This past Christmas Eve, after battling cancer for several years, my father passed away. He had been in hospice care for several months and while that usually means the one thing we'd rather not think or talk about, I would still say he "died well". He died with very little pain and my mom, my sisters, his brothers, and me all close by. His suffering is over and he's home. It was my first experience loosing someone close to me though. I had lost grandparents but for some reason I expected that. No one expects to loose a parent, parents are supposed to live forever and never get old. That being said, looking back, I sometimes wonder if the signs that the end was near weren't there all along. Three or four days before he passed my dad and I had gone for a walk together and at one point he said to me, "I don't think I'm going to survive this." It was the first time I had ever heard my dad talk this way and yet I think he said it because he knew it was true. A day later we were at my sister's house for a dinner party and my dad had his place of honor right by the Christmas tree. Through out the night people would sit and talk with him and at the end of the night people seemed to casually line up to say good by. It was like my dad's farewell tour. In the days that followed he would be slow to respond, confused about what was real and what wasn't, and he seemed to sort of detach himself from what was going on around him. I.e. the person sitting at the kitchen table eating dinner with us and the person I was watching college football bowl games with was ceasing to be my dad. I've often been told and even experienced how holy death can be. As a pastor I've sat with people who are dying and it is a holy moment. When my dad passed though, I remember thinking this should be a holy moment but not feeling like it was a holy moment. I understood intellectually that he had died well and how much of a blessing that was but I just felt numb. I've talked with others who have had a similar experience so I have little doubt, that while it caught me by surprise, that it's normal. For me the holiness of death was yet to come.
Following my dad's death, the outpouring of love, support, and food was amazing. People were showing up from all over at all hours of the day to love bomb us with whatever we could possibly need. No one wanted us to be in want which for me is the essence of true hospitality. Good hosts meet their guests where they are, how they are, and do everything they can to meet their needs. That's how I felt and I remember commenting to my wife how unbelievable it was seeing how all our family and friends hosted us in our own home. Then my wife said something I will never forget. She said, "Your dad knew how to show up." She was implying that people showed up for us because my dad had showed up for them. She was right. Throughout their life together, my mom and dad had always shown up for others and now others were showing up for us. The hospitality of a loving community who shows up for you when your heart is broken is perhaps the holiest thing one can experience in the shadow of death and certainly was for me. I miss my dad and wish I had more time with him but having so many people show up to celebrate his life and to take care of us was what my heart needed to begin healing.
Showing up is the essential act of hospitality and lies at the heart of the Christian faith. The life, death, and resurrection of Jesus was all about showing up for all people. Whether he was calling the disciples, healing a paralyzed man, eating with tax collectors, resurrecting Lazarus, meeting a Samaritan woman at her well, dying on the cross, or saying Mary's name in the garden, Jesus was constantly showing up. By showing up Jesus was able to offer radical hospitality to those who needed it and give them new life. As the church we're called to continue the work of Jesus. We do so when we show up and meet people where they are, how they are and offer them the same radical hospitality that Jesus first offered us. In our divided culture where hospitality seems to be a forgotten art, the radical hospitality of Christ is essential to healing all of our divided and broken hearts.
Last fall, before my dad passed away, we met with my parent's pastor. He also said something to me that I will never forget. He said, "going through this will make you a better pastor." Again, intellectually, I knew he was right but I couldn't conceive of what it looked like to be a better pastor because my dad died. In January though, I started at a new church as senior pastor and recently I received a thank you card from a member whom I visited and prayed with in the hospital a few times a few months ago. At the end of their note, the person said, "You showed up for me." When I read that, I knew my parent's pastor was right. Showing up is the act of hospitality that rummages through our lives and begins to heal them. Our friends and family showed up for my dad before he died, they showed up for us after he died, and now I understand what it means to more authentically show up for others in their hurts and pain. While I mourn the loss of my dad, I also celebrate his life by living my life the way he and Jesus did, by showing up.
