 Dr. William A. Ritter Senior Minister |
Twilight
Time
Sermon:
Scripture: |
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Eight
and a half years ago, in the pregnant stillness that
characterizes this sanctuary on Christmas Eve, I told you of
my mother’s birth. It took place in New York City in July of
1915. She was the first child born to Agnes and Anton Meyers.
Her last name should have been Markesich, but my grandfather
changed his name at Ellis Island, figuring that “Meyers”
sounded less foreign than “Markesich.” My grandfather came
from Slovenia (northern Yugoslavia) as a young adult. So did
my grandmother. But they didn’t come together. Neither knew
of the other in what they referred to as “the Old
Country,” though they could have, so few were the miles that
separated their villages. My
grandmother left her village when she became a teenager. Her
departure followed the death of her mother. It was either
leave or go to work making bricks for her father (alongside
her brothers). Instead, she hired out to a family in a nearby
town to cook, clean and take care of children. Having done it
there, I guess she figured she could do it anywhere. Which is
why she said “yes” to an inquiry from a Jewish jeweler and
his wife (surnamed Rubinstein) who lived in a New York City
apartment overlooking Central Park. “Cook and clean for us
for six months,” they said, “and we’ll pay your passage
to America.” So she did. And they did. Which is how it came
to pass that in one of her rare nights off in the “Big
Apple,” she met a fellow countryman named Anton in a
restaurant frequented by Slovenians. He thought she was
beautiful, whereupon he gave her a nickel and sent her off to
buy a pail of beer. My
mother was the offspring of their union. Now living as a
threesome across the Hudson River in New Jersey, they received
an overture from the Rubinsteins. “We’d love to see the
baby,” they said. “Why don’t you bring her ‘round come
Saturday next….in the afternoon….for coffee and cake?”
So they came, ate and showed off the baby. And as they rose to
go, Mr. Rubinstein removed his checkbook from the inside
pocket of his suit coat and said: “You are young. You are
just starting out. Your whole life is in front of you. You
will have many children. My wife and I will never have
children. We can give much to your little girl. Let us adopt
her from you. In return for which we will pay you. In fact, we
will pay you whatever you ask.” And
while my grandparents took no offense at the offer, they
refused the offer. And, as far as I know, they never heard
from the Rubinsteins again. That little girl was Lillian (Markesich….
Meyers….Ritter….Brear). She was my mother. And she was the
only child my grandparents ever had. Now, 87 years later, she
is dead. When I told that story to Rabbi Sherwin Wine of
Birmingham Temple (just last week when we co-officiated a
wedding the day before mother’s funeral), he looked at me in
genuine amazement and said: “My gosh, Ritter, you could have
been me.” Religiously
speaking, that was as close as Mother ever came to being
Jewish. But she never came all that much closer to being
Catholic, either. Most Slovenians were. And still are. My
grandparents went when they came to Detroit….to Mass, I
mean. My mother made her First Communion. And my grandmother
took the basket containing Easter dinner to be blessed by the
priest. But they were far from faithful. And one Christmas
Eve, when the priest told all the C and E people to get up and
give the regulars their seats, my grandfather muttered:
“We’re outta here.” And they were. Forever. Which
was why all my mother knew when she met my father was that the
church she was staying away from was the Catholic Church. Of
course, all my father knew when he met my mother was that the
church he was staying away from was the Lutheran Church. Which
was how it came to pass that, needful of a clergyman to marry
them, they approached a Methodist who was serving a church
known for giving popcorn to little children. He
married them….sans popcorn. And he baptized me….again,
sans popcorn. The need to take me there got my mother there.
And she joined, the same Sunday I was confirmed some 12 years
later. My
mother’s early years were not what she would have called
happy. She didn’t much like being an only child. Neither did
she like being a Slovenian immigrant. And being poor didn’t
make things any easier. Nor did marriage to a very giving man
(my father) with a very unforgiving addiction. To be sure,
there were good times and good memories. Musically inclined,
she played the piano, taught me to love and appreciate music,
and relished her years in the church choir (several, as a
soloist). Economically speaking, she did what she had to do,
when she had to do it, to make sure that we ate (and had other
essentials during the years of my father’s decline). And
truth be told, it was the job that saved her. She loved going
to work at the J. L. Hudson Company. It gave her esteem as
well as employment….friends as well as food money. And one
of them (the friends, I mean) became a special part of her
life. Indeed, he became a special part of all of our lives
when he married her 20 years and 25 days ago. His name is
Harold. He is here today. And there is no question in my mind
that the “Harold years” were her best years. That’s
because there was no question in her mind that the “Harold
years” were her best years. Well,
not all of the best years. We (Kris and I) could see the
dementia descending six or seven years ago. Harold saw it five
years ago. If mother ever saw it, she never said it….except
for that moment a couple of weeks ago when she whispered to my
wife: “What’s happening to me?” Her only verbal
concession to decline was her repeated pronouncement:
“It’s tough to grow old.” But by the time she asked Kris
what was happening to her, everything was happening to
her…..dementia, cancer, stress fractures, a stroke, loss of
mobility, loss of stability, multiple falls, ugly bruises and
the shingles. It wasn’t the least bit pretty. But
considering what could have been, it was mercifully short.
Seven weeks can seem like an eternity when you’re living it.
But seven weeks constitute a mere season of suffering, once
you move beyond it. Hospitals helped. Hospice helped. A small but ranks-closing, circle-the-wagons family helped. For Kris and myself, more friends than anybody has any earthly reason to deserve helped. And for Mother, morphine helped. A splendid surprise was having Julie home. Harvard behind her. California before her. She left on July 14 so she could report on July 28. But three-quarters of the way to the coast, her cell phone rang. It was her boss saying: “Sales are dying. Stock prices are falling. Don’t come now. Come in October instead. Go somewhere. Go anywhere. Just don’t come here.” So she came home. She arrived just when we couldn’t have done it without her. Do you call that fate? Fortune? Serendipity? Spirit? You tell me. Theologians speculate. Fathers appreciate. Circling back to my mother, I think she would say (concerning her life) that both the best and the worst came late. Sort of like pro basketball games that don’t really heat up till the fourth quarter. Which is worth remembering in this youth-adoring culture of ours. Roger Wittrup asked me the other day if I realized that the only time in our lives when we like to get older is when we are little kids. When you are little, you are so excited about aging that you think in fractions. “How old are you?” “I’m four and a half.” Have you ever heard anyone say they were 36 and a half (or 61 and 11/12ths)? You get into your teens and you tell people: “I’m gonna be 16.” You could be 13. But, hey, you’re gonna be 16. Then one day you become 21. Great word, “become.” It sounds like “arriving.” Which it is. But then, nine years later, you turn 30. Which makes you sound like sour milk….he “turned” 30. After which you are “pushing 40.” Notice how uphill that sounds. Eventually you “reach 50”….which is language commonly associated with the word “stretch.” Finally you “hit 70.” It sounds like a collision. Well, when Mother hit 70, I think she would have chosen the verb “cruise” rather than the verb “collide” to describe the experience. And even if she didn’t speak it, she was probably on it. A cruise, I mean. Like I said, it was as good as it ever was in those years….and for several years beyond. Not that she could sustain it. Or control it. That’s where life differs from Chevys. There’s no cruise control. Life slows down. We slow down. It’s sort of like my golf game every time I ring up three or four good holes in a row. What happens? The wheels come off, that’s what happens. What then? Well, the better question might be: “Who then?” In answer to which the psalmist might say: “God, then.”
The
Apostle Paul is even more graphic in his description when he
tells the Corinthians:
All
of which leads to a trio of thoughts. First, if you believe
that it takes one to know one, Paul (himself) must have been
in a pretty serious state of decline when he wrote those
words. Second,
it takes more detachment than I can muster to describe my
mother’s decay as a “slight momentary affliction.” But
maybe that’s why Paul stands at the apex of the apostles
while yours truly is a mere peon of a preacher. But
third, I join Paul in believing that there are “unseen
things” to see, which are more the result of God’s good
gift than our good glasses. I have told you this before, but
38 years of attending the dying tells me that the closer we
get the end of this life, the thinner the membrane that
separates this life from whatever follows this life. And I
think that that membrane (while never fully pierced on this
side of the grave) is sometimes stretched so thin as to be
momentarily transparent. Allowing
us to see what? Darned if I know. But permit me some guesses. A
vision, perhaps…..of a world that is brighter, fairer
and safer (especially safer) than the world that is painful
and passing. At the beginning of the service we belted out a
hymn. Don’t you just love hymns you can belt? And don’t
you just love the word “belt?” The title, “Are Ye
Able.” The author, the late Earl Marlatt. Earl Marlatt was
the Dean of Boston University’s School of Theology. He wrote
at least one other hymn that I know. We shall sing it
momentarily. It’s not in our hymnal anymore. But it should
be. He wrote it near the end of his tenure as Dean of B.U….when
weariness was upon him and weakness, within him….when
ascending Commonwealth Avenue (which isn’t very steep) was
becoming more and more of a chore. Giving rise to the final
verse:
Ah
yes, a vision, perhaps….perchance of God. A young boy
and an old man are sitting on a dock in the late afternoon,
fishing. They are also talking about many things, like why
sunsets are red, why the rain falls, why the seasons change,
and why girls are so weird. Finally, the boy looks up at the
old man (who is, at that moment, busy baiting his hook for
him) and asks: “Does anybody ever see God?” To which the
old man says, looking across the blue waters: “Son, anymore
it’s getting so I hardly see anything else.” Finally,
I believe (at twilight time) that some of us may see others
of us. Not those here. But those there. Who, for my
mother, may have included her mother, her father, my father,
her daughter and our son. “Whatever else you have planned
for me, dear God, please don’t let me be lonely.” The
last time I was convinced that my mother could hear me, I
prayed with her (as I have prayed with hundreds):
Then I said to my mother: “If you can hear me, take my hand. It’s about three inches in front of yours. You’re going to have to reach for it.” And she did. That was Sunday. Three
days later….on Wednesday….I could have sworn I heard God
tell her the very same thing. You may doubt that. But I’ll
bet my mother’s life on it. Note:
The sermon title is taken from a ballad, much recorded across
the last half century. While I haven’t researched its
origins, a lot of people credit it to The Platters in 1957.
Truth be told, I think it’s older. The
story about the young boy and the old man on the dock comes
courtesy of John Killinger in a book entitled Christ and
the Seasons of Ministry. As concerns things that can be seen through the “thin membrane,” see my treatment of this theme in a sermon entitled “Visions of Wrigley Field on a Saturday Afternoon” (September 28, 1997). A lot of people are talking about the “thin membrane,” none more profoundly than those who trace their devotional roots to Celtic spirituality.
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