Writings
Let me introduce Fred….a man whose character was as drab as his life. Fred shuffled paper in a low level government job, retiring after 40 years on the payroll. He lived alone in a one-bedroom rental apartment, yet showed little signs of regretting his solitary existence.
The title of this morning’s sermon is tied to a phrase employed by Frederick Buechner in talking about the promise of eternal life, which I quoted in my Easter letter to the congregation of First Church. For readers not familiar with First Church or its publications, let me share the contents of that letter.
Not that I am all that superstitious, but I can’t ever recall visiting a graveyard in the dark. Even I, who preach that death is always normal, never final, and seldom catching, would find that “spooky.” I would wait until dawn, or at least the half-light of dawn.
Once upon a time, preachers survived on the food that parishioners left on their porches. Chickens….eggs….sacks of string beans….portions of pigs….all backing the claim of the Pastoral Relations Committee which promised, at the time of hiring: “Even when we can’t pay you, Reverend, we will always feed you.” And, in their own way, they always did. Thankfully, that day is done. Today’s preachers are paid in checks rather than chickens. Although I did come home from church on a recent Sunday to find a key lime pie in my front door….hand carried from Sanibel Island by Jane Pettibone, because….well….she knew I’d like it.
