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.