Love Never Ends

A sermon for the funeral of Chris

Psalm 23
1 Corinthians 13 

We are here today because of love.
Love for Chris — a daughter, a sister, a friend, a colleague.

Someone whose life touched ours in ways that we may not even fully realise until now, in this moment of farewell.

Love draws us together — across time and space to this moment, in this chapel.

We gather today from Bloomsbury Baptist Church, from other parts of London and the country; we gather in person and online — and what we share is that love holds us in our grief, and invites us to remember and to give thanks.

But love also hurts.
We would not grieve if we had not loved.

And that pain — this aching absence that we are feeling — is the cost of having known and cared for someone so dearly.

It is the cost of relationship. The cost of connection. And yes, the cost of love.

Chris died far too young.
There’s no easy way to say that, and no dressing it up with pious platitudes.

We are here because her life, which brought light and joy and struggle and laughter and wisdom, ended too soon.

And in the face of death, especially a death that comes before we’re ready — which is to say, always — we can feel powerless. Lost. Even angry.

And yet —
And yet in this place, at this time, we are not without hope.

We heard a moment ago the words of Psalm 23 — one of the most familiar and well-loved passages in all of scripture.

It speaks of a journey, of walking through the valley of the shadow of death — not bypassing it, not denying it, but walking through it.

And it names the possibility of divine presence: “You are with me.”

That’s the promise that Christians cling to, especially in the hardest of times.

That we are not alone. That in the mystery of all things, in the darkest valleys, there is a presence — unseen but not unfelt — that goes with us.

Holding us. Accompanying us. Shepherding us.

And then we heard from the letter to the Corinthians, one of the earliest Christian communities — a church that was messy, complicated, full of life and conflict and joy and division.

Paul, writing to them, speaks of a better way: the way of love.

And he says this:
“Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things,
endures all things. Love never ends.”

These are astonishing words.
In a world where so much feels temporary, and fragile, and finite — love never ends.

It’s a bold claim. But perhaps you’ve seen it too:

In the way that love outlasts absence.

In the way that Chris’s memory lingers in our hearts, her words still echoing in our minds, her presence somehow still with us in our stories, our laughter, even our tears.

In the way that the bonds she formed — with her family, her friends, her community — continue on, even now.

If love is the thing that binds us to one another,
And if love does not end,
Then in some way — in some mysterious, grace-filled way
— Chris is not gone from us entirely.

Christian faith speaks of resurrection, of an eternal quality to our lives.

But it also speaks of the here and now — of how we live in this life, and how we carry the lives of others with us.

Of how the love we give, and the love we receive, becomes part of who we are.

And that’s where we find meaning today.
Not in trying to explain away the pain —
            Not in pretending we’re not heartbroken.

But in holding to the truth that Chris’s life mattered.
            That her love was real.
            That she gave of herself to others.

That she lived, truly lived, and that her memory will continue to live in us.

So today we remember her.

We grieve what we have lost, and we give thanks for what we have received.
            We commit her to the care of the eternal Shepherd,
Trusting, hoping, believing,
            that love — ultimately — is stronger than death.

And perhaps the best way to honour her life is to keep loving:

To be people who walk with others through their valleys,
To be people who choose kindness, compassion, gentleness, and grace,
To be people who do not lose heart.

Chris knew something of that kind of love — and she shared it.

May we do likewise,
As we hold her in our hearts,
And entrust her now to the heart of God.

Amen.