Michael Burns Funeral Sermon

It is fitting that we should read this story of the Good Samaritan here, today, at the funeral of Michael Scott Burns. For those who knew him well, it’s such a clear and obvious depiction of the deepest values by which he lived. Mike was what we mean when we say of someone, that “they’re a good Samaritan” – not by any sense of forced duty or false piety – but by his spirit. It was his true way of being in this world. As his son Skylar says, “He was always the first to help a stranger down on their luck and buy them a meal.”  A person in need would always become Mike’s priority: If they were before him and if it was at all within his power to help, he would, often putting their needs before the more “important” needs of his paying clients. Which, I’m sure, was very annoying for them! But, from a Kingdom of God, Good Samaritan perspective, it was an extraordinary virtue. “The first shall be last, and the last shall be first.” So said our Christ. So knew our Mike. “Do this, and you will live.”

And so this becomes our deep and abiding hope for Mike. After all, this story of the Good Samaritan was precipitated by a man who came to Jesus, asking what was required to inherit eternal life. “Love God and love your neighbor” was the right reply. “Do this, and you will live.” And this is what Mike did, time and again. And so, we trust – even in death, especially in death – that Mike’s living has begun, perhaps now in the fullest and freest of ways.

I say this with no disrespect for all who are grieving, whose preference – clearly – would be to still have him here, with us, in this life, in health. Of course. Of course. How could love desire anything other?

But as I continue to think of Mike, alongside this story of the Good Samaritan, I’m mindful of something else. Not only does it give us an image and a language to describe the deep, underlying virtue in Mike’s life; not only does it give us a hope that it is by such virtue that God rewards the faithful in eternal life; this image of the Good Samaritan reveals something else as well: What makes the behavior of the Good Samaritan “virtuous” is its consistency with the behavior of God. After all, that’s what virtue is: It’s living like God lives; it’s loving like God loves; it’s valuing what God values. Which means, the compassion modeled by the Good Samaritan is how God lives and loves and values us. This is how God lives and loves and values Mike.

God is the Good Samaritan, who – coming down the road – saw a man who had fallen into the hands of destructive forces – forces that had stripped him bare and beat him, and left him to die. And, moved with pity, God bandaged his wounds, put that man upon his own horse, and brought him home – to tend and to heal at great cost to himself.

This was the faith Mike clung to tenaciously. This was the belief he held at the core of his being. He knew Jesus, and all he had done for us – done for him. Like we sang in that old-timey hymn, “For ‘twas on that old cross Jesus suffered and died to pardon and sanctify me.” This was Mike’s faith and hope. And now it is his reality. He is pardoned. He is sanctified. And he is free. He has clung to the old rugged cross, and exchanged it this day for a crown.

Alongside the urn that holds Mike’s ashes are two symbols. The first is the paschal candle. Every year, on the eve of Easter, we gather outside in the dark of night to light a bonfire. And to that fire we bring a new candle, tall and white, lighting it from the flames. Then we hold it aloft – the first sign of hope that Christ is about to be raised from the dead – and we process behind it, chanting over and over again, “The light of Christ. Thanks be to God.” Then we burn that candle throughout the season of Easter, a perpetual symbol that Christ is risen; that death could not hold him – could not prevent the power and intention of God to restore life to the fallen. And at every funeral, this candle is lit again, and placed right beside the body (the ashes) as a testimony to us and to all the forces of evil: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it” (John 1:5).

Beside the urn is a Bible. It’s Mike’s Bible, one he carried with him and read for years. Through many seasons of sorrow and difficulty, he kept reading it – kept finding in it the reason to hope and persevere – as both the recipient of God’s love and the agent of God’s love. He had “1 Cor. 13” tattooed on his hand – a testimony and reminder to himself, of the power of love: “Love is patient; love is kind; it is not envious or boastful … Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends…. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known. And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love.”

Mike was especially devoted to the book of Proverbs. He read these proverbs daily, that long list of exhortations and maxims of how to live well and responsibly in this world. It’s what he wanted – the Mike he wanted to be. They were a kind of beacon to him, even when it was very dark and very foggy.

Within the Bible he kept his own list, written years before, of the values that mattered most to him: Humility, family, honesty, hope, spirituality, humor, forgiveness, intimacy, purpose, loving.

And if there was any one place that this list was most realized, it was with his children. Skylar says, “I always remember that he always hugged you a second too long and had a big goofy smile afterward.” “If you wanted to see his soul,” said Carina, “it was on full display every time he saw his daughter. (And his dogs!)”

He would leave little notes around the house for Cora – notes of love and pride and affection. He’d make her lunch every morning, often with a note included. He’d say prayers with her every night. And if he couldn’t be home, he’d call her on the phone, to say their prayers together, She became for him something of a sacred space. With her, within the space of their relationship, there was a clarity for him, that came with a power, in which he could live in truth – in the truth of what matters, in the truth of her worth, and of his own. With her, in that moment, he could forget about the rest of the world and the demons dropped away.

On the Saturday before he died, he walked in the Maritime Parade with Cora and her school. He shared a picnic lunch with her and Carina and their moms. He made a balloon hat for Cora to wear. It’s the last picture on his phone – of a beautiful day, a parade, a picnic, and his child, wearing a silly hat.

Mike died on the following Monday – on the couch, in his shop, his work gloves still on his hands.

Mike was a hard worker, and had been his whole life.

In grade school he once went around the neighborhood selling rocks he had collected. In middle school he learned to polish shoes and would go to downtown Missoula to polish shoes on the weekends. As a young man he and his brother Lee opened a tattoo shop, “Painless Steel,” that grew into five shops. He also worked with his brother Kirk, doing welding and pipe fitting.Many people know him now for his business restoring Airstream trailers. He loved working with his clients to bring their visions to life.

But nowhere did he work harder than in his fight to persevere in this life: to keep seeking health and wholeness; to fight the forces that had plagued him since youth; to fight for the love of his family and commitment to God; to keep fighting his demons – even when he wasn’t winning; to “not give up before the miracle.”

But in the end, when he had fought with everything he had, he had fought enough, and was welcomed home to heaven instead.

There’s a video of Mike and Cora, dancing together in their living room to the “Lord of the Dance.” It’s a song I used to sing every night to my own daughter when she was Cora’s age. The song itself, is a testimony to the spirit of Christ who, too, was a fighter. But what’s so lovely about this song is the way that Christ’s tenacity is expressed – not as a fighter in the ring or soldier on the battlefield – but as a dancer.

Through the forging creation; in the face of his adversaries; in the presence of legalism and abuse; even on the cross “with the devil on his back,” Christ kept dancing. He is the Lord of the dance. For in the end – as it was in the beginning – it is life that wins. It is love that triumphs. It is mercy that overcomes all sin and brokenness. It is the dance – not the chaos – that shall determine the tempo of our days and every day to come, from henceforth, evermore. For our Mike is with his Lord, Christ, who is and ever shall be, the Lord of the Dance.