Still Speaking Today

By faith he (Abel) was commended as a righteous man, when God spoke well of his offerings.  And by faith he still speaks, even though he is dead.

Hebrews 11:4b

The grass, while unkempt, had a beauty all of its own as the wind gently blew, the blades of grass dancing back and forth like gentle waves on a lake.  Violets dotted the landscape while knurly trees that had stood the ravages of time reached toward the sky like mountains.  Squirrels, paying no mind to the visitors that were intruding on their urban paradise, scampered about while a choir of birds filled the air with beautiful music. There had been a time, long ago, when everything was neatly kept and tidy and visitors were plentiful.  But that was a different time, a different place; a time that was no more. 

That which had invited and encouraged visitors had either been covered up by the violets and grass or had been destroyed by vandals.  Only a few remained—cold, hard, and silent; and yet they spoke powerfully when one took the time to listen and consider their words.  One grave marker listed a young man who had been a soldier and was killed in battle.  Next to him lay his pastor father whose marker, in quiet confidence, labeled him a “soldier of the cross.”  Another marker listed a man as pastor, missionary, and advocate for justice. And Another marker, a large granite cross rising out of the ground with the symbol—IHS—engraved where the beams of the cross intersect, simply bore the first letter of man’s first name and then his last name.  Hidden behind the grass growing around the base of the cross, whispered a witness to the man, his faith in the God who had created and redeemed him, and the faith and love of those who were his students at Concordia Seminary.

Other markers in the cemetery spoke softly through words and engravings that had been hushed over the years as hail, wind, rain, snow, and sun took their toll.  A hand, with its fingers folded into the palm and the index finger pointing toward heaven proclaimed that Jesus was “the way, the truth, and the life.  No one comes to the Father but through me.”  Others bore weeping willow trees on their faces.  The willow tree had become popular on grave markers during the Victorian years of the nineteenth century.  Obviously the willow stood for the sorrow that comes from the sting of death.  But the willow was, and is still, a hearty tree; one that can grow anywhere in any kind of conditions, thereby lessening the sting of death with the sure and certain hope of the resurrection of all flesh.

Western Lutheran Cemetery has been forgotten by most in the world, left to succumb to the wiles of nature.  Once it occupied an entire city block in a thriving neighborhood on the north side of St. Louis.  In its northwest corner stood Immanuel Lutheran Church, the second Lutheran church west of the Mississippi River.  J. F. Buenger, one of the original pastors that emigrated from Germany with the Saxons in 1839 had proclaimed the Word of God and administered the Sacrament to the people of Immanuel who were hungering and thirsting after righteousness.  Also worshipping in the pews of that congregation was Franz Pieper, onetime president of the LCMS, president of Concordia Seminary in St. Louis, and doctrinal theologian extraordinaire.    

But now the neighborhood is as rundown and forgotten as the church building and cemetery.  And while these saints had long ago transferred their membership from Immanuel to the church triumphant in heaven, like Abel, their faith continues to witness to Christ over a century past their deaths.  While those who hear their witness become fewer and fewer with the passing of time, and while their voices are softer due to the wearing of time, the message is just as powerful as the day their markers were set in place.

May we be attentive to the voices of faith gone by; and as their voices fade over the passage of time may they be joined and lifted up by our voices and the voices of those who follow us.