Funeral Sermon for Firmin Sillo – Luke 23:32-43
If I had to characterize my impression of Firmin in one word, it would be, “peaceful.” That’s not to say that he always was so; I imagine I mostly got to see him at times when he was at his best, in low-key moments. But Firmin always gave me the impression that most moments were low-key moments for him. He was one to sit in a meeting, listening carefully, taking in all the information, processing it, and only speaking very occasionally—the kind of person you listened to when he spoke, because you knew when he did that it would be worth listening to. He had a smile that would put you completely at ease, and his manner was clear, and quiet, and comfortable, and you always felt that even when he spoke about something with passion, he would do it in a peaceful, calm way. I’ve always felt like he was the type of person that, if he were in the kitchen and a grease fire broke out, he would respond by going calmly to the pantry and taking out a bag of flour, and carefully measuring out about two cups, and slowly shaking the flour over top of the fire until the flames dissipated…
I can still remember him leading devotions at a church council meeting early in my time here at Immanuel, telling the story of how he and his family first came to be members of this congregation. It isn’t my story to tell, so I won’t repeat it here, but he did talk about a sense of welcome that he’d felt, and as he told the story, I remember feeling a that same welcome conveyed in his words, that somehow his peaceful manner of speaking opened up a feeling that I too was welcome, in this church, in Firmin’s life, in God’s own love. He simply created that feeling of peace by being peaceful himself, and it spread from him to fill the whole room.
So I should have known what I was going to find when I went to see him just a handful of days ago, as the disease was taking over his body. I should have known, but instead, I expected him to be in terrible agony, distressed, with difficulty talking and feeling desperate. But of course, he was peaceful and calm. In significant pain, his body failing, worried about what was coming, but even so: Peaceful and calm. The disease could take away his body, but it couldn’t take away his spirit, his soul, his self.
At one point, Firmin got to talking about the hope he had in God’s promise of life eternal, and out of him flowed this beautiful description of what the Kingdom of Heaven is like. Again, it is his story to tell, not mine. But I once learned that you should only pray for things you believe are truly possible. So before we shared prayer, I asked him, “Do you really believe in that?” And this man, who I have come to know as a thoughtful, careful speaker, one who always ponders before he opens his mouth, Firmin said without a moment’s hesitation, “Yes, I believe it.” Rooted in the peace of Christ, there was such power in this simple statement of faith, it nearly knocked me over. Sometimes, this sort of peaceful power can come from the most unexpected place.
In Luke’s gospel today, there should be no sense of peace. Jesus is being crucified, along with some other people, one on his right, and one on his left. Crucifixion is a method of torture and death that causes significant pain, the body failing, but long enough to worry about what is coming. The lungs slowly, painfully collapse over the course of hours. It is unbearable, the pain, and the shame too, that comes from this form of execution. It was certainly not the environment for a casual conversation. And yet, the story tells us, the criminals crucified alongside Jesus begin talking. Understandably, the one is angry, turning his pain into desperate rage. “Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!” His words have a plea in them for help, but alongside it there is also derision, the implication that “Because you are not saving yourself, you must not be the Messiah.”
And then the second man speaks. Body failing and in terrible pain, he speaks in a voice that is peaceful and calm. His request has such power in its simple statement of faith: “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” The evils of empire, the fear and hate and cruelty of people, and even the man’s own sin—he is a criminal after all—cannot take away his spirit, his soul, his self. Because that self is focused, even in this terrible moment, on the God who made him, who loves him, who will never let him go.
And Jesus answers. His answer should not surprise us either. “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.” We always focus on that last word, on Paradise, wondering what exactly he means by it, what that Paradise is like, what afterlife Jesus is promising. But more important is what comes before it. “You will be with me.” Jesus is Immanuel. Jesus is God-with-us. Jesus is God’s presence with us. Jesus is the clear sign of God’s love for us. Jesus is the promise that nothing can take God away from us. Jesus is always there. And even when death takes everything else away from us, Jesus is still with us.
All things come to an end. Unfair, that’s not the way it should be, but it is. Firmin has been taken away from us for now; this man who embodied such peace now rests in the ultimate peace, and our hearts are missing that peace as we are troubled by grief and loss. But this is the way of the world; it always has been, and there is nothing we can do to stop it. The grass withers, the flower fades, and so do we. Death is part of life. The grass withers, the flower fades, but the Word of our God will stand forever. And I truly believe that, when Isaiah says this, he is not talking about words on a page in a book, however holy. Because as Christians, we know that the Word of our God is incarnate in Jesus Christ. He is the one who will stand forever. He is with Firmin now, and he is with us now, and he will always be with us, no matter what. And nothing, not even death, can stand in the way of God’s love for us in Jesus Christ, our Lord.