Texts: I Corinthians 12: 12-26;
Romans 8: 31-39
Becoming a Family For One Another: Some Words of Appreciation for Jeff Miller
Steve Jungkeit
I’d like to divide this time of reflection into three sections. I’ll open with a brief word, and I’ll close as well, but between those moments Rick Strickhart will share a little bit about his experiences visiting Jeff during his last days.
What then are we to say about these things? That’s the question the Apostle Paul asks near the end of the eighth chapter of Romans. By “these things” he means the great mysteries: of sorrow and suffering, of life’s difficulties and dangers, of hopes unfulfilled and expectations unmet. What then are we to say about these things? A similar question confronts us today as we think about Jeff Miller, as we honor and celebrate his life and his journey, an admittedly difficult task given how little we finally know. What are we to say?
The first thing to say is to offer a poem from Miller Williams. It’s a poem that should be inscribed on church doors, and upon our hearts as well. It’s called “Compassion.” Here are Williams’ words:
Have compassion for everyone you meet,
even if they don’t want it. What seems conceit,
bad manners, or cynicism is always a sign
of things no ears have heard, no eyes have seen.
You do not know what wars are going on
down there where the spirit meets the bone.
We do not know what wars are going on, down there where the spirit meets the bone. That’s the first lesson I would have us remember as we honor Jeff today. Jeff carried an immense burden with him, one that we couldn’t have known. There was no conceit or bad manners or cynicism. Far from it. But he did keep to himself, for reasons only he could say. You can never tell what spirit killing burdens a person might be carrying, some long ago trauma or some recent heartbreak. Look around you, and notice all the faces sitting close by, and seated far away. Have compassion, for you do not know what wars are going on, down there where the spirit meets the bone. The one who slighted you, the one who piled on undeserved criticism, the one whose laughter or careless words made you self-conscious…have compassion, for you do not know what wars are going on, down there where the spirit meets the bone. We won’t know fully what wars were going on for Jeff. But maybe, just maybe, we might learn what wars are going on within one another, if we’re patient enough, if we’re kind enough.
And so what are we to say about these things? Have compassion is the first thing to say. The second will come from Rick, who can offer up something of what it was to visit Jeff.
Rick Strickhart – Reflections on Knowing Jeff Miller
I wish that I could recount important things about Jeff’s life so that you could better understand him. Better yet, I wish I could regale you with witty stories about our fun times together. I can do neither. This can’t be that kind of memorial because I only knew Jeff in the last four weeks of his life. And that phase, “I knew him” – well, as this story progresses you’ll realize that I’m using the term knew in a very loose sense. The story of course ends sadly but it does have a potential element of the magical in it.
Jeff was in the congregation on the Sunday before Thanksgiving when I gave my testimonial during the pledge drive. It was because of that testimonial that we came to meet. A couple of weeks later Jeff was admitted to Bridebrook Rehab Center. Something he said led Carleen to believe that he’d enjoy a visit from me. Carleen approached me and asked if I would visit Jeff. I of course agreed.
Jeff’s decline from the first day I met him to his passing was so swift it was frightening. Our first visit was in Bridebrook. He seemed happy to see me. We awkwardly made our way through conversation, two strangers with a bond but little else. But we did connect – I did find out tidbits of his life. But it wasn’t an easy conversation. He admitted right off that he had non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma but it appeared to me that there was more going on. His motor coordination was off and he was having a hard time with speech. He allowed that he was being moved to Middlesex Hospital later in the week to start chemotherapy and I promised I’d visit him there. In retrospect, I wish I had stayed with him longer that day – it was the last time that I would have a cogent conversation with him.
I went to Middlesex the following Sunday after church. Jeff was in oncology with three different drugs dripping into his body. His deteriorating condition was frightening. Most of what he said was gibberish. During that visit, his doctor and a nurse came in. I relayed my concern about Jeff’s rapid decline, but both said that they were hopeful that the treatment would reverse this and they were even hopeful that they could release Jeff for some home time before the next chemo session. That did not happen. He worsened and was moved to the ICU. When I visited him there a week later he had pretty much lost all facility for speech. 90% of what came out of his mouth literally was blah, blah blah. During that visit, I was holding his hand. He took my hand in his two and began talking. Blah, blah, blah for a good minute or so. I listened intently hoping a coherent word or two would come out that would help me understand what he was trying to tell me. The only coherent word was the last when he said very clearly, “amen.” I was stunned. He had been praying with me and I had no clue.
Jeff was still in ICU when I visited him for the last time. He was in a coma. I did speak to his nurse who would reveal nothing to me except that his family in AZ had been contacted and that they agreed with Jeff’s medical team that he should be placed in hospice. It was felt he only had days to live. I was about halfway home on Route 9 when I realized that I hadn’t said goodbye to Jeff when I left.
Here’s where this story borders on the magical. Late on Sunday evening, January 28th, I was in bed propped up on some pillows listening to music through earphones. I was totally relaxed when out of nowhere, something brushed up against my cheek. There was nothing in the room to provide this sensation. The feel of the what caused this was unmistakable to me – it was a feather. And a strong, large one at that. Soon after, a sound that I can only describe as a breath of air whooshed through my earphones, a sound not ever heard in the music I was listening to then, nor had it ever occurred again. It was then I realized that Jeff might be gone. The next morning, I called Middlesex. I was hoping my premonitions were wrong, and I was hoping to find out that Jeff was still a patient but had been moved to hospice. I was not surprised when the operator politely said, “I’m sorry. There’s no patient with that name registered here.” How do interpret what happened the night before? I believe I was touched by an angel. I might have forgotten to say goodbye to Jeff when I last saw him but I believe Jeff brushed by me to say good bye on his way home.
What did I know about Jeff? Very little. He has an elderly mother and a sister in AZ from whom he is estranged due to his sexual orientation. He was asked or was told to stop attending a church he was going to in AZ because he was gay. He appeared to have (and I emphasize that) led the charmed life of a good looking gay man in Manhattan. He was a DJ at WABC radio and also did voiceovers for commercials and the like. Why did he wind up here in Old Lyme? Possibly he needed to distance himself from his life in NYC. More likely we think he came here to persue something that didn’t pan out. Either way, it appears to us that with the exception of this church family he was pretty much alone. Did I “know” Jeff. Not really, but I do believe regardless that based on our final “meeting” we parted as friends.
Steve Jungkeit
What more can we say about these things? Perhaps this. We all come from somewhere. And we all belong to families. Some of us are blessed with nuclear families that sustain and support us. Others of us, like Jeff, are not, a tragedy that many in the LGBTQ community are forced to bear. But not only in that community. Many among us are afflicted with loneliness or painful isolation, as we’re left to nurse the wounds of broken family relationships that may never heal. Even for those of us who have positive relationships with our families, there can often be wounds and scars that are painful to live with. Something that feels important to remember is that it may not yet be too late to heal those relationships. There may still be a chance to win some kind of reconciliation. Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe there’s still time for you.
But for some among us, those relationships aren’t coming back. That’s why families of choice are so important, and so crucial. That’s been true for many people in the LGBTQ community, for obvious reasons. But it’s also a prevalent trait among young people, who often form a second family among their friends, one that supplements and augments areas of their being that a mother or father or sibling can’t fully reach. I understand that as a very positive thing, for all of us. Even the best of families can’t provide everything we need by way of emotional care. We need other people around us. And sometimes we need families of choice, and not our nuclear families, to meet some of our deepest emotional needs.
That’s what a church can be, when we’re at our best. Jeff was reticent, it’s true, but he also shared with me what it meant to be welcomed into this community, especially after being shunned by another church. He shared what it felt like to hear an affirmation from the pulpit of the many forms of intimacy that humans find. And he shared what it meant to encounter a church where different kinds of families could be found – one mom, one dad, two moms, two dads, a mom and a dad, grandparents, step parents, all of it. We’re far from perfect, but I thank God that we could be a source of belonging for Jeff at the end of his life. I thank God that he could sense the presence of God in this place. And I thank God that Rick, and Carleen, and Joan Priest, and I were able to walk through those last weeks with him. In that sense, we did become a family of choice for him.
And so the second and final thing that we should say is that we can become a family of choice for one another. We have the capacity to support each other through the events that the Apostle Paul calls “these things,” the great mysteries of life. That’s especially important, given the ways our own families can so often be sources of pain. In his letter to the Corinthians, the Apostle Paul wrote of how we are all members of one another. He writes of how we all need one another, depend upon one another, are parts of one another. Jeff’s presence with us, and now his absence from us, is a way of reminding ourselves not only to have compassion, but to become family for one another, as best we can. Because we do need one another – straight folks, gay folks, married, single – we need each other across the wide array of our intimacies.
And that’s what we’re demonstrating in the sacrament of communion. It’s a kind of family meal, where we declare our need for one another, our dependence upon one another. It’s a way of showing that we’re bound to one another, for better or for worse. And so we can say with the hymn, blest be this tie that binds us. Blest be the tie that binds us to Jeff Miller. Blest be the tie that binds us to one another, in the multiple and varied expressions of love found among us. Blest be the tie that binds us together in the variety of our beliefs and practices. Blest be the tie that binds us across what can sometimes feel like unbridgeable chasms. For Jeff Miller, who sat up in the balcony, who had the courage to express his own desire and to love who he loved, who was shunned by his family, who carried within him hopes and expectations known only to him, who had the courage to trust a place like this…blest be the tie that binds us to Jeff.
