A Modest Eulogy

The following is an extension of a letter that I wrote to my grandfather Dwight Duane Dunn while he was still alive. I spoke this at his funeral and just thought I should share it with you all. Grace and peace.

On a cold, wintry morning along an empty Michigan road, a family of seven trudged in the snow against the elements. It was a Sunday morning, the family dressed in their Sunday best, having taken care to look presentable that morning as they sat in Church to worship with their spiritual brothers and sisters. Dwight Dunn peered from his window at them, an old woman shaking visibly from the cold, a couple sheltering their four children from the frigid weather, the wind whipping their clothes and hair about. And as he watched, he most likely wondered what a family of seven was doing out on a Sunday morning, trudging in the snow against the inclement Michigan weather. So he decided to do what only he ought to do. He stopped their snowy trek that Sunday morning and drove them to church, to the University Christian Church of which he neither he nor his family was a member.

I suppose Grandpa was always this way, taking care of people who never asked for help. If he ever came across someone beaten and bruised by the side of the road, he was never the type of religious man to pass on by because he thought he was too good or too holy. He was a real Christian, a man who believed in helping people, in building people up, in giving good gifts, never taking advantage of anyone but always allowing people to rely and depend on him. He was much like the Good Samaritan illustrated by Jesus to a Jewish lawyer one day. Instead of passing by, he stepped over to the side of the road and helped those in need because compassionate was in his heart and because he understood that everyone was his neighbor.

He was, in fact, like many characters in the stories that Jesus told. He was much like the Sower in Jesus’ parable who sowed seed on different types of soil, and the seed was the Word of God, for he never withheld the truth of the Gospel from anyone who asked. And he was much like a man who found the Kingdom of God like a pearl of great price in field, for the truths of God were precious to him and the life of Jesus Christ was his model. And he was much like the worker in the parable of the talents that was given five talents by his master and turned it into ten, for he was always a hard worker who never made excuses and always worked for the benefit of others. And he was much like the older brother in the parable of the Prodigal Son who worked hard in his father’s service while younger brother spoiled his inheritance. But unlike the older brother in the story, we all know that Grandpa Dunn would be matching his Father stride for stride as his younger brother came home to receive him in an embrace and welcome home.
I see Grandpa in a lot of Jesus’ stories because that was what Grandpa gave to me: a love of stories. I remember a warm Florida summer day, when I sat across from my grandfather as he told me the stories that made him. Now I must say that this was not any strange sort of phenomenon, for I can recall many times when grandpa would sit me down and tell me about some interesting recollection from his past, interspersed with poems of the like of Georgy D. Wash. But on this particular occasion, he told me so many of his stories that it was indeed difficult to remember them all. I sat there and listened as he recounted to me his days at General Motors, his seasons with his daughters at the summer house and the later days after his retirement. He told me about the World’s Fair. And he told me about his days in the hospital and about the little mice that he would give to the nurses who helped him. And of course, it would be silly for me to retell such stories, for most of my family could tell them much better than I.

But this I must bring in a message devoted to my grandfather. A story makes a man. A man cannot merely be understood by the company that he represents or the job he works or even the church he attends, for they are merely descriptors. Nor can a man’s life be determined by the list of his work history or his resume, no matter how detailed. They are merely words on a page, meaningless symbols that are devoid of the man himself. They are simply suggestions or hints as to what a man could possibly be, but in all reality never tell us who he really was.

But a man’s story takes these descriptions and makes them walk, and in walking, we see the man. And when we see a man, we see the image of God Himself. And so it may not be too much of a stretch to say that when my grandfather sat me down on that warm Florida summer day, I looked into the face of God Himself, and I heard His story played out in the life of a man who was dedicated to his family and to his work and to his neighbors.

Because my grandfather picked up that family and took them to the University Christian Church on that day, my family switched their membership to that church. And since my family had switched their membership, my mother Judith Elaine Dunn eventually met a man named Lyle Leonard Welch. And if they had never met, then I would certainly not be standing among you today. I would not be able to be a part of this family sharing the love of a grandfather who cared for us all. Because of my grandfather’s generosity to a family on a wintry Sunday morning, I am here now remembering him together with you.

For my grandfather is indeed a great man, despite his simple descriptors. He has lived in poverty and wealth, in joy and sorrow, in love and frustration, in nostalgia and hope. He has seen the fear of war and the glory of victory, the sweat of hard work and the success of industry, and the rise and fall of nations. He has walked the world for ninety years, some good and some bad, some remembered and some forgotten.

But we do know that eventually these years must come to an end. For we know that we all fall asleep and hopefully wake up to be with the Lord. And though my grandfather now sees the Lord a sight better than most, we are still here looking down the noses on our faces as we stare up into heaven, hoping that we might see some inkling of glory. And we will be left with his story and because of that he will live on beyond my parents and beyond me and my siblings and, Lord willing, beyond my children. They will know that Dwight Duane Dunn was a man who strived on this earth with the best and the worst and told his story to a young kid on a warm Florida summer day who will never forget it.
The last time I saw my grandfather was this summer in Florida. I remember his demeanor, quiet and gentle, caring and peacefully mighty. And though his eyes were often closed, I imagined them when they were wide open, always looking for someone to help. And though his hands were folded, I remembered them once carving wooden figures for others and working goodness on this earth. And though his heart was failing, we know that it was always filled with those whom he loved, God and his neighbor, his family and friends, his children and grand children and great grandchildren and great great grandchildren.

And I remember the last thing I said to him as my parents drove me off to the airport to go home, left with the memories of who he was and wondering what he would look like in glory. I shook his ragged hands and I looked into his caring eyes and I felt the warmth of his mighty heart and I said to him, “I’ll see you again.” And I will.

Silence in Forte

The following was created from a little game that I like to play every now and then. Taking a random Bible verse, I do my best to create an essay that attempts to do it justice. I may continue to play this game on the blog if it works out well enough. The verse in this question is a troublesome one: 1 Tim. 2:11 - A woman should learn in quietness and full submission.


We are afraid of silence. It indicates weakness, submission, slavery. And in among all the thoughts brimming over on account of the many impetuses we receive every day, I find it impossible to even conceive of a world in which I could sit down and remain silent without speaking to fill the void. We are so constantly bombarded with media and news and information and texting that I think we find it difficult indeed to sit down and remain silent. But we are afraid of silence.

Even at my school, we look down on the socially awkward or uninvolved. We pity the one who prefers to keep silent, and we call them bad evangelists. And if this could show us anything, this shows us that in this world, both locally and globally, words hold power. Whether good bad, we speak these words every day not merely to inform, but also to persuade, even such actions are purely in ignorance. For the ignorant speak oppressively from liberation, but the informed speak liberally from their oppression. And somewhere in the middle, we have this verse prohibiting women to speak in the general assembly.

Of course, there are obvious historical and grammatical issues at play, thereby changing its context. But that cannot stop the uninformed Sunday morning preacher from pontificating upon the complementary roles of men and women and how the socially defined structures for them are both universal and nonnegotiable.

So where does this verse go and where does it stop? Is silence so bad or talking so good? And is it even possible that Paul would say that no woman could ever speak in a church ever?

I cannot imagine it. Yet here this verse stands, and perhaps I am the offender not submitting myself to it. For while the uninformed preacher pontificates, I remain silent, not daring to break my own socially defined role as a spectator in a silent crowd or silent classroom. What an irony.

And that silence hurts. It is deafening. And while mine might be destructive, the silence of a woman might be creative. Now I should be clear here: I think women ought to teach and preach and learn vociferously in the church. We are not living in 1st c. Ephesus, and at this time, I will not choose to see Paul's use of Adam and Eve as some universal application for why women can't talk in church. If anything, it might be just the opposite.

Women may be saved through childbearing, but men will certainly not be saved through speaking or asserting their authority, at least to a point. If this is the guy who said that there was neither male nor female in Christ, then the contradiction here could not even be reconciled by Eastern rationale. There must be something deeper here.

But in the meantime, I must begin to speak. I do know that the stories of Jesus reveal him as one who treated women respectfully, even Syropheonician ones. And if I ought to live like Jesus at all, then I must speak like him. Regardless of the verse here, the backdrop is one where the roles between men and women look different that what is socially defined.

So if there is neither male nor female in Christ, then what am I? Can I learn quietly in all submissiveness as well? Must I always be relied upon to speak boldly? Can I not also choose to sit and listen, absorbing wisdom while submitting myself to the authority over me, regardless of their sex, race or denomination?

I hope the answer is "yes," for thus far I have only little exegetical ability or existential weight to make any decisive statement. Yet the ignorant still speak, their words a horrible cacophony like a tone-deaf soprano, and the tenor of my voice has yet to be heard. And in due time, they will rest and my voice will resound.

But for now, I must wait and listen. My life is not yet gone that I cannot wait quietly and submit. Indeed, I will be called upon to lead. My experience holds this to be true. But not yet. And perhaps when Paul penned these words, it was not yet time for these particular women to speak. Maybe, however, one day they did become qualified to speak and in turn taught some young man who was not yet ready to take the reins of leadership.

So in this church in which we may find ourselves, perhaps there is an audience for a feminine note, spoken forcefully in full forte. And perhaps there is room for the uninformed preacher's tones to diminish into a submissive piano to make way for the breaking melody. The soprano will sing yet and the tenor will rest and the chorus will resound as it always has. The choir will continue to crescendo until the end has been reached.

And so in the meantime, I will prepare: exercising my voice, seeing the notes I can reach, expanding my range and finding my place in the choir. And hopefully our song will reach even heaven.

*O Come, O Come Emmanuel for our silence may be louder than our fears would give it credit.

For My Grandfather

On a warm Florida summer day, I sat across from my grandfather as he told me the stories that made him. Now I must say that this was not any strange sort of phenomenon, for I can recall many times when grandpa would sit me down and tell me about some interesting recollection from his past, interspersed with poems of the like of Georgy D. Wash. But on this particular occasion, he told me so many of his stories that it was indeed difficult to remember them all. I sat there and listened as he recounted to me his days at General Motors, his seasons with his daughters at the summer house and the later days after his retirement. And of course, it would be silly for me to retell such stories, for grandpa could tell them much better than I. So instead, I choose to write about that which grandpa gave to me: a love of stories.

A story makes a man. A man cannot merely be understood by the company that he represents or the job he works or even the church he attends, for they are merely descriptors. Nor can a man’s life be determined by the list of his work history or his resume, no matter how detailed. They are merely words on a page, meaningless symbols that are devoid of the man himself. They are simply suggestions or hints as to what a man could possibly be, but in all reality never tell us who he really was.

But a man’s story takes these descriptions and makes them walk, and in walking, we see the man. And when we see a man, we see the image of God Himself. And so it may not be too much of a stretch to say that when my grandfather sat me down on that warm Florida summer day, I looked into the face of God Himself, and I heard His story played out in the life of a man who was dedicated to his family and to his work.

For my grandfather is indeed a great man, despite his simple descriptors. He has lived in poverty and wealth, in joy and sorrow, in love and frustration, in nostalgia and hope. He has seen the fear of war and the glory of victory, the sweat of hard work and the success of industry, and the rise and fall of nations. He has walked the world for ninety years, some good and some bad, and we all hope that his years will not end quickly.

But we do know that we all fall asleep and wake up to be with the Lord. And though my grandfather will see the Lord a sight better than most, we are still here left with the noses on our faces staring up into heaven and hoping that we might see some inkling of glory. And we will be left with his story and because of that he will live on beyond my parents and beyond me and my siblings and, Lord willing, beyond my children. They will know that Dwight Duane Dunn was a man who strived on this earth with the best and the worst and told his story to a young kid on a warm Florida summer day.

And I will never forget it.

O Come, O Come Emmanuel for our stories weave into the grand narrative of this life, and we believe ourselves to be part of Your story as long as You wish it.

A Critique of Criticism

I've been meaning to write something like this for a long time, though I felt that I haven't had the words to write it. Perhaps I still do not. Nonetheless, it's two in the morning, my eyelids aren't heavy, and I figured I ought to do something constructive.

Fact: I am a movie addict. Fact: I am a recovering movie critic. For a short while, I believed that I was an enlightened connoisseur of film. I knew the basic rules, of course, like "show, don't tell" and "keep the camera where the interest is" and "don't try to be like Spielberg because even Spielberg isn't like Spielberg." But I was the guy that would be earnest to exclaim that a movie collection was lacking if it did not contain a single movie written by Charlie Kaufman or Michael Mann or at least something in a different language. I've surveyed shelves of DVDs in my dorm and spotted the likes of movies like Eagle Eye or The Transformers, listening to my friends convey to me the pure joy they receive from watching Nicholas Cage with his arms spread, torches in both hands as a F-15 screams overhead, firebombs exploding in the background. And I shake my head in disgust because everyone knows that these films are small potatoes indeed when compared to the subtle overtones of absurdism and role reversal in a Wes Anderson's Rushmore or appreciate the slow and realist dialogue of Kieslowski's The Decalogue. And I wonder why I cannot carry on a meaningful conversation concerning movies without launching into some ill-advised diatribe on how Unbreakable was certainly the superior to 300.

So, despite my overly obsessive manner concerning the finer things on the silver screen, I've learned many film critics can be some of the most destructive people on the planet. Consider this: A film critic may spend one to two hours to develop a good critique of a film, which generally consists of what the critic did and did not like followed by a general and often vague judgment on the film as a whole. Yet there are some people on the crew of said film that worked 24 hours straight to make sure that the film was proper. There were people on the set of the film that worked days and nights without sleep to get everything just right. There were hundreds of people involved in the process, logging thousands of hours before the movie even hit the screen. There was a writer spending hours tweaking a line to get the punch just right and a director losing brain cells by running the same scene over and over again just to get the right look and feel for the rest of the movie. And all of this work was to create something new, an entire project born from a simple idea.

Now, I certainly believe that some criticism of major budget films is warranted. Any time anyone puts a piece of art out into the world that makes millions upon millions of dollars, then a critic might be entitled to scrutinize it publicly. I'll abide it, I suppose, especially since there are truly films that serve absolutely no function except to make money. I can accept criticism on that level. But what I cannot abide is criticism of this nature on the base level in our own personal relationships. I will sit in a preaching class this semester and listen to people "constructively criticize" someone for not preaching in the "correct way." I will read someone's work that is just not good enough, and I will have to tell them why. I will be confronted by someone in my dorm because the way I hold myself and the way I live my life is not "the right way."

And in so doing, we destroy creation. Our boasts about how Million Dollar Baby was a bad attempt at a boxing movie or Michael Clayton was boring, actionless trash - claims that have no ground except on those which are purely opinion - soon translate into statement on how a roommate is an idiot or a fellow worker is complete psychopath or a student is talentless writer with no future. And we destroy in the process.

But there is a place somewhere inside of us that longs to create. It is what we do as human beings and as God's created ones: we make stuff. We build and we plan and we dream and we explore because that's what we do. But some of us who are not particularly good at creating choose instead to criticize. There is certainly a place for this, too, but not in the way we might think. To criticize is to destroy. This is for certain, for in criticizing, we often tell someone that the way they function in life or the things which they create are either wrong or no good. So we give our criticisms either written or verbal, and in the process, eliminate a viable path in their life without creating a new one. We must create a new path, and I believe we do this through love.

I advocate loving people, a skill somewhat scarce these days. When we love, we show how to be helpful and collaborate and how to understand others without critical bias. When we love, we ourselves create in others feelings and notions of belonging or success and we enable them to be better. Through love, we are able to push people past the mundane work and product to a quality of work not yet reached by mankind. In so doing, we also become better versions of ourselves and closer versions of what Christ modeled for us two thousand years ago.

Now when we love, we do also destroy, but only that which is ineffective or harmful. We hope to eradicate sin in others because it opposes our Gospel and the advance of the kingdom of God and the growth of the body of Christ, and so therefore, it is unwelcome.

But understand this: my previous words are by no means the end all and be all God-sanctioned truth. It is merely my perspective on life. And I do believe that there is a corrective perspective, that is the perspective of Christ, but I am certainly not there.

And so if you have read this far, you have some choices. You can either forget that I wrote this at all and do nothing. You can tell me how and why I am wrong and how my perspective is incorrect, and in so doing, destroy in a sense that I would deem unhelpful, further bolstering my argument. Or you can encourage me to continue, and in so doing, create in me the inspiration to continue to push on. But unless we help each other, our perspective will continue to be rather narrow, like a nearsighted stare down a dark classroom hall. There will be no hope of making it to the other side without a illumination and proper focus.

O Come, O Come Emmanuel for the world continues to fall to pieces, and we, standing in the midst of debris, are still trying to build a spiritual house.