So, I have to admit that this has been a harder sermon to write than I had thought. This is the Sunday we dedicate the chapel and some other things to the honor and memory of Joan Axtell, and I thought I'd just stand up here and tell stories of Joan. But then that began to seem more like a funeral service, and I kept hearing her voice in my brain, saying, “You already did that once. Why keep doing it over and over?” I pushed back some on that, and I felt her give that exasperated look of hers, and I hear, “Well, whatever you do, keep it short. We have work to do.”
And this is a good time to “keep it short,” because, truth be told, I'm struggling to follow Jesus in his teaching now. Maybe it's because it is just so much to take in. I mean we begin with someone casting out demons who is not a follower of Jesus; we move to the acknowledgement that something as simple as a cup of cold water is worthy of reward; and we wind up with all kinds of direction about stumbling blocks and millstones and removing that which causes you to stumble, not to mention his final words about salt and peace.
It's hard to synthesize all of that.
I thought that maybe I'd focus on the last bit about salt of the earth. Joan certainly was that. Amazingly dependable and generous. Kind and loving. Giving of herself fully until her very last breath. But then I would imagine her sitting up here in her front pew, rolling her eyes. Wanting the focus to be on something, anything, else.
And this is why I said this is a hard sermon to write. Because I keep wanting to talk about Joan. And I've heard so many of you who also want to talk about Joan. And, dang it, Joan, we need to talk about you...if only for a little while longer.
Probably everyone of us remembers when Joan died. The pandemic had just started, and we were all in lockdown. We had no idea what was going to happen. We had no idea how the virus spread. We were getting Amazon packages and spraying them down, opening them up hours later when the virus had maybe died off. We were struggling to learn new ways to worship, new ways to communicate with each other. Finding old ways to pray out our fears and concerns. My best friend and his wife had just gotten out of quarantine at a time when we didn't know if they would get sick, but we DID know that if they got sick, it would be bad, really bad. And then Brie called the very next day and told me that Joan had died and could I come down to her house?
I wasn't supposed to. The bishop had given very strict orders. But I sent her an email, telling her I was disobeying her, asked for forgiveness, and drove to Joan's.
It was crazy. Paramedics were running up to me, putting gloves on me, and a mask. Showing me how to remove gloves without touching any contaminated part. People were gathered together, yet standing apart. Crying, wanting to hug, but not sure how during the first wave of COVID. We were afraid and sad...and did I mention afraid?
And there she was. Now I've seen death before. A lot of it, especially lately. So that wasn't what I noticed. What I did notice was a bowl of soup. Just a bowl of soup with a spoon, sitting on the little table beside her puffy chair. She had been eating. With all the uncertainty whirling around her, she had been having a meal. Something so mundane, yet vital. Food. That was so very, very Joan.
In our Gospel reading today, Jesus warns us against putting “a stumbling block before these little ones.” We really have no idea who the ‘little ones’ are that he refers to now. Perhaps he's talking about actual children here, especially since just a few verses before he has placed a child right in the midst of the disciples.
On the other hand, some folks have thought it refers to the disciples themselves, which, I suppose, makes sense. But last week I found myself hearing it as meaning anyone who is vulnerable and anyone who is trying to find their way on this journey of faith. Which could be any of us at one time or another. And, Joan, for a lot of us here, that includes people who see the giant-sized hole in our lives left by such a tiny woman. People miss you terribly. People who grieve and feel guilty when the grief starts to fade. And people grieve and can't seem to stop. Stumbling blocks, all of them.
But I honestly believe that Joan would say that the time for grieving is over. For many of you, it has been delayed until now. But I honestly think she would point out that there is work to do, and there are people to be fed, souls to nourish. Giving in abundance of the food of the land and the Bread of Life. So, set grieving aside, to cherish occasionally, but don't let it stop us from doing the work that Christ has given us to do: Loving God and loving our neighbor.
And today, in Joan's honor, we are doing both.
In a few moments we will be dedicating the Chapel, furnishings, and ornaments to Joan's memory. In so many conversations with Joan, we talked about remodeling the chapel so that it could be open to the community and to small groups in the church. She provided us with the chalice and paten and vessels we are using today at Eucharist. She was responsible for the cross, candlesticks, and presence candle that are in the chapel today. She wanted to ensure that our love of God doesn't need to be just in a huge space, but can be experienced on a more intimate level in a place that is quieter and more homey.
And later today, we will celebrate the Joan and Ken Axtell Barbeque and Health fair. And I have a feeling that Joan is getting a kick out of the fact that we are enticing folks to get a COVID shot be offering them fatty, carby food, and calling it a “health fair.”
Because for Joan it was all about feeding the little ones and not ignoring them. All about sharing our bounty and not hoarding. All about celebrating life and not grieving death. All about continuing on without her and not fading away. All about being together and adding spice to life.
I guess she was the salt of the earth after all.
And Joan, I hope that was short enough.
Amen.