The death of an eighteen-year-old brother...

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The LORD is good to those who wait for Him, To the person who seeks Him. It is good that he waits silently For the salvation of the LORD. It is good for a man that he should bear The yoke in his youth. Let him sit alone and be silent Since He has laid it on him. Let him put his mouth in the dust, Perhaps there is hope. Let him give his cheek to the smiter, Let him be filled with reproach. For the Lord will not reject forever, For if He causes grief, Then He will have compassion According to His abundant lovingkindness. (Lamentations 3:25-32)

(NOTE: Since posting this a few hours ago, I've made a couple corrections and added some text at the end.) Back in 1964, my brother, Joe, went off to Swarthmore on a (rare) full ride National Merit Scholarship. He was a philosophy major, ran on the Cross Country team, and loved the Lord. He planned to go on for a Ph.D. and serve in foreign missions.

Meanwhile Dad...

after many years with Inter-Varsity Christian Fellowship serving as director of I-V's Eastern region, editor of I-V's "His" magazine, and publisher of Inter-Varsity Press, had just left I-V and spent the next two years doing freelance writing and itinerant preaching. In the previous six years, Dad and Mud (our pet name for Mother) had lost two of their children--Danny to Leukemia and Johny to Cystic Fibrosis. Following Danny and Johny's death, David was born, then Nathan (who also had Cystic Fibrosis and barely lived).

Life was hard. I-V had paid Dad enough for us to live in a small duplex in Havertown. While directing the Eastern region of I-V, Dad also edited "His" magazine, which meant him spending two to three weeks of every month out in Chicago away from his wife and children. Summer vacations were the family driving out to Cedar Campus or Bear Trap Ranch for Dad to speak.

Pay was at a godly level requiring faith so Dad worked to supplement our income by having us take orders for Hoagies at Delaware County Christian School (which he and Mud helped found). Wednesdays he and Mud spent a good part of the night making the Hoagies which we kids delivered to school the next day. Then the Pennsylvania Department of Health shut the Hoagies down because our kitchen didn't meet specs.

When Dad left I-V after twenty-five years, he had no pension. Although The Gospel Blimp sold well and he was busy itinerating, ends didn't meet so Dad took at job as Managing Editor of David C. Cook Publishing Company in Elgin, Illinois. For six months he travelled back and forth between Philly and Chicago. The plan was that right after Christmas we'd leave our beloved fellowship at Delaware County Christian School and Blue Church, and move to Bartlett, Illinois.

Then my older brother Joe died.

Occasionaly I attempt to describe our home after Joe's death and I fail.

Joe had been out sledding Christmas night with Deborah, his (two years) younger sister, and other friends when he fell off his sled. He was a Hemophiliac and started hemorrhaging, dying about a week later. We'd already packed our home up and shipped it out to Bartlett, so our family stayed with the Russ Kents until Joe died. Then a memorial service where Dad spoke, followed by a graveside service at Glenwood Memorial Gardens where the other two sons had already been buried.

Immediately after the graveside service, we said goodbye to all our loved ones and got in the car for the drive to Bartlett and our new home.

Cheap faith knows no difference between summers and winters of a family's life. It's plastic and has abused words like 'grace' and 'sovereignty' and 'providence' to inure itself to filling up the cup of Christ's sufferings and taking up the cross and following our Savior.

Living faith is faithful to do the work of mourning and grieving God has set out before us, and in Dad's case that work took the next ten to fifteen years.

Christmas was awful. Dad was out on the road speaking for D.C. Cook at least half the time and Deborah was gone to U of I (Champaign-Urbana). Mud and I were alone eleven miles from anywhere, out in the country, and our home often was a cross between a dirge and Job talking to his wife. Mud would ocassionally have taken the part of Job's wife, but more often Dad was the heartbroken one. It was his eldest son and the loss of that son is a wound no man can bear.

There were other pressures: Mud's parents came to live with us and died within a few years; shortly after arriving in Bartlett, Deborah and I went tree climbing and she broke her back and was in a full body cast for a number of months; we started attending College Church eleven miles away in Wheaton and there was little to no fellowship there since all the Evangelical muckety-mucks resented Dad's satire, The Gospel Blimp. And shortly after arriving at Cook, Dad overheard the CEO talking to a man and realized he'd only been hired to clean up some problems and no one had intended to keep him on, permanently, when the problems were solved.

Now I don't want to be maudlin. I haven't had anything to drink and it's still the morning as I write. But I wish you, good reader, to understand that, as John Cardinal O'Connor once said, "My theology begins and ends with suffering." Nothing that builds up our immortal souls in our most holy Faith is midwifed through Facebook, Twitter, paying ninety-nine dollars to watch a video conference, or keeping up with the best-seller list of Christian publishers. Sadly though, many of you are going to attend a church tomorrow where you won't suffer and become humble through the preaching of God's awful holiness, your own depravity, and the coming Judgment. You attend a church served by a pastor who thinks a shepherd shouldn't "beat up on" his congregation; that he should "leave the conviction of sin to the Holy Spirit" and preach grace.

So when God calls us to suffer our children being molested by their uncle or one of two of them dying, we find ourselves incapable of grief and mourning. We hide our tears and keep a stiff upper lip Lord's Day mornings so we're not a blight on a church of clean Toyotas and Hondas, bleached blond mothers with all their kids pursuing educational excellence; and fathers who are elders in bondage to pornography.

How has the Reformed church turned into a place where that simple statement of a Roman Catholic Cardinal, "My theology begins and ends with suffering," has become for us incomprehensible?

I often tell our congregation to watch words that become popular and words that die.

When a word dies it often points to a culture's attempt to hide its shame. When speaking of the biological bifurcation of man, no one is allowed to use the word 'sex' today. Rather we must call it 'gender'. And unlike 'sex' which makes us think of certain body parts designed to initiate and receive, 'gender' is an infinitely malleable identity one chooses for himself with ten thousand precious places to stand, not one of which is morally perverted. So no man today is condemned for his "effeminacy."

Across the centuries, church fathers often condemned pastors for being "effeminate" in their shepherding and preaching. But never ever would you hear such an accurate and helpful criticism of any graceful, missional, and perfectly nuanced and contextualized pastor with Reformed street cred today.

And popular words? The words that are in voque point to the shape of our emptiness. For example, have you noticed the explosion of Christians claiming 'passion' these past fifteen years or so? What's that about?

Mass media, the internet, hair coloring, fornication, serial polygamy, custody battles, Prozac, alcohol, happy/clappy/gracey churches, chemical abortions, rock star preachers, and giggling-excitement-over-fashion conferences have left us incapable of passion. We're entirely superficial and our talk is facile.

We have no passion in Church or home or our marriage beds because we've turned to idolatry and that idolatry has destroyed our capacity to feel. I defy you to show me a man claiming Baxter or Calvin as his hero who preaches or shepherds his flock in any way remotely similar to Baxter or Calvin. Our preachers have zeal for nothing. We're dispassionate in our theological dissertations given faithfully each Lord's Day from pulpits which have a bronze plaque on which is written Baxter's description of his own preaching: "As a dying man to dying men."

Like priest, like people.

So when God calls us to suffer our children being molested by their uncle or one of two of them dying, we find ourselves incapable of grief and mourning. We hide our tears and keep a stiff upper lip Lord's Day mornings so we're not a blight on a church of clean Toyotas and Hondas, bleached blond mothers with all their kids pursuing educational excellence; and fathers who are elders in bondage to pornography. But I repeat myself...

The principal blessing God gave David and me in preparation for shepherding His flock was the privilege of growing up in the midst of death and grief and suffering. My favorite liturgical reading of all those I use in our worship is from the graveside service of Cranmer's prayer book. It's been passed down to us from those who grieved and mourned and were comforted by the Holy Spirit and comforted others as they had been comforted:

Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.

In the midst of life we are in death: of whom may we seek for succour, but of thee, O Lord, who for our sins art justly displeased?

Yet, O Lord God most holy, O Lord most mighty, O holy and most merciful Saviour, deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal death.

Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts; shut not thy merciful ears to our prayer; but spare us, Lord most holy, O God most mighty, O holy and merciful Saviour, thou most worthy Judge eternal, suffer us not, at our last hour, for any pains of death, to fall from thee.

Then, while the earth shall be cast upon the body by some standing by, the Priest shall say,

Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brotherhere departed: we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who shall change our vile body, that it may be like unto his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself.

These two lines make me pant after God:

In the midst of life we are in death: and of whom may we seek for succour, but of thee, O Lord, who for our sins art justly displeased?

O Holy and Merciful Lord, most glorious Judge of all the earth, suffer us not at our last hour, for any pains of death, to fall from Thee.

My ninety-two year old mother is living with us for several months just now. She's barely able to walk and lucidity comes and goes. But what a precious gift to have her blessing our home as she grows increasingly feeble and longs for Heaven! (David and Cheryl are blessed by her also since Mud's lived with them most of the past five years.)

Last week, I was going through a box of envelopes she'd saved, one for each of her children. (We sent Nathan's to his widow for sharing with his children.)

One envelope was for my dead brother, Joseph Tate Bayly the Fifth. Inside the envelope I found this scrap of writing from Joe to his college girlfriend, Janie Grossman, written shortly before his death:

“I think that Dad is about as wise a man as I’ll ever meet. He’s in touch with kids my age, knows our problems, feelings and weaknesses, and has an unfailing instinct for communication. (Some men, you know, make fools of themselves when they try to talk to high school and college kids.) He has very strong beliefs on many subjects, most of which I know, and with which I am (in principle and hopefully in practice) in complete accord. Finally he has a sense of propriety in every matter which I am afraid I will never be able to emulate. You can see I respect his opinions very much. As a matter of fact, I don’t know what I should do if I ever could not go to him for advice. I should feel pretty lost. As far as communication between me and Mother and Dad is concerned, their wish is literally my command.”

What greater gift could a father and mother receive from their son? Imagine! "As far as communication between Mother and Dad is concerned, their wish is literally my command."

But Dad and Mud never read this until God had taken their son to Heaven. Then Janie sent it to them and it added to the passion of their grief. It intensified their mourning. 

It built their faith.

Sorry for my absence on Baylyblog this past week, but there have been several who have abandoned the straight and narrow path the past couple of weeks, and grieving over their departures, I've been meditating. Especially on my godly brother, father, and mother who were faithful to walk the valley of the shadow of death and came through with their faith refined and their (still living) children hearing them testify to two things over and over again:

We often felt the death of one of our children was more of a test for the faith of our friends than it was for our faith.


We were never as certain of God's love as when we walked away from the fresh dirt piled on our child's casket.

Likely for many of you the path back to passion and zeal and the holiness without which no man will see God lies through taking up the work of feeling and grief and mourning. The work of bearing His yoke in your youth and waiting on Him for His compassion.

If you want to get a letter like my brother's from your own eighteen-year-old son, do the spiritual work God has given you and take no shortcuts. It will be a painful road, but it leads to eternal life.

Here's Dad's confession of faith written when Joe died:

A Psalm on the Death of an Eighteen-Year-Old Son

 What waste Lord

this ointment precious

here outpoured

is treasure great

beyond my mind to think.

For years

until this midnight

it was safe


awaiting careful use

now broken



The world is poor

so poor it needs each drop

of such a store.

This treasure spent

might feed a multitude

for all their days

and then yield more.

This world is poor?

It’s poorer now

the treasure’s lost.

I breath its lingering fragrance

soon even that

will cease.

What purpose served?

The act is void of reason



madmen do such deeds

not sane.

The sane man hoards his treasure

spends with care

if good

to feed the poor

or else to feed himself.

Let me alone Lord

You’ve taken from me

what I’d give Your world.

I cannot see such waste

that You should take

what poor men need.

You have a heaven

full of treasure

could You not wait

to exercise Your claim

on this?

O spare me Lord forgive

that I may see

beyond this world

beyond myself

Your sovereign plan

or seeing not

may trust You

Spoiler of my treasure.

Have mercy Lord

here is my quitclaim.

- Joe Bayly

Back in 1991, I edited a book that's a compilation of Dad's "Out of My Mind" columns that appeared monthly for twenty-five years in Donald Grey Barnhouse's "Eternity" magazine. The articles were accompanied by personal reminiscences about Dad written by a couple of his closest friends. One of those friends was Chick Koop, the doctor who worked on my brothers and me when we lived in Philly. Here's what Chick wrote:

In the economy of God and in His sovereignty He puts certain people among us who will be up to the task He will place before them. Joe Bayly was such a man. He was my friend. He was the father of several of my patients. Three separate times I shared with him the bone-crushing grief when three of his children died. Indeed, as a surgeon I was involved in one way or another with each of these tragic deaths—deaths that to some people seemed as humanly unavoidable as they were tragic.

What was the real Joe Bayly like in the midst of drinking deeply from the cup of sorrow? He was like he always was—concerned for the spiritual welfare of others, available to go the extra mile for a friend (when it should have been the other way around), and apparently unflappable. Yet, entirely human.

No one could have lived through the sorrow of Joe Bayly’s life with such equanimity without an abundant portion of the grace of God—which of course Joe acknowledged. But I said he was human.

Joe reminded me of Jesus praying in the 26th chapter of Matthew. God the Son talking with God the Father, and while mindful of his divine mission, nonetheless talking about the suffering to come in most human terms.

Joe wasn’t a dishrag that said “Thank you, Father” as each new blow was rained down upon him. He was human. He knew it was part of a sovereign plan of God but he hated it—naturally. After all didn’t Joe write Psalms of My Life and like the biblical psalmist run the gamut of emotion from wonder to sorrow to questioning to rebellion. . .finally to acceptance and praise? That was Joe.

Joe’s eldest son always stood out from the crowd. When the boy wrote his essay for the National Merit Scholarship competition, it was about his faith in Christ. When he went to secular college, his testimony was strong and clear, while his winsome personality and personal achievement attracted not only those who shared his faith but also those who didn’t.

When he sustained a minor bump while sledding, his hemophilia allowed uncontrollable internal hemorrhage to threaten his life. When the young man lay dying in a suburban hospital near Philadelphia, Joe called me to ask that I see his son in consultation. It was too late. For the third time in my career I told the same friend that his child was just a step away from heaven.

As I drove home from the hospital, I was terribly burdened, saddened by the apparent unfairness of it all. I was only the surgeon; Joe was the father. What unspeakable thoughts must have been going through his mind. And yet as I left him at the hospital elevator, he was apparently stoic, certainly resigned, at once a figure most pitiable, but among his son's attendants a tower of strength. That was Joe Bayly. No wonder he was the source of so much sage advice to the countless young people who sought his counsel over the years.

The memorial service for that boy in the Blue Church in Delaware County, Pennsylvania, was the most heart-wrenching, yet triumphant, hour I can remember. The church was packed not only with Joe’s friends, but also with all the new friends his son had made at college. These young people felt inexplicably deprived of a truly unique person to whom they had become unusually attached, but whose special view of life—and death—they could not understand.

After few preliminaries, Joe Bayly went to the front of the church. The lump in my throat was so large I could barely swallow. The lump in Joe’s throat was so large he could barely talk. But he did, and his opening words are burned forever in my mind: “I want to speak to you tonight about my earthly son and his Heavenly Father. . .”

Joe poured out his heart. Tears streamed down the faces of almost everyone present. That night, the message Joe brought to his son’s college friends started a large number of them down a path in search of what Joe and his son had—and many of them found it in faith in Jesus Christ. That was Joe Bayly.

C. Everett Koop, M.D.

October, 1991

* * * 

[If you'd like a new copy of the book titled Out of My Mind: the Best of Joe Bayly, just send ClearNote Fellowship $15 and your address and we'll put it in the mail to you. Or, if you'd like, you may order it here. For a copy of a great movie of Dad's satire, The Gospel Blimp, order it here. (TB)]