It Is Well with My Soul

Messages of Hope for the Bereaved

Harold T. Lewis

• Publisher: Wipf and Stock
• Year: 2018
• Print ISBN: 9781532652530, 9781532652547
• eBook ISBN: 9781532652554
• Topic: Theology & Religion
• Subtopic: Christian Ministry

Preachers at funerals differ in approach. Some see the purpose of the sermon to be eulogy, to heap so much praise that the deceased becomes unrecognizable to the mourners. Others regard praise of the departed as inappropriate, as it may detract from the praise of Almighty God, which they believe to be the sole purpose of all worship. Still others opt to say nothing at all, arguing that it is disingenuous for one person to be lying in the pulpit while another is lying in the nave. In this book of funeral sermons preached throughout his forty-year ministry, Harold Lewis offers Jesus' message of the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection--hope for the dead, hope for the church, and hope for the world in which we live, move, and have our being.

III: ALL SORTS AND CONDITIONS OF MEN

“It is well with my soul.”

CURTIS WINFIELD SISCO Jr., Priest (1958–1992)

Preached in the Church of St. Andrew & St. Monica, Philadelphia 28 November 1992

In the sight of the unwise they seemed to die . . . and their going from us is utter destruction, but they are at peace. (Wis 3:2–3)

Five and a half years—a mere sixty-six months ago, when I first had the privilege of mounting this pulpit, it was on the joyous occasion when we gathered to set apart and ordain our well-beloved brother in Christ, Curtis Winfield Sisco Jr., as a priest in Christ’s holy catholic church. Today, an even greater privilege has been accorded me—as I preach at this solemn mass of requiem at which we commend Curtis to the provident and never-failing care of Jesus Christ, the Bishop and Shepherd of our souls, in whose eternal high priesthood it was Curtis’s joy to share.

Although I have known for several months, since the day that Curtis humbled me by requesting that I function in this capacity, that this honor would befall me, I gave no thought whatsoever to what I would say until Monday, when Cutis breathed his last. There are probably two reasons for this. One is the same reason that people have for not making wills: I was in denial. The second is that I simply did not know what I would say. Instead, I took Jesus at his word when he assured us that, when it came time to speak, he would give us the power of utterance. I prayed that God would be merciful to me as he had been with the prophet Jeremiah and would put the words into my mouth.

For in times like these, words are all that we have. Inadequate though words may be, in and of themselves, they are expected to soothe our pain, lessen our sorrow, assuage our guilt, and make sense out of senselessness. Curtis’s father, who gave his son life and his name thirty-four years ago, hopes that the words of a prayer will give him some confidence. Bernie, who herself has been immeasurably touched by her brother’s ministry, prays that a friend’s expression of sympathy will comfort her; Cecil, who, like Solomon, can say that his brother’s going from him is “utter destruction” hopes that a homiletic offering, perhaps, can provide some explanation for his great loss; Curtis’s beloved nana, to whom he presented a rose in this church on the day of his ordination, is hopeful that the words of a hymn might lift her from her devastation.

And all of us, friends and colleagues, expect words to work miracles today. Because when a man dies young, as Curtis has, our pain, our guilt, our disbelief, and, yes, our anger are greater than usual. For although we mouth the majestic words of the burial office, “In the midst of life we are in death”; although we listen to that beautifully cadenced prayer that reads, “Make us, we beseech thee, deeply sensible of the shortness and uncertainty of life”; yet in our heart of hearts we believe that our timetable is the one to which we should adhere, not God’s; and when a person’s life falls too sort of the Psalmist’s threescore years and ten, we fly in God’s face. You see, events like Curtis’s death remind us that, while we may have our respective master plans, they do not always jibe with the Master’s Plan. And it is for this very reason that we, who in our arrogance decide which deaths are “timely” and which are “untimely,” are instructed by the church with these words from the book of The Wisdom of Solomon:

For though they be punished in the sight of men, yet is their hope full of immortality. And having been chastised, they shall be greatly rewarded: for God proved them, and found them worthy for himself. (Wis 3:4–5)

What is Curtis’s legacy to our church? First of all, Curtis leaves us a deep and abiding understanding of the nature and dignity of the priesthood. Curtis was a priest’s priest. Nobody can remember when Curtis was not a priest. That is because what Bishop Bartlett and the rest of us did in this church five years ago was merely to recognize officially that which had been his identity from the start. “Before I formed you in the womb,” said God to Curtis, “I knew you for my own; before you were born I consecrated you.” There are many clergy for whom the priesthood is something that they do; for our departed brother Curtis it was something that he was. He was priest in every bone, in every sinew. When Curtis said he would keep you in his prayers, we knew that was not some mere cliché. When Curtis celebrated mass, it was as natural to him as breathing. When he preached, his listeners knew at once that Jesus was no stranger to him.

Secondly, Curtis bequeaths to us a love of the liturgy. And let the record show that he was no garden-variety “spike”—one who grooves on bells and smells for their own sake. He understood the deeper significance of every gesture, every vestment, every rubric, and saw each as it was originally intended, a vessel of God’s grace. For this reason, Curtis was truly in his element when he was orchestrating worship, for he never lost sight of the larger picture, the ultimate purpose of worship—to bring heaven down to earth—to grant us in our earthly pilgrimage a vision of the heavenly Jerusalem. He was the quintessential master of ceremonies. His imposing presence notwithstanding, he could move about a sanctuary with dignity and grace. A nod of the head, a glance, a gentle prodding at the elbow, all of which was imperceptible to the faithful in the pews, would instill obedience, reverence, and holy fear in the hearts of acolytes, priests, and even greater prelates—and would invariably achieve the desired result. No one can forget the worship services at the UBE conference last year; people thronged the church each evening to see if Curtis could outdo what had transpired the night before, and they were not disappointed. When I visited him in New Orleans on the night before he returned to Philadelphia, he said to me that God had had a sense of humor for having spared him for the deanship of the UBE conference, which Curtis described as his “swan song.” But that was not to be; God spared him to coordinate the music and worship for the glorious mass less than three weeks ago, which was the culmination of the celebration of the two-hundred-year anniversary of the black presence in the Episcopal Church

Thirdly, Curtis Winfeld Sisco Jr. was a teacher. His brother and sister clergy called, wrote, and faxed him regularly when they wanted to do an evensong or a Corpus Christi procession; they called him when they wanted to know if they were entitled to wear piping on their cassock or biretta and, if so, which color. The answer was always on the tip of tongue; and, if not, it was at his fingertips, for he know exactly what missal, sacramentary, or manual to consult. Being an accomplished musician as well, he could do workshops on worship which left the faithful not only enlightened but inspired. He taught all of us, too, on the editorial committee of Lift Every Voice and Sing II, giving the book shape and meaning—and I am happy to announce that that hymnal will be dedicated to his blessed memory.

Lastly, Curtis, a man of gentle spirit, who quietly but effectively went about his work, was an inspiration to others, including those aspiring to holy orders (significant in itself in a day when black vocations are woefully few because too many of clergy are too embittered to commend the priesthood to young men and women). And in his last days, those of who were close to him were inspired by his courage. It was courageous Curtis who summoned me to his beside to be his amanuensis and then dictated, with clarity of vision, his wishes and instructions—down to the last rubric—for his own burial. It was a courageous Curtis who told his grandmother that he was not afraid of death but rather was only concerned about his family’s sufferings. It was courageous Curtis who, when he knew he was dying, never ceased to be guided by the words of the hymn: “If I can help somebody along the way, then my living shall not be in vain.” Although he knew he was dying, he went to North Carolina to preach Monroe Freeman’s installation; although he knew he was dying, he went to New York to play for Bert Gibson’s funeral; although he knew he was dying, he came to the black clergy conference last month to coordinate our music and worship. It was courageous Curtis who, earlier this month, after the service at the Church of the Advocate, could say, “It is finished.” In dying, Curtis taught us how to live.

All of this does not mean that Curtis was perfect, just a little lower than the angels. Like all of us sinful human beings who have fallen short of the glory of God, there were times when he had done those things that he ought not to have done and left undone those things that he ought to have done. Indeed, his besetting sin was likely the flip-side of his life of service, because the traits of those who take servant ministry seriously, however laudable, often result in a self-denial, a self-negation, a failure to look out for “number one.” Virtually boundless concern for others means that one’s own problems often get a low priority. So like the Blessed Apostle, desiring “to give no offense in anything” he suffered “afflictions, necessities and distresses . . . tumults and labors, watching and fastings,” but also, like Saint Paul, he could say, “By the word of truth, the power of God, by the armor of righteousness on the right and on the left . . . as unknown and yet well known; as sorrowful yet always rejoicing, as poor yet making many rich, as having nothing and yet possessing all things” (2 Cor 6:7–10).

It may well be that, in his earthly pilgrimage, Curtis found comfort and solace in the words of that great hymn:

When peace like a river attendeth my way,

When sorrows like sea billows roll;

Whatever my lot, that hast taught me to say

It is well, it is well with my soul.

And even when his body was wracked with disease and he lay at the point of death, he could sing:

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,

Let this blest assurance control;

That Christ has regarded my helpless estate

And has shed his own blood for my soul.

And now, Jesus Christ, by the power of the Resurrection, has opened up for Curtis the gates of everlasting life. Curtis has been appointed chief sacristan and assistant organist in those heavenly precincts, “where sorrow and pain are no more, neither sighing, but life everlasting.” He has had to cut slits in ...

Table of contents

• Title Page
• Foreword
• Introduction
• I. MENTORS
• II. MATRIARCHS
• III: ALL SORTS AND CONDITIONS OF MEN