The themes of this afternoon’s three lessons – justice, vulnerability and care for others – are crucial to the Christian life. Neil, whom we remember today, as we have already heard in Ken’s eulogy, exemplified all of them. The themes flow together, in our lives, as they did in Neil’s.
The promise of Messianic rule in Isaiah is freedom from oppression, healing of the broken hearted, release of the captives, and comfort to those who mourn. Our city especially seems to have many who have hit the bottom, who struggle, who desperately need encouragement, support, prosperity, stability, good housing, and close friends. Day-by-day they come to this church and all our churches and social service institutions for support. Governments and non-government organizations too struggle with poverty and homelessness. Our hospital emergency rooms and jails are places of sad alienation and suffering.
Yet those who struggle in this city are not an object, not an “other”; they are ourselves. That Neil realized as he struggled with those very realities in his own life and reached out to others often in greater difficulty than himself. Thus, he always reached out with a dream of real human justice – a place to sleep, a meal to eat, security in old age, a friendly conversation (albeit often laced with a certain amount of gossip) – and was frustrated with big reports, statistics, committees, bureaucracies and grand promises. Thus, this parish sometimes frustrated him too.
If there is a lesson there, it is that justice must be concrete and not abstract: a reality, not just an ideal. And despite our sociological or psychological theories, real justice, with real people, must be accomplished. And that in seeking justice for others, we are apt to encounter our own vulnerabilities.
Paul’s image of the reign of God as a treasure in vulnerable clay pots is a powerful one. It was the first scriptural image that came to mind as I thought about this homily. When we are young, we may think of our bodies as ever healthy and invincible. But as we age, we realize just how vulnerable we are, to sickness, to depression, to pain, to the deprecations of loneliness, poverty or insecurity. Yet, through the cracks and imperfections of these clay pots, the glory of God shines. One is tempted to reverse Leonard Cohen’s song to, “There are cracks in everything, and that’s how the light gets out”.
With early abuse by one he trusted, with a not very good educational background, with a sexual orientation not very well accepted at the time, with illness and too great a fondness for the pub, Neil was a vulnerable person and he did realize it. We talked about it many times. Yet despite the fragile clay pot of his body, he dreamed, he hoped, he reached out, he loved, he listened, he planned, he ministered. Despite not fulfilling some of his dreams, I experienced his constant encouragement. And many of you here who have known Neil for decades remember, I am sure, a person who reached out in care and compassion despite, and often because of, his many vulnerabilities.
We are reminded that we are all vulnerable but that within those vulnerabilities there are still many opportunities for loving service and seeking of justice. We have the choice of turning in on ourselves and retreating to despair and depression; or we can keep dreaming, keep studying, keep talking, keep connecting. The latter is the Christian way and it was Neil’s as well.
The image of Christ as the Good Shepherd in John 10, which we read as our Gospel, is often read at ordinations and associated with the work of bishops and priests. This over-clericalization of the passage belies the point that first it is God who has the character of Loving Shepherd over all creation, including humanity; that Jesus Christ, humanity taken into God and made divine, is the perfect human manifestation of that divine Good Shepherd, and that in our baptismal ministries we all become Good Shepherds, looking after the best interests of one another. None of us are called to be passive sheep. Nor are church leaders called to lord it over others, let alone the powerless.
Neil certainly had a vocation of shepherd-like caring for others. Whether in his apartment building or on a bench in front of the public library, or in Jackson Square or James Street coffee shops, whether in local pubs (one of them he took me to, I must admit, frightened even me), whether at the cathedral or this parish, whether at the Poverty Roundtable, Mission Services or the Salvation Army, Neil was always available to listen and encourage. He loved people. E.M. Forester’s “Only Connect” might well have been his motto. It is a good motto for ourselves also. “Only Connect”.
Neil dearly hoped to be a priest. It did not happen. Perhaps if he had been born a bit later, or not been so outspoken about his private life, he might have had a better chance. The church did give him opportunities. But prophecy and self-sabotage are not necessarily incompatible and Neil was a strange mixture of both. I tried hard, but I never managed to organize him. There was always another course to be taken. The dreamer dreamt on.
But now Neil will rest and rise where clergy or lay status makes no difference; where wealth or poverty makes no difference; where education or lack of education makes no difference; where gay, bi, tri, straight or trans makes no difference, where whether dreams are accomplished or not makes no difference – as part of the faithful company of heaven gathered around God’s throne, resurrected in God’s glory. We thank God for Neil’s life and witness, we thank God that he is now free of pain and suffering, and we commend him to God, the angels and the saints. Thanks be to God!
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