Truth is stranger than fiction: No Obituary!

The instructions of the deceased, left in his safety deposit box, were no viewing of his body, no visitation, cremation, and no obituary.

Why no obituary?

Here is and excerpt from the homily delivered yesterday at the memorial service for Kenneth Beaufoy (b. 8/4//1923; d. 1/24/2014), the former World War II “Tommy” (British soldier), who married Ilse, a former German soldier, one of only two women later decorated with the Iron Cross for standing at her post during the Allied bombing of Hamburg.

Ken Beaufoy left very specific instructions for his son. At the time of his death he wanted cremation, no visitation, no viewing of his body, no interment of his remains … and, most surprising of all, no obituary.

Why would a man leave instructions that there be no obituary upon his death?

Ken Beaufoy sat in these pews for the last 17 years. Every Monday morning without fail he was at the weekly Bible study at Auburn Manor, the nursing home where we moved the Bible study to accommodate members living there. On Monday mornings he plumbed the depths of Scripture and shared the parts of his story he told few others outside his family. Hollis and Patsy, Karin, Barb, Max. Jesse, Katie, Chuck, Bernice, Marge, Dana and Lorraine were all blessed by his sharings and by his well-worn King James Bible…. They were a very special group of healing for Ken. People who gathered around the Word to discover more and more of who God is and who we are as God’s children.

Ken knew himself to be a child of God – a beloved “sinner of your redeeming” as the wonderful line from the Anglican funeral service puts it. We will miss him sorely. His chair will remain in the circle, empty, like Elijah’s chair at the Seder meal of Passover.

But the question remains. Why would a man like Ken Beaufoy elect to have no viewing, no visitation,and no obituary?Why would a British signalman who cracked the German code in World War II want no obituary?

Why would a British soldier who fell in love with an enemy combatant. a German soldier named Ilse, one of only two women later decorated with the Iron Cross in Germany, not want an obituary?

Why would a Brit who walked in the woods alone each night back in England, worrying about his beloved Ilse, stuck back in Elmshorn, Germany, not want an obituary, unless he knew what Paul wrote to the Corinthians that the last enemy to be destroyed is death?

Why would a man with a great sense of humor not want an obituary? Ken had a nickname for everyone. In Shakopee he walked into the Subway and at other places he greeted people by the nicknames he had given them.” Hey “26” –“ Hey, Irish!” and he and “Irish” would break out in a duet of Danny Boy. He called his father The Prophet because his father was always talking about what was going to happen and it almost never did…. Only Ken could have gotten away with that. At the wedding of 12 people, the Prophet marched Ilse down the aisle, out of step with Ilse, changing step three times before they finally got it right. Ken wrote in his memoirs “Prophet didn’t have a suit! Had to borrow one for the day from a neighbor, Billy King! The jacket was too short for him. Prophet called it a Bum freezer!.”

They say that truth is often stranger than fiction. Why would a man whose life story rivals the very best fiction, the most intriguing novels created out of human imagination, not want his story summarized in an obituary?

There is no way to summarize his exploits. No way to accurately tell the story of the young street thief who ended up in charge of security for the bank in Chicago; the soldier who broke the German code, met the love of his life in a Canteen during the Allied occupation of Germany after the war; fought with the British Foreign Office to get Ilse a visa to Britain, and, when that failed, bicycled his way to the home of his Member of Parliament, appearing unannounced and without appointment – a man as bulldoggish as Winston Churchill and unafraid of any human authority – to get his German war-bride-to-be out of German and into England.

Why would a man so frustrated by the slowness and opposition of the British Foreign Office be willing to enter Germany illegally in order to get his bride not want an obituary? </strongWhy

“Late in August,” wrote Ken in his hand-written memoir, “I read in the newspaper that the first German girl to be married to a soldier had arrived in England. She would be the first German war bride in England! I couldn’t understand why Ilse hadn’t been issues a visa! I’d already made up my mind to take a merchant ship to Denmark, slip across the border into Germany, make my way to Elmshorn and marry Ilse in the German church. I’s somehow find a job in Germany and hope that one day we’d be able to enter Britain legally! I decided I’d go see Henry Usborne (the Member of the House of Commons) one last time I did, and he told me that the next Friday at Question Time in Parliament, he would ask Ernest Bevin, Britain’s Foreign Minister a direct question as to why Ilse Kuhl of Elmshorn, Germany had not been issued a visa to enter Great Britain for the purpose of marriage.

“The next Saturday, two German policemen knocked on the door of [Ilse’s home] in Elsmshorn. Gertrude Hesse, a tenant in the house had seen them approaching the house from her bedroom window. She ran downstairs and warned Ilse! Isle was scared stiff. She thought the police had discovered her black market dealings and had come to arrest her! The policemen entered the house and after ascertaining she was Ilse Kuhl, handed her British visa to her along with an authorization to board a military transport aircraft for her flight to London on the coming Thursday.”

Why would a man with a story like that not want an obituary?

We’ll never know for sure, but we can guess. He was a private man. He was a humble man. He knew himself to be what the Anglican church calls each of us, “a sinner of your own redeeming,” and so at the end it was not himself that he wished to focus upon, but instead the goodness and merciful kindness of his Lord.”

“All flesh is grass. The grass withers; the flower fades, but the Word of our God shall stand forever.” (Isaiah 40:8)

“And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away; and there was no more sea. And I John saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down from God out of heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a great voice out of heaven saying, Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and he will dwell with them, and they shall be his people, and God himself shall be with them, and be their God. And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.
“And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new.” – Rev. 21

Winston Churchill on Climate Departure

What might Winston Churchill say about climate change and the prognosis of climate departure around 2020?

“So they go on in strange paradox, decided only to be undecided, resolved to be irresolute, adamant for drift, solid for fluidity, all-powerful to be impotent…  Owing to past neglect, in the face of the plainest warnings, we have entered upon a period of danger.  The era of procrastination, of half measures, of soothing and baffling expedients, of delays, is coming to its close.  In its place we are now entering a period of consequences….  We cannot avoid this period, we are in it now…” 

                 – Winston Churchill, November 12, 1936

 

The Last Lion - Winston Churchill

The Last Lion – Winston Churchill

The View from the Bristlecone Pines

Bristlecone Pines photo

Bristlecone Pines photo

Clinging tenaciously to the ridgetops
and twisted by the winds,
bristlecone pines are the oldest
living trees on Earth. The oldest
of them, found only in the White
Mountains of California, are
4,600 years old. Those pines were
already 1,400 years old when the
Egyptians were building the pyramids.

The Bristlecone Pines on Windy Ridge,
Colorado (picture, taken by friend
Harry Strong) are nearly 1,000 years
old.

These gnarled trees have endured
strong winds, cold temperatures,
drought and poor soils. They learn
to grow horizontally. The sign posted
on Windy Ridge invites visitors to
“walk through these survivors and
stand watch with them over the vast
South Park.”

How will these remarkably adaptive
creatures do with the projection of
Climate Departure? Are they calling
out for help from down below, echoed
back to them in song by Pete Seeger’s
“God’s Countin’ on Me; God’s Countin’
on you”?

You might say that Pete’s life was a
reply to the Bristlecone pines, a
modern day Habakkuk whose writing
we have from the time when the Bristle-
cone Pines were just teenagers:

“I will stand upon my
watch, and set me upon the tower,
and will watch to see [God] will say
to me, that I will answer when I am
reproved. And the LORD answered me,
and said, Write the vision and make
it plain upon tablets, that he may
run who reads it.”

Pete Seeger to the rest of us

Video

Pete Seeger sings a song that rallies the best in us to continue his work of changing the world. God’s countin’ on me; God’s countin’ on you!

The Perpetual Question

Yet Again, for the 21st Century:

The Perpetual Question
 
Based upon a preponderance of evidence, the question of climate change and its potential ramifications is no longer a valid debate for the 21st century.  Once again, like thunder reverberating from Genesis, comes the ancient and perpetual question:

                             “Am I my Brother’s Keeper”?

As we reach the tipping point of climate and climate departure becomes a global concern through the remainder of the 21st Century, a driving and as yet unaddressed question looms large before us:

          “In light of what we now know, how are we to be the keepers of our brothers and sisters as our world changes and climate stress affects vast populations”?

The UN High Commission on Refuges (UNHCR) and the governments of the world have not yet addressed this question nor adopted a legal definition of “Climate Refugee”.

The year 2020 is a statistical marker, more or less, when we begin to see the first indications of climate departure in the western Pacific near Indonesia.  In the ensuing 50 years or so, climate departure is projected to spread from the tropics to the poles until it becomes global.

The time is NOW to begin the discussion. 

– John Lince-Hopkins, scientist, artist, and developer of Requiem.org. (http://requiem2020.org)

NOTE TO THE READER: Please chime in here or on Requiem.org and help spread awareness and the consideration of the question. Thank you, John, for raising the perpetual question.

I, Judas

They will say I did it. And I did. We all did. But it doesn’t matter. The kiss, the “shalom”, I gave him in the olive grove was as real as real can be. I kissed him, and everything that was in me was in that kiss. My love, my affection, my admiration, my fear…and my belief that it would wake him up to what was really happening and what he had to do.

The world is a cruel place. It plays by hard rules. He wouldn’t play by the rules, which is why we loved him but also why we pushed him at the end. We pushed him over the cliff.

He’d escaped the cliff once before when his neighbors tried to throw him over it. He walked right through that crowd and went on with his life, and that’s why we gathered around him like newborn kittens with their mother. He became the source of nourishment, the mother whose eyes always saw the good in us, and he taught us to forget about the cliffs. Live to the full. Forget the cliffs! But there comes a time in everyone’s life when you can’t avoid the cliff.

We were standing at the edge of it right there in the Mount of Olives – a fatal cliff of soldiers, clubs, and daggers, a Roman battalion who’d come there, where we always met at night among the olive trees so they couldn’t hear us or see us. I led them there to the private place.

They will say I ratted on him. But I did what I knew I had to do, or thought I had to do, and then scurried away before it was over. I couldn’t watch. I hated those bastards as much as I loved him, hanging there where the skulls were left. As I ran, I looked back over my shoulder at the horror of it, hearing the sounds of the hammers and the grinding of the pulleys hoisting him up on those pieces of imperial lumber, and him screaming with pain suspended mid-air… half way between horizontal and vertical…and I fleeing for my life into fatal despair.

I understand why they’ll say what they they’ll say. They have to say it. Denial is one of God’s great gifts. They had to deny their own responsibility for what happened. We were all in this together, except for the Beloved Disciple, Lazarus, the only one of us who knew already that death is not the final Word, no matter how it comes, the disciple who will disappear into silence in the later texts about what happened. But Lazarus was there watching, listening, seeing what the rest of us could not see until after it was over.

Unlike the others, I didn’t give myself time to get it. I fled the scene, running for my life, never wanting to look back on it, howling in silence, rushing out into the field to hang myself from a tree. Symbolic, some will say: the tree of the knowledge of good and evil and all that … but to me it was just a tree with limbs to throw the rope over, a place to end my pain.

I think now of the olive trees and of hiding among them and wonder why we hid. I think of him as the olive branch that the dove brought to Noah as the violence of the flood receded. And I wonder if that was maybe what he was all about, if the olive branch instead of clubs and daggers and scapegoating was why he let me kiss him there and turn him over before he rebuked Peter for drawing his dagger.

They won’t tell you that we all had daggers. Not just Peter. We were revolutionaries. Ready for the fight. Itching for the fight. Yeshua was the new Joshua who would throw the bums out, restore the fortunes of our people, give us back our land, our destiny, our power to rule ourselves as we had in David’s time and Solomon’s. There was that day in the Temple, Solomon’s Temple, when he went crazy with the whip against the money-changers, snapping the whip wildly, out of control, angry at the abuse of his religion and our’s, tossing the money everywhere, yelling about the money-handlers’ abuse of the poor who could barely afford to buy a pigeon for their sacrifices. For him, it wasn’t just about self-determination. It was about the Romans, about the end of foreign occupation and the collaboration of the religious establishment. But it was deeper than throwing out the foreign occupiers. It was about something so deep that the mind and heart can barely comprehend it: the fearful conspiracy of self-interests that betrays and kills all that is good and pure and decent and loving.

Only Lazarus understood what he was about in standing up to the rule of death enshrined in the Temple and imperial threats. He saw in Yeshua the scapegoat who could unmask the conspiracy, the new Joshua who would shift us from eating the forbidden fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, dividing the world into the good and the evil, to eating of the fruit of the tree of life.

I broke my neck on the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, certain that I, one of the “good” ones, had become as evil as the soldiers who crucified him, and that there was no redemption, no way to the tree of life, no way to atone, no way to erase the kiss that killed him and was killing me. Death was my just desert and worse. If only I had known that the kiss would be the kiss of death.

It gives me little comfort that they tell me he begged the Father from the cross for forgiveness, like a defense attorney pleading with a judge that those who were crucifying him didn’t know what they were doing. It is what it is. Or so I thought at first. But the weight of his words led me to the sound of them, coming as they did from the high heat of that awful scene, soft and genuine or loudly shrieking, invoking a mercy on us all that made no sense, no sense at all.

Peter will say, as will the church three centuries after my death on the tree and burial in potters field, that “he descended into hell” at his death and preached to those imprisoned there. If anyone was ever there in that place of self-hate, remorse, guilt, despair and hopeless self-loathing, it was I.

He met me there with a holy kiss. “Shalom,” said he. I kissed him back. And left my sorrow in the emptied cell.

– Gordon C. Stewart, January 10, 2014.

Oceans of Acid

The acid smog in the air
rains into rivers
and joins factory sludge
and field chemicals
on their way to the sea.

The obscene slime
spreads from ocean
to ocean and from coast
to oily coast.

The air cannot wash its
hair because trees and shrubs
have not been replanted
most places by most people.

Wood and coal and oil burn on,
rivers are damned, mostly
unfresh water remains
turning a blue planet brown.

We humans might see
our world changing,
but we see screens
and windshields more
than we see our skies.

[Thanks to Elizabeth Kolbert for her
two recent New Yorker articles
reporting on the research for this.]

Steve Shoemaker, Urbana, IL, January 4, 2014

It’s all there in the Christmas story

Wonder in the Culture of Possession

Tillich Park - "Man & nature belong together..."

Tillich Park – “Man and nature belong together…”

Do you sense the heart’s yearning for wonder?

Our hearts in the West are well-trained in possessing, controlling, and cajoling reality, bending it to suit our wants. The spiritual culture that accompanies “free market” economics is the drive to acquire and possess. Could our training in the culture of acquisition and possession be like the wall through which the flower breaks in Tennyson’s poem “Flower in the Crannied Wall”?

Flower in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies,
I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,
Little flower—but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is.

– Alfred Lord Tennyson, 1863

The flower lures him. Yet seeking to possess it, he destines its death. Having to possess it, analyze it “root and all”, he destroys the magnificent beauty that had drawn his eye.

Having and being are not the same. Only being is filled with wonder. Perhaps that is why Christmas Eve Candlelight services are packed with people who otherwise are not drawn there. There is a beauty to the story and the natural light which lifts yearning hearts from the wintry chill of an having into the warmth of wonder beyond our control or possession.

On the Cusp of Wonder

New Year’s Eve.

Every calendar with its years is a culture’s invention, a way of breaking the eternal rolling of sunrises and sunsets into an order that suits our needs for what?

For celebration? For budgets? For control? For forgiveness? For hope?

All of the above and more?

Between the passing of one year and the dawning of another we sense a shifting, the movement of something that does not exist: time, the human way of marking turf in the eternal rolling of the spheres.

The tides of time pay no attention because, like time itself, the tides are timeless. They know nothing of us. They ebb and flow in ceaseless rounds of who knows what. And we, standing on the shore’s edge between two tides awaken again to the sense of wonder before what we do not control.

Perhaps Isaac Watts had something like that in mind when he paraphrased Psalm 90:

Before the hills in order stood,
or earth received its frame,
from everlasting thou art God
to endless years the same.

A thousand ages in thy sight
are like an evening gone,
short as the watch that ends the night
before the rising sun.

Time, like an ever rolling stream,
bears all its sons away;
they fly forgotten as a dream
dies at the opening day.

Our God, our help in ages past,
our hope for years to come,
be thou our guard while life shall last,
and our eternal home.

– Isaac Watts, 1719

Since the middle of the 19th century, Watt’s paraphrase has been sung to the tune of St. Anne, named after the London parish where Watts was organist. Click HERE for more on Sir Isaac Watts.