There was a time when it wasn’t unusual to hear phrases like “Let’s go witnessing.” A generation or so ago, that would mean something like randomly walking up to people you didn’t know and “witnessing about Jesus.” It likely would have involved passing out tracts, those little poorly designed and printed (at least most of the time) pamphlets that supposedly encapsulated the Christian gospel in life transforming ways.
That was never very appealing to me. The introvert in me is reluctant to just walk up to strangers and have such an important conversation, and I honestly don’t ever remember thinking that such aggressive tactics, without any context of a relationship in place, were all that effective. I know that some reading this might reply and say, “That’s how I became a Christian.” For that I will rejoice, while wondering how many, because of such tactics, never gave Jesus a moment’s notice.
Yet, among the last things Jesus said to his followers just prior to His ascension were these words: “You will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you shall be My witnesses both in Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and even to the remotest part of the earth.” (Acts 1:8, NASB) Clearly a follower of Jesus can’t risk simply dismissing the idea of witness.
If you are a regular reader of my blog posts, you know that over the last two years or so, I’ve written several posts about grief. I’ve been reluctant to say too much, despite many words of appreciation for what I’ve been saying. My comments above about witnessing may be a back-door way in to once again talking about grief.
Here’s what I’m thinking.
I hope it isn’t some sort of sexist idea, but my whole married life, I assumed that I would die first, having been taken care of in my last days by Vicki, who would survive me, enjoy additional years of life with my daughters, and one day join me in eternity. But, as it turned out, Vicki died first, I spent well over two years taking care of her, and I am the one enjoying additional years of life with my daughters – anticipating the day when I will join her in eternity.
So I’ve spent a lot of time thinking, in these days since Vicki was first diagnosed with inoperable pancreatic cancer in January 2019, about these questions: “Why am I here?” and “Why isn’t she here instead of me?”
What complicates questions like those is the fact that I don’t personally believe the Bible remotely suggests that we are born with a pre-planned expiration date stamped on our hearts so they will know when to quit beating. Vicki and I didn’t see that issue quite the same, and one of the things I love (almost said “loved,” but I haven’t stopped loving her) about her was the fact that she felt no need to assume that because I thought something, she had to think the same. Don’t get me wrong, she respected my place in life as a student of Scripture, but she was no pushover — thank God!
If you know me, you likely know I have a bigger-than-average-sized head – literally. There is no “one size fits all” hat whose advertising team my head hasn’t made a liar of. Metaphorically, I like to say that with a head the size of mine, there is a ton of room for ideas, thoughts, questions, theories, etc., to float around all the time. “Why am I still here?” is one of those ideas.
All of that gets me back to where I started a few paragraphs back: witnessing. Or, as I prefer to think of it, “to be a witness,” to reflect that Luke’s record in Acts 1:8 is a noun, not a verb. It is preceded by a future tense of the verb “to be.” It reflects a kind of sense that one’s very being is best described by the word witness. The word witness in that text (and others) is not a sissy when it comes to words. Our English word martyr is simply a transliteration of the word from Greek to English. It’s not good Bible study habits to assume that a word’s English usage (martyr) properly defines the Greek word in question, but I think it is reasonable to think something like, “Witness must be a pretty strong word.”
The idea that has been born in all my rather constant thinking about this question is this: “What if I’m still here to be a witness?” Not in some generic sense of the word, but in a more defined, deliberate sense that has become missional for me.
I’ll try and explain.
I’ve said multiple times, both in print and in words, that I don’t think we followers of Jesus are always as honest about the hurt and pain of grief as we should be. To borrow a phrase I heard from New Testament scholar and Anglican priest Esau McCaulley referenced in last week’s blog post, perhaps we have an “over-realized eschatology” when it comes to grief. By that I mean we have pretended that the “not yet” reality of the kingdom of God is “already” here. (Read 1 John 3:2 for a good, biblical use of the ideas of “already” and “not yet,” as in “already we are the children of God . . . but it has not yet appeared what we shall be….”)
The most consistent thing people have said to me about what I am willing to say in public and write about on my blog is, “Thank you for being so honest and transparent.” I’ve always been pretty good when it comes to being honest, but I’m not so sure that is true about being transparent. I play my cards very, very close to my vest! Yet, early on in this ordeal of Vicki’s sickness, death and now absence from my house, I determined not to make up nice clichés about the hurt, the pain, the anger, the frustration, and so on.
What if that is the very reason I’m still here?
Don’t read between the lines. I know a part of my responsibility as a parent is to be an example to my family. Even if I weren’t a follower of Jesus, I am confident that would be important for me. I can’t fill the spot in their lives their mother held, but I can continue to be a good father and example for them. They have gone far beyond the call of duty in “taking care of Dad” in these difficult days, and I pray that I have been the kind of father they both want and need.
I want to think of witness as my reason for being here beyond that – as important as that is to me. What should the life of a committed follower of Jesus look like when the love of his life is no longer here? And especially when “she’s not here” is not because she didn’t take care of herself, or because she lived recklessly, or some random accident. She’s not here because of cancer! And not the kind of cancer that has any known cause.
Vicki died on a Tuesday, was buried on Saturday in a graveside service, and I went to class on the following Monday. I didn’t do that because of any sense of obligation from Point that I make it to class or any bravado about how strong I was in view of death. I did it because in my head – and because both of my children, and one of Sarah’s best friends agreed when I brought up that possibility at Sunday lunch – that Vicki would say, “Go to class.” I think that witness does include some sense of carrying on with life – despite the hurt. Despite tears at the graveside of Lazarus, in John 11, the gospels are clear that He went on with His mission – to be in Jerusalem by Passover and give Himself for our redemption. But that hardly means that Jesus pretended as though death is not painful. I wonder if His lament over Jerusalem (Matthew 23:37-39 and parallels) isn’t to some extent an extension of the grief over the power of death to destroy.
If I am in the ballfield of being correct about my answer to the “why am I still here?” question, then it may be that living my life as a commitment to follow Jesus, despite the loss I have suffered, is the most important witness I will ever have. What might lessen that witness, if not outright destroy it, would be pretending as though nothing bad happened.
I don’t want to go to church on Sunday morning and be depressed by worship music that is mournful, sermons that focus on all that is wrong in the world, and prayers that serve to remind me of how many grieving, hurting, sick and dying people are known by the people I worship with. But I do think sometimes – no matter where I happen to attend worship, including chapel at Point University – that surely I’m not the only person present with a broken heart being asked to repeatedly sing phrases that sound as though they were born in the deep caverns of over-realized eschatology. This may be why N.T. Wright, in his little book, The Case for the Psalms: Why They Are Essential, laments the fact that in so many worship contexts these days, Psalms are seldom, if ever, read.
On Maundy Thursday last spring, I attended the worship service held at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Newnan, Georgia. One thing, among many, that I appreciate about Anglican and Episcopalian worship is the focus on Scripture reading, including the Psalms. That evening, as the service was ending and the congregation was kneeling on the kneeling benches, the service concluded with a choir member singing Psalm 22 – the entire Psalm. That psalm has beautiful language for those who mourn. Language like “Do not be far from me, for trouble is near and there is no one to help.” (vs. 11) Language like “The poor shall eat and be satisfied; those who seek him shall praise the Lord, May your hearts live forever!” (26) There isn’t a throwaway line in the whole Psalm.
When I think about that moment, I quickly think, “That was one of the most spiritual moments I’ve had in a while.” In the whole service, no one pretended that our salvation isn’t extraordinarily costly, or that following Jesus isn’t costly, as well. I didn’t hear a single cliché asking me to pretend like there wasn’t an obviously vacant seat on the pew next to me.
In lots of ways, that is the kind of witness I want to be. I want to be seen as a man of deep and abiding faith, who happens to have a broken heart. That broken heart doesn’t disable him from answering God’s call in his life, but rather, motivates him to model a life lived in the context of authentic faith who recognizes that “trouble is near.”
I still wear the wedding ring Vicki gave me fifty years and a little over two months ago. I have no plans to quit wearing it – even though I have been asked a time or two, “When will you stop wearing your wedding ring?” In the service I have used over many years of officiating at weddings, when I’m talking about the rings, I say, “The ring I wear on my left hand is not the most expensive thing I own, but it is the most valuable thing I own. For it reminds me that I am the husband of Vicki and the father of my children.” It still does. With no criticism of those who choose not to continue wearing their wedding rings or to remarry after the death of a spouse, I just don’t plan to do either of those. For me, I want my witness to include a testimony to the fact that despite the pain and hurt that death brings, I continue to trust God to sustain me. “Posterity will serve him; future generations will be told about the Lord, and proclaim his deliverance to a people yet unborn, saying that he has done it.” (Psalm 22:30, 31)
I’ve been graciously privileged to serve God in a variety of ways during my lifetime. I have no regrets about His call in my life, even though I’m sure I haven’t always responded to that call as well as I should have. I am perfectly fine thinking that in this season of my life, I am living out my greatest call from God – to be a witness living faithfully in the midst of pain and hurt. To borrow from Mordecai and Esther, if that is my “such a moment as this” – Praise God, I accept the call.
Wye Huxford 
Selah🙏🏻
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