Swallowed Up by Life: A Funeral Eulogy for William F. Lemons (1925-2004)

Delivered on 27 November 2004:

We have heard so many stories today, stories about Papa’s life and experiences, tales about the lives he has touched and the impact he has made on so many people. I have no doubt that, if we had time, all of us could share similar stories. Really, I can think of no better way to celebrate Papa’s life today because my grandfather was a storyteller. It was probably what made him such a wonderful minister and preacher.

Papa was a great storyteller. Words were his art form. His stories were a creative activity. When he spoke, he brought whole new worlds into existence. There was nothing like listening to him retell the old, familiar Bible stories. They came to life in ways that you could never have imagined. When he told the story of David you could hear the zing of the stone as it left the sling and almost feel the breeze as it whizzed by your face. Your feet would struggle to keep balance as the little fishing boat was tossed to and fro on the stormy Sea of Galilee. You could feel the water drenching everyone aboard as the white capping waves crashed over the sides of the vessel. You could run your fingers over and feel the texture of the bread and the fish that had been broken by Jesus’ hands.

But some of the best stories Papa told were born in the story world of his mind. I remember sitting outside an old camper-trailer at night at the lake near McPherson. Illuminated only by the light of a small campfire, he would start to tell us of the wild, headhunting Indians that lived in the woods just off the edge of the lake’s far shore. The stories would haunt us all throughout the night, but we knew that we were safe in the camper with Mimi and Papa.

Now these stories were not just a late night thrill. They left an indelible impression. They changed me. I could never look at the world the same. The next morning, after the sun would poke its head over the horizon, we would jump into an army green flat bottom boat and head across the lake. At first, everything was fine. The brisk morning breeze tickled our faces and the sun shimmered off of the glasslike water. But with each stroke of the oars the sound of Indian war drums beat more and more loudly in my ears. The far shore suddenly became the near shore. My eyes would scour the shoreline, combing the forest for any sign of life. Every moving wind tossed bush and tree came alive. I could see the Indians peeking out from behind the thick trees, bushes, and rocks that sat just beyond the sandy shore. My heart would pound in my chest and my breathing would get shallow and strained. All the muscles in my body tighten as I watched and waited for the unavoidable attack of the ruthless monsters and our sure and swift death. But it never came….

There is something amazingly powerful about stories. They stake their claim on our lives and lay hold of our imaginations. Stories have the incredible power to change the way we look at the world. The events of the past are etched into our minds in storybook form, and those memory narratives are the lenses through which we view the world.

Papa’s life was lived according to a story. It staked its claim on his life and formed the foundation and framework of all that he did. You see, Papa’s life was seamlessly woven together. It was a life of consistency. He was the man in private that he was in public. He was the same man when he was standing behind the pulpit delivering God’s word as he was when he was at home with his family. He was the same man when he was teaching the Gospel or studying with someone as when he was playing bumper pool or Frogger with us on an old Intellevision in the basement in McPherson. Even when his pain was at its absolute worst he would pause and pray before starting to eat his oatmeal or the banana pudding he loved for my sister to make him. Papa’s story was the story of Jesus. It was his foundation. It staked its claim on his life and changed the way he looked at the world. He lived each day to embody or incarnate the reality of his baptismal existence, his life in Christ. He knew that his life was a journey of discipleship, a journey to the cross in which he died to himself and was swallowed up by life.

In the passage Bobby read earlier, Paul asserts, “For while we live, we are always being given up to death for Jesus’ sake, so that the life of Jesus may be made visible in our mortal flesh. So death is at work in us, but life in you.… For while we are still in this tent, we groan under our burden, because we wish not to be unclothed but to be further clothed, so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life” (2 Cor. 4:11-12, 5:4). Each day Papa lived out the story of Christ, dying to himself so that life could truly be effected or made real in others.

There is really no better or more fitting way to convey the power and trajectory of a life than to look at the legacy and impact that one has left on others. My grandfather led us all in the way of discipleship, teaching us how to walk on the way of the Lord. He showed us all how to be faithful to our marriage vows. He taught us how to be a devoted father and grandfather. He modeled the life of a minister of the gospel of Christ. He exemplified the life of discipleship. Papa showed us how to travel the journey of life and faith.

Toward the end of his life, Papa began to lose his own story. The struggles of our humanity, the chronic mouth pain and dementia, crept in to steal the story away. But Papa’s story lives. His life and his story live on in us. Now, as we live our lives we are Papa’s eulogy. We are his letter of commendation. As each of us live lives of discipleship, we carry his story in us and continue to live it out as we live out the story of Christ. Papa lived his life as one who had been swallowed up by the life of Jesus… may we all honor him by living life the same way.

As I close, my grandmother has asked me to read Psalm 27. In the 27^th Psalm we hear the affirmation of a deep faith, but not just about a proclamation of intellectual ascent. It is the belief in a story that drives life. This Psalm was one of my Papa’s favorites. It was near to his heart. He would read it often in the middle of his service during WWII, knowing that he was fulfilling a duty to his country, but convinced that his life was lived in service of a much greater calling. It was a Psalm he would revisit often throughout the course of his ministry as a source of support, sustenance, and strength. There was something in this Psalm that resonated with Papa. He and the Psalmist were kindred spirits.

In the 27^th Psalm, the Psalmist declares his faith in the God who is his help. As the Psalmist reflects on the stories of his life and on God’s faithfulness, it compels him to turn to prayer. He proclaims his conviction to seek after the house of the Lord. But then, the Psalmist turns his song from proclamation to prayer. He pours out his heart to God in the midst of chaos and war… The Psalm reveals a life that is seamlessly woven together. It is a life that is lived in continuity with deep conviction and faith. It is not known through the spoken word only, but through the poetry of a life lived well, a life that embodies belief.