Homily for my Dad

The altar at Cathedral of St. Luke. The kneeler was given in memory of my Dad's mom.

                                            

Rev. Molly F. James, PhD

Homily for Eliot Field

Lamentations 3:22-33; Psalm 46; 1 Corinthians 13:1-7; Luke 24:13-35

In the name of God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

“Then they told what had happened on the road, and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.” The Road to Emmaus is the story of the holy, of God’s very person and presence, being made manifest in the midst of ordinary life. Jesus meets the disciples while they are walking on the road. But they are so self focused, so distracted that they do not realize the resurrected Christ is walking along with them. It is not until they stop to rest and eat at the end of the day, that they realize who had been their companion on the way. 

For all of us who had the privilege of traveling with my Dad - walking, hiking, sitting on a train or boat, bus or plane - or the gift of sitting next to him at a dinner table, we know something of what the disciples experienced. We know how God can be made manifest in the course of conversation and a meal. My Dad was someone who lived with gratitude for the present moment. He paid careful attention to the beauty of his surroundings, and especially to the people he was with. I like to think if he had been walking with the disciples on that road, it might not have taken him so long to recognize Christ’s presence among them. Because even in the midst of the ordinary moments and interactions of daily life, my Dad was always on the lookout for the holy, for the extraordinary. He knew that God - God’s very being and love - were most evident to us in the midst of our interactions with each other. 

And there is a far more profound truth being communicated in the story of the disciples on the road. It is not only that God’s love and presence are made manifest to the disciples that day. It is the fact that the resurrected Christ is walking with them. There in their midst is the truth at the heart of the Christian faith. The truth that God is always at work, even in the midst of the most difficult of circumstances. Even in the midst of tragedy and loss and pain and heartbreak. God is present. The horrors of life, the evil realities of this world, never have the last word. Hope is real. New life is possible. Love is stronger than death. That is the beautiful truth of Easter morning. And the glorious reality is that truth was not just for the disciples. It was not just for that first Easter. It is a truth that continues to be manifest again and again in our lives and in the world. 

The best compliment I think we can give to a person of faith is that their life pointed us to God. Their life pointed us to hope, to beauty, to love, to the reality that there is more to life than we can comprehend. My Dad was such a person. A person willing to embrace the mystery, that there is so much we cannot fully understand. Remarkably acknowledging all that is beyond the limits of human comprehension can be a source of comfort. It is an act of surrender, of turning it over. 

An act of faith to trust that even in the midst of that which we cannot fully understand, even as we are going through life, at times like the disciples, distracted, afraid, grieving, or uncertain, God is with us - pointing us to the future with hope and love. 

That was what my Dad did. Pointed us to the future with hope and love. It was especially evident in the care and attention he took for each conversation. Whether you had come to him for legal advice or life advice or for help on a worksheet from school or just had the opportunity to sit next to him at dinner, he was fully present to whatever questions you had, whatever might be weighing on your heart or your mind. You would feel as though sitting with you and your question was the most important thing he had to do all day. This joy of conversation, of connection, of learning together, were central to who he was and how he lived.

All of us gathered here, all of us who have had the privilege of sharing some piece of our journey, walking some portion of the road of life with the remarkable human being who was Eliot Field, have benefited from his wisdom and grace. Whether it was because he taught us some scientific fact, helped us out of a sticky legal situation, invited us to marvel at the splendor of creation, or inspired us to be more graceful and pay more attention in the present moment. 

He has left us a multifaceted legacy. You can find his name in legal briefs and court cases. His influence in improved processes and more compassionate, rational municipal governments. In the speed of Jesse’s backhand. In the napkins and first aid kit in my car. In the fact that all his grandchildren know how to ski and hit a tennis ball. In the fact that meals on that Dresden hilltop still stop so we can all stand in awe as the sun sinks slowly behind the White Mountains. We will remember him in so many actions and places. Perhaps most of all, though, we will remember and honor him in how we are in the world. When we hold on to the lessons of the Road to Emmaus and all the meals and conversations we have shared. When we slow down and pay attention. When we trust that hope is real and love always has the last word. When our first reactions are patience, grace, and good humor. When we look for the holy in the midst of the ordinary. 

Whenever you have one of those moments in the days and weeks and years ahead. I hope you will pause. I hope you will remember. I hope you will smile. And I hope you feel that my Dad is smiling right there with you. Amen. 

Choosing Gratitude

with my grandmother on my wedding day

 

Rev. Molly F. James, PhD

DFMS Noonday Prayer via Zoom

Vincent de Paul, March 15, 2021

Psalm 37:19-42; Philippians 2:12-15; Luke 12:12-27

May God's word be spoken, May God's Word be heard, and May that point us to the living Word who is Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

A phone rang on a Sunday morning in September 1959.  It broke into the joyful chaos that is life with five children between the ages of three and fourteen.  It was a phone call she knew was coming, but that fact never does prepare one fully for the reality.  It was the phone call that told her that her husband, the love of her life, the father of her children was dead at thirty-eight.  The brain tumor that had taken his health and vitality, and had even begun to take his personality over the summer, had taken his life.   

Breaking into the silence of an empty nest, a phone rang in the summer of 1972.  She thought it might be one of her kids calling to say hi or perhaps her surgeon husband calling to say he was on his way home.  It was the phone call that told her that those swollen lymph nodes were not the lingering effects of a winter cold: they were cancer.  

A phone rang in a farmhouse kitchen on a cold January morning in 1990.  The nurse on the other end confirmed what she already knew in her heart.  Her husband of twenty-seven years had died in the night.  His body had given out. The cancer that had spread throughout his body and sent him into a coma, had taken his life.  

The portable phone on the end table next to the couch rang on a fall afternoon in 2003 and interrupted the quiet solitude of an afternoon spent knitting and reading.  It was her doctor on the line.  The biopsy results were back. She had lymphoma. 

These four phone calls all came to the same woman. And each time she hung up the phone, she had a choice.  When she lost her parents or had to endure the pain of watching her own children or grandchildren suffer, she had a choice. A choice to let that piece of news, that painful, horrible loss be the defining event of her life.  She could choose to let it be the lens through which she viewed the world.  Such an approach would not add hours to her span of life. It would diminish the quality of her life.   

Or she could choose to look around her and be grateful.  She could choose to celebrate life and to celebrate joys of her children.  Choose to be an active and involved mother who continued to play tennis and take her children to the lake in the summer.  Choose to marry again and spend the happy years of her husband's retirement living on a farm in Maine.  She could choose to be host to her grandchildren for countless summers, reading to them and teaching them about the farm and their own family history.  She could choose to be a great-grandmother who moved to an apartment in the city to be nearer to her family and to be able to watch her great-grandchildren learn to walk. 

The woman on the receiving end of these phone calls was my grandmother. For me, she has been my preeminent example of not worrying.  She lives out the conviction at the heart of Jesus' question to his disciples: “And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life?”  We know that worrying does not add hours to our life and that worrying diminishes the quality of the hours we do have. 

Of course there have been plenty of things to worry about in the course of the past year. It is important to note here what I think Jesus meant by “worry.” I don’t think he meant the kind of appropriate thoughtful caution that keeps us wearing masks and washing our hands. An invitation to “not worry” is not an invitation to be careless or reckless. An invitation to “not worry” is an invitation to reframe our current situation. It is an invitation to be mindful of our blessings, of all that we have to be thankful for, even in the midst of tragedy and loss. 

Even when we are living daily, as we have for the last year, with the profound reminder that life is precious and uncertain. Even when we cannot possibly know what tomorrow will bring.  We can find joy in the present. 

We can find hope and joy in the knowledge that we are precious children of God.  Jesus has spent much of today's Gospel reading affirming that fact. We are valued and beloved of God. God cares for us. 

In the midst of challenges, in the midst of tragedy, in a time when it would be so easy to focus on all that we have lost, as individuals, as a community, as a nation and a world. In the midst of all of that, Jesus invites us to keep our eyes and hearts open, as my grandmother did, so that we can see the love that surrounds us. It is my hope that as we move through the coming days and weeks, for we are not out of the woods yet, we will keep finding ways to ground ourselves in the truth that we are beloved. And we will keep finding ways to fill our hearts with gratitude. Because as Johannes Gaertner reminds us: “To speak gratitude is courteous and pleasant, to enact gratitude is generous and noble, but to live gratitude is to touch Heaven.”

AMEN.

Love and the limits of the English Language

Rev. Molly F. James, PhD

Chapel of our Lord, Episcopal Church Center

Charles Simeon, November 12, 2019

Psalm 145:8-13; Isaiah 12:1-6; Romans 10:8b-17;John 21:15-17

May God’s Word be spoken. May God’s Word be heard. May that point us to the living Word who is Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Perhaps one of the most quotable movies of my childhood is the fairy tale movie, Princess Bride. One of my favorite quotes is from Mandy Patikin’s character, in response to his friend who keeps saying “Inconceivable!” He says, “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.” I think Mandy would fit right in with our Gospel reading for today. I can just imagine him standing next to Jesus and Peter, saying, "You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.” So true.  

This is one of those Gospel readings where the limits of the English language really do us a disservice. Jesus and Peter are having a conversation, but when we look at the original Greek, “conversation” might be a little generous. They are really talking past each other. Jesus keeps asking Peter if he loves him. Peter keeps saying he does, but they are not actually saying the same thing. Jesus is asking Peter if he loves him, using the Greek word, Agape. Peter keeps answering that he loves him using the Greek word, Phileo. As most of you likely know, those two words do not mean the same thing. 

Agape love is the love Jesus has for us. It is the love of spouses for each other. It is the love parents have for their children. It is the love of cherished values and principles. It is the kind of love that we would give anything to protect, up to and including our own lives. It is the self-sacrificing love we see most evident in the life and death of Jesus. 

And Peter just keeps answering him with “Phileo.” That’s the love of friends. It can be deep and meaningful, of course. But it is not the all consuming, all giving love that is Agape. It is just another story where it can be tempting to chide the disciples for how thick headed they can be. You want to shake Peter’s shoulder and say, “Don’t you get it? Don’t you hear what Jesus is asking of you? He doesn’t just want you to be his friend. He wants you to be willing to lay down your life for him.” It is easy to chide Peter for his thick headedness or for his fear, but really if we think about it, no doubt, we too have had our Peter moments. 

This conversation has significant staying power because it is a conversation any of us could have on any day with Jesus. We are faced with a question or with a dilemma, and through it Jesus is asking us, “Do you love me?” Jesus is asking us to do the right thing, even if it is hard. To follow the Way of Love. To do the thing that calls us into being our best self. To do the thing that builds up the Kingdom.  

And yet, it can be so tempting to be like Peter. Especially if we are tired or anxious. If we are feeling angry or unloved ourselves. If we are feeling short on patience, then it can be tempting to want to be like Peter and give just a little bit. 

But where our faith is concerned, where Jesus is concerned, a little bit does not cut it. Being a follower of Jesus is not something we can do lightly or half-heartedly. Jesus asks us to jump into the deep end of the pool, not to wade into our knees and call it good enough. It may seem like a lot to ask of us, to give our whole selves, our whole lives over to Jesus, but if we have ever felt the effects of agape love in our own human relationships, we know it is completely worth it. 

Perhaps you know that love from a spouse, someone who has willingly sacrificed in order to bring you joy. Or perhaps you have been blessed to have a parent who has given you that kind of love, where you have seen them put aside their own wants and desires in order to realize a dream for you? And if you are a parent, then you know what it feels like to give this love, it is instinctual and automatic. And the amazing thing is that it does not feel like a painful sacrifice, for the joy that comes from building up and caring for someone we love is a gift, a blessing far outweighs any challenges. And that my friends, is also the love that Jesus has for us. A generous, giving love that overflows into the world. 

In our Gospel today, and everyday, Jesus is inviting us to share in that love. To allow his love for us into our hearts, and to follow him, to love as he loves. Jesus is inviting us to be an example for the world of what it looks like to be a community of people who live lives overflowing with love. Jesus is inviting us to join him in transforming the world. AMEN. 

Remembering 9/11

Rev. Molly F. James, PhD

17 Pentecost, Proper 19C: 1 Timothy 1:12-17; Luke 15:1-10

September 11, 2016

May God’s Word be spoken. May God’s Word be heard. May that point us to the living Word who is Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

It was a bright, sunny Tuesday with clear, blue sky when our cousin Ben went to work in his office at The Fiduciary Trust company on the 97th floor of the South Tower of the World Trade Center.  At first it seemed like any other day. There were tasks to be accomplished and appointments to be kept. A few minutes before 9 am, it became clear that it was a day like no other. Someone whose office window faced the other tower, came to tell him that a plane had hit the North Tower. The office began to evacuate. Our cousin Ben was a tall and imposing man, a natural leader with a generous heart. Beyond his regular job, he had been designated to be an emergency manager for his office. He helped his colleagues down to the 44th floor where they were able to get people onto elevators. Ben ensured the elevators were full and then stepped back. He walked down the remaining floors to street level. On the concourse where there were lots of emergency personnel, and he stopped to talk to them. He wanted to know what was going on. Minutes later the towers collapsed. His body was found right next to a fireman. We know the story of how Ben died because of all those he helped that day and because our family was one of the fortunate ones that had a body to bury. 

I think about Ben often. He was my mother’s first cousin. He had kids close to my brother and me in age, and we spent a lot of time together when we were kids - big Thanksgiving dinners and ski trips to New Hampshire. Ben had a wonderful sense of humor and a flair for the eccentric. He drove a purple Volvo with a pink pinstripe. Ben knew how to find joy in the present moment.

And of course, I think about Ben on this day. It is hard to believe it has been 15 years since September 11, 2001. Today will be a day of stories and remembering. Thousands of us have loved ones who connect us deeply to the tragedy of this day. Everyone over the age of 20 likely has a story of where we were when we learned the news. The images of the smoking and crumbling towers, of the damaged Pentagon and that field in Shanksville, PA are etched into our minds and hearts. While it is a day of sadness and grief, I also believe it can be a day of hope and transformation. It is a day that invites us to take stock of our lives and to live in a new way. 

There are thousands of stories like Ben’s. Stories of regular people who embodied compassion, generosity, and a sense of our shared humanity on that day. Small actions, like helping them on to the elevator or down the stairs. Actions that meant someone else got to go home and hug their kids that night. Think of all those phone calls and text messages sent by those who knew they would not survive. They said, “I am sorry.” They said, “Thank you.” They said, “I love you.” Innumerable witnesses to the fundamental goodness of humanity. The terrible evil that inspired the horrific acts of violence on that day did not have the last word. If we are paying attention, the messages of love and generosity speak far louder. 

And the world needs those stories and those messages. We need to be reminded that Love is stronger than death. We need to be reminded that Hope is stronger than fear. We need to be reminded that violence is not the solution to our problems. Divisions are not healed by attacking those who differ from us. 

I don’t know about you all, but I spent the afternoon and the evening of September 11, 2001 reaching out and connecting with those who mattered most to me. It was a day that reminded me of two very important truths that ought to always be at the forefront of my mind. First, we never know how long we have; life is short and risky. Second, relationships matter more than anything else. 

Interestingly, I think these truths are also at the heart of our Gospel today. Today we have the familiar story of Jesus searching for the lost sheep, and the woman searching for the lost coin. There is a sense of urgency in the Gospel. What has been lost is precious, and it must be found. There is no time to waste. We must focus on that which is most important. 

It is a parable that is meant to show us how much we matter to God. We are the sheep and Jesus is the shepherd. And yet it can be a human story too. It can just as easily be applied to our relationships with each other.  We all have people in our lives with whom our connection is essential. People who matter so much that we would drop everything and give of ourselves to ensure that we do not lose that connection. 

The juxtaposition of our Gospel and the anniversary of the tragic events of 9/11 give us much food for thought today. Life is short. We never know how long we have, and so we must ask ourselves the question of how we want to be remembered? What are the stories we want people to tell about us after we are gone? How have we cultivated relationships and sought to build connections? 

The thing that brings me up short in reflecting on our Gospel today and on the final hours of my cousin Ben’s life, is that he went seeking after anyone who needed help. He wasn’t just helping his best friend or a family member. He worked in a huge office. No doubt there were many people he guided to safety with whom he might not have ever even had a conversation. There were no favorites. 

Ben’s actions, and the actions of countless others that day, call me to a higher standard. They call me to seek out those who differ from me. Those who are currently strangers. As people of faith we are not just called to strengthen our ties with those whom we know and love, we are called to go seeking after those who are not in our inner circle. We are called to reach out and to contribute to the flourishing of ALL people. 

It is my prayer that we will have the courage and the grace to reach out and to seek after new relationships. May we follow the example of our Lord and Savior and live into the higher standard to which we are called. May we make the best use of whatever time we have left on this earth, so that the stories that are told about us long after we are gone are stories that inspire. 

AMEN.