Memorial Meditation

The Memorial Service
For
Henry Lee Langford
St. Andrew Presbyterian Church
Denton, Texas
Wednesday in The Week of the First Sunday After Christmas
December 30, 2009
Rev. Paul R. Dunklau

+In the Name of Jesus+

My dear friends – and especially Michelle, Ashley, and Mike: this sanctuary, where we are gathered today, has been here since 1942. The first Christmas season observed in this place was in the midst of the second world war. Michelle, you said that it was beautiful, and you’re right. There is warmth; there is color; there is a sense of serenity here. If these walls and arches could talk, they would tell many stories – some tinged with great joy and happiness and others characterized by profound loss and deepest grief. Oh, the pews are wooden and not the most comfortable thing to sit in. The pipe organ in the back has obviously not caught up with the VH1 and MTV generation. But there are signs and symbols here that silently teach us. The rose window, among other things, shows that kaleidoscope of color that comes from divine creativity. Or consider the pulpit over there. It’s not portable. It’s fixed and immovable – and it reminds that though the grass withers and the flowers fade, the Word of our God will stand forever. This very place is effervescent with meaning -- just like the life of Henry Lee Langford. This place would quietly teach us – just like the life of Henry Lee Langford.

Over the last few weeks, I revisited movie scenes from “Dead Poet’s Society” on YouTube. “Dead Poet’s Society” is a story about the lives of young men in an exclusive, Ivy League-style prep school. One of the required courses is English, and none of the students really like it. But a new teacher comes on the scene, portrayed by Robin Williams, who shakes them up and makes English interesting. One early assignment was for the students to write a poem. One student, Todd Anderson, didn’t complete the assignment, and he admitted that in class. Robin Williams looked at him and said: “Mr. Anderson thinks that everything inside him is worthless and embarrassing. Isn’t that right, Todd? That’s your worst fear. Well, I think you’re wrong. I think you have something inside of you that is worth a great deal.” Robin Williams then goes to the chalkboard and starts writing a line from Walt Whitman, and he says: “I sound my barbaric yawp from the rooftops of the world!” Then, in a matter of moments, days and months and perhaps even years of buried and painful feelings came to the surface, and he let one loose – a barbaric yawp.

Perhaps that is what’s percolating underneath the surface of our lives today: a barbaric yawp. For here was a twenty six year old man who was full of promise. In a way, life had just begun. Neat things, cool things, positive things, and, perhaps, even miraculous things were happening in his life. But now we’re here at a place where we didn’t plan on being today. I tell you, though, that it’s safe here. It’s okay to rage at the unfairness of it all, to face the senselessness of this death, to acknowledge that hearts are broken, to ask God “Why?” only to hear the echo of our cries in reply.

But then there comes not the anguished yawp of Walt Whitman but the comforting and powerful statement of Henry Longfellow: “’Dust thou art; to dust returnest’ was not spoken of the soul.” Henry Lee Langford’s soul is alive and well and in the hands of a loving God. Today, even amid the tears of grief, we rejoice that we know that soul. We offer thanks for all of the gift that it is. We celebrate it’s high-spiritedness; it’s willingness to work hard. We thank God for the soul which put that animated smile on Henry’s face and that unmistakable twinkle in his eye. We extend our gratitude for everything that makes Henry unique and precious.

On Christmas Eve, I sat in one of these wooden pews and listened to the age-old Christmas story. The angels came to those shepherds who were keeping watch over their flocks by night. A fleeting thought went through my head. I thought, “Maybe some of those shepherds were alcoholics. After all, it says that when the glory of God shown round about, they were ‘sore afraid.’”

Alcoholics and those in recovery from addiction know a little something about fear. In our literature, fear is described as a “corrosive thread” that runs through life. The options are limited. You can run from it – and that often means denying it or covering it up with alcohol or drugs. Or you can face it alone but run the risk of disintegration. Or you can face that fear without being alone. You face it with a power greater than yourself and with others like you who listen and who love. This last option is the one, by the grace of God, that Henry Lee Langford took. Fear knocked on Henry’s door. Henry’s faith answered the door –- and no one was there.

Here today in this old church, I think Henry Lee Langford has high hopes for us. He wants us, in the days to come, to know freedom and happiness – or, perhaps, a new freedom and happiness. He would not want us to regret the past or shut the door on it. He would want us to cling to the thought that our past and even the dark parts of it, in God’s hands, can be our greatest asset. He would encourage us to really, truly comprehend a word – serenity – and to know peace. Henry would say: “Your experience can benefit others. Those feelings of uselessness and self-pity you sometimes feel, well, they’re way overrated. Henry would coax us and gently push and shove us to set aside our interest in selfish things and to gain an interest in others. As in Henry’s life, self-seeking will slip away. Our whole attitude and outlook upon life will change. We won’t fear people anymore; we won’t fear economic insecurity. Intuitively, we’ll handle situations that used to baffle us. Suddenly, we will realize, as Henry did, that God is doing for us what we could not do for ourselves.
“There’s nothing extraordinary about this,” Henry would say. Promises will be fulfilled in your life – sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. But they will always materialize if we work for them.

We can work for them since the ultimate work has been done by a loving God. In our grief, this God makes a few promises of His own. First, as we heard from the book of Revelation, there’s going to come a time when all the tears will be wiped away. Secondly, Jesus said – in the reading from John – that He has gone to prepare a place for us. That place is as sure as His death and resurrection. There are many rooms in that house, we are told. Henry has one. And I suspect that the door is always open. He says: “Carry on now. I will meet you in the morning on the other side. Until then, God bless you.”

Amen.