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April 19, 2008

Patti Powell - Homily for Fr. Mike's Memorial

Julie, Mike’s beloved wife, has ordered me to be funny. And short.

Now, I’m a lawyer—and as a race we lawyers are not known for being funny or short. I am profoundly honored to be asked to speak and profoundly sad to speak. A few days ago Julie said she was “fine” and “awful” at the same time. And we all know what she meant. This time together today, to honor and remember our Splendid Spillane---as he was known at St. Brendan’s in the Bronx as the varsity football and baseball hero--is both a greeting, a time of storytelling and getting to know Mike better and a time of letting go—so in the face of these great dichotomies, to help us make sense of them—we have Jesus’ words: “Do not let your heart be troubled nor let it be fearful.”

So Julie & Brendan and Kim—Mike’s sweet Irish mother Kathleen, his very funny brothers Kieran and Brendan, Deirdre, the people they love-- Julie’s family her mom & dad and brother Jack and Holly, Bishop Marc Andrus, Bishop Richard Garcia, Mike’s Clergy colleagues, Mike’s brothers and sisters in Christ & all the rest of us Mike’s faith family—our faith family—that huge group of people who knew and love Mike Spillane we begin this time of greeting and letting go. This time of grateful hearts because we have been blessed by Michael James Patrick Spillane - this time of storytelling remembering that God, is the author of all stories.

A few weeks ago I went up in a balloon. My boys had given me the balloon ride as their Christmas gift, knowing that a balloon was on my list of things to do. So on a freezing early morning in March, lit by a late winter blazing sun I found myself 1300 feet in the air standing in a wicker basket. The views of the Idaho mountains and the Boise river were amazing and it was so quiet—geese honked beneath me. And then the terror. The microsecond of terror—I’m in a wicker basket—standing in the middle of the sky. The ground is so far away. So I looked at the horizon and thought of my boys’ love, and tamped down the fear —and entered into the thrill of the experience.

It was a bit like that last night, about 20 of Mike’s family and friends plus nine kids of various sizes did a hostile takeover of a Palo Alto restaurant. Chianti flowed, stories were told, laughter and love surrounded and embraced the table. The baby was passed among the women, Brendan and his friends bolted their food to make it to the Stanford soccer game and Kim in her new pair of white heels and her friends giggled and charmed the unfortunate people who had been seated near this tribe. I watched—I saw the warmth in Kathleen’s eyes, the love for her son, her oldest and then --like those microseconds in the balloon –the flash of her thought, “What are we going to do without him?” And as Brendan & Kieran told stories, each, for a second, seemed to looked around for brunt of their jokes --Mike. The one who once fell off a moped and claimed to be really hurt and then that same night was mocked by a comedian at a New York comedy club. “Hey, you in the sling? What happened? Mike tried to explain and the comedian stopped him. “ You fell off a moped—and got hurt? The brothers told us that was good for about 20 minutes of New York laughter at Mike’s expense.” And the microsecond look in Kieran’s eyes, “Mike should be at this party.” And then, someone would laugh, and the love would rise again, another platter of food would be placed on the table, and the peace of Christ would save us again.

Bruce Deal said yesterday that in Mike’s essay “My Spiritual Journey”, his gift to Holy Trinity in the search process, Mike seemed to have written his own eulogy. I urge you read it—again and again. As usual, Mike did a better job than anyone can do of giving us the words and stories of his life, a life being chased by the Hound of Heaven—the life that was shaped by Thomas Merton’s life and words. The challenge in the next few moments is not to draft the Wikipedia version of Mike’s life but to prime the pump of storytelling-in the best Irish tradition. So that these stories- what they tell us of him, flow out of this place into the courtyard today and into our lives as we remember and continue learn from and be inspired by this Splendid Spillane.

Many of us know the facts of Mike’s journey. He grew up – tough using that phrase. Not sure Mike ever did grow up. He spent his first 11 years in Manchester, England. He lived and breathed the red and white of Manchester United. On Sundays after mass he’d carry his little autograph book down to the practice field of his idols hoping one would sign his book. When it was time for his family to move to American in 1964 Kathleen tried to book passage from Liverpool the closer and less expensive port. With the family’s tickets bought and in her hand, Kathleen heard the travel agent said, “ah, Manchester United to sailing to New York on the Queen Elizabeth out of Southampton. None of your family happens to follow Manchester United do they?” Kathleen sighed and simply handed back the tickets from Liverpool and rebooked the family on the more expensive Queen Elizabeth. And each day, 11 year old Michael, in his own private heaven, stood on the polished teak deck as his heroes strutted and kicked & scrimmaged in front of him. So very close.

Over the past few months after the second service Mike would sit outside in the courtyard with parishioner Chris Golker, who experiences the same type of brain cancer as Mike. Their heads would be together in quiet talk, and a circle, almost an aura would surround them and people thought, “what pastoral words must go be going between these men. What thoughts of God.” Actually, the conversation usually consisted of Mike saying, “Dammit, Manchester United lost again last night.”

A couple of years ago, when Mike was serving Holy Nativity in Meridian Idaho, Deacon Paula Egbert (you may remember Paula, she gave the homily last September at Beth’s Ordination & Mike’s installation as your rector)—Paula was officiating at a wedding at a rural farm house. The key to this story is that the farm house, the wedding was about 25 miles from the Simplot soccer fields in Boise. Paula could do the ceremony but only a priest can do the nuptial blessing and the couple wanted the nuptial blessing. Mike had agreed to share in the service with Paula and do the blessing for the couple. Now, you almost have to close your eyes for this one. Paula is standing in the home’s large living room filled with well dressed people—charming couple in front of her. She’s nearly finished with the vows and the prayers and there’s no Mike—Brendan had had a soccer game. So Paula starts to speak slower and slower as if her power was being shut down. She could see out the back window which none of the wedding party or guests could see—and suddenly out of the corner of her eye she sees Mike’s car, throwing up dust as it roared into the driveway and braking. Mike leaps out of the car, pops open the truck and grabs his black trousers and pull them on over his soccer shorts. He grabs his robes and is vesting on a dead run up the walk way, enters the house looking cool, greets the young couple, smiles at the gathered loved ones, patted the shoulder of Deacon Paula to get her blood pressure down, pronounces the nuptial blessing over the couple, leaned over to Paula, whispered in her ear, “See you later. Brendan’s got another game, bye.” Paula watched him thru the window pulling off his vestments as he trotted to the car. It looked like the film Paula had just seen was being rewound and she was watching in reverse. Ripped off his trousers –jumped in the car and drove, probably like a maniac back the 25 miles to Simplot soccer fields in time for Brendan’s second game. That was Mike. So caring as a friend to Paula, so dedicated as a priest, so loving as a father.

There’s one more “pants” story. As a London Bobbie, one day this American Mike Spillane was chasing some miscreant who had made the erroneous decision of acting badly in front of Copper Spillane whose beat was the Paddington area. As Mike ran he punched the shoulder radio’s button to call the matter into the station. “In foot pursuit down Elgin Avenue, suspect wearing blue pants.” The response came over the radio, “you mean the man’s not wearing any trousers????” Mike had forgotten that in British speak “pants” means underpants. He was a long time living that one down with his police friends.

Images of Mike—especially during children’s sermons--sometimes you couldn’t see Mike for the sea of little doll baby faces—shiny little faces that listened to his stories and after church followed him around like little magnets drawn to his iron faith and his iron love.

Mike was rarely on time for anything—although strangely he was constantly aware of time. If someone else was preaching, a Bishop perhaps—Mike would start to get nervous—he’d push back the sleeve of his alb and look at this watch and the longer it went—first the toe would start to tap and then the whole leg would move and by the time the sermon was finished, Mike’s leg would be bouncing up and down like he was doing his own liturgical dance.

I’m not sure some writers’ descriptions of heaven as ‘eternal rest’ fit our Splendid Spillane. Mike’s heaven is an action filled one. Meeting people and playing games and running marathons and eating lots of bread—his favorite food. There was motion in Mike. He constantly moved the lectern. Didn’t matter where it was or how it was set. He stood behind it and moved it. Even if he had pre set it, on the rare occasion when he would have time before a service to do something—he’d still move the lectern when he stood behind it. Yes, there’s motion in Mike’s heaven.
Mike described his spiritual auto biography as “one we are writing each day of our lives recognizing at each moment or at later moments how God is present in our lives. And how we respond to God’s presence. This day is part of Julie and the kids’ spiritual autobiographies; it is part of all of ours, this faith family of Mike Spillane. It’s also part of Mike’s. Throughout Mike’s writings, his homilies, his conversations he wrote and he knew “God is calling me”. “God is calling me.” Mike responded to hearing that call with passion. He took chances. He took risks. He made that leap of faith each day. As a son, a brother, a priest, a husband who fell in love at first sight, a dad, a friend. A man who could do two soccer games and a nuptial blessing in a Saturday afternoon and do them with joy.

God’s call continues. For us. For Splendid Spillane. God’s call has simply taken him closer and nearer to that still small voice. It’s simply the next answer to God’s call. And as Paul wrote-- just for us today-- “We are of good courage and prefer rather to be absent from the body and to be at home with the Lord.” Amen