Remember that every funeral is a loss for someone and a sacred moment entrusted to you. You are caring for souls at their most fragile moment and commending a believer to the promises of God. Few acts in ministry are heavier. Few feel more holy.

In almost seven years as a lead pastor, I have stood beside graves almost thirty-five times.

Some were expected. A saint in her nineties whose Bible had nearly fallen apart before her body did. An older husband who slowly forgot names but never forgot the Lord’s Prayer. Or a sick child only twenty weeks in the womb. Those funerals carry tears, but also a quiet gratitude. You feel like you are escorting a pilgrim to the finish.

Others were not like that.

I have preached for a young man whose friends cannot delete his number from their phones. I have preached for parents who had to walk behind a child-sized casket. I have stood in a hospital room where there was no casket at all—only a silence heavier than wood could hold.

When my wife miscarried several times, we buried the tiny bodies next to our house and planted tulips above them. The spring flowers make us smile, but there is a peculiar grief in the makeshift burial of someone you never heard cry. A grief made sharper by the strange fact that your memories are not events, but expectations—no birthdays, no food fights, no prom dates. An unwrapped future.

I write this especially to younger pastors and seminarians, because no class will truly prepare you for what funerals will ask of you.

The Preparation and Weight of Every Funeral

In seminary, I had a pastoral ministry professor who taught the basics—funerals, weddings, counseling, administration, baptism. I remember thinking he had more to say than I could possibly absorb. He was excellent, and I still keep the notes from that class. Yet more than a decade later, I realized something else: Though he put me on a good trajectory, funerals would ask more of my heart and focus than any classroom could cover.

I think there’s a danger hidden within all the great advice you can receive from seasoned pastors. For pastors, in all of this, there is danger in repetition.

You will eventually know the routine. How long to preach, when to stand, where to sit, and how to dismiss the crowd. You will coordinate meals with the kitchen team, contact a deacon for flowers, arrange slides and music, and you will know the cemetery undertaker by name.

And if you are not careful, this repetition can produce callousness.

A friend of mine owns a funeral home in town. One day, I jokingly asked if he had been busy lately. He said he had directed eighteen funerals that month—but did not consider it busy. That stunned me. That is roughly two hundred funerals a year.

For you, it might be the fifth funeral this year. For the family, it’s chaos.

It is the worst day of their lives. The room you have stood in many times is completely new territory for them. They will probably not hear any of what is said. They will have watched the slideshow a hundred times while preparing it. They are exhausted, disoriented, and fragile.

You are not managing an event but shepherding wounded people. You may be the primary speaker, but you are mostly a presence.

Sometimes the most pastoral thing you will do is sit quietly. Sometimes it’s offering a short prayer. Sometimes it’s helping them choose hymns because they cannot think clearly. Sometimes it’s gently telling them it is okay not to have an open mic or an open casket.

Your calm and confidence become borrowed stability.

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