On behalf of the family, I would like to thank all of you who attended the service in which we remind ourselves intentionally of the promises God has made to each of us who call upon the work and person of Jesus Christ. I would also like to thank those folks who came to the visitation but skedaddled before the worship service began. From a preacher’s perspective, those visitations can be invaluable. We get to hear lots of stories about those who died. Often the stories range from great humor to admiration, though I have found it also common to hear some stories that those deceased might not find flattering, were they able to speak up.
I must confess
that, although I am the rector of Adventer, I never had the pleasure of meeting
Nancy. She left about eighteen months before I arrived, heading south to
Florida to avoid this wonderful winter weather we have in Nashville and to be
closer to her daughter, Teresa. When Scott called me about the funeral, I
am guessing it seemed awkward, or at least, he expressed that it was. For
my part, I was really only worried about the answer to my question about the
“family friend” being able to celebrate and preach Nancy’s funeral. Scott
did not know it, but we clergy get lots of inquiries about “internet” ordained
friends doing services in our church. Since many of you are
Episcopalians, you likely understand it is not allowed in our church.
But, those conversations are usually with people who are inactive Christians,
at best, and those who are looking for an appropriate setting for weddings and
funerals.
Imagine my
surprise though, when Scott said it was Fr. Polk. Episcopalians and
Anglicans do not believe in Purgatory, and to be fair our Roman brothers and
sisters no longer accept that doctrine either, but any woman who can remain a
great family friend of Polk for decades has done an incredible work of
supererogation. Those of you wondering if you missed a great joke can ask
those laughing after the service. Polk served the diocese for many years
and did great work in Murfreesboro, but we still like to tease our brother and
sister clergy from time to time, especially when they are retired and rubbing
it in on us active clergy!
The reason Scott
wanted Polk to bury Nancy, though, stemmed from that perceived
awkwardness. Polk knew her and her family very well. It would make
sense he would be a great pastor in this. Unfortunately, though, we
clergy are doing more and more funerals for people whom we never knew, as more
and more people quit remembering the reason they were called to attend churches
in the beginning. Having heard a number of your stories, I wish I would
have known her. I am fairly certain we would have gotten along
well. In fact, I bet we would have gotten along better than that, as she
seems to have been a woman who took her faith and her life seriously. At
heart, I am an evangelical. I believe
that we are taught and equipped to go forth into the world loving others into
or inviting others into God’s kingdom. I
shared with Scott and Teresa at the burial of Nancy this morning that I thought
I would be preaching on Psalm 121 this afternoon. There was a bit of
teasing about “you think?” I shared how I thought the sermon was of God, and
your stories have only confirmed it for me.
Now, before I
get too far down this, I need to do two things. First, the illustrations
are from Nancy’s life. Even though we mourn with the family over their
loss, over the fact that the woman they knew and loved is no longer with them,
their mourning is not without hope. Nancy has been teaching her family,
her friends, her patients, and probably more than a couple doctors with
god-complexes about her faith for the vast majority of her life. She has
been preparing her children all their adult life for this horizon. So, if
I have done a decent job, I am simply putting to words the preaching and
teaching she has done as she lived her life!
The second thing
is that I will be preaching the Gospel of Jesus Christ from Psalm 121.
Seeing the confused looks, I will remind us all this afternoon that everything
in Scripture is about Jesus. Jesus Himself said it, and the Father’s
Resurrection of Him that Easter Morning reminds us that He told the
truth. Everything in Scripture is about Jesus. Everything.
The Gospels, the histories, the prophets, and even the Psalms are about Him.
Now, unknown to
Teresa and Scott, I had a built-in affinity for Psalm 121. They did not
know it, but my second daughter graduated from Hollins a couple years
ago. I am a stitcher, and my daughter had requested that I stitch her the
Hollins seal for a framed office hanging. None of you likely have ever
heard of Hollins. It is a small, all-female, liberal arts college not too
far from Roanoke, VA. Think Harpeth Hall, but on steroids. The
college was founded and nestled along the foothills of the Appalachians range,
and the Blue Ridge Mountains more specifically. And their motto, chosen
in the 19th century is levavi oculus—Latin for “I lift my eyes.” If
you look in the back of our Psalter in the BCP, that is the title of the
psalm! Every time I have gone to drop
off or pick up my daughter, four times a semester for eight semesters, I was
confronted with that psalm in that setting. Like Nancy, who may have only
looked out the back windows of her house on Forest Acres, the very environment
reminds me and you of the observations of faithful Hebrews.
The psalm, as
some of you may know, was part of the Psalms of Ascent. In fact, when you
go home, if you check your Bibles, and especially your annotated Bibles, you
will learn or be reminded that faithful Israelites would say these Psalms of
Ascent as they pilgrimaged from the bottom of the hill up the Holy Mountain to
the Temple. The psalms served an obvious function. Imagine climbing
the hill up Lakemont. Most of us could do it, but few of us would enjoy
it. Add stifling heat or bitter cold or rain, and such climbs are just
yucky. But even in great weather, like we are experiencing today, the
climb would not be a “walk in the park,” by any stretch of our
imaginations. The Psalms of Ascent helped distract climbers much in the
same way we use music to distract ourselves during exercise or driving our cars
or doing our work. Just as our favorite tunes help us accomplish what we
are doing, the psalms helped the faithful pilgrims climb the hill.
Typical of God,
of course, the psalms also served more than one purpose. Not only did the
psalms help faithful Israel climb the mountain physically and mentally, but
they also reminded Israel of God’s faithfulness. Through their singing,
Israel pilgrims would remind themselves of God’s faithfulness to His Covenant
people.
Psalm 121 does
this in both an overt way and in a more subtle way, at least to our modern
musical and theological sensibilities. The overt way, as only poets among
us might see, depending upon the English translation, was the author’s use of anadiplosis.
Sounds like a medical word, doesn’t it? Maybe a good rash on our
bodies? Maybe an immune response issue? It certainly sounds like a
word Nancy might have used when talking to other healthcare workers about
patient care. At its core, though, anadiplosis is a fancy way of
describing stair-step poetry. Anadiplosis is the name of the practice of
ending a line of poetry and beginning the next line with the same old, or close
synonym, in an effort to build to something. Think of it as the lyrical
working toward a crescendo. Poets use the lines effectively to build to
an important message or teaching. As readers and hearers read or listen
to the poem, they are elevated to the truth or teaching or emotion that the
poet wants to explore. I see some impressed looks of comprehension.
Yes, the psalmist wrote a psalm whose teaching elevated faithful pilgrims even
as they physically climbed a hill to go to Temple. Yes, now you know why
we Christians believe all of Scripture to have been inspired by God.
The conveyed
truth of this psalm was the reminder that God would care for them, through all
life’s joys and vicissitudes, in the very same way that He cared from Israel
through its dangers, beginning with the Exodus, but including any number of
other challenges to their existence, until the reigns of David and Solomon.
More importantly, perhaps to the psalmist, God would be there in the midst of
their trials and sufferings. In this psalm, in particular, the psalmist
reminded Israel repeatedly of the Hebrew word shamar. We translate
shamar as “protect” or “watch” or “keep.” Those of you looking at
the psalm now may notice it is used three times in the last two verses.
To put it in the language of anadiplosis, the elevated understanding that the
psalmist and God want readers and hearers to understand is that God shamars
His people. The psalm begins with the reminder of Creation and the shade
and light of the Exodus and speaks specifically of battles. But the final
teaching of the psalm is that God watches over everything in His peoples’
lives, not just corporately, but individually. He watches over our coming
and going both now and ever more.
God is so
attentive to the needs of His people, God is so paying attention to what befalls
us, God is such a loving Father to us, we should know that He is always paying
attention to us, even when we think or hope He is otherwise distracted.
Those who knew Nancy and wonder where this wonderful God was when she died
might rightly challenge us, or her, where He was in this last great challenge
of life. If God is so loving, so caring, so good, why did He let her
die? More perplexing would be the question of why she believed?
After all, she was a nurse. She better than most understood the ravages
of disease, the nearness of death, and the dysfunctions of families exacerbated
by the stresses of dealing with disease and death. Her love of this psalm
convinces me that Nancy understood that God’s faithfulness in her past, and in
the past of those who came before her, was that God would shamar her even in
the face of death. How could she be so confident?
Nancy rightly
understood that our Lord was a God of redemption. So often, we think so
much is up to us. Our healthcare system likes to think and teach that a
right procedure or right medicine or a right “lifestyle” change can postpone
death. But in those wars of life and death, Nancy realized the truth that
life is truly a fragile gift. Doctors and nurses can labor with all their
expertise; no matter how hard they work and how much they know, however, death
is ultimately unconquerable . . . for us.
In our
tradition, we remind ourselves that Jesus was not just a Savior but also the
Teacher of how we should live, that His life provides for us a pattern for holy
living, to quote the Collect. Though He lived a sinless life and should
have been recognized as the Anointed One of God by the various signs miracles
that pointed to the fact He was the One predicted in the writings and teachings
of the Prophets, and rabbis, and even the priests. For His faithfulness,
they put Him to death, even as the crowd, those whom He came to save, cheered
them on. Thankfully, in the midst of such defeat, God was not done.
He raised Jesus from the dead and gave Him authority over all. Now, by
virtue of our baptism, we have a share in both His death and
Resurrection. And so we remember that hope in the midst of such seeming
finality. The same God who raised Jesus from the dead has promised each
and every one of us who proclaim Him Lord that we, too, will share in that
Resurrection. That promise, and God’s persistent faithfulness, gives us
hope. His promise and faithfulness through generations who came before us
allowed us to stand at her grave and make our alleluias, trusting that God
would keep His promise to her, that even death could not separate her from His
love.
How do I know
Nancy share such hope and determined faith, even if I never met her? The
easy way is the stories that have been told. Yes, family members and
Adventers have shared some wonderful stories about Nancy, but it goes deeper
even than that. No doubt some of you will look around and notice that
some who were sharing stories about Nancy, some of those who in their way mourn
her loss as do we gathered here, are not with us for this Eucharist.
They, too, though, came to pay their respects. In an age when people can
post “I’m praying for you” at the losses of our loved ones, they showed up in
the Parish Hall, told their stories, and asked their questions. Their
willingness to do in person something that the rest of the world does with
scornful posts and tweets, tells us all something about her witness.
As I was working
on the Order of Worship last week, Scott and Teresa sent me a number of her
favorite Scriptures and songs, as well as that lovely Nightingale
liturgy. In truth, I had not thought much about it since seminary.
For those of you unaware of her faith, Florence Nightingale was an
Anglican. Had she been living and worshipping in the United States, she
would have come to an Episcopal Church like this one. In our church, she
is what we call a lesser saint or a holy woman. She is not quite at the
level where all Christians around the world celebrate her faith and witness as
we do a Valentine next week or the life of one of the Apostles. But we
celebrate her in our church on August 12 each year, reminding ourselves of her
mystical faith, and her willingness to live her faith in the world around her,
bringing not just God’s kingdom to her profession or calling, but even to the
wider world. By all accounts, Florence had a mystical understanding, an
unfailing certainty that God was there in the midst of everything she did to
care for the patients entrusted to her care. From learning new techniques
or procedures to dealing with their extreme attitudes to everything in between,
Florence was certain that God was there for the suffering. She ministered
and cared for her patients as if she truly believed and understood that she was
caring for one created in the image of God. Looking back at her radical
behavior, we might see that she perceived herself to be caring for Jesus, or
for someone created in His loving image.
Over time, she was recognized as “being there” for her patients, and we
see that observation recognized in the litany read by Erin, herself a NICU
nurse and, given her understandable difficulty getting through the litany, a
nurse cut from the same cloth and faith as both Florence and Nancy. As all
nurses recognize, it is not the time spent in the career, but the difference
that their presences, and the difference those presence made in each peculiar
circumstance, that we and they remember when one of them dies.
As beautiful as
the tribute is—and we acknowledged some of the circumstances in our reply “she
was there”—it pales in comparison to the truth that Nancy clearly understood,
and the faith by which she lived her life as a mom, as a friend, as a colleague,
and as a caregiver. She was there, because she knew He was there.
In the midst of a patient’s suffering, He was there. In the midst of
trouble with teenage smart mouths and attitudes, He was there. In the
midst of watching her husband precede her in death, He was there. In the
midst of telling a doctor to do his job right, He was there. In all her
comings and goings in life, in all her life’s joys and sadness and madness, He
was there. And now, even as we, her brothers and sisters at Advent, her
family, her friends, and even her colleagues lament her passing, He is
here. Better still, we give thanks that now she is there, with Him, her
Saviour and her Redeemer, and that where they are, one day, we who proclaim Him
Lord and trust in His promises like Nancy, may one day be!
In Christ’s Name,
Brian†
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