At yesterdays service for Deacon John, we switched up who read our eulogies for the sake of what I called, avoiding emotional train wrecks. I had the great honor of reading a eulogy written by an inmate at our state prison, John Hodge, from our congregation, read both my own eulogy -- which was longer and more sermon-like than I intended but I found no means to shrink it down -- and Johns sons Steves tribute to his dad. Lots of Kudos to John for this gift to us all! Bishop A. A Robert Hirschfeld offered abeautiful sermon. Here is what I had written: In Memory of my Good Friend and our Deacon, John T. LeSueur, 11/15/2014 One Christmas Eve, more than half a century ago, a young boy stood in a Japanese church as an earthquake rumbled through the ground. For the rest of his life, whenever he was in a conversation about natural threats and disasters, John LeSueur’s eyes would grow wide and his eyebrows would rise in anxious amazement. Then he would exclaim that we just hadn’t lived until the entire floor beneath our feet began to move in waves. Watching John’s emphatic gestures, every one of us listening would see that it is a rare and terrifying sensation when the ground no longer feels at all solid, but more like a heaving ocean. Now John’s sudden death leaves us feeling the shaking of our own foundations. Disbelief, sorrow, anger and anxious amazement have brought all of us, but especially John’s wife Susan and sons, Steve and George, waves of loss and grief. Long after the rumbling has stopped, we will remember what it was like to lose John – nearly instantly – from our sight. We will grab hold of our trust that he “rejoices with us but upon a distant shore and in a different light.” But that trust will not take care of all the day-to-day ways he has touched and filled our lives. Since John’s passing, I have thought that if the “devil is in the details,” it has been John’s gift to exorcise those devils. Every time I cannot find my prayer book, don’t have the Proper Preface set correctly, or have to print the Scriptures for the prison service … Every time I return to my old habit of making up numbers for the service register, or want to run a sensitive pastoral issue past someone, or need somebody with 4-wheel-drive to come get me on a snowy Sunday morning … Every time someone is driving me stark raving nuts and I need a listener, or a calmer hand to take action, or a wise perspective to validate or change my own mind on things … In all these moments and many, many more, I will miss John terribly. I will miss his friendship, his service, and his take on things. No one else will open up our red church doors as I arrive with hands full of bulletins and paraphernalia, smile, and wish me “Good Morning” in Japanese. Nor will anyone else ever grin at my having finally remembered the Japanese response. But most of all I will miss knowing he is simply there for us all. John could always tell that I did not appreciate his electronic purchases. He never tried to lead me to greener technological pastures. But he did know what to do when my computer screen turned deep red and nothing I did would restore it. One time he gave me a game called Zuma for Christmas, and when I was hooked he began to tell me about more games. I asked, “Do you ever want to see your vicar again?” and I can still hear him laughing out loud. Susan tells me his most recent acquisition was something called a “Personal Cloud.” Only John could time a technological purchase so that it would be a metaphor for his entrance into Heaven. The question, “O Death, where is thy sting?” really seems a bit silly. The answer is obvious – “I know where it is! It’s right here!” John LeSueur’s sudden passing stings far worse than stepping on any bumblebee. Like a bad case of poison ivy, the sting won’t quit, and it refuses to be reduced by all the balm in the world. So we are here to claim the promises of God. The basic promise is that God has infused the whole creation with Love that is stronger than death. The Song of Solomon reads, Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm; for love is strong as death, passion fierce as the grave. St. Paul’s letters to the Romans and the Corinthians exclaim, For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. Love never ends. … And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love. Dietrich Bonhoeffer understood that Love is bittersweet. He wrote from prison, Nothing can make up for the absence of someone whom we love, and it would be wrong to try to find a substitute; we must simply hold out and see it through. That sounds very hard at first, but at the same time it is a great consolation, for the gap, as long as it remains unfilled, preserves the bonds between us. It is nonsense to say that God fills the gap; God doesn’t fill it, but on the contrary, keeps it empty and so helps us to keep alive our former communion with each other, even at the cost of pain. It is so tempting to insulate ourselves against the pain – to wish we could join the bears this November and prepare for hibernation and deep sleep. Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel understood the bitter sweetness of Love, and the deep desire to avoid its pain, when they sang, I Am a Rock, Ive built walls, A fortress deep and mighty, That none may penetrate. I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain. Its laughter and its loving I disdain. I am a rock, I am an island. Dont talk of love, But Ive heard the words before; Its sleeping in my memory. I wont disturb the slumber of feelings that have died. If I never loved I never would have cried. I am a rock, I am an island. And a rock feels no pain; And an island never cries. No one of us is a New Hampshire black bear preparing to hibernate and none of us are rocks or islands. We have loved and been loved by John LeSueur, and the pain, the gap that cannot be filled, makes us weep. Everyone who has ever ridden the London Tube must by now have a British voice in their ear advising, “Mind the Gap. Mind the Gap.” How, then, do we mind this gap at Platform 9 ¾ where a train has left the station with John aboard, leaving us standing both incredulous and in great sorrow at his departure from us? We must turn to claim the second of God’s promises – a promise of someday, yet a promise for now. The best vision of this promise comes from the Revelation of St. John, … they are before the throne of God, and worship him day and night within his temple, and the one who is seated on the throne will shelter them. They will hunger no more, and thirst no more; the sun will not strike them, nor any scorching heat; for the Lamb at the centre of the throne will be their shepherd, and he will guide them to springs of the water of life, and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.’ There is some solace in believing our friend and deacon is in this place now – a place where he is neither hungry nor thirsty, a place where God wipes away the tears from every eye. It is harder to carry on in this life with a belief and trust that this same God is among us here and now, and that this same God will mind the gaps with us by wiping away the tears from our eyes. None of us is alone: If we will recognize that we cannot be bears or rocks or islands, we can also believe that we shall have what we need to fill our grief, we will have water in our desert emptiness, and our Lord will wipe away our tears. Our nourishment and watering will come to us unexpectedly, tenderly, and firmly – in the hands of one another, in our messages and care – But also in unexpected songs, unplanned moments, poignant remembrances, real help with the devils in the details, happy stories, and most of all in a sense of Presence when we feel John’s absence. John LeSueur loved Life. He loved all that is good and right and honorable, down, of course, to the details. He loved golf and orchids and saltwater fishes. He loved stories and he told his own often: He could readily make a parable about his days on a fishing boat or tending a missile silo in the Air Force. He loved crawfish and was forever disappointed that I did not eat any when I went to Louisiana. The Louisiana State University team fight song was his telephone ring tone, and he was a happy man when the Tigers won. Most of all he loved his family and dearest friends: The most challenging puzzle I ever saw nearly stump him was what to give Susan for her birthday. The two things that always brought tears to his eyes were remembering with great joy when Steve and George made him a father, and his lasting sorrow at the passing of his dogs, most especially his German Shepherd, Thor. He was tremendously fulfilled serving as a deacon, and he longed for real emphasis on the ministry of all baptized people in our church. This week John learned the secrets: Unlike our bishop Douglas Theuner, he left us no recorded sermon for the time of his own death. But we know as we eulogize John that the reason we are talking, and feeling, this way is because he knows a lot more than we do about the Kingdom of Heaven now than any of us in this life are given to know. But John knew a very precious secret about living this life, here and now, and though he tried so hard to convince us all, he could not always get us to see and understand that secret – a secret that was far plainer than day to him. John loved the 25th chapter of the Gospel according to St. Matthew. He treasured and was guided by the news that in the end the King will say, “Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.” John talked about the prison in his sermons because he was often filled with joy and wonder by the insights and gifts, the perspective and the trust of the inmates there. To be with them there ushered him into the nearness of God. People were perplexed or sometimes quite put off because prison inmates have done really bad things to land themselves in that place. John trusted the Good News that it is exactly because of who the prisoners are that God can use them. He believed that every time a moment is filled with grace there behind the walls it has to be by the mercy and love of God. John understood that Matthew 25 does not mean we need to feed the hungry and give drinks to the thirsty, or visit the sick and the imprisoned, out of diligence, drudgery and duty. He knew the secret – that if we want to know Christ, He will meet us there. John dearly wished we would all see and know and live into that one secret. Just as it is silly to ask where to find the sting of death, so it is unnecessary to ask, “O grave, where is thy victory?” It is no more possible for death to conquer a Life lived in love and service than it is for darkness to extinguish Light. John LeSueur called me this summer to insist that I must see the movie Guardians of the Galaxy. Those of you who have seen it will understand that when I did go to see the movie I came home and emailed John the simple message, “I am Groot.” John sent an equally brief email back to me. You will only understand if one day you watch Guardians of the Galaxy: He said, “We are Groot.” We are indeed. United States Air Force Colonel John T. LeSueur – our Deacon – our Friend: We salute you. We thank you from the bottoms of our hearts. And we love you. Amen.
Posted on: Sun, 16 Nov 2014 21:09:02 +0000
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