A Eulogy For My Dad

For The Funeral of Mike Robinson

A Photo Together From My Brothers Wedding (2016).

Note

Dear friends,

Early yesterday morning, my dad passed peacefully into the presence of the Lord after a long battle with late-stage liver cirrhosis and kidney failure. He was in hospice care, and by God’s grace, he was not alone. He was surrounded by his sons as he took his final breath.

I would be grateful for your prayers for our family as we walk through this season of grief. Even as we hold fast to the hope of the resurrection, the ache of absence is real.

Tomorrow, I will preach his funeral with my youngest brother

Jacob Robinson

. And in this post, I want to share with you the eulogy I’ve prepared not only to preserve it for years to come, but also in the hope that it might bring comfort to others who are facing the sorrow of losing a loved one to sickness or suffering.

Thank you for reading, and for standing with us in prayer.

In Christ,
— Josh

The Eulogy

“13 But I would not have you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning them which are asleep, that ye sorrow not, even as others which have no hope. 14 For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him. 15 For this we say unto you by the word of the Lord, that we which are alive and remain unto the coming of the Lord shall not prevent them which are asleep. 16 For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first: 17 then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord. 18 Wherefore comfort one another with these words.” — 1 Thessalonians 4:13-18 KJV

I won’t take up much of your time this afternoon. This moment, after all, isn’t really about me. It’s about my father, Mike Robinson, and about the One in whom he now finds his rest. It’s really about the meeting of two stories: that of an earthly father, and that of the Father above all, the Maker of Heaven and Earth.

I start with that connection between my dad and God not as a rhetorical flourish, but as a real and radiant reality now. For their stories are now bound together, inseparably. My father’s life has passed beyond the veil, yes—but not into darkness. But rather, into light. Into the greater story, the deeper magic, the song that was sung before the foundations of the world.

You see, Dad’s passing comes to us in, as it were, the heart of Lent which a season the Church has long recognized as a time of trial and hardship. Forty days of fasting. Forty days of wilderness. Forty days of preparing for a confrontation with death. This is the time when we remember Jesus being led by the Spirit into the desert, to hunger and thirst and be tempted by the Evil One. A time when every Christian is invited to reckon with mortality—to feel the dust on our foreheads, to whisper with trembling hearts, remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

So yes, death feels very near right now. And not as an abstraction. Not as a line in a hymn or a theological category. But as a weight. A shadow. A reality. An ache that sits in the chest and does not leave.

There is an empty space now where Dad should be. A voice gone silent. A hand we cannot hold.

But again, we must keep in mind the connection between these two stories.

Lent is not the end of the story. Nor is Good Friday. That is not where the road stops. God’s people walk through ashes and wilderness, yes; but she walks through them. Because on the other side of that dark valley is something else entirely.

On the other side is resurrection.

On the other side is Easter morning—the stone rolled away, the tomb found empty, and the Gardener standing there, calling us each by name.

And this is where my father’s story merges with the story of Christ. My father believed in the Risen One. He was not perfect, as none of us are. He was a sinner, like you and I. But, he knew the One who is perfect. He trusted Him. In fact, the very room that he slipped beyond the veil in was the very same room that he was baptized in just months prior. And that trust is not wasted. That faith is not in vain. 

My dad’s story, our dad’s story, doesn’t end in a hospital room with end stage liver cirrhosis and kidney failure. It doesn’t end with last breaths. It doesn’t even end here, in this service, where we speak well of him and lay him to rest. His story, like the story of all who die in the Lord ends with the voice of the archangel and the trumpet of God. It ends with resurrection. With glory. With the King returning and all things being made new.

And make no mistake: Dad will rise again. Just as surely as Jesus did. 

He will rise with eyes unclouded, with a body made whole—no longer marked by pain, but by glory. There will be laughter in his voice again, and strength in his hands. The old aches will be gone. The weariness of this fallen world will be no more. The veil will be lifted. Faith will give way to sight. The perishable will be clothed with the imperishable, and mortality will be swallowed up by life.

This is not wishful thinking. It is the sure and certain hope given to us in the death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus the Messiah—according to the Scriptures. This is the promise for all who belong to Him. And I have no doubt that Mike, if he could speak to you now, would urge you to make that hope your own. He would want you to know not just comfort in death, but new life in Christ—the life that is coming, and that has already begun.

But, until that day, we grieve. We grieve deeply. But we do not grieve as those without hope because we know this: Mike Robinson has fallen asleep in Jesus Christ. And those who sleep in Him will wake in glory.

I said earlier that this is not about me. But I would be remiss if I didn’t speak, even briefly, about who he was to me—not just in theology, but in blood and bone.

He was my father. All my life, he was steady as stone, an unmoved pillar. He was the strongest man I’ve ever known, not only in stature, but in spirit. Like the old kings of legend, he bore his burdens without complaint and walked through this life with quiet authority. He taught more by the weight of his presence than by the sound of his voice, though when he spoke, his words carried the gravity of hard-won wisdom. He did not seek the praise of men. But he was faithful to the very end. And in this weary world, where faithfulness is rare and easily overlooked, that is no small thing.

You see, faithfulness is a crown. It is often overlooked in the world, but not in the Kingdom of God. The world praises the loud, the powerful, the dramatic. But the Kingdom honors those who are faithful in little things. Who love. Who work hard. Who bear burdens without complaining. Who trust the Lord and who persevere, even in suffering. It is the mark of true greatness.

That was my dad.

And so I believe—no, I know—that even now, there are words being spoken over him in heaven that are worth more than all the applause of men:

Well done, good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of your Lord.

So this afternoon, we release him into that joy. With tears, yes. With aching hearts, absolutely. But also with unshakable hope.

Because the last word over Mike Robinson’s life is not “death.”

The last word is “life everlasting.”

And so I close with the words of the ancient Creed, spoken by the saints across the ages, words we say now with deeper meaning than ever before:

“I believe in the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting. Amen.”

Good night, Dad. We’ll see you in the morning light of the resurrection.