Friday, July 26, 2019

Homily for Gary Michel, Mayor of the Midway

Some have asked me for a copy of the homily I gave for Gary. Here it is:

Homily for Gary Michel Memorial
Zion Lutheran Church
John Marboe, Pastor

Gospel Lesson: John 3. 1-8

Now there was a Pharisee named Nicodemus, a leader of the Jews. He came to Jesus by night and said to him, ‘Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher who has come from God; for no one can do these signs that you do apart from the presence of God.’ Jesus answered him, ‘Very truly, I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God without being born from above.’Nicodemus said to him, ‘How can anyone be born after having grown old? Can one enter a second time into the mother’s womb and be born?’ Jesus answered, ‘Very truly, I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit. What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit. Do not be astonished that I said to you, “You must be born from above.” The wind blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.’

I never spoke with Gary about what his wishes for his own funeral might be. But if I had, I am quite sure that Gary would have said something like: “Keep it short. And no BS!”

I will attempt to honor that!

A minute ago, Gary’s brother Tom shared how he tried to help his kids understand their Uncle Gary: “Your uncle is kinda like the wind.” He said. “He shows up when you don’t expect, and goes when and where he wants.”

In the Gospel story, this is how Jesus describes people who are “born of the Spirit.” But this passage is about more than unpredictability.  It is about letting go of those things the world tells us give life, but do not. And it is about the life that comes from living in Christ’s Spirit (by the way, in biblical Greek “wind” and “spirit” are the same word). It is descriptive of people “born from above,” or “born again.”

And Gary was born again into a life of the Spirit/Wind.

For many Christians, to be “born again” is something like a badge of membership that distinguishes those who “belong to Jesus” from the rest of humanity…forever. For them it is an entry ticket to heaven, and without it you go to hell. I spoke to Gary plenty about these matters, and we agreed that this idea is baloney and bad for the world.

It is just this kind of judgement, of othering others, of religious distinction, and of self-righteousness that Jesus protests in the Gospels. Rather, to be “born again” is to let all that stuff go, and to begin life anew with a new sense of humanity; one that is on the side of life—abundant life, of compassion, and of healing. For all people.

Gary was, in this sense, born again. He was awake to what really mattered in life—and what did not. As was said earlier, he would help anyone. Anyone. Okay, he might grumble and be critical while doing it. But there he was.

He rejected the path of accumulation, of reputation, or of recognition. These simply did not matter to him.

What he cared about was quite simple. To pursue knowledge, to care for others, and to show up each and every Thursday here at Zion to serve food to persons in need…AND to yell at us that we weren’t doing things right. Which we all experienced. Me included. Yep he yelled at me too.

Which brings me to another image Jesus used, besides wind.

In Matthew’s Gospel, in the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus turns to his disciples and says: “You are the salt of the earth. But if salt loses its saltiness, it is no longer good for anything but to be thrown out and trodden under foot. So have salt, and be salty!”

Gary was salty.

He was salty in that Irish way of speaking: “Aye, he’s the salt o th’ arth!”
Which means: He swore like a sailor. He had no airs. He drank (until he didn’t anymore). He could be rough around the edges. He told it like he saw it. But he had a heart of gold.

I love this image because it is so earthy. I love this image because it is not churchy.
I love it because it expresses something of how we are to be here in the world.
Gary. Was. Here.
He was fully present. He was fully himself. For better and for worse. He showed up!

Now that was not always, nor by everyone, exactly appreciated.
But Jesus never called anyone to be “nice.” Not once.

But salt. Salt is an essential element for life. Without it we die. To be sure, too much of it is not good either! But it is embedded in the life of the world, essentially.

We all know that salt was a preservative in the ancient world. It made food last and helped people survive the seasons of life.

What we may not know is that salt was essential to healing. I used to think that “to rub salt in a wound” was a phrase that meant to be cruel to someone who was already down. But salt was the most basic and universally available antibiotic. Soldiers rubbed salt in their wounded comrades to prevent infection, so that they might heal. Yes, it stung like mad, but it was applied for healing.

It is striking that Gary’s two main senses of vocation were: to heal and to feed people. He trained during Vietnam to be a medic, and later became an RN. After that he went to culinary school to become a chef. Eventually he came to help in our kitchen at Zion. Gary was a healer. Gary fed the hungry. Encountering Gary could sting, but he was salt; on the side of life and of healing.

Gary was and is like wind and salt. But we are here not only to ponder Gary’s life. We are here in this liminal space, this in-between space, between life and death, to ponder our own lives…in light of Gary’s life. It is from this perspective, from the perspective of the end of life, that life can be viewed with greatest clarity. And if you are anything like me, you realize from this point of view how much energy, time, money, fear, and worry we spend on things that, from this perspective, don’t really matter much at all.

What really matters? It becomes quite simple. For what really matters boils down to one thing:

What matters is getting ice cream cones with your brother’s kids and carrying them home, ice cream melting down your shirt.

It’s just one thing: Showing up as Santa for the kids every Christmas.

Just one thing: Feeding the hungry while being an ornery cuss.

Just one thing: Caring for people with huntington’s disease as a nurse.

Just one thing: Love.

Gary was moved by love. Imperfectly, but real-ly. Wholly. Saltily. Windily.

And this is eternal life. Eternal life is not a very long time after you die. Eternal life has nothing to do with time. It is outside of time. That is what “eternal” means. No time.

Eternal life is not a quantity of life. It is a quality of life. It is the life of love And that life is available and present both now and forever. It is available to all of us. All the time. No matter how much or little time we have. No matter how strong or weak we feel. The one thing that truly matters, that lasts forever, and that is the very life of heaven, is available to all of us. To love.

Gary is with God. No one can understand quite, nor describe adequately what that means. We are too limited in our imaginations, too narrow in our experience and thinking. However:

The best description I ever heard was from a three year old girl. Who is my daughter. She is no longer three, but when she was, we visited the graveside of our cat Harvey who had died shortly after she was born. We stood around the grave, under the maple tree in our back yard. My wife Andrea asked our daughter, Charlie, “Where do you think Harvey went?”

Without hesitation, Charlie proclaimed, “Into the world, Mommy!”
(long pause)

It is the best description of heaven I have ever heard. Not: Up to heaven. Not: Into the ground. But: Into the world.

We tend to think of heaven as some other place, absent from here. But where is God?
If God is anywhere, is not God everywhere?
Gary is with God. Therefore Gary is present—forever with you, as salt and as wind. His love the very reflection of God’s love that makes and redeems the world.

Love is eternal life. Is a gift. Is grace for everyone, no exceptions.

I hope that was not too long, nor BS.

Friday, June 21, 2019

The Mayor of the Midway

Gary rode a bike. Everywhere. Wearing flip flops in the summer, and high tops without laces in the winter. I met him four years ago when I came to Zion Lutheran Church as the new pastor. I met Gary my first Thursday morning, and every Thursday since. Every Thursday, a crew of volunteers shows up to transport food, cook, fill grocery bags and serve the 50 or so people who show up in need of a meal, some community, and a bag of groceries. Gary's one of them. Turns out, Gary is one of the reasons I came to this small urban parish, though I did not realize it at the time, and one of the reasons I have stayed.

Gary's on the left, with Dan, another volunteer
It is unclear to me whether Gary ever became a "member" of the church, a formal distinction that has become increasingly irrelevant over the years. He was present--he showed up--and that is what matters. Not on Sunday, mind you, or very rarely, but every-single-Thursday. Rain storm or blizzard, he was there. As is always the case with many of our volunteers--he was not unique in this regard--they show up to feed people in need. They show up. It's what they do. On bike, on foot, in cars, by Metro Mobility.

Yet Gary was special. He first came to Zion (years before I arrived) to receive some food. Then he volunteered. At that time he worked at Menards on the overnight shift stocking shelves. After their shift he would come to Zion on Thursday mornings with Lee, his co-worker, to help unload our vehicle full of groceries from St. Vincent de Paul. Then he and Lee would help sort the groceries into bags for distribution. But Gary and Lee would leave before lunch to go home and sleep.

Gary was in his middle sixties. Lived simply on his hourly at Menards, Social Security and benefits as a Vet. He was a medic during Vietnam. He volunteered to go to into combat and wanted to be "in the action." Instead, he was stationed in Germany to treat the airlifted injured, while his friend from training who did not want to see combat was sent to Vietnam. His friend came home, but was never whole again. Gary volunteered for Airborne, but shattered his leg in a parachuting drill, and was discharged from the Service. He became an RN, and worked in his hometown of Lacrosse, WI, then Midway Hospital in St. Paul, until his back gave out. He attended culinary school and had various jobs in and out of food service.

On the right, serving dessert
I learned quickly that Gary knew things. He had street smarts, people smarts, and medical smarts. He would take me aside during our Thursday community meals and school me about various guests. "That guy is a thief." "That one's a big-time druggie. Eats pills by the fist-full. Messed up big-time by 'Nam." Never one to sugar coat, he would spit a little out of the space where he missed two lower teeth when he was speaking with emphasis. Dental care was not top priority. But reading and learning--especially history--especially military history--was. He rode bike to the library daily, read the newspapers, and devoured books.

He never married because he "never wanted to live with a woman." But he did have women friends who were dear to him, and vice versa.

On more than one occasion, his medical knowledge was crucial--probably saved a life. One of our regular guys, Dave, was short of breath, weak, and had some chest pain. Dave insisted he'd be ok. Gary called 911 and informed Dave he was going to the hospital or he was going to croak. It was true. Dave had 16% heart function when they tested him in hospital, and he is still with us today.

Not long after that, Gary, not a paragon of heart-healthy living, experienced his own heart attack. He was alone and at his apartment. He knew exactly what was happening and knew he could not make it alive to the VA hospital by public transport (take note, 911 and ambulance will not take our Vets to the VA in emergencies, and many of them are not covered elsewhere). He called Linda, our equally no-nonsense head cook, for a ride. She dropped everything that night and got him there, just in time for life-saving open-heart surgery on that great big heart of his.

A great Santa
On Thursday, June 6th, Gary did not show up. Everyone knew something must be wrong, since it was impossible that he would not be there and not let us know. We called 911 and asked for a wellness check at his apartment. The police went and found his apartment empty. The manager knew nothing. At the beginning of the community we prayed for Gary, wondering and worrying. Just after that I called the apartment manager once again.

Gary was dead. He had been struck by a vehicle on his bike two evenings before. Gary's brother had called the manager. I conveyed the news to our people and there was an audible gasp. This beloved, crusty, sometimes off-putting, heart of gold, salt of the earth pillar of our fragile/fractured/helping community--was gone.

He asked me this spring if I play golf. I said yes. He said, "So do I. Let's play this summer." I was really looking forward to golfing with this beautiful man who might show up in his high-tops without laces. That would have been fun.

Wednesday, February 27, 2019

Lion King and Garbage

Mufasa: Everything you see exists together in a delicate balance. As king, you need to understand that balance and respect all the creatures, from the crawling ant to the leaping antelope.
Simba: But, Dad, don't we eat the antelope?
Mufasa: Yes, Simba, but let me explain. When we die, our bodies become the grass, and the antelope eat the grass. And so we are all connected in the great Circle of Life.
—Mufasa and SimbaM
Ah, the Circle of Life. 
Driving up St. Clair Avenue yesterday in the aftermath of record snowfalls, I came upon a sight that made me pull over immediately. Stuck in a drift of icy snow left by snowplows was a garbage truck, helpless as a beached whale, all of 70,000 lbs. Delighted, I leapt from my car, and approached the comical scene to find, as I suspected, my old buddy Wes shoveling at the ice and slush around the rear tires. I put my shoulder to the back of the truck and shouted, "Giver 'er some gas!" The driver, Didre, saw me in the side mirror, as did Wes, and we cracked apart laughing. 

We recounted the time together when we got stuck in a steep alley and risked destroying a garage as we worked to find traction out of a predicament. We recounted Wes paying a kid $20 to help shovel out of a spot. Then, when the truck got out and got re-stuck,  the little entrepreneur wanted another $20 to help again. Wes had no more cash, so the kid started shoveling snow back in front of the truck.

But this time we had resources. There were cables in the truck, enough to throw under three sets of tandem tires, but we had one more set of tandems in the back. We needed traction on this last set which were spinning on glare ice. 

(Here we need the Lion King theme song. Hear it in your mind...)

I spotted in the bay of the truck a stuffed animal. It was Simba. With a red heart sewed to the bottom of his foot. I knew he could save us. 

Simba took hold. The truck was set free, but the lion sustained mortal injury.

Wes was spent from shoveling, but would recover.

In this world everything and everyone is connected. The benefit, pain, or sacrifice of one affects all. Life indeed is a circle of inter-connectedness. We are deluded when we don't feel this. 

Garbage, lions, toys, movies, friends, trucks, laughter, ice. One world. Funny examples. Deadly serious examples. Every single being is every single other's concern. To love one's neighbor as one's self is not a moral imperative so much as it is the statement of fact: to love the neighbor is to love ourselves. And to truly love ourselves is to love every neighbor. 
We are inseparable... in the Circle of Life. 
Word of Mufasa, Word of Truth, Amen.

Monday, July 9, 2018

Behind the Scenes: The Unabridged StoryCorps Interview

In case you have the time and interest, here is the full version of Charlie and me in the StoryCorps interview I shared a few blogs ago. Warning: it is nearly an hour and 45 minutes. But I added random photos of Charlie, and/or me that even sometimes fit with the story. Please let me know if you listen to the whole thing! By the way, the edited version that aired on NPR was less than 3 minutes. They did an amazing job. I like saying that this aired on January 21st, 2017, and garnered a larger audience than President Trump's inauguration. Please don't tell him, or we will surely get an angry tweet...

Friday, March 2, 2018

Bullet Point

I keep this live round as a souvenir on my bookshelf. I found it in the trash, of course.
 It's a Bernaul (Russian made) 7.62 X54R shell. It's pretty close to deer rifle ammo, but is manufactured for military weapons, primarily sniper rifles or machine guns. Researching to identify it brought me to some websites that gave me as much of a shudder as finding the live round in the first place (had I crushed this thing, it could have blown).

Circumstances lately have got me thinking about my own relationship with guns. I have two in my basement. One is my dad's 22 caliber we used for target practice and rabbit/squirrel hunting. Single shot, bolt action. The other is my Springfield 20 gauge shotgun, pump action, used for all kinds of bird hunting in my youth.

I will admit that I did use my shotgun for self defense once. We had a pretty mentally deranged neighbor, who got verbally violent when high. One evening he was making threats to my family from his upstairs window. I called the police AND I grabbed my shotgun after sending everyone inside. I sat outside with that shotgun, thinking to scare the crap out of him if he came over. The gun was empty. I didn't have any shells. He stayed put, and the police took him to jail.

Speaking of that gun, it still has a "plug" in it. A plug is required in a pump action shotgun when hunting ducks. Typically, pump-actions can hold six shells. However, the law requires a plug for duck hunters so that one can only hold three shells. If we were checked out by the game warden (often enough), he would insert a thing into our guns to make sure they were plugged. If they were not, the penalty would be severe. We could have our guns, our vehicle, our boat, decoys, and anything else used for hunting, confiscated. No trial, no jury. AND THIS WAS TO PROTECT THE DUCK POPULATION. We all accepted that. Gun control.

This was the hunting culture I grew up with. The NRA was all about gun safety and responsible gun use. I received a national gun safety patch after passing a course sponsored by the NRA. The old NRA supported and helped draft the nation's first gun control laws.

I was trained to freak out when I saw someone holding a gun not pointed to the ground or to the sky. A high school acquaintance blew his hand apart when he used his gun to lean on and it discharged. You would not hunt with someone like that. Nor would you hang out with someone who was a gun "enthusiast." To my mentors in my hunting days, that would be like someone who was a poison "enthusiast." Guns were tools, very dangerous tools. You took care of them, used them for a purpose, and put them away.

There's a website called It boasts 300,000 members. That's all I have to say about that.

I know that boys love their toys. I have two motorcycles. But the nobility and responsibility I grew up associating with gun ownership has gone begging. Now it is an absolute right, "based in the second amendment." Sounds like boys who like their toys to me. The 2nd amendment argument sounds a lot like the survivalist rationale: If we stockpile weapons and food, we can survive the coming apocalypse... for at least 60 more days.

Absurd. If you are fearful of government infringement on your liberties and want to prepare to defend yourself, you might want a Hellfire missile--or 400. Nothing less will do. The second amendment argument is goofy.

We are in the realm of fear, I fear.  I can appreciate those who geek out over guns, who know all the kinds, and capabilities, just like car enthusiasts. And I know that most of these are safe and responsible people.

I get the argument that the AR-15, and other so-called "assault rifles" are only different in style from weapons that are designed for hunting. Oh, but style matters. We know this in our commercial-cultural bones. Tuggs are not Uggs. Merona is not Patagonia. Kia is not Lexus. And a military-looking rifle stirs the imagination differently than something else. Why else do these young men go for the "assault-looking" rifles? It's a nexus with the elite killers. Commandos, Seals, Green Berets.  The pros who are expert killers. It's a weak ego that wants to be strong. Inadequacy bent on super-power.

Psychologically, style matters big-time. It has become deadly. Dead straight. Dead straight shooter. I don't think any of my hunting mentors would want to be part of this fearful, selfish, goofy, insistence on the "right" to unlimited access to kill-people-weapons. Nope, they would give up their own firearms if it would save children. They were all teachers who loved children more than their own guns.

We all agreed that a shotgun that held six shells was illegal, to protect the ducks. Still the law.

Friday, January 5, 2018

Christmas: The Tenderloin and the Trash

Christmas is a special time in garbage.

I had a bit of a Blue Christmas this year. It was the first Christmas season in seven years that I was not out hauling. I would miss it more if was not gizzard-frosting cold out there right now.

Forced retirement from hauling came to me a couple months ago when the small local company I worked for sold to a very large company. Happens all the time. It's a bit of a sad tale, but one perhaps for another time. The point is I'm on the sidelines now, though with a trove of experiences and friends in the garbage business. An old-timer said to me, "Once a garbageman, always a garbageman." I'll keep on writing as "always a garbageman."

But back to Christmas in trash. I think it was my fourth post or so that described finding plastic baby Jesus in the trash. Every Christmas brings something special. This year it came vicariously. My friend Wes found this and posted the picture from the post-Christmas trash:

Another friend and former partner-in-trash commented: "I'm curious about the Ball Holder." The potty humor proceeded to stream forth, so to speak.

Last year we (Wes and I) found a whole beef tenderloin in a bin, perched on top of the rest of the trash. It was uncooked, still in its vacuum sealed package, unfrozen but kept cold in 25 degree weather. The label showed this four pound chunk of meat had been purchased at Costco for $24.99 per pound. The use-by date was over a month away.

"I suppose Kari would not be interested in this?" I asked, knowing well his wife has a zero tolerance policy on rescue-food. There was sadness in his eyes. Or was it fear? (BTW, that's a perfectly good junior compound bow and arrow set also thrown away in that same alley. It went to an excited young person at my church!)

Clearly, the beef was not meant as a Christmas tip for the trash guys. I suspect, though, it may have had something to do with some Christmas sadness in that family. Plans for a joyful celebration gone to trash. I imagine that someone in frustration, or exasperation, or sadness, or rage--threw that tenderloin away.

The biblical stories around Christmas are as tragic as they are hopeful. An unexpected pregnancy, suspicions and domestic strife, homelessness and genocide. Christmas has a long shadow.

I ate it with a few friends at our annual winter reunion. Roasted it in blazing coals, wrapped in salt and a cotton cloth--an old Colombian method called Lomo al Trapo, tenderloin in cloth.

It was amazing.

An unexpected gift, born, perhaps, of trauma. Wrapped in cloths. To me, Christmas is a good time to wonder about the human condition: the splendor and the horror. Angelic choirs sing of a miraculous, yet troubled birth. Divine and all too human. Tenderloin and trash.

As Homer says (also retrieved from the trash that day):
Santa Homer

Sunday, October 8, 2017


A friend's recent fascination with cryptocurrency has me thinking about money, real money. What is money, really?

This is a photo of real money. I know it is real money, because my buddy Wes found it there, in the bottom of the hopper, coated with a film of trash-slurry. At Wes' house there is a strict rule that nothing from the trash comes into the house. An exception was made for this item, however. So we know it's real.

We will never find cryptocurrency in the slurry. We find lots of coins, but will never come across a Bitcoin. I wish we could, since one "coin" is apparently worth several thousand dollars. Bitcoins cannot be tossed, flipped, or found. But they can be spent, traded, saved, or invested. They are virtual money, and only "exist" in computer code.

They're not like real money. Not like hard cash, or money in the bank or in a safe, or your mattress. You can't hold it, feel it, smell it (eeew, butt-sweat and leather).

There was a time, however, when paper money was an idea people did not trust:

It had been justly stated by a British writer that the power to make a small piece of paper, not worth one cent, by the inscribing of a few names, to be worth a thousand dollars, was a power too high to be entrusted to the hands of mortal man. [John C. Calhoun, speech, U.S. Senate, Dec. 29, 1841] 

But they got over it...

I am not interested in money but in the things of which money is the symbol. [Henry Ford]

In 1971 under Nixon, the U.S. departed from the gold standard, and our slooshable money became completely symbolic. I can't any longer claim the gold my money represents. My money does not represent any-thing. It is a fluctuating number among currencies, and only has the value people agree that it has--at the moment. That means at base, money is a form of relationship and trust. 

Our words for money betray both the reality of it's 
a) fluidity ("shlooshiness"), and 
b) our (false) hope to find security in it. 

a) "Currency." A moment's thought, and one realizes the root is "current," from the Latin currens--to flow. Good ol' John Locke seems to be the first to have applied it to the circulation of money. As with any relationship, there needs to be flow; circulation; movement; fluctuations. 

b) "Cash," on the other hand, comes from the same Latin word as "case." It means "box," or "money box." Or if you are Al Gore, "lock-box." Which I think everyone understood by then was only as secure as the internet. On the internet, it was said Gore claimed to have invented the internet; which he did not actually claim. Security is elusive.

We want security! Rock-solid, like Prudential...(oops, not like that.) Like a Chevy pickup truck! 

The root of "security" is to be care-free. Yet striving for security is anything but care-free. Hoarding, stockpiling, and building up defenses easily becomes an obsessive-compulsion rooted in insatiable fear.

Not, however, that there is nothing to fear. It's likely that the word money comes from a surname of the strict and exacting goddess Juno, sometimes called Juno Moneta, the one who warns or advises. As both divine queen and mother, she monitors the affairs of the divine oikos (Greek for household), from whence: economy.

In other words, money has value that commands respect--even though it is only perceived value. Money works because of trust--even though the trust is only as sturdy as the agreement. Perhaps Bitcoin and similar virtual currencies are just the natural evolution of the creation of money in the first place. 

But while we still have paper money, please feel care-free enough to throw some away---so we trash haulers can find it.