If Daryl had been standing near the self-important disciples
who were turning away the little children as they came curiously sidling up to
Jesus, he would have been the one motioning to the children with a nod and a
wink to stand behind him until he could get Jesus’ attention and smuggle them
over to him. I can picture Daryl now in a comfortable shirt and with a giant mug
of sweet tea, sitting on a stump and listening intently to Jesus’ words while
quietly engaging the children around him, the children that nobody else was
paying any attention to. It’s not just that Daryl loved children (though he
did); it’s not just that Daryl didn’t care what others would think (though he
didn’t); Daryl had learned the truth of God’s love for all people, including the
marginalized, including those who “don’t count” in our society. He understood
that God’s Kingdom belongs to them, for they are the only ones who are free
enough to enter it.
When Daryl agreed to submit his name
for the Vestry, our governing board at St. Thomas, I asked him to write up a
short biography for the parish newsletter—something that would tell people who
he is and why he wanted to serve on the Vestry. When I arrived at his house to
meet with him, he handed me a long, hand-written statement on a yellow legal pad.
His handwriting was so bad that I had to ask him to read it aloud. My delight
that someone had taken my request seriously enough to write such a long piece,
soon turned to squirming as I listened to what turned out to be a brilliant
parody of all such autobiographical statements. With dry wit and biting prose,
Daryl turned each of his many accomplishments upside down, proudly claimed any
failures, praised only his beloved wife, and made joke after joke at his own
expense. He knew that we couldn’t publish his statement in the newsletter, but
he had thoroughly enjoyed himself both writing the piece and watching the
shocked look on my face while he read it. And with this bio that could have
been written by Flannery O’Connor herself, Daryl had made a point that I will
never forget: that pretense has no place in the church and that God loves us
and calls us to serve as the imperfect human beings that we all are. I wish
that I had kept it to share with you today.
Daryl was one of those rare people who had
learned what matters in this world (and what does not matter.) Like St. Paul, he
understood that our own knowledge, our own prophecy, our own accomplishments, our
own rules of decorum, are really only childish games played in the dark. It is only
Love, God’s senseless, dangerously powerful, all-encompassing, ever-giving and
eternal Love, that will bring us true Life.
Daryl still lives in that Love now, in
that Love that never ends, and just as he was willing to suffer the risk and
the pain that accompany a life filled with that Love on earth, I believe that
he is now enjoying the beauty of that love in its fullness in God. Having
entered God’s kingdom with the freedom and vulnerability of a child, having
been taken in Jesus’ arms and blessed, Daryl now continues to grow in love and
joy and peace, whatever that may look like on the other side of the mirror. I
hope that Daryl’s spirit will remain with us here at St. Thomas, too, and that
we will always be able to hear his chuckle when we are taking ourselves too
seriously, that we will feel that poke in our ribs when we start feeling sorry
for ourselves, and that we will hear his Southern Baptist preacher-style, Scripture-soaked
voice (a voice of true authority that all of his humility and self-deprecating
humor could not hide) urging us to hurry up and love, to get out there among
God’s people and love.
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