In my Father’s house are many mansions.” (Jn. 14:2)

Homily given at the Funeral of Jean Bergmark, by her daughter, in The Little Chapel of Glenn Memorial Church, Atlanta, GA, March 3, 2012
Jan Robitscher

“

Funeral for Jean Bergmark                                                                  
Jan Robitscher
The Little Chapel  
Glenn Memorial Church
March 3, 2012 

            1 John 3:1-2                                                                           

            John 14: 1-6                                                                           

                                                                                                           

In the Name of God: Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Amen

First, I would like to thank Susan Pinson and the staff of Glenn Memorial Church, Son Saliers, Timothy Albrecht and everyone who has helped bring about this lovely service, and for all of you who have come to remember our mother, Jean.  It is the presence of the community that carries our prayers and surrounds of with God’s love and gives us the hope of eternal life in this time of loss.

Jean Lucille Begeman Robitscher Bergmark. Each of these names denotes a phase of Jean’s life.  Most particularly, each is connected with a house: Ann Arbor, Michigan, St. Louis, Washington, D.C., Bryn Mawr, PA, Atlanta, GA.; 779 Clifton Rd, The Clifton and finally at Canterbury Court. Each house was beautiful and had rooms full of art and antiques, and, as the family grew, people, too. Each house became a place of hospitality for friends and strangers, of conviviality, of music, and good food, too.  

As important as these houses were to Jean’s live (and ours, too), they are not the whole story. For Jean and Jonas also had  a keen interest in providing rental houses in Washington and Atlanta.  Again, they were concerned with beauty and restoration and for providing homes for people who needed them. There was the restoration of the Houston Mill House which became a focal point on the Emory Campus. But it didn’t stop there. Mom helped found Jerusalem House, a place of hospice for patients with HIV/AIDS--not a popular thing to do at the time.  For Mom was concerned with all people: her family, friends, and those less fortunate. Her sphere crossed racial and social lines. For Mom, everyone needed a home and every home was a welcoming place. 

Jean Bergmark

Toward the end of Mom’s life, her home was diminished to one room at Canterbury Court--but Oh! what a room!  Decorated with her favorite art and with a beautiful view of a magnolia tree, this last “home”, while not where she would have preferred to be, still reflected all of Jean’s qualities of beauty, friendship and hospitality. Her rooms--all of them-- brought to mind the lines of the poem “Christ's Part” by  Robert Herrick:

            Christ, He requires still, wheresoe'er He comes

            To feed or lodge, to have the best of rooms:

            Give Him the choice; grant Him the nobler part

            Of all the house: the best of all's the heart.

That’s what it is! Beyond all the places where Mom lived and worked and entertained and served, it was her heart that was the best room of all, and that heart she offered in a deep and personal way, to God.

One of the stories  of gentle humor that I remember  Mom telling was of a time that she observed someone buying a Bible. She asked for one with the words of Jesus in red letters. The sales person found one and opened it randomly to a page in the Gospels, one with not many words in red, to which the buyer quipped, “He must not have said much”!

Oh! But Jesus did say much, and his words must have comforted his disciples just as they comfort us today: 

            Jesus said, "Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father's house there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? 

I prefer the King James translation: “In my Father’s house there are many mansions. Yes, I like to think of Mom in a heaven filled with mansions--all beautiful, all expertly decorated, all places of warmth, hospitality and filled with the presence of God.  

Flowers so alive looking

In the Episcopal Church, at a service such as this one, we say, “For to your faithful people, O Lord, life is changed, not ended.”  So Mom has made the transition from this earthly life and it’s houses to eternal life in the place of God’s  mansions.

One more story: Toward the end, Linda and I were sitting with Mom. We were pretty sure she was asleep, and in any case could not hear or respond. We both remarked that she looked very beautiful, as always, to which Mom responded “Thank you”. Linda and I looked at each other and said “Wow!”.   

I believe it was Meister Eckhart who said, “If the only prayer we say is Thank You, it is enough”. And so I say, Thank you, God for Jean Robitscher Bergmark. Thank you for life, for the family she created, for her friends, for her many talents and passionate causes, for her care of many houses. May she dwell with you in a heaven filled with mansions. And, God, if you need a really good house manager, Jean’s the one! 

“Again, Jesus spoke to them, saying, ‘I am the light of the world.’” (Jn. 8:12)

Homily at Evensong given St. Mark's Episcopal Church,
Berkeley, California February 2011...
Jan Robitscher

Year 1: Epiphany VI                                                                                                                

Jan Robitscher
Evensong
St. Mark’s Church
February 13, 2011

                Psalm 19                                                                                                                 
                Isaiah 62:6-12                                                                                                         
                John 8: 12-19                                                                                                         

 

In the Name of God: Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Amen.        

So, here we are, in the midst of the service of Evensong, as the sun is setting, singing God’s praises, in the middle of the Season of the Epiphany--or “showing forth” of God in Christ--the Season of Light.

But in a way, it would be hard  to tell, as we are surrounded by electric lights that almost obliterate the difference between day and night. And what of all those candles? Are they not superfluous? And yet we do watch the sky darken and catch the light mediated by the stained glass and we must admit that our world is often a pretty dark and scary place,  especially at night. Sometimes all the lights of our streets and cities--and even here--only mask our anxiety. Maybe we really are afraid of the dark. Maybe we really are comforted by those candles. Maybe they remind us that we do need Jesus to be our light. But how does this happen and what does Jesus mean anyway claiming himself to be “the light of the world”? And what does this mean for us?

I think the way in might be through the words of the Phos Hilaron, the hymn “O Gracious Light” that we sang just a few moments ago. It dates from at least the 3rd century and is among the oldest of Christian hymns in continuous use.  

Basil the Great (d. A.D. 379) speaks of this hymn as so ancient that no one knows its author. (The Hymnal 1982 Companion, Vol. Two, p. 24)  It was sung as the lamps were lit (and still is in Orthodox Vespers--you can see it and hear it on YouTube). Let’s look at the words again from the Book of Common Prayer (p, 64):

            Said:                O Gracious Light.

                                                Pure brightness of the everliving Father in heaven.

                                                O Jesus Christ, holy and blessed!

Stained glass, St Mark's

It is here that we find the very claim Jesus makes of himself in our Gospel reading: I AM the light of the world. The hymn-prayer  addresses Jesus: Phos hilaron--O gracious light, quite literally, O happy--O hilarious light--Jesus, the Light that is the source of our joy and our peace as night approaches. Jesus, the merciful and redeeming light, not only of the People Israel, but of the whole world. Jesus, the Light that the darkness cannot overcome.               

                                    Now as we come to the setting of the sun,

                                                and our eyes behold the vesper light,

                                                we sing thy praises, O God: Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

It is in this second verse that we find the purpose of all these lights and especially all the candles we see. They remind us, who have not seen Jesus in the flesh, that we are surrounded by God in Trinity of Persons and unity of being. Jesus is right here. Knowing this, we will pray for protection through the coming night.

And the final verse:

                                    Thou art worthy at all times

                                                to be praised by happy voices,

                                                O Son of God, O giver of life,

                                                and to be glorified through all the worlds.

“Even though you do not believe me, then believe the works...” (Jn. 10:38)

Homily at Church Divinity School of the Pacific, Berkeley, California
in All Saints Chapel--Lent 5, 2011 by Jan Robitscher

Friday, Lent 5                                                                                                                          

Jan Robitscher
All Saints Chapel
CDSP
April 15, 2011

                Jeremiah 20:7-11                                                                                                    

                Psalm 18:107                                                                                                                          

                John 10:31-42                                                                                                        

In the Name of God: Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Amen.

Anyone who has ever come over to my house has seen a little pillow on my couch. It reads, “Believe in Miracles”. Not exactly what I was taught in the Bible courses I had in college and then seminary, or in much of the preaching I have heard since. But I do believe in miracles, and in a way that is particular to the Gospel of John. In the Fourth Gospel, Jesus’ miracles or “signs” or “works” as they are called, besides being visible interventions of God into human activity, always point beyond themselves, beyond Jesus, to God. And it is from them that we learn who God is and how much God loves us. But in John there is also a keen sense of time. So we could say that to understand--believe--this Gospel--this part of the Good News--is to be able to read “the signs of the times”.

So here we are, on the Friday before Holy Week. How does it feel? Has Lent rushed by so that we have not even started what we intended to do? Or has it seemed endlessly slow, as though it would never end--a great slog to Holy Week? Have you stopped to observe along the way or has life gone on apace?

As Christians, we are ever conscious of time. Indeed, much of our life together is spent sanctifying time or, as the title of Marion Hatchett’s book goes, Sanctifying Life, Time and Space. How we do that may vary from place to place. But that we do it is essential to who we are. Our lives are situated in the seasons of the Christian Year, of the week, the day and even of this hour. Alexander Schmemann puts it this way:

               

                        We are always living between morning and evening, Sunday 

                                and Sunday, Easter and Easter, between the two comings

                              of Christ.     

                                                                  (A Sourcebook About Liturgy, p. 126)

Our Gospel reading is set in its own “time”, both literal and figurative. It comes after the healing of the man born blind (which is the penultimate in the series of great signs in John’s Gospel--the ones we have heard on the Sundays of Lent) and then the verses about the Good Shepherd, but before the final, great sign of the raising of Lazarus (celebrated in the Orthodox calendar tomorrow, Lazarus Saturday)--a sort of “hinge” passage that propels us toward the final events of the Passion and resurrection of Jesus. The Pharisees are about to stone Jesus--again. But Jesus was not just going to die any old death. In many places he says “My hour has not yet come”--not yet, not until the he could willingly lay down his life, giving himself into human hands to the very end.

The argument with the Pharisees is also, in a curious way, set in time. They accuse Jesus of “making himself God”. In reality, God, at that time, has become human in Jesus; “him whom the Father consecrated and sent into the world”. He tried to tell them and even invited them to “believe the works” if they didn’t believe him, so that they might know that Jesus was God’s Son. But they tried yet again to stone him and he escaped from their hands and went to the region where John had baptized, “and they believed in him there”. What did John’s followers get that the Pharisees didn’t? 

It seems the Pharisees were stuck in the present moment. They could only feel time closing in on them. The more and greater signs Jesus did, the more they felt threatened. The more Jesus identified himself with God, the more he tried to tell them that he was doing only his Father’s will, the more they refused to see God acting in their own time and place.  

John’s disciples, it seemed, were able to look at and through and beyond the signs Jesus did to see the coming of the Reign of God.  They were able to believe because they were not stuck in the present moment, unable either to learn from their past (Jesus’ reference to Psalm 82, “you are gods”) or to the future, toward which Jesus’ signs were always pointing.  

Only in the freedom of living “between the times” can we see beyond our present situation, individual or collective, and enter into the life of Christ, whose Body we are. That is why, in a few minutes, we will hear again the story of our salvation in the Eucharistic Prayer and be reminded again of God’s mighty acts. And we will make present (anamnesis) Jesus’ acts of the Last Supper. Then we will receive the very life of Jesus in a foretaste of the heavenly banquet, looking to his coming again in glory. We will, for a brief moment, be suspended in a wonderful, liturgical, present moment between the times, past and future, already and not yet.  

Jesus offered the Pharisees the opportunity to let go of the urgency of time and even of trust. “Even though you do not believe me, believe the works, that you may know that the Father is in me and I am in the Father.” This is not what we usually hear about signs and miracles, so Jesus offers us a unique opportunity, too.Take time--all the time you need--to walk the whole walk of Holy Week. Allow yourself to be suspended in liturgical time. Look around you to see the signs and miracles everywhere--even right here.Take time to ponder and absorb and celebrate them. Don’t worry--you will know them when you see them; God will show them to you. And just as Jesus went across to the region where John was baptizing, where they believed in him, “believe the works”--Jesus’ signs--and follow the events of Jesus’ Passion, death and resurrection all the way to the “womb and tomb” (as Cyril said) of the font of an even greater baptism, of dying and rising with Jesus, receiving the greatest gift--of being created anew even to dwelling with him forever in the timelessness of eternal life. 

“The souls of the righteous are in the
hand of God...”
(Wisdom 3:1)


All Faithful Departed
Jan Robitscher
St. Mark’s Church
Berkeley, CA
November 3, 2008

Wisdom 3:1-9
Psalm 130
1 Cor. 15:50-58
John 5:24-27
In the Name of God: Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Amen.

Yesterday we celebrated All Saints’ Day with festival hymns and banners, and great confidence that those whom the Church calls Saints (Apostles, Martyrs and those who lead heroic lives for the faith) dwell with God and we with them--the Communion of Saints. And we said bravely that “we look for the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting”.

But then the music fades and the banners are put away, we are suddenly left in silence. What then? What of those near and dear to us? After all, the earliest Church called them “saints”, too. And yet we wonder: How is it with them? Where are they? Do they remember us? Will we remember them? How will we ever fill the hole they have left? We feel so alone. Perhaps it is for these reasons that the Church invites us to gather and offers us the commemoration of All Faithful Departed.

The mystery, the human anguish, the sense of loss, the desire for continued communion... these things have from antiquity found their ritualized form of expression in each culture and age...1 One expression of these is a Mexican saying that we die three deaths: the first when our bodies die, the second when our bodies are lowered into the earth out of sight, and the third when our loved ones forget us.2 These are fearful questions that are reflected in our society by an almost absolute silence about death. But this is not the response of Christians, and here is where we can learn from the practices of different cultures. In Mexico, in the mixture of Christian traditions and indigenous cultures, death is not feared; rather, it is celebrated. Tonight we have chosen to share in a part of that celebration. Look over there! See the Día de los Muertos altar we have constructed together. Many photos stand as a testimony to those whom we love but see no longer. Like icons of the better-known saints, they are windows to God in whom they now live and move and have their being, though in a different way than we do now. That is one way we can overcome the “three deaths”.

Another way is through the music which the Choir offers tonight. Jacob Clemens non Papa lived from 1515-1555, almost all of his short (and at the end, fraught) life of 40 years in the Netherlands. Little is known about his life except that he was a priest, a composer of many choral works including masses, motets, Psalm settings, and the Requiem which comprises most of our liturgical music tonight.3 While we don’t know for whom this Requiem was written, we do know that Clemens (the appellation “non Papa”--not the pope of the same name--is more humor than humility) has infused it with an intimacy and emotion that was not common in his time. Each part begins with the liturgical chant and then continues with Clemens’ beautiful polyphony.4 I hope you will allow the music to surround you; to hold and enfold you like a lullaby and give you the words and notes to go with the pictures on the table or in your mind’s eye of those who have died.

Music reaches into us in deep and profound ways, but it, and the picture-altar we have created are not the only ways to overcome “the three deaths”. Our readings all attest to God’s unfailing care of us for this life and for the next. Indeed, all the words and actions of our liturgy bring us the Good News that “life is changed, not ended”. It is Jesus who begs an invitation to come to us in Communion to fill the holes left by our departed loved ones. And it is the Holy Spirit who prays in us when we are not able to find the words... which leads us back to the music of this night’s liturgy.

The Funeral Ikos, of the contemporary composer John Tavener, which we will hear at the end of the Liturgy, gives us another way in which to hold our loved ones before God. Here, in words gathered from the Orthodox funeral of a priest, we encounter the questions I posed at the beginning--and the answer. At the death of a loved one we are always left wondering: Why? How are they now? Do they remember us as we do them? All of these questions are a natural part of the mystery of death and of our grief. But we must listen to the very end! For, like a procession, this piece begins far away. Yet even as the questions grow more urgent and the description of death more real, the Alleluias after each verse grow more confident until they become a cry of victory. And at the very end we hear that our departed loved ones dwell in God’s presence, and we are invited to join the procession:

Let us all, also, enter into Christ,
that all we may cry aloud thus unto God:

Alleluia, Alleluia, alleluia.
ALLELUIA!