Luke 21:25-36 "Alternative Reality"

You are welcome to use parts of this sermon, but if you do, please attribute them properly!

         We are all on the treadmill to Christmas now, right?  I mean, Thanksgiving is over, and Black Friday is in the past.  The Salvation Army bell ringers are outside of the places where shoppers flock – Christmas Tree Shops, Walmart, Maine Mall. 

         At every turn, we find a life size sparkling smiling angel or mechanized nodding Santa Claus. Red and green cascades outward everywhere we look.  

         Giant inflated reindeer bedeck our neighbor’s lawn, our houses are ablaze with lights and good cheer, and, if not now then soon, very soon, if we hear Bing Crosby, Perry Como, or even Johnny Mathis sing “It’s Beginning to Look A lot Like Christmas” one more time, well, who knows what we will do. 

         What we might have pledged to pace as a walk, if it has not already, will soon turn into a desperate run.  Actually, I think of these upcoming weeks less as a treadmill and more as a giant funnel into which we are sucked in late November, swirled round and round and tossed about throughout December and finally spit out after the last dish is washed and put away following Christmas dinner. 

Choose whatever imagery you want, there is no doubt about it.  The Christmas orgy has begun.

         Yet, for all of us, I think, whether we go to church or not, beneath all the trappings of Christmas – the decorations that are designed to make us happy, the eggnog laced with nostalgia, the snow that is supposed to make it be a real Norman Rockwell holiday, beneath all those trappings, there is a deep longing, a spiritual anxiety, a gnawing hunger for something that even the best of the Christmas cookies can not assuage. 

         And so we in the church set aside these four weeks before Christmas as a sort of alternative world.  We call it Advent, which means coming, Jesus’ coming – not only as a one time commemorative event in the past but also coming again when God’s Kingdom is fully established, and maybe even coming now, even now.  And if we enter this world of Advent and immerse ourselves in it with half an ounce of sincerity and seriousness, we will find it oddly comforting. 

         Rather than red or green, we use deep purple or sometimes royal blue – not bright flashy colors but cooler, more meditative ones.  Rather than the gay tunes of Christmas (there will be time enough for those), we sing the more somber, sometimes minor key, carols that cannot help but nudge us toward an attitude of reflection and quietude.  Rather than beginning with the Light of the World that comes in the form of a newborn baby, we begin in darkness, holy darkness.

         It is quite bizarre when you think about it.  Here in church we listen to our strange apocalyptic scripture readings, do as much as we can using candlelight, and participate in our sometimes melancholy liturgies while outside these doors we are beckoned to enter the world of glitter and glitz and buy, buy, buy, the razzle dazzle of the season. 

         However, maybe because of that incongruity, we are ever more mindful of who we are.  We are followers of Jesus – followers of that Bethlehem baby grown into renegade man.  We, like him, do not always conform to the world, but instead have within us the capacity to transform it.

         So – let us, for once, be true to who we are and to what we feel.  Let us own our deep longings, our spiritual anxiety, our gnawing hunger for something that maybe we cannot quite put our finger on.  Let us own the holy darkness that is Advent – and see where it leads us as we look at our Scripture reading, which is often referred to as the Little Apocalypse because it is written in a style frequently used in difficult times – and the times in which it was written and the times in which we read it were (and are) no exception.  The ancients lived then and we live now in difficult, in fearful times.

         It is “little’ because it is only a few verses and not an entire chunk of the Bible like the Book of Revelation is.  It is an “apocalypse” because, through the words he puts into Jesus’ mouth, the Gospel writer talks about the so-called end times when the Kingdom of God will be established on earth.  He is writing at a time of unprecedented chaos and uncertainty in Palestine among the Jewish people.  It is about 70 years after the time that Jesus was teaching and healing.  The end of the Jewish wars with Rome was a disastrous defeat.   For all intents and purposes, the world was ending for this ancient people. 

         Even the Temple, the place where Yahweh/God was said to reside was gone.  Methodist pastor Jeremy Troxler imagines it this way:  “The disciples are sitting there opposite the massive megachurch, St.-Peter’s-Cathedral-sized, Mall-of-America-looking Temple, gaping at the shining stones and dazzling jewels, perhaps thinking silently that the Temple building, the central pivot point of Judaism, is what connects them to God.

         Then Jesus, unimpressed, tells them, ‘All of that is going to be nothing more than a pile of rubble.’

         The disciples, shocked, ask, ‘Teacher, when will this be?’”

         And Jesus spouts off a flurry of apocalyptic jargon, the likes of which neither we nor the disciples had probably ever heard:  “It will seem like all hell has broken loose—sun, moon, stars, earth, sea, in an uproar and everyone all over the world in a panic, the wind knocked out of them by the threat of doom, the powers-that-be quaking.”  And Paris rocks from the detonation of explosions and the world is shocked by acts of terrorism.  And Russia shows her muscles.  And borders are closed to refugees.  And then—then!—they’ll see the Son of Man welcomed in grand style—a glorious welcome!”

         Yikes!  Those are pretty scary and foreboding words for the first Sunday in Advent, the start of a new church year!  Cosmic signs!  Danger!  Watch out, everyone!  Because of our strange attraction to all things doomsday, these verses are certainly enough to make us worry, if not crawl into a cave and hide.  Given this apocalypse as an alternative, maybe Walmart the day after Thanksgiving is not so bad after all. 

         But Jesus says, “No!  This is not the time to run and hide.  This is not the time to duck and cover.  This is not even the time to take sanctuary in a sanctuary, like this one.  This is not the time to surround oneself with cheery Christmas carols and inflatable reindeer and insulate oneself from the darkness that is encroaching. 

         This is the time to own your longings, to own your anxiety, to own your fears for the world you are leaving your children and grandchildren.  This is the time, as Jesus said, to get “up on your feet. Stand tall with your heads high. Help is on the way!”

         Contrary to popular belief, and much to the dismay of folks who make their living as doomsday theorists, this is not the time to retreat into freaky end-of-the-world scenarios.  And besides, if this world ended and a better one arose like a phoenix from its ashes, would it really be that bad? 

        How bad would a world be that was normed by love rather than wealth, where great human migrations did not occur because swords had actually been forged into plowshares, where planes shot down over airspace disputes and people gunned down in market squares were only modern day fairy tales and fables, where everyone had a place to call home – with a fig tree to watch for when its leaves begin to appear?  How bad would a world like that be?

         You see, I think that is what God intends for the world – and to proclaim and model this certainty was the foundation of Jesus’ ministry.  This is what Advent is all about – waiting in holy darkness, waiting for God’s intentions to come to fruition, understanding that we are living in a time of pregnant possibility. 

         This is the time to throw yourself into Advent – because, if Advent is nothing else for you, it needs to be a time of hope, fearful hope perhaps, but great high hope nonetheless.  Great high hope because God is not finished yet – with your life or with the world. 

         When I was at Ghost Ranch in New Mexico last year, I did a really stupid thing.  I hiked alone.  I actually did not go alone.  However, the person I went with was fishing while I was hiking.  Coming back down the trail, it got foggy, and I could not find the next set of markers.  I knew enough not to wander around too much and so made my way back up to the end of the trail where I settled into an ancient and decrepit door-less, derelict ranger cabin.  It got dark, and I was convincing myself that I would be spending the night there when I saw the flashlights of a couple of forest rangers sent to retrieve me.  And all was well.

         Sometimes I get a little freaked thinking back on what might have happened, how a mountain lion could have sniffed (or snuffed) me out.  And when I do begin to wander off in those imaginings, I remember that there is a reason – a sacred reason - for me being here.  I remember that, like the disciples and those who first listened to this Gospel, I am challenged to not retreat into fear but rather to stand up, raise my head, look upward, look around me at the fig trees (or maple trees here in Maine), and wait in hope for all that God has in mind for me to happen.

         That is what Advent is all about.  It is about what is coming.  It is about living expectantly.  It is about living in the hope of God’s future as if it has already arrived. 

         As theologian Frederick Buechner wrote, “I think we are waiting. That is what is at the heart of it. Even when we don't know that we are waiting, I think we are waiting. Even when we can't find words for what we are waiting for, I think we are waiting….We who live much of the time in the darkness are waiting… for the advent of light, that ultimate light that is redemptive and terrifying at the same time. It is redemptive because it puts an end to the darkness, and that is also why it is terrifying, because for so long, for all our lives, the darkness has been home, and because to leave home is always cause for terror.”

         Buechner goes on to say: “To wait for Christ to come in his fullness is not just a passive thing, a pious, prayerful, churchly thing. On the contrary, to wait for Christ to come in his fullness is above all else to act in Christ's stead as fully as we know how. To wait for Christ is as best we can to be Christ to those who need us to be Christ to them most and to bring them the most we have of Christ's healing and hope.”

         Advent is about owning all that is not right with the world.  It is about trusting that this is not the world that God intends. It is about seeing the need for us to be Christ’s passionate presence in the world.  Advent is also about standing tall with your head held high and consciously living in that alternative world of Advent– a world where no matter what happens, no matter how bad things may get, the Gospel message of justice and compassion, reconciliation and love, will continue to be whispered and someday that whisper will become a shout because Jesus’ words will never die away.  We live in a world of deep longing and sometimes deep fear, but we also live in a world of profound hope, a world to which we are all called to be a part of because there is a reason – a sacred reason – that we are here in the first place, here connected to something – to someone – greater than ourselves.

         One blogger I read this week wrote about a street preacher he had seen: His exhortations were to get right with God because Jesus was coming soon.  An old man was walking by about this time, moving slowly with a cane.  When he heard the message of the street preacher, he straightened up, opened wide his arms, and said, "What in blazes are you talking about?  He's already here."

        As the blogger wrote, “indeed, Jesus is here, and he has always been here.  He didn't go drifting off into space waiting for some future day to come back, like some alien from outer space.  In his incarnation, Christ is interior to the world, intimately connected with it, never to let it go.”

         And if that is not reason to hope, to live in the alternative world of Advent, then I am not sure what is.  So come, don’t jump on the treadmill or get sucked into the Christmas funnel, come and wait for what is to come, come and wait in holy darkness.

by Rev. Nancy Foran, Raymond Village Community Church, Raymond, Maine

        

Mark 12:38-44 "All In"

You are welcome to use parts of this sermon, but if you do, please attribute them properly!

         They did not have paper money back in those days – and they certainly did not have anything like electronic giving where your offering was automatically deducted from your bank account.  It was cold, hard coin.  That was it.

         As a result, you could hear the money as it was dropped into any one of the thirteen brass receptacles that lined the wall of the Court of the Women, which was situated at the entrance of the Temple in Jerusalem.  These coin boxes were shaped somewhat like cornucopias (ironically that great symbol of Thanksgiving gratitude and generosity) with a big bell opening pointing upwards at the top. 

         Each receptacle represented a different line item in the Temple’s budget.  Some were designated to defray the expenses of running the Temple (the operating budget or general fund) while others represented the mission portion and were intended to help the poor. 

         Think of these brass boxes as a sensory budget:  Ah, the smell of money piling up inside!  And, of course, there was the sight of people day in and day out making their way to the brass boxes –

as well as the sound of cold hard cash jingling and clanking as it bounced off the brass and made its way to the bottom of the receptacle.  Lots of coinage – or a really big offering - made lots of noise; a little coinage made barely any sound at all. 

         And the Sadducees – there were only 300 in all of Israel – the Sadducees who were positioned at the very pinnacle of the Jewish religious hierarchy – the Sadducees literally sat for hours on end in the Court of the Women, watching people give their offerings to God.  They knew exactly who gave what. 

         This is the scene that Jesus inserted himself into in our Scripture reading today:  So – as we enter the scene, imagine the Sadducees sitting on one side of the Court. Their stony, intimidating faces and frigid stares characterize them.  There they are, shaking their heads at the stooped over widow who dropped her two small coins into the nearest box and scuttled away.  See them rolling their eyes in plain disgust at the near silence of her offering.  Look at them glancing down the line of waiting pilgrims to see if a better prospect might be coming next.

        And continue to imagine Jesus sitting on the other side.  Hear his usual running commentary on events, a commentary designed to infuriate the Temple hotshots.    First, he gave his unsolicited two-cents (no pun intended) on the Sadducees:  “Watch out for the religion scholars. They love to walk around in academic gowns, preening in the radiance of public flattery, basking in prominent positions. And all the time they are exploiting the weak and helpless. The longer their prayers, the worse they get.” Ah, Jesus – you certainly know how to make friends in high places – not!

         Then he commented on the nameless widow:  “The truth is that this poor widow gave more to the collection than all the others put together. All the others gave what they’ll never miss; she gave extravagantly what she couldn’t afford—she gave her all.” 

         And that believe it or not, is the end of the passage.  What was the Gospel writer thinking, throwing us into the midst of this mind-boggling scene of budgets and money and collections?  And then it is over – just like that – and what is worse, Jesus never tells us what we are supposed to do with it.

        “Oh, no!”  You may be thinking.  “Here we go again.  The preacher is going to talk about money – and stewardship – and pledges.  She is going to try to make us feel guilty for not being more like the widow when we filled out those pledge cards last week.  We had better steel ourselves.”

           However, you know, if preachers talked about money as much as Jesus talked about money, about half the sermons you heard would be about cold, hard cash.  So – consider yourselves lucky that I am not going to talk about money.  I am going to talk about Halloween candy instead. 

         Methodist pastor and seminary professor Alyce McKenzie shared this wonderful little personal Halloween confession on her blog.  It is a confession that, I am willing to bet, most of us, if we were honest, would confess as well:

         She writes:  “I had bought several bags labeled "Demon Treats," collections of 130 snack-size candy handouts: Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, Reese's Pieces, Kit Kats, and Milk Duds.  I also bought a bag of miniature Almond Joy bars, the kind with coconut and almonds covered in milk chocolate. Overbuying the candy is an annual pattern for me.”

         She goes to say that she dressed as a witch on Halloween night and, in between trick or treaters, posted a Facebook picture of herself in her witch’s hat with the caption, “’Glinda the Good Witch hands out Kit Kats and Whoppers - and saves the Almond Joy bars for herself." (Personally, I can relate to that.  Almond Joys are my favorite too.).  Anyway, sixty-five people liked the post, (she claims) with eighteen comments.

         One "friend" commented: "Glinda was nobody's fool."

         Another recounted he used to dump his kids' booty and tell them all the stuff they wouldn't like, and then made that his stash.

         Yet another suggested we should only buy what we like, considerably overestimate the number of trick-or-treaters we expect, and hoard our favorites.

         Yet another commented: "Fun size is only fun if you eat more than one."

        McKenzie continues: “Their comments make it clear that we all have our own ways of keeping a little something back for ourselves. We don't want to give it all away. We can't all be like this noble widow giving away her last bit of cash with nothing left in her ATM. She's all in. And if I'm honest with myself, I admit that, with regard to my discipleship, I'm almost all in.”

         It may come as a surprise to you, but, contrary to many a preacher’s interpretation, I do not think that this passage about the widow’s offering is about funding mission projects for the poor – though doing so should be an important aspect of any church – or personal - budget.  I also do not think that this passage is about stewardship and how much you pledge – though taking a careful look at not so much the raw dollars you give but rather at the percentage of your income you choose to designate as your token of gratitude to God is certainly a worthwhile pursuit, one that often leads to surprising insights and implications.

         You see, because we find this Story of the Widow’s Offering in the Gospel of Mark, we must presume that it is about discipleship because discipleship – what it means to be a follower of Jesus – is the primary focus of this particular Gospel. 

         This is not a story about how much we give.  It is a story about commitment.  It is a story that raises the question:  Are we all in?  Or, can we at least be more in than we have been in the past?  It is the same question that Jesus asked those fishermen he recruited way back when.  “Come, and follow me – can’t tell you where, can’t tell you for how long, but if you’re coming, you gotta at least try to be all in.”

         In a way, the widow foreshadowed Jesus’ own answer to that nagging question - and we all know what his answer was.  As one blogger I read this week wrote, “He didn’t say, ‘I love the world, but only up to a point. How about 50%?’ No, he stretched out his arms and gave it all.”  He was all in, and he is our model.

         So - this little story is not a condemnation of your level of giving.  Nor is it a guilt-inducing vignette designed to make you cough up more.  If that is how I chose to interpret it, I would be little better than the Sadducees giving everyone who approached those thirteen brass receptacles in the Temple the hairy eyeball, willing them to dig deeper into their pockets. 

         No – this story is not about money and funding church budgets.  This story is an invitation – an invitation to embody in our own lives what the Kingdom of God is all about. It is an invitation to consider that maybe our cultural mores that calculate wealth by the possessions we own is just plain wrong.  This story is an invitation to consider what Mother Theresa once said:  “If you give what you do not need, it isn't giving." And what C.S. Lewis once wrote, "I do not believe one can settle how much we ought to give. I am afraid the only safe rule is to give more than we can spare." This story is an invitation to be “all in.”

         This story is an invitation to experience grace, which is that freedom, as Reformed pastor Scott Hoezee wrote, “to be who we have become as new creatures in Christ. We use our gifts and give of ourselves not because of some stern external obligation or pressure or because we’ve been made to feel guilty as we are manipulated by the church. Instead (if we so choose) we are free to be who we are, free to let the Spirit move us along in ministry.”

         This little story about the widow and her meager – though glorious – offering is not about money.  It is about commitment, about being all in.  It is about being really and truly spiritually alive, something that is not possible without making a sacrifice as the widow did.  It is a story about opening up, letting go, watching our coins disappear down the brass receptacle, clattering and jingling, and all the while trusting that we will still have enough.  Trusting?  Why?  Because somewhere along the way we decided to be a Christian, to make a commitment to be all in.

Widow

A word to strike fear

Into the heart of every Jewish woman

Widow

A hard word synonym for defenseless

Poor.  Alone.  Nothing.

For in your world you were nothing without a man

Only father, husband, brother or son

Gave you validation

For you, the fear has come true and here you are

Widowed,

One of the poor ones

Life hanging by a slender thread

A tissue-thin connection

Between you and hunger

Between life and death

Poor widow

Nothing on which to come and go

Just two small coins in your hand

Enough for the next meal, perhaps

But you

Make your way bravely to the Temple treasury

Ringing with the noise of many coins

Thrown ostentatiously into brass trumpets.

Quietly you slip between the crowd

And drop in

Your offering.

Did you wonder whether anyone would notice?

Whether your two small coins would make any difference?

Someone did see

One who rated your two coins more highly

Than all the clattering money thrown in that day by scribes

Who make stripping widow's assets an occupation.

And down the years

Your act tugs at our heartstrings

And makes our overloaded purses

Heavy with shame

And any time we offer something small

We commemorate your gift as we say

"It's just a widow's mite."

Thank you, widow woman

For daring to come out of the obscurity

Of your status-less life

Refusing to let poverty restrict you

Refusing to be a nobody

Daring to be one

Who gave the most priceless gift of all

All she had.

         As Anglican priest Francis Wade wrote, “ It's not about giving, not about making a gesture. It's about the way we live, and the key word is generosity.”

by Rev. Nancy Foran, Raymond Village Community Church U.C.C., Raymond, Maine

Ruth 1:1-8, 16-17 "All Saints' Remembrances"

You are welcome to use parts of this sermon, but if you do, please attribute them properly!

         This weekend is a wonderful coming together of several diverse religious and spiritual events.  It is a confluence of not just the old, but of the really ancient as well.  It is a blending together of Christian and pre-Christian festivals and of Catholic and Protestant theological perspectives.

         First off, October 31^st was the day in 1517 that Martin Luther formally posted his 95 gripes about, and theological arguments against, the Roman Catholic Church.  Not having Twitter back then, he nailed them with a certain flourish to the door of the Cathedral Church in Wittenberg, Germany. 

         Luther’s one-man protest sparked the Protestant Reformation that quickly spread throughout the world.  This event is important for us to remember because, had it not been for Brother Martin, we would not be worshipping here this morning in our small church with its big heart but rather would be attending mass at Our Lady of Perpetual Help in Windham.

         This weekend also marks the pre-Christian Celtic Festival of Samhain, which occurs halfway between the vernal or fall equinox and the winter solstice. Samhain in Gaelic means “summer’s end” and is a harvest festival.  It is the time when herds were brought down from the hills, when family members (and long dead ancestors) returned to the homestead for the winter months, when vegetation died back and killing frosts occurred.   As one blogger wrote, “Samhain is (like) the turning of the wheel. It feels almost like shutting off the lights for the evening or closing down the store for the night. It is time to go inward and focus on family and self.” 

         Not surprisingly, Samhain was traditionally associated with death and was a spiritually significant time when the veil between this world and the next, between the living and the dead, was thought to be at its thinnest.  For Outlander fans, this was the time of year when people like Claire time traveled through the standing stones to another world.  In the end, Samhain is a festival for honoring ancestors and those who have gone before us.

         As Christianity spread throughout Europe, the time of Samhain coincided with the Christian Church’s need to celebrate the lives of named saints who did not have their own designated feast day.  Known as All Saints’ Day, it was initially confined to the Diocese of Rome.  However, in the 9^th century, Pope Gregory IV designated it an all-church day of holy obligation.   At some point, All-Souls Day developed as well, which was a day to recognize those non-designated Saints (that is, just ordinary folks) in one’s immediate family who had passed away.

         The more recent Protestant tradition has been to merge All-Souls and All-Saints Day into one.  After all, we believe that we – all of us – are both saints and sinners – and so we – all of us – ought to be honored for our life accomplishments. 

         This weekend then, is about new traditions arising from the old, about richer perspectives on life and death emerging.  One of those perspectives is the close bond we have with those we love – “Wherever you go, I shall go, wherever you live, so shall I live” – that continues beyond death. 

         Whether or not you think that the veil between the worlds is particularly thin this weekend, as Christians we believe that somewhere – somehow – “a great cloud of witnesses” loves us from beyond the grave, nudging and guiding us through our memories of them to be more loving, more like God intended us to be.  That is why on this first Sunday in November each year, we have All-Saints’ Remembrances, recalling those men and women in our families and in our church family who died in the past year.  “Wherever you go, I shall go, wherever you live, so shall I live.”

JAMES ENGLISH – James was a summer visitor from Winsor, Connecticut.  I know very little about this James English because there were actually two James English-es, both of whom were snowbirds and both of whom were summer residents of Raymond.  One James English passed away years ago and was married to Marjorie English, who annually came north from Virginia until two summers ago.  I recently wrote to her about our James English but have not yet received a reply. 

         I do know from talking to Marjorie a couple of years ago, however, that the James English we remember today was also married to a Marjorie.  So – right here in Raymond in the summer were two married couples of about the same age who were James and Marjorie English and who attended this church and who frequently played bridge together.  No wonder there has always been so much confusion!  I understand they got quite a kick out of the coincidence as well.

CHARLES GUERIN – Charles is Marie Guerin’s father.  Marie has been on each of our Maine Seacoast Mission trips.  Charles was 98 when he passed away.  He lived with a mental and physical vitality seldom seen in those so aged.  Trained professionally as an attorney, he devoted his career to the US Treasury, overseeing the tax code and tax implications of Medicare and working on tax-exempt status for certain religious groups (Thank you, Charles).  He was a lifelong student and loved gardening, politics, the news, ethics, cooking, genealogy, and languages.  His mind was always engaged in something.

         From what I could see, he also loved challenging and intellectually pushing his daughter, Marie.  I know he grilled her on why she was going to Maine Seacoast Mission that first year and what she expected to accomplish spiritually – and, in doing so, also challenged me. 

         Charles was a deep theological thinker, able to see the hand of God working often in mysterious ways.  He was a faithful and active Roman Catholic, always seeing the potential of his Church, even in the midst of all the pain and controversy it has experienced over the past decade. 

         I met Charles once when Marie was picking up pot roast suppers here and asked him what he thought of Pope Francis.  He took my hand and smiled broadly, indicating that, from his perspective, the College of Cardinals had done well in its election.  I suspect that knowing his church was in good hands made it easier for him to move on graciously and gracefully.

RAY NEAL – Ray was a generous and faithful summer member of our church, making financial contributions to upgrade our sound system here in the sanctuary and to purchase a portable communion set.  Ray also remembered this church in a trust he established before he died.  As his daughter Pam wrote, it would “probably suffice to say that (Ray) loved the Raymond church and (his) summers in Maine” where he spent summers for 40 years in a home on Crescent Lake.

         Ray was warm, soft-spoken, and gentle.  He served in the Navy for a number of years, retiring as a captain, and was also on the Governor’s staff in Rhode Island, his home until he and his wife retired to Florida.  Ray was very involved in our church and was able to offer the Church Council sage common sense advice on finances and other matters on numerous occasions. 

         Caryl Gilman remembers three of the many loves of Ray’s life:

1.             His wife Kathryn, with whom he had four children.  He also adopted Kathryn’s daughter from a previous marriage.  

2.            Fishing – anywhere, anytime – on Crescent Lake, Lake Champlain, and elsewhere.

3.            His camp in Raymond…even after Kathryn’s death he continued to spend summers here until 2-3 years ago.

DOROTHEA PUTSCHER – Dorothea “Dot” and her family were longtime summer residents. She was a high school physical education and health teacher in New Jersey and worked summers as a counselor at Camp Wenonah on Trickey Pond.  After she married, she was a fulltime mother of what eventually became a family of six children - three boys and three girls - maintaining high standards and expectations for all of them.

         In her later years, Dot blossomed as an artist and craftswoman.  She loved painting – whether it was a landscape on canvas, the boat dock, or the back of the cottage on Sebago that became her and Dick’s three-season vacation cottage.  I understand that she was very organized – maintaining a list of all things that had been done - and still needed to be done - on the cottage.

         Dorothy was devoted to her Presbyterian Church in Delaware and to our church here in Raymond.  Over the years, she faced a number of serious health challenges, including the surgical loss of one of her lungs.  Surely it was her deep faith and the loving relationships she maintained with everyone in her family that kept her optimistic and unwilling to give up until God called her home.

BETTY WILSON – Betty is Stacey Grindel’s grandmother.  She lived in Maine all her life – though when she and her husband Charles retired, she took great pleasure in traveling to visit with family.  She was an avid reader who also loved knitting slippers and baking bread.

         Betty was a Girl Scout leader and also was involved in Boy Scouts for over 50 years.  You could often find her working with scouts at Camp Hinds.  In fact, she made the first Camp Hinds flags.  In 1992, she was awarded the Silver Beaver Award, one of the highest awards in Scouting – and not often awarded to a woman.

         Betty also volunteered at the Cumberland Fairgrounds, Native American pow wows, and the Navy Relief Society.  She was a loving caring mother, grandmother, and great grandmother.  Stacey recalled her this way:  “My grandmother was so special and amazing. Her focus was her family, and she loved us all equally. In college, she used to send care packages to me with special notes, homemade goodies and a few dollars for spending money. It always included the saying 'between you, me and the gatepost'. It was a special treat to get one of her care packages that continued even after college.

         I loved her and still love her dearly. Growing up she was a rock. I learned to cook and enjoyed canning with her that I now am teaching my kids. I learned from her a love of service, a love for the outdoors, and the knowledge that family isn't always related by blood.

SANDY WINDE – Though Sandy has not been active in our church for 10 years now, he is still remembered fondly by many in our congregation. He volunteered with Cub and Boy Scouts for 15 years and was active in the community as a youth baseball and soccer coach and also volunteered as a middle and high school wrestling coach. Sandy was always ready to lend a helping hand in his conversational, down-to-earth way – and could be spotted most everywhere by the distinctive hat he always wore.

         Tom Wiley was a close friend of Sandy and remembers him this way:  “Sandy was a friend to all. 

 Whether you were young or old, big or small in stature or just a casual acquaintance he always found the good in everyone and everything.  Once you met Sandy you made a friend for life.  He would hunt to find the common bond with you and work towards a greater understanding and love for each other.    

         My personal memories of Sandy will always be those of a brother I never had.  We enjoyed numerous scout trips around this country including a trip to Gettysburg. Sandy was a huge civil war buff and truly enjoyed the sharing and learning about Joshua Chamberlain and the 20^th Maine’s impact on the battlefields of Pennsylvania. “ 

         Sandy lived with a terminal illness for nearly three years, throughout it all approaching life as a blessing with optimism and a deep Christian faith.

MURIEL YEAGER – Most of us here know Muriel as “MumMum” – a spry, energetic, optimistic, Red Sox loving, vital, and faithful church member who passed away just shy of 101.  Muriel raked leaves and shoveled snow until she was 98 – and she was still trying to chase wild turkeys out of the back yard shortly before she died.  Muriel was always at worship, looking elegant, dressed to the nines. 

She and Rosemary and Ann were the Golden Girls and could often be found after church at Tim Horton’s or cruising the aisles of Walmart together.   My guess is that Muriel cut a wide swath in her younger days, as I have heard tell of her sliding gracefully down bannisters in New York hotels in her evening dress.

         Her daughter, Margo, asked family members to send a few thoughts for these All-Saints’ Remembrances.  Last week Margo gave me a page and half, single-spaced with tiny type filled with thoughts and memories of Muriel.  It was a joy to read, brought tears (good tears) to my eyes as I recalled this loving and friendly woman who lived so fully right up until she died. 

         Here are just a few of the things her family mentioned: ”What I valued most about Mom was how easy it was for her to make friends.  Lasting friends.  Some of her friends she had kept contact with for over 80 years.  She had such a large, kind heart.” 

         “I remember raking leaves with her and trying to keep up, and this was when she was 90.  She was a perfectionist.  You couldn’t quit until there wasn’t a single leaf remaining on the lawn.  Mom was so full of life and love.” 

         “What I remember most about Mom was her unselfish generosity, never looking for payback of any kind, just a warm and heartfelt thank you.  She would rather have given her savings away instead of enjoying the money herself.  I can look back and honestly say that I have never had the pleasure of meeting anyone in my life with such a giving heart as my Mom.” 

         “What I remember about Mom was her love for knitting and crocheting.  Every kid around was dressed to the tee.  She was always kind and giving – and played a mean card game too.” 

         “I don’t know anyone who has touched as many lives as MumMum did.  And missed?  Boy is she missed.  But I know she’s in a better place.  She’s with PopPop now.  Lately they have both been in my dreams.  I’ve never dreamed of my grandfather, but now that they are together, they are both visiting me in my dreams.  What a lucky lady I am!”

         When I was in college in New York, my fraternity buddies would offer to drive me home in the hope of getting a few of MumMum’s brownies.  She was known in those days as the brownie lady.  When I was in Viet Nam flying Marine Corps helicopters my buddies would flock around my cot when they heard that MumMum had sent me a goodie package.  MumMum had the special gift of letting people know she was thinking of them. She is truly the belle of the ball, and I know wherever she is everyone, is having a grand time.

         A blog post I came across this week read:  “’We have had our run. It is time to leave.’”  So said Andy Pettitte, pitcher for the New York Yankees (Sorry, Muriel!). 

         All of us will say that sooner or later.  If we have invested ourselves deeply in life and deeply in love we can greet the end of both career and life with joy and celebration.  It is not a joy and celebration that our time has come to an end, but a joy and celebration that while we had our time we dared to live fully, to love wastefully, and we found the courage to be all that we could be.”

         Surely that is the experience of those we have remembered today…..Wherever they go, may we go too.       

by Rev. Nancy Foran, Raymond Village Community Church U.C.C., Raymond, Maine