A Meditation for the Memorial Service for

Danny E. Allen, J.D.

Psalm 121; I Thessalonians 4:9-12

P. Randall Wright, D.Min.

September 11, 2012

We gather today to remember the life of Danny Allen and to celebrate our shared assurance of his eternal life.  It is good that we are all here in the presence of God and in each other’s company.  Gail, Whitney, and Amy and their families and loved ones will remember this great host of supportive and loving friends, and surely these memories will sustain them in the difficult days of grief until hope is reborn.

I’ve known Danny since we were both students at North Charleston Elementary School and members of Cooper River Baptist Church.  He was a year older than I, so we never were really best friends or buddies, but we were friends for a long, long time.  Our lives sort of paralleled each other’s, and when we ran into each other here and there over the years, it seemed that we picked up where we had left off.  We both had good plans about being more intentional in our friendship, but…you know how that goes.

I have always admired and respected Danny Allen.  Recently, a good friend sent me a quotation that fits Danny.  It’s a baseball quotation by a football coach—Barry Switzer.  Danny lettered in baseball at North Charleston High School.  Here’s the quotation:  “Some people are born on third base and go through life thinking they hit a triple.”  Unfortunately, that saying has been politicized over the years.  But it reminds me of Danny. 

Danny was not born on third base. He was not a child of privilege. We all knew about Danny’s daddy leaving his mother. We heard our parents talk about how Mrs. Allen worked so hard at the Piggly Wiggly to make sure Danny and his older brother Gene and younger brother Randy were raised well.  I know Danny and his brothers were sometimes embarrassed when church folks would bring food or money to help Mrs. Allen.  I know all that, and most of you know the same thing.  Danny was not born on third base…but he hit many triples and a few grand slam home runs.

I remember walking by Danny’s house on the way to North Charleston Elementary.  I can see their house in my mind.  And I used to wonder what it was like to be growing up without a daddy.  I used to wonder that, but we never felt sorry for Danny and his brothers. They never gave reasons for that.  And we certainly never made fun of them.  Gene would have beat us up.  We just kept being friends and never really made comparisons.  That’s just how it was in North Charleston in the late 1950s and early 1960s.  We were just kids trying to mind our parents and teachers and coaches and Sunday School teachers…just kids growing up.

Danny was not born on third base.  He was not a child of privilege.  But he worked hard and studied hard and made something of himself….but not all by himself.  He knew that people like Doc Hursey and Dixie Lucas and Floyd Arant and Dan Roberts and my daddy and a host of other men just stepped in to be a father figure and love him and encourage him. He knew about his mother’s Sunday School class and how they all helped her. In some cases it really does take a village. So, Danny grew up and got to third base and scored many runs for his team.

Somewhere along the way, Danny learned to live a life described in these words by the Apostle Paul in a letter to the Thessalonians. “Now concerning love of the brothers and sisters, you do not need to have anyone write to you, for you yourselves have been taught by God to love one another.” Danny loved you all.  I don’t need to tell you that.  I have heard many stories about how Danny cared for many people—in tangible and unselfish ways.  I think he remembered all the good folks in North Charleston who helped out when his father left. 

The Apostle Paul continued, “But we urge you…to aspire to live quietly, to mind your own affairs, and to work…”  So that’s what Danny did through Clemson and law school and the Air Force and then here in Spartanburg since the early 1970s.  He married a wonderful woman, he and Gail had two beautiful and successful daughters who have fine families, and he worked hard….not only in his practice but in the community.  He was a giver.  He loved people.  He loved to talk, and he knew how to enjoy life. 

A mutual friend, a girl in my high-school class, said this about Danny: “…all my memories are just of a sweet and good-looking boy who was my friend. He was always my shoulder to cry on with whatever boy was causing me heartache at the moment. There was always a devilish look in his eye, and I can still see it in the picture of that white-haired distinguished man he had become.”

Let me tell you about this “devilish look in his eye.”  Danny and I were talking just a couple months ago.  He said, “Randy, you know I don’t like very many preachers, but I like you.”  And I said, “Well, I don’t like very many preachers either, and I don’t like many lawyers, but I like you.”  He said, “I like preachers who talk to me and not at me. And that’s why I like you.”  It was one of the highest and most memorable affirmations I have ever received. 

I liked Danny because he was a man of no pretense or arrogance or condescension. I liked Danny because in every conversation we had over the years, he always talked about Gail and his girls….and later his grandchildren.  You learn a lot about a person by what he talks about. 

Every now and then he’d talk about himself and his brothers and growing up in North Charleston and going to Clemson and law school. We reminisced about old friends and old times. He’d talk about his work and politics, occasionally, and how he had fun with his friends. And in every conversation, I had the sense that Danny was very, very grateful for all that he had and enjoyed.  He didn’t need to say to whom he was grateful.  I knew he was grateful to God. 

I think the simple, yet profound, question the psalmist asks in Psalm 121 is a question Danny often asked…”from where will my help come?” His life and his loves reveal his answer.  “My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.”  The preachers Danny didn’t like are full of God talk, as if trying to convince others of their piety and holiness.  I will remember Danny as one who didn’t need to talk about God as much as to live for God by the way he treated others.  That’s what I like about my long-time friend, Danny Allen.  His life and his actions revealed the source of his help.  His help was from the God who loves him and has welcomed him into an eternal presence.

Former United Nations Secretary-General and Nobel Peace Prize recipient Dag Hammarskjöld wrote a benediction for his life.  He said, “For all that has been, thanks; to all that shall be, yes!” We thank God for Danny Allen and remember his deep gratitude to God for all that has been in his life.  We affirm the eternal life that shall continue to be for Danny, because he said “yes” to God by his life, his service to others, and his assurance of an everlasting peace.  “For all that has been, thanks; for all that shall be, yes!”

He Doesn't Look Like an 81-Year-Old...

Meet a new friend, Bill Todd.  He and his wife Joanne are residents at Park Pointe Village in Rock Hill, SC, and I became the Chaplain there in February, 2012.  Bill and I share a common passion--riding bicycles.  This picture was taken after we rode a little over 30 miles.

Bill is 81-years-old I think.  He may be older.  Whatever an 81-year-old is supposed to look like, he doesn't; however an 81-year-old is supposed to act, he doesn't.  That's what I like about Bill.  He is the most active and fit man in his eighties that I know.  If I make it to his age, I hope I'm still active and reasonably fit.

First time I rode with him I thought,"Well, maybe I'll need to lighten up my pace a bit."  Not so.  We rode at a comfortable, yet challenging clip for a couple hours. My assumptions were corrected.

Oh...by the way...the one on the right is Bill!  I posted this picture on Facebook, and a friend asked, "Which one's the 81-year-old?"  

My bike riding with Bill has reminded me of a couple things.  I already knew them, but it's good to have reminders.  For one thing, I must stay active.  Keep moving.  Do something that involves   movement.  My new physician said that the negative effects of inactivity are worse than anything--including smoking and drinking too much.  Sometimes it hurts when I start riding, and I  start mumbling and groaning about my age or my aches or pains.  But, wonder of wonders, after half-an-hour or so, the pain eases off.  Oh, it'll come back, but it's nice to not hurt when I'm being active.  "Use it or lose it" is a hackneyed mantra; however, it's over-used because it's true. The more I move, the less I hurt.

The second reminder is that I need to rest when I'm tired.  About mid-point during our last ride, Bill said, "See that driveway up there?  Let's pull over for a little breather."  So, we did.  We ate a little something and drank some water, and in a few minutes we started.  It was refreshing.  We all need to understand we can't push too hard.  Pulling over for a little breather is a good and necessary discipline.

Keep moving and stop when you need to...good reminders.

A Sermon the Sunday after September 11, 2001

For the Facing of This Hour

Romans 8:26—39

September 16, 2001

(Sunday after the terrorist attack upon the World Trade Center Towers and the Pentagon)

P. Randall Wright, D.Min.

Fernwood Baptist Church

        I once heard about a weekly newspaper called “The Kingfisher.”  It came out each Friday in the little town of Kingfisher, Oklahoma.  An old Kiawah Indian woman named Molly Shepherd wrote a weekly column.  She told about some of the customs and news and activities of her people.  She wrote in a simple, broken English sort of style.

        On the Friday following the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, Molly Shepherd wrote a brief article.  Here’s what she wrote.

        Molly has no article today…  Molly has no words today…  Molly has nothing to say today…  All week Molly walks around in the house and says, “Ooooooh…

Ooooooh… !”1

        Since Tuesday morning, September 11, most of my prayers have been like that.  Oooooh…ooooooh…

When I had to stand before you and pray something intelligible, I guess I was able to do so.  But in the private moments my prayers have been more like what Paul says about the Holy Spirit’s intercessions for us. …we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words…

(Romans 8:26).

        Have you found yourself doing a lot of sighing this week?  Or maybe the sounds that come when you wish you could pray are more like moans.  These, too, are prayers.  And they’re good enough for God.  After all, if the Holy Spirit uses sighs too deep for words to intercede for us, then certainly God hears our sighs and moans as well.

        I’ve said it before…that sometimes we preachers preach because we have something to say.  Other times we preach because we have to say something.  Today, I suppose I have to say something, but I find I’m like the physician right there beside that huge pile of rubble in lower Manhattan.  Some news person was trying to get this weary doctor to describe his feelings.  He said, “Words fail.”  Sometimes they do.

        But thank God we can sigh and moan and purse our lips and shake our heads and repeat what the good doctor said.  Words fail. Prayers don’t, however.  Prayer is language of the heart.  Prayer is need finding a voice.  Prayer is feelings felt and sorrow sighed and disbelief expressed.

        In another place in Romans, Paul uses a word for prayer that fits for these days we’ve experienced and the days ahead.  Paul was on his way to Jerusalem to take an offering to the poor.  There were unbelievers there, and Paul felt threatened by them.  He was asking the Christians in Rome to pray for him. (Romans 15:30)

        What is most unusual in Paul’s appeal is the word he uses for prayer.  There are many words used for prayer, but this one is significant.  You’ll recognize it even if I say it in Greek, which I will.  Hey…I studied it for three years; I might as well throw some out every now and then.  Here it is.  Agonitzo.  (repeat)  Agonize.  Paul puts a little prefix in front.  Soon.  The prefix means “with.” Soonagonitzo.  Agonize with me. (Note: these are “phonetic transliterations” for the sake of pronouncing the Greek).2

        That’s what the literal Greek means.  Agonize with me.  In the NRSV, it’s translated “join me in earnest prayer.” Agonize with me is stronger.  Maybe better.  At least more linguistically accurate.

        The agon was an arena.  Like the arena where the gladiators fought to the death.  The agon was the amphitheater where there was conflict, struggle, wrestling, fear, pain, and anxiety.  So Paul was saying, “Christians, please, soonagonitzo.  Agonize with me.  Enter my arena of anxiety and fear.  Wrestle with me in this conflict and struggle.  Agonize with me.

        Our prayers these days may just be sighs or moans or the “ooooooh’s” of Molly Shepherd.  Certainly our prayers these days are born out of the agony we all feel.  Who says prayer has to be made of words?  Most are, but they don’t have to be. 

        However, if you need a prayer made with words, I have a suggestion.  It came to me by way of the hymnal.  Harry Emerson Fosdick wrote the hymn.  We just sang it a few moments ago.  The prayer is simply,

        Grant us wisdom, grant us courage, for the facing of this hour.

        You and I know that the wisdom some pray for is the wisdom to find the perpetrators of these horrendous acts of terrorism so we can summarily kill them. And do it quickly, and do it regardless of innocents who may die.  But others pray for the wisdom to know that evil begets evil and is only finally overcome by good.

        We know that the courage some pray for is the courage to stand up to this evil and overcome it with force. Others pray for the courage to not only find justice, but to be merciful.

        See how agonizing prayer can be? Maybe that’s why Paul urges us to recognize that we don’t know how to pray as we ought.  Maybe the prayer from the hymn will be enough for now.  It is for me.

        God, grant us wisdom, grant us courage, for the facing of this hour. 

        Or maybe Molly Shepherd prays it best.  Ooooooh.  Ooooooh.  Ooooooh.

        Amen.

---

1 From Fred Craddock’s lecture #5 of “Passing the Peace,” the Raney Lectures, delivered at Pulaski Heights United Methodist Church, Little Rock, Arkansas, 1982.

2 Ibid.

The Christ Between Me...

I am at once both thieves

With the dying Christ between—

Each one of me stretched tight, near naked,

Exposing the dying my living has brought.

One of me robbed my inheritance,

And spent it wildly, leaving no flicker of regret,

Which the breath of the One between

Could warm into flames of repentance.

So let this cross do what it must

To return me to the dust

From which they say I came,

For at least, I concede, I am to blame.

As I hang dying, the other of me

Forces from my memory a whisper of sadness,

Sighing with remorse to be

Remembered by the One between.

My sigh of sorrow meets his breath of grace,

And I know that his memory includes me

Among those who will live in spite of their dying,

Who will live because of his death.

So, with the dying each day brings,

Let me repent of my thievery

And rise from the sweet death of sleep

With a reawakened memory

Of his dying for both of me.     

All Her Exes Were Not From Texas

All her exes were not from Texas.  They were most likely from her home town of Samaria.  All five of them. I’m thinking of this Sunday’s (March 27^th) Gospel lesson—the encounter at the well between Jesus and the Samaritan woman.  Many remember this story and the meta-communication as Jesus and the woman talked.  She came for water; Jesus offered her water, but not the potable kind.  I think she finally got it, but she kept the verbal game going.  And so did Jesus, until her thirst was quenched.

I once stole a sermon about this story from Dr. James Forbes.  Well, I re-imagined his thoughts and spun my own story about the woman’s return to Samaria to tell about this most amazing rabbi, Jesus, “…the man who told me everything I have ever done.”

She went back to Samaria, and the first person she told about her encounter with Jesus was her first husband.  They were so very young when they married, and he was so very cute.  But she found that “cute doesn’t last.”  And she wandered…and wandered…until the marriage eroded, and she left her cute husband for someone cuter.  She, now forgiven and understood by Jesus, sought forgiveness and understanding from her first husband, still cute, but with thinning hair and a bulging middle.  “He forgave me; he accepted me.  Will you?  I’m so sorry, but we were so young and immature.  Please forgive my unfaithfulness.”

Although it was painful for her, she located her second husband.  There were many bad memories…many.  He had seemed so mature, kind, and understanding.  The first time it happened, she brushed it off.  Just a bad day.  He simply lost control.  It really didn’t hurt that much.  A glancing blow with some minor bruising.  But it happened again and again and again.  Finally, she summoned the courage to leave him.  She would not be abused again.  She, now forgiven and understood by Jesus, wanted to forgive her second husband.  “He forgave me.  I forgive you.  Will you accept my forgiveness?”

Her third husband was quite old by now.  He was much older than she when they married.  She had been abused. This time she wanted to be taken care of, and he had the means to do so quite well.  Although there was quite an age difference, his money made up for it.  Yes, why not, she thought…why not marry for security and money and the comforts money can buy?  But he got older, and soon the money didn’t make up for whatever it was she was missing.  So…she left him, and through some sly manipulation took a lot of his wealth with her.  As she approached him, he barely recognized her with his failing eyesight, but he remembered her voice.  She, now forgiven and understood by Jesus, begged the elderly ex-husband’s forgiveness.  He gave it freely.  They both rejoiced.

She was not surprised to learn that her fourth husband was on his third wife.  He seemed so sincere and committed when they married, but she began to sense the distance between them.  She tried to stay close, but he drifted farther and farther away.  All the way into the affections of another.  So, she left him.  And she had never forgiven him for his unfaithfulness.  But it was different now.  She, now forgiven and understood, wanted to forgive her fourth husband.  “I forgive you.  Whether you need my forgiveness or not, I forgive you.  I, who am forgiven, forgive you.”

She finally found her fifth husband.  Since their divorce, he had tried to keep to himself, avoiding the inquiring public.  When they married, he was kind, understanding, warm.  He listened to her, and he accepted her failings and limitations.  She thought it odd that he didn’t seem interested in physical affection, but she never insisted.  It became no real surprise to her when he confessed that although he had a male’s body, that was about all.  He left her for another man.  Although not surprised, she suffered public humiliation.  She needed to forgive all three of them for not being honest.  She, now forgiven and understood by Jesus, said to her gay ex-husband, “He accepts you as he accepts me.  Just as you are.  He expects nothing of you but to consider his acceptance. He welcomes you into his presence and his life.”

And, as the scripture records, “Many Samaritans from that city believed in him because of the woman’s testimony, ‘He told me everything I have ever done’” (John 4:39).

Bumper Sticker Theology...

Surely someone has already written the article or the book about the theology of bumper stickers.  But I remember one I saw many years ago.  Stopped at a traffic light, this is what I read on the bumper sticker on the car in front of me:  Watch out for the idiot behind me.

Immediately, I looked in the rear view mirror to see about whom the bumper sticker was referring.  Then I realized that I was the one being referred to in the message.  Watch out for the idiot behind me.

Well…sometimes I do things that may be judged as idiotic.  Like trying to make something out of silly bumper stickers.  And sometimes I say things which may sound like idiocy.  When I was a pastor and worship leader, I remember saying something like, “Let us pray together this morning.”  If “us” pray, then we will be praying together. And if we pray then, we will be praying that morning.  What a waste of words! 

So, I’ve said and done some foolish things, but I’m not an idiot.  The bumper sticker was wrong.  But it may have something to say anyway.

What if the bumper sticker said, Watch out for the person behind me?  Now that might make some good sense.  In what ways am I watching out for myself?  Are you watching out for yourself?  Watch out for yourself. Now, that’s some good advice.

Taking care of ourselves.  We all need to strike a balance between taking care of others and taking care of ourselves.  Sometimes it is more blessed to receive than to give.  What do you need to receive?  Maybe a word of affirmation that you’re basically a good person.  Well, you are!  And so am I.

Maybe you need to receive self-given permission to take a break from whatever it is you need a break from.  Relax.  Do nothing for a few hours.  Don’t just do something; sit there.

Or maybe what you need to hear from yourself or what I need to hear from myself is something motivating.  Don’t just sit there; do something.  Get up and get moving.  Take a walk.  Get your heart rate up.  Take care of yourself or someone else.

Watch out for the idiot behind me.  Got my attention. 

Giving Up Lent for Lent...

Several years ago my good friend told me what he was giving up for Lent, the forty days of spiritual preparation before the celebration of the resurrection of Jesus.  He decided to give up three C’s…Chocolate, Caffeine, and Cigars.  He did it.  From Ash Wednesday until Easter Sunday, he gave up three of his addictions.  I applauded his decision and his discipline.  He’s the authority on his cravings and how they affect his spiritual well-being. 

In addition to the spiritual benefits of asceticism, I know my friend also saved some money.  He doesn’t drink grocery-store swill disguised as coffee; he doesn’t eat the processed muck packaged and peddled as chocolate; and, he doesn’t light up machine-rolled stogies that pass for real cigars.  He has class, my good friend, and he’s taught me much about the enjoyment of the good things in life. 

I once gave up radio-playing while driving during Lent.  I learned that there’s plenty of music without the blaring of an automobile audio system.  Another Lent I gave up frustration…or I tried to give it up.  My failure to do so led to more frustration, which is a damnable thing that probably has more negative effects than some luscious Belgian chocolate or an occasional hand-rolled cigar.  But, I confess that I’m not very good at giving up something for a set season.  I simply don’t have the stuff to give up stuff during the season of Lent.

If I did have what it takes to give up something for Lent, and if what I give up is something that distracts me from pondering the mysteries of Christ’s Passion, which is one of the reasons to observe Lent, then why should I give up this distraction for only 40 days, leaving the other 325 days vulnerable to my distraction?  If it’s good enough for Lent, it’s good enough for Ordinary Time, the longest season of the Christian year.

Really…I’m not giving up Lent for Lent.  I am giving up a familiar notion of Lent—that it’s a time to give up something.  Lent might be a time to hold on to something.  “Put it behind you,” someone says of whatever it is that interferes with whatever doesn’t need interference in one’s life.  “Let it go” is another simple, clear, easy…and wrong piece of advice for the complexity of letting go.  “Move on,” pop advice teaches, but sometimes there are too many pieces to pick up and just plant somewhere else.

Rumi, the Persian poet, wrote “This Being Human,” which begins, “This being human is a guest house; every morning a new arrival…”  This wise bard teaches me to welcome and attend every visitor, even if a meanness or depression or sorrow or regret or difficulty comes knocking at my door.  Greet these visitors as a way to welcome my humanity—not fearing them, not putting them behind me or letting them go or moving away from them.  This is radical hospitality.  Faces of my humanity are not my enemies.

If I let some fear or distracting habit go, it may return to haunt me.  If I put something behind me, I can’t see it…and I can’t trust it not to attack me from behind.  If I give up a trait or trial that has seemed to dog me all my life, or try to, then I lose control.  If I move on to leave some trouble behind, I may end up a nomad. No…I want to hold these bits of my humanity.  Not tightly, as if to strangle them. I waste energy trying to kill off these daily travelers. I just want to hold them, look at them, and view them from all angles and in different shades of my temperament.  I want to keep them gently in the palm of my being and befriend them. 

After all, these daily visitors to the mansion of me are what give me individuality and uniqueness.  When the guests pop in for an unexpected sit, the measure of my hospitality is the measure of the condition of my soul.  Welcome, meanness…you’re not so mean after all.  Come on in, jealousy…you’re not looking so green this morning.  Well, look who’s here, another addiction…I have just the spot for you.  Regret, it’s you again…well, come on in; you know where your place is.

So…this Lent I’m not giving up anything.  I’m not “letting go,” “putting behind,” or “moving on.” This Lent I’m going to enjoy my home and ruminate upon Rumi.  I’m practicing radical hospitality.  I’ll welcome all the old friends and kin to my house called “Being Human.”