My father’s final attendance at church began like any other Sunday morning, given that my father’s health was failing at the time. Mom dropped him off at the side door of the church building before she parked the car. Making her way back to the side door, she would find my dad sitting in their pew waiting for her arrival. Except, on this particular Sunday my dad was not sitting in their pew. Concerned, but not worried, mom sat down believing he would show up sooner or later. Why not? They’d been married for 47 years, he wasn’t bolting now. Sure enough, as services began, Dad found his way back to mom and sat down next to her. Curious, she asked him, “Where were you?” He replied, “I was just going around to say, ‘hello’ to people.”
He was just saying, “Hello.”
Paul uses two contrasting metaphors for our bodies in 2 Corinthains 5:1-4, one of which captures my father’s health. On this side of eternity he describes our current bodies as if they were tents (v. 1). Since my sons are Eagle Scouts, I’m kinda familiar with tents. They are remarkably sturdy and weather resistant. They break the wind and they keep rain, ice, or snow off of the camper. Thus, the outdoorsman can safely shelter in times of storms, giving him or her the chance to stay warm and dry.
My only trip to Washington DC was with my son’s Boy Scout Troop. We toured the Smithsonian, the Marine Museum, the Air and Space Museum, the Capital Building, all the memorials, and even took in a Orioles baseball game. Truly, it was a life-changing experience as we were in awe of the city. The adventure was cost effective for a family of five, but there was a hitch. We had to camp in tents. While Jonathan shared a tent with other Boy Scouts, Cile, Taylor, Matthew and I shared a family tent. Like visiting Camelot, it only rained at night. On one of those nights it was a deluge. We felt the water rushing under the tent, and with all the rain, a bubble appeared above our heads. It grew. It grew larger. It grew dangerously large. Fearing it was about to burst, I pushed the bubble back up forcing the water to flood over the tent like a waterfall. But here’s the thing. We stayed dry and safe the entire night. We were safe from the storm.
Tents are far from indestructible. I’ve seen tents blown over by strong winds because they were not secure to the ground. Rods break and fabric is susceptible to mold or tearing. Falling limbs can become a widow-maker. No, tents are far from being indestructible, but they do serve a purpose and are appropriate for temporary shelter.
Paul’s metaphor is that our bodies are like tents. Sure, they are durable and incredibly resistant, but they do not last forever. Like my dad’s health, eventually they wear out. Our bodies are healthy until they are not, as they are susceptible to disease and sickness, broken bones, failing eyesight and hearing loss, hang nails, slivers, and stubbed toes. Pushing harder, faster, and farther, athletes at their prime are poetry in motion. Athletes past their prime are painful to watch. Youth is often beauty at its best, while aging is a hard process to endure. One of my patients has a large picture of him and his bride hanging in his room. He was so handsome, and she was strikingly beautiful. Their future together was filled with hope and anticipation. But the key word is “was,” since she has passed, and he, left with his frail and tired body, only has her memories to hold onto.
The world we step into every day is the world of the tent, managing the storms of life. No where can we see this clearer than through hospice care where we are with the family as the patient’s body – their tent – fails them.
Paul, though, offers hope. While he acknowledges “that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed,” he pivots to capture that side of eternity by saying, “we have a building from God, an eternal home in heaven, not built by human hands” (v. 1). Something about the life to come is described as a building. A big strong building that will not fall, or decay over time due to damage by the elements, or to a big bad wolf trying to blow it over.
I have a friend whose job it is to build and then destroy buildings. Actually, he’s an architect who is responsible for building scale model buildings that are resistant to wind, rain, and earthquakes. He will be given the specs for a building, and it is his responsibility to design a building that is within certain parameters. Once he has designed the model building, he hands the designs to contractors who build the building. When the project is completed, he is invited to attend its test at a wind tunnel. They throw all the elements at the building to see if it can withstand the rain, wind, and earthquakes. Success, and they celebrate. Failure, and it’s back to the drawing board.
God promises in the life to come that our bodies will be strong and durable as a building, a building designed and erected by God himself. Pleasure and euphoria will replace pain and suffering. Strength will supersede weakness. Enduring health will conquer disease. Wounds and scars will be healed. Eternal calmness and peacefulness will overshadow our PTSD. Guilt and shame will vanish as God will wipe away every tear.
It might be worth noting that in the resurrected body of Jesus, his scars were still present. In fact they were his personal identification, especially for Thomas who had questions and doubts (Jn. 20:27). While I don’t know what to make of Jesus’ scars and Paul’s words, there may be room for both in that the sores that are present no longer cause pain. The blemishes which are evident on the skin no longer hurt. The wound was completely healed, though the scars remained. I believe that thought in and of itself brings much hope to the life that comes.
Rooted in all of this is the promise highlighted by Paul with a banking analogy. God has given us his Spirit as a deposit, guaranteeing that the building promised will be completed (v. 5; Eph. 1:13-14). If you own a home, chances are two realities are at work. First, you don’t actually own the home, the bank does. Monthly payments are made so that somewhere down the road you will be out of debt and own the home. Secondly, you had to make a down payment on the home. Unless you were able to pay cash for the home, you had to scrape up five to twenty percent of the price of the home to secure the loan. The deposit told the lending company you were serious about owning the home, and helped guarantee that you will make good on your promise to buy the home.
With the deposit of the Holy Spirit, God is promising that he will make good on that whatever death and decay we experience in the here and now, which will be swallowed up by life in the then and there. That little bit of God in you guarantees the indestructible building. That’s the hope we hold onto, even when we hold onto for dear life. That hope is based on God’s promise, and God is always good to his promise. Always.
My father’s health was failing, but it had been a long battle. He was diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver in the mid-nineties, likely caused by NASH. Likely, because at the time the doctors did not understand how someone who never drank or smoked could be diagnosed with such a liver condition. Dad’s struggle was real as he made multiple hospital visits, some of which we believed at the time he wasn’t coming home. He survived. In 1997 he underwent a successful liver transplant in which afterward, he thrived. He had felt better than he ever had. Spiritually, his faith deepened. He began speaking with bold hope in God. People noticed something different about him. My home congregation noticed it too and asked him to serve as one of their shepherds. For five years he helped lead this church.
Then cancer struck his pancreas. He was given six months to live. He made it to four the month marker. During which, his faith never wavered. His body gave out, but his hope in the life to come with the promised indestructible body never vanished. The storm of cancer had the upper hand on his tent, and he was ready for a building that was immune to cancer.
My father’s final attendance at church began like any other Sunday morning, given that my father’s health was failing at the time. Mom dropped him off at the side door of the church building before she parked the car. Making her way back to the side door, she would find my dad sitting in their pew waiting for her arrival. Except, on this particular Sunday my dad was not sitting in their pew. Concerned, but not worried, mom sat down believing he would show up sooner or later. Why not? They’d been married for 47 years, he wasn’t bolting now. Sure enough, as services began, Dad found his way back to mom and sat down next to her. Curious, she asked him, “Where were you?” He replied, “I was just going around to say, ‘hello’ to people.”
He was just saying, “Hello.”
After my dad had passed, mom and I talked about this moment from church. She acknowledged that dad was not telling people “hello.” He not only knew that this was his last Sunday with his church family, he also held out hope in the resurrection. He wasn’t telling them, “hello,” he was telling them, “goodbye.”
He was telling them, “goodbye.”
Soli Deo Gloria!
(i.e., only God is glorified!)