Compiling that list of names this year was particularly hard for me. I have known most of these saints for fourteen years, and I presided at the funerals of almost all of them. Some were dear, dear friends. One of the great blessings of a long pastorate is that one tends to know the folks one buries. Sometimes that feels rather less than a blessing.
Professional distance becomes neither possible nor desirable.
It is the most sacred privilege, for instance, to think of John Patrick as my father in Christ, or Francine Cummings as my mother in Christ, or Julia Hesson as my sister in Christ. Despite the old saying, the water of baptism is thicker than blood. So, after conducting the memorial service for John yesterday, and having stuffed myself with finger sandwiches at the reception that followed, I sat down to write this sermon. An article last week told about Harry Evans, who was shot in the head. A few hours after his eye was removed by surgeons, a taxi brought him to the Shelter on Tennessee Street.