On Christmas Day, I packed up my stuff and headed south, from the Carolinas to St Simons Island. I needed a break from my work with both The Meetinghouse (in South Carolina) and Providence Church (in North Carolina). After leading two worship services on Christmas Eve, I loaded the car and drove five hours to the Golden Isles of Georgia.
Since 2016, Jan and I have had a home on the island. It is not a fancy home, but it is on an island, two miles from the Atlantic Ocean. Better yet, it is just a few blocks from the equally amazing marshes of Glenn, made famous by the poetry of Sidney Lanier.
Three weeks on the island is what I wanted, but that did not happen.
The first week was dominated by daily calls to my sister whose husband was in the last stages of life. Seventy-eight seems too young to die, but after seven years of dementia and Alzheimer’s Disease, it turned out about right.
The second week I spent planning the memorial service for my brother-in-law of 14 years, Willard David “Bill” Sapp. And on Thursday, Jan and I packed up the car and headed up Interstate-95, across I-26 and I-40 to I-75 straight north to Lexington.
Thus began a series of events that still has me thinking.
The funeral was first. I was the lead officiant of record, assisted by my nephew, the Rev. Luke Nowell, now of Huntersville, North Carolina. I always appreciate sharing a pulpit with Luke. He has the kind of presence we all embrace: warm, gentle, and genuine. Plus, he has a nice voice and a pleasant sense of humor. What is not to like!
Four professional colleagues of the deceased drove long ways to bear testimony. One by one, they stood to speak, none of them having given much thought to ending their comments in a timely way. Then, a fifth and unplanned speaker made her way to my chair and explained her need to speak. What to do!
She spoke, and then it was my turn.
I had prepared a gospel homily, an expression of our Christian hope. This is often left out of funerals these day, even Christian funerals. But I have convictions about it, ever since I attended a funeral led by the late Kentucky pastor, Dr. David Nelson.
I was prepared to shed some gospel light on the living and dying of my brother-in-law. I did so, in eight minutes, a mashup of “The Seven Last Words of Jesus” and the lyrics of John Prine’s song “When I Get to Heaven.”
That was event one.
Event two was a church service. A mega-church service, where another nephew is one of the preaching ministers. Southeast Christian Church of Louisville. Rev. Carl. H. Kuhl IV.
“We had 45,000 people attend our Christmas services,” he said from the pulpit, prelude to a fine sermon on Romans 1:1-6. Where I preach, it is a good Sunday when we have 30 in the pews. There are no pews in his church, only theater style seating, plus a 14-piece worship band: seven to play and seven to sing. It was a 20-minute sound and light show followed by a 35-minute sermon and appeal. Then came the ordinances, communion and baptism, accompanied by more music but few words.
After the service, I hugged my nephew, the young preacher of whom I am very proud. He has gifts and callings I never had.
I walked past a score of kiosks where hundreds of people were signing up or receiving stuff. I was amazed at the logistics of it all, thousands of people getting in and getting out without so much as a hassle. Surely, a work of God in and of itself!
Then came the drive back down to Georgia and the celebration of Martin Luther King Jr. Day. It is a region of stark contrasts. On one side of St. Simons Island is Brunswick, thick with poverty both black and white and infamous for the murder of Ahmaud Arbery. On the other side is Sea Island, entirely gated, famous for its professional golfers, the wealthiest zip code in the state.
The parade started at 10:30 on Monday morning. We began at a city park, led by police cars, and accompanied by every black church, club, and organization in the county. The high school band was there, Democrats of Glenn County, and the Episcopal Bishop of Georgia (whose white face was the lone event image published by the newspaper the next day). We walked two plus miles through the heart of black Brunswick, and I was reminded every step how far we still have to go on behalf of our brothers and sisters of color. It was depressing.
In a day or two, I will pack up again and retrace my steps to Carolina. Already, I have laid out 21 weeks of preaching, inspired by the title of a 1964 folk ballad, “The Last Thing on My Mind” (Ken Paxton).
But as I prepare to preach, I have a lot on my mind, most of it shaped by the events of these last three weeks. A funeral, a worship service, and a holiday march.
