Ken Behrens Funeral Sermon

You know, when you’re little and thinking about what you want to be when you grow up, you only think about the really visible jobs: fireman, teacher, nurse. You never think about all the behind-the-scenes jobs – those countless industries and workers who are the ones who actually make this world function. Like movers.

Ken was a mover. His whole career – first with Bekins and then with Mitchell.

This quiet, behind-the-scenes job, that the world needs. That we need. Certainly, Cynthia and I needed it 13 years ago when we moved to Gig Harbor – with our kids, our stuff, our cars, our dog. And we didn’t even know Ken yet, but he stepped in and made it work. And the day we finally moved into our house, there were Ken and Ginger at our front door, with a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken, ready to share.

You know, in the church we have this underlying theology of the Imago Dei – this belief that we humans are made in the “image of God” – that the way we function and the best values by which we live (at least when we’re living well) are, in fact, reflections of the way God functions; they are the values by which God lives.

There’s such a dignity in being human. And that includes our work. It is a participation in this good world of God’s design and pleasure. And so, with Ken. In his career he gave himself to caring for people whose lives were in transition, in that totally stressful season of life. And to do it well – to do it competently and professionally – what a gift.

Just as God carries us – from the moment of our conception, through all our days, all the way to the grave, and beyond – so did Ken join in God’s work, caring and carrying these tangibles lives from one place to the next; from one season to the next. It is a gift.

It was a gift, in fact, begun most poignantly early in his career. A young soldier, stationed in a US army depot in France in 1958, Ken was called on one night to serve in secretive, sensitive assignment: to operate a tractor to exhume the remains at an unmarked grave. These remains would be one of those World War II soldiers from theaters of war around the world who was ultimately chosen to be interred at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at Arlington Cemetery.

This quiet man, doing the quiet work with God of caring, of carrying, this soldier – this man, this boy, this son – who could be anyone’s son, who was everyone’s son, to be remembered and cried over, honored and thanked. And surely, what we can do in token, God does without measure. There is no life – no body, no soul – that is not God’s beloved, God’s cherished, God’s own. And, please God, when all is said and done, may there be no life that is not carried home – by you and to you.

For so said your son, our Christ:

“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places… [And I will] go and prepare a place for you. [And] I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also” (John 14:1-3).

This was Ken’s belief and Ken’s hope.

Ken came to faith as an adult and was baptized alongside his three children. “Ken,” the priest told him, “now you belong to Jesus and he will never let you go.” And he never did.

And neither did Ken let God go. He lived his life with true integrity as one who sought to resemble the Christ he’d come to believe in. But it was never in a boastful or self-conscious way. In fact, part of Ken’s charm was that he never really knew just how much he was liked and admired. Even his competitors enjoyed working with him because he was so decent and so fair.

And, certainly, his employees knew what a good man he was. He would always validate somebody’s good work or idea. Female employees never experienced any kind of sexism or belittling of who they were or what they could contribute. Secretly, behind the scenes, there were times when Ken helped his employees with car payments and house payments, wanting to give them every chance to pull themselves out of a bad situation – moving them (as it were) from despair to hope.

And Ken was a good father – not a perfect father; none of us are. Each father needs to figure out what it means to welcome his children into his life, into his world, his priorities. And then to figure it out all over again with the next one. It’s a journey of discovery that never ends. Even at John’s funeral a few years ago, listening to what his friends were sharing, Ken was continuing to learn who his son was. Each child was different: Jana, John, Joelle – they each had their own relationship with their dad. But what they all shared was a father who loved them and whose respect they held. As they aged, growing into their adult relationships with their dad, they sought his council – knowing he would offer it graciously, without any demands of their response.

But before the kids: there was Ginger!

Ken and Ginger were high school classmates in Kellogg, Idaho. But he was a couple years ahead of her, so they didn’t know each other then. (Plus, there was some other tart in the picture at the time.) So Ken graduated and off he headed to the army for four years, before making his way back to Kellogg, where – unbeknownst to him – scheming was afoot. The matron Mrs. Behrens and the charming 20 year-old-Ginger were in the same bowling league, which (to be clear), was no accident. Let’s just say that, whereas senior boys might be unaware of sophomore girls, sophomore girls are never unaware of senior boys, especially when (as Ginger’s mother would say of Ken) they look like Hollywood movie stars.

So thus did Mrs. Behrens announce to her son-returned, “I’ve picked out a girlfriend for you, Ken.”

“Thank you, mother,” said he, “but I will get my own girlfriend.”

Foolish little man.

Soon thereafter Ginger spied Ken at The Boat – the hangout spot for the young-blooded set of mid-century Kellogg – and she placed herself in the vicinity of the might-be-movie star. And his move he made! But she was demure. Didn’t give her name that night – which didn’t stop him from offering her a ride home that night, or every night thereafter that they spent together. And, within just a handful of months, they were married: February 16, 1959.

Sixty-five years later, I sat beside Ginger as she cried, with Ken’s now lifeless body lying before her. “He was the love of my live. I don’t know how I’m going to live without him.”

Of course not. How could she? And, like countless widows for her, it is now her journey to make.

Just recently, Ginger had a dream. Ken was standing with Jesus at the door of her apartment and told her, “Now you don’t have to cry, Ginger. I’m back.”

And so may it be. For thus is the hope of our faith – that Christ is gathering all things unto himself, the living and the dead, into a union that already is and is yet to be:

And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, “See! The home of God is among mortals. He will dwell with them; they will be his people, and God himself will be with them; he will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more. Mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away.

“To the thirsty I will give water as a gift from the spring of the water of life… I will be their God and they will be my children” (Revelation 21: 3b-4, 6b).

Surely, Ginger, there yet willl be tears to come in the days to come. And God will wipe every tear from your eye.  For God is with you and God is with Ken… and with John and with all those you love and see no more, for he will be their God, and they will be his children.