Eulogy: Doris Hawkins

Doris Jean Barnes Hawkins

            She was a plain-spoken, down-to-earth woman.  If her tiny stature caused some to view her as demure, they were deceived, for she was a woman of fantastic strength, a forthright person who always spoke her mind, a hard working woman who was not about to be defeated or dehumanized.  Doris Jean, or “Mimi” as she was affectionately called by her family, was one of those persons whose presence made a difference in ways that matter.

            She was the kind of woman whom others sought out when they needed not only someone who would listen but someone who would understand, expressing her opinion only when she was sure you were ready to hear it.  While she rarely asked help for herself, she was always among the first responders in the neighborhood to recognize when others needed help and to act in practical ways. 

            Sometimes those practical ways included gifts of homemade baked pies, chocolate cakes with caramel icing, and cookies.  Sometimes it was her quiet, reassuring presence simply being there ready to lend a hand.

            A giver at heart, she wouldn’t ask for help when such would have been beneficial, but instead resorted to her own ways of coping.  In her seventies, the Hawkins’ boys tried to hire help to mow the lawn, but when the lawn service arrived, she wouldn’t let the mowing equipment be unloaded, insisting she could take care of her own lawn.  When the kitchen sink wouldn’t drain, she said nothing and resorted to washing the dishes in the bathroom.  (There was an automatic dish washer in the kitchen, but that was where she stashed all the baked goodies she made to keep her family from eating them—some secret hiding place—that’s the first place the grandkids looked when they came by to hang out.)  So without a kitchen sink and a dishwasher available, at a time when her husband was struggling with overwhelming illness, unable to do any repair work, dishes were being washed in the bathroom.  Had her husband, “Poppy,” not “spilled the beans” about what Mimi was doing, that kitchen sink might still be clogged up.  One of her sons, Gary, was driving past his mom’s house and there she was, a woman in her seventies, on the roof smearing tar to take care of some leaks.  It’s a wonder she wasn’t using duct tape to stop those leaks, because that’s what she used to fix nearly everything else, even her sunglasses.

            Doris and her husband, William, were partners in everything, even in business.  They jointly owned the Reliable Express Trucking Company; he was the head mechanic and she was the CEO, handling all the administrative and financial details of running a business, and sometimes she was the extra set of hands her husband needed in the garage, mostly at night when the other employees had gone.  Rosy the Riveter would have found her match in Mimi the Mechanic.  Mind you, this was in addition to raising a family of three boys.  One has to marvel at how Mimi and Poppy could combine both business and family roles without caving into chaos.  Yet one neighbor was overheard referring to the Hawkins’ household as a place where three boys who became successful themselves were raised by two happy parents.  Amazing!

            The happy Hawkins home actually was a gathering place for others beyond the family.  Many of Gary, Eddie and Bill’s friends found a second home at the Hawkins’ abode, a safe place to hang-out in an atmosphere of genuine welcome and warmth.  Most of the time, that is.  One time a friend, named Dave, was banished from the home for an entire week.  He and Bill made the mistake of staying out past curfew, and when they finally returned, Doris, who was convinced that her boys could do no wrong, blamed Dave, even though Bill was the one driving the car, and told him not to come back for a week.  The week passed, and Dave did return, and everything was restored to normal.

            Doris found much delight in active and social pursuits.  She belonged to a bowling league and a canasta club.  She followed the Pirates and the NASCAR races.  One time when she was driving the Corvette, the person riding in the car with Doris became alarmed at how fast she was going.  When asked to slow down, she asked why—the car was only going 30.  She was reading the tachometer.  Barney Oldfield had been outdone that day.

              So many wonderful memories of a beautiful life lived; so much for which to be grateful.  The family gatherings on Friday evenings after the boys had grown and begun their own families, the many luscious desserts, even the small cinnamon pinwheels whenever pies were made, the many greeting cards and other clippings stored away in nooks and crannies around the house, remembrances of appreciation from children and grandchildren over the years.  So many cherished memories!  One of the sons expressed it this way: “They gave us a lot; they went without for us boys.”  What a fitting tribute to a worthy Mom and Dad!

            Among the clippings that Doris saved are two items that reveal much about who she was.  One is a very old children’s Bible lesson picture card containing the gospel passage that Andrew read for us earlier, a lesson having to do with those hoity-toity folk who assume the places of honor in any gathering.  Obviously Doris didn’t think much of people who push their way ahead of others.

          

         The other piece carried something of the same lesson and is entitled “What Is Class?”:

“Class never runs scared.  It is sure-footed and confident in the knowledge that you can meet life head on and handle whatever comes along.

“Class never makes excuses.  It takes its lumps and learns from past mistakes.

“Class is considerate of others.  It knows that good manners are nothing more than a series of small sacrifices.

“Class bespeaks an aristocracy that has nothing to do with ancestors or money.  The most affluent blue-blood can be totally without class while the descendant of a Welsh miner may ooze class from every pore.

“Class never tries to build itself up by tearing others down.  Class is already up and need not strive to look better by making others look worse.

“Class can ‘walk with kings and keep its virtue and talk with crowds and keep the common touch.’  Everyone is comfortable with the person who has class because he is comfortable with himself.

“If you have class you don’t need much of anything else.  If you don’t have it, no matter what else you have, it doesn’t make much difference.”

            Sort of sounds like Doris herself, doesn’t it?  Never one to assume pride of place or station in life, she was a woman whose skill in managing detail and whose care for others created a climate where people could become the best they knew how to be.  She was a take charge kind of person, but that attribute was always directed to others’ well-being.

            The last few years of her life brought difficult physical impairments that meant she needed to be in a place where she could receive specialized medical care.  Then the day came when her situation deteriorated quickly, and the family was called in to be with her.  Sometimes we find it very difficult to accept what is happening to our loved ones.  During those last hours, family members were encouraging her to eat, but she just didn’t feel like it.  One of the family even said, “You made us eat all the time!” as if to suggest it was okay to do the same to her.  As loving families are wont to do, they were trying to stave off the inevitable, fussing over their Mom.  Finally, Doris shouted, “Sit Down and Shut Up!”  And a few hours later, she quietly slipped away.

            Ancient Church tradition says that when a person is in extremis or dying, it’s very important to pay close attention to what he or she says, because in that stage of life it was believed that the individual was as close to God as one can be on this side of life.  “Sit Down and Shut Up!”  It’s true, isn’t it?  There are times when the best we can do is to be still and simply be present.  Doris did that for so many others, and her final word says that when all else is finished, silence and loving presence are all that is needed.  And she was surrounded by that kind of love.  Thanks be to God.

PRAYER

           Eternal and gracious God, in death you hold us in life.  When life ends you bring us to new beginnings.

           We thank you for Doris Jean Barnes Hawkins, and for all the qualities in her life that fulfilled your purpose for her, and that made life richer because of her having lived.  We thank you for her commitment to family, friends and the larger community.  We thank you for her courage, persistence and straightforwardness in facing the obstacles that life sent her way.  For love given and love received, for defeats mastered and tasks well done, for faithful friendship, for the class and graces of soul and character that endeared Doris to those who knew her, we speak our deep gratitude.

            Grateful for this life you have given us, help us now as we now must take our leave of her earthly remains.  We give her not to death but to You, who being the Lord of Life are the Lord of death as well.  Help us to know that Doris and all whose faces we see no more are in your care and keeping.

            And draw those of us who remain in this life closer to one another, make us faithful to serve one another, and give us to know that peace and joy which is eternal life.  Through Jesus Christ our Lord.  Amen.

What if....

As mentioned in earlier blogs, the end stage of life, after retirement and one’s work is mostly done, leaves room for reflecting on the life lived, including the unsavory as well as the wholesome and the in-between events.  Out of the deepest recesses of wherever memory resides (medical science has not yet been able to locate memory storage banks in the brain) surface long-forgotten episodes.  Perhaps, the concluding life is trying to make sense of all that has been in a way that can find acceptance and move on toward whatever destiny awaits us all.

As is inscribed on a tombstone in a very old cemetery on the east side of Wheeling, West Virginia:

      “Stop stranger as you pass by here,

       As you are now, so once was I,

       As I am now, so you shall be,

       So prepare for Death, and follow me.”

Despite our attempts to avoid the inevitable, our minds one way or another will prepare for dying, even if we kick and scream in rebellion against it, and the reemergence of repressed memories is one of the ways it happens.

It happened again last night with a carry-over to this morning.  I attended a brilliant concert featuring the Petar Jankovic Ensemble.  The careful precision and flawless harmonic dynamics of two violins, a viola, and a cello led by a guitar blended with the acoustics of St. Peter’s sanctuary to produce an evening of authentic musical reflection.  This amazing ensemble, comprised of musicians from Indiana University, simply must rank among the top musical geniuses in the world.  So captivating and articulate was their performance that I felt again an indescribable stirring that comes when the soul is touched, a rare occurrence.

There was a flip side to the experience, however, and that resurfaced this morning.  Ah, memory, you are a bedeviling beast!  I know without the slightest doubt that I was meant for music, and was progressing at an early age in the pursuit of singing and playing the piano.  But then what proved to be a determinative event around age of eleven helped to stymy further development in musical directions.

Succinctly, an older teenager in the neighborhood, named Dirk (the third letter in his name should have been “c”), cleverly through seemingly innocent games like “Truth or Consequences,” introduced me to certain “carnal” ways that proved powerfully irresistible.  This was back in the days of barbarism when certain matters were never discussed, especially with parents for fear of reprisals, leaving most children at the mercy of their perpetrators.  Fortunately, today’s children are carefully instructed about how to handle would-be abusers, and the advent of instantaneous communications increases public awareness in a way that deters some of the behavior.  (So much for the idealized 50s.)

Those who study such realities as abuse have known for a long time that among its consequences on youngsters are confusion and obstruction of normal development.  Had such occurrences not happened, instead of quitting piano lessons because “only sissies played the piano” (at least in the culture where I grew up), my identity as male might not have been threatened by such things as music endeavors.  The positive affirmation about my musical accomplishments were not enough to dissuade the confusing factors of abuse, probably because most of those came from women, which inadvertently compounded the problem.  Male authority figures in those days seem to value only “he-man” activities, and the guiding role models for boys then were the John Waynes and Charles Atlases of the world.

Our life choices are never clear-cut.  My decision to enter Christian Ministry was a natural outgrowth of my being raised in The United Methodist Church.  In many significant ways during my childhood and adolescence, the church was my second home, and some of its adults were my adoptive parents.  While the road to music turned out to be the road not taken, it may well be that the church provided a way that promised safe protection from the onslaught of a testosterone-crazed domination system, however unrealistic that promise became.  If some elements of my decision to enter the ministry were influenced by that unrealistic promise, then it is no wonder that disappointments and frustrations prevailed.  The church can be just as abusive as any other segment of society.

The ministry, however, did provide many enriching opportunities to guard others against abuse and to be with still others as they worked their way out of abusive patterns, and such memories are gratifying.  Instead of doing unto others as I had been done unto, somehow I did muster up something of the Christian vision that I hope contributed to the constructive development of others.  And who knows, maybe that’s what destiny had in mind in the first place.

 

I again picked up the practice of piano and organ playing after marriage, and in spite of having only three years of formal instruction as a child, I did master on my own many of the hymns of the church (the ones I liked, which did not include “How Great Thou Art” UGH!), some of the Bach Little Preludes and Fugues, other baroque period pieces, some choral anthem arrangements, etc.  Much of that fluency and dexterity has declined in recent years because of aging and failure to practice.  But the love of music continues to make me wonder, what if….

Litany for Good Friday

NOTE:  I accepted an invitation to write a concluding litany for a Good Friday Service that was developed around a Cantata, "Return to Me" by Terry W. York and Taylor Scott Davis.  This new, unusual composition centers around nine Stations of the Cross and is a cut-above most music written for churches (especially today).  Utilizing cello, piano and choir, its mysterious melodies, haunting harmonies and carefully crafted text combine to speak powerfully to the meaning of the Crucifixion.  A web link to a demonstration performance of the cantata can be found at http://read.jwpepper.com/i/97579 .  May this offer some light in the darkness.

JimN

Good Friday Prayers

In the shadow of the cross, we see love shared in companionship around a table, but then broken, made bloody, by greed and hate and war—that we may remember how quickly and easily injury is inflicted through mean-spirited and loveless tendencies, God hear our prayer:

Response:  And in your love answer.

In the shadow of the cross, we see all too often how goodness is subjected to bullying, derision, taunts, jeers and even death, (Mahatma Gandi, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Rosa Parks, Medgar Evers, a teenage girl in Steubenville, Ohio, and all victims of violence)—that we may resist going along with the mob that mocks, insults and hurts others, God hear our prayer:

Response:  And in your love answer.

In the shadow of the cross, we see Pontius Pilate yielding to popular pressure instead of doing what he knew to be right—that those who have power over life and death may administer true justice impartially and with mercy and that we may be just and fair, even when it would be easier to cave into what we know to be wrong, God hear our prayer:

Response:  And in your love answer.

In the shadow of the cross, we see Simon of Cyrene, an African, compelled to carry the cross, to share the shame and pain and burden of the death of Jesus—that we will remember all who suffer because of color, race, creed, gender, sexual orientation, disability, social or economic status, and that God may find us lovable and free from resentment and prejudice, God hear our prayer:

Response:  And in your love answer.

In the shadow of the cross, we see the women who loved Jesus, following behind and grieving for him—that with Jesus we may remember women everywhere who have to watch husbands, sons, daughters, sisters brothers, friends, or lovers go to war, for those who mourn loved ones killed or wounded in violence not of their own making in such places as New Town, Connecticut, Aurora, Colorado, Hurricanes Katrina and Sandy, Iraq and Afghanistan, and all the times when daughters and sons die much too early, God hear our prayer:

Response:  And in your love answer.

In the shadow of the cross, we see Jesus, stripped naked, hung on a cross between two common thieves, despised, shamed, degraded, yet a man who could and did say, “Father, forgive them; they know not what they do.”—that we may know that same dignity and humility when we are made to suffer indignities, God hear our prayer:

Response:  And in your love answer.

In the shadow of the cross, we see the good, sacred, beautiful and true persecuted and put to death—that as we too face times when love is broken, we may discover and know the ways that God is near, feeling the pain and loss, God hear our prayer:

Response:  And in your love answer.

In the shadow of the cross, we see overwhelming darkness covering the whole land and the veil of the Temple ripped in two and the death of hope—that such emptiness and pain faced with honest courage may be the womb for a new tomorrow, God hear our prayer:

Response:  And in your love answer.

In the shadow of the cross, we see Jesus’ body wrapped against the cold and laid to rest—that the dead, especially those we have known and loved, those who have influenced us for good, may have rest in God’s warm embrace, waiting for that day when all things will be made new, God hear our prayer:

Response:  And in your love answer.

 

 

Clyde Samuel Jenkins

NOTE OF APPRECIATION:  I participated today in a memorial service for a former parishioner.  Ministerial ethics and protocol prohibit pastors from returning to congregations they once served to carry out pastoral responsibilities, except and unless they are invited to do so with and at the direction of the current pastor.  Thus, having received a call from Rev. Andrew Tennant, current pastor of Valley Chapel UMC, inviting me to join  him in officiating at this service, I accepted the invitation.  I express deep appreciation to Andrew for his genuine hospitality and for the opportunity to recall significant memories of an earlier time.  Andrew's warmth and openness made for a truly good celebration of life.

 

Clyde Samuel Jenkins

            Andrew read for us a moment ago the very familiar 23^rd Psalm, recalling the Psalmist’s affirmation that God is our Shepherd.  This Psalm, obviously derived from a shepherd’s experience, is rather curious.  When we remember how for most of Israel’s history shepherds were seen as peons, as insignificant nobodies at best and as unsavory, disgusting characters to be scorned  at worst, it’s difficult to understand how any shepherd could have felt as important and of value to God as the one who wrote this Psalm.  Yet, the affirmations in his Psalm attest to that fact: “I shall not want,” “I will fear no evil,” “He restoreth my soul,” “My cup runneth over,” “Goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.”  Incredibly, coming from a shepherd, of all people, this Psalm radiates a kind of inner confidence and poise.

            Further reflection leads us to realize that a lowly shepherd (if he is a good shepherd, faithful in his work) cares for and protects the sheep.  So then, what does a sheep have to do to deserve such careful attention by the shepherd?   Nothing!  All a sheep has to do to gain this kind of protective status with the shepherd is to be itself.  Be a sheep!

            Does it follow then that the only prerequisite we as human beings have for being of immeasurable importance to God is to be ourselves, to be just as we are, the persons we were created to be?

 Certainly Clyde Jenkins was the person he was meant to be.  He lived with zest and enjoyed fully his life as a husband, father, grandfather, great-grandfather, uncle, as a neighbor, an engineer, a sports enthusiast, an active member of the church and a few social organizations.

He had a ball with his family.  He especially enjoyed those times in the summer when family members would show up to swim in the pool out back.  Often when I would be leaving the office at the church, the sounds of laughter and water splashing and sometimes shrieking delight would spill over the fence on to the parking lot between the Jenkins’ home and the church.  Occasionally there were also aromas of hamburgers and hotdogs cooking on the poolside grill.  It took not a little restraint to keep from crashing those backyard parties.  As the pictures and video clips spread around this space make abundantly clear, Clyde adored his life with his wife, Mary Lou, and his family.  He derived much delight with all of you whom he knew as family.  He was the family man he was meant to be.

Clyde was also devoted in his commitments outside the home.  Often it seemed as if he liked doing things that helped.  Certainly that was true in his faithfulness to the church.  How invaluable it was to have Clyde living next door.  He was, in effect, for many years the congregation’s maintenance engineer.  Whenever the flood lamps around the steeple burned out, it wouldn’t take long for Clyde to worm his way up into that tiny cupola and dangle out of its four openings to change the bulbs.  Similarly, whenever a problem arose on a Saturday night with one of the furnaces, or some part of the electrical system, a simple call next door to summon Clyde would, most of the time, resolve the problem.  What was kind of astounding was that he always seemed to have what was needed to do the repairs immediately available in that tiny garage of his.  Whether some kind of part for a motor, a specialized electrical circuit, or a particular fixture, a short trip across the parking lot to his garage usually provided just what was needed.  That garage was a veritable warehouse.  And much of its supply, along with Clyde’s expertise, benefitted the Valley Chapel building at no cost to the congregation.  No doubt, his neighbors and his other social connections experienced the same quality of helpfulness.  A couple of times he bailed me out.  You ever leave the house slamming and locking the door behind you only to discover when you got to the car your keys were still in the house?  Thank goodness, Clyde, as the unofficial locksmith of the church, had all the keys.  A simple walk to the neighbor’s to make a phone call, and in a few minutes there Clyde would be, having driven down Pleasant Valley Road and Lillie Street to unlock the parsonage for a certain forgetful parson.  Clyde was the helpful man he was meant to be.

He was also a man who stood his ground.  Just as a good shepherd in Israel faced times when, with nothing but his shepherd’s crook, he had to defend the sheep against predators, there were times when Clyde would take a similar stance.  Whether those he perceived as predators were that or not, there was never any question as to Clyde’s assessment of the situation.  You always knew where Clyde stood, and that really turned out to be very helpful in most instances.  It’s a lot easier to deal with what you can see; next to impossible to deal with what you cannot see.  There were a couple of times when Clyde and I had different understandings of something that was going on, but we managed to be able to talk about it, and while we may not have reached agreement, we at least did achieve greater understanding of one another.  And the reality each and every time there was some confusion was that Clyde was expressing his care for the commitments of his life, and he was being the best person he knew how to be.  What more can be asked of any human being?

Certainly, as the shepherd often faced valleys of the shadow of death, Clyde too had his share of troubling trials.  A number of years ago he faced major surgery involving the resection of a lung due to cancer.  Fortunately, he dodged that bullet and before long had his own little resurrection as he returned to more chances to square dance with Mary Lou, more family swim parties, more golf outings, and more church services.  Another awful turn in the road came when Clyde’s son, Mark, having struggled for years with unrelenting difficulties, died at a much-too-early age.  What a terrible descent into the valley of shadows that must have been.

Yet, Clyde continued to do the things that help, the practical things that contributed to eliminating the shadows and restoring light in a valley called “Pleasant.”  The few times I have seen Clyde since leaving Valley Chapel have been in Crackerbarrel or Walmart or at one of the United Methodist Men’s baked steak dinners.  Every time, Clyde would greet me with that winsome smile that he wore most of the time.  No doubt, the last few years for Clyde have been unbearable and there has been much to be sad about, but now that he has made his final journey through the valley of the shadow of death, perhaps he is no longer in want, and once again surrounded by lush green pastures and streams of flowing water, and once again wearing that irresistible smile. 

PRAYER

            Gracious God of love, we praise you for the goodness we have witnessed in the life of Clyde Samuel Jenkins.  The years slip through our minds like minutes when we think of him, and remembering the days we have had with him, we thank you for the providence that let us call him husband, father, grandfather, great-grandfather, uncle, neighbor and friend.  For his faithfulness in relationships and his helpful character, for his steadfastness in the surging flood of daily duties and his unswerving perseverance in the face of overwhelming obstacles, for the delight he derived from his family and the other commitments of his life, that there were times when members of his family and his friends could share his burdens or smooth his road or ease his pain, these thoughts and memories are precious to us, O God, and we speak our gratitude for all that we have shared with our brother in Christ, Clyde.

            Help us, O God, to know that Clyde is safe in the loving embrace of your everlasting arms, a sheep of your own fold, a lamb of your own flock, and that he is at peace. Through Jesus Christ our Lord, who taught his followers the prayer we now say together:

THE PRAYER OF OUR SAVIOR

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.