John Andrist Memorial

Sept. 29, 2007

Omak, WA

(Sermon by the Rev. Canon Kristi Philip)

        There’s a line at the close of a Wendell Berry poem called “Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front,” that follows several stanzas of sage advice.  This conclusion says, simply, “Practice resurrection.”  It almost doesn’t seem like it fits this odd collection of wisdom, but it always sticks in my mind as probably the best and most intriguing piece of advice in the poem.  Practice resurrection.

            Most of the time we don’t think of resurrection like that.  Resurrection simply “is.”  The opening words of this service, “I am resurrection and I am life, says the Lord,” were echoed in the gospel reading.  This story, that follows the death of Lazarus, begins with Martha confronting Jesus and ends with her profound confession of faith. 

  Resurrection is what Easter is about:  Jesus’ victory over death.  We Christians believe in it, anchor our hope in it, anticipate it.  But how do we practice it?

            Resurrection has a lot to do with why we are here today to remember and celebrate John’s life;  to share our sense of the loss of a good friend, a spouse, a father, a grandfather, a fellow pilgrim.  And we are here to celebrate his entrance into eternal life – living into that promise.

            There is an odd intersection here of tears and alleluias.  The tears of loss, of the remembrance of  shared experiences of companionship and love.  But also the alleluias that celebrate John’s continuing journey in the presence of God – one that our Prayer Book describes as “going from strength to strength in the life of perfect service in God’s heavenly kingdom.”

            Today we all extend our love and our condolences to Mary, to Marjorie and Dan, Katie and Rick,  Roberta and Mark, John and Becki, Carolyn and Rich and all their family. We hope you are feeling the support of this community that is gathered and of  a much wider community who cared for John and who care for you.

            When I looked at the scripture readings that were selected for today’s service, I saw some connecting threads.  They are about the closeness of God – God who knows us and knows our needs – who offers protection.  They speak of wiping away tears, offering comfort to those who mourn, banishing death.  They speak of hope and a confidence in what is to come.  God will be with us.   

            These are powerful and helpful words to accompany us – words that shape for us a bit of what the love of God looks like in times of great need and stress and also in times when our lives are just ordinary.  Words that point us toward the future – a future filled with hope – while they also ground us in confidence to live in the present.

            They speak both to the sadness that we feel in loss and offer the comfort and strength of knowing that God knows and shares our pain and offers us consolation, wiping away our tears.  And I also think they open up other possibilities of how God is with us.  I think John often brushed up against this powerful sense of God’s presence in his own spiritual journey – in his own faith and prayer and the prayers that were prayed for him regularly; as he shared in Eucharist.

And  also in the many ways that love was shared with him over many years.  The incredible caring of his spouse and partner, Mary.  Creative and steadfast.  Tender and  strong.   The steady love of family.  The skillful hands of caregivers, therapists, doctors, nurses.  The laughter of friends.  The cheering section who held him in their concern.  The companionship of a good and loyal dog who rested her head on his lap. The gentle warm breeze of a spring afternoon;  the sound of migrating geese in the fall.  All these and more have been God’s agents of comfort and strength.  

            Let me shift gears for a moment and call us back to some words that Mary wrote this week in her column as she described the last day of  John’s life: “John enjoys a glorious autumn day doing the thing he loves the most, driving his wheelchair, free-wheeling down the street, soaking in the sunshine’s Vitamin D.” ---- A  beautiful portrait of a beautiful day.  But also a reminder of  John’s embrace of life.

            John had a distinguished career as a journalist – a full life as husband and father, as a writer, photographer, educator, outdoorsman.  Embracing life was a longtime habit.  After his stroke,  his embrace of life –  his companionship and friendship, the effort it took to make a whole series of  steps in his recovery, captivated us. These were not simple or easy or without pain and risk.  That made us admire and love him all the more.

 I looked forward to being the regular Easter weekend visitor in John and Mary’s home for several years  when I helped out  at St. Anne’s,  and so enjoyed John’s wit, his intelligence, his connection with people. I still savor the memory of a simple Easter vigil celebrated in the living room of their home with just the three of us and, of course, Sadie.   From a distance I cheered with many of you his wheelchair trip across Grand Coulee Dam – a victory lap of sorts.  And those smaller victories – a few bites of dinner;  a sip of  beer.  His lips forming  a few words after a long season of silence.

            In many churches tomorrow, we will hear some wise words from the First Letter to Timothy – a passage that offers advice and encouragement (quite different than much of  that offered by Wendell Berry).  At the end of this section we’re urged to lay a good foundation for the future so that we may take hold of the “life that really is life.”  A life that is lived in generosity, with thankfulness for each day, with love and friendship.  Perhaps it is a little like practicing resurrection.

            We practice resurrection when that sense of eternal life and the life we live day to day are not mutually exclusive, but when they are intertwined.  We practice resurrection when we live a life shaped by our Easter faith.  When we embrace life with courage, faith and hope – as John did.  When we discover and live out our true vocation – a way of serving God and one another.

            St. Augustine once wrote in a hymn, “Let us sing alleluia here on earth, while we still live in anxiety, so that we may sing it one day in heaven in full security.”    We can sing that alleluia in life, even when life is scary, or cruel or confusing, because at the root of that alleluia is the incomprehensible love of God and the assurance of eternal life.  We sing it by embracing life. By loving and being loved.  By giving ourselves away.  This is what it means to practice resurrection.

            Another poet, Mary Oliver, catches some of that spirit of gutsy living – of practicing resurrection – in the conclusion of her poem, “When Death Comes.”

            When it’s over, I want to say:  all my life

             I was a bride married to amazement

             I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

            When it is over, I don’t want to wonder

            If  I have made of my life something particular, and real.

            I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,

            Or full of argument.

            I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

            John didn’t just visit this world.  He  lived life – the life that is really life – a gutsy life enfolded in a rich spiritual journey.  A life that practiced resurrection.  We give thanks for him, for the gift of his life, the witness that he offered.  And we trust that his journey continues from strength to strength in the life of perfect service.

Return to Home Page