This is my song, O God of all the nations,
A song of peace for lands afar and mine.
This is my home, the country where my heart is,
Here are my hopes, my dreams, my holy shrine.
But other hearts in other lands are beating,
With hopes and dreams as true and high as mine.

My country’s skies are bluer than the ocean,
And sunlight beams on clover leaf and pine.
But other lands have sunlight too, and clover,
And skies are everywhere as blue as mine.
O hear my song, O God of all the nations,
A song of peace for their land and for mine.

This is my prayer O Lord of all earth’s kingdoms
Your kingdom come on earth,  your will be done
Oh God be lifted up till all shall serve you
And hearts united learn to live as one
O hear my prayer O God of all nations
Myself I give you , let your will be done

I am Doug Bowen-Bailey, the younger son in the family, and I was 15 when our Dad decided to teach at Warburg Lutheran Seminary in Dubuque, IA and move our family from Moorhead, MN. I thought it was going to wreck my life – moving in the middle of my high school years, but it really had the opposite effect – opening up my life to new possibilities (big and small.)

One of the small changes was that the Dubuque Telegraph-Herald ran a weekly column by the humorist Dave Barry. He had many hilarious columns, but the one that has stuck with me all these years was actually a serious one entitled, A Million Words.   It was about his last moments seeing his dad alive.  His dad was a Presbyterian pastor.  One who was concerned about racial justice and nurturing community – on both a societal and individual level. He had driven north to see his dad a final time – when his dad was much less communicative – mostly just saying thank you when people brought him shaved ice. Here’s the conclusion to the column:

So I go in for our last words, because I have to go back home, and my mother and I agree I probably won’t see him again. I sit next to him on the bed, hoping he can’t see that I’m crying. I love you, Dad, I say. He says: I love you, too. I’d like some oatmeal. 

So I go back out to the living room, where my mother and my wife and my son are sitting on the sofa, in a line, waiting for the outcome, and I say, He wants some oatmeal. I am laughing and crying about this. My mother thinks maybe I should go back in and try to have a more meaningful last talk, but I don’t. 

Driving home, I’m glad I didn’t. I think: He and I have been talking ever since I learned how. A million words. All of them final now. I don’t need to make him give me any more, like souvenirs. I think: Let me not define his death on my terms. Let him have his oatmeal. I can hardly see the road. 

I am so glad I read this when I was in high school, because it helped me to realize that I was going to get a million words from our dad.  And I shouldn’t wait until the end to ask for bits of wisdom, but pay attention along the way.

I am Jeff Bailey, the elder son who lives out in Massachusetts–an occasional visitor to Duluth to see parents and family.  I read a lot of Dave Barry columns but only the funny ones.   So, I never read the one Doug shared with you.  However, I too absorbed a million words worth of knowledge from my dad.   Over the past year I’ve been blessed to be able to come home and visit during dad’s heart surgery and then his journey with cancer. We were lucky in that my visits weren’t about resolving some longstanding issues before he passed. I was grateful for more conversations, adding a few thousand words to the millions already imparted.

So, Doug and I are here to talk about 10 of those words – whether shared verbally, in writing, or in action- that embodied our conversations with dad.

Dependability. Sometimes you have to do what you are asked to do, even if you don’t like it. As we were growing up, almost every family gathering we went to, our dad, the Reverend Minister, was asked to give a prayer.  We learned later he didn’t particularly like to be called upon in this way.   It probably didn’t help that as sarcastic teenagers, we rated his prayers like it was an Olympic diving competition.  (“I’d give it a 9.0, Doug.  I think that was a particularly skillful transition into naming the trinity on the finale–a very clean entry–hardly any splash”).

Hermeneutics  Some of you might be thinking, “Greek? Really?  This early in the list?”  But this was a part of growing up with a New Testament scholar in the house.

For those of you who didn’t attend seminary (and in this crowd, it might be the minority) hermeneutics in Greek means “interpretation.” It comes from the god Hermes being the messenger between the gods and humanity – traveling back and forth between to build understanding.  From that root, a hermeneutic in Biblical scholarship became a lens through which to view texts or a key to unlock understanding.

Before I knew the word, I learned the concept in our house. I often said that our Easter dinner table was akin to the United Nations. Whether at Concordia College in Moorhead or Wartburg Seminary in Dubuque, we often invited the students to our home who were too far away to travel back to theirs.  We ate with folks from countries like Namibia, Tanzania, Papua New Guinea, Ethiopia. And we learned the truth of the song we just sang… that God’s grace flows not just to our own land but to lands around the world.

From that time around the table, we learned our understanding of the world, or of scripture, that is our own hermeneutic, is limited by where we stand.  Our Dad modeled the importance of appreciating and understanding other experiences and interpretations.  I became an African Studies major and interpreter – Jeff a doctor and researcher who supports scientists across the African continent. In our own ways, we journey back and forth like Hermes trying to build understanding. Even if we don’t speak Greek.

Humility. Our dad wasn’t flashy. Most wouldn’t know of his stellar achievements in sports and academics in high school unless you were in high school with him.  In college, unless you were in college with him and so on. Some of you probably learned about a number of his accomplishments for the first time reading his obituary.  He was a true Minnesotan even before we moved to Moorhead for a job at Concordia college in 1975.  I’ve said he was unremarkably remarkable, he did all these amazing things yet didn’t seek the spotlight, and it empowered others around him to also be remarkable. I now realize this was a skill (and in the Marvel multiverse perhaps his superpower).

Justice. Many of you in Duluth know our dad because of his work to acknowledge the plight of Palestinians with Northland Peace Not Walls.  As a Christian, I think he felt that if you care about what happened in Bethlehem 2000 years ago, you should probably still care about what is happening there today. His many trips there always brought back stories of Christians, Muslims, and Jews working together to find ways to justice and peace… amidst many challenges. On the final day I spent with him, one of the things he shared with me was that he was so proud of everyone in the Peace Not Walls group. They had just met the night before and he is so grateful to them for carrying on this work of seeking justice that can be the foundation for peace.

Humor. It was important for him to have a few jokes in his pocket. Whether for his sermons, or for social encounters, our dad had a few jokes he liked to rely on..  I share one here:

• A new guy arrived at a prison and he was brought to the gathering for the first time.  He was there with his cellmate who was teaching him the ropes.  Most of the people were sitting around in a circle – and every once in a while, someone would call out a number.  “33” yelled one man.  And the group burst into laughter.  After a couple moments of silence, someone else yelled “42” and again the room erupted. Then, a third person broke the silence, “71.”  And the room was totally quiet.

  The new guy turned to his cellmate and asked, “What’s going on?”  The cellmate explained that they all had the same joke book which everyone had memorized and so now, to save time, instead of telling the entire joke, people just told the number.  The new guy was still puzzled, and asked why no one laughed when the last person said, “71.”  His cellmate replied, “Oh, some people just don’t know how to tell a joke.”

• As two dads, we appreciate how having a dad joke or two can’t be a bad thing.  Although our children don’t understand that we are telling bad jokes on purpose just to give them something to roll their eyes and tease us about.

Team (D).  If you know Jim, you of course also know Judy.  Their email says it pretty plainly – jimjudybailey (All one word, no spaces) @gmail.com Our dad was gifted at many things – and one of them was choosing a life partner who complemented him well.  A couple of examples:  our dad’s cooking prowess pretty much peaked at boiling hot dogs. But our mom never complained because Jim was always there to do the dishes and she likes to cook more than she likes to stand at the sink afterwards.  One time in Dubuque, I came down in the basement when our mom was away for some reason – and dad was asking me how much laundry soap to use – as he was standing in front of an open dryer.  Our mom recently commented that if she had been born a few years later, many things would have changed for her.  She might have kept her last name.  Perhaps she would have asked for a different sharing of household tasks.  But part of what we learned is that how the tasks got split up didn’t matter as much as the fact that each person contributed in the ways that complemented the other– and that it all went in the same direction as a team.  Jim and Judy were a team like that.  And as our mom carries on carrying Jim in her heart instead of by her side, she will need a lot of love and support from this team that is gathered here.

Family.  Our dad was someone who cared deeply about family. And also had an expansive understanding of what that meant. Jim (and Judy) were proud and helpful grandparents.  Often traveling out to Massachusetts to be with Claire, Garret, and Alaina while my wife Ann and I were traveling for work. Jim loved that time to be with grandkids and our dog, Ruby. When they moved to Duluth, they were dedicated spectators at swim meets, baseball games, and ski meets for Sylvie and Frost.  But those weren’t the limits of our family.  In Moorhead, Hussain Mosawi, a Kurdish refugee stayed with us for a year.  And he has remained a part of our family.  Later in the eighties, Ha Tran, who had escaped from Viet Nam in a small boat to the Philippines, lived with us in Moorhead before we moved to Dubuque. He has continued to be part of the Bailey clan and a brother.  He now lives in Dutch Harbor, Alaska, with his wife Thoa, and their daughters Lisa and Lizzie.  It was a blessing that over this Christmas, Ha’s family was able to gather in Duluth with all of us for some quality time with Jim. All of that time together was a gift to us and to Jim.

Faith.  I was with our mom and dad when we got the results of the PET scan.  We were sitting in the Radiation Oncology department in the First street building of the Essentia Clinic on October 4, 2023. Jeff was on the phone listening in.  Ostensibly, the PET scan was to prepare for radiation after surgery. But as Dr. Sawyer walked us through the images  – starting from the bottom of our dad’s torso upwards, we came to a bright spot of green, yellow, and red – flowering in the darkness.  The spot in his liver meant that the path forward didn’t involve radiation or fighting the cancer.  With apologies to the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas, there was no raging against the dying of the light.  Instead, the focus turned to having as high a quality life as possible for the days remaining.  Ever the theologian, our dad told us in that room, “I don’t fear what lies beyond the grave.”  He expressed an uncertainty of what that really means, but a quiet confidence that it all would be okay.

The time that followed had many gifts.  He noted that having learned of pancreatic cancer so early gave him the chance of being able to say good-bye to so many people.  Our thanks to so many of you who reached out to spend time with him. It meant so much to him and us.

Doubt.  Our dad’s faith wasn’t absolute.  It didn’t stop him from bursting into tears on occasion, thinking about not being able to spend more time with his family or seeing how the Ohio State Buckeyes would do in the next football season.

In some ways, this was a gift, too – to know that doubt can live alongside faith.  To go back to Dave Barry’s last conversation with his dad, Doug’s experience was quite different. In his final conversation with Doug, Jim wasn’t really interested in food, oatmeal nor even dessert.  Instead, he talked of the writings of Apostle Paul (which Sylvie will read) and Dietrich Bonhoeffer, (whose poem Frost will read) and their doubts about their ministries – and his doubts about his own.  He tried to make sure that Doug understood he wasn’t trying to compare himself to Paul or Bonhoeffer (Remember Word #3:  Humility –he was again remarkably working on being unremarkable — despite being remarkable.) He was just making clear that how others saw him wasn’t the same as his internal view.  He was struggling to take in all of the kind words he received in his final year – the way people said he touched their lives – which we don’t doubt, but he did.  Yet, I think it is simply a sign that he saw himself firmly as human, someone both faithful and flawed.

Grace.  Boenhoffer’s poem talks about the difference between how others see him and how he sees himself. It ends with these lines:

Who am I? This or the other?
Am I one person today, and tomorrow another?
Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others,
and before myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling?
Or is something within me still like a beaten army,
fleeing in disorder from a victory already achieved?

Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, thou knowest, O God, I am thine.

In the end, we trust that our dad knew that God’s grace awaited him beyond the grave, and his hope was not in his own actions but that the power of the cross is stronger than the power of death. It allowed him to face the past year with a dignity and courage that has been an inspiration to us (and we know to others.)

In discussing the funeral, our dad wanted to end with an uplifting hymn. One that pointed to this grace.  And so at the end of the service we will sing from the words of Isaiah as put to song by Bob Franke – one I shared with him and our mom on the Friday before he died.  Here’s a verse that seems particularly apt to sing as we release our father, grandfather, husband, friend, and colleague to God and tend to the hole in our hearts that his memory will continue to fill:

Release for the captives
An end to the wars
Streams in the desert
New hope for the poor
Little small children
Shall dance as they sing
And play with the bears
And the lions in the spring.

Despite my wife, Holly’s, advice, I’m going to give singing the chorus a shot here – because we will ask you all to join in at the end of the service as we lift up this anthem of hope – and I’d like you to have a chance to be ready to lift your voice in song.

Alleluia, the great storm is over.
Lift up your wings and fly.  (2x)

Thank you all for joining with us in our grief and gratitude that for James Lloyd Bailey, the great storm is over. May his memory be a blessing for us all.

O let all who thirst,
let them come to the water.
And let all who have nothing,
let them come to the Lord:
without money, without price.
Why should you pay the price,
except for the Lord?

And let all who seek,
let them come to the water.
And let all who have nothing,
let them come to the Lord:
without money, without strife.
Why should you spend your life,
except for the Lord?

And let all who toil,
let them come to the water.
And let all who are weary,
let them come to the Lord:
all who labor, without rest.
How can your soul find rest,
except for the Lord?

And let all the poor,
let them come to the water,
Bring the ones who are laden,
bring them all to the Lord:
bring the children without might.
Easy the load and light:
come to the Lord.

Who am I? They often tell me
I would step from my cell’s confinement
calmly, cheerfully, firmly,
like a squire from his country-house.
Who am I? They often tell me
I would talk to my warders
freely and friendly and clearly,
as though it were mine to command.

Who am I? They also tell me
I would bear the days of misfortune
equably, smilingly, proudly,
like one accustomed to win.
Am I then really all that which other men tell of?
Or am I only what I know of myself,
restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage,
struggling for breath, as though hands were compressing my throat,
yearning for colours, for flowers, for the voices of birds,
thirsting for words of kindness, for neighbourliness,
trembling with anger at despotism and petty humiliation,
tossing in expectation of great events,
powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance,
weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making,
faint, and ready to say farewell to it all?

Who am I? This or the other?
Am I one person today, and tomorrow another?
Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others,
and before myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling?
Or is something within me still like a beaten army,
fleeing in disorder from a victory already achieved?

Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, thou knowest, O God, I am thine.

Come, live in the light
Shine with the joy and the love of the Lord
We are called to be light for the kingdom
To live in the freedom of the city of God
We are called to act with justice
We are called to love tenderly
We are called to serve one another
To walk humbly with God

Come, open your heart
Show your mercy to all those in fear
We are called to be hope for the hopeless
So all hatred and blindness will be no more
We are called to act with justice
We are called to love tenderly
We are called to serve one another
To walk humbly with God

Sing, sing a new song
Sing of that great day when all will be one
God will reign and we’ll walk with each other
As sisters and brothers united in love (united in love)
We are called to act with justice
We are called to love tenderly
We are called to serve one another
To walk humbly with God

We are called to act with justice
We are called to love tenderly (We are called)
We are called to serve one another
To walk humbly with God

16 March 2024 – Funeral, Jim Bailey 
Pastor David Carlson, 
Gloria Dei Lutheran Church 
Texts: 1 Corinthians 1:18-25 Romans 8:31-39; Matthew 5:3-16

Let the good news come now, O God, not only in word, but in power, in the Holy Spirit and with full assurance, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the Lutheran theologian referenced earlier, once wrote, “It is only by living completely in this world that one learns to have faith.” As we remember and give thanks for the life of James Lloyd Bailey, we are reminded of the gift of faith he learned and lived, faith that was not about flawlessness but immersed itself in the concrete realities of life, faith that through the years and in the end relied on the redeeming grace of God.

There was a personal element to it, helping students discern their own call to ministry, making home communion visits to members in our congregation, taking time for conversations or hospitality perhaps we all experienced, where Jim shared an insight or encouragement. But there was a broader element of faith he also cultivated in his teaching vocation and ministry, and that we benefited from when he and Judy moved here, when he became part of Gloria Dei and joined the Long-Range Planning Team, when he got to know Xavier Bell and some of the needs of the neighborhood, when we started reading his book Contrast Community about practicing the Sermon on the Mount – which he says can sustain, stretch, form and transform ordinary people to live differently and have the courage to challenge injustices around them. It was this book we were reading during Lent when this sanctuary burned in 2016, when our church was devastated and faced uncertainty. Gathering for Bible study the Wednesday after the fire, we opened to Jesus’ words in the next chapter of Jim’s book: “Do not worry about your life… but seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness…” Tremendously pastoral yet also reminding us of the centrality of mission, a book that together with Jim’s other teachings in our congregation on the prophets, Paul’s letters, and starting a regional group on justice and peace in Palestine and Israel, not only helped carry us through our rebuilding, but also to deepen our vision for ministry as a community, of more intentionally seeking honest and just relationships with our neighbors, local and global, solidarity with those who are suffering, and putting faith into practice.

Jim was like a conscience for our ministry, and the hymns and readings he chose for today convey insights for our continued reflection on such faith in practice. Calling us to act with justice, love tenderly, and walk humbly. Deepening our discernment about how God is at work in the world and how we might participate in it. The blessed ones, we learn, are not strangers to poverty or hunger or sorrow; they live in the concrete realities of life. Yet their emptiness God’s presence fills, their death God’s resurrection touches even now. Because in Jesus crucified and risen light shines from God’s future where there is comfort for those who grieve, vindication for the powerless, and satisfaction for those whose hearts are close to God. And Jesus gives us strength to persevere, to keep working for justice and peace even when it is not visible or when there are obstacles, because it is rooted in God’s eternal vision. Faith in that vision strengthened Jim himself during these last months, as he came to worship despite declining health, as he recorded a video presentation with Judy on Gaza, as he attended a racial justice discussion and a Peace Not Walls meeting even in his final days. He’d been reading Jürgen Moltmann’s The Crucified God, and shared how because of God’s identification with Jesus on the cross, no human being, however rejected or despised, can ever be beyond God’s redemption.

That broad and deep redeeming reach of Christ, God enabled Jim to champion – in his work and in his life as a devoted spouse for 60+ years, a loving father and grandfather, a dear friend and mentor. The concern for bringing wholeness to the brokenness in the world, through personal repentance, solidarity with people being treated unjustly, and working for repair – he helped us step up for, grow into, and see more clearly as rooted in God’s love that first finds us wherever we are. “I’m still discovering right up to this point,” Bonhoeffer said, “that it is only by living completely in this world that one learns to have faith. By this-worldliness I mean living unreservedly in life’s duties, problems, successes and failures, experiences and perplexities. In so doing we throw ourselves completely into the arms of God, taking seriously, not our own sufferings but those of God in the world.” It is that picture of being in the arms of God that we called to mind the day Jim died, as family gathered and prayed; a picture reflected on previous days and gatherings when he held loved ones in his arms, a picture that points to the embrace of the God who upholds us all today. As Paul says in a passage Jim kept coming back to again and again: “Nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.” I want to close with Jim’s words from an adult Bible study he wrote on First Corinthians: “In the midst of uncertain life – when we can fret about the future and wonder about what difference our living will make – the Christian affirmation about our coming resurrection not only provides hope for the future, but also energy to keep on ‘keeping on’ in the present. Our individual uniqueness and the difference we have made in the name of the Lord will not be lost. The God of resurrection will create a new world where we will share new being with Christ and experience the fulfillment of his life and love.”

Here is God’s promise that holds true at the end of the day for Jim and for us all: that in death and in life we belong to the Lord; that our faith rests on God’s faithfulness to us and this world, that we are in the loving arms of the One who has carried us each day and who carries us even through death to eternal life. Thanks be to God. Amen.

I will come to you in the silence
I will lift you from all your fear
You will hear My voice
I claim you as My choice
Be still, and know I am near

I am hope for all who are hopeless
I am eyes for all who long to see
In the shadows of the night,
I will be your light
Come and rest in Me
Do not be afraid, I am with you
I have called you each by name
Come and follow Me
I will bring you home
I love you and you are mine

I am strength for all the despairing
Healing for the ones who dwell in shame
All the blind will see, the lame will all run free
And all will know My name
Do not be afraid, I am with you
I have called you each by name
Come and follow Me
I will bring you home
I love you and you are mine

I am the Word that leads all to freedom
I am the peace the world cannot give
I will call your name, embracing all your pain
Stand up, now, walk, and live
Do not be afraid, I am with you
I have called you each by name
Come and follow Me
I will bring you home
I love you and you are mine

The thunder and lighting
Gave voice to the night
A little small child
Cried aloud in her fright.
Hush, little baby,
The story I will tell
Of a love that has vanquished
The powers of hell.

Alleluia, the great storm is over.
Lift up your wings and fly. (2x)

Sweetness in the air
And justice on the wind.
Laughter in the house
Where the mourners have been.
Deaf shall have music.
The blind have new eyes.
The standards of death taken down
By this surprise.

Alleluia, the great storm is over.
Lift up your wings and fly. (2x)

Release for the captive
An end to the wars
Streams in the desert
New hope for the poor.
Little small children
Shall dance as they sing
And play with the bears
And the lions in the spring.

Alleluia, the great storm is over.
Lift up your wings and fly. (2x)

Hush little baby,
Let go of your fears.
The lord loves his own
And your grandpa is dear.
The child fell asleep
As the lantern did burn
The mother sang on
‘Til the bridegroom’s return.

Alleluia, the great storm is over.
Lift up your wings and fly. (6x)