Sermon for my uncle Vern

My uncle Vern, the longtime traveling companion of my uncle Father Maynard, passed away last week.

I had the honor, after having offered the eulogy for Uncle Maynard's funeral, of being asked to lead Vern's service:  something simple and something that honored him and his life.

This is what I planned and led.

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Gathering

Reflections (by Vern's nieces Jody and Dawn)

Readings

Psalm 116:12-19 (The Message)
John 11:17-27 (The Message)

Sermon

Grief does strange things to us.

It comes in many forms.  Grief comes in denial -- in that terror that strikes the heart so close that it seems we can do nothing but avoid it.  It comes in sorrow -- in tears, in a trembling stillness, in what poets have called the dark night of the soul.  It comes in anger, in defense against the pain, a lashing out at anything around us.  It comes in pleading, in begging, in prayers sent up to whatever God we beseech:  Please, don’t let this be happening.  I’ll do anything to make it change.

Grief comes, centrally, as pain.  Our anger and sorrow and denial and bargaining all stem from the experience of pain in the face of death.  We hear that pain in Martha reaching out for Jesus, her words both angry and heartbroken:  If you had been here, my brother would not have died.

There is not only grief at death.  There is grief at every change in life.  At the end of a job, or the beginning of a new one.  At a new house, a new city, a new country.  When a child is born, or leaves for college.  When a marriage begins -- or when it ends.  There is grief at every change, because with every change there is a loss.  Something that we have treasured, or celebrated, or even never noticed for its simplicity -- is gone.  It is now only part of our past.  With every change there is loss.  And with every loss, there must be pain.  There is a readjustment, new steps to take, a new turn in life’s path.

We will grieve Vern in very many ways.  His absence will prick at us in funny ways:  sometimes all at once, in the next few weeks.  There may be activities that seem unbearable, like sorting his belongings -- or we may feel numb, only to break down later at a time that seems most inappropriate.  Sometimes something very simple, like washing dishes or tending the garden, will trigger a tear.  At family gatherings, we will notice his absence.  This is natural to us, as humans, who love and remember each other.  It is change, it is grief, and it is pain.

We rarely speak of any joy in grief.  It seems profane, sometimes, in the face of our pain to speak of celebration.  And yet we have a great joy today.  We have this beautiful confidence, this image shared among many of us, of the joy of Vern’s heavenly reunion with Father Maynard.  They were companions in this life, and now they are in the next.  They traveled throughout the world together; now they are traveling companions in a whole new way.  They served great dinners together, celebrations of family and friends united over good food and loud laughter; now they are seated together at God’s great banquet, of which all our meals and all Father Maynard’s masses are just a foretaste of the feast to come.

So in our grief, there is also this odd and wondrous joy.  These two dear friends, so united in life, are living out now the great promise of all those who love each other like family:  "where you go, I will go, and where you stay, I will stay; your people will be my people, and your God my God.”  When we celebrate Vern’s life today, we celebrate also his death and resurrection.  We celebrate the moment that he let go of Suzanne and Don’s hands and, passing from this life, took Father Maynard’s hand in the next.  There was, at that moment, a great and joyous reunion in heaven.

So today in our grief we have this beautiful grace.  This hope and vision of the life hereafter, where our beloved brother Vern joins our brother Maynard in the welcoming arms of God.  And hand in hand in God’s wide embrace, they go on together, partners in the journey of the next life.

Today, in our grieving and our mourning, we cling also to that hope.  The hope that we, like Vern and Maynard now, will all one day be reunited with the ones we love.  The hope that we, like all those who have gone before us, will stand in the presence of the God of Love that made and cherished us.  The hope that we might be greeted with the joyous cry, “Well done, good and faithful servant!  Enter into the joy of your God.”

Let us pray.

Holy God, as we come together to mourn, to grieve, to remember, and to celebrate, grace our hearts with your loving presence, that we might be moved to the kind of service, friendship, and compassion that characterized your child Vern’s life.  Strengthen us to see your light and delight in each other, and to cling to love in all our sorrow.  Amen.

Prayers of the People 

"Abide With Me"

Commendation

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I also had the gift of leading the Committal at the mausoleum where we laid Vern to rest exactly where he belonged -- beside Maynard.  I read Romans 8:31-35, 37-39 from one of Maynard's pastoral visitation prayerbooks which Vern gifted to me after his death.

It was an amazing honor to be asked to lead and to have the chance to meet some of the many people who loved and honored Vern.  He was a great man with a generous and loving heart, and he will be very much missed.

A minister's inheritance

My uncle Maynard passed away two months ago.

His longtime companion Vern, and his nurse Suzanne, sorted through his effects at the house in Arizona.  Photos are being saved, journals preserved, items sent to friends and family.

Including three boxes to my parents' house, to the new reverend in the Kegler family.

It is an odd and weighty thing to receive what has been sent.  There are sixty years of service in those boxes.  I hope to chronicle them more and take photos as I go, but it is honestly overwhelming to open each box and find the history within.

I have inherited many chalices, including his personal chalice used for daily mass -- the silver worn from use, the brass base heavy and sturdy.  Also a traveling communion kit, with full cup and plate, used by Catholic priests in German prisoner-of-war camps in America in WWII.  To hold that is to hold a history that traces back thousands of years -- a thin line threading through centuries, a strand of love even for the enemy.

Most recently I am fascinated by this.

Dr. Thomas A. Dooley III

"In recognition of the public service to alleviate suffering among people of the world" 

Dr. Thomas Anthony Dooley III, according to the foundation that bears his name:

Tom Dooley met his destiny in 1954 while serving as a young Navy Lieutenant assigned to caring for refugees in North Vietnam. From that experience his life took fire and was never to be the same again. Tom, who grew up in a comfortable suburb of St. Louis, was tormented by his new found realization that half the world goes to bed hungry every night, that half the world spends a lifetime without seeing a doctor – that half the world still suffers from the diseases of Biblical days.

The young physician was unable to ignore these realities of human existence. He was determined to bring to the other half of the world medical care, education and training for better health and a new quality of life. In 1958, he founded MEDICO, and in the three short years before his painful death from cancer in 1961, he established 17 medical programs in 14 countries. Tom Dooley captured the heart of America and became a legend in his own time.

In those few short years he became one of the world’s most admired men – honored by such notables as His Excellency the Pope, Albert Schweitzer, Presidents Eisenhower, Kennedy and Nixon, Dr. Charles Mayo and posthumously by a special medal authorized by the United States Congress.  (dooleyintermed.com)

This medal, the Congressional Gold Medal, is the highest civilian award in America, and now I own a small replica.

I had never heard of Dr. Dooley before Father Maynard's death.  It seems that Dr. Dooley and my uncle had met while they were both in St. Louis, and had become friends.  (Of this I have no doubt, because my uncle was one of the kindest and friendliest people I knew.)  After Dr. Dooley's early death at age thirty-four, he was championed for canonization in the Catholic church, with my uncle leading the charge.  Ultimately the beatification process failed, but Dr. Dooley is still recognized for his humanitarian contributions, and the foundation that bears his name continues that work around the world.

Dooley wrote three books, Deliver Us From Evil, The Edge of Tomorrow, and The Night They Burned the Mountain.  His biography, Promises to Keep, was written by his mother (who passed on many things to my uncle after Dooley's death in 1961).  I'm hoping to read some in the next few weeks and come to better know the man my uncle so revered.