You’ve seen the old news clips – on A&E or PBS – of John F. Kennedy’s funeral, now more than 36 years ago: the procession, the solidarity it still evokes, the sense that this man whom none of us knew touched something deep and enduring in so very many people. Funerals for slain police officers lack the high staging, but have that same kind of poignancy that bonds people together within a common cause, a common loss. We attend to the staging and the solemnity of these services because we somehow sense that a sacred chord has been touched by these people. So we bend to hear the music, that it might touch us as well.

I hope this doesn’t feel like an inappropriately dramatic way to introduce the subject of the memorial service for the Reverend Arthur Foote II held at Unity Church on January 22nd – I’m still working on the service as I write this. I’ve attended or conducted services for other ministers. Two years ago, I delivered the eulogy at my closest friend’s funeral, a minister in the Disciples of Christ Church.

But it’s been clear to me from talking with so many of you who knew this man that Arthur Foote was quite a remarkable man and minister. It’s not that he was SuperPastor, or excelled at every facet of this multi-faceted job. He hated fundraising, disliked administration, and supported the religious education of children mostly from a distance, leaving it to Betty Whitman.

Still, so many stories and memories you’ve shared with me testify to a warmth, authenticity and empathy about the man that have reminded me of the special kinds of opportunities and privileges with which this profession of parish ministry is entrusted.

We all hope to live in such a way that those who knew us will speak kindly of us when we are gone, though we never get to hear it. It’s too bad that we can’t somehow be allowed to get an advance screening of our eulogies, so we’ll know that when people told us how much they appreciated and loved us, they really weren’t kidding.

The best story I’ve heard about Arthur so far is too good not to share. It happened a long time ago, at the church picnic following the final service in May. Jack Barwise, now gone, was there with his family, including his daughter Mary, who told me this story. Jack adored Arthur Foote. He idolized him. He sent Arthur frequent notes of appreciation, and signed them "D.D." – which he explained stood for "Devoted Disciple." Jack had gone to the picnic from church, and was still wearing his suit. He was bugging Arthur about something now long forgotten, and he was being quite persistent.

It was, apparently, a kind of cross between fawning and just flat-out pestering. Finally, it wore Arthur down. "Oh Jack," he said, "go jump in the lake!" Whereupon, Arthur Foote’s Devoted Disciple ran out onto the dock and did just that! A few minutes later, standing on shore as his suit dripped dry, he explained to his family that he did it "because my minister told me to."

Boy, they just don’t make parishioners like that any more! They don’t make many ministers like that any more, either. You who have shared your still-warm stories with me were lucky to have had Arthur Foote for your minister – I suppose the proper word is "blessed." This church was also blessed, and those blessings still linger in the form of old tales, wet-eyed memories, funny and poignant stories of a man whom Jews would call a real Mensch, and whom you got to call the Reverend Arthur Foote II.

Just being able to retell the stories is a kind of blessing, isn’t it? Can you hear the music?

Davidson