Memorial Day Preacher
Stories
Lectionary Tales For The Pulpit
62 Stories For Cycle B
I walked through the cemetery one evening, late in May. It was a way of preparing myself for the sermon I would deliver there at the Memorial Day service the following day.
The air was filled with the glorious scent of lilacs as I strolled among the graves. I marveled at the beautiful, full-grown maples and oaks, the lush green of the well-fertilized, close-cropped grass, and the loveliness of the flower beds bursting with red and white geraniums. I walked by many striking monuments, some from the Civil War era, some from World War I and World War II, Korea and Vietnam. I came upon a platform carved out of stone. In the center was a modest pulpit also carved from stone. I stood behind the pulpit and looked out over hundreds of graves: a congregation of the dead. It was the quietest, most attentive congregation I had ever stood before. But I didn't have anything to say to them. As I contemplated the magnitude of their sacrifices, and those of their families and friends, I was filled with a woeful sense of my own inadequacy. Memorial Day preacher, indeed!
When I returned home, I received a phone call from a friend who is a retired United Methodist pastor and a veteran of World War II. Kendall Anderson was a fighter pilot with the 39th Fighter Squadron in the South Pacific. His son Curt was killed in Vietnam in 1969.
I told Ken about my visit to the cemetery, my melancholy walk among the graves, and about standing in the pulpit at the war memorial, looking out on the congregation of the dead and not having anything to say to them.
Ken said, "Were you quiet enough to let them speak to you?"
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Author's note:
Kendall Anderson is a retired United Methodist pastor who lives in Turtle Lake, Wisconsin.
The air was filled with the glorious scent of lilacs as I strolled among the graves. I marveled at the beautiful, full-grown maples and oaks, the lush green of the well-fertilized, close-cropped grass, and the loveliness of the flower beds bursting with red and white geraniums. I walked by many striking monuments, some from the Civil War era, some from World War I and World War II, Korea and Vietnam. I came upon a platform carved out of stone. In the center was a modest pulpit also carved from stone. I stood behind the pulpit and looked out over hundreds of graves: a congregation of the dead. It was the quietest, most attentive congregation I had ever stood before. But I didn't have anything to say to them. As I contemplated the magnitude of their sacrifices, and those of their families and friends, I was filled with a woeful sense of my own inadequacy. Memorial Day preacher, indeed!
When I returned home, I received a phone call from a friend who is a retired United Methodist pastor and a veteran of World War II. Kendall Anderson was a fighter pilot with the 39th Fighter Squadron in the South Pacific. His son Curt was killed in Vietnam in 1969.
I told Ken about my visit to the cemetery, my melancholy walk among the graves, and about standing in the pulpit at the war memorial, looking out on the congregation of the dead and not having anything to say to them.
Ken said, "Were you quiet enough to let them speak to you?"
____________
Author's note:
Kendall Anderson is a retired United Methodist pastor who lives in Turtle Lake, Wisconsin.
