Lloyd Filkins Funeral Sermon

There’s something quite fitting in reading the Beatitudes at a service such as this. The Beatitudes are the beginning section of Jesus’ famous “Sermon on the Mount,” in some sense, the clearest distillation of his entire message. What was Jesus about? Read the Sermon on the Mount. Don’t have time for that? Read the Beatitudes.

They show us what Jesus was about. They show us what we should be about – we who follow in the way of Christ. And – perhaps most importantly – they show us what God is about.

That’s the great thing about Jesus. Fully human, fully divine – he gives us the clearest picture we humans can perceive of who God is and the values by which God lives and governs this creation to which we belong.

And the message at the heart of this teaching is that God is the one who blesses. In all our weaknesses and in all our sorrows, in our strivings to be merciful and to make peace, God is there with us, and God blesses us in all the contours of this very human life we live.

And God calls us to align ourselves in doing as God does, loving as God loves.

In some sense, the whole of our lives can be perceived as an ongoing process of formation. Who are we becoming? How are we maturing and living into the fullest version of ourselves? Even at the last, this work continues. Perhaps, especially at the last.

The last time I saw Lloyd alive, just a few days before he died, he was very much at this work, completing his work of formation: reviewing his life, acknowledging various areas of remorse – things done, things left undone – offering them to God, and – in his spirit – to those he felt he’d hurt.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

Of course – for Lloyd – this was just the final step of a formation begun long before: July 15, 1936, the day he was born, 87 years ago, today. Happy birthday.

Lloyd was born in Tacoma and spent his earliest, formative years here, from University Place Elementary, to Clover Park High, and then to the College of Puget Sound, where he and Mary met.

He was a third generation Washingtonian. His grandfather was the first to move here, transplanting his family from Kansas to a small shack in Bonny Lake. And, apparently, moving that large family was his last large work. He never really got a job in Washington. So his wife did; she worked in a factory. And his eldest son, Vern, quit school at 16 and took a job with Nalley Fine Foods, selling mayonnaise door-to-door. In time, he went into partnership with two others to start their own company, Blue Banner Foods, before eventually buying them.

Vern was Lloyd’s father. And it was Vern – in the shadow of his father’s shiftlessness – who set the pattern for the kind of man Lloyd sought to become: hard working, reliable, a man who provides for his family – the kind of man his wife and sons and, eventually, grandchildren could count on.

And, in this, he succeeded.

In fact, there were hopeful signs of “Lloyd as Provider” early on – from that first moment he and Mary met. Mary was the proverbially “poor college student,” whose weekly splurge was to share a 25-cent cola with her friend, Judy. But on one particular Saturday the machine took her money, but didn’t give her her soda. Never one to sit quietly on the sidelines, Mary started shaking the machine, demanding her rights.

“Is there something wrong?” a voice called out. “Could an upperclassman treat you girls to a drink?”

It was Lloyd, gallant, or at least trying gallantry on for size. Mary was a little humiliated by the exchange. But she got her coke. And off he went.

“Boy, he’s a snazzy dresser,” said Judy.

“Not only that,” said Mary, “I like his coin collection.

And so it began. Lloyd graduated from college, accepted a commission into the United States Airforce, was married, and lived around the world – from their early days in a cabin in Point Fosdick with no running water, to a spacious tiled home in Seville. His sons came along the way: Scott was born while Lloyd was stationed in Great Falls, Montana. Jeff came next, while they were in Spain. Ross was born in Germany. He retired after twenty years of service to his country, worked for ten more years with his brothers, co-managing their father’s company, then another eleven years managing offices for H & R Block, before retiring for good.

But you know, it was the testimonies of his grandchildren that filled my email inbox as I was preparing this sermon. It might be safe to say that Lloyd’s lifetime of formation proved itself most clearly in the man he became for them.

And, for them, the most consistent accolade was, as Isabella and Jack wrote, “Our grandpa was always present in every aspect. He never missed a game, event, show, or any other excuse to cheer [us] on.”

“Nice job, young man!”

He might have been (and this is only my conclusion) a little bit … corny: insisting they all join in singing “Wagons ho” before each car trip, a variation (it seems) from his earlier tradition when his own sons were young, of pretending he was a pilot asking for clearance before every car trip.

But there’s something to be said for corny – for the tradition of it all – and at its root, the desire for mirth, for laughter, for belonging – belonging in such an easy and natural and familiar way. He was, as they said, present for them. Always ready. Already at the field by 4 o’clock for a 7 o’clock game.

There was, in Lloyd, an awareness of the other and a desire (a duty, even) to do right by them. His last posting in the Airforce was at the Pentagon, where he was especially mindful of the enlisted men, always advocating on their behalf. “Filkins,” his superior chided him, “the enlisted are meant to sweat. Get over it.” But he couldn’t “get over it.” Their welfare mattered to him. As well it should.

Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.

There was one way (or at least one way that was passed on to me) that Lloyd surpassed the model passed on by his father. And that was the role of religion in his life. His father had never been a regular church-goer, but Lloyd and Mary always were. To the end, even when he could hardly walk, he wanted to be at church. One parishioner, Ken – who has Alzheimer’s – made it his particular duty each Sunday to stand watch at the door, waiting for Lloyd, ready to bring him the wheel chair, and then to roll him proudly to his place in the front pew, on the right side. One of the pictures on our website captures that moment – of Lloyd arriving and being greeted so warmly.

An especially important of part of Lloyd’s faith journey was the weekend he made his Cursillo – a retreat where people are invited to step more fully into their life of faith and their life of service. Over the years, he would return to Cursillo – but now as head chef – feeding others who were experiencing what had been so meaningful to him. In that same spirit, for two summers (not too far back) he joined a group of St. John’s parishioners for a week in the Skagit Valley where he worked in the kitchen preparing meals for a day camp that served kids whose parents worked in the fields. He loved it. He did it so eagerly, so absolutely convinced of the worthiness of the task, for the children of those men and women, sweating in the fields on our behalf.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.

There is an elemental goodness in the preparing of food and the sharing of food. It’s a universal need and has – in every culture – become an essential context to express the goodness of life and the goodness of the shared life. And so it’s fitting that the grandchildren’s memories of Lloyd often involved the making and sharing of food: the “Rolly Polly” Swedish pancakes with all their seasonal fillings; grilled steaks and twice-baked potatoes, and the hours spent at table in the backyard gazebo; weekly dinners at El Pueblito. To say nothing of the unlimited candy and junk food lavished upon them during their weekend visits as children.

And it is this same image, of feasting at table, that becomes so central in the life of the church. Every week we come to the table – to this table – to share in a symbolic meal: just a little piece of bread, just a tiny sip of wine. But in their tangibility, they become for us an icon of sorts, a foretaste of that wedding banquet, where we and all God’s humanity become as the bride, and Christ our bridegroom. In God’s love, and God’s eternal intention, we are joined together as one: one with each other, and one with God. And as one, we feast.

And so for us, at this service, and at every service yet to come, when we eat that little bit of bread, that little bit of wine, this sacramental meal now becomes a meal we can share with Lloyd, who is already feasting at the Wedding Supper of the Lamb.

For this is our hope: that in God, nothing is lost; nothing is gone; but all is gathered as one. We come from God; we share in God’s work; we return to God – “an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison.”

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.