Rev. Nick Cheek
John 11: 17-37
Blessed Are Those Who Mourn
Nick Nicholas was my grandfather. And if that name doesn’t already give it away—yes, he was Greek. A hundred percent, through and through. I mean, how much more Greek can you get than two Nicks in one name? Our family has a thing for the name Nicholas. My brother’s middle name is Nicholas, my cousin’s middle name is Nicholas, my name is Nicholas, and we even have a son named Nicholas. Honestly, I’m surprised one of our dogs doesn’t answer to it.
Nick was my mother’s father. In Greek, the word for grandfather is Papou. My Papou was born in America, but his parents came from the island of Chios, a small, beautiful island off the western coast of Greece. From the stories my mother tells, I know him to have been a good man. Steady. Faithful. The kind of man whose priorities were clear: God first, then family, friends, and community. For most of his life, he worked in a steel mill. It was hard, dangerous work. And one day, while operating a crane, he fell thirty feet.
The fall shattered his arm in several places and left him unable to work for a long time. This was before workers’ compensation or disability pay were things you could count on. Help from the company was minimal.
Those were lean years for my mother’s family, especially financially. She’s told me stories about that season, about the ways they scraped and stretched and still somehow managed to find joy. One of those stories was about a birthday she had during that time. She must have been thirteen or fourteen. For her birthday, her father told her they were going on a date as a surprise. My mother was so excited because they never really went out to eat. They dressed up for the occasion—my mother in a lovely dress and my Papou in a suit and tie—and drove to a nice restaurant in town.
Once they were seated, he told her she could order anything she wanted from the menu. She placed her order, and when the food arrived, she noticed she was the only one with a plate. Curious, she asked why he wasn’t eating. He smiled and told her that he wasn’t hungry but was just so happy to be spending time with her.
That night, my mother felt incredibly special—like a princess. Looking back as a parent herself, she understands now why my Papou didn’t eat that night: there was only enough money in his wallet for one of them to enjoy the meal, and he chose to let his beloved daughter eat instead.
Every memory we have usually comes with an emotion attached to it. Have you ever noticed that? When we think of our loved ones, we often experience a range of feelings. Sometimes it’s sad, sometimes joyful, and sometimes both at once. I also remember my Papou’s rough five o’clock shadow. I remember he would pick me up and hold me next to his sandpaper face and call me his Koukla Mou. It’s a term of endearment—“Koukla mou” literally means “my beloved,” “my sweetheart,” “my beauty.” My mother was called the same by her father. One of the very last memories I have of my Papou is Greek dancing with him at his son’s wedding. He passed away unexpectedly at the age of sixty. One day, he and my grandmother were driving when he suddenly began to experience heart pains. They pulled over and sat down by the curb, but the pain worsened. Passersby stopped to offer comfort, and calls were made to nearby hospitals for help. As the ambulance arrived, it was already too late. My Papou died in my grandmother’s arms. I clearly recall the anguish my mother felt when she heard the news. She began to pound her fists against the walls, wailing in sorrow. I could feel her pain, too. My father held her tightly as she cried. A week later, our family attended the funeral; it was my first experience with such a loss. Afterward, the family welcomed guests into our home.
“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.”
To mourn is to be human, and to grieve is a natural response to loss. In the story we encounter this morning, we are invited into the life of a grieving family: Mary and Martha are in deep sorrow over their brother, Lazarus. Their story reminds us that finding comfort after a loss is often a difficult and winding road. Feelings can rush in unannounced, arriving whenever and however they choose. Working through sorrow is complicated, and seeking comfort is often easier said than done. Each of us grieves in our own way, and we all experience different stages of grief. Take, for example, Mary’s reaction when Jesus finally arrives in town. We find a Mary who is not only heartbroken over her loss but also filled with anger. She runs to greet Jesus, not with a hug, but with an accusation: “Where were you, Jesus? Do you not care? If you had been here, this wouldn’t have happened.”
When we lose someone, we not only lose them; we also lose a piece of ourselves. This loss is painful and jarring and can evoke anger. That’s normal—that’s okay—because our lives are never quite the same after the loss of a loved one, especially a family member. Lazarus was Jewish, and as part of the Jewish tradition, the family goes through six phases of grief after a death. These phases are fascinating and have been passed down through historical tradition long before the advent of psychiatry. They have proven to be quite helpful for those who mourn, flowing in an order that aids grieving families in coping with loss.
The first stage is brief, lasting from the moment of death until burial. Usually one or two days. The next stage, called Shiva (which literally means “seven”), lasts seven days.
This phase signifies the seven closest family relationships to the deceased: mother, father, spouse, sister, brother, son, and daughter. During the first three days of Shiva, visitors are discouraged from coming by in order to allow the family time alone to mourn. Shiva is a dedicated time for intense mourning. In the final four days, friends and relatives are invited to visit and bring condolences, flowers, a caring presence, and, of course, plenty of comfort food. The third phase lasts for thirty days and is marked by deep loneliness. Waves of sadness are accompanied by moments of joy and fond memories. This phase signifies the struggle to return to a routine—it is thirty days of transitioning into life without your loved one. Phase four lasts about a year, during which the family experiences a gradual return of feelings that were muted by sadness and loss. Humor becomes more common, and joy starts to emerge as a welcome emotion. This phase is dedicated to recovery, during which a new normal begins to set in. Phase five occurs on the anniversary of the death, often marked by a prayer service at home or in the synagogue. A candle is lit in remembrance of the loved one. Phase six is similar to what we are practicing in our service today: an annual memorial service where we remember the saints who have passed away in the past year, as well as all those saints we still hold close to our hearts. (A Time to Mourn, A Time to Comfort, Jewish Lights Publishing, 1993.)
“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.”
Grief is a strong emotion, but it is a necessary one. We must grieve—we must mourn—simply because we love. Love and grief walk hand in hand.
When Mary, in her own way, poured out her grief to Jesus, he did something we often overlook: he wept with her. Fully human, Jesus felt the sting of loss and the ache of death, too. And in response to that deep sorrow, he went to the tomb, told them to roll away the stone, and with everyone watching in disbelief, he called out, “Lazarus, come out!”
And then… out walks Lazarus, a man who had been dead for four days. Mary and Martha were comforted in that moment by the gift of new life, by the power of resurrection standing right before them.
For us, though, it’s different. We can’t speak a prayer and see our loved ones walk back through the door. We don’t have that power. So we have to wait. We have to hold on to hope. We have to trust that love doesn’t end at the grave. And in the meantime, comfort finds us in different ways: in the hands that hold ours, in the stories we tell, in the presence of the Spirit who still weeps with us along our new journey. When bereavement happens, there isn’t an area of life left untouched. The idea that grief somehow gets smaller with time until one day it simply disappears just isn’t true. Anyone who’s ever mourned before can tell you that. Researchers and counselors are learning what many of us already know in our hearts: time doesn’t erase grief, it transforms it.
As one article from Harvard Medical School explains, “the mind, heart, and life have adapted. Grief hasn’t ended, but it has changed.”¹
We don’t get over a loss; we learn to live with it. We wrap our lives around the space it leaves behind. And as our life expands through new experiences, relationships, and even joy—the grief remains part of that story. Our life grows around our grief.
And this grief… it doesn’t stay the same. It doesn’t remain black and dark in us forever; rather, it changes colors and forms. It journeys along with us. And as our lives transform and change, the grief we carry is intertwined with the love and memories we hold for the person we lost. It’s almost as though they form a relationship with one another—they walk together, hand in hand.
Modern grief theory calls this a continuing bond—the ongoing relationship we carry with the ones we’ve lost. Rather than “letting go,” we find healthy ways to hold on. As the Continuing Bonds Model describes, love does not end with death; it’s reshaped, made gentler, more integrated into our daily living.²
It’s been nearly thirty years since my Papou passed away. Last week, I sat down with my mother to talk about him. As she spoke, I could see the lingering sorrow in her eyes; she still feels the weight of his absence, wishing he could have witnessed the joy of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Yet amid that sadness, I find joy in the legacy he has left behind.
There are moments when I catch glimpses of him in my life. Those reminders bring a smile to my face, assuring me that he is never truly gone. I hold on to the hope that one day we will reunite, and I will hear him call me Koukla Mou, my beloved, once more.
“Epitaph” by Merrit Malloy
When I die give what’s left of me away
to children and old men that wait to die.
And if you need to cry,
cry for your brother walking the street beside you.
And when you need me, put your arms around anyone
and give them what you need to give me.
I want to leave you something,
something better than words or sounds.
Look for me in the people I’ve known or loved,
and if you cannot give me away,
at least let me live in your eyes and not in your mind.
You can love me best by letting hands touch hands,
and by letting go of children that need to be free.
Love doesn’t die, people do.
So, when all that’s left of me is love,
give me away.
Amen.