I went to a funeral recently. It was an old friend and former colleague. The big “C,” diagnosed six years ago. He outlived the first diagnosis by five years but eventually it caught up. Splendid service, lovely music, fine sermon, many poignant moments. I met dozens of people I hadn’t seen for years. All as it should be.
Except for one thing. The service was billed as a “resurrection” celebration. The printed service paper said so. The preacher said so. Some of the hymns said so. But the resurrection itself—a new bodily life in God’s eventual new creation—was conspicuous by its all-but-absence. And that’s a problem. Not only because most people in our culture don’t know what “resurrection” means, but because they don’t know why it matters.
Read the whole thing in Time Magazine.
