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Luke 14:7-10
When Jesus noticed how the guests chose the
places of honor, he told them a parable. “When
you are invited by someone to a wedding banquet, do not sit down at the place
of honor, in case someone more distinguished than you has been invited by your
host; and the host who
invited both of you may come and say to you, ‘Give this person your place,’ and
then in disgrace you would start to take the lowest place. But when you are invited, go
and sit down at the lowest place, so that when your host comes, he may say to
you, ‘Friend, move up higher’; then you will be honored in the presence of all
who sit at the table with you.
The highest place
I have sat at the highest place, the place of friendship and
love among people who are better than me, smarter, more talented, more gracious
and certainly more exquisitely loving.
I did nothing to deserve their presence and affection. I was
simply welcomed inside the circle of their warmth and joy, given a near place
where I might truly know … and be known.
Little wonder, then, that today I mourn, as I think of Leon,
my friend (I am proud to say) from seminary days so many years past. I called
him the boy raised by wolves. He didn’t like that, but it captured his
semi-socialized ways.
There was almost no filter between his mind and his mouth,
but, oh, what a mind. His was the most wildly active, creative mind I ever knew
and perhaps the most undisciplined. The valedictorian of Eveleth (MN) High
school, he could hold forth on virtually any subject imaginable, connecting and
combining insights from diverse disciplines, putting them together in enlightening,
entertaining, unorthodox and often profane ways that would occur to no one
else.
He was at the center of every conversation he ever entered,
and each and every table where we shared coffee was warmer and more alive because
he was there. You never walked away from him without knowing more, feeling more,
laughing more and thinking more than when the coffee was poured in those white
refectory cups. God, how we laughed.
All of us knew his flights of fancy, undisciplined ways and unfiltered
tongue would not translate well to congregational life, so I was not surprised
that he served as a pastor only a few years before heading off for other pursuits
like teaching history and English.
His obituary says he had three sons. I wonder if they knew
how extraordinary he was, or how much we loved him and loved being with him.
I
wonder if he ever told them about his friends that pushed around those tables
after classes to talk and congratulate ourselves on how smart we thought we
were.
I wonder if he knew how much I loved him even though I was,
then, under the delusion that I was superior to him because I knew how to play
the game and use my moderate skills to get a couple of steps ahead.
And I wonder how we ever lost touch. I would have liked to
visit him and remember those days and laugh again at our professors and recall
the drama of his wedding day. I would have liked to hug him once more before cancer stole him away from a world that is less bright and alive because he is gone.
I would have liked to said, “Thank you for welcoming me into the
highest place. I am better for having sat there.”
Rest in peace, blessed one, I am sure our Lord has a place
for the Pastor of Zen Lutheran Church.
Pr. David L. Miller
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