I set off for the address that she provided.
Speaker 1:As I headed over.
Speaker 2:I anticipated meeting the woman at her home, assuming that the horse had died maybe the night before or earlier. However, it turned out that the horse had passed away just an hour prior. So upon arriving at the long driveway leading up to the horse pen, I noticed a backhoe digging a large grave. Approximately 30 feet away, on the other side of a fence, a group of horses stood watching quietly. Once I exited my car, I spotted a small group of people gathered around a woman who was sitting on the dead horse, gently stroking his mane. I had never met this woman before, but I knew heart-gripping grief when I see it. She looked haggard, tears streaming down her face. One hand rested on her horse's mane while the other clutched a fifth of whiskey. I introduced myself and I asked how can I help? I introduced myself and I asked how can I help? She momentarily loosened her grip on the horse's mane to pat its body, inviting me to join her atop the lifeless horse.
Speaker 2:Now in seminary. We learned in seminary that during moments of pastoral care like this, it's best to take cues from the person in crisis. So I turned and sat beside her on the still warm carcass of her cherished horse. I turned to her and I asked what was his name? Luke. She said before taking another swig from the bottle. Not knowing what else to say, I replied I would be honored if you would tell me all about Luke. And that she did. For the next 20 minutes or so, she shared with me all about Luke. She recalled being there when he was born on that very farm, how she had trained him about, how her children had learned to ride on him. She spoke of all that he had meant to her over the last quarter century. I simply held space with her and bore witness to her grief.
Speaker 2:After some time, the backhoe finished its job and the operator cut off the engine. The backhoe finished its job and the operator cut off the engine. The woman wiped her nose one last time on her sleeve and rose to her feet and she bleakly muttered I suppose it's time. Will you help us Reverend? So, together with about six other people, I helped push Luke's body into the grave. I'll never forget the sound as the backhoe covered Luke's body with dirt. Luke's body into the grave. I'll never forget the sound as the backhoe covered Luke's body with dirt. Luke's friends and the horses in the nearby pen, I kid you not bowed their heads solemnly. The stories continued to be shared by those gathered as the whiskey bottle made its rounds among us. After about an hour I said my goodbyes, offered my final prayers and condolences and then immediately had to return to my church office to write my very first ever Easter sermon.
Speaker 2:I'll never forget that feeling of writing words of resurrection. Feeling of writing words of resurrection, words of resurrection, mere minutes after literally sitting on death itself. But I guess you too might know that feeling. Perhaps you also know what it's like to hold hope in one hand and grief in the other. Perhaps you know what it's like to sing Easter hallelujahs in a Good Friday world. The wound is the place where the light enters you. The wounds were fresh.
Speaker 2:On that Easter morning, the women were horrified to discover that Jesus's body had been stolen After all. What other conclusion could one possibly arrive at in such a situation? The text tells us that they were perplexed, but that Greek word is much deeper than mere bewilderment. No, it means they were grieved at a loss, very much disturbed. Simply put, all was not well with their soul. And then two strangers appeared in dazzling clothes and their perplexity turns into something else. It turns into terror. Why do you look for the living among the dead? The mystical men ask them, so matter-of-factly that it borders on insult. And then the text tells us they remember Friends.
Speaker 2:Remembering is an important, albeit painful, part of grief. For what is grief if not love persevering? Grief is the love of remembrance for that which was lost, that which was treasured in those who were loved and are still loved. But this specific remembrance on that bright Easter morning calls the women to recall Jesus' promise, a promise all but forgotten by the throes of lament. Let's face it, grief leads us to act in strange ways. It disrupts our bodies and our minds, prompting both memories and losses. The women aren't the only ones who forget. They run to the men and share their experiences, only for the men to dismiss their accounts as nonsense, rubbish, absurdity. Can we really fault them? What's dead should remain dead. It's one of the few certainties we can rely on in this unpredictable world. If that certainty is no longer reliable, what else is on the table? If that certainty is no longer reliable, what else is on the table?
Speaker 2:Resurrection leaves us with far more questions than it does answers. And there's the hope, friends, because in a world that demands answers fitting into neat, tidy categories that uphold the status quo. Resurrection invites questions that make the powers of evil decidedly uncomfortable. What if Caesar isn't as omnipotent as he claims he is? What if power isn't a muscle to flex but a humility to embrace? What if grief is something that unites us together in practicing hope? What if the very God who dies is none other than the very God who lives forever?
Speaker 2:Friends, the resurrection is more than a hallmark card featuring bunnies and eggs and soft pastels. Resurrection is resistance. It signifies accepting a different form of unacceptability, one that might be ridiculed by others. Proclaiming the resurrection today means embracing what those in power deem truly unacceptable that anyone or anything besides them holds final authority. Yet that authority belongs, friends, to a resurrected God, and that authority is not shared with anyone. And so we grieve the wounds of the world. We grieve our own wounds, carry the heavy burdens and offer solace to the saddened, and solemn and solemn, but but we do so with the hope. As my wife puts it, if all is not well, then all is not over.
Speaker 2:The apostle paul had a thing or two to say about that, about holding grief and hope together in first thessalonians 4. But we do not want you to be uninformed, brothers and sisters, about those who have died, so that you may not grieve as others who do not have hope, for since we believe that Jesus died and rose again. Even so, through Jesus, god will bring with him those who have died. For this we declare to you, by the word of the Lord, that we who are alive, who are left until the coming of the Lord, will by no means precede those who have died, for the Lord himself, with a cry of command, with the archangels call, with the sound of God's trumpet, will descend from heaven and the dead in Christ will rise first, and then we who are alive, who are left, will be caught up in the clouds together with them to meet the Lord in the air, and so we will be with the Lord forever.
Speaker 2:Therefore, encourage one another with these words. So, friends, encourage one another with these words. Let's encourage one another with these words. Encourage one another not as those who do not grieve, but as those who do not let their grief hinder their hope.
Speaker 2:Friends, grief is a gift. Grief gives our hallelujahs teeth. Those who suffer injustice have no need, have no use for empty hallelujahs. Suffer injustice. Have no need. Have no use for empty hallelujahs. What they need, what this broken world needs, are full-throated hallelujahs, hallelujahs that have seen a thing or two, hallelujahs that have been to hell and back, sung in praise of a God who himself has been to hell and back. Those are the hallelujahs we sing this day, hallelujahs of grief and hope.
Speaker 2:So, on this beautiful Easter morning, let us remember that the tomb is empty and the stone has been rolled away.
Speaker 2:The light of resurrection pierces through the deepest wounds of our lives, shining hope and purpose. Today, we acknowledge our wounds not as burdens, but as sacred spaces where Christ's love and grace transform our grief into joy. So let us rise, fueled by the promise of new life, for we are called to spread hope in a world that longs for it. So let us rise, fueled by the promise of new life, for we are called to spread hope in a world that longs for it. As we leave this place, may our hearts overflow with alleluias Alleluias for a grief that has shaped us, alleluias for the hope that sustains us, and alleluias for the resurrected Christ who walks with us through every single trial. So go forth, y'all. Go forth, celebrate with courage and let your lives testify to love's victory over death, and as you do so, remember the wound is the place where the light enters you. In the name of God, the creator, redeemer and sustainer, may all of us, god's beloved children, say Amen.