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Memorial Service
Laura Bacon September 23, 2013
 
Prelude Music
Cathy Worecester, Dan's mother-in-law, Violin and Melissa Baum, Cello.
Laura Bacon September 23, 2013
 
Gathering Hymn
Sung by the congregation
Accompaniment by Andy and Christian Kittelson (Sid's nephews) 

Morning Has Broken

Morning has broken, like the first morning.
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird.
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning,
Praise for them springing fresh from the Word.

Sweet the rain's new fall, sunlight from heaven.
Like the first dewfall, on the first grass.
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden,
Sprung in completeness where His feet pass.

Mine in the sunlight, mine is the morning.
Born of the one light Eden saw play.
Praise with elation, praise every morning;
God's recreation of the new day. 

Morning has broken, like the first morning.
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird.
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning,
Praise for them springing fresh from the Word. 
Laura Bacon September 23, 2013
 
Welcome
Steve Hammer, Pastor Esperanza Lutheran Church
Laura Bacon September 23, 2013
 
1st Corinthians 13 1-7
read by John Kittelson, Sid's brother-in-law

If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. 

If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. 

If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.



Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.
 


It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.
 


Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.
 


It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Laura Bacon September 23, 2013
 
"Reflections for a funeral"
by Richard Dawkins
read by Michael Dorman, ASU Professor and friend

We are going to die, and that makes us the lucky ones. Most people are never going to die because they are never going to be born. The potential people who could have been here in my place but who will in fact never see the light of day outnumber the grains of sand in the Sahara. Certainly those unborn ghosts include greater poets than Keats, scientists greater than Newton. We know this because the set of possible people allowed by our DNA so massively outnumbers the set of actual people. In the teeth of these stupefying odds it is you and I that are here.

Here is another respect in which we are lucky. The universe is older than 100 million centuries. Every century of hundreds of millions has been in its time, or will be when its time comes, 'the present century.' The present moves from the past to the future, like a tiny spotlight, inching its way along a gigantic ruler of time. Everything behind the spotlight is in darkness, the darkness of the dead past. Everything ahead of the spotlight is in the darkness of the unknown future. The odds of your century's being the one in the spotlight are the same as the odds that a penny, tossed down at random, will land on a particular ant crawling somewhere along the road from New York to San Francisco. You are lucky to be alive and so am I.

We live on a planet that is all but perfect for our kind of life: not too warm and not too cold, basking in kindly sunshine, softly watered. Yes, there are deserts and slums; there is starvation and misery to be found. But take a look at the competition. Compared with most planets this is paradise, and parts of Earth are paradise by any standard. What are the odds that a planet picked at random will have these properties? Even the most optimistic calculation will put it at less than one in a million.

Imagine a spaceship full of sleeping explorers, deep-frozen would-be colonists of some distant world. The voyagers go into the deep-freeze soberly reckoning the odds against their spaceship's ever chancing upon a planet friendly to life. If one in a million planets is suitable at best, and it takes centuries to travel from each star to the next, the spaceship is pathetically unlikely to find a safe haven for its sleeping cargo.

But imagine that the ship's robot pilot turns out to be unthinkably lucky. After millions of years the ship does find a planet capable of sustaining life. The passengers, Rip van Winkles, wake stumbling into the light. After a million years of sleep, here is a whole new fertile globe, a lush planet of warm pastures, sparkling streams and waterfalls. Our travellers walk entranced, unable to believe their luck.

But as I said, the story asks for too much luck; it would never happen. And yet, isn't it what has happened to each one of us? We have woken after hundreds of millions of years of sleep, defying astronomical odds. Admittedly we didn't arrive by spaceship, we arrived by being born, and we are going to die, and that makes us the lucky ones.


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