James Morrison Miller

Last weekend we gathered to celebrate the life of my Uncle Jim at the Hawley United Methodist Church. I was asked to preach the sermon and now share those words here, especially for those who knew and loved Jim but were not able to join us. 

Colonel James Morrison Miller died almost exactly two years ago, just prior to the COVID pandemic. The reason, initially, for the delay in having a funeral was not COVID, it was Arlington National Cemetery, where his body was eventually laid to rest. And then, of course, the world changed. 

Where to begin? On March 1, 1963, Jim Miller turned 31. (Exhibit A: my son, Graham, who will turn 31 in a couple of weeks. “All my life’s a circle,” sings the prophet Harry!) A couple of weeks later, Jim’s baby sister gave birth to her firstborn: yours truly. At some point not too long after that I was baptized across the street at St. Paul’s Lutheran Church and Uncle Jim agreed to be my godfather. 

 In my junior year at Wallenpaupack, I received a handwritten letter from Alexandria, Virginia listing ten universities that he thought I should consider. It meant a lot and I feel badly that I don’t still have that letter. But I can still see the handwriting and I can still remember some of the names on there, each with a couple of sentences describing why it had made the list. It included places I ended up applying to (like Georgetown and University of Pennsylvania and Duke) and others (like Princeton and the University of Michigan and Stanford) that I did not. It was a kind gesture and it helped in that first big life decision. But it was more than that: I felt seen and the list of universities suggested to me, even at the time, that my uncle had confidence in my future. Every kid needs a cheerleader or two beyond your parents, who are sort of obligated to believe in you. 

I landed at Georgetown at the same time that Jim was finishing up his distinguished thirty-year military career at the Pentagon, a career that had included service in Germany, Korea, Viet Nam, Detroit, and Chicago. It was during those undergraduate years, from 1981-1985, that I really got to know both Jim and Terry. (As it turned out it was just three years, not four, since I went away to Scotland for my junior year.) During those years I called Kings Court my home away from home and especially in the summer after my sophomore year, when I lived in their basement for three months and commuted with Congressman Jim Sensenbrennner (who lived across the street) into work every day to work in Congressman Joe McDade’s office. 

Jim and Terry were always gracious to me, maybe even especially as people who had not been parents themselves. It would have been enough, what I’ve been telling you about. But it went to a whole new level after April 30, 1982, when my father died. On May 1, it was Jim and Terry who came to see me to deliver that devastating news. I think from that time on, when I needed a male figure in my life, Jim really rose to the occasion and truly became my godfather. 1982 was a blur and I can probably be forgiven for being a bit self-focused in the aftermath of my dad’s death. But even at the time I was aware that Jim had left the Army which had been part of his life since high school at Valley Forge to work for Metro. He retired on a Friday from the U.S. Army and went to work the following Monday to begin a new civilian career! 

Here is what I want to say about that and it’s equally true about his life after his retirement from Metro when he became a full-time euphonium player, much to Terry’s chagrin: he did transitions pretty seamlessly. Now maybe his teen-aged godson wasn’t going to hear all the details. I get that. But I think it’s more than that. I think he was not the kind of guy who really understood the character in that Bruce Springsteen song who sits around thinking about Glory Days. He was more like the character in that other song of Bruce’s who realized that These are Better Days. He simply did not have a feel-sorry-for-yourself gene. (I’m pretty sure he got that trait from his mother, who also lacked that gene!) 

When Jim was serving the United States Army, he was all in. But when it was done, it was done. He didn’t sit around thinking about it. He changed his clothes (literally) and went to work for Metro. As a fifty-year old man, the Colonel became a civilian and as far as I could tell, he did it effortlessly. And then, as I said, after retiring from that job, he did it again, devoting himself to playing in local bands and practiced, practiced, practiced. And then when Terry died and he fell in love again and became a step-father along the way, again he rose to the occasion. 

All of our lives have “chapters.” I wasn’t there for all of the chapters in Jim’s life, but as far as I can tell, he was willing and able to turn the page and begin each new chapter as the story of his life unfolded. What allows a person to do that? 

Well, I do think role models help and as I said, I think his mother – my grandmother – was pretty good at that too. Having lots of interests helps too, and enjoying projects. He had that down. 

But there is more than that, I think. Internally, I think it takes integrity in the deepest meaning of that word. Everyone here knows Jim Miller was a man of integrity. He had high principles and he held himself (and others!) accountable to those principles. He was honest and hardworking and disciplined and truthful and interested in the world and (my personal favorite) he liked to eat on time. When he was supposed to sum up his whole military career for the Class of ’54 at West Point (and as you can tell from the display of medals he could have had a lot to brag about!) he wrote: “Colonel James M Miller hopes to be remembered for his integrity and as a good friend and good husband.” 

Integrity, for sure. But I also want to notice that integrity connotes another meaning beyond principled. He was an integrated person. His identity was not wrapped up in what he was doing at any given moment, even work, but instead in who he was. This is especially rare for men of his generation. I see it sometimes with clergy who literally don’t know who they are when they retire: the role of pastor or priest has taken over their soul. That may be strong language, but I don’t think it’s too strong. 

Jim Miller transitioned through each chapter in his life with integrity because in each place he was himself. He knew who he was. That is something, I think, to emulate and to honor about his life. 

We didn’t agree on politics. I had arrived in Washington just about eight months into Ronald Reagan’s first term. While we were not afraid to talk politics, here is something that might surprise you (and I think he’d back me up on this): we were not as far apart as one might think. He was not as conservative as most of his military friends. And in the early 1980s my Democratic leanings were left-of-center, I was a fan of Paul Tsongas and Bill Bradley. That didn’t meant we didn’t disagree; we did and sometimes passionately! But there was also not as wide a chasm between us as one might think and we both were built to look for common ground. Each of us had deeply held beliefs and they weren’t the same. Yet we could talk about them, and did, and always knew that love was stronger than politics. 

That love was made manifest most especially in our mutual affection for sharing a meal together. On time. I think mostly in that time between the Army and his civilian career when Aunt Terry was working hard selling real estate, Jim took over the kitchen and probably once a month he’d swing by and pick me up on campus and I’d spend a night or two in Alexandria and I became his sous chef. Many times we’d make a stop at Maine Avenue for fresh fish. He cooked like an engineer and he could carefully explain the difference between mincing or dicing or chopping an onion – I admit to being far less precise. We’d cook up meals that were always ready to serve at 6:30 PM sharp. 

He also bought wines that I could not afford on my beer-drinkers salary and the one that captured my imagination was from the Sancerre region of France, a favorite to this day. For decades, I would call my uncle up on a random night when making something from Pierre Frainey’s Sixty Minute Gourmet or having just opened a bottle of Sancerre. 

I think this is how we remember those we love but see no longer. It doesn’t matter what it is: it might be a cardinal, a butterfly, a song, or a place. In those moments our loved ones are never far away. They are not “up there” in heaven. And they are not only in our hearts or our memories, either. They are, in some deeply mystical way, with us. They are among that great cloud of witnesses who have run the race before us and still cheer us on. And when we see that cardinal or butterfly or sip that Sancerre or bless and break and share the bread, we remember them. They are with us. 

The Church defines a Sacrament as an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace. In other words, we take water and oil and we claim that we are beloved of God and nothing in all creation can separate us from that love. We take bread and wine, gifts from this good earth, and we say that they bind us together with the living God, that the risen Christ is with us when we eat and drink and we remember that upper room. 

For me, the words we heard today from Isaiah are true in large measure because at a crossroads in my own life, that table in Alexandria was set with rich food and fine wine and not even death can ever take that away. 

On this mountain the LORD of hosts will make for all peoples a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wines, of rich food filled with marrow, of well-aged wines strained clear. And he will destroy on this mountain the shroud that is cast over all peoples, the sheet that is spread over all nations; he will swallow up death forever. 

My uncle was not a big churchgoer. But I do think he was a person of faith. And he was definitely a big influence on my faith. There is a prayer we say sometimes in The Episcopal Church, we pray for those who have died in the faith of the Church and then for “those whose faith is known to God alone.” I think Jim and God were on good speaking terms even if he didn’t show up in Church very often. And I say this not because I need to believe it. I actually believe that God’s grace is so expansive, so amazing, so deep and broad and high that it includes everyone. No exceptions. We don’t earn that grace. 

So I’m not worried about my uncle in some existential way. I know every time I sip a Sancerre that when our mortal bodies give out life is only changed, not ended. Rather, I want to say is this: he was a person of faith in the truest sense. His word meant something. He loved and he learned to love in ways that were changed in relationships. I like to think that Susie and I in particular (because of our time at Georgetown) prepared him to become a good step-father. He was set in his ways, for sure. But Judith was not Terry and Mercy was a whole new thing. Because he was a man of integrity and a guy who lived in the present-tense, embracing each chapter of life, he kept learning that each stage in life, these are better days. 

I’d be remiss not to say a word about Parkinson’s and what a caring and devoted partner Judith was to him through it all, and how strong and courageous he was to the end. There came a point in there when I knew I couldn’t call him up anymore to talk about Pierre Frainey or the Sancerre I was sipping and I think I began then to say my goodbyes, internally. 

But love is stronger than death, and love is stronger even than Parkinson’s. I am truly grateful for the life and witness of Jim Miller and glad for this son, big brother, husband, uncle, step-father, great-uncle and friend. Colonel: you are indeed remembered for your integrity and as a good friend and good husband, today and always. 

Well done, good and faithful servant.

A Living Faith

With my mother and three siblings

This past Sunday I preached in the church that raised me, where I not only went to Sunday School but also preached my first sermon; The Hawley United Methodist Church. The readings can be found here; I preached on the epistle reading, from James.

I have lived in New England (if you count Connecticut as New England) for more than three decades, with a native New Englander as my life-partner. And we have lived in Worcester County, Massachusetts (in the heart of New England) for the past 25 years. I am a proud Red Sox and Patriots fan, much to my brother’s chagrin.

Even so, as my father would say, you can take the boy out of Hawley but you can’t take Hawley out of the boy. It’s good to be home this weekend. It’s been good to celebrate my Uncle Jim’s life yesterday with family, two years after his death. It has been good to see my dad’s name on a new sign across town at the basketball courts.

With my sons at the courts named for my dad

I grew up in this Church. It formed my life in Christ in ways for which I will always be profoundly grateful. Until I went off to college in 1981, the Rev. Gail Wintermute was my pastor and his wife, Milly, was my piano teacher. It was Milly Wintermute who first suggested that I might make a better pastor than pianist.

I laughed (too) but for a different reason: because I knew that I was going to be a lawyer and then go into the family business: politics. As they say, “we make plans and God laughs.” God has a good sense of humor and usually the joke is on us.

If it’s true that everything we need to know we learned in Kindergarten then it may also be true that everything we need to know about our faith, we learned in Sunday School and Vacation Bible School. I am indebted to this congregation generally and to Katharine Bates in particular for laying the foundation for all the formal academic theological studies I would take on later in life.

I went to seminary at Drew and I was ordained in the United Methodist Church in what was then called the Wyoming Annual Conference. I preached my first sermon here, in this space. So thank you all – both the living and the dead who have made the Hawley United Methodist Church alive with the saints of God.

Twenty-eight years ago I left the United Methodist Church to become an Episcopal priest. There were no hard feelings on my side of things. I just came to feel that I would continue to grow in that part of the Body of Christ that formed the Wesley boys. As I came to understand it, both meant to make the Anglican Church better, not start a new denomination. And so I feel, to this day, grateful to John and Charles Wesley as people who shaped my theology and faith as surely as Gail and Katharine and Edgar Singer and Marty Cox and so many others here as well. They are all among that great cloud of witnesses for me. Every time I sing a Charles Wesley hymn from The Episcopal Hymnal I say a silent prayer of gratitude for this congregation.

Methodists and Episcopalians are very close cousins and over the years Marty and I both prayed hard that we’d find ways to deepen the bonds of affection and recognize how similar we are deep down. I don’t know when or if that will all happen. But I do know that we are one in Christ, and I do know that I’m grateful to be here today.

When first asked by Michelle to cover for her today, I figured on this Labor Day weekend I might reflect on work: on our vocation to love God and neighbor in our daily lives. And she gave me free reign to do that. But she also told me she’d be in the midst of a sermon series, “Take a Look in the Mirror,” on the readings from James that come up between now and the end of September. I didn’t want to mess with her series and so I told her that James was just fine with me. And it is. So let’s get on with the work at hand…

Let’s stay with John Wesley a bit. There is a story told about him that goes like this: a preacher friend of his, Samuel Bradburn, found himself in rather desperate financial straits. When Wesley heard about this he sent him a five-pound note with the following letter: Dear Sammy, “Trust in the Lord and do good; so shalt thou dwell in the land and verily thou shalt be fed.” Yours affectionately, John

Wesley is quoting Scripture – Psalm 37:3 to be precise. But he makes it real by including the money for his friend to in fact be well fed, at least for a day or two. Wesley doesn’t just say, “thoughts and prayers, buddy.” He connects Scripture with action. If he’d just sent a nice note with a nice verse from Scripture but without the five pound note it would be a different story. Instead, Wesley connects love of neighbor with a practical tangible sharing. That’s my sermon today. That’s it. I am going to talk a while longer because people expect longer sermons in the United Methodist Church than in the Episcopal Church, I’ve found. But if someone asks you what the sermon today was about – if Michelle asks you when she returns, that is it. Tell her I stuck with James. And that thoughts and prayers are not enough. That love of neighbor means being not just hearers of the Word but doers.

There is a line in a prayer from Iona – an ecumenical community in Scotland – that concludes with these words:

Lord hear our prayers, and if today we might be the means by which you answer the prayers of others, then may you find us neither deaf nor defiant, but keen to fulfill your purpose, for Jesus sake. Amen.

When we pray for somebody, we aren’t just asking God to fix something. We are offering ourselves as living sacrifices to God. When we pray for someone who is sick, God may be saying to us, they could really use a note, or a card, or a casserole, or a visit from you. May we be neither deaf nor defiant when God responds to our prayers in this way. May we respond: send me.

This story repeats over and over again in the Bible. One of the early examples is Moses. Remember that a new Pharaoh had arisen who did not know Joseph, and as a result the Hebrew people were now slaves. Pharaoh had no qualms about violating fair labor practices – that’s worth remembering this weekend. (And you see what I did there, right, sneaking in a little Labor Day material?!)

So God’s people kept on praying that God would notice the injustices they were facing and do something about it. Working seven days a week was still not enough to live a decent life in Egypt. So they cry out to God. And God says to Moses at the burning bush: “I’ve heard! I’ve seen! And now I’m sending you to go tell old Pharaoh, let my people go.”

God means, in prayer, to turn our hearts and to get our attention. This is the great misunderstanding about prayer, I think. We think we are calling God’s attention to something God hasn’t got a clue about already: our sick cousin, our troubled marriage, our unemployed sister, the pain in Afghanistan. But we pray so that God can melt us and mold us and fill us and use us to make the neighborhood a better place. Thoughts and prayers are never enough. God has given us work to do.  

Lord hear our prayers, and if today we might be the means by which you answer the prayers of others, then may you find us neither deaf nor defiant, but keen to fulfill your purpose, for Jesus sake. Amen.

So, it’s good from time to time to spend a little time with the Epistle of James and I commend your pastor for doing just that. The first part of our reading today is pretty self-explanatory and you don’t need a preacher or teacher to say much. If you are an usher or on the greeting committee or serve on the Council or sing in the choir or even if you are just a regular parishioner, don’t treat people differently based on who is rich and who is poor, or on who is well-dressed and who is wearing hand-me-downs. You don’t need a preacher to interpret what that means! You just need to look in the mirror!

Even so, it’s hard to do because it’s easier to gravitate toward those who look like us, and most of you seem to be the well-dressed types who, even if not the 1%, are doing ok.

A Canon to the Ordinary is basically what Methodists would call a District Superintendent. I work for the bishop and in this position which I’ve held for the past eight and a half years, I’m in a different congregation every Sunday. We have fifty-one of them. So I get that broad view now which is different from what I did as a parish priest in Holden for fifteen years. Some congregations have worked really hard to welcome new folks in and some have work to do.

But I’ll be honest, almost none of them struggle to understand this reading from James today. It’s not that complicated. What’s hard is to live it. And denial is not just a river in Egypt. They all think they are about the friendliest congregations in Christendom. And f you are straight and white and have a couple of young kids and you walk into most of our congregations in the central and western parts of Massachusetts you will be pounced on. This is what people prayed for! Are you interested in teaching Sunday School by any chance?

But if you come to church alone or if you are a person of color, or LGBT, or are not wearing the right clothes, you may not be noticed. It may feel like you are wearing an invisibility cloak. Or worse even than that, you might catch a hostile glance: what are you doing here? My job isn’t to scold those congregations, even when I’m tempted to. It’s to try to hold up a mirror. It’s to try to call them to live their own stated values. It’s to try to call them to a more vibrant, living faith.

What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if you say you have faith but do not have works? Can faith save you? If a brother or sister is naked and lacks daily food, and one of you says to them, “Go in peace; keep warm and eat your fill,” and yet you do not supply their bodily needs, what is the good of that? So faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead.

That brings me back to good old John Wesley, sending his friend a word of encouragement. But also five bucks to buy some lunch. We all know about Wesley’s strangely warmed heart at Aldersgate but that is not an end in itself: a softer, warmer heart (rather than a cold hard one) led Wesley and his followers out to the coal mines at a time when the Church of England was not paying much attention to those folks. Wesley had been educated at Oxford; I’m sure he didn’t have much in common with those coal miners. But he knew that his strangely warmed heart meant nothing if he didn’t let it lead him into the world to serve his neighbor.

My friends in Christ: I cannot confess your sins. And you can’t confess mine. It may well be easier to know what a terrible Christian so and so three pews over is, but it doesn’t work like that. This whole idea of looking in the mirror is that there is only one person we can change. And this whole idea of a congregation looking in the mirror is that we don’t need to spend much time worrying about how they are living the gospel at Cole Memorial Baptist or Queen of Peace Roman Catholic Church or across the street at St. Paul’s Lutheran Church where I was baptized fifty-eight years ago. This congregation is called to do your part in this branch of the Jesus Movement. Always with God’s help.

The problems of this world are daunting. There is a lot of wisdom in learning “to let Go and let God” because, my friends in Christ – we are not called to be God. That job is taken. We do not need to fix the world. But we are called to seek and serve Christ in the world and then do our small part to mend what is broken, trusting the Holy Spirit to raise up other laborers for the vineyard. You cannot say you have faith and no works. That’s not faith. It’s dead.

So when you “take it to the Lord in prayer” be sure that you also listen for God’s response.

Lord hear our prayers, and if today we might be the means by which you answer the prayers of others, then may you find us neither deaf nor defiant, but keen to fulfill your purpose, for Jesus sake. Amen.