My wife and I just spent a couple of hours watching the funeral of John McCain. We weren’t planning to watch the funeral; too many other things to do. We turned the TV on to watch a little U.S. Open tennis while we ate lunch but never changed channel from the funeral. What a wonderful tribute to great man and lesson for our nation to learn about cooperation, compromise and collaboration. It was one of the best funerals I’ve ever seen, including the marvelous recessional to Frank Sinatra singing “I Did It My Way.” If you missed it find it on You Tube and watch. It’s well worth it.
What moved me most personally was the way Senator McCain lived with his pain and injuries all those years- serving his country when he had every right to be bitter and angry about his fate in life. I hope whenever I am tempted to surrender to my minor aches and pains the image of a smiling John McCain struggling to wave to crowds when he couldn’t raise his arms above his head will remind me that a little pain and suffering is no excuse to give up, no justification for surrender or self-pity, but the very source of courage, strength and faith to live each day with renewed determination to make a difference.
I didn’t agree with John McCain on many political issues; I didn’t vote for him for President; but I am so glad he and his family planned such a wonderful funeral service to help all of us appreciate what a great man he was. “Well done thou good and faithful servant.” Rest in peace Senator McCain.
O Eternal One, we come again today to seek sanctuary from a world that bombards us with continual missiles of bad news: Hurricanes and flooding in Hawaii, gruesome murders in Colorado and Iowa, political turmoil in Washington and serious ethical issues about domestic abuse that raise hard questions in churches, at Ohio State and other places throughout our nation. We pray for all victims of any kind of abuse and for the leaders of society wisdom and compassion. Our hope is that such painful situations will be learning experiences for all of us so we can improve our own relationships and reaffirm the values of human dignity for all.
As we begin another season of classes here and in your churches, synagogues and mosques everywhere, we pray for your blessings on those servants who teach and all who learn that we will grow closer to the kind of world community you envisioned at creation and are continually trying to redeem and renew.
Remind us again O God that conflict and troubles are not new to us – they are a part of the human condition, a price we pay for free will. But remind us also of the saints who surround us like a great cloud of witnesses who have been through stormy seas and came out on the other side. Let us hear again the words of faith and hope like those of the psalmist:
“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change, though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea; though its waters roar and foam.”
Remind us that you are the one who says, “Be still, and know that I am God! I am exalted among the nations, I am exalted in the earth.” Let us be still enough to appreciate the beauty and goodness that is still around us even in the darkest times – the compassion and comfort of friends and strangers, the prayers that sustain us in trying times. Let us be still enough to restore our strength and faith – to know we are not called to do more than we can do – to just be still and know your presence…… [silence]
In the holy silence let us hear the still small voice that assures our souls that the tumult of humankind will not have the final word because “The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge.”
No where do we draw more strength and confidence than from Jesus the Christ who taught us how to stay calm in the storm and how to pray……
Northwest UMC, Columbus, OH
We are all familiar with the legendary ethics lesson of George Washington’s honest confession that he couldn’t tell a lie about chopping down his family’s cherry tree. God knows we all, yours truly included, need to learn and relearn that basic ethical lesson these days. We all know honesty is sorely lacking by commission and omission from government offices to corporate board rooms to college athletics departments to ecclesiastical authorities to intimate family relationships.
I don’t mean to take any of that lightly, but I had a humorous insight into George Washington’s cherry tree incident today that I want to share. I imagine that many of you, like me, can use a little levity in these turbulent times. I realized today that in all my many years I have never heard anyone raise one important question about the cherry tree legend, namely why did little George chop down the tree in the first place? Yes, his honesty when confronted with his misdeed is wonderful, but what was the motivation in the first place?
Was it done on a dare from a buddy, or a simple act of youthful rebellion or curiosity? Did he have a new axe that was just itching to be tried out? One possible explanation occurred to me today as I was gathering peaches that had fallen on the ground from our one overzealous peach tree. Let me back up and set the context for my ah hah moment. For about a week now we have been a bit overblessed with very good peaches from the one peach tree in our yard. We have frozen, dehydrated, eaten delicious peach crisp, gained weight, given some away—and yet we still have buckets full cooling in the basement and the tree is still loaded.
After several long evenings of peach juice dripping through my fingers as we have peeled and sliced and diced them I am having nightmares about rouge peaches chasing me down the street. Yes, we’re grateful and they taste great, but I am left to wonder again, why do they all have to be ripe and ready at the same time?
So here’s my theory: young George may have been in a similar situation where he had spent more time than he wanted picking and processing cherries. He wanted time to play with his friends or explore the plantation; so one day in a moment of exasperation he put hatchet to trunk, and as they say, the rest is history—or legend. And just as I was writing this I realized the flaw in my hypothesis. Washington’s family had slaves to pick and process their produce. So that chops down that idea, and it doesn’t help my peach problem.
And I’m still left wondering why George chopped down that poor tree? Any ideas?
This picture has been special to me ever since I took it. My dad was very resistant to doing any of the activities organized for the patients in his nursing home. He never did care much for anyone telling him he needed to do something. So I was very surprised the day I took this picture. We had been sitting in the atrium visiting when the activity director he couldn’t stand began to gather some patients for a drumming circle. I could tell Dad was curious about what they were doing; so as I was getting ready to leave I asked him if he wanted me to take him back to his room or if he wanted to stay there. He surprised me by saying he wanted to stay and even more so when he agreed to join the group, took a tambourine and drumstick and began tapping out a rhythm.
I didn’t know then that it would be the last time I would see him alive. He died two weeks later on February 12 of this year, and that final photo became priceless. I came across it while scrolling through the photo roll on my phone today and realized with a start that it has been 6 months this week since he died. The months have flown by, but every once in a while I stop and think, “I need to go visit Dad.” Those difficult visits as he was failing physically and mentally were often very challenging, but even so there’s an empty place in my life that he filled for over 70 years.
That last photo seems so right in retrospect. Music was my dad’s life for 80 years. He played his tenor sax until he was 90 and sang in several choirs and ensembles at the retirement community he lived in. He had his own dance band when he was a young man playing all the Big Band standards of the ‘40’s and ‘50’s. He was in a church choir for as long as I can remember and had his own group called the Harsh Notes at the Otterbein retirement community. When he was no longer physically able to sing or play his sax a few years ago most of his reason for living was gone.
For my last image of him to be making music and to be doing so in a drumming circle is also special to me for one more reason. I know my dad was disappointed that none of his children inherited his passion for making music or his musical talent. Because I can’t carry a tune in a bucket when it came time for me to join our school band in junior high our band director suggested I could play the drums. My band career only lasted a year, but I enjoyed the drums and have a warm spot in my heart that my last earthly glimpse of my dad was of him drumming. Life changes and ends, but the beat goes on.