A word too little used

Members of our congregation have gotten used to hearing me talk about cowboys.

I can't help it.  

I grew up watching TV westerns with my dad and I have always loved movies of the same kind.  It was my imagined life.

Fondness for the cowboy life is a family trait.
  
My grandfather was a fan of western novels.  He had dozens of books stacked up by his reading chair from authors like Zane Grey, Louis L'Amour and many others.  His favorites were worn and torn from re-reading.
  
Likewise, I'll watch reruns of my favorite western movies over and over again.

Lately I've also been attracted to cowboy poetry, like this example written by Bruce Kiskaddon, who lived from 1878 until 1950.  

I hope you will read it through to the end.

A COWBOY FUNERAL

There once was a cow boy funeral

that I many times recall,

a bad hoss killed a feller

on a beef work late one fall.

'Twas a bleak day in November

when the air was cold and raw.

The clouds looked gray and ugly,

and the wind blew down the draw.

There was no automobiles then,

and we was far from trains

in that rugged piece of country

where the canyons break the plains.

We had to make a buryin' 

to finish the affair,

well, the best time was the present,

and the closest place was there.

We hadn't any coffin,

and there was no bell to toll.

We went up on a hill side 

and we dug a narrow hole.

We wrapped him up inside his bed

and laid him in the shale;

his saddle onderneath his head,

to ride the last long trail.

We had no book where we could look

and read of from its pages.

No one was there to say a prayer,

or sing "The Rock of Ages."

I recollect nobody spoke.

We didn't care to talk.

We filled the hole and took a smoke,

and raised a pile of rock.

And when the thing was over,

it was soter like a dream,

how we helped the cook and wrangler

while they harnessed up the team.

We got the day herd movin'

and departed on our way.

And left that cow boy there to sleep,

till resurrection day.

Now to my point, the final sentence of the poem.

Did you hear its eloquence? Did you feel its certainty?

We don't speak about resurrection as often as we should.  That's too bad.

The cowboy did not "die and go to heaven" - the way many Christians incompletely describe a believer's death today.

No, he lay at rest - his body in the grave and his soul in the presence of Christ and His glory, awaiting the day his body and soul will be reunited in the resurrection of the dead.

The same is true for you and me.

For those who trust in the redemption provided to us through the death and resurrection of Jesus, the day of Christ's return and our resurrection from the dead will be one of unsurpassed and everlasting joy.

As Paul wrote to the church at Corinth, "By his power God raised the Lord from the dead, and he will raise us also." (1 Corinthians 6:14)

What is the new, resurrected life Paul talks about?

It is life as God intended it to be from the beginning, when sin no longer separates us from our almighty and merciful Father and the world is restored to the goodness in which it was created.

For us cowboys? A herd of the best cows to look after, grazing the lushest pastures on God's earth.