EMPTY CHAIR
Laughter and jesting started immediately when we left the hotel. Through chilly streets of downtown Philadelphia, past Independence Park, during questioning for directions, finally into the City Tavern. A group of five in the November night, perched on the cusp of this year's holiday season. Friends: some very old...a few quite new. Hot toddies for all. Signature pot pie for most. Waxed candlelight flickering on our faces. The conversation turned more serious. Words swirled around the debate of theology, the agonies of being church, the details of kids and parents and being sandwiched in between.
Our individual glances rested for stolen moments on the empty chair at the end of the table. The absence of a human form was not planned for that chair. It happened when the waiter did the seating dance with us. Providential emptiness for that chair had been strangely ordained. On another night this past February, Stan Grenz occupied the chair. Change the locale to balmy San Diego. Different restaurant. We laughed at Stan's notoriously corny jokes. We drank a voluminous red wine. We talked of Stan's sweet Edna and her upcoming doctoral status. Goodbyes were waved late into the darkness. See you in Philadelphia!
People say, "Stan died suddenly." Would that not be true for everyone? There is a moment when you are alive. There is the next moment when you are not. There is a moment when your chair is occupied. There is the next moment when it is empty. The suddenness of death relates to those of us who sit at dinner in Philadelphia or Vancouver or any other earthly place. We expect to groan at Stan's jokes one more time. We expect to bask in the presence of Stan Grenz, gentleman and scholar extraordinaire, one more evening. Suddenly, a group of six has only five members.
The candles at the City Tavern burned down to nubs. We could put it off no longer. Corporately we turned to the empty chair. We raised our glasses to Stan Grenz. For all that was and all that will be. For eternal life without death's intrusion. For angels that are required to laugh at corny jokes. We raised a glass, finally, for those of us who are left behind...with empty chairs.
Our individual glances rested for stolen moments on the empty chair at the end of the table. The absence of a human form was not planned for that chair. It happened when the waiter did the seating dance with us. Providential emptiness for that chair had been strangely ordained. On another night this past February, Stan Grenz occupied the chair. Change the locale to balmy San Diego. Different restaurant. We laughed at Stan's notoriously corny jokes. We drank a voluminous red wine. We talked of Stan's sweet Edna and her upcoming doctoral status. Goodbyes were waved late into the darkness. See you in Philadelphia!
People say, "Stan died suddenly." Would that not be true for everyone? There is a moment when you are alive. There is the next moment when you are not. There is a moment when your chair is occupied. There is the next moment when it is empty. The suddenness of death relates to those of us who sit at dinner in Philadelphia or Vancouver or any other earthly place. We expect to groan at Stan's jokes one more time. We expect to bask in the presence of Stan Grenz, gentleman and scholar extraordinaire, one more evening. Suddenly, a group of six has only five members.
The candles at the City Tavern burned down to nubs. We could put it off no longer. Corporately we turned to the empty chair. We raised our glasses to Stan Grenz. For all that was and all that will be. For eternal life without death's intrusion. For angels that are required to laugh at corny jokes. We raised a glass, finally, for those of us who are left behind...with empty chairs.
Joni and Bob
posted by Joni and Bob at 11:22 AM
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