“Ethel’s Story”
Original sermon given on March 30, 2025 written and delivered by Pastor Jesse Kueker at First Saint Paul’s Lutheran Church.
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“Ethel’s Story”
Psalm 32
Psalm 32
Grace, mercy, and peace be unto you from God our Father and the Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.
The Psalmist paints a familiar picture in Psalm 32. A sinner sits in silence, groaning all day long, their bones wasted away, their strength dried up. They had fallen short of the glory of God. The soul and body both are disheveled, distressed, disheartened. You know this picture because it is true of you too. Your sin is great. Your bones waste away. You have fallen short of God’s Word! Yes, the Psalmist prays, many are the sorrows of the wicked, but steadfast love surrounds the one who trusts in the Lord. Steadfast love surrounds, envelops, from every side, the one who trusts in the Lord.
Nine years ago, I was sent from Concordia Seminary to be the pastor at Trinity Lutheran Church in Clinton, Missouri. When I arrived, I found a note placed within the center drawer of the newly refurbished wooden desk in my office. The note was from the previous pastor, who faithfully tended to the flock there with the gifts of the Lord, and on the note were general words of encouragement — a few specific things he believed I needed to know. As a steward of the mysteries of God, he wanted me to know the state of our homebound members and the last time they each received the Lord’s Supper.
On that list was a woman by the name of Ethel. All that portion of the note said was, “Ethel. Nursing home in Stover, locked-dementia unit,” followed by these heartbreaking words, “last Eucharist unknown, unable to commune.” And I wept for Ethel; I packed up my traveling Communion case, my Bible, and I drove to Stover. Ethel was the first parishioner of Trinity that I had the pleasure of making a homebound visit with as a pastor. After about a 50-minute drive up and down the hills of middle Missouri, I arrived at her nursing home a bit carsick and disoriented and stumbled into her room already a step outside of my comfort zone.
Now, a few things you need to know about Ethel — she was born in 1916. And it was then 2015, which makes Ethel 99 years old. She was baptized on July 30, 1935. I’ll never forget that first image of Ethel when I opened her door. There she was laying flat in her bed, covered in a white blanket, her gray and white hair matted firmly behind her, flattened from the lonely hours in that white-walled room. Her hands were laying one on top of the other in the middle of her chest, and her eyes were wide open, almost as if in a state of shock, fixed straight above, staring at the ceiling, but yet not at anything. I nearly forgot to introduce myself to her when I pulled up a chair and sat next to her bedside. The room was cold, the air was stuffy. But it was the sound of that room that made the hair on your neck stand straight up.
You see Ethel’s mind was broken very badly. Her body was worn and tattered from 99 years of living. And her voice had faded into nothing but a low, cringing, constant groaning which filled every square inch of that room with a painful longing of inexpressible lament. There were never any audible words. I could never tell what she was trying to say, or if she was trying to say anything at all. It was painful to sit beside her, as it is for anyone who sits beside one badly broken in a hospital room or nursing home. I tried to explain to Ethel who I was and why I was there. “I’m your pastor, Ethel.” “Jesus sent me to you, to care for you.” But Ethel was not interested in my introductions or explanations. The groanings only continued, a constant undercurrent filling the room, her eyes locked above with intention. She never even looked at me.
She wasn’t much interested in me, and actually that comforted me a great deal. It’s always stressful when people look to you to wow them, to impress them, to make them believe, or feel, or do anything — rather than looking simply to the Lord’s Words and His Gifts as their sole source of comfort and joy. So, there I was, on my very first visit as a pastor already confronted with something a little outside my comfort zone. So, relying on my seminary formation that was fresh off the press, I resorted to my training in situations like this one. After some time of listening to her painful groanings, I began to read well known passages of Scripture to her, loudly, slowly, and as articulately as my Missouri drawl would allow me, The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want… but Ethel just kept groaning. Nothing changed in her. I thought perhaps she was very hard of hearing… I began nearly shouting the familiar parts of the liturgy, the Lord’s Prayer, the Apostle’s Creed, but none of them snapped Ethel out of whatever she was looking at or groaning about.
It was at this point, I began to panic a bit — because nothing was calming her — and in my panic, I decided to do something I had never done before. I sang to one of Jesus’ sheep. I sang “Jesus Loves Me” as slowly and loudly as I could, and Ethel — well, she hated it. Her groanings increased substantially. She grew irritated, and I certainly did not blame her. About that time, a nurse came in. She probably heard the screeching from outside the hall and thought perhaps a dying cat had made its way into the room. I immediately stopped in a sweat and looked at the nurse.
“Nurse,” I said, “how is Ethel?”
The nurse looked at me and said, “Pastor, she’s 99 years old. She’s not there anymore. She hasn’t been there for a long time.”
I looked back at Ethel, her painful, seemingly unintelligible, groanings still ever constant, her eyes still locked straight above, and I did what any highly trained professional would do when confronted with a situation like that: I got out of there. I just left Ethel all alone in that cold, stale, room.
And all the way home and throughout the days and nights of my very first month of ministry, I deeply struggled because of that visit. The words echoing through my mind: Last Eucharist unknown, unable to commune… I was unable, unprepared, unintelligible… unsuccessful. It panged me that I was not able to help Ethel, and Satan was really working overtime to bring me to my own despair and gloom.
So, the next month when I went back to see Ethel, I went hoping to give her the Lord’s Supper. And so, once again, about four weeks later, I stumbled into that nursing home once more. I read Psalm 23. Prayed the Lord’s Prayer. Said the Apostle’s Creed. Sang “Jesus Loves Me.” Sang all 8 verses of “I Know My Redeemer Lives.” And all I heard from Ethel the entire time were those same restless, unrecognizable, deep painful groans, which ebbed and flowed, rose and fell, while her temperament slowly worsened from mild frustration to sheer and bitter disappointment.
All throughout the Scripture. All throughout my prayers. All throughout my singing, Ethel continued her strenuous groans — but nevertheless, I pressed on with the liturgy, and when I said these words, “It is truly, good, right, and salutary, that we should at all times, and in all places, give thanks to you, O Lord, almighty Father, everlasting God…” Ethel suddenly stopped groaning. It was the first time in nearly two hours that the room was silent. I glanced over at Ethel. Her eyes had shifted from the ceiling and had locked, for the first time, right onto me. The goosebumps started to rise on my arms as I continued with the Words of Institution, all the while, Ethel never made a sound, “On the night He was betrayed, Jesus took bread, and when He had given thanks, He broke it and gave it to His disciples and said, “Take, eat, this is my body, given for you. Do this in remembrance of me. In the same way, also after supper, he took the cup, and when He had given thanks, He gave it to them saying, “Drink of it all of you, this cup is the new testament in my blood shed for you for the forgiveness of sins. This do, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me.”
I held up the body of Christ to Ethel’s mouth, and she raised her head off that bed in her right mind and ate calmly, slowly, peacefully. I held up the blood of Christ, and she drank, embracing the moment as a mother embraces her infant for the very first time. And then right after she received the Eucharist, without skipping a beat, Ethel looked right at me and said, “God bless you, pastor.”
I wished that the nurse who had told me Ethel wasn’t there anymore would have been there to see Ethel there in that moment with her Lord there with her. Ninety-nine years old in a locked dementia unit with a mind badly broken by sin, and yet she knew all she needed to know — all she needed to live — Jesus Christ Crucified for her, and His body and His blood, it did something that day to Ethel, it made her live. The meek shall obtain fresh joy in the Lord, and the poor among mankind shall exult in the Holy One of Israel. Looking back, I think Ethel’s groans were her signing with me. The Lord is faithful. His steadfast love surrounded her. His steadfast love surrounds you!
We have a God who is not far off from us but who draws near, surrounds us in His steadfast love. He makes the blind see, the deaf hear, the dead rise. He alone forgives and makes new, and He has made you new in the waters of your Baptism. In those rushing waters of his grace, our Lord Jesus Christ gave you a new life — forgiven, eternal — and redeemed you from your sin and wickedness and brought you back to Himself. And the Day is surely coming soon when He shall come again with the blast of a trumpet and in a twinkling of an eye. On that day, we will rejoice and shout for joy, along with Ethel and all the saints, the angels, and archangels, and with all the company of heaven. And it will be said on that day, “Be glad in the Lord and Rejoice, O righteous, and shout for joy, all you upright in heart!” Amen.