The Worries of the Day

Scripture: Matthew 6:25-34

We worry.

If we peruse the writings of many of history's great thinkers we find that they tell us not to do so. Epictetus, Seneca, Marcus Aurelius, the Buddha, Santideva, Confucius, Rumi--all say don't worry. Even the Vikings--a crew not fabled for their nuanced sensitivities--declared in an Old Norse poem: "Foolish is he who frets at night / And lies awake to worry."

We hear the same message in the words of more contemporary moral teachers, like Gandhi and the Dalai Lama: Don't. Worry.

And we get it. At a purely rational level we understand that worry is unproductive. As sages have observed for a few thousand years, if a problem is fixable then there is no need to worry; if a problem is not fixable then there is no point in worrying. The logic of this argument is unassailable.

Some of us manage to live with these realities in mind. My father was like that. He had a rough life: raised in poverty; sent off to fight on two continents in World War II; a man who met with success and then lost everything; convicted of a crime and imprisoned; bedeviled by ulcers and arthritis and heart problems; death an imminent and spectral presence throughout most of his later years. But every night he slept like a baby.

This drove my mother nuts. She struggled mightily with insomnia, prodded awake by a seemingly endless inventory of anxieties. One morning I heard her say to my father, almost in anger, certainly in resentment: "How is it that every night you fall asleep so easily and rest so peacefully?" He looked up from his breakfast and said: "Well, when I start to worry I ask myself: 'Am I going to do anything about that right now, tonight?' The answer is always 'no.' And then I doze off." With that, he shrugged and returned to his corn flakes.

As I say: the logical of it is unassailable. 

But many of us worry anyway.

The problem is that many of us do not find it as easy to "cease and desist" from worrying as the advice implies we should. "Don't worry" means "stop doing that thing," the sort of direct and simple command we might give to a toddler who is building a tower from his mashed potatoes at dinner. For many of us the directive meets with the same success as the injunction issued toward the child: little or none.

The advice seems inadequate and incomplete. It oversimplifies the problem. For many of us, anxiety is not so easily extinguished.

So we may bristle a bit when we come to the end of Chapter 6 of Matthew's gospel and find these words: "Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life ... [C]an any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life?"

We say to ourselves: "And here it is again, some profoundly wise voice telling me not to worry. Right. I'm on that."

We might find a little more help at the very end of the chapter, where Jesus declares: "So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today's trouble is sufficient for today." Corrie ten Boom may have been getting at the same idea when she said: "Worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow, it empties today of its strength."

I'll confess to a deep personal fondness for this verse. I'm particularly keen on the poetry of the King James version of it: "Take therefore no thought for the morrow; for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." Sufficient, indeed; sometimes more than sufficient; sometimes a day can seriously overachieve in the evil department.

Still, this advice, too, may feel inadequate and incomplete. We may think that saying "don't spend today worrying about tomorrow" doesn't solve the problem. It just temporally relocates it.

Perhaps, from a mental health perspective, this has something to recommend it. It is, after all, the sort of thinking that helped my father go to sleep every night: "Well, if I'm not going to do anything about it now, then why worry about it now?"

But I remain concerned. It feels to me like a bit of a shell game, as though we're saying to ourselves: "Hey, if I keep moving the anxiety around then I'll lose track of where it is." And, while postponement is sometimes wise and useful, I am unpersuaded that it brings to the challenge the sort of moral force we need if we want to do combat with so robust an opponent as worry.

That's why I believe that the key passage toward the end of the sixth chapter of Matthew is this: "But strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness." If you do that, the gospel says, then all the things that are worrying you will be addressed.

The genius of this passage is that it does not tell us to stop the energy flow that drives our anxiety. Rather, it tells us to direct that energy toward something else. I'm sure you can see why this distinction makes a huge difference. If you can't, then imagine standing at the bottom of a rushing river; now ask yourself whether you have a better chance of stopping it altogether or of making it go in a new direction.

Also, I think the word "first" is doing some real work here. Before you get about the business of worrying, the passage says, send your energy in this different direction. Before you feed your anxieties, the passage says, feed your sense of the sacred. What is the easiest way to stop worrying? Don't start. What is the easiest way to keep from starting? By occupying your whole spirit with something else. What activity could possibly require the commitment of all your energy? The work of God. The work of God into which each of us is called. The work of faith and hope and love.

It is perhaps in the same spirit that Confucius declared that "the man of benevolence never worries." Why would this be true? Because benevolence, properly done, wholly occupies us; it takes us out of ourselves; it focuses us on something else, on somewhere else, on someone else. So occupied, we have little time or opportunity to indulge in pointless worry.

I do not mean--and I think this passage does not mean--to substitute one piece of overly simplistic advice for another. Trying to stay ahead of our worries requires vigilance; repurposing their energy if they show up anyway demands focus and discipline; we will struggle to do these things; we will not always succeed. But we may find that these strategies make a life of diminished worry possible where others fail us.

After all, there is One through whom everything is possible. And, in the holy endeavor described in this verse, He is before us, and behind us, and beside us.

He whispers into our ears: "Do this."

He does not even bother to add: "And do not worry."

Amen.  

Blessed Imperfection

Scripture: Matthew 5

Chapter 5 of Matthew's gospel is a remarkable document.

Biblical scholars have said that it expresses Jesus's main ethical teachings. It includes the Beatitudes, in which Jesus declares the special blessings that fall upon the poor in spirit, the meek, the merciful, the pure in heart, the peacemakers, and those who suffer persecution for their faith. It commands us to forgive and to be generous. It instructs us not to hide our light but to let it shine before others.

Chapter 5 is a densely packed text. It is so rich and relentless in its moral authority that some scholars have suggested that Jesus probably did not say all of these things on the same occasion. They speculate that Chapter 5 is a compilation of teachings that Jesus offered at different times. And, indeed, it is difficult to imagine anyone absorbing all of this ethical instruction in one sitting.

But Chapter 5 is remarkable not just for its richness and complexity but also for the dizzyingly high expectations it sets for us. Jesus tells us that it is not enough for us to refrain from killing; we must not even get angry at our brothers and sisters. It is not enough for us to follow conventional notions of generosity; we must give to anyone who asks of us. It is not enough for us to put aside our desire for revenge; we must offer our right cheek to the one who slapped the left.

Then, as if these commands were not overwhelming enough, Chapter 5 ends with this daunting directive: "Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect."

Some contemporary philosophers of ethics--such as Kwame Anthony Appiah--have argued that if we want to develop a workable moral theory then we have to pay attention to human psychology. It does us no good, they contend, to formulate ethical principles with which real people cannot comply. On reading Chapter 5, we might wonder whether Jesus has fallen into the exact error that those philosophers condemn. After all, who among us never gets angry, never thinks a lustful thought, always gives everything away on demand, consistently goes the extra mile, and so on and so on? Who among us is perfect--or holds out any hope of becoming so?

In light of our conspicuous imperfections, we might wonder whether this text, with its extraordinary demands and aspirations, has any relevance for us. I think that it does. Indeed, I believe that this text has embedded within it two profound insights into human behavior that are critical to the success of our efforts to lead better lives.

The first insight is that, left to our own devices, we will tend to aim low and then wallow in self-satisfaction over having hit the easy target we set for ourselves.

In this respect, it is helpful to remember that in Chapter 5 Jesus is not just promoting a morality of high aspirations; he is also rejecting another, different kind of morality because he finds it insufficient. 

To understand what Jesus is getting at, it may be helpful to bear in mind a distinction made by the legal scholar and philosopher, Lon Fuller. Fuller distinguished what he called "the morality of duty" from what he called "the morality of aspiration."

The morality of duty, Fuller said, sets the minimum standards for behavior below which we may not fall. It tells us not to commit murder or to steal or to bear false witness. It is the ethics of the lowest common denominator, of regulatory compliance.

The morality of aspiration, in contrast, relates to the ideal behaviors toward which we should all strive. We might think of this as the morality of the Good Samaritan, who stops to help a stranger not because the law requires it but because his conscience compels him to do so. This is the ethics of the "better angels of our nature," to use Lincoln's words; it is the ethics of our farthest and most ambitious reach.

In Chapter 5, Jesus rejects the morality of duty as an adequate standard for behavior. Of course, satisfying the morality of duty matters and we should honor its prescriptions. But compliance with those expectations is a pretty modest demand to make upon ourselves. None of us hopes to have the eulogist at our funeral say, "He was a good man; he never killed or robbed anybody." We'd like to aim a bit higher than that.

In Chapter 5, Jesus draws us away from that legalistic, minimalistic, lowest-common-denominator, compliance-driven ethos and toward the ethos of God Himself. He calls out our complacency and self-satisfaction and unflinchingly tells us that they are not good enough. He pushes hard against the natural gravity of our hearts that pulls us down toward that comforting place called "the least we can do."  

Still, this leaves us with a problem. We might agree that we should try to exceed the basic requirements of the morality of duty. But why do we have to strive for perfection? Surely, some space exists between the extremes of "I never murdered anyone" and "I never even got angry at anyone." And isn't that the space where most of us spend most of our lives? In other words, wouldn't we do better to set our goals high but well short of perfection, where we're likely to meet with failure?

This brings us to the second great insight of Chapter 5, which is that the text does not appear to entertain the possibility that we will not succeed. Throughout Chapter 5, Jesus simply says "be these things" and "do these things," never accounting for the fact that we may fall short. Permit me to correct that: Jesus does not here account for the certainty that we will fall short, perhaps frequently, perhaps spectacularly.

It seems to me that there are only two ways to make sense of Jesus's silence on this point. One is to assume that Jesus was a giddy optimist who thought we could do whatever we put our minds to--an early iteration of those ridiculously buoyant self-help authors who offer us recipes made up of equal parts saccharine and denial. We can reject this out of hand as wholly inconsistent with the Jesus that we otherwise meet throughout the gospels.

The other possibility is that Jesus thought that there is some meaningful sense in which we will succeed even if we fail in our aspiration toward perfection. And I think this is, indeed, precisely what he had in mind. After all, the continual experiment of striving toward perfection and coming up short teaches us some things that Jesus clearly wanted us to know:

that we are not God;

that we must love ourselves despite our limitations;

that we are in no position to judge others because of their imperfections;

that the central component of our collective striving toward better hearts and a better world is forgiveness;

that in our imperfection and brokenness we will find things that might otherwise elude us: humility; meekness; mercy; compassion;

that it is in this striving that we become a blessing to others;

that is is in this striving that we are blessed.

Amen.

Gradually, Then Suddenly

Scripture: Matthew 4:18-22

It is the beginning of Jesus's ministry. He finds four fishermen at their work. He asks them to follow him. They "immediately" drop everything and do so. "Immediately," the text pointedly says. "Immediately."

It doesn't seem very plausible, does it?

There is no evidence that the fishermen knew Jesus. He had nothing of material value to offer them. And these were not dreamy-eyed seminary students waiting around for some holy mendicant to happen along and offer up a little enlightenment. These were fishermen, practical guys who worked for a living and who had no time to waste. And, having been invited, they didn't think about it or talk about it or delay.

They just went with him, the story says, immediately.

You might think that the story doesn't make much sense and so is probably untrue. That's a dangerous line of reasoning in light of the senselessness that constantly surrounds us. As Mark Twain said: "It's no wonder truth is stranger than fiction; fiction has to make sense."

Well, if the story is true, then why would they do it?

That question is often answered by focusing entirely upon the person of Jesus. This scene, the argument goes, tells us something important about what it must have been like to stand in his presence. Those who encountered him must have been overtaken by his radiant holiness, his overwhelming grace, his divine light, his irresistible charisma, and so on and so on.

I do not doubt for an instant that encountering Jesus must have been an experience beyond anything that I can imagine. But the argument that the fishermen went along with him because no one could resist his sacred pull seems to me deeply problematic for at least two reasons.

First, many people did resist Jesus's influence. Indeed, in this very scene we also meet the often neglected Zebedee, father of two of these fishermen, who decided to stay home with the boats. Also, the disciples themselves went through periods where they pulled away from Jesus. And, of course, whole crowds of people wanted nothing to do with him but to crucify him.

Second, this argument deprives the fishermen of their human agency. It turns them into automatons who threw down their nets and followed Jesus because he pushed the right button. And, by making them less than human, this argument misses a profound truth about human behavior that is embedded in the story and that can help us understand how major changes in our life often occur.

So let's shift our focus a bit and imagine ourselves in the skin of one of these fishermen.    

These were not recreational fishermen--they fished for a living. That cannot have been an easy life. The hours were almost certainly long and tiring. The work was probably often tedious. Every day, they hauled the heavy nets out to the sea and then hauled the heavier, wet, burdened nets back into the boats and to shore. They were at the mercy of the elements. And, of course, the catch could be disappointing. As my father used to say to me when we'd have an unproductive day on our boat, "there's a reason they call it 'fishing' and not 'eating.'"

If you want to talk about something implausible, try this: it seems to me completely implausible that these men never questioned how they were spending their hours on planet earth. Surely, as human beings, they must from time to time have asked themselves the same questions we ask ourselves: Is this what my life is to be made of? Is this all there is for me? Is there nothing more, nothing greater, nothing more meaningful to come?

Of course, these are not just questions that a fisherman might ask himself. Over the years, I have heard the same questions from the lips of doctors, lawyers, judges, professors, teachers, successful businessmen ... indeed, just about everyone.

And then there comes a moment. Some turning point presents itself in life and we take it. And we do so because we have been spending most of our life getting ready for its arrival--whether we knew it or not.

There is a wonderful scene in Ernest Hemingway's novel The Sun Also Rises where one of the characters asks another how he went bankrupt. He replies: "gradually, then suddenly."

I have come to believe that these are some of the wisest words ever written. They perfectly describe how many of the worst things in life happen to us: financial ruin; alcoholism; drug abuse; the slow descent and ultimate crashing of a relationship. Gradually. Then suddenly.

But they also perfectly describe how many of the best things in life happen to us. Many of us fall in love gradually, then suddenly. We come to insight gradually, then suddenly. We find happiness gradually, then suddenly. We discover meaning in our lives gradually, then suddenly.

Paradoxically, these words also describe how we often transform some of our hardest experiences into some of our most powerful. We are working toward finding greater meaning in life; a terrible illness comes along; we suddenly move to a place of higher enlightenment. We are striving to have a more generous heart and to resist petty squabbles; we lose a loved one; our capacity to focus on what matters suddenly improves. I suspect that all of us have either had this experience or know someone who has.

There is, of course, no way to know for sure how to understand the story in this scripture. The text does not expressly tell us why the fishermen followed Jesus. But it is in the nature of the mysteries of sacred texts that they invite us not only into their words, but into the human heart, into our own hearts.

Why did the fishermen follow Jesus? No one knows for certain. But I suspect that it is because they had become ready for him before he ever appeared on the shore.

Perhaps you are at a time in your life when you are asking those hard questions I mentioned earlier. If so, then I think this passage has an important, if subtle, message that may help.

This passage tells you that those questions should not, must not, leave you in despair. Those questions are the process of preparing for the thing that comes along that changes everything.

Those questions, and the introspection they inspire, are the gradually.

Now, watch, my friends, for the suddenly.

Watch.

And watch.

And watch.

And, when it comes, throw down your nets.

"Immediately."

Amen.     

In Memoriam Robert Michael Guido

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Saturday, November 28, 2015

St. Brendan Catholic Church, Olcott Beach, New York

Good morning and thank you for joining in this celebration of the life of Robert Michael Guido—brother, husband, father, grandfather, great-grandfather, friend, proud denizen of Olcott Beach. Oh, how he loved this community; and, oh, how you all loved him back.

Jesus said: do not hide your light, but let it shine before others. We are gathered here today because we had the good fortune to spend time in the grand, glowing, glorious light that was Bob Guido and that he shared with the world.

And what a light it was: that sly, mischievous smile; that husky, quiet laugh; those big arms and that bigger personality and that even bigger heart that drew you in. There was only one Bob Guido. A skilled fisherman; an avid reader; an artist; a terrific storyteller; a dancer who could swing Sally all around the dance floor; a guy who relished good food and who liked his martinis with about one-hundred olives in them; a man so resilient we had almost come to think of him as indestructible.  

For those of you I have not met, my name is Len Niehoff and I am married to Bob and Sally’s daughter Lisa. I have the honor of sharing a few thoughts with you this morning as we remember and give thanks for Bob’s life. Indeed, I can think of no better time to honor Bob than during this season of thankfulness.

Every life offers its own lessons and I’m sure each of us could come up with a very long list of things that we learned from Bob. But, for today, I want to focus on three lessons that I see as particularly present in Bob’s life. They also happen to resonate strongly with some of the most important messages of the scriptures.

Those lessons are: welcome people in; shepherd your flock; and fight the good fight.

Welcome People In

When I first met Bob, Lisa and I were not yet married. I will confess that I was a little nervous. It seemed unlikely to me that this Italian guy from New York State had long dreamed that his beautiful daughter would fall in love with a middle-aged German guy from Michigan. 

I found Bob on the back deck of their house and he was a bit daunting. Here was this big bear of a man, dressed in shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt , wearing sunglasses, smoking a cigarette and pushing a pile of sausages, peppers, and onions around on the grill. He cut an imposing figure.

Lisa introduced me and he smiled and said hello and offered me a drink. And that was that. I was in. I had been welcomed into Bob’s flock.

I suspect that many people in this room had an experience like this. It took only an instant for Bob to move you from being a stranger to being an old friend. It was a gift—a grace—of the first order, one that he shared with his treasured wife, Sally. Throughout their marriage, they welcomed everyone in, always, and never treated a visitor as a burden or an imposition. 

In the thirteenth chapter of his letter to the Hebrews, Paul says “Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing so some have entertained angels without knowing it.” When we were talking about her experience “growing up Guido,” Lisa told me that throughout her life there were almost always visitors at the dinner table: neighbors, friends, relatives, newcomers to the community, members of clubs and organizations, all the childhood friends of Lisa and Gina and Rob and Joe who knew that Bob and Sally were the coolest parents in town, and so on.

Maybe most of those folks did not qualify as angels. But you would never know that from the way Bob and Sally treated them. Bob saw the best in everyone, and, because of the great symmetrical power of love and respect, everyone saw the best in Bob.

Shepherd Your Flock

In the first letter of Peter it says: “Care for the flock that God has entrusted to you, watching over them; and do not do it for your own gain, but out of an eagerness to serve.” I think this is a perfect description of one of the key dimensions of Bob’s life.

Bob was born in 1940 in North Tonawanda, New York. He spent the next seventy-five years bringing people into his flock, watching out for them, and helping them along. He had a wonderful role model in his beloved late mother, Elizabeth Amici Guido Amato, who on November 10 met him on the other side with open arms—and probably with a plate of meatballs—and with whom he is now reunited.

As with his mother, the most important members of Bob’s flock were his family. He cherished his relationship with his siblings, Al, Mike, John, and Teddy. He adored his wife Sally, often doting on her as if they were newlyweds. His affection for his children, grandchildren, and great-grandson was boundless. 

Whenever I would drive Lisa home for a visit, we would find Bob sitting in a folding chair next to the driveway or in the garage with the door open if it was raining. It was as reliable as the law of gravity: Bob would be there—waiting, watching, keeping an eye out for someone he loved. Like all good shepherds, Bob was always on the lookout for all of us, and we were all blessed by it.

But Bob’s flock extended well beyond his family. He cared deeply for his friends in the Lion’s Club and for all of the volunteers he worked with on the Olcott Beach Carousel Park and the Rainbow of Help. Through these service organizations, Bob’s generosity of spirit extended to people he did not even know.

Bob’s flock also included the Boy Scout troops he led. After Bob’s passing, the family received a number of messages from men who had been in those troops many years ago. A message from one of these former scouts describes the numerous ways in which being in Bob’s troop had made him a better man, including giving him a model of how to be a great father. 

You might remember some of the qualities a scout is supposed to exhibit: loyalty, friendliness, kindness, and cheerfulness. Bob may have helped those young men cultivate those qualities by what he said. But I suspect that their true lessons came in what Bob did, in how he treated them, and in who he was.

I want to say two more things about being in Bob’s flock. First, it was fun. As just one example, Lisa has described to me how Bob and Sal would take the kids on “mystery adventure caravans”—little trips to undisclosed and entertaining destinations. And, of course, for many of us being in Bob’s flock meant fishing with him, which was a tremendous joy, even though he would consistently out-fish you and he was not above a bit of extravagant gloating when he did.

Second, as I mentioned earlier, the fact that Bob cared so much about his flock did not prevent him from also working to help people he did not know. But I think it is important to emphasize how strong an impulse this was in him. It led him to his military service. And consider this: on one occasion, a number of years ago, Bob rushed from his house to pull two complete strangers from a burning car that had been in an accident—a courageous act that very likely put him in harm’s way. 

Perhaps the word “hero” gets overused. But if Bob Guido is one of your heroes you will get no argument from me.

And that brings me to the third and final lesson from Bob’s life.

Fight the Good Fight

In his second letter to Timothy, Paul says: “I have fought the good fight; I have finished the race.” As all of you know, Bob struggled with grave physical challenges for more than a decade. He fought the good fight, hanging on as long as he could to the life that he lived with such zeal and the people that he he loved with such depth and gratitude. That fight took unspeakable amounts of courage—on Bob’s part, and also on the part of Sally and their children.

Of course, Bob was human and so could get frustrated with his struggles. And the same God that made Bob a wonderful man also made him wonderfully stubborn—and that could pose its own challenges. So he had his bad days. But it is a testament to Bob’s character that nothing in the last ten years—nothing—kept his spirit down for long. He fought the good fight, and he won many more rounds than he lost.

When a big, warm, welcoming, shepherding, courageous presence leaves this life for the next, the absence is sorely felt. We will all miss Bob, every day. But, every day, we will also feel his presence—when we welcome someone in; when we give someone a hand; when we stoop to help a child; when we deal bravely with the challenges life presents to us.

We did not all have the chance to “grow up Guido.” But we all have the chance to show up and step up like Bob Guido would want us to—for those who come to our doorstep; for our family and friends; for everyone in all the flocks that God puts in our care; for those in need; for strangers who we will not let stay strangers for very long.

And know this: we are all still in Bob’s flock. He’s still watching out for us. When we have finished fighting our good fight he will still be there, waiting like he did in that old folding chair in the driveway, ready to welcome us to the new neighborhood and to show us around.

As I said at the beginning, Bob let his light shine for everyone to see. His light “shines still in the darkness.” It is an inextinguishable presence in our hearts and minds and memories. For all of us who were blessed to know him and to stand in the warmth and comfort of that light, no darkness can ever overcome it. 

Not today. 

Not ever. 

Amen. And amen.

The Heart of the Matter

One of my favorite passages in scripture appears in Hebrews 13: "Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing so some have entertained angels unawares."

I am interested in the question of what it would be like to bring an angel into your home.

Like all other things holy, angels have suffered from a lot of distorting publicity over the last couple thousand years. We have come to think of them as sweet, ephemeral, winged helpmates who show up on an as-needed basis to ease our back pain, get us a job promotion, or find us a parking space.

This view of angels may lead us to read the passage from Hebrews as saying: hey, invite a stranger into your home and you may get lucky--he may be an angel. If so, he can lend a hand with whatever worries you. He can make your life easier. He can sprinkle pixie dust on your path.

But this is a distorted reading of the passage because it is a distorted understanding of what angels are like and what they do. In the scriptures, the visit of an angel is usually described as a deeply disquieting event. And very often the first thing the angel says is: "Do not be afraid." We would get different reactions and different introductions if angels were like the smiling, pretty little blonde fairies we put on top of Christmas trees.

Furthermore, angels do not show up in the scriptures to do our bidding. They appear as a manifestation of God's will and to get the Lord's work done. That work may align with our hopes and wishes--or it may not.

So it turns out that this passage means the exact opposite of what we may at first think it means. It means that when we open ourselves to those we do not know--those who are unlike us--we may be severely challenged. We may be discomfited. We may be frightened. We may have to reexamine our most basic understandings of who we are and what we are called to do.

But, the scripture says, do it anyway. Why? Because it is our best shot at finding meaning, purpose, and direction in our existence.

William Bowen, the former President of Princeton, once observed that "We do not learn very much when we are surrounded only by the likes of ourselves." To find ourselves in the company of those who differ from us always brings challenges; it forces us to reconsider our established and insular ways of thinking about the world and our fixed notions of how to engage with it. But the experience also brings tremendous promise and unique opportunities to grow and learn--for exactly the same reasons.

Perhaps, the scripture suggests, in our welcoming of others we will discover that we have taken in an angel. We will then be in the presence of one who is different from us in wild and startling and radical ways we cannot imagine. We will feel the very foundation of our life shifting underneath us. And nothing will ever be the same. This happens over and over again in the Bible--someone meets an angel and everything changes.

Of course, this is how it plays out on a lesser scale when we engage with human beings who differ from us. Our understanding deepens. Our perspective widens. Our sense of the complexity and richness of human variety and experience expands. We emerge from the encounter not quite the same.

This is completely unsurprising.

After all, God sent them, too.

But I particularly like this passage from Hebrews when we read it in conjunction with the 25th chapter of the gospel of Matthew.

I'm thinking especially of the verses from Matthew where Jesus tells us that whenever we do anything for "the least" of God's children it is as though we have done it for God Himself.

Tend to the sick. Shelter the homeless. Visit the imprisoned. Take in the lost and forlorn. When we do these things, we do not just entertain God's messengers--we bring God Himself into our presence. And we serve Him.

Read together, these passages leave us with an unmistakable directive: open your door; usher the strangers inside; lift up the fallen and carry them to a better place.

And if you do these things, the Lord says, then you will know my heart.

And I will know yours. 

Amen.    

Being There

I have no idea how many times in the course of my life I have witnessed someone come into the presence of a newborn child. But I can say this with confidence: on every such occasion, the adult has said something to the infant.

It was beside the point that the child had no capacity to understand what was being said. It was beside the point that the encounter did not offer much occasion to say anything at all. It was even beside the point that the child may have been sound asleep--this simply prompted a quieter greeting. It borders on a universal and invariable truth: when we meet infants, we talk to them. Go figure.    

The second chapter of Matthew tells the familiar story of the visit of the wise men to the newborn Jesus. We are told about their travels, their encounter with Herod along the way, and their gold, frankincense, and myrrh. But we are not told whether they said anything to the infant Jesus when they met him. The gospel says that they paid him "homage," but it's not clear whether they did this through words. Maybe the homage-making consisted of a bow or the presentation of the gifts--just as the old creche scenes depict it. Or maybe the Magi did what we all do when we meet infants: say hello; exclaim over the child's specialness; show off the gifts that were hauled along.

In the last few months, we have suffered a number of losses. A dear neighbor and friend who was unexpectedly overtaken by cancer. Two beloved, old dogs. A 100-year-old matriarch whose kitchen was the center of our family's universe. A young man who succumbed to a horrible addiction. A treasured father, finally overcome by long-term illness. Over and over again, we have found ourselves in the presence of someone who was moving from this life to the next, or who was grieving the absence of someone who had done so. And over and over again we have been reminded of another universal and invariable truth: in these circumstances, we do not know what to say.

Then, just two days ago, we sat in horror as we learned about the terrorist attacks in Paris. Over a hundred dead. Hundreds wounded, many critically. A senseless and obscene act of violence. And again: we do not know what to say.

This will no doubt seem curious, given that the story about the visit of the Magi is a narrative of awe and joy, but it occurs to me that there may be embedded in this tale a lesson that we can apply during these trying times. The lesson, of course, does not lie in what the Magi said. Indeed, the scripture does not even bother to report their words, if they said any. The significance clearly lies somewhere else.

Perhaps the significance of the visit of the Magi rests in the simple fact that they paid attention. While everyone else was going about their business, they stopped theirs and tried to figure out what was happening and why it was important. Did they fully understand? We don't know--the gospel doesn't tell us. The gospel doesn't give us a set of verses in which the three wise men debrief on their long trip and what they learned, memorandum of expenses to follow. And what a relief that we don't get such a thing, because it seems to me that it would wholly and conspicuously miss the point.

In the most challenging circumstances of our lives, it is often the case that the best we can do is to pay attention. It is good to be physically present when we can, but that is not always possible. We can, however, always be spiritually and mindfully there with those who need us. And we can send messages to let people know that we are paying attention and that we stand with them--even if the best words, if there are any, do not come to us.
 
I suspect that the fact that we're paying attention is actually what matters most to those for whom we are concerned. In my experience, a bereaved friend almost always remembers that I attended a funeral of their loved one but almost never remembers anything I said. I like to think that they remember a bit more if I'm the eulogist, but that may be self-flattery.

And paying attention may also be what matters most to us. Words aside, the simple act of paying attention takes us out of ourselves, forces us into empathic and sympathetic interactions, broadens our vision, reorients our priorities, deepens our soul. When we pay attention, we change that which we observe and with which we engage. And we ourselves are changed in the process.
 
We do not know much about the wise men. We do not know a word they said in the presence of Jesus. For that matter, we do not know, for certain, that they uttered a single sentence.

But we know they were there. We know they paid attention.

And we know that they went home by another, a different, way.

As do we all, after we show up and pay attention.

As do we all.

Amen.
 

Terrible Freedom

The first seventeen verses of the opening chapter of the Gospel of Matthew seem like a bad way to start a good story. There, Matthew gives us a genealogy of Jesus--dozens of names recited without color or commentary. I have often wondered how many new readers of the gospels we lose before the end of this first chapter.

A little background helps with the tedium. Students of the Hebrew Bible will recognize that the list includes kings and commoners, men and women, heroes and minor villains, the famous and the obscure. But, even if you know the players, it does not make for exciting reading for most of us.

And yet something important must be going on here. So commentators have identified a variety of compelling reasons Matthew may have begun his narrative this way.

They point out that through this genealogy Matthew, the most Jewish of the gospel writers, links Jesus to numerous titans of the faith, such as Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Ruth, Solomon, and, of course, David.

They note that the line of descent underscores a mathematical continuity within God's plan: fourteen generations from Abraham to David, and from David to the deportation to Babylon, and from the deportation to the birth of Jesus. Fourteen holds a special meaning because it is the numerical value of David's name in Hebrew and because the number seven is charged with symbolic significance. Still, this continuity is not without its problems since Matthew has to leave a few ancestors out in order to get the math to work.

Commentators also observe that Matthew uses this genealogy to set the stage, to give us a sense of historical momentum, to signal the working out of a grand, unfolding plan--the grandest of all plans throughout all of time.

This is a familiar literary device--beginning a story by using the past to tell us something about where the narrative starts and where it will go.

The great author Gabriel Garcia Marquez commences his novel One Hundred Years of Solitude this way, with one of the most famous sentences in all of literature: "Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice."

The device taps into a truth we all know and experience: where we come from matters. It matters to the now. It matters to the next.

We find this truth in William Faulkner's wry statement that "The past is never dead. It's not even past" and in Fitzgerald's closing remark that we are like boats against a current, borne "ceaselessly back into our past." And endless everyday canards and banalities remind us of it. As we all know, objects in the rear view mirror are closer than they appear.

But, in the gospel that follows this introduction, Jesus's lineage ends up playing a puzzling and not always consistent role.

Of course, the narrator continues to allude to Jesus's connection with David. But almost all of the other names fall away. And members of Jesus's community seem to have little interest in any part of his past, except to the extent that they question how the son of a local carpenter could make any credible claim to messianic status. As saviors of humankind go, they muse, it does not seem like much of a resume.

And the words and actions of Jesus himself seem stunningly dismissive of his immediate and distant family connections. When he is told that his mother and brothers are waiting outside to talk to him he asks "Who is my mother and who are my brothers?" He then points to his disciples and declares that his family consists of those who do God's will. And when the Pharisees and Sadducees invoke Abraham as a source of their authority Jesus replies: "Do not presume to say to yourselves 'We have Abraham as our ancestor.' (Something Matthew has told us Jesus could himself say in the most literal sense.) I tell you, God is able from these stones to raise up children to Abraham."

Reasonable people can differ about how we should interpret this tension within the text--on one hand, pulling us toward the past and signaling the importance of lineage, on the other hand, severing the connection to the past and stressing the importance of the individual and how he or she lives here, now, at this very moment. We can fairly conclude that the text leaves us room to find truth in both of these messages--as I think it does and as I think we do. But it is the latter message that probably keeps us up at night.

After all, a message that frees us from our past also pulls us in conflicting directions. The message liberates us, allowing us to cast off burdens and baggage that could slow us down or crush us as we journey through the complexities of life. But the message also challenges us, making clear our dreadfully personal responsibility for our own decisions and our own behaviors and our own willingness--or unwillingness--to be a present and palpable manifestation of God's heart and hands. The philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre did not believe in God, and yet there is an unsettling resonance between what Jesus tells us here and what Sartre meant when he declared that we are "condemned to be free." It is a glorious freedom we have; and it is a terrible freedom as well.

The question of how we use and manage that terrible freedom is among the central questions of our existence. We have to decide what we will allow to limit that freedom. We have to decide whether to view those claims on our freedom as limitations. We have to decide what parts of that freedom we will give to our neighbor. We have to decide whether, in the end, we can justify holding any part of it back. We have to decide whether service to others curtails our freedom--or is the very essence of it.

It would be pretty to say that our intuitions, our cultural norms, our moral philosophy, the advice of friends or family or mentors, or something else will provide us with clear and precise guidance about how to proceed in making those decisions. But it would not be true. Our untidy lives resist tidy directives. And, even when we have the evident good fortune to get one, we still have to decide whether to pay any attention to it. It falls to us to decide what we will believe, what we will do, what we will refuse to do. Period. Full stop.

If I have made this sound like a daunting, sometimes overwhelming, occasionally terrifying, and frequently lonely process, well, then, I guess I got it right. And getting it right matters here because when we delude ourselves about the terribleness of our freedom or the almost impossible nature of our task then we can convince ourselves that we don't need any help working through it. But if we honestly and unblinkingly stare at the momentous nature of our responsibility and our choices, then we will humbly realize that we need all the help we can get.

The good news--the news that follows in all the verses after those first seventeen--is that help is available to us. We can find it by looking backward to that very first parent, the one who made us free, the one who whispers to us and nudges us and sometimes even gives us a bit of a shove. This is no distant ancestor, looming in the past. This is the most imminent presence in our lives, watching how we spend the gift of our terrible freedom, helping us to see and revel in the joy of its sacred surrender.

Amen. And amen. 

In Memoriam Jim Miner

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September 18, 2015

Ann Arbor, Michigan

We gather today to honor and celebrate the life of Dr. Jim Miner.

And what a life it was: a life of accomplishment; a life of dedication; a life of deep intellectual curiosity; a life of commitment to his patients; a life of conversation—and the occasional poker game—with close friends; a life of completely fulfilled partnership with his wife, Deanna; a life of boundless pride in his three children: Kriste, Brett, and Scott.

Sigmund Freud, who Jim revered, said that: “love and work are the cornerstones of our humanness.” And in Jim Miner this prescription was fully realized.

Jim’s life was uncontestably a life of love. To say that he loved Deanna is a masterpiece of understatement. As for his children, well, he loved them almost as much as he loved bragging about them. He loved his coterie of close friends. He loved to listen—which he did with exquisite care and without judging or condemning. He loved to think. He loved his work.

Ernest Jones, one of Freud’s biographers, observed that, in Vienna, Freud’s life “consisted of little besides work” and casual observers may have had the same impression of Jim. Indeed, his passion for his work was conspicuous. That he was privileged to do so much of it at a desk right next to Deanna’s made that blessing all the greater.

His hard work led him to great heights. Born in a small town in Iowa, Jim became a distinguished psychoanalytic therapist who was widely respected within his profession. Early in his career, he served on the faculty of the University of Michigan Department of Psychiatry. Jim’s tireless dedication to his work is evidenced by the fact that, at the time of his passing, he was still seeing patients.

But, like all interesting people, Jim was complicated and he was anything but one-dimensional. Indeed, when you consider the breadth and variety of Jim’s gifts and achievements it seems difficult to believe we are talking about only one man.

He was an athlete: a football player from the fourth grade through high school, where he helped his team win a state championship; then an avid runner; then a competitive tennis player. As I understand it, the only sport at which Jim did not excel was sailing catamarans, at which he was apparently somewhat dangerous.

As was characteristic of Jim, he was not just a participant in sport—he was a student of it. Over the years, he brought under his command vast stores of statistics, particularly about football. Of course, the dazzling memory that he enjoyed throughout most of his life helped him retain all of this information, but the exercise was not about accumulating data—it was about achieving a deep familiarity with and understanding of a subject. That is what Jim did, in every dimension and aspect of his life: he sought to understand.

While we are on this theme of sport, we should of course acknowledge Jim’s zeal for Michigan football. Zeal might seem like a strange word for a man who so often presented as elegant, distinguished, thoughtful, perhaps a bit reserved and removed from the crowd. But make no mistake about it: Jim was maize and blue, through and through.

Who but a died-in-the-wool Wolverine fan would move heaven and earth to buy the house that had once been owned by Fielding Yost, Michigan’s football coach in the early part of the twentieth century? If you do not understand why this meant so much to Jim then let me point out—as I think a disciple of sports statistics like Jim would want me to do—that while at Michigan Yost won six national championships and went 165-29-10 and that his famed “point-a-minute squad” outscored their opponents by 2,821 to 42. Those were the days.

But subjects other than work and sports piqued Jim’s interest as well. He was fascinated by ancient history and when he and Deanna traveled to Rome he spent hours wandering in the Forum and the ruins. When I met with Deanna to talk about our service today she brought with her Jim’s latest excursion into the topic: a thick, intimidating looking treatise on ancient history, marked where he had finished his reading the previous day.

We can imagine Jim working his way through that book, asking the questions that intrigued him throughout his life. How do people behave? Why do they do it? What is to be learned from it? In his eighty-first year, Jim’s curiosity about these issues was no less keen than it had been in every prior year.

Jim also had the spirit of a naturalist, perhaps instilled in him during his childhood years attending a summer camp in Minnesota. He knew a great deal about trees and wildflowers and the natural world. But he was particularly fascinated by birds and could identify countless species by their calls and songs. And, of course, because Jim did not just care about everything that interested him, but also cared for everything (and everyone) that interested him, he and Deanna set up twelve feeding stations in their backyard. It is safe to say that no bird that was ever observed and studied by Jim Miner went away from the experience hungry.

I do not mean to suggest by all of this celebration that Jim’s life was without its challenges. His eighty-one years brought him many battles and he came perilously close to losing some of them. He was revived after drowning while swimming; Scott saved him during a critical cardiac incident; the list goes on and on. On a remarkable multitude of occasions, death took Jim by the arm and started to lead him away. And, yet, over and over again Jim managed to slip from its grasp and to stay with us, to have another morning to hear the birds sing, to have another afternoon to watch football, to have another evening to read, and think, and wonder.

Indeed, Jim evaded death so many times that we could not be blamed if we had come to think of him as indestructible. Resilient people do this to us—they persuade us though their tenacity that they will be with us forever. And here’s the thing: it turns out that it’s true.

Jim remains with us in the lessons that his life conveys. Love what you do. Work hard. Think deeply. Set high standards. Be professional in your endeavors. Take time to play. When you become interested in something, learn as much as you can about it. Listen closely. Try to understand people—even those people, especially those people, who no one else understands. Be one with your partner. Help your children achieve—and then tell everyone about it whenever and wherever you can. Do not forget to pay attention to the wildflowers and the birds.

Today we celebrate the remarkable life that Jim Miner made out of his time on earth. But, of course, we also grieve. We do not grieve for him: he passed from this life peacefully, he is at rest, his worries are behind him, his anxieties are extinguished, he fulfilled so much of what he sought to do. Rather, we grieve for ourselves and for those times when we will feel his absence.

But I suspect that in the days, and weeks, and months, and years that come we will more frequently feel his presence. We will continue to experience his influence. We will continue to hear his voice. We will continue to talk to him—not just as if he were beside us, but as if he were inside us, because, of course, he is. He is in our hearts and our minds and our memories, where he had already lived for so long, and where he will stay.

When I met with Deanna on Wednesday I asked her: “Where do you think you will feel Jim’s presence most?” And she said: “Wherever the birds are.” Yes, that’s it, exactly—because the birds are all around us, now, and forever more.

*

I would like to close our service by reading to you from Ralph Waldo Emerson’s famous definition of success. In the last few days, as I have pondered Jim’s life, it has struck me that this fits perfectly with how he lived, and why everyone here loved and admired him:

“[T]o win the respect of intelligent people
and [the] affection of children;
to appreciate beauty, to find the best
in others; to leave the world a bit
better, whether by a healthy child
a garden patch or a redeemed
social condition; to know even
one life has breathed easier because
you have lived. This is to have
succeeded.”

Thank you, Jim, for the respect you earned from your colleagues and friends; for the deep affection you inspired in your wonderful wife and children; for finding the beauty in wildflowers and birds and ancient ruins and the complexities of human behavior; for helping your patients breathe easier; for leaving our world better.  

Your memory is a blessing to us all.

In Memoriam Elizabeth Amato (1915-2015)

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A eulogy delivered on Saturday, July 18, 2015 at St. Jude the Apostle Church, North Tonawanda, New York

Good afternoon. For those of you I have not met, my name is Len Niehoff and I have the honor of being married to Bob and Sally Guido’s daughter, Lisa, one of the many grandchildren of our beloved Elizabeth Amici Guido Amato, whose life we celebrate today.

I want to begin by acknowledging Teddy and her family for all that they did to care for Liz, particularly toward the end of her time with us. You were blessed to have her in your life. She was blessed to have you in hers.

Now, with all of these children and grandchildren and long-time friends present, you may wonder why I, of all people, am delivering the eulogy and the truth is that I’m not entirely sure. Many years ago, Liz asked me if I’d do it and of course I agreed although I didn’t quite understand the request. She confirmed it with me later, almost every time she saw me, and so here I am, because, as you know, Liz’s spirit was and remains an irresistible force of nature.

As you also know, Liz had a splendid sense of humor so maybe this was her last great practical joke on me and on all of you. But I hope not and I don’t think so. I think she may have been on to something when she asked me to do this. I’ll return to that possibility later.

Like many of you, I was present just a few months ago when we gathered to celebrate Liz’s one-hundredth birthday. Given the occasion, there was a great deal of talk about the sheer length of her life. This is understandable: one hundred years is a long time for any human being to spend on planet earth.

In fact, one hundred years is so long that it may be hard to grasp except as abstraction. I thought a little hard data might help with that. So here we go.

Liz was born in 1915—as were Billie Holliday and Frank Sinatra. When Liz was 18, Franklin Delano Roosevelt was still in his first 100 days as President. Liz’s life spanned seventeen Presidents, more than a third of the total forty-four.

Just about every major upheaval in the twentieth century occurred during Liz’s lifetime: both World Wars, the Russian Revolution, the Chinese Revolution, the Great Depression, the Korean War, the Vietnamese War, the wars in the Middle East, the end of apartheid in South Africa, the raising—and the disassembling—of the Berlin Wall, the dissolution of the Soviet Union, and the terrorist attacks of 911.

Her life included many things we take for granted now but that must have seemed miraculous then: the first motion picture, the first Disney cartoon, the first television show, the first Elvis and Beatles concerts, the first computers, the birth of the Internet, Lindbergh’s flight across the Atlantic, Neil Armstrong’s walk on the moon, and the recent missions to mars.

She witnessed lots of change for the better: the passage of child labor laws and the civil rights laws, Jackie Robinson breaking the color barrier in major league baseball, the development of vaccines for tuberculosis and polio, the discovery of penicillin, and the constitutional amendment that gave Liz the right to vote. It is a good thing that got worked out because if they hadn’t given her the right I’m quite sure she would have taken it.

But if none of that gets your attention, then try this. If we think of our country as becoming a sovereign nation in 1787 with the ratification of the Constitution, then the life of Elizabeth Amici Guido Amato encompassed almost 44% of the history of the United States of America. Let me say that again: Liz’s life encompassed roughly 44% of our nation’s entire history.

That is a long life, indeed. And Liz was fortunate to share much of that life with her beloved sisters. There was Lucy, who Liz adored and who passed from this life to the next in her late seventies. There was Susie, who, like Liz, left us at age 100. And of course there is Gerry, who we are honored and delighted to have with us here today. I’d invite you to pause for a second to notice something that few, if any, other families could say: from these four women of this single generation, you have been blessed with more than 370 collective years of love, affection, care, and memory. It is a remarkable and singular gift you have all been given.

 When I was thinking about Liz’s life in preparation for today I remembered a sermon that Dr. King delivered in 1960. It is one of his most famous sermons, and it is called “The Three Dimensions of a Complete Life.” I think it offers some insight into why Liz’s life was so rich and complete, why she has been and will continue to be such a powerful influence on all of us, and why although she may have passed from our midst she will never pass from our hearts and minds.

In that sermon, Dr. King said that a complete and fulfilled life has three dimensions: length, breadth, and height.

Now, Dr. King did not mean length in the same way I’ve been using it. In his view, the length of life was not measured by its duration. Rather, he thought the length of life was measured by how well you developed yourself as a human being in the time you had and despite the obstacles you faced. Liz had a very long life in this sense as well.

Let’s talk for a moment about all of the challenges that might have prevented Liz from having a happy and fulfilled life. It is a daunting list. Indeed, it makes me feel pretty wimpy in comparison.

As I noted, Liz was born into a world in which women did not even have the vote—and where the idea that a woman might have a career was almost unthinkable. But circumstances pressed Liz to seek out opportunities and she secured a real estate license and became a successful broker. She must have been incredibly gifted at this—I suspect she could sell just about anyone just about anything—and I’m confident that if I had know her during this period she would have committed me to buying a bungalow in North Tonawanda instead of delivering this eulogy.

Along the way, Liz faced more than her share of troubles and concerns. In the early going, finances were tight. Over the years, she had bouts with life-threatening illnesses. Liz faced those problems bravely and never allowed them to define her.  

But Liz did not just face challenges—she faced tragedy. While Liz was still a child, her mother and infant brother perished during a flue epidemic. She watched her husbands Michael Guido and Jim Amato slip through her fingers and pass from this life to the next. She lost her beloved son, Michael, and treasured grandchild, Karen, long before anyone would have expected their time to come.

I suspect that psychologists would say that the most traumatizing experiences you can have in life are to lose a parent while you a still a child, to lose a spouse, to lose a son or daughter, and to lose a grandchild. If, as a result of all of these tragedies, Liz had become inconsolable, withdrawn, and bitter who among us would not understand?

But through all of this Liz sustained an indomitable spirit, a relentless passion for life, a dazzling resilience, and a restless intellectual curiosity. She and Jim Amato traveled the world, bringing back treats and tchotchkes for her grandchildren. Lisa tells me she has a distinct memory of purses made from coconuts that came back from Mexico. She hosted every family holiday party—and, as far as I can tell, fed just about everyone who ever showed up at her doorstep.

She learned American Sign Language because someone she loved knew it. She bowled and golfed. I am told that she played bingo in a way that seemed more intent on extending the game and giving her more time with her pals than it was on victory. At her birthday party one of the men who hosted the events she attended told me “I would go over to her and look at her card and say 'Liz you have a bingo!' And she wouldn’t care.”

She had a glorious—and sometimes randy—sense of humor and, well, enjoyed reading slightly racy novels. I remember when I first met Liz. She was in her eighties. Lisa had told me about her grandmother’s fondness for steamy romance books. I didn’t believe it until I saw a large stack of bodice-rippers occupying a corner of her TV room.

But, of course, Liz would tell you that her greatest source of joy and pride and delight was her family. And what a family it is. Look around you and do the math with me. Five children, fourteen grandchildren, twenty-three great-grandchildren, and six great-great-grandchildren. The numbers are so vast that I understand the family had a little difficulty figuring out whether they were correct, so I apologize if I’ve missed a half-dozen people here or there.

In any event, we know that Liz never lost track of any of you. Each and every one of you has a special place in her heart—and I do mean “has,” not “had.” A heart as big as hers may be forced to relocate, but it doesn’t leave. And it will never leave you. Not. Ever.

I suspect that this may be the reason Liz asked me to do the eulogy—precisely because I am not one of the vast numbers of children and grandchildren and great grandchildren and so on. As a bit of an outsider, I had the opportunity to hear Liz talk about all of you and (always) brag about all of you.

According to Liz, you’re quite an amazing bunch: brilliant, handsome, beautiful, successful, resourceful, kind, and so on. This is how she saw all of you, with all your gifts but also in your humanness and, let’s be candid, your imperfections. She adored you, and adores you still, and (even if indirectly) that's what she told me, and I think it’s what she wanted me to tell you.

Well, in that sermon Dr. King said that we measure the breadth of our life by reference to our concern for the welfare of others. Liz certainly led a full and complete life by this measure, too. Indeed, her generosity toward her family is not just famous—it is notorious. I suspect that any of us who ever brought a child to Liz’s home later discovered that Liz had stuffed cash into one of his or her pockets when no one was looking.

I remember—as I’m sure many of you do—sitting at the table and watching Jim Amato shake his head and say: “If I didn’t stop her she’d give it all away and we’d be penniless.” More than once I remember Liz flashing her beaming smile, shrugging, and admitting that it was probably true.

But I’ve always thought that the best indicator of her generosity and care for others were the phrases you heard her say over and over again when you were in her home. “Can I get you something?” “What would you like?” “What do you need?” “What do you need?” It did not take me long to figure out that the answer “Oh, nothing, thank you” was not acceptable and would not terminate the chain of inquiry. You see, Liz had a special insight. She understood that, actually, you did need something. You needed one person—at least one person in your life—who would always be asking you what you needed, even when you said you didn’t need a thing.

And that brings us to the final dimension of the fulfilled and complete life that Dr. King described—height. A complete life, he maintained, needs to reach skyward. It needs to stretch up toward that great and divine mystery that brought Liz into this world and that now holds her in its everlasting arms. A complete life, Dr. King argued, needs to include a relationship with God and to be an expression of God.

In this respect, Liz’s life had height enough to touch the heavens. The great theologian Martin Buber said: “One eats in holiness, tastes the taste of food in holiness, and the table becomes an altar.” Liz got this. Liz understood that when she welcomed us into her house, when she gathered us around her table, when she fed us and gave us wine, when she talked with us and joked with us and asked us what we needed, when she filled us with that abundance that came out of her kitchen and wrapped us in that abundance that came out of her generosity of spirit, this, this, was a sacred and a holy act.

And heaven only knows—and I mean that literally—how many times she did it. The gospels tell us that Jesus fed thousands. I wonder whether, when Liz met Him on Sunday, she asked if they could compare numbers.

Now, Liz had only one request of me with respect to this eulogy: she said “Len, please, don’t just talk about my meatballs.” And I’ve kept that promise. I’ve talked about lots of other things instead.

But … but I will close by saying this. I believe in a loving and gracious God. I believe the circle is, and will be, unbroken. I believe that Liz is here, living within us. I believe that Liz is there, reunited with those she has lost and waiting for each of us when our time comes to join her. I believe in heaven. And I believe that heaven cannot possibly be heaven unless all of us can have at least one more plate of meatballs with Elizabeth Amici Guido Amato.

         Will you please say “amen” with me? Amen.