Reflections on Pastor Kristin’s homily at the memorial for Eld. Elizabeth Stake

The Rev. Kristin Hutson, M.Div., J.D. over the remains of Eld. Elizabeth J. Stake. Photo: Gerald Farinas.

This afternoon, we gathered, with heavy hearts and spirits lifted by hope, to remember the life and witness of Eld. Elizabeth J. Stake. A life, as I know, defined by questioning, believing, and acting.

At the memorial service, the Rev. Kristin Hutson chose a text that, at first glance, carried an unexpected charge. It was the story of Jesus and the Samaritan woman at the well, from the fourth chapter of John.

Pastor Kristin’s sermon was incredibly moving, and she shared that she chose this passage because Eld. Liz was someone who found confidence in God knowing who she was and used her.

Like Pastor Kristin shared, it is in the climax of Jesus’s conversation with the woman that I felt the enduring spirit of Liz was truly captured.

As the woman runs back to her village to tell everyone what she had found, she proclaimed, “Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done! He cannot be the Messiah, can he?”

It was this profound, questioning proclamation that struck me most deeply today. It touches on our deepest fears and our greatest hopes: the fear of being seen in our entirety, and the hope that, when we are, we might still be worthy.

We all carry secrets. I do.

We all have moments, choices, or thoughts we wish we could erase. I do.

I know I often measure myself against the "sainted," against the legacy of those like Eld. Liz, my predecessor as Kirk Clerk, who seemed to walk the path with such conviction.

I worried, as Pastor Kristin spoke, about that divine scale, about God meticulously weighing the things we have done and haven’t done, comparing my failures to the virtues of others.

This fear of being weighed was especially poignant today, because Eld. Liz was, for us, the weigher, the measurer of our community. As our longtime financial advisor, treasurer, and bookkeeper under three pastors, she was the one who kept the balance sheet of our efforts and resources. She weighed every dollar and measured every account.

But the Samaritan woman shows us that Jesus's knowledge is not like a bookkeeper’s ledger, even one as precise as Liz’s.

When Jesus spoke to the woman, he named her life circumstances plainly. He told her everything she had ever done.

But look closely at her response.

She didn't feel exposed for punishment; she felt seen for recognition.

Jesus's perfect knowledge was not an account for condemnation, but the foundation for an encounter of profound intimacy.

The beautiful truth that settled over me this afternoon is that God's omniscience is not a weapon of judgment, but a source of boundless grace. The Messiah knew her past, yet offered her living water.

God knows us completely, not to point out our failures, but to meet us exactly where we are, ready to begin the work of transformation.

The woman's statement is the moment her shame was replaced by witness. She ran back to the community that shunned her, no longer hiding her life, but using her fully known story to proclaim the truth.

This is the freedom of being fully known. I came away from the service realizing that when we accept that the Divine looks upon us and sees everything we have ever done, and yet still says, "I have chosen you, I invite you," we are freed from the crippling need to perform and pretend.

The balance God keeps is one of love and forgiveness, not dollars and cents.

This, I believe, was the essence of the life we celebrated today. Eld. Liz, our careful weigher of earthly resources, was someone who questioned but believed and acted on it concerning heavenly truth. She was a proclaimer of Truth she learned, and her life teaches me that true worthiness is not about having a perfect record. It is about the courage to act on the truth once you have heard it.

Like the woman at the well, Liz embraced the radical honesty of faith. She understood that God’s knowledge of us affirms our inherent value, and our known life is not a secret to be kept, but a testimony to be shared.

As I reflect on the service this afternoon, I am reminded that God's knowledge of me is not a threat, but the ultimate affirmation of my significance. I am fully loved, fully known, and invited to act on that profound truth.