A
Meditation
In
Thanksgiving for the life of Bill Skyles
Thursday,
June 21, 2018
1.
Now we see in a
mirror, dimly,
but then we will see
face to face.
Now I know only in
part;
then I will know
fully, even as I have been fully known.
Over
the last several years, these words have come to mind, to my mind at least,
each time I’ve visited with Bill and Kerry in their lovely home in Corralitos. Sometimes sitting there, over communion, at
their table. Sometimes praying together,
hand in hand, at Bill’s bedside. Now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we
will see face to face. Or maybe you’re
drawn, as I am, to the King James version: Now
we see through a glass, darkly, but then face to face. Now we see through a glass, darkly.
Bill’s
particular journey with Parkinson’s Disease dimmed his vision, just a bit. He was still very much present. He was still very much his sweet self. There was still a bright curiosity in his
lovely eyes. But he struggled to say
what he wanted so dearly to say. He
worried about Kerry, and his dear family, and it pained him that he couldn’t
keep up, that he couldn’t live as energetically and purposefully as he’d lived before. And in the end, even as his heart was so full
of love, he didn’t always recognize those of us at his side, or why we’d
come.
Now we see through a
glass, darkly, but then face to face.
Now we see through a glass, darkly.
The
same is true, I think, for those of us who loved him so very much. Parkinson’s tested Bill, but Parkinson’s
tested us too. It made it harder to see,
harder sometimes to believe. What is the
meaning of such a condition? How does it
happen that a lively spirit, a powerful body, a bright mind is captured in that
way? What’s God’s intention in all this? Bill’s journey puzzled us every bit as much
as it puzzled him. Instead of
challenging hikes in the hills, our time with him was limited to quiet
afternoons with a little background music.
Instead of vigorous conversation around issues of the day, our visits
were simple and our discussion often repetitive. We saw him there; we knew Bill to be
there. But we saw all of this, and all
of him, as through a glass, darkly. As
in a mirror, dimly. And it’s hard to
live that way. It’s hard to love that
way.
But
Kerry, you persisted. Your burden was a
heavy one. Every shift in Bill’s health
challenged you. But you lived and loved
so faithfully over those many years. And
you created—out of the deep reservoir of your own love—a sanctuary for Bill in
which he could embrace his own frailty and accept his profound
vulnerability. You created a sanctuary
for Bill and for yourself as well, in which the love of God was thick and
palpable and deeply felt by all who visited.
There were surely days of darkness and pain. There were surely days when Bill struggled to
see and to appreciate and to accept what was happening. But through all of it, you honored that
sanctuary, and you honored Bill, and you honored your own deepest faith. And that is a beautiful, sacred and
Jesus-shaped gift. One you gave to Bill
generously and tenderly, every day, over these many years.
2.
The
first afternoon I visited Kerry and Bill, in 2002, they invited me to join them
on a walk in the woods at Nicene Marks. I
anticipated a slow, leisurely stroll in the forest, under the Redwoods. Instead, I found myself chasing after an
unusually energetic couple, who clearly loved the outdoors and delighted in a
brisk hike. It was so clear to me, from
the very beginning, that these two loved one another, that they loved their
lives, and that they loved the Central Coast and all that it offers. I realized pretty quickly that I’d have to
pick up my game just to keep up with them!
And after two and a half hours of chasing them around Nicene Marks, I
realized I’d met a couple of kindred souls who loved God and loved life.
Bill
applied that same energy to his intellectual life, too. Almost every Sunday in those early years,
he’d greet me after church with an envelope in which he’d tucked an article or
two from that week’s papers. He was
particularly curious about churches doing innovative things, and church leaders
stepping off the traditional map to explore new ideas. I knew, whenever Bill handed me one of those
envelopes, that I’d enjoy the topics; and even more, I knew I’d enjoy following
up with Bill and the conversation we’d have together. He was a lively man, with a lively mind!
Over
the years, I especially appreciated Bill’s unique story: his reflections on his
own theological studies, his nuanced thoughts about the army and the wars in
Korea and Vietnam, and his own vocational journey as a teacher and a Christian. As you all know, he was a man who lived
without an ounce of guile in his heart, without any malice at all. He was an example for me of what it truly
means to be a Christian in the world, a disciple of the loving and inclusive Christ. And beyond that, he was something of a mentor
in what it is to be a man in the world, a feminist and a man, generous and
patient and committed to partnership in every sense. His life was, and will continue to be, a
beacon of decency for all of us.
3.
Bill
would be the first to remind us that we don’t know what life beyond this one
looks like, or how it all comes together, or what eternity holds for us. Now we see through so many glasses,
darkly. Now we see just what’s in front
of us. And even that can befuddle us a
good bit of the time. But faith means trusting
that the future—every future—is shaped by love and kindness. That was Bill’s faith. It still is.
Faith means trusting that every future is shaped by love and
kindness.
Jesus
himself seemed more concerned with how we love one another and care for one
another here and now. The kingdom of
heaven, he said more than once, is right here and right now, in the bread you
break, in the attention you pay to neighbors and friends, in the compassion you
extend to the poor and the tired and the weak.
It’s not a lottery you have to win, he said. It’s a promise God makes to all
creation. Trust the promise, and watch
for heaven, here.
So
get started right away, Jesus would say again and again: risk generous love and
see how that goes; practice gratitude and watch your hearts expand; invite
strangers to your feasts and enjoy the unfolding of community. And that’s heaven, he’d say. That’s all the heaven you really need. And on the other side, beyond this world,
beyond this life, heaven will look something very much like that. Count on it.
The
promise today, as strange as it is, is resurrection. Even through our tears, we can taste it. Even through our grief, we can see it. Even through our broken hearts, we can feel
it. In the end, nothing separates us
from the love of God—not life, not death, not Parkinson’s, not dementia, not
our pride, not our vulnerability, not our mistakes, not our bravado. In the end, nothing separates us from the
love of God. Bill Skyles was conceived
in that love, and he grew up to know that love, and he practiced that love as
best he could for 86 years. Now that
love has gathered him in.
We
have to be honest and say today that we see all of these mysteries through a
glass, darkly; we see all of life’s riddles in a mirror, dimly. We are puzzled and befuddled a good bit of
the time. Life—and the world we live
in—doesn’t always (or even often) make sense.
And a good bit of the time, it hurts to be human. But we believe in the limitless love of God. We believe in the joyful resurrection of
God’s beloved. And we believe that
though we see through a glass, darkly, we will one day see all these things
face to face. We will live into the full
and brilliant light of love. And when we
do, Bill Skyles will be right there. Of
this I am so very confident. When we do,
when we live into the brilliant light, Bill Skyles will be right there. To welcome us home.
