There's a Bottle of Glenlivet Missing!

This is another entry from my sermon files. This one was delivered at the Memorial Service of my grandfather, Kenneth Jackson Silberberg: affectionately referred to as "Papa," who entered the Lord's presence on October 1, 2006. He enjoyed drinking Scotch, hence the sermon title, but you ought to know that my Grandmother ("Granny") strongly disapproved of it at the time:

"Papa would have loved it, Gran"
"But he's not going to be there!"
"Okay Granny. I'll take it out."

So - the title didn't make it into the program, but it stayed on my preaching copy, and I know that it fit with Papa's very dry sense of humor; much like his scotch. I still miss him, as I know my entire family does.

*****

Our reading from the Hebrew Bible comes from the 23rd Psalm, out of the King James version. Hear the Word of the Lord.

1The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.
2He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
he leadeth me beside the still waters.
3He restoreth my soul:
he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
4Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil:
for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
5Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies:
thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
6Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:
and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever.

(Let us pray)
Bless us, Oh God, with a reverent sense of your presence,
that we may be at peace.
And Grant that the Word you speak this day
may take root in our hearts,
and bear fruit to your honor and glory,
for the sake of Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.





My mom called to deliver the news I’d known would be coming – and she mentioned that it happened rather quickly, in the sense that one moment Papa was breathing and then – he wasn’t. When it comes right down to it – that really is the distance between that place and this one. You’re here, and then you’re not.

We’re told that while we have these times with each other we ought to enjoy them. And I think it’s fair to say, looking over it, that Papa was a man who in addition to having a life filled with years – was certainly a man who had years full of life.

My memories of Papa usually involve other family members – you see, holidays are a big deal in our family. Thanksgiving and Christmas especially, but then in early Spring we’d get together for the birthdays of Anne, Marshall, Meghan, Sally, and George. We’d usually combine Father’s Day with Papa’s birthday in June, and on the 4th of July we’d be at Lacy Park to watch fireworks. In the fall we would celebrate Ryan, me, Granny and for the past twelve years my brother-in-law Duane’s birthdays.

Then we’d be back at Thanksgiving and Christmas – combining Christmas with Scott’s and Linda’s birthdays – much to their chagrin - and starting the whole calendar over again. Really – I’m not sure we were all that concerned about celebrating the big events as much as we just wanted to get together – in fact, I’m not convinced that it’s the holidays that are such a big deal in our family as much that it’s family that’s a big deal in our family. At any rate, at every season in life we were together – and at the head of everything was Papa.

I learned from him about all the things you’re supposed to learn from your grandfather. I learned about fishing, golf, cigars and the joy of a very-old scotch opened up with just a splash of water. These are also the things Presbyterians love talking about from Methodist Pulpits – and I think he would get a kick out of hearing me speak of them.

When I was younger, I’d go to Granny and Papa’s house with my parents, and he would bring me into his dark room as he was developing film, usually after he and Granny had come home from one of their trips. He’d have taken hundreds of pictures – in the days before digital cameras when taking pictures involved actual film and actual talent and actual surprise when you got home and saw the pictures for the first time. As he developed the film he’d tell me about what they did and where they’d been – a lot like a slide show, but with chemicals, darkness, and strange smells from bottles and trays… it had a bit of mad-scientist flair to it, and it was pretty cool. Papa knew how to entertain us when we were small, educate us as we grew, and encourage us as adults – it’s like he always knew what we needed, and was always there.

He was injured during the War, as we know, which brought him home, but didn’t bring him down. He had a stroke in the 80’s which gave him pause – a bit - and then cancers of assorted varieties that tried to get him – but didn’t. And after a while, even though he was moving slower, it just seemed like nothing would ever stop him.

Which, of course, made it so strange a few years ago when he started to stop. And if it seemed strange to us, it was doubly strange for him. Not that he’d admit it, of course: he bore the weight of his failing body with the same dogged determination that drove him across the dunes of Iwo Jima. And you got the sense he wasn’t ready – he wasn’t done – there were things he still wanted to do; that he loved life, he loved his family and he wanted more of both.



I was thinking about this last week, and was reminded of a work by the poet Dylan Thomas:

“DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT”
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Papa looked at me on Father’s Day, and from a pair of tired eyes said simply, “it’s no fun getting old,” and I think he knew somewhere deep down that what had previously held him up was now giving way. I think the great tragedy of his passing is the obvious one – that it wasn’t so much that Papa stopped, but that his body, tired with its long raging, and spent from a life of not going gently – finally went, finally left.


Someone named John Calvin once said that “True and solid Wisdom, consists… of two parts: the knowledge of God and of ourselves.” Knowing ourselves reminds us of our limitations – our mortality. Knowing God reminds us of hope, and our eternal destination.

It’s situations like this when we are reminded that we are human, and God is not. When, echoing the sentiments of David who wrote the 23rd Psalm a better part of 3,000 years ago, we come back to knowing that we are but sheep in a pasture, and the Lord is our shepherd.

On the subject of sheep, I was reminded of my time in Ireland a few years ago. I decided I wanted to have my picture taken with some real Irish sheep, and as my friends and I were looking at some ruins in a field, there were sheep about 50 yards away; so I wandered over to say hello.

About 49 yards out, they saw me coming and wandered away. I started walking a little faster, and so did they. I saw that this was not going to go well, so naturally I did what any mature adult would do in the middle of an Irish pasture. I started chasing sheep.

Now sheep aren’t too bright, but they know who they belong to, and I was not that person. I was not their master, they did not know my voice. It probably also didn’t help that I was wearing an overcoat made of black wool, and that probably made them very nervous on a whole other level. But they have one defense mechanism – and it is housed entirely in their feet. A sheep in danger runs away.

But with a shepherd, there is nothing they lack. He has a rod to protect them, and a staff to guide them. There is food, drink, rest, and life. A sheep without a shepherd is a sheep in trouble. A sheep who wanders alone is not going to make it very far.

Halfway through his Psalm David shifts perspective from 3rd person to 2nd – from talking about the Lord to talking to the Lord. We move from the imagery of a sheep to that of a refugee. We know from the story of David’s life that he experienced both worlds – he started out in the fields as a shepherd, and then he killed Goliath and achieved notoriety to make the current King Saul jealous. Saul, of course, decided that if he couldn’t be more popular than David, he could at the very least have him killed – so David went into hiding.

And it’s from this life – begun in the fields guiding and protecting sheep, and running from powerful figures bringing death in their wake, that David writes this metaphor of dependence on God – recognizing who we are, and who we are not.

Scripture tells us – not just here – but everywhere from beginning to end, that God is our provider, supplier, guide, guardian – through darkness, beside stillness, in the presence of evil, that he restores our soul and overfills our cup….

On the night he was betrayed Jesus told his disciples, “I go to prepare a place for you” and as the Good Shepherd Jesus pointed into eternity he indicated – that’s where this all ends up, and that’s what this is all about. By the next evening Jesus had been killed, and three days after that he rose from the grave on that first Easter morning to break open the reality that eternity is our destination, and by faith in Him through his gracious, unconditional gift we will live in the house of the Lord forever.

And not because we’ve done anything special, or behaved appropriately – Lord knows it’s not because we behaved appropriately – but it’s because God’s goodness and mercy pursue us all the days of our lives – this shepherd does not lose track of his sheep. We will dwell there forever because he chose us, and by his grace we know that when our time in the pasture is through, we’ll go home to our place that Jesus has been preparing for us.

The sheep in Ireland knew I was not their shepherd, and they ran away, probably looking for him. If we are sheep – in God’s big pasture – it raises a question… can you tell the difference between the Lord as your shepherd, and something else? And – if you are on your own, or relying on something else – how’s that working out for you?

If you’ve felt something pulling at your heart, I wonder whether it might be a shepherd’s staff giving you a nudge. And if it is – my fellow sheep – maybe it’s time to let the shepherd take the lead, and stop trying to go it alone.

The great writer Henry Van Dyke, reflecting on the meaning of death and immortality, writes: “I am standing on the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength, and I stand and watch until at last she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come down to mingle with each other. Then someone at my side says, “there she goes!”
“Gone where?” Gone from my sight – that is all. She is just as large in mast and hull and span as she was when she left my sight and just as able to bear her load of living freight to the place of destination. Her diminished size is in me, not in her. And just at the moment when someone at my side says, “There she goes!” there are other eyes – watching her coming and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, “Here she comes! Here she comes!” on the other shore.

After a long, full life Papa has gone home – and as we say to ourselves, “there he goes,” we know that somewhere on the other side a great chorus is ringing “here he comes!” “Here he comes!” Would that we all recognize the Lord as our shepherd, and that we all shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
Amen.