Introduction: A World in Mourning
I have traveled the world and seen the weight and pain of death.
I have stood by the Ganges River in Varanasi, where funeral pyres burn day and night, the air thick with smoke and ash. I have seen body parts drifting in the current, fragments of human lives released to the holy waters. People there believe the flames set the soul free.
I have climbed Himalayan peaks where prayer wheels spin endlessly, and colored ribbons flap in the wind, carrying petitions for life and protection into the sky.
I have entered shrines where whole societies venerate the tombs of their saints. I have stood at Rumi’s shrine in Konya, where pilgrims lean close to the marble and the whirling dervishes spin, arms raised, robes flowing, searching for life in the dizzying circle of prayer.
I have stood in Red Square before the lifeless body of Lenin, preserved in glass as though ideology itself could grant immortality. And I have watched thousands of lanterns rise into the night sky in Asia, glowing prayers floating upward like souls seeking a home.
Everywhere I’ve traveled, I have seen the same thing: humanity wrestling with the same enemy. Death. And everywhere, people search for some answer, some ritual, some symbol, some hope.
But nothing rattled me so much as the passing of my innocent seven-year-old nephew, Dallas.
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When the Knock Comes Home
It wasn’t sickness. It wasn’t old age. It was an ordinary day, a trip to the grocery store with his babysitter. The truck door wasn’t latched. As it backed down the gravel driveway, Dallas fell out. The wheel caught him, and in one unthinkable moment, his short life was gone.
No prayer wheels spun that day. No lanterns rose. Just shock. Just silence. Just grief.
I’ve stood at the pyres, I’ve walked the shrines, I’ve seen the lanterns. But none of those moments compared to kneeling in the dust of my own family’s loss. When death knocked on our door, it didn’t feel philosophical or religious. It felt cruel, violent, and final.
And maybe you’ve been there too. Maybe you’ve stood by a hospital bed, or at the graveside of a parent, a spouse, a friend. Maybe you’ve wept alone in the night when the silence was louder than any words.
That’s when you discover that death is not just a cultural question. It’s not just a theological puzzle. It’s personal.
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The God Who Weeps
When Dallas died, our family didn’t need theories. We didn’t need charts or explanations. We needed someone who would sit in the dust with us and cry.
And that is exactly what I find in Jesus.
In John 11, when He came to Bethany, Lazarus had been dead four days. The mourners were wailing. Mary and Martha were brokenhearted. They both said the same thing to Jesus: “Lord, if You had been here, my brother would not have died.” You can almost hear the edge of disappointment in their voices. Why didn’t You come sooner? Why didn’t You stop this?
Jesus could have answered with theology. He could have said, “Don’t worry, Lazarus is in a better place.” He could have reminded them about the resurrection at the last day. And He did speak truth to Martha. But then—then comes the moment that stops me in my tracks. John 11:35: “Jesus wept.”
Two words. The shortest verse in all the Bible. But those tears of Christ are the deepest theology I know.
Why tears? If death were only another form of life—if cousin Suzy were already in heaven singing in the choir—then why cry? Why mourn? Why did Jesus Himself break down in tears outside Lazarus’s grave?
He wept because death is not a friend. It’s not a sweet transition. The Bible calls death the last enemy (1 Corinthians 15:26). He wept because He knew this was never the Creator’s plan. We were made for life, not loss.
So grief is real. Love makes it real. Tears fall because absence hurts. And Jesus validates that pain—He cries with us.
But His tears don’t end in despair. They lead to His action. He doesn’t say, “Don’t worry, Lazarus is better off.” He says, “Lazarus, come forth!” Because the hope is not that death is an escape—the hope is that death is defeated.
And Lazarus did. The dead man heard. The dead man obeyed. He shuffled out of the darkness wrapped in graveclothes, and the crowd gasped in awe. Only Jesus could do that. Only Jesus could speak to death and be heard.
And that is why I cling to Him. Because one day, the same voice that called Lazarus out will call Dallas out. The same voice that shattered the silence in Bethany will shatter every cemetery on this earth.
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The Empty Tomb
But it didn’t stop with Lazarus.
Because a few days later, Jesus Himself stood in front of another tomb. His own. Sealed by Rome, guarded by soldiers, watched by enemies. And He went into that grave willingly.
Why? To bear my death. To bear Dallas’s death. To bear yours.
But on the third day the stone rolled away. And when the women came, they heard the words that still thunder across history: “He is not here. He is risen.”
That’s the difference between Jesus and every shrine, every tomb, every lantern, every wheel. Rumi is still in his grave. Lenin is still in his glass coffin. Saints and prophets are still buried. But Jesus is alive.
And because He lives, we live also.
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The Last Day
And one day, the story will reach its climax.
The Bible says: “For the Lord Himself will descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trumpet of God. And the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And so we shall always be with the Lord” (1 Thessalonians 4:16–17).
Picture it: a cloud in the sky, small at first, then growing brighter and nearer, until the whole horizon is filled with glory. The trumpet sounds. The voice of Christ commands again: “Come forth!”
And graves crack open. Ashes rise from rivers. Bodies lost at sea return. Dallas, my nephew, will hear His name. Families will embrace. Loved ones will laugh through their tears. Death will finally be swallowed up in victory.
And then the greatest promise of all: “We shall always be with the Lord.” Jesus coming, not only to end death, but to be joined with His people forever.
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Conclusion: The Tears That End
So yes, Jesus wept. And because He wept, I know He is with me in my sorrow. But because He rose, I know He is with me in my hope.
I have stood at funeral pyres. I have watched lanterns rise into the night. I have seen preserved bodies in glass. I have tied ribbons on trees. I have stood by the grave of a seven-year-old boy named Dallas.
But I have also stood at the empty tomb outside Jerusalem. And that is the place where hope when death knocks truly begins.
So I say to you: hold on. Weep if you must. Mourn if you must. But do not grieve as those who have no hope. Because the One who wept is the One who will come again. And when He does, He will wipe away every tear, and we will be joined with Him forever.
Amen.
