Gary Ben Lemmond: A Tribute (November 6, 1943 - February 4, 2016)

God created Dad because God loves stories. And my Dad didn’t just tell stories – he lived them. Ones that often felt bigger than life. Unfortunately, one will have to suffice. I was in eighth grade and the school district just announced a new rule that it would no longer accept hunting or fishing trips as “acceptable absences” – only trips to the doctor or dentist. My dad was livid because he simply couldn’t abide being told what to do and because a group of dads took us kids every Spring on a dove hunting trip to Cotulla, TX, which meant that they had to pull us out of school early on a Friday. Now, I’m a rule follower by nature and I remember telling my dad that we would have to go later because I didn’t want an unaccepted absence on my record. He told me, “Don’t worry about it.” Well, Friday came and just before noon an office aide arrived in my class informing me that my father was waiting on me in the office. I distinctly remember that something was odd because the person had a strange look on her face. When I arrived  - there Dad was in all his glory, clothed from head to foot in camo – and not the nice stuff but ones that had seen some action and a bit of blood. And as I walked through the door I heard him tell the attendance worker, “He’s going to the dentist.”

Stories and laughter were Dad’s weapons, his armor, his spiritual gifts and means of telling the truth. Dad considered the world a funny place and God a masterful jokester. Even in his last days when things were hard you could hear him cracking a few jokes. The family hopes that you tell his stories today. And friends, I firmly believe that as we tell them God will say, “Go on, tell’em again."

But Dad was more than a story teller. He also loved stories. In John 8, one of Dad’s favorites, Jesus encounters the Pharisees who bring to him a woman caught in adultery and they wanted to stone her. Jesus responds, “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” And the story goes on tell us that “When they heard it, they went away, one by one, beginning with the elders; and Jesus was left alone with the woman standing before him.”  In this life, Dad learned to give up being a stone thrower. He came to dislike self-righteous condemners and those who pretended not to be sinners. With Jesus’ help, he believed, anyone could change. He had seen it. He saw his father turn from alcoholism to become a beloved grandfather because of God’s love and power. Along with the Gospels, Dad knew all too well that it was religious people who were actually in danger of missing God and dangerous to others. They were always the ones who opposed Jesus and his work. Dad believed that anyone who has not been tempted couldn’t enter the kingdom of heaven. Without temptation, one can’t be saved. I’d like to think that Dad at the end of his life very much embodied the words of the Apostle Paul, who toward the end of his, in 1 Timothy, said “Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners – of whom I am the worst.” Before he died, Dad noticed that I was in altercation with a number of other pastors on Facebook about a blog that I had written about “welcoming” all people into the church. On this issue he couldn’t help but weigh in. He wrote, “Jon, as you are well aware I am not a religion scholar but I don't think Jesus saw the woman as a prostitute but as a sinner just like the rest of us! Keep on doing God's work!” For Dad, welcoming sinners was always God’s work and our own. And Dad, Dad always wanted to be first in line.

The reason my Dad loved this text is because it spoke to Dad’s weakness. Dad had regrets. When he talked about his life he told me that he sometimes had let anger get the best of him – stones had wound up in his hands.  And for this he was sorry. And if he were here he would urge us all to let such anger and stone throwing go. And if he had ever turned that anger on anyone present. He would want me to tell you for him, “I’m sorry.”  I’m glad to say that, in the end, my Dad’s fate resembled that of the woman caught in adultery – standing before Jesus who says, “Neither do I condemn you.”

The final thing I would say about Dad is that he thought awe was the most appropriate response to God and all that God has made. Dad had no time for any theology or sermons that explained God in neat and tidy ways. He always used to say to me, “Jon, any God that I can totally understand isn’t too bright and not a God worth knowing.” He loved the outdoors and all that God has made. He loved fishing and hunting. One time, I called him on the phone and he picked up immediately and began to whisper. I asked him, “What are you doing?” He responded, “I’m in a deer blind.” “O,” I asked, “you’re hunting?” “No,” he said, “I’m not hunting. I’m just looking.” That’s why Dad liked the Psalms so much – He loved to look– to truly see new things, to explore diverse landscapes with mom, to see the glory of God not as some mere spiritual thing but as heaven on earth. Like King David, Dad was a “taste and see that the Lord is good” kind-of-guy. Like David, Dad’s invitation to us would be, “let all the inhabitants of the world stand in awe of him.” I think this is also why my Dad loved music so much at church – music, much like the wild deer he loved to watch, was imaginative, inspiring, and lovely. He loved sermons that led him through wonderful, picturesque places and which presented truth and God never simply as facts but also as something beautiful, something awesome.  

Toward the end – when Dad’s illness was bad he prayed a prayer every night from the Bible that would allow him to express his deep pain and abiding faith, Psalm 23. You can find it in your order of service. And to honor him and the Lord whom he loved, will you say this prayer with me.

I would like to leave you with two benedictions.

Benediction number one comes from me: May the peace of the Lord Jesus Christ go with you wherever he may send you. May he guide you through the wilderness and protect you from the storm. May he bring you home rejoicing at the wonders he will show you. May he bring you home rejoicing once again into our doors.

Benediction number two is from Dad who when he was ready to go would always smack his hands together and say, “We’re out of here!”