Eulogy for Arnold Belcher

 

Eulogy

Arnold Dwayne Belcher

March 1, 1917 – November 15, 2012

Service held at 10:00 a.m. on November 19, 2012

Elizabeth Memorial United Methodist Church

Charleston, West Virginia
 

            It was some fifty years ago when Arnold and I first met.  I was in college and a student pastor serving two country churches, and he along with his wife, Helen, and their three sons, David, Kirwan and Alan, were fairly recent arrivals in the northern panhandle, adjusting to pastoral and parsonage realities in Moundsville.  That first meeting occurred on an autumn morning in one of the conference rooms of Wilson Lodge at Oglebay Park.  Arnold, Jim Wilson, Chuck Ellwood, Frank Shaffer, Jr., and I found ourselves seated in the same row near the back for the first session of a two-day mandatory pastor’s retreat (even those of us who were student pastors were required to attend).  There’s something oxymoronic about a “required retreat,” but that’s the way it is sometimes in The United Methodist Church.  The focus of the retreat was evangelism, and an “expert” had been imported from Nashville to show us how to be more evangelical.  He began by inviting the clergy to tell about their conversion experience, and the first pastor to do so said something about how one morning he was on the path that led from his house to the outhouse out back when he felt a “strange movement.”  I believe it was Jim Wilson who muttered under his breath, “I think he got his movements mixed up,” at which point, the rest of us along the row had an awful time stifling our nearly uncontrollable laughter.  The one saving grace of that retreat for me was getting to meet Arnold and the chance to deepen friendships with him and the other mentor colleagues seated along what the expert from Nashville probably concluded was the hecklers’ row.

            Later that year, Arnold approached me about possibly coming on staff at Simpson Church in Moundsville as his associate.  The Bishop and Cabinet approved the idea, and in June I left the two churches where I was serving and spent the next fifteen months prior to leaving for seminary discovering realities of parish ministry in a more urban, corporate-style church.  And what a difference it made!

            Arnold’s affable qualities and his genuine care became very fertile soil in which to deepen one’s roots intellectually and faithfully, and thereby, encourage blossoming of potential.  Countless are the reports I’ve heard from colleagues about their experience as associate pastors, most of which detail dominating, abusive expectations.  Fortunately, the three times I have served as an associate have been in settings where a mutuality of concern, collegiality, and commitment took precedence over insecurities of power and prestige.  And Arnold was the first of those exemplary co-workers for whom humane relational values, or should we say “Christian” qualities, were more important than lesser, more self-centered considerations.

            But that was Arnold’s inherent nature.  He truly enjoyed the wide array of individuals with whom he came into contact.  Even though as a pastor he encountered those in churches who were less than amiable, he rarely reacted in a hurtful way.  All churches have their malcontents (well, maybe not this one), but Arnold’s kind, helpful and jovial spirit was never withheld from even the most grumpy of his congregants.  Indeed, one time, rather than run the risk of harming congregational unity and well-being, Arnold requested a change in pastoral appointments, thus ending conflict with a particular family.  He was highly regarded both in the congregation and community, but to keep the church safe, he left.

            If Arnold carried any grief or bitterness about the difficulty in that former church into his new assignment, it quickly melted away.  His next appointment was to a small college town where those same characteristics of genuine regard for others, intelligent faith understandings, openness to diversity, and jovial friendliness soon found acceptance among faculty, students and congregants alike.  The next nine years spent in Montgomery were filled with good times made possible by Arnold and Helen’s hospitality and care, and many are the students who know the value of a second home when far away from home.  There was one problem at the church, however.  The pipe chamber for the organ was located directly behind a wall in the master bedroom of the parsonage, which was attached to the church.  Even if you were sick on Sunday and needed to stay in bed, or wanted to take a nap during Wednesday evening choir practice, there is no way that was going to happen.

            You didn’t have to know Arnold for very long before discovering his deep appreciation of the out-of-doors, especially his love for wild, wonderful West Virginia.  Chances are that had he not been called to the ministry, he would have become a naturalist or an environmental scientist.  To become his friend meant Sunday afternoon drives with Helen and him on some West Virginia back roads observing the flora and fauna, or long hikes in the woods that always uncovered foliage and plants you never knew existed.  Indeed, sometimes when walking along some of the rails to trails in our area, I am accompanied by others.  So, why not try and impress them by prattling off the names of trees, ferns and flowers that Arnold taught me.  (Friends are not always easily impressed.)

            There was one teenager, however, John Williams, who back in the sixties, was so enthralled by Arnold’s ability to connect faith in God with the beauty of nature that he attributed to Arnold’s influence his own love of the out-of-doors.  Later, when John was in his fifties, he was stricken with Cancer, which ultimately took his life.  One item on John’s bucket list was to express gratitude to Arnold for paving the way to his own love of nature.  So shortly before John died, he asked if I would drive him to South Charleston, where Arnold and Helen were living at the time, so that he could express his appreciation in person.  Would you believe that Arnold, now showing signs of advanced aging, feebleness and fading memory, had the three of us driving to a wooded section near his home, once again pointing out the wonders of wildlife to be found there?

            “I lift up my eyes to the hills,” sang the Psalmist, “From whence does my help come?”  Those are words that surely resonated with Arnold’s spirit.  He, Helen, David and Alan have known the full range of life experiences, the joys of affectionate family ties, the miracles of the cosmos both human and ecological, and they have known deep disappointments and awful tragedies, particularly the death of a son and brother at a much too early age.  But somehow mysteriously Arnold and his family (which includes many of us here) have been able through it all to look to the hills for strength and the assurance that the journey is always in God’s eternal keeping.  Thanks be to God.

Eulogy for Bill Roberts

Eulogy

William (Bill) Lloyd Roberts, M.Div., Ph.D.

November 8, 1937 – October 29, 2012

Funeral Service held at Wolf Run Presbyterian Church

Cameron, West Virginia

            We first met on a Saturday morning some 36-37 years ago.  He, Sue and David had just moved to Sistersville to begin pastoral and manse life in the town’s Presbyterian Church.  Our family had arrived about a year earlier for the same reason, but in the town’s United Methodist congregation.  Bill walked the four blocks from his office over to our parsonage to introduce himself.  When he got there, he found my wife, Polly, sitting on the ground replacing a broken basement window.

            Approaching Polly, he introduced himself, “Hello, I’m Bill Roberts, the new Presbyterian pastor in town.  Is your husband around?”

            Getting up from the ground, Polly said, “Hello, it’s nice to meet you.  Yes Jim’s here.  He’s inside cooking breakfast.”

             Bill said later that that’s when he knew he was going to like our family, what with the seeming role reversal, which back in the 70s was more unusual than it is today.  What Bill didn’t know at the time was that I had attempted to fix the window earlier that morning, but the pane Polly measured and purchased didn’t fit, and in response to my less than patient reaction, Polly was determined to do the repair herself.  If Bill had known the back story, he might not have been as apt to accept our invitation to join us for pancakes and bacon, our son’s favorite Saturday morning fare.  That gathering around the table was the first of countless such times of genuine communion, and the bond over the years of our two families has enhanced and deepened our appreciation for relationships that make life worth living.

            Actually, Bill was the older brother I never had, and sometimes he would act like an older brother.  Occasionally, we would have fallings-out, but, as Bill taught me, getting upset with one another doesn’t mean we’re going to throw one another away.  Quite the opposite, we’ll work it through and move on.  Sometimes, as brothers tend to do, we’d taunt one another.  Usually Bill, quicker and more perceptive than I, would catch the hidden meaning of something I had said, and he made certain that I understood what I really meant (not always appreciated).  The places where I could rib Bill usually had to do with the little details he often missed.  Bill was so intensely focused on his responsibilities as a pastor, counselor, mentor and in his other helping roles that he sometimes forgot the little things of everyday life, like wiping dog doo-doo off your shoes before entering the house.  That happened once when he was visiting us, and before Polly had the chance to address it with Bill, I took some twisted delight in razzing him about it: “Polly’s going to get you!”  Poor Bill; he did feel badly and like a pesky younger brother I made it worse.

            But Bill’s exceptional genius, his skills and care were such that while he might inwardly feel embarrassment or pain, he rarely reacted in harmful ways.  He could be a “bear,” but most of the time he was a “gentle bear,” and his aim was always to work toward healing and wholeness, even if that meant putting his own feelings aside for the moment.  He may have begun to adopt such stoicism as a child who encountered more dysfunction than is good for a child.  Then later as a Ph.D. student at Princeton, working closely with Dr. Seward Hiltner, the Grandfather of the Pastoral Counseling Movement, and Dr. Michael Andronico, Bill developed a keen and uncanny intuitive sophistication in seeing through the various complex components of a situation and guiding those involved toward resolutions that fostered forward movement and constructive outcomes.

            What an amazing myriad of life immersions Bill has known!  Earning his Ph.D., Bill’s journey has carried him to pastorates of both large and small congregations (or corporate and family churches, as we sometimes call them—Bill’s preference was clearly for the latter, the congregations where relational values took precedence over procedure,  propriety, pomposity and other business-like protocols).  Not only so, but it was in the small faith family where Bill found the freedom to fulfill the many facets of his calling.  The small church, particularly this congregation here at Wolf Run, afforded the opportunity for Bill to put to good use all of the competencies he had acquired, including his designing and coordinating a major national research project sponsored by twelve Protestant denominations studying what makes for effective Christian education; his gaining a number of certifications and licenses in Social Work, Gerontology, Conflict Mediation and Counseling; his years as a professor at a seminary in Pittsburgh (the one he sometimes referred to as the other PTS); his work as a consultant to denominations and congregations in areas needing skilled mediation, especially in church/pastor conflicts; but all of that pales when contrasted with the painstaking zeal he gave to individuals struggling with overwhelming difficulties and looking for a better way.  Bill was single-minded in his devotion to those looking for a credible, meaningful and better life.

            One way Bill, and his wife Sue, made that kind of difference was through what became called the “adopted daughter process,” an idea that had its origin in Bill’s doctoral dissertation.    Having committed early in their marriage to having one natural child, they also decided to always leave room in their family for at least one “adopted child.”  The first opportunity came when Bill and Sue met a fourteen-year-old at a church camp whose name is Sally, the daughter of affluent, professional parents.  When Sally, Bill and Sue met, somehow something clicked, and that led to Sally’s frequent visits with and inclusion in the Roberts clan.  Those visits became a springboard for Sally to try out fledgling ideas, plans and feelings.  She treated Bill and Sue’s young son as a brother, and she was the one who taught toddler David how to drink from a pop bottle.  The Roberts’ influence on Sally made a difference.  She matured beautifully and in time earned her own Ph.D. at a prestigious university, and then she married and became the mother of three children.  On her wedding day, Bill approached Sally’s mom and said, “This must be a very proud day for you.”  With a tear in her eye, Sally’s mother responded to Bill, “No, this must be a proud day for you.”

            Over the course of their married life, Bill and Sue have provided that kind of safe and guiding environment to twenty-six adopted daughters.  These women have moved on having become accomplished individuals in their own right.  There is occasional contact with them, or in some instances, none at all.  But having been helped to go and do and be whom they are meant to be, these adoptees were not made to feel obligated to Bill and Sue, but were encouraged to give to others as they had received.

            Valley Chapel in Fairmont, the congregation where I was pastor prior to retirement, with some nudging became convinced that having someone of Bill’s caliber on staff could provide some much-needed services, and so in 1990 Bill set up a satellite counseling office in our church and the two of us worked side by side for the next fourteen years.  Those years saw Bill working with domestic violence situations, addiction cases, adolescents undergoing adjustment issues, pastors and/or their spouses referred by denominational authorities, potential divorce situations referred by the Family Court Judge, at-risk youth, PTSD victims, and individuals struggling with vocational issues.  Some clients were provided help on a pro bono basis, and the others were willing and able to pay the $30 fee for sessions that lasted anywhere from an hour to an hour-and-half.  Talk about getting the most bang for your buck!  We deliberately did not advertise the existence of the counseling center; it gained its excellent reputation because of its many satisfied customers.  An added benefit of Bill’s presence on our staff was that he became the consultant to our Christian education programs, including the week-day pre-school, licensed day care and tutoring programs as well as the Sunday school classes.  Bill’s roles here included meetings with the Child Development Center Staff, assistance in the development of Sunday school lessons, and actual sessions in which Bill taught class sessions, demonstrating a process of educating children that works.  It is impossible to know just how far-reaching Bill’s contribution to the life of our congregation was, but it definitely made an important impact.

            Sometimes, Bill needed backstopping when it came to the little details—like the time a counselee brought three or four bongs to a counseling session to signify a decision to quit smoking marijuana.  Bill’s office was located just off the left side of the front of the sanctuary, and rather than hiding the bongs in his office until they could be marshaled inconspicuously off the premises, he lined them up on the front pew.  Fortunately they were discovered before Sunday, but not before choir members saw them during their rehearsal on Wednesday.  It did seem curious that some of them knew what they were.

            One of the members of Valley Chapel, upon learning of Bill’s dying, sent an e-mail expressing his appreciation:

“Sorry to hear of Bill’s passing although I was aware of how bad his health had become.  I had some great conversations with him and recall once asking him to talk to a young man who had told me he thought he was gay.  I told this fellow I haven’t a clue about this, but suggested he see Bill.  So a few days later I asked Bill and told him I would absorb the cost for this man, and he saw him once.  The man came to see me a day later and announced he was not gay but really rather normal as he had been told.  I didn’t say anything to Bill, but a few days later he told me my friend was not gay but confused, and he did not charge for the visit.

“In addition to the good sermons he delivered, I will always remember his getting out of his little VW and starting up the sidewalk only to return and get something else and perhaps do this twice more, and still had the baseball cap on sideways and the look of a man who had much on his mind.  Still he’d stop to say hello and visit prior to going to his office in the church.

“One day he had enough cat hair on his wool coat to make a new cat, which he observed that I noticed as we talked, and he said I seem to have forgotten to brush that off.  My kind of man.  When I think of him I will smile, and that is the way I want to be remembered.”

            Another grateful member at Valley Chapel, in recognition of the help she had received from Bill, commissioned and had installed a stain-glass window in Bill’s office.  Of all the stained-glass windows in the church, that one is the only one that represents the resurrection.  What a perfect place for a resurrection window, for it was in that small space that many persons found the real meaning of resurrection, new hope and new life.

Some of you are aware of Bill’s love of boating, especially sailing.  This pastime began for him as a child visiting with his grandparents who lived near the shore.  Largely ignored during his most productive years, sailing reappeared as the love it once was, and several years before retiring, Bill was back on the water in his own sailboat.  He was in utter ecstasy on the water!  Sometimes, however, wind and waves surge suddenly, even on a lake.  That happened to Bill one time, and he quickly headed back to the pier, but before he could dock the boat, it swamped and rolled over with him under it.  A conscientious and careful sailor, he did have his life jacket on and quickly emerged on the starboard side of the boat.  Rescue operations were successful and Bill’s picture was plastered on the front page of the local newspaper.

            Jesus is said to have walked on water.  Bill couldn’t do that.  Oh, well, maybe in a way he could and did do that for as long as possible facing the tempest of overwhelming illness.  But more importantly, he used his unique gifts of strength, wisdom, skill and care to lead so many others in staying afloat “when the storms of life were raging.”  We are all the shipmates of a good Captain who has shown us the way to sail on.

Called to Power?

NOTE:  My friend and colleague, Jim Kerr, was to have been the guest preacher at a church in Grafton, WV, this morning, but because of illness, he called yesterday to ask if I were available.  I was, and hence this sermon.
 

Called to Power?

Isaiah 53; Hebrews 5:1-10; St. Mark 10:35-45

A Sermon Prepared and delivered by James E. Norton, Guest Pastor

Church of the Covenant, Grafton, West Virginia

Twentieth Sunday after Pentecost, October 21, 2012

This morning’s Gospel story is one that appears in three of the four Gospels.  The disciples quarrel over who should have the places of honor and power at Jesus’ right and left hands.  Perhaps we shouldn’t be too hard on the disciples.  Striving after power and status may be quite the human thing to do.

 

 

When reaching retirement, say some psychologists, it is natural to look back and reflect on the many of our working years.  I recall my father’s tendency for such reflection after 50 years as a handyman in a furniture store, and I find myself engaged in such ruminations after 46 years as an ordained pastor.  One very clear recollection for me involves the assumptions I had just after graduating from seminary and receiving the church’s stamp of approval: “Ordained.”  (Use ASL for “dumb” as if stamping my forehead with the word “ordained,” and play with that.)  There I was full of excitement about all that my education had taught me and my imagination even went so far as to believe that people back home in West Virginia were waiting with bated breath, so eager were they to absorb all that I could impart.  How powerful I was going to be!  Surely I would be promoted quickly to the office of District Superintendent, seated at the right or left hand of the Bishop!

Do I need to tell you how long it was before that delusion was done in?  Actually, it took about a year for my yuppie aspirations to be the pastor of the “church-of-what’s-happening-now”—with its walls bulging from increased attendance and membership, its growing budget, its new building programs, its higher salaries, its added perks, its upscale parsonage, its fancier office complete with a parson’s private privy, its power and prestige within the community and throughout the state—it took a year for those hallucinations to end up where they belonged (down one of the holes in the two-seater outhouse out back).  So much for private privies.

And so much for our power as pastors.  Yet, sometimes it seems that more than pastors assume that pastors possess power.  The message that often comes through from Superintendents, Bishops and other denominational executives, and sometimes even through church members, is that if the pastors were competent and their hearts were in the right place, churches would grow, mission giving would be overflowing, and operating budgets would always have surpluses, despite the declining population figures and the worsening economic conditions, especially for the middle class and working poor.  People have to pay their taxes, but there is no power to compel them to be faithful in their commitment to the church.  That kind of faithfulness is motivated either by the desire for power and control (the more I give and the more I do, the more I will be recognized and rewarded for my “faithfulness”), and/or it is motivated by genuine care and generosity.  But those are highly personal considerations, and it is unlikely that pastors have much power over what people do.  Adults (not children, of course) do what they want to do—that’s the privilege of being adult.  Pastors and other persons may be able to persuade others to do those things that are constructive and contribute to the common good, but the bottom line is that people do what they want to do.

Some individuals sometimes act as if that they are powerless and that they are not behaving the way they say they want because of being forced by others against their will.  “I really wish I could help out with that project, but you know how browbeating Brunhilda can be?”  How often I’ve heard individuals make such claims to powerlessness and yet how they really seemed to be doing what they really wanted to do or not doing what they didn’t want to do, and at the same time eliciting a pity-party for having to live in such oppressive conditions.  The reality is that being adult means doing what we want to do, and perhaps, that’s as it should be.

Some of us can remember a time when the institutional church was thought to be a powerful force, one that could dictate what people did and didn’t do.  There was a time when the church seemed to be the moral authority in the community, and it was respected and its voice had power.  The Blue Laws were enforced so that storeowners didn’t dare open their places of business on Sundays.  Prominent professional people and business leaders joined the church because it was good for business to be seen in church.

Those days are gone.  The voice of the church is divided and falls on deaf ears.  Those outside the church witness how in some congregations there is haggling over power and bickering within the family of faith, and they stay as far away as they can get.  The pews empty.  The younger generations are more and more skeptical of all institutions, including the Church, and according to research data, 85% of persons in their twenties through forties have never even darkened the doors of a church.  They have never learned the Lord’s Prayer, and about the only time they will ever see the inside of a church is when they attend a wedding or get married themselves.

One time a couple came to the church where I was pastor to look around the sanctuary as a possible place to get married.  The communion cup holders in this particular church were located along the kneeling rail in the front of the sanctuary.  The bride had read the wedding regulations of the church and saw where the church had “candelabras” for use at weddings.  Pointing to the communion cup holders along the kneeling rail, she asked if they were the candle holders we rented out for weddings.  The days when the majority of people have grown up in and been influenced by the church are probably gone and will never return.

Well, okay, the church isn’t as powerful as it used to be.  So what?  There are other very powerful entities in this world.  Corporations, nations and governments can and do wield enormous power, make no mistake about it!  Powerful nations can flex their muscles and use up hundreds of thousands of billions of dollars in an attempt to control the course of history, but do they have the power to escape the long-term political, economic and social consequences of such actions?  Is our country’s present financial failure in any way related to giant corporations and their CEOs condoning virtually any behavior that will net them and their shareholders greater wealth, no matter how unethical or illegal; or is our financial failure in any way related to the cost of combat operations and military actions overseas?  Hasn’t history demonstrated again and again that indiscriminate and miscalculated use of power usually leads to colossal outcomes that inflict greater harm and destruction than good?

When the disciples asked for positions of power and prestige, Jesus punctured their grand illusions of power by asking if they could drink the same cup that he would drink and be baptized with the same baptism with which he would be baptized.  He was referring, of course, to his own suffering and death.  How disappointing Jesus’ response must have been to the disciples!  How upsetting to be told that instead of positions of honor and public acclaim, the disciples would indeed share in Jesus’ suffering, drink that same cup and be baptized with that same baptism.  Not only so, but they would have to renounce their desire for greatness and power and become servants to people in need.

This morning’s passage for the epistle to the Hebrews says, “Jesus offered up prayers and supplications, with loud cries and tears, to the one who was able to save him from death…(but like all of us) he learned obedience through what he suffered.”

The One we claim to be the Son of God was not exempt from suffering, anymore than we are.  None of us can escape suffering.  We can inflict suffering (to be sure) just as we can extend goodness, but we cannot escape suffering.  We cannot use faithfulness as a way of manipulating God into making our lives fair and fine.  We cannot give more to the church as a way of keeping turmoil and trouble at bay.  We cannot expect some special consideration in return for our obedience.

 
My friend for over thirty years, as decent and thoughtful and good a man as you could ever want to know, who died at age 58 after 15 months of agony battling pancreatic cancer, could tell you if he were alive.  Or talk with the mother whom I met some years ago whose son was one of our troops, a medic actually, in Iraq.  She could tell you.  She showed me a picture of him that appeared in the NY Times.  The photographer caught him sharing some of his day’s ration of water with an elderly Iraqi woman, her wrinkled hands smeared with fresh blood.  The picture also showed a gun strapped over the boy’s shoulder.  According to the Geneva Convention, medics are non-combatants and, as such, are not to carry weapons.  The mother’s obvious distress was for her son, to be sure, but she also expressed through her tears deep concern for all whose lives were in jeopardy as well as those families who had lost loved ones.


According to worldly standards, success is determined by political and economic power.  James and John request positions of power where they can lord it over others.  Jesus responds by saying, “No!”  Instead of the glory of exercising authority over others, Jesus offers the way of his own life.  Just as he faced his own struggles and prayed with loud cries and tears, so that way of cross-bearing is our lot in life as well.  The nation or the church that seeks to save its life by achieving status and power over others will lose it.  True disciples, said Jesus, are not those who lord it over others, but those who “deal gently,” who become servants of others.

Another Memorial Service

NOTE:  As I explained when beginning blogging, the hope in these pages is to reflect as honestly as possible on ideas, concerns and situations as they seem significant to this parson in his retirement years.  Recently realizing that even funeral services I'm sometimes asked to conduct may reflect how my thinking is or is not changing, it seems fitting to include such public communications here.  While few people will find this blog, let alone read it, and even though when I'm gone it likely will be shelved in the deepest recesses of cyberspace, it provides the illusory sense, at least, that dialog is possible.  Indeed, whenever I take time to write in this venue, I always imagine individuals, past and present, in my life who may be looking over my shoulder, and that is a very comfortable feeling.  So, whether you're there or not, thanks for the qualities in your lives that make me wish you were here.

 

The funeral service below was conducted on 8/21/12.

 

Jim N.

A Memorial Service for

SANDY BISH MARKLEY KERENS

SONG:                                     “Sissy Song”

OPENING SCRIPTURE SENTENCES

GREETING & PRAYER

PRAYER OF OUR SAVIOR

OLD TESTAMENT READINGS

Psalm 121

Selected portions of Proverbs 31

NEW TESTAMENT READINGS

Selected portions of Romans 8

St. John 14:1-3, 27

SONG:        “I’ll Fly Away” 

Sung by Sandy's Grandson, Craig DeBastiani

MEDITATION  (Printed below)

HYMN:           “Hymn of Promise”

PRAYER

SONG:      “Go Rest High on the Mountain”

 Sandra “Sandy” Bish Markley Kerens

            We gather this morning, our hearts heavy with grief,  but more importantly, our hearts full of love.  A woman who has touched the lives of so many people has died, and we are here because we want to commemorate, to pay profound respect, and to celebrate her life, for she was a good wife, a good mother, a good grandmother, a good sister, a good aunt, and a very good neighbor and friend.

            The days, weeks, months and years ahead will, no doubt, be filled with many wonderful stories about the times of happiness shared with Sandy: her deep devotion to her husband and family, how, even in the midst of life’s struggles, she knew honest delight and true affection in the moments she spent with the persons closest to her.  Those who knew Sandy as friend and neighbor will recall as well the many instances of faithfulness in friendship.  She was kind-hearted, good, and true, or as one of her neighbors put it, “That girl was all heart!”

            Many qualities come to mind when we think of Sandy.  I’ve been told that she was an organizer and detail person of the highest order.  As a youngster, not yet a teenager, she went to work babysitting for families in the neighborhood, and gained quite a reputation in that line of work.  Perhaps, her popularity as a babysitter had something to do with the fact after putting the kids to bed, she would clean the houses of those who employed her.  One member of the family called her a “neat freak.”

            Some in her family during the early years may not have always appreciated her attention to detail and neatness.  Her brother Buck as a young lad shared none of Sandy’s inclination to keep things in their place, and Sandy often in her endless attempt to restore order (perhaps partly in retaliation), would rearrange the furniture in the bedroom Buck and Jack shared.  Eventually, when coming home late, Buck learned to turn on the light and look before plopping into bed.

Sandy’s organizational skills learned early in life stayed with her throughout life, and most of the time Sandy used those skills to attend to and arrange for the welfare and joy of others.  As the obituary in the newspaper pointed out, when Sandy learned that an individual or family was going through some difficulty, invariably Sandy would show up, not with some store-bought meat or vegetable platter, but with an entire meal cooked completely from scratch and, as the paper put it, “she was a most welcome sight at those times.”  This was not something she did occasionally here and there, but as many of you are well aware, she did it hundreds of times.

That same practical concern for the needs of others, so much a part of Sandy’s personality, also came into play when she worked in the Assessor’s Office.  Sandy’s special concern for the elderly and the disabled led her to be sure that such persons received every consideration due them when determining property taxes.  If she learned of senior or handicapped citizens who were not taking advantage of the Homestead Exemption, she wouldn’t just call them to advise them of a way to lower their tax burden, she gathered up the papers they needed to fill-out, and went directly to their homes to get them signed up.  County Commissioners may not have appreciated her fervor in lowering the tax base, but from her perspective, the needs of individuals, particularly the less blessed among us, far outweighed the requirements of corporate structures.  (She probably would not have agreed that corporations are people.)  Many are the ways Sandy employed her organizational abilities for the sake of others helping to provide a safety net of care and protection.

 Sandy’s home was always a gathering place.  It was a popular hang-out for kids in the neighborhood when her children were young, and it was the same for everyone else who showed up.  Sandy’s grandchildren, Craig and Jamie, speak glowingly of the warmth and acceptance that they have always found at their grandparents’ home.  Craig, who played and sang one of Sandy’s favorite songs earlier in this service, attributes his beginning to take up the guitar at a very early age to Stanley’s influence, a grandfather whom he calls “Pappy.”  And Jamie indicates what a blessing it has been because of the many serious, heart-to-heart conversations with her grandmother around the kitchen counter.  How utterly important it is to know there is a place where you can go, and there will always be a loving embrace and a listening ear.  Sandy’s daughter-in-law, Becky, also reports deep gratitude for her adoptive mother by marriage, so much so that when it came time to find additional help as Sandy’s illness grew worse, Becky, without a moment’s hesitation, moved in and stayed with Sandy and Stanley to help out these last several months.

That really isn’t surprising, is it?  Just as Sandy used her abilities to do the best she could for others, in her time of declining health, she too was surrounded by love: a loving husband, son and daughter-in-law, grandchildren, brother and many others, not out of some sense of duty, but willingly out of love.  As she had been a gracious presence to others, her spirit was lifted by the touch of others.  It only makes sense that those who knew and loved Sandy would respond the same way she did.

It is not good that Sandy suffered; it is not good that she died.  But it is good that she lived, and we can be grateful even now, not only because her suffering over, but because our lives are so much richer for having known her, her deep compassion and joy, and also because she is now free to move on in whatever wonders of life await her.

Christians have always believed in life after life, but such faith up until lately has been difficult to square with our knowledge of the universe.  Some very fascinating discoveries in recent years, however, in science and medicine are tending to affirm what Christians have always believed, namely, that life does not end, but merely continues on into other dimensions.  Not only the evidence from the medical community reporting on persons who have had near death experiences, all of which have similar characteristics, but other fields of science having to do with sub-atomic particles, suggest that we are comprised of elements that never die.

Recall the three words that Steve Jobs spoke as he died, “Wow, wow, wow!”?  Might it just be that who each of us really is—the very essence of who we are, the kernel of our lives after the chaff has been blown away, the protons, neutrons and photons that are the building blocks of our bodies, that there are elements of our lives that continue, and that those already dead continue to be as close to us as we are to one another, maybe even closer?  How often we have heard people comment that in trying times they have felt the abiding nearness of their loved ones upholding them and giving them strength?  Might it be that Sandy is present right now and always will be, no longer living in pain, but urging us to move on toward the same spirit of kindness and compassion she herself lived?  Perhaps even now Sandy is calling to us and saying, “Don’t worry.  Everything is fine!”

PRAYER

            Gracious God of love, we offer thanks for the goodness we have witnessed in the life of Sandy Bish Markley Kerens.  The years slip through our minds like minutes when we think of her, and remembering the days we have had with her, we thank you for the many blessings we received because of knowing her as wife, mother, grandmother, sister, aunt, neighbor and friend.  For her love of her family, her faithfulness in relationships and her care for others; for the delight she derived from starting in September to bake cheese cakes to freeze and then give away at Christmastime; for her wonderful wit and sense of humor, for her avid interest in politics and her loyalty to the Pittsburgh Pirates; and for those times of trouble when her family and friends could share her burdens and ease her pain—these thoughts and memories are precious to us, O God, and we speak our gratitude for the life we have shared with Sandy.

            We would that she might still be with us on the earth, O God, but not if she could not be healthy.  We would that she might still be with us on the earth, O God, but not if she could not be happy.  We would that she might still be with us on the earth, O God, but not if she could not be free to do the things she liked to do and to walk the ways she loved to walk.  So we give her back to You, who gave her to us, in the confidence that she is safe in your eternal care and that her spirit is freed to continue to be “all heart.”  Amen.

When God Talks Back

 A friend passed on a book review of anthropologist Tanya Marie Luhrmann’s book When God Talks Back: Understanding the American Evangelical Relationship With God, a book I had not heard about until reading the review.[i]  Written by Jill Wolfson, a novelist and journalist of high standing, the review describes Luhrmann’s accounting of years of “deep hanging out” with two different groups of the Vineyard Christian Fellowship, an evangelical/Pentecostal segment of American Christianity.  This Christian branch is characterized by literal interpretation of the scriptures and worship experiences that include dancing, swaying and other deeply emotional expressions.  Wolfson’s portrayal of Luhrmann’s book, besides being well written, seems a fair representation, so much so that it nudges me in the direction of purchasing the book.  The only problem is that my books-to-read shelf is so over laden already that it is sagging in the middle, and adding another book on to a pile that will likely outlive me seems futile.  So many books, so little time!  So, for now, my thoughts about Luhrmann’s exhaustive study will necessarily rely on a second-hand source.

The focus of Luhrmann’s research is to ask how is it that intelligent, savvy, middle-class Americans come to the place where they carry on conversations with the invisible God in much the same way as friends talk over coffee, actually expecting two-way dialog.  Succinctly, while Luhrmann continues to question the existence of God, her in-depth engagement with the Vineyard brings her to an awareness that such prayer talk works.  The practices of the Vineyard and the support of its members enable participants to learn how to “hear what they determine to be God’s voice.”

So the Vineyard groups and other Pentecostal religious types can claim victory that their perspective has been validated by the scientific community.  God is good all the time, and is always available to talk with anyone who takes the time to sit down to carry on such conversations.  Evidently, Luhrmann in her post-publication sessions with the Vineyard groups did provide a kind of appreciative assessment of their way of prayer, even indicating that though she could not “believe in a God out ‘there’ as solid as a mailbox….in my own way, I have come to know God (through my time spent in the Vineyard).”

But, reviewer Wolfson also describes how Luhrmann has made similar discoveries in other forays into religious experiences and cultures.  Luhrmann, according to Wolfson, describes herself as a “spiritual mutt,” having familial and other close connections to a Baptist minister, Christian Scientist, Unitarian, and Orthodox Jew, and was herself for a time inclined toward atheism.  As an anthropologist she was struck by how most people seemingly choose to conduct their lives according to narratives and legends rather than listening to their logical, rational reasoning.

Consequently, she spent in-depth time with modern witches, followers of Zoroastrianism, a Black Catholic Church, and a Santeria group.  Moreover, Luhrmann conducted experiments among undergraduate students utilizing the same prayer methods employed by the Vineyard followers, which verify the same results about prayer as those found in the Vineyard groups.

When hanging out in depth with modern-day witches, learning their methods and following their rituals, she discovered that “witchcraft self-training worked,” and she even had a supernatural vision one night of “six druids” appearing outside her window.  Luhrmann reports that the techniques of witchcraft are the same as those she was taught in the Vineyard version of Christianity—and, indeed, all the groups that she studied.

Probably, the most fascinating implication in Luhrmann’s ventures into how prayer works stems from a research project developed and implemented among college students at Stanford.  Rather than having students meditate on some deity of a particular faith tradition, the students were instructed to meditate on Leland Stanford, Jr., who died as a child and for whom Stanford University was named.  These student “volunteers were invited to listen and use their inner attention to ‘experience’ Leland.”  The results as yet are unpublished, but some of the students reported visions of the “young Leland and feeling that he spoke back.”

Wolfson concludes her review indicating how Luhrmann, being asked to “weigh in” on the seeming heavy influence of Vineyard Christians and their ilk on politics, assesses such confluence of church and state.  Luhrmann’s observations are very interesting and can be read in the article, which can be found at the web site listed as an endnote.

My interest, however, lies elsewhere.  Is it significant that widely divergent paths to spirituality seem equally accessible through very similar prayer techniques?  What can we say about the ability of certain meditative techniques to bring a person into intimate connection with any entity?  Is this simply some kind of learned mind control?  Or are there other levels or planes of existence with which we can resonate through meditative practice?  Perhaps Quantum theorists have a point in arguing that there are “fields” beyond our ability to perceive, abounding with neutrons, protons, photons.  And who knows, maybe included in these sub-atomic dimensions are all that has ever been or will be.

One thing is certain.  Based on the results of Luhrmann’s research, the appreciation shown by Luhrmann toward the Vineyard, or any group espousing only one right way to “God,” does not mean it is the only way.  Indeed, her research indicates the very opposite.  If there is communication with realms beyond what we know in the present, Luhrmann’s research points more to the possibility that other dimensions of living, if they exist, are filled with every conceivable idea, personality, entity, or experience the cosmos can contain.  Perhaps we Christians would do well to exercise a little more humility in our assertions about the one right way to God.

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[i] The review can be found on-line at:  http://alumni.stanford.edu/get/page/magazine/article/?article_id=54818

When Power Permits Perversion

Well, this morning’s news tells of the NCAA’s penalties on Penn State for its role in the Jerry Sandusky debacle.  Penn State, wisely, seems appropriately repentant, and rightly compliant, to the NCAA’s rulings.  Joe Paterno’s formerly stellar record has been irreparably tarnished, and his statue, now a symbol of how winning as “the only thing” will go so far as to torture innocent children, is no longer visible in front of Beaver Stadium.  (Perhaps the bronze could be melted down and remolded into a depiction of the “Massacre of the Innocents” and then returned to the entrance of the stadium.)

How is it that competent, reasonable professionals can fall into such ignominy?  That question, which is probably on the minds of most of us following this reign of rape, has triggered a memory out of my own past.  One of the blessings of retirement is that matters, which formerly were submerged during the busy years of day-to-day career activity, make their way to conscious awareness again.  The developmental psychologist, Erik Erikson, argues that this is a normal process in the final stage of life, as if the individual psyche/soul is doing a review of all that has happened, asking which of one’s life experiences have been worth it and which have not.

The memory involves the son of a wealthy financier/industrialist who, unlike his father, became wealthy as well, the old-fashioned way: he inherited the largess his father had earned.  The father, Wheeler H. Bachman, of Wheeling, WV, fame, landed his wealth by investing in the dry goods market, later expanding his capital in the stock market as well as other industrial exploits, including the Carr China Company of Grafton, WV, not too far from where our family now resides.  (When in 1952 “WH” learned that the employees at Carr China were considering the possibility of unionizing, he promptly closed down the plant, and today there is no remnant left of its ever having existed.  Yes, “WH” was a staunch Republican.)

His son, Wheeler Carr Bachman, the recipient of the Bachman estate, was in his forties/fifties during my teenage years.  “WC” never worked a day in his life, and I doubt that he even served on boards of banks or charitable organizations, as had his father before him, but I’m not sure of that.  But he did find time to engage in other activities that shall become clear in a moment.

As a high school senior I was hired as a “Desk Clerk” at the Wheeling YMCA, a position that included checking-in “Y” members to the various athletic “clubs” housed in the facility, operating the switchboard, cashier responsibilities such as receiving rental income from the men who lived on the residential floors or collecting sales receipts from purchasers of “Y” t-shirts, shorts, jock-straps, candy, etc., and other clerical chores.  Also, when the night clerk was off or on vacation, I filled-in for him, and that included some additional chores, mostly custodial in the areas adjacent to the front desk.

“WC” had a reputation around the “Y” of spending inordinate amounts of time with high school boys, and as a member of the Business Men’s Club, the most exclusive area in the “Y,” which included such amenities as a sauna, tanning lamp and even a full-time masseur, I often checked him, along with his young “guests,” into the BMC.  It was just another part of the job that one performed automatically without giving it any thought.  Sure there were rumors, and some of his “regular” companions let it be known that “WC” was very generous toward them (Were they subtly soliciting other companions per his request?), but still, being naïve, any thought of something more than what appeared as a charitable interest in young lads quickly dispersed, and the routine carried on.

But, one time while on night duty, reality slapped me is if right in the face.  Evidently “WC” and his entourage entered the BMC while the clerk before I came on duty was working.  As it was way past closing time for the athletic side of the building, I assumed that those facilities were closed for the day.  All was quiet as I proceeded to mop and buff the lobby floor when, off to the right I noticed a bright light emanating from underneath the door to the BMC.  Hmmmm, someone forgot to turn out the lights.  I took out my master key and let myself in to the area just in time to see six or seven naked boys scattering in all directions.  The one young man who seemed to be “WC’s” regular bud, a rather cocky fellow, approached me in a threatening guise, his cocky manner not the only thing obviously standing out.  But before anything was spoken, WC followed right behind him, speaking words I can’t remember in uneasy tones I do remember.  “WC’s” face was covered with (how can I say this delicately) male reproductive fluids.  I walked out of the BMC, allowing the door to slam behind me.

The next day I made an appointment to talk with the “Y” General Secretary, the equivalent of the Executive Director or CEO of this purportedly “Christian” organization.  After all, its stated purpose was to put Christian principles into practice by developing a healthy “body, mind and spirit.”  The “Y” logo, a red triangle, is meant to symbolize these three sides of essential human development.

The General Secretary’s response to what I had witnessed and reported was as casual as his rosy-cheeked appearance as he leaned back in his overstuffed chair behind his desk smoking his pipe.  He mentioned ancient Greek culture in particular, and explained in words I do not remember that what I had witnessed has always gone on and there was no need pursue the matter.  To do so would be to bring disfavor on the “Y,” and we certainly would not want that to happen.  The twin facts that the high school boys were probably younger than the age of consent at the time (21 in those days) and that sexual favors were being elicited in exchange for money (legally a crime even today, I believe) hadn’t occurred to me when I spoke with the General Secretary, and he certainly seemed to be unaware of such considerations, or at least, he didn’t mention them.  So, that’s where the matter ended, and until this blog, it has so far as I know never been mentioned again.

This erection of an episode out of the deep niches of memory helps me understand something of what went on at Penn State, and chances are that if what happened there in the last (what? 20, 30 maybe even 40) years had come out back in the late fifties or early sixties, it still would have been brushed under the carpet, but the difference being that it would have stayed a secret.  And the Penn State football legends would have remained permanently imbedded in bronze for all time.

Please understand, this is not a condemnation of homosexuality.  Quite the contrary, I am absolutely in favor of consenting same-gendered adults who are in love being able to find fulfillment and the depth of wonder resident in their relationship.  Unfortunately, my denomination (The United Methodist Church) forbids its clergy from participating in marriage ceremonies of same-gendered individuals.  If that were not the case, I would delight in the opportunity to bless love wherever I could find it.

But that’s another issue.  What went on at Penn State involved corruption, and consequent violence against children, of inconceivable proportions.  It was rape and rape is not about love ever; rather, it’s raw hatred in all of its hideousness.  The actions condoned by top-level administrative officials were committed against mostly disadvantaged minors, reinforcing once again the notion that those less obviously favored among us are to be thought of as slaves.  It’s okay to “use” defenseless lower-class youth, even to ridicule and humiliate them, because their purpose in life is to gratify the needs of those whom God must love more—those with extraordinary power and wealth must be more deserving.  Even Joel Olsteen and his Gospel of Prosperity agrees.  Not!

The one hopeful prospect in this sad episode of human degradation is that, whereas in the fifties and sixties Penn State probably would have gotten away with it, as did Wheeler Carr Bachman, a new day of openness and the technological miracle of instant communication has made it less and less likely that such things will ever be swept under the rug again

Beware the One Meeting the Bus

Some church people may not realize that there is a secret code among pastors.  It is comprised of aphorisms whose meanings are readily understood by clerics, but not so much by parishioners.  One such saying is “Beware the person who meets the bus!”   This advice has been a big help in most of my transitions to new congregations.  As a pastor I have served nine congregations including two as a student pastor during college years and one as an interim post-retirement.  All but three of these pastoral charges have verified the truth of the maxim.

The person who meets the bus is the one who writes or phones you before your arrival in your new church, or meets you at the airport, or travels many miles to spend time with you in your former parish even before your new pastoral responsibilities have begun.  Usually such contacts are outside the usual protocol for a new pastoral start-up, or the result of over-zealous machinations in order to be first in line at the bus stop.

Most of the time these contacts are attempts to ingratiate oneself, to cunningly work oneself into a favorable position with the new pastor.  Most of the time such individuals prove to be power mongers who want an edge up on being sure that things in the congregation go their way.  So this initial meeting with the prospective new pastor is an attempt to work around the stated procedure for introducing the pastor to the church, and at the same time check him/her out to see how malleable the supposedly unsuspecting parson will be to the usurper’s own controlling agenda.

One such episode early in my pastoral career involved a gentleman who showed up at the parsonage right after we had moved in and before my first Sunday in the new church.  Often people show up unannounced bearing gifts of food and other expressions of welcome.  That is a very good thing and deeply appreciated!  But this particular individual bore no gifts, made some inquiry about my being the new pastor, and from there babbled on in a bumbling attempt to curry favor.  His illusions of having succeeded must have ended quickly when at the first Board Meeting after my arrival a scheme he devised that would have served his self-interest found no support from me and was handily voted down by the Board.  His interest in the church dwindled after that.  His effort lacked the cleverness of others I have encountered along the way.

Another person learned that my practice for many years was to take a long walk on Sundays prior to time for me to be at church for Sunday School and Worship.  These lone excursions were meant to provide an opportunity to prepare my mind and spirit for worship as well as review the intended sermon and liturgy for the day.  Also, they were timed so that I usually showed up at church ready to attend to unfinished details and enjoy the day’s interaction.

Learning quickly after the beginning of my pastorate in this church the route I usually followed on my pre-church walk, this gentleman waited for me near my starting point and joined me on the jaunt—not once, not twice, but many times.  He wasn’t as bumbling as the fellow mentioned above, but clearly his agenda was the same—to win over my support of his agenda for the church.  I should have explained to him how important these walks were for my preparation for church, but intuitively suspecting that his sensitivities might not be able to handle it, I simply endured his intrusions until he figured out that his “cozying up” didn’t make a difference in how I saw my administrative role.

Perhaps the occurrence that stands out the most in 46 years of ministerial memory involved a retired pastor (who ought to have known better) who as a retiree took on a number of leadership roles in the church where I was to be appointed, and who, unbeknownst to him, was being edged out of some of these roles by the Staff-Parish Relations Committee (the advisory committee to church staff).  The method of the SPRC was rather circuitous: I was not to give this person any responsibilities that would involve him in worship leadership (their estimation was that he had lost most of his fluency in such duties), but neither was I to let him know that his being “fired” from worship leadership was their doing.

So when a letter arrived from him a month before I moved to this new church, I had already heard of him.  The letter was a summons actually.  I was to meet him at 9 a.m. in front of Wesley Chapel on Wednesday of the week of Annual Conference (the state-wide legislative gathering of our denomination held at West Virginia Wesleyan College prior to pastors being moved to their new congregations).  The letter even included the fact that he would be wearing a green leisure suit at this “bus stop” meeting, so that I could easily spot him amid the crowd that usually gathered around the Chapel entrances.  I went as ordered on the appointed day, but because of the Conference schedule, there was no time for an extended conversation.  He may have envisioned that we would sit together at the Conference business session, giving him time to be sure I understood how important his role in the church was. (Possibly he sensed that some things were about to change.)  Outside of a few gratuitous remarks and an indication that we would talk more when I arrived at the church, we parted and went separate ways.

He did stop by the office several times during those early weeks of my tenure at this congregation.  Our conversations were casual, but he never broached the topic of worship leadership.  Since I was mandated to bar him from such participation, I took the easier step of not bringing it up either.  Today, I would handle the situation much more directly, putting the responsibility on the SPRC where it belonged.  But, alas, too often we grow smart too late.

The rejected retired pastor retaliated.  He began writing anonymous letters to me that catalogued all of my many faults as he perceived them, and he also sent letters to key leaders in the congregation complaining about my inadequacies as a pastor.  And he did manage to win over a few persons to sympathize with him and help keep the dissension going.  (I know he was the author of the letters sent to me because he used the same manual typewriter on which the letter I received from him months before had been typed.)  His interference along with other very complex problems at this church made for a very tumultuous pastorate, one I was relieved to leave.  After all, there is a fine line between loyalty and stupidity.

No doubt, other vocations experience the “bus stop” syndrome.  Children butter up their parents in order to get their way; parents suck up to teachers in an effort to get their children into the gifted program; fawning and flattering fops overwhelm politicians to obtain special favors; brownnosers go so far up their supervisors’ anatomies that hoped-for promotions reek of fertilizer.

But what these sycophants fail to understand is that, whereas other leaders (parents, teachers, politicians, supervisors, etc.) may wield power and the ability to control outcomes, pastors do not.  It’s true that some pastors haven’t learned this lesson and often behave as if their donning clerical garb makes what they say and do about twenty inches above human contradiction.  And, it may be true that pastors in an earlier time had power and authority conferred upon them simply because of their office, but that day is long gone.  And good riddance!  Any authority bestowed on pastors these days is mostly because they have earned it through mutual respect, listening skills, reasoned promptings, disciplined preparation, genuine commitment and other similar qualities.  In other words, pastors may have the ability to influence and persuade congregations to move in particular directions, but that largely depends on the confidence that has developed between pastor and parish.  That is not power and control.

As stated earlier, most people who reach out to the pastor’s family in the earliest days of the pastoral start-up are genuinely interested in extending a warm welcome.  That is gratifying and goes a long way toward bonding the pastor-parish connection.  But some meet the bus for their own cloaked reasons.  Any pastor with savvy will see right through them.  And other pastors will catch on soon enough.