
What way might we -- you and I -- like to practice? There are violent ways, vain ways, and self-righteous ways. At the heart of a Christian life, and truly at the heart of any good life, is the possibility of still another way. It is not proud or self-centered. It does not gloat over others. It does what it can do in a humble way, making space for others. We might call it the way of hospitality. Patricia Adams Farmer has written an essay on the hospitable way: "H" is for Hospitality. Rev. Teri Daily has written a homily for one of her parishioners, Michael, upon his passing – his moving forward – into the next world. Michael was about the hospitable way, too. Chances are good he is still on that way and in it. Isn't Heaven, after all, a hospitable heart? Isn't this what generously orthodox Christians like Teri Daily mean by the space within the Trinity? Isn't it, after all, a wonderful place to roam. (JMcD)
Those Who Practice the Way
A Homily for Michael
A homily for Mike...
I am grateful to Rev. Greg, to Mike’s family, and to St. Peter’s for this opportunity to be here today as we celebrate Mike’s life. Mike has touched so many lives in his fifty-three years on this earth. Mike was unlike any other person I’ve ever met, and probably unlike any person you’ve met, too.
I can definitely say that St. Peter’s will not be quite the same without him. I remember when Mike first started attending services here. He would sit about halfway back on the pulpit side, on the end of the pew right next to the aisle. For several weeks he would scoot out right before the end of the service, not daring to stick around lest anyone engage him in conversation. Then one afternoon he came to the office and said, “Well, I guess you’ve probably been wondering who I am?” And that was the day we at St. Peter’s came to know Mike.
Almost immediately the aesthetics of our food tables increased dramatically. I mean, my idea of a nice spread was to throw a tablecloth on the table, no paper or plastic plates, and maybe a few flowers. That was not Mike’s idea of decorating. I will never forget coming into the parish hall on Shrove Tuesday for supper and finding a tree-like centerpiece made of large, bare branches extending almost to the ceiling – Mardi Gras beads of all colors hanging from every branch.
And then there was the first art show we ever had in the parish hall. We had carefully delineated the section of the room that would be devoted to food and the section that would be used for art. I thought we were doing OK until I realized that Mike had recruited a whole team of decorators. All sorts of things began to be paraded into the parish hall, things that Mike would use as the underbelly for the food display – plastic boxes of various sizes, the stool preschoolers used to reach the sink, large wooden blocks, and much, much more. I got nervous just watching it all. By the time it was over Mike had constructed a tower of cascading dips and chips that (once again) reached almost to the ceiling – something that became known in St. Peter’s lore as bean dip mountain – and I was completely worn out from reminding him over and over again where the food section ended and the art section began.
Mike ultimately decided to be a verger, which is essentially a ministry of hospitality. It was who he was through and through. Yes, there was the was the part of being a verger in which he led the procession, prepared the thurible for incense, and would swing through the vesting room before service and say “five more minutes” – all of which he did beautifully. But that wasn’t the part that many of us will remember most.
What most of us will remember is the hospitality and care that Mike took the time to show to each person. When a child was squirming in the pew, Mike brought them a coloring book and crayons. When someone was down, Mike always took the time to notice. When Mike realized he needed another person to help as verger, he took the time to train a then high school student – trusting keys and responsibilities to him in the same way he would have to an older person. Small stones would show up on a grave marker in the memorial garden, and we would know that Mike had again quietly remembered one of our St. Peter’s members laid to rest there. There would probably still be at least a dozen sets of keys buried all over this church building if, on many Sunday afternoons, Mike hadn’t taken the time to do a search and rescue mission for my keys. He believed in the infinite value of every person, and so he was always ready to help with a memorial service, often coming in unseen to set up the food tables before himself going to work at Golden Corral – where the regular diners looked for him, having themselves received the attention that Mike was always willing to give.
This care for others wasn’t something that was new to Mike’s life. It had always been who he was. Years ago, Mike took the time to send books to one of his children’s friends who ended up in prison just so the young person would have good things to read. Not only did he enjoy fixing food for his family and friends, he also fed many, many others throughout his life – especially those who were down on their luck and didn’t know where their next meal was coming from. Mike’s family remembers him inviting people to eat or to stay in their home – be that a Malaysian family, a friend, or someone he just happened to meet. People began to refer other people who needed help to Mike.
As I looked at the scripture for today’s service, I was struck by the reading from the book of Wisdom, found in the Apocrypha. What stood out to me was the promise that “the souls of the righteous are in the hand of God.” Which led me to ask the question: what exactly does a “righteous” person look like? We often think of a righteous person as one who is morally indignant about a particular issue, but Mike didn’t walk around very often with an air of moral indignation. Sometimes we think of a righteous person as one who follows a strict code or set of rules, but (as many who run our food pantry know) Mike was willing to bypass rules if he ever thought that he had to choose between the rules and what was in the best interest of another person. So what made Mike righteous? What made him virtuous and Christ-like? Mike was righteous in his ability to care for the one person standing right there in front of him.
Michael Ramsey was the Archbishop of Canterbury in the 1960s and early 1970s. He spoke these words to a group of parish priests, but he could just as easily have been speaking to all of us:
Amidst the vast scene of the world’s problems and tragedies you may feel that your own ministry seems so small, so insignificant, so concerned with the trivial. … But consider: the glory of Christianity is its claim that small things really matter and that the small company, the very few, the one man, the one woman, the one child are of infinite worth to God. Let that be your inspiration. Consider our Lord himself. Amidst a vast world with its vast empires and vast events and tragedies our Lord devoted himself to a small country, to small things and to individual men and women, often giving hours of time to the very few or to the one man or woman. In a country in which there were movements and causes which excited the allegiance of many – the Pharisees, the Zealots, the Essenes, and others – our Lord gives many hours to one woman of Samaria, one Nicodemus, one Martha, one Mary, one Lazarus, one Simon Peter, for the infinite worth of the one is the key to the Christian understanding of the many. … You will never be closer to Christ than in caring for the one man, the one woman, the one child.[1]
Mike always saw the one man, the one woman, the one child.
Mike’s life was not easy; it wasn’t perfect. None of ours is. In this life all of our hearts get broken at some point by loss, failure, or betrayal – there’s no way around it. It's been said that what makes the difference is how our heart breaks. If our heart is hard, it shatters into a thousand pieces, making us angry and resentful. If our heart is supple, it breaks open and develops a greater capacity “to hold the complexities and contradictions of human experience.”[2] Mike’s heart broke open, and that gave him incredible compassion for those around him.
Mike gave no one more care and attention than he did to those in his family, those he loved so very deeply – wife Lisa, daughter Rebecca, son Jordan, granddaughters Sierra and Elise, mother Frances, son-in-law John, and Jordan’s fiancée Kimie. He instilled in his children the belief that life circumstances don’t define who one is or who one becomes, and that material wealth is not nearly as important as spiritual wealth. He cultivated within himself as well as within Becca and Jordan an appreciation for other cultures and for diversity itself – taking the family to museums in Little Rock and Memphis, welcoming those of other religions into their lives, stressing the value of each and every person. Mike had a wide soul, and as a result stretched the souls of those around him. He was so proud of you, Becca and Jordan, as he was of the two best gifts you ever gave him – his granddaughters Sierra and Elise. His whole face lit up whenever a visit drew near. And, Lisa, you were his soulmate – his constant through all that life both gifted him and threw at him.
As you (his family) and all of us gathered here go through the days ahead, may we continue to hold the pieces and the memories of Mike’s life in love, and to name them as sacred. And while we most certainly will experience grief, we are not a people without hope. Through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, we know that death is not the final word – life is. We know that a life and love like Mike’s does not die; it lives on forever. Mike lives on in the many ways he has changed our lives and made us who we are. And Mike lives on with God, who holds the souls of the righteous in God’s hand. That’s why even on this day, maybe especially on this day and at the grave, we still say the words: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.
[1] Love’s Redeeming Work: The Anglican Quest for Holiness, eds. Geoffrey Rowell, Kenneth Stevenson, and Rowan Williams (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001) 666.
[2] Parker J. Palmer, Healing the Heart of Democracy (San Francisco: Jossey-Bass, 2011) 18.
I am grateful to Rev. Greg, to Mike’s family, and to St. Peter’s for this opportunity to be here today as we celebrate Mike’s life. Mike has touched so many lives in his fifty-three years on this earth. Mike was unlike any other person I’ve ever met, and probably unlike any person you’ve met, too.
I can definitely say that St. Peter’s will not be quite the same without him. I remember when Mike first started attending services here. He would sit about halfway back on the pulpit side, on the end of the pew right next to the aisle. For several weeks he would scoot out right before the end of the service, not daring to stick around lest anyone engage him in conversation. Then one afternoon he came to the office and said, “Well, I guess you’ve probably been wondering who I am?” And that was the day we at St. Peter’s came to know Mike.
Almost immediately the aesthetics of our food tables increased dramatically. I mean, my idea of a nice spread was to throw a tablecloth on the table, no paper or plastic plates, and maybe a few flowers. That was not Mike’s idea of decorating. I will never forget coming into the parish hall on Shrove Tuesday for supper and finding a tree-like centerpiece made of large, bare branches extending almost to the ceiling – Mardi Gras beads of all colors hanging from every branch.
And then there was the first art show we ever had in the parish hall. We had carefully delineated the section of the room that would be devoted to food and the section that would be used for art. I thought we were doing OK until I realized that Mike had recruited a whole team of decorators. All sorts of things began to be paraded into the parish hall, things that Mike would use as the underbelly for the food display – plastic boxes of various sizes, the stool preschoolers used to reach the sink, large wooden blocks, and much, much more. I got nervous just watching it all. By the time it was over Mike had constructed a tower of cascading dips and chips that (once again) reached almost to the ceiling – something that became known in St. Peter’s lore as bean dip mountain – and I was completely worn out from reminding him over and over again where the food section ended and the art section began.
Mike ultimately decided to be a verger, which is essentially a ministry of hospitality. It was who he was through and through. Yes, there was the was the part of being a verger in which he led the procession, prepared the thurible for incense, and would swing through the vesting room before service and say “five more minutes” – all of which he did beautifully. But that wasn’t the part that many of us will remember most.
What most of us will remember is the hospitality and care that Mike took the time to show to each person. When a child was squirming in the pew, Mike brought them a coloring book and crayons. When someone was down, Mike always took the time to notice. When Mike realized he needed another person to help as verger, he took the time to train a then high school student – trusting keys and responsibilities to him in the same way he would have to an older person. Small stones would show up on a grave marker in the memorial garden, and we would know that Mike had again quietly remembered one of our St. Peter’s members laid to rest there. There would probably still be at least a dozen sets of keys buried all over this church building if, on many Sunday afternoons, Mike hadn’t taken the time to do a search and rescue mission for my keys. He believed in the infinite value of every person, and so he was always ready to help with a memorial service, often coming in unseen to set up the food tables before himself going to work at Golden Corral – where the regular diners looked for him, having themselves received the attention that Mike was always willing to give.
This care for others wasn’t something that was new to Mike’s life. It had always been who he was. Years ago, Mike took the time to send books to one of his children’s friends who ended up in prison just so the young person would have good things to read. Not only did he enjoy fixing food for his family and friends, he also fed many, many others throughout his life – especially those who were down on their luck and didn’t know where their next meal was coming from. Mike’s family remembers him inviting people to eat or to stay in their home – be that a Malaysian family, a friend, or someone he just happened to meet. People began to refer other people who needed help to Mike.
As I looked at the scripture for today’s service, I was struck by the reading from the book of Wisdom, found in the Apocrypha. What stood out to me was the promise that “the souls of the righteous are in the hand of God.” Which led me to ask the question: what exactly does a “righteous” person look like? We often think of a righteous person as one who is morally indignant about a particular issue, but Mike didn’t walk around very often with an air of moral indignation. Sometimes we think of a righteous person as one who follows a strict code or set of rules, but (as many who run our food pantry know) Mike was willing to bypass rules if he ever thought that he had to choose between the rules and what was in the best interest of another person. So what made Mike righteous? What made him virtuous and Christ-like? Mike was righteous in his ability to care for the one person standing right there in front of him.
Michael Ramsey was the Archbishop of Canterbury in the 1960s and early 1970s. He spoke these words to a group of parish priests, but he could just as easily have been speaking to all of us:
Amidst the vast scene of the world’s problems and tragedies you may feel that your own ministry seems so small, so insignificant, so concerned with the trivial. … But consider: the glory of Christianity is its claim that small things really matter and that the small company, the very few, the one man, the one woman, the one child are of infinite worth to God. Let that be your inspiration. Consider our Lord himself. Amidst a vast world with its vast empires and vast events and tragedies our Lord devoted himself to a small country, to small things and to individual men and women, often giving hours of time to the very few or to the one man or woman. In a country in which there were movements and causes which excited the allegiance of many – the Pharisees, the Zealots, the Essenes, and others – our Lord gives many hours to one woman of Samaria, one Nicodemus, one Martha, one Mary, one Lazarus, one Simon Peter, for the infinite worth of the one is the key to the Christian understanding of the many. … You will never be closer to Christ than in caring for the one man, the one woman, the one child.[1]
Mike always saw the one man, the one woman, the one child.
Mike’s life was not easy; it wasn’t perfect. None of ours is. In this life all of our hearts get broken at some point by loss, failure, or betrayal – there’s no way around it. It's been said that what makes the difference is how our heart breaks. If our heart is hard, it shatters into a thousand pieces, making us angry and resentful. If our heart is supple, it breaks open and develops a greater capacity “to hold the complexities and contradictions of human experience.”[2] Mike’s heart broke open, and that gave him incredible compassion for those around him.
Mike gave no one more care and attention than he did to those in his family, those he loved so very deeply – wife Lisa, daughter Rebecca, son Jordan, granddaughters Sierra and Elise, mother Frances, son-in-law John, and Jordan’s fiancée Kimie. He instilled in his children the belief that life circumstances don’t define who one is or who one becomes, and that material wealth is not nearly as important as spiritual wealth. He cultivated within himself as well as within Becca and Jordan an appreciation for other cultures and for diversity itself – taking the family to museums in Little Rock and Memphis, welcoming those of other religions into their lives, stressing the value of each and every person. Mike had a wide soul, and as a result stretched the souls of those around him. He was so proud of you, Becca and Jordan, as he was of the two best gifts you ever gave him – his granddaughters Sierra and Elise. His whole face lit up whenever a visit drew near. And, Lisa, you were his soulmate – his constant through all that life both gifted him and threw at him.
As you (his family) and all of us gathered here go through the days ahead, may we continue to hold the pieces and the memories of Mike’s life in love, and to name them as sacred. And while we most certainly will experience grief, we are not a people without hope. Through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, we know that death is not the final word – life is. We know that a life and love like Mike’s does not die; it lives on forever. Mike lives on in the many ways he has changed our lives and made us who we are. And Mike lives on with God, who holds the souls of the righteous in God’s hand. That’s why even on this day, maybe especially on this day and at the grave, we still say the words: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.
[1] Love’s Redeeming Work: The Anglican Quest for Holiness, eds. Geoffrey Rowell, Kenneth Stevenson, and Rowan Williams (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001) 666.
[2] Parker J. Palmer, Healing the Heart of Democracy (San Francisco: Jossey-Bass, 2011) 18.