Ever since I got that sad phone call last week saying John Willis had passed away—no words can express my feelings. And then I remembered those words of the black poet, Langston Hughes. Over and over I kept remembering them. And today I place them down beside the broken hearts of this family and for all of us. They are a prayer:
“At the feet o’ Jesus,
Sorrow like a sea.
Lordy, let yo’ mercy
Come driftin’ down on me.
At the feet o’ Jesus
At yo’ feet I stand.
O, ma little Jesus,
Please reach out yo’ hand.”
Reach out yo’ hand to dear John—you already have. Reach out yo’ hand to Linda and Tim and David and the relatives and friends and all of us. You already have. For this family could not walk down this aisle and sit here without Jesus reaching out his hand.
So we come to honor this special life of John Willis. He was born in 1983 in Galveston, Texas the second son of Tim and Linda. They moved here from Texas when John was about two and a half. And they moved around the corner from our house—and they were our neighbors. And two of the people that came were little John and David. They were two of the cutest the kids I have ever seen. I became friends with that little blond boy and his brother. For five years I was their Pastor. John grew up in this church. Walked down this aisle right here one Sunday and said he wanted to be baptized. And the Sunday of his baptism he wrote this note—right before he was baptized. He read to the church that morning. Here it is:
“I am being baptized because I have accepted Jesus Christ as my Savior. Today I would like to make that public before the church that I love. I do this because I love Jesus and I know he loves me.”
And then he went upstairs and his Daddy baptized him. So I say out loud today—John Willis has been baptized. And from then until now—he has been kept in the Father’s love and the Father’s care.
I know what some of you will say. But he had this problem with addiction for years and years. Yes, he did. And there were times when his demons just raged. But drugs do not nearly define this special life. Or anybody’s. He loved his family. He loved Clemson. He loved baseball. He was on the Soccer team at Seneca High. He attended two different colleges. He was an artist and I am told a great salesman. A charmer. I saw that when he was three years old. So John wore many hats. He was also a son and a brother and a grandson and a nephew and a friend to so many that are here today. But most of all I think he was a Father. To Isaiah. I’ve seen picture after pictures of little Isaiah and his Daddy. He loved his little boy fiercely—no wonder he wanted to beat his addiction and raise Isaiah. In the Fellowship Hall look at the pictures of John and Isaiah. They are wonderful.
John wanted to continue to live—and I don’t think he had any intention last week of dying. He just wanted peace—he just wanted the demons to subside. He just wanted to be like everybody else—not knowing that everybody is a whole lot like him. We are all poor little sheep who have lost our way. We are broken. Maybe not as John was broken. But we are all broken. We are all Prodigals. Maybe we still have our shoes…and our coverings…and you can’t see our pain by looking—nobody knows the trouble we’ve seen. But folks we are all part of the human family.
During this Lenten season I have been preaching on Jesus’ seven last words that came down from the cross. And last week—I preached on that third word. From the cross—Jesus spoke to his mother and he spoke to John. Even in dying he remembered the pain of his mother and the pain of that disciple. And I give that word to Linda and Tim and to David especially. He looked down and remembered them. And the God who could not take the nails out—reached out to his mother and those others, too I think. Mary never forgot those words. And I hope Linda will never forget that that third word that came from the cross is for her. And Jesus linked his mother's grief to John's grief—and he said take care of each other. Is it too much to believe that it is a word for us all—this word of relationship. Take care of one another.
Bill Coffin and the Willlis became friends and Coffin tried hard to help John. When Bill Coffin’s own son Alex died in an automobile accident, he was only 24 years old. Dr. Coffin mounted the pulpit and spoke to his large church family sitting out there a week after the funeral. And he talked about the food they brought and the flowers that came. And he said in a terrible time they were holy reminders of the beauty and life that these gifts bring. But toward the end of that sermon he said to his congregation: “You gave me what God gives us all—minimum protection and maximum support.” And then he said, “I swear to you, I wouldn’t be standing here were I not upheld.” As was Mother Mary…John…all those other scattered disciples. And also Tim and Linda and David and all of us. Minimum protection—but maximum support. And this is why we have come too surround this family and to carry them through the dark days ahead. Some of you here—like Mary and John—come at great risk. You put aside your own griefs and sadness to whisper to this family—we love you and we will care for you. And if we are making it—so can you.
Tomorrow I will turn to the fourth word from the cross. It may well be the hardest. “My God,” Jesus railed out, “my God why has thou forsaken me?” That question just fell down like cold rain on Mary and John and all who came. And like Jesus in this setting—we ask the same question too: “Why have you forsaken dear John and Linda and Tim and all of us. Why? And from beginning to end of the book—there is no answer. The “why’s” just hang there. Why? Why have we lost more to addiction since 2017 than the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan and Vietnam combined. More than 64,000. Why? We cannot say. But we weep with those who have lost the battle and every loved one who has stood by so helplessly. I told Linda and Tim—and this is true—you did everything you could. Everything. And sometimes that is not enough. So we have no answer to the why’s.
But we remember the story of the stubborn, stubborn boy that took his Daddy’s money and left home in a huff. The old father could not hold him back. And every day he would ask over and over—where is my boy? Is he OK? Night after night the Father tossed and turned. The boy had broken his heart. But one day when the son’s money was gone and he was starving and nobody would take him in…he came back down the road to home. Barefooted. In rags—nearly naked. Skinny and dirty. Ashamed. And broken. And we know the rest of that story. The old Father ran to meet him. And would not even let him finish his confession. The Father just opened his arms and took him in. His beloved son. Saying over and over: "My son! My son!"
And when John slipped away into the mystery on that Tuesday evening in Anderson—we know the rest of the story. The Father—wouldn’t let John finish his confession. He just opened his arms and whispered: “I love you…I love you…It’s all right.” And John has found now what he tried so hard to find here and never really did. A peace and joy and incredible wonder and dazzling light.
But that is not the end of the story folks. For that same Eternal Father strong to save—reaches for all of us—in our grief and in our brokenness. And he will calm all the restless waves…and he will somehow save us one and all from all the perils of the sea. From all the perils of the sea.
We thank God for the life of John Willis. He didn’t live long enough. But he did live long enough to touch his family with a love that will always be. And he loved dear Isaiah as much as anybody could. I still remember the Willis last Christmas here at our Christmas Eve communion service. I looked back over any shoulder and there were the Willis’—Tim and Linda and David—and John, too coming down the aisle to received what God gives to all his children. And I waved—and smiled and I threw John a kiss.
And so, friends I leave you with the prayer we began with. It is for us all:
“At the feet o’ Jesus
Sorrow like a sea.
Lordy, let yo’ mercy
Come driftin’ down on me.
At the feet o’ Jesus
At yo’ feet I stand.
O, ma little Jesus,
Please reach out yo’ hand.”
AMEN.
Pastoral Prayer
Lord God—bearer of all our griefs and carrier of all our sorrows…we thank you that in this hard place you do not leave us alone. You are here or we could hardly stand it.
We thank you for dear John and for the many facets of his life. So very many. Like us—he was one of God’s broken children. So we ask you to receive him into that clean, well-lighted place where every tear is wiped away…and death will be no more…and mourning and crying and pain will be no more.
So Lord Jesus reach out your hand to Linda and Tim and David and all of us. Even in our darkness help us to remember that there really is a peace that will pass all understanding. Help us to know deep in our hearts that there is a stubborn, stubborn love that will not let us go—ever.
Thank you, Jesus for always reaching out your hand. Here and always. AMEN.
John Willis
May 20, 1983 - February 28, 2018
(This Meditation was spoken at the Memorial Service for John Willis at the First Baptist Church, Clemson, South Carolina March 10, 2018)
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