The Funeral of Marjorie Evelyn Carlson
January 25, 2017, Messiah Lutheran Church, by Pastor David Van Kley
Texts: Psalm 104:1-5, 13-17, 23-24, 28-30; Revelation 22:1-5; John 15:1-12
A couple of weeks ago, my wife, who works at Anderson and Tackman Company, found a
painting about to be discarded during remodeling. She recognized it as one of Marge
Carlson’s—a collage of Marquette landmarks set against the backdrop of hills and water. She
asked for it. It will hang somewhere in our home, a visual testament to the beauty of this city
and a remembrance of the woman who painted it so well.
I guess you could say that everyone’s life begins as a blank canvas. God begins to paint, our
parents and others contribute brush strokes, as do we, until a painting emerges, filled with
landmarks of every kind, swirls of color and form, organized somehow into a picture.
God began painting Marjorie’s life on April 9, 1934, when she was born to Edward and Lilian
Petersen. She grew up in Ishpeming, in the shadow of its iron mines, hills, and lakes, the
picturesque Mather Inn. Her love for art showed itself early in her life, in elementary and high
school. She was also drawn into a relationship with God early in life, attending Bethel Lutheran
Church on her own initiative, because she longed for the forgiveness and hope Jesus proclaims.
She pursued her passion for art as a student, first at NMU and then, the University of Michigan.
Later she taught at Northern, and then, for many years, in the Marquette schools. In the midst
of everything, she fell in love with Neil Carlson and more than 55 years ago, they married.
Marge and Neil brought three children into the world, one of whom died, sadly, at birth, but
two of whom are with us today, Neil, Jr. and David. Marge poured herself into painting their
lives, suspending her teaching career for six years to care for them, returning to the classroom
only after Dave and Neil went to school.
Neil and Elizabeth spoke eloquently about Marjorie’s love for art, her family, gardening and
pets—even the Chicago Cubs! I came to know Marge when I served as St. Mark’s pastor.
Marge was as devoted as any church member I’ve seen. She seldom missed a week of worship.
She helped maintain the altar, provide coffee, and served on the council: really, she was
engaged in every level of the church’s ministry. Most important, she went about her tasks with
a humble and kind spirit. She was level-headed, intelligent, and gracious.
I don’t mean to suggest she was perfect, for surely Marge would shudder at that. No human
being is perfect or even remotely close. All of us harbor thoughts and feelings that are sinful
and our actions in some way reveal them. For Marge and for all who believe in Christ, it is the
meeting with Christ himself that transforms us daily, from sinner to lover, from self to other,
from sadness to joy, from death to life. In this way, Christ Jesus, crucified and risen, integrates
the chaos of our lives into a beautiful painting.
As a painter, Marge loved organic images. In John, Jesus speaks of himself as a vine and his
people as branches. Because the branches are connected to him, they bear fruit. The fruit they
bear is the fruit of love, the fruit of joy. This image captures what I knew of Marge. She was a
branch of Christ who bore much fruit.
Imagine her life as a painting—Christ the stem of the vine, Marge as a healthy branch full of life,
producing flowers and lovely fruit for 82 years?
Still, we are here because this life has come to an end. A massive heart attack brought Marge
to the hospital last week, and for several days, she lay, on a ventilator, suspended between this
life and what is to come. Neil and her sons kept vigil, served as advocates with doctors and
nurses, spoke to her, prayed with her, touched her, kissed her. As I watched Neil and Marge
interact, I felt I was standing on holy ground: such was the nature of their love for each other!
Yet, on Friday, January 20, death won out, as it will for each of us. The breath of life, God’s
breath, was withdrawn. The painting of Marge’s life was complete.
It’s hard to deal with such a loss. The absence of the beloved is painful. It is like hanging a
painting on a wall, a memory of the past, rather than having the painter beside you. Our hearts
go out to you, Neil, and family. We share some measure of your grief and want to support you,
however we can, in the days ahead.
But there is also this. God has even now begun to paint another picture, as once he painted
Jesus’ life anew on Easter. The author of Revelation uses words to describe the picture: a river
filled with the clear, clear waters of life, flowing from God’s throne. On either side, a doubletrunked tree, whose overhanging branches are full of leaves and twelve kinds of beautiful fruit,
intended for the healing of the nations. The scene is bathed in perfect light, the light of the
risen Christ.
It is a vision, of course, a word painting—a way of showing us something we cannot now see.
But like all good art, it is true, as true as the reality of Marge’s body before us and the grief we
feel. Even today, God is painting, and Marge is in that painting, with all the nations, bathed in
light, finally and completely whole.
In this very imperfect world, we have this promise—God the artist is ever at work, painting a
new creation, and by faith, we are invited to be painted into God’s canvas.
Amen.