C260 4/2/61
© Project Winsome International, 2000

THE DAY I DIE
Dr. John Allan Lavender
Psm. 30:5b; 1 Cor. 15:51-57Someday, someone somewhere, will pick up the morning newspaper, and about half way through the obituary column will read:
Lavender, John Allan -- devoted husband, faithful father, loving friend of
those whom he was privileged to serve as pastor -- died last night at the age
of . . . . but, who can tell the hour.

If you should be that someone, somewhere, who someday reads that brief announcement, I want you to know that at the very moment you read it I will be more truly alive than I am right now. For I have built my life and I stake my eternal soul on Paul's grand assertion:"For me to live is Christ and to die is gain. (Phil. 1:21)"It may be that you cannot share this optimistic view of death. Thomas Hobbes, the skeptic, couldn't. He wrote regarding his impending death: "I am about to take a leap into the dark. I commit my body to the worms and my spirit to the Great Perhaps." Maybe the hope of life after death is like that for you. It is the Great Perhaps. A huge uncertainty. A dark abyss. A vast and yawning chasm beyond which lies, Who Knows What? in a land called Who Knows Where?

But, for me, death is no such worrisome thing. I don't long for it. I love life too much to ever want to die. I have no desire to hasten its coming. And yet, the thought of it doesn't distress me.

A friend of mine sent me a story which expresses part of what I feel. A minister was preaching on heaven. As he closed his sermon he asked his assembled flock to rise if they wanted to go to heaven. All stood but one. Puzzled, the minister told the audience to be seated and asked those who wanted to go to hell to stand. No one moved. Pointing to the non-cooperator the preacher asked, "Where do you want to go?" The man replied, "No where. I like it here!"

That's how I feel. I like it here. God has been good. Life has been kind. And, though I know someday I must die, I have no desire to hasten its coming. But, whenever death comes, be it early or late, for me it will hold no foreboding for I firmly believe with Paul, that, for a Christian
"to be absent from the body (is) to be present with the Lord" (2Cor. 5:8KJV).

Does it seem strange that I should begin an Easter message on a note of death? Does it seem odd I should take as my subject: "The Day I Die"? Why not some happy theme of triumph and hope?
Well, by the grace of God we will end on such a note. But the joy of that great glory can never be fully understood until we have first faced up to be fact that we were born to die.

The old-time preachers used to say there is no point in preaching forgiveness to those who do not know, or will not acknowledge, they are sinners. It is just as true to say there is no point in preaching the resurrection to those who do not know, or will not acknowledge, they are dying.

I don't mean to suggest we should become morbid about it. If I know anything about Jesus, He was never morbid in His recognition of the inevitability of death. And, for us to fret and fuss about the fact that someday we, too, must die is to be at loggerheads with our Lord. What we should do, is frankly and seriously face death as it applies to us personally and come to terms with it. And so, this Easter morning I, as a dying man, speak to you as dying men and women about death and, what, for the child of God, comes after.

The day I die some doctor somewhere will record for the official record of some town that death claimed me as a result of old age, an accident, or some specific disease. It doesn't really matter which, although, as I've said, if I have my druthers I'd prefer the first. But, whenever and however death comes, it will be "absent from the body and present with the Lord." In one tiny measurement of time I will be released from all that limits life to dwell "in that house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens."

As my loved ones begin to adjust to the new relationship we will share as a result of this event, the first thing they will do is call a minister. For, in the hour of death, the man of God can visualize the love of God and can remind the children of God of those things they are sometimes prone to forget in the first shock of such circumstances.

The blessed provisions He has made for those who are His own.
The precious promises He has given to those who remain.
The certainty that He will be "an ever present help in time of trouble."

After the minister has been called, a mortician will be asked to take away my body. Notice, I did not say take away "me," because I will not be there! Even as they cart away the inert remains of "this old house" in which I had lived I will be exploring the outer reaches of that limitless glory called heaven.

Rejoicing in the renewed fellowship of those whom
"I have loved and lost awhile."

Breathing the new sweet air of that realm where there is
no sorrow,
no sickness,
no weariness,
no darkness,
no disappointment,
no death.

And, since the inert remains of my body will in no sense be me, the mortician will be given some rather strange instructions which have already been put in writing. He will be told there will be no funeral, at least not in the traditional sense. A simple Christian memorial service perhaps, but for that a body will not be needed. So, within 24 hours there will be a small, intimate graveyard committal service for my family when, supported by their loved ones, they can share Scripture and prayer together as they praise God for His everlasting love and goodness.

Since there will be no viewing of the body by anyone at anytime, the mortician will also be told my wishes regarding a coffin. A plain pine or redwood box will do. I want it to be draped with a Christian flag, because that flag represents what I want my loved ones to remember as "this old house" in which I will have lived out my days, is quietly lowered into a simple grave.

A few days later there may be those who will wish to hold a memorial service. If so, let it be held at night when those who work will not be inconvenienced. And, let it take place in the church where the atmosphere is full of love and light and life.

Let there be children present. The joyous contagion of children's laughter has always been especially dear to me. But more importantly, I want the children to know very early in life that, while death is the end of a certain kind of relationship, it is the beginning of a new relationship more enduring and endearing than the rest.

And, let there be music! Lots of it! Perhaps a soloist will sing When They Ring Those Golden Bells For You And Me Hopefully the audience will lift the rafters with my favorite hymn,

"When peace like a river attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul."

If it's not too inconvenient, our choir might sing, My God And I. When they come to the words, "We walk and talk as good friends should, and do," I hope there will be many who say a not so silent "hallelujah!" from the depth of their soul. For death will be my victory! It will be a time when I will be free from all that limits life. When --
the questions that have plagued me,
the fears that have haunted me,
the sins that have stained me and
the weaknesses that have overwhelmed me will be gone forever, and I will make a sweet entrance into that place which Christ has prepared for those who are His own and which He called, "My Father's House."

There will be no sermon. Instead, let those who wish to, share how the grace of God has impacted their lives. Indeed, let there be praise -- lots and lots of praise -- to the glory of God, and not to this servant of God.

Afterwards, let there be a time of fellowship in the church dining room. Perhaps the ladies will serve some good Swedish egg coffee and pieces of cake with lots of frosting!

Let there be laughter! Real, deep-throated, straight from the heart laughter such as is characteristic of those who know the joy of sin forgiven.

And certainly, let there be love. Boundless love. Love for one another and for our Father in heaven. Who so loved us that He gave His begotten son that we might have eternal life.

Somewhere I read of an incident that took place at the University of Chicago chapel. A panel of
speakers was appearing there, among them Clarence Darrow. It was during the Great Depression when people were hard put and when free entertainment of any sort had great appeal. And so, the chapel was jammed including many black brothers and sisters.

Clarence Darrow took advantage of the Depression to point out the plight of black people. He summed up their woes and then said, almost wistfully,
"And yet you sing! No one can sing like you do! What do you have to sing about?"
Quick as a flash a lovely black lady with flowing white hair shouted, "We've got Jesus to sing about!"
And Darrow was stopped in his tracks. For once he had nothing to say. He was face to face with
the faith expressed by the psalmist when, in Psalm 30:5 he wrote, "Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning."

And thanks be to God, joy -- real joy, wonderful joy -- was made available to mankind that first
Easter morning. Prior to that Happening, life was a perpetual sunset. Following that Happening life has been a continual sunrise. For now "we've got Jesus to sing about." Not a dead one, a living One. And, because He lives we too shall live.

The good news of Easter is that death is not the only reality. The resurrection is real, too. When we place our trust in this One who died and rose again, we find the grace and faith and courage to look death squarely in the eye and know that while it may touch "this old house" in which we live and send it back to the earth from which it came, it cannot touch the real us or steal the real life which Christ has imparted to us.

Which leads me to say this:
The time to take care of the matter of dying is now! Death is not something to meet without preparation. The way to take care of this matter of dying is to die before you die! Die to self, to sin, to Satan. And then go on dying daily a thousand little deaths to pride and self rule.

Out in the West where I was raised we had many brush fires which often swept down upon
people with incredible speed. To protect ourselves and our belongings from these flash fires we
soon learned to set backfires which burned the grass immediately surrounding us. The principle
being, "Fire cannot come where fire has already been."

The message of Easter is that death cannot come where death has already been. The reason folks fear death is because they have never died before. As someone has suggested,
"Death can be a terrible thing to the person who only dies when he dies. But it can be a beautiful thing to the person who dies before he dies."

Most of us die only once, when we ought to die a thousand times. Indeed daily! And when we do that, when we die daily to self and sin and Satan's rule, then bodily death -- whenever it comes -- is just the occasion which crowns the multitude of little deaths through which we have already come.

This morning I have shared with you a few of the intimate plans which have been made for "The
Day I Die." I have done this, not because my plans are especially important, but because it has
given me an opportunity to say, what I really believe about death is inexplicably tied up with
Easter.

The ideas I have mentioned here are not set forth as a model for anyone else, but as a means of telling you what the Christian faith says about death: It need not be the end! Because of the resurrection of Jesus Christ, death has been changed --
from a terminus into a passageway,
from a state into an event,
from a bitter conclusion to a bright beginning.

For now we know, as 2 Cor. 5:8 makes clear, "to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord."

When my friend, Cecil Osborne, was pastor of Lorimer Baptist Church in Chicago, one of his
parishioners was taken to the hospital for an emergency operation. Her own physician could not
be reached and the operation was performed by a staff physician.

After the surgery Dr. Osborne called at the hospital and the woman told him what had transpired.
She said:
"My doctor had told me my heart would not stand a general anesthetic, but when they brought me here I was too sick to tell them, so they gave me a general anesthetic. Suddenly I left this body and looked back upon it with no interest whatsoever. Then I was in another world, and knew without being told it was Heaven. I was surprised that it was so like this world, and yet so much more beautiful. There were trees and grass and people walking toward me, as though to greet me. Everyone had a look of great peace and calm serenity.

"Just as my welcoming friends approached, I felt suddenly that I had to go back. I awoke, looked up into the faces of my doctor and nurses, and though I love my husband and daughter, that was the saddest moment of my life. I wanted to go back to that land of infinite peace of which I had only a bare glimpse." And then she added wistfully, "Because of what I have just been through, I will never fear death again."

Later she learned that during the operation her heart stopped beating. The physician gave her
a massive injection of adrenalin and began massaging her heart. Suddenly, after a lapse of
some moments, it started to beat again. But, during the time her heart had ceased to beat, she
had been literally dead.

I have read or heard of many such experiences. I mention this one this morning to comfort
you, for we need to be comforted about death. But also, to let you know that out there
beyond that experience we call death is life. More life, better life, richer life, fuller life, sweeter life, grander life than we have ever known before. Life, as God intended us to live it when He first breathed us into existence by the word of His power. Life, as Jesus envisioned it, when He died upon the cross to make it possible.

And that life -- abundant, full and free -- is available to you right now if by faith in the savior you will die to yourself, to your sin and then will go on dying daily to Satan's sway over you. And, when you have died in this way you will be spared the necessity of ever having to die again in any ultimate or disastrous way. For the message of Easter is this:
"Death cannot come where death has already been!"