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April 19, 2008
1740Patti Powell - Homily for Fr. Mike's Memorial
Saturday April 19 - Memorial for Father Mike Spillane
Julie, Mike’s beloved wife, has ordered me to be funny. And short.
Now, I’m a lawyer—and as a race we lawyers are not known for being funny or short. I am profoundly honored to be asked to speak and profoundly sad to speak. A few days ago Julie said she was “fine” and “awful” at the same time. And we all know what she meant. This time together today, to honor and remember our Splendid Spillane---as he was known at St. Brendan’s in the Bronx as the varsity football and baseball hero--is both a greeting, a time of storytelling and getting to know Mike better and a time of letting go—so in the face of these great dichotomies, to help us make sense of them—we have Jesus’ words: “Do not let your heart be troubled nor let it be fearful.”
So Julie & Brendan and Kim—Mike’s sweet Irish mother Kathleen, his very funny brothers Kieran and Brendan, Deirdre, the people they love-- Julie’s family her mom & dad and brother Jack and Holly, Bishop Marc Andrus, Bishop Richard Garcia, Mike’s Clergy colleagues, Mike’s brothers and sisters in Christ & all the rest of us Mike’s faith family—our faith family—that huge group of people who knew and love Mike Spillane we begin this time of greeting and letting go. This time of grateful hearts because we have been blessed by Michael James Patrick Spillane - this time of storytelling remembering that God, is the author of all stories.
A few weeks ago I went up in a balloon. My boys had given me the balloon ride as their Christmas gift, knowing that a balloon was on my list of things to do. So on a freezing early morning in March, lit by a late winter blazing sun I found myself 1300 feet in the air standing in a wicker basket. The views of the Idaho mountains and the Boise river were amazing and it was so quiet—geese honked beneath me. And then the terror. The microsecond of terror—I’m in a wicker basket—standing in the middle of the sky. The ground is so far away. So I looked at the horizon and thought of my boys’ love, and tamped down the fear —and entered into the thrill of the experience.
It was a bit like that last night, about 20 of Mike’s family and friends plus nine kids of various sizes did a hostile takeover of a Palo Alto restaurant. Chianti flowed, stories were told, laughter and love surrounded and embraced the table. The baby was passed among the women, Brendan and his friends bolted their food to make it to the Stanford soccer game and Kim in her new pair of white heels and her friends giggled and charmed the unfortunate people who had been seated near this tribe. I watched—I saw the warmth in Kathleen’s eyes, the love for her son, her oldest and then --like those microseconds in the balloon –the flash of her thought, “What are we going to do without him?” And as Brendan & Kieran told stories, each, for a second, seemed to looked around for brunt of their jokes --Mike. The one who once fell off a moped and claimed to be really hurt and then that same night was mocked by a comedian at a New York comedy club. “Hey, you in the sling? What happened? Mike tried to explain and the comedian stopped him. “ You fell off a moped—and got hurt? The brothers told us that was good for about 20 minutes of New York laughter at Mike’s expense.” And the microsecond look in Kieran’s eyes, “Mike should be at this party.” And then, someone would laugh, and the love would rise again, another platter of food would be placed on the table, and the peace of Christ would save us again.
Bruce Deal said yesterday that in Mike’s essay “My Spiritual Journey”, his gift to Holy Trinity in the search process, Mike seemed to have written his own eulogy. I urge you read it—again and again. As usual, Mike did a better job than anyone can do of giving us the words and stories of his life, a life being chased by the Hound of Heaven—the life that was shaped by Thomas Merton’s life and words. The challenge in the next few moments is not to draft the Wikipedia version of Mike’s life but to prime the pump of storytelling-in the best Irish tradition. So that these stories- what they tell us of him, flow out of this place into the courtyard today and into our lives as we remember and continue learn from and be inspired by this Splendid Spillane.
Many of us know the facts of Mike’s journey. He grew up – tough using that phrase. Not sure Mike ever did grow up. He spent his first 11 years in Manchester, England. He lived and breathed the red and white of Manchester United. On Sundays after mass he’d carry his little autograph book down to the practice field of his idols hoping one would sign his book. When it was time for his family to move to American in 1964 Kathleen tried to book passage from Liverpool the closer and less expensive port. With the family’s tickets bought and in her hand, Kathleen heard the travel agent said, “ah, Manchester United to sailing to New York on the Queen Elizabeth out of Southampton. None of your family happens to follow Manchester United do they?” Kathleen sighed and simply handed back the tickets from Liverpool and rebooked the family on the more expensive Queen Elizabeth. And each day, 11 year old Michael, in his own private heaven, stood on the polished teak deck as his heroes strutted and kicked & scrimmaged in front of him. So very close.
Over the past few months after the second service Mike would sit outside in the courtyard with parishioner Chris Golker, who experiences the same type of brain cancer as Mike. Their heads would be together in quiet talk, and a circle, almost an aura would surround them and people thought, “what pastoral words must go be going between these men. What thoughts of God.” Actually, the conversation usually consisted of Mike saying, “Dammit, Manchester United lost again last night.”
A couple of years ago, when Mike was serving Holy Nativity in Meridian Idaho, Deacon Paula Egbert (you may remember Paula, she gave the homily last September at Beth’s Ordination & Mike’s installation as your rector)—Paula was officiating at a wedding at a rural farm house. The key to this story is that the farm house, the wedding was about 25 miles from the Simplot soccer fields in Boise. Paula could do the ceremony but only a priest can do the nuptial blessing and the couple wanted the nuptial blessing. Mike had agreed to share in the service with Paula and do the blessing for the couple. Now, you almost have to close your eyes for this one. Paula is standing in the home’s large living room filled with well dressed people—charming couple in front of her. She’s nearly finished with the vows and the prayers and there’s no Mike—Brendan had had a soccer game. So Paula starts to speak slower and slower as if her power was being shut down. She could see out the back window which none of the wedding party or guests could see—and suddenly out of the corner of her eye she sees Mike’s car, throwing up dust as it roared into the driveway and braking. Mike leaps out of the car, pops open the truck and grabs his black trousers and pull them on over his soccer shorts. He grabs his robes and is vesting on a dead run up the walk way, enters the house looking cool, greets the young couple, smiles at the gathered loved ones, patted the shoulder of Deacon Paula to get her blood pressure down, pronounces the nuptial blessing over the couple, leaned over to Paula, whispered in her ear, “See you later. Brendan’s got another game, bye.” Paula watched him thru the window pulling off his vestments as he trotted to the car. It looked like the film Paula had just seen was being rewound and she was watching in reverse. Ripped off his trousers –jumped in the car and drove, probably like a maniac back the 25 miles to Simplot soccer fields in time for Brendan’s second game. That was Mike. So caring as a friend to Paula, so dedicated as a priest, so loving as a father.
There’s one more “pants” story. As a London Bobbie, one day this American Mike Spillane was chasing some miscreant who had made the erroneous decision of acting badly in front of Copper Spillane whose beat was the Paddington area. As Mike ran he punched the shoulder radio’s button to call the matter into the station. “In foot pursuit down Elgin Avenue, suspect wearing blue pants.” The response came over the radio, “you mean the man’s not wearing any trousers????” Mike had forgotten that in British speak “pants” means underpants. He was a long time living that one down with his police friends.
Images of Mike—especially during children’s sermons--sometimes you couldn’t see Mike for the sea of little doll baby faces—shiny little faces that listened to his stories and after church followed him around like little magnets drawn to his iron faith and his iron love.
Mike was rarely on time for anything—although strangely he was constantly aware of time. If someone else was preaching, a Bishop perhaps—Mike would start to get nervous—he’d push back the sleeve of his alb and look at this watch and the longer it went—first the toe would start to tap and then the whole leg would move and by the time the sermon was finished, Mike’s leg would be bouncing up and down like he was doing his own liturgical dance.
I’m not sure some writers’ descriptions of heaven as ‘eternal rest’ fit our Splendid Spillane. Mike’s heaven is an action filled one. Meeting people and playing games and running marathons and eating lots of bread—his favorite food. There was motion in Mike. He constantly moved the lectern. Didn’t matter where it was or how it was set. He stood behind it and moved it. Even if he had pre set it, on the rare occasion when he would have time before a service to do something—he’d still move the lectern when he stood behind it. Yes, there’s motion in Mike’s heaven.
Mike described his spiritual auto biography as “one we are writing each day of our lives recognizing at each moment or at later moments how God is present in our lives. And how we respond to God’s presence. This day is part of Julie and the kids’ spiritual autobiographies; it is part of all of ours, this faith family of Mike Spillane. It’s also part of Mike’s. Throughout Mike’s writings, his homilies, his conversations he wrote and he knew “God is calling me”. “God is calling me.” Mike responded to hearing that call with passion. He took chances. He took risks. He made that leap of faith each day. As a son, a brother, a priest, a husband who fell in love at first sight, a dad, a friend. A man who could do two soccer games and a nuptial blessing in a Saturday afternoon and do them with joy.
God’s call continues. For us. For Splendid Spillane. God’s call has simply taken him closer and nearer to that still small voice. It’s simply the next answer to God’s call. And as Paul wrote-- just for us today-- “We are of good courage and prefer rather to be absent from the body and to be at home with the Lord.” Amen
September 16, 2007
1434Patti Powell - Sept. 16 2007
Menlo Park September 16, 2007 Luke 15:1-10
And then it was August and the skies were still ashen and it was still horribly hot—but September seemed a bit closer. So I started to quibble with a priest---never wise. I said, “Uh, Mike—the lessons better be easy - and if it’s St. Paul telling wives to be subservient to their husbands—you’re on your own this September 16th. And as Fr. Mike is wont to say -- and we do keep believing him, “Oh, it’ll be easy.” So I read today’s gospel. And relaxed a bit.
"Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, doesn’t leave the ninety-nine and go after the one that is lost until he finds it? When he has found it, he comes home, he calls together his friends, saying to them, `Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep that was lost. Let’s open a fine cabernet & celebrate' Just so, I tell you, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance.
"Or what woman having ten silver coins, if she loses one of them, does not turn on the tasteful tract lighting & gets out the hose for the central vac, sweeps the house, and searches carefully until she finds it? When she finds it, she calls together her friends and neighbors, saying, `Rejoice with me, for I have found the coin that I had lost.' Just so, I tell you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents."
Most of us are lost at one time or another—in great need of repentance. Sometimes we know it. Sometimes we don’t. What does it mean when something is lost? Usually when something’s lost the question is: “Where’s the…” and the question ends with “cat”…. or “clicker for the TV” or “my keys”. Those moments of “lostness” happen every day and we approach them somewhat logically. Lost things simply are not where they ought to be or where we think we left them. So in huge mall parking lots people push the alarm buttons on their key rings to find their cars.
But sometimes the lostness has nothing to do with cars or keys or cats. Sometimes at night—during those 4 AM wide-awake with the seething brain times, we realize was true lostness is. In his parable today Jesus is saying people as well as sheep and coins can be lost and our lostness is much more subtle and at times profoundly despairing. At those times we find ourselves not really caring particularly about God, or, perhaps searching desperately for God and not finding him. At those times, we are lost.
There are other times of lostness in life. When I get lazy. Forget to pray. Miss church. Blame the bishop because he’s ticked me off about something and I get arrogant. Stop consciously thinking about God. When we’re lost like that—those times of blurry focus—when there’s no clear sense of the right direction, we feel lost. Or, when we selfishly forge ahead or do what we are bound and determined to do regardless of what God may be saying or regardless of how it might hurt other people, we are lost. Or, maybe we’ve failed and we just want to curl up and die. That’s lostness.
We do sometimes shop in odd places to cure our aching souls— We’ve all stood at the a counter of Macy’s and asked the sales clerk, “What would you suggest to fill the dark, empty spaces in my soul?” Searching for this cure we overeat, over drink, over spend, over work, over anything.
Sometimes in our lostness we run away from God as hard and as far and as fast as we can. But the psalmist reminds us that we can’t really run from God. When Fr. Mike was first called to Trinity your website posted his spiritual biography. Who couldn’t identify with his story of the Hound of Heaven chasing him throughout his life? No matter how hard and far we run from God—he keeps after us—wooing us, enticing us, courting us. Asking us to come home. Coaxing us back from our lostness.
The whole of Chapter 15 in Luke is about the lost being found. The prodigal son & his cranky, hard-working brother. The sheep: the coins. And the joy at people and things being found. Being redeemed. There is a passion and joy here for wholeness and inclusion that the Pharisees and scribes listening to Jesus that day simply don’t get. They're too busy worrying about who’s supposed to be left out and excluded. They don't seem to get that when something or someone lost comes home, or is found, joy is the result. Wholeness and inclusion produce joy for anyone with a heart open to embrace it.
The same is true for our lives, isn't it? When people we love are away or missing, we don't feel whole. There’s this ache. We're incomplete. I love the opening & closing credits of the movie “Love Actually.” The real life scenes filmed at Heathrow Airport in London and people finding each other. Old friends and new lovers and little children and their moms & dads and these jigsaw puzzle images of hugging arms and huge smiles. You can see the love in their eyes and their arms & their hearts. It is God’s grace and His passion for wholeness that you see.
Wholeness and inclusion. They produce joy. In a society today that is seemingly intent on division and exclusion, and focusing on our differences, this is an important message. And this joy cannot be complete without God’s love.
“I heard a man say that without God’s amazing grace, the whole world would be nothing but one big Kennedy airport on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving.” Not the scenes of homecoming from “Love Actually” -- but cavernous rooms filled with huge crabby lines formed by sweating, angry, tired, sheep-like people whose flights have been cancelled.
But, what if in Luke this Sunday morning we’re not the sheep? What if we’re not the silent silver coin stuck under the cushion of the couch. What if we’re the searching woman—the seeking shepherd? What if part of what we are to do with our lives is to help Jesus find the lost? And help the lost find our Lord.
Oh no. Not that dreaded word “evangelism.” Please don’t make me bring someone to church. Episcopalians don’t like “sharing” or “fellowshipping” or “witnessing”. We don’t like or trust anything that smacks of spiritual nudity. There’s no spiritual nudity in the Book of Common Prayer. We are like St. Peter who when asked by a good Episcopalian if he could enter heaven said, after he looked in his book of great sins, “uh, no—you may not enter heaven.” And the former senior warden said, “Why” and St. Peter replied, “At the last vestry dinner you ate your salad with the fish fork.” Episcopalians understand decorum.
So maybe we’re not arm-waving evangelicals -- but we are here. We sit in our pews most every Sunday and we listen to God’s words and to wise men and women who help us understand what God wants us to do during these brief days of our brief lives. And we attend the prayer services and we walk the labyrinth and we ponder deep mysteries of faith. And we write checks and bring covered dishes. Isn’t this enough?
A few years ago the letters WWJD seemed to appear everywhere. “What Would Jesus Do?” confronted us from billboards and plastic bracelets. I could never figure that one out. It wasn’t really helpful. Jesus was without sin. I am a mass of sins. How can one begin to emulate Him? How was wearing a bracelet going help? Then Fr. Mike told me to read everything by Cardinal Basil Hume-a great holy man who was Archbishop of Westminster. And this gentle humble white-haired English Catholic named Basil sorted it out for me. He wrote: We must be Theo-centric, Christo-centric, rather than a little group concerned with its own small world, it own small problems.” Cardinal Hume was telling us what we already know. Christ is our center. We say that every Sunday. Each time we approach the communion rail with ours hands out seeking Him we acknowledge his centrality in our lives. This isn’t a bracelet with “What Would Jesus Do?” This is our own quiet voice asking once, twice, a half a million times a day, “What would Christ want me to do?” To help. Help this situation, this person, this church, this town, this state, my family, my friend, this person who drives me nuts, this enemy.” What would Jesus have me to do?
Where do we start? Maybe it’s ok to start with the easy stuff. First, it’s as if someone tells us, “Here is the test to find whether your mission on earth is finished. If you’re alive, it isn’t.” Christ tells us to love. Love the lost. Love our enemy. Love our neighbor. And ask Jesus for help doing this. And expect his help. We’ve experienced this. We know what it feels likes. When we say to a friend or a stranger or our God, when we quietly or angrily or sadly say, “help me” and “please.” That is precisely when Jesus is with us. I’ve had friends and people I hardly knew become Jesus for me. And maybe, at times of grace, we have been Christ for others. For our kids when we chose to love & forgive instead of yell, for the sad woman in the Albertsons check out line who needed a few cents more and you dug around in the bottom of your purse for the change. The homeless man you served dinner to. Tiny acts. Tiny familiar acts become beautiful when they are performed with love; that is when Jesus comes to us when Jesus helps us share his love with others. When we realize we had a holy hand in finding the missing coin, the errant sheep.
Jean Paul Sartre wrote a play called “No Exit”. The three characters find themselves in hell and one says a line I’ve never forgotten because through all my years of sadness and joy and work and hope I’ve learned how wrong the line is. The woman says, “Hell is other people.” Through the people I’ve loved and known and my years, I am sure that just the opposite is true. Heaven is other people. Those times when we reach out to help those we know and those we don’t know—those times when we’re at our best, when we do the simple, the familiar, the small, the helpful, and we do those things with great love for each other. It is at those times when we are with and serving our loving Jesus.
What would Christ want me to do just to help a bit: Fr. Hays wrote a prayful answer:
The redemption of the world,
The removal of injustice
And the spread of unity among all people
is beyond my limited abilities.
Lord, help me to examine
How I have failed to redeem that small part of the world
That did touch my life today.
Help me be part of you, part of part of your work, part of your love, the love that keeps the universe going.
Father Mike left the Church of the Holy Nativity and came here to Trinity Church Menlo Park. In his place we have a wonderful interim priest Pastor Alice, a wise and sensible and loving person who ministers to us continually. From her I bring this ending –this benediction:
Life is short…
And we do not have much time to gladden the hearts of those who travel the way with us.
So be swift to love,
Make haste to be kind.
And as we go, may the blessing the peace, the love and the joy of the Holy One who is in the midst of us be in our hearts this day and forevermore. Amen
January 15, 2006
727Coryl Lassen - Jan 15, 2006
Rev. Coryl Lassen substituted for us on short notice, this week, and did a wonderful job. The audio is from the 10am service this weekend.
Recent Sermons
- Patti Powell - Homily for Fr. Mike's Memorial
- Patti Powell - Sept. 16 2007
- Coryl Lassen - Jan 15, 2006
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