Remembering Teresa Brasier

On Tuesday the 5th of December, our Elder, friend, and sister in Christ,
Teresa Brasier died at home, after her long illness.
She spent a good part of this year thinking about others, and preparing us all for what was to come.
This came out particularly in a service held in June this year -
she wanted to give thanks for her life, wanted to gather her family and friends close,
wanted to give good memories, and demonstrate in her own way,
that she knew that death wasn't the end.
So, we gathered:
had a service or worship in the church;
had a hog roast and ceilidh in Wanlockhead;
had an afternoon and evening in which stories were shared, and more memories were created.
That afternoon, and evening, was a gift of love and care, by Teresa.

Given that Teresa's funeral on Friday won't have a eulogy, copied below is the sermon at the service
from that June afternoon - to help catch a glimpse of who Teresa was, and of the God
who was so core to her being.
Our thoughts and prayers go out to Teresa's family and all who loved her, and whose lives she touched.

Reading: Psalm 139

Address 
Let’s pray: may the words of my mouth, and the thoughts of all our hearts,
be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, our strength and our redeemer. Amen.

‘Oh Lord, you have searched me, and you know me,’ says the writer of Psalm 139.
‘You know when I sit,
when I rise…
You know what I think,
what I’m going to say….
You know where I am,
and you’re right there with me…
I can’t escape….’

Fairly early on in my time here as minister,
as part of getting to know folk in the congregation a little better,
I found myself heading up to #1 Curfew Place to visit Teresa.
We fell naturally into an easy-going, free-ranging conversation
about life, the universe, God, dogs, and everything.
Good, honest chat:
a conversation that’s been ongoing since then,
conversation where laughter and prayer often mingle together,
where nothing is really off-limits,
and where, an enormous black lab often sits by my feet,
with great, hopeful eyes willing me to give him my biscuit –
Poacher’s nothing, if not an ever-hopeful optimist…

I’m not sure when it was, precisely, but one day, discussion turned to Psalm 139.
I discovered that it was one of Teresa’s favourite pieces of scripture,
and, Teresa discovered that I had a particular name for the Psalm –
a psalm expressing God’s faithfulness,
a psalm which talks of God always being with you,
of God knowing you utterly.
It’s a psalm that’s immensely comforting:
no matter what,
no matter how good, or how bad,
no matter the situation,
the psalmist assures us
that God is with us,
that God never lets us go,
that God knows us, for God formed us…
and that:
‘we are fearfully and wonderfully made.’

How amazing:
the One who created the heavens and the earth,
who shaped the mountains,
and sculpted the deep valleys under the seas…
is not just focused upon the big…
here, in the psalm,
we have the God who is also focused upon us:
who knit us together,
who, loves us and wants to spend time with us.

Comforting.
Yes.
However, there’s a little discomfort, too:
‘Oh Lord, you have searched me, and you know me…
If I try to hide myself in the darkness,
you see straight through it as if all were in daylight…
where nothing is hidden…
I can’t escape….’
This psalm also has an edgy side,
and, on those days when I would certainly rather hide myself under a rock
than feel so utterly exposed to God’s gaze,
I’ve been known to call this ‘the stalker psalm’.
‘Where can I go?’
And the answer:
'nowhere.'

But the discomfort is not because
God’s standing there with a big stick wanting to smack us down…
the discomfort is often because,
God’s standing there with arms stretched wide in welcome, saying
‘I know you, and oh, how I love you.’
It’s hard to accept such unconditional, no strings attached love…
so much so, that it’s often us
who are the ones who pick up the big stick
and end up beating ourselves up,
thinking we don’t deserve to be loved.
And that’s the point:
it’s not about us trying to measure up;
it’s about accepting that no matter what,
God loves us
and God is with us.
And this sense that God knows,
that God loves,
and that God is with her,
is very much a part of who Teresa is.

On the day I was inducted into this parish,
some pals of mine gave me a large, soft puppet - an elephant.
It sat, on the coffee table in the lounge room of the manse.
For a few moments, we sat, and looked at it,
and then, friend James said with a grin:
‘Basically, it’s the elephant in the room.’
Sometimes, we do everything within our power to ignore the elephant in the room:
we’re not going to, today.
We know why we’re here this afternoon:
because we all love and care for our friend, daughter, sister… Teresa.
We’re here, because we want to show in our own way
that we are with her in this hard time,
just as we’ve been with her in good times as well.
And, as we stand – or sit – together, in solidarity with her,
so I think, this is reciprocated,
by Teresa’s sense of wanting to meet here today with all of you…
and, in worship, to meet with God:
who is so fundamental to her way of trying
to navigate the world,
to make meaning of it.
And, through it all –
though she’s tried to escape God many a time,
she knows that she is loved -
so very much loved by God,
and that God is with her –
even in the midst of where she finds herself at this point in her life.

The psalm we’re thinking of today
celebrates the freedom of what it is to be completely known,
the freedom of being able to drop the mask and just… be real;
it celebrates the God who knows us,
and loves us.
But it also celebrates life in all its fullness and wonder;
it celebrates the great Giver of life –
who walks with us now,
and shows us there’s more,
for we are led, in hope,
in the way everlasting.
So today, even as we name the hard things,
so, also, we celebrate hope:
we celebrate, for,
as I’ve often said in this building:
we are an Easter people and ‘alleluia!’ is our song.  Amen.