23 Pentecost

 

October 27, 2024

 

Mark 10.46-53

 

+ You have heard me preach again and again about this, but I firmly believe that, without a solid foundation of personal prayer, all that we do in church on Sundays is without a solid base.

 

As I said last week in my sermon, those of us who are ordained are not the only ones who are “ministers” in the Church.

 

All of us who have been baptized are actual ministers of the Church.

 

And for our ministry to be effective, we need to have a strong and very solid prayer life to support that ministry.

 

I, of course, highly encouraged people to pray the Daily Offices of Morning and Evening Prayer from the Book of Common Prayer every day as the first foundation.

 

From the offices and from the Mass, our prayer life as followers of Jesus flourish.

 

Now for many of us, the Daily Offices are not something we can fit into our busy lives.

 

But, no matter how busy our lives are, we must always have a strong foundation of prayer. 

 

Regular prayer.

 

 And that prayer life can be very simple.

 

This morning, in our Gospel, we find a very little, but it seems, very effective prayer, very much in the spirit of Centering Prayer. 

It is a story that at first seems to be leading us in one direction, then something else happens.

 

We find Jesus at Jericho, which reminds us, of course, of the story from Joshua and the crumbling walls.

 

We then find this strangely detailed story of Barthemaeus.

 

It’s detailed in the sense that we not only have his name, but also the fact that he was the son of Timaeus.

 

That’s an interesting little tidbit.

 

And we also find of course that he is blind.

 

Now, it’s not a big mystery what’s going to happen.

 

We know where this story is going.

 

We know Bartimaeus is going to be healed.

 

We know he is going to see.

 

But the real gem of this story doesn’t have to do with Jericho, or the fact that we will never again hear about Bartimeus son of Timaeus.

 

The real gem of this story is that little prayer Bartimaeus prays.

 

There it is, huddled down within the Gospel, like a wonderful little treasure.

 

“Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me!”

 

Now that designation of Jesus as the “Son of David” is interesting in and of its self.

 

By identifying Jesus as the Son of the David, Bartimaeus is essentially identifying Jesus as the Messiah, the anointed one sent by God.

 

So this man, Bartimaeus, is praying to the Jewish Messiah, to the One God sent, to have mercy on him.

 

And what does the Son of David do?

 

He has mercy on Bartimaeus. 

 

It’s beautiful!

 

It’s perfect!

 

And in that simple prayer, we find the kernel of all prayer to some extent.

 

At first, it doesn’t seem like much.

 

It’s so deceptively simple.

 

But, obviously, according to our Gospel for today, the prayer is important.

 

Jesus does what he is asked.

 

He has mercy on this man and heals him.

 

So why is this prayer so important?

 

Well, for one thing, we get a glimpse of how to pray in this wonderfully simple little prayer.

 

Jesus occasionally gives us advice in the Gospels on how we should pray.

 

The first one that probably comes to mind probably is the Lord’s prayer.

 

But today we find a prayer very different than the Lord’s prayer.

 

The Lord’s prayer is very structured.

 

It covers all the bases.

 

We acknowledge and adore God, we acknowledge and ask forgiveness not only for our sins, but for the sins committed against us by others.

 

And so on.

 

You know the prayer.

 

The prayer we hear this morning cuts right to the very heart not only of the Lord’s prayer but to every prayer we pray.

 

It is a prayer that rises from within—from our very core.

 

From our heart of hearts.

 

It is truly the Prayer of the Heart.

 

The words of this prayer are the words of all those nameless, formless prayers we pray all the time—those prayers that we find ourselves longing to pray.

 

Here it is, summed up for us.

 

More often than not, our prayers really are simple, one word prayers.

 

And the one word prayer we probably pray more than anything—I do it anyway—is:

 

 “please.”

 

“Please!” I pray so often.

 

Or sometimes it’s: “please, please, please!”

 

Poor God! Having to listen to that all day!

 

The one word prayer I should be praying more than anything is: “thanks.”

 

Meister Ekhart once wrote:

 

“If the only prayer we ever say in our life is ‘thank you’—that will be enough.”

 

Here are the words we long to use in those prayers without words.

 

“Have mercy on me!”

 

But if we were to pare it down, if we were to go to the heart of the prayer, what word from that prayer would be the heart of the whole prayer?

 

It would, of course, be “mercy.”

 

Mercy.

 

Mercy.

 

And, for many of us, this is the heart of our prayer.

 

This is what we desire from God.

 

Mercy.

 

Please, God, we pray. Have mercy on us. 

 

Using words like this, praying like this, simply sitting quietly and just being in the presence of God is a kind of “prayer of the heart.”

 

That’s a perfect description of the prayer we heard in today’s Gospel.

 

“Mercy.”

 

Like Bartimeaus, we can simply bring what we have before God in prayer, release it, and then walk away healed.

 

There is no room for haughtiness when praying this prayer.

 

The person we are when we pray it is who we really are.

 

When all our masks and all our defenses are gone, that is when prayer like this comes in and takes over for us.

 

This is the prayer we pray when, echoing Thomas Merton, we “present ourselves naked before our God.”

 

And this prayer does not even have to be about us.

 

We can use this prayer when praying for others.

 

How easy it is to simply pray:

 

Mercy.

 

God, have mercy on her, or him, or them.

 

It’s wonderful isn’t it? how those simple words can pack such a wallop.

 

We don’t have to be profound or eloquent in the words we address to God.

 

We don’t need to go on and on beseeching and petitioning God.

 

We simply need to open our hearts to God and the words will come.

 

“Mercy.”

 

So, like Bartimaeus, let us pray what is in our heart.

 

Let us open ourselves completely and humbly to God.

 

And when we do we will find the blindness’s of our own lives healed.

 

We will find taken from us that spiritual blindness that causes us to grope about aimlessly, to ignore those in need around us, to not see the beauty of this world that God shows us all the time.

 

Like Bartimaeus, we too will be healed of whatever blinds us to the Light of God breaking through into our lives.

 

And when that blindness is taken from us, with a clear spiritual vision granted to us, we too will focus our eyes, square our shoulders and follow Jesus on the way.

The Memorial Service for Delbert Moen

 Del Moen

August 18, 1925-October 18, 2024

October 26, 2024

+ As I said at the begging of our service, I am so very honored to officiate at this service for Del.

 Del was essentially my great-uncle.

 His wife Mercille was married to my mother’s uncle.

 But this complicated family connections never mattered for any of us.

 We were always family.

 And I always saw Del as my great-uncle.

 I truly admired him.

 He was such a good and gracious person.

 I think fondly about the deep love he had for Mercille, and the care he gave her through her last years.

 I think often of his quiet, gentle ways.

 In the memories that were shared about Del on the Hanson-Runsvold website, Del was referred to as a “quiet hero.”

 I love that.

 I think that captures perfectly who Del was.

 I certainly always looked forward to seeing him and talking with him.

 And every time I saw him, he was always so happy to see me.

 And as sad as I am today to say goodbye this really wonderful person, I am also very grateful.

 I am grateful for Del and for all he was.

I am grateful for the strong faith in God he had.

 I am grateful for his presence in my life.

 I am grateful for his presence in the life of Mercille and Jackie and his whole family.

 I am grateful for what he meant to you, those of who came today to remember Del.

 And even though we are sad today, we also able to rejoice.

 We rejoice in Del.

 We rejoice in all that was good and kind and gentle in Del.

 And as we gather today, as we remember Del, as think of who he was to each of us, please think about who he was and what makes you grateful for having knowing him.

 And as you do so, remember this.  

 Today is not the end of anything.

 Yes, we are saying goodbye.

 But it is only a temporary goodbye.

 It is a goodbye until we see him again.

 For now, we are not going to stop remembering him, or thinking of him.

 His presence will certainly stay with us as long after we have left here and go back to our own lives.

 Now, I have no doubt that Del is with us here this afternoon, celebrating his life with us. 

 I am of the firm belief that what separates us who are alive and breathing here on earth from those who are now in the so-called “nearer presence of God” is actually a very thin division.

 So, yes, right now, I think we can feel that that separation between us here and those who have passed on is, in this moment, a very thin one.

 And because of that belief, I take a certain comfort in the fact Del is close to us this afternoon. 

 He is here, in our midst, celebrating his life with us.

 And we should truly celebrate his life.

 It was a good life.

 It was long, full life.

 And in that life, he did a lot of good.

 He made a difference.

 And I can tell you that I will never forget that strong and gentle presence.

 That presence is here with us today as we remember him and give thanks for him.

 And, for those of us who have faith, we know that where Del is now there is only life there.

 Eternal life.

 Where Del is now, he is complete and whole.

 He is with Mercille.

 And he is happy.

 And he will never again shed another tear.

 Because we know that Del and all our loved ones have been received into God’s arms of mercy, into the “blessed rest of everlasting peace.”

 This is what we cling to on a day like today.

 This is where we find our strength.

 This what gets us through this temporary—and I do stress that it is temporary—this temporary separation from Del.

 We know that—despite the sadness we may feel—somehow, in the end, God is with us and Del is with God and that makes all the difference.

 Certainly, Del believed in that and hoped in that.

 Del’s deep faith sustained him again and again through his life.

 And the great example of his faith helps us now as we move forward.

 For Del, sorrow and pain are no more.

 Del, in this holy moment, has gained life eternal.

 And that is what awaits us as well.

 We might not be able to say “Alleluia” with any real enthusiasm today.

 But we can find a glimmer of light in the darkness of this day.

 It is a glorious Light we find here.

 And for that we can rejoice and be grateful.

And we can celebrate.  

We will miss you, Del.

We will always be grateful for you.

May angels welcome you, Del.

May all the saints come forward to greet you.

And may your rest today and always be one of unending joy.

 

The Memorial Eucharist for M. Lavonne Marubbio

 St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church

Fargo, North Dakota

October 21, 2024

+ As sad as I am today, as difficult as it is to gather here this morning to say goodbye to Vonnie Marubbio, I will also say that I am very grateful as well this morning.

I am very grateful for Lavonne.

I am grateful for her life.

I am grateful for her wonderful presence in this world, in this community, I n this church.

And I am very grateful for her presence in my life.

And I’m sure most of here today are feeling very much the same way.

We are all grateful for all that Lavonne was for us.

Her presence in our lives made a difference.

We are all better people today for having known Lavonne.

As you might know, I knew Lavonne for many years.

She was a very important person in the life of St. Stephen’s.

She was, in addition to being a long-time devoted and committed parishioner here, also a very dear personal friend.

I was very honored to be her priest.

And even more honored to be her friend.

And in the years we knew each other, we got to know each other well.

We shared many of the same interests.

We were both passionate about books and poetry and art.

And we both had a deep love for the East, for Japan and China.

We had fascinating conversations on Buddhism in particular, and we both firmly believed that Buddhism actually was more of a philosophy than a religion.

She always appreciated and understood when I said that Buddhism made me a better Christian.

Not a lot of people—certainly not a lot of Christians—understood that.

But Vonnie definitely understood that and appreciated that and engaged me in that conversation.

Because her friendship was important to me and her presence here at St. Stephen’s, her final illness was a blow to  all of us.

I took it particularly hard.

And when I came to anoint her and pray with her that last time, we talked about many things, just like we did in the past.

We talked about her views about what happens after we die.

We talked about rebirth and renewal.

We talked about God and her rock-solid faith

We talked about her past.

We talked about current events, especially the current election.

And she talked about St. Stephen’s, and how important it was to her.

She shared with me her desire to have her ashes buried in our memorial garden, and we went over this service we are celebrating today.

As I was leaving her room, she said to me, “Tell everyone that I will be back at St. Stephen’s soon.”

I paused and looked back at her confused.

She just winked and smiled.

And I realize what she was saying.

Well, Vonnie is back at St. Stephen’s, a place that was important to her and her relationship with God.

And I am grateful that she is here again.

And I can say, this morning, that, like everyone here,  I will miss Vonnie dearly.

I will miss her presence at St. Stephen’s.

I will miss the strength and kindness and fortitude she carried with her.

I will miss her strength and gentleness and her warm presence.

And I will miss her wonderful grace.

I had had enough discussions with Lavonne over the years that I knew she had deep faith in where she was going—and that she would, in the end, be all right.

She knew she would be taken care of by the God whom she loved and in  whom she believed so firmly.

She knew there was a place awaiting her, where she would not suffer any more pain.

And we too can rejoice, this morning, in the fact that she is there in that place at this moment.

Still, that doesn’t make it any easier for those of us who are left behind left behind.

But we can take consolation in the faith that gave strength to Vonnie in her own life.

A faith that she would want all of us to cling to as we go on from here.

A faith that it all does, somehow, work out in the end.

 And it all really is beautiful and good.

 Today we are saying goodbye to Lavonne.

But it is only a temporary goodbye.

It is a goodbye until we were together in some way on the other side of the thin veil that separates us from those who have gone before us.

She had a deep faith in her God, who was with her and remained with her until the end.

And because of her deep faith in God and in what awaited her following this life, she would not want us to despair today.

 Because Vonnie knew that, although we can’t fully understand things now, we will one day.

 And that when we do, it will be beautiful.

 So, today, although we might be tempted to give into our sadness, we really cannot.

 She has been relieved of her pain and suffering.

 And she has now become fully and completely herself.

 Yes, we are sad for this temporary separation.

 But we are not despairing.

 Because we know that it will all be well.

 It will all be well.

 Today, all the good things that Lavonne Marubbio was to us—this wife and mother and grandmother, this friend and advocate and champion for justice, this woman of amazing strength and character, of amazing integrity and grace—this lover of animals and justice and books and art, this loving, caring person—all of that is not lost.

It is not gone.

Death has not swallowed that up.

Rather all of that is alive and dwells now in Light inaccessible.

All of that dwells in a place of peace and joy, where sorrow and pain are no more, neither sighing, but life everlasting.

In a place in which, there never again will be any more tears.

Except, maybe, tears of joy.

And for us who are left, we know that that place awaits us as well.

That place of light and joy awaits each of us as well.

And we to will have the opportunity to dwell there.

I will miss Lavonne.

We will all miss her and will feel her loss for a long time to come.

But, on this day in which we bid her this temporary goodbye, let us also be thankful.

Let us be thankful for this woman whom God has been gracious to let us know and to love.

Let us be thankful for all she was to us—this strong, caring and loving presence in our lives.

Let us be thankful that even in those moments, when life throws ugly things we don’t understand at us, we can still cling to hope and know that we will not, in the end, be defeated.

 And, most of all,  let us be grateful for all that love and the care Vonnie has given us in our own lives.

Before I close I am going to share a poem.

Vonnie loved good books and good poetry.

And there was a poem that I remember we once discussed because I mentioned it in a sermon many years ago.

 It was a poem by the Vietnamese Zen master and peace activist, Thich Nhat Hanh.

It was a poem that resonated with her.

And it is a poem that speaks loudly to us today, as we remember and give thanks for all that Vonnie to us.

The poem is called  Samsara

Samsara is, in Eastern thought, the cycle of death and rebirth.

 “Samsara”

If I am not to be flung into chaos,

If I am not to be scattered

in the whirlpool of grief,

if my days are to continue to count,

you must know something:

I have not become nothing. 

 

Things are forever forming

and reforming,

taking on new incarnations,

but it is not possible for a thing

to turn into no thing.

 

Nothing is contained within everything,

every atom, every star, every cell.

Everything is contained within nothing.

 

This is not a matter of belief.

This is science, a matter of matter.

This is the story of life on earth.

 

My body was never all of me.

Part of me has always been free,

composed of wide oceans

and many galaxies.

And we were always changing,

you and me.

 

So now, smile to me, sing to me,

call me by my name, in our old easy way.

My death, like my birth,

was only an opening, allowing

a slip of my immensity through.

 

Wherever you go, now, let me be there,

present forever in you.

 ----------------------------

Into paradise may the angels lead you, Vonnie.

At your coming may the martyrs receive you, and bring you into that holy city Jerusalem.

Amen.