Sermon: for Andrew Allen

On Sunday, June 2nd, I was sitting at home in my comfy clothes with a tasty cup of coffee, and watching the service here at St. Matthew’s on Facebook live. Father Jim preached a fine sermon. As is our way, this was then followed by the Creed, the prayers, the confession, and the seventh-inning stretch—also known as the peace.

I watched and smiled as I saw you all greeting one another, imagining the pew hopping and all. Then, at the bottom right corner of the screen, in rolled Andrew, sitting in his wheelchair. He was all smiles. Elizabeth greeted him, then there was this steady stream of you all coming up and giving Andrew the Peace. Afterward, he rolled back out of view from the camera. The whole time I watched, it never once crossed my mind that this would be the last time I would see him. I suspect, for those who saw him that day, you never thought it would be the last time you would see him, either.

Today, we heard the words of the Psalmist, as he speaks to the Lord, 

“My frame was not hidden from you
    when I was made in the secret place,
    when I was woven together in the depths of the earth.

Your eyes saw my unformed body;
    all the days ordained for me were written in your book
    before one of them came to be.”

All the days ordained for me were written in your book, including the very last. 

Just as we did not consider that it might be the last day for Andrew, we also do our very best not to consider our own last day. It is something we fight desperately against. However, Andrew was in a rather unique position. Like Job, who spent days considering the ways of God, Andrew also—in his trials—had the opportunity to consider the ways of God. Like any of us, he did not come to fully understand, but he did give it a great deal of thought. At some point, he sat down and put some of those thoughts to verse in a poem—A Word to the Lord.

Master of beauty, craftsman of the snowflake,
inimitable contriver,
endower of the Earth so gorgeous and different from the boring Moon,
thank you for such as it is my gift.

I have made up a poem to you
containing with deep feeling everything that most matters now.
“According to thy will,” the thing begins.
It took me off and on nearly a week.
It does not aim at eloquence.

You have come to my rescue again and again
in my impassable, sometimes despairing years.
You have allowed my brilliant and beautiful friends to destroy themselves,
and I am still here, severely damaged, but functioning.

Unknowable, as I am unknown to a guinea pig,
how can I “love” you?
I only as far as gratitude and awe
confidently and absolutely go.

I have no idea whether we live again.
It doesn’t seem likely
from either a scientific or philosophical point of view,
but certainly, all things are possible to you,
and I believe in the resurrection-appearances to Peter and to Paul
as I believe I sit here in this green-blue chair.
Only that may have been a special case
to establish their initiatory faith.

Whatever end you may have for me, accept my amazement.
May I stand until death forever at attention
for your least instruction or enlightenment.
I even feel sure you will assist me again,
Master of insight and beauty.

Yes. Andrew had considered his last day. In the end, he knew that he would not be able to understand it all, so instead of entrusting his life to his own means and understanding, he handed all things over to God. With Jesus, Andrew said, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!”

Perhaps we never will consider our own last day, but as long as we do the same—as long as we commit our spirit and our bodies to the loving hands of Jesus—then on our last day, Jesus will bring us into our Father’s house, into that place that has been prepared for us.

Today, we mourn the loss of Andrew. Today, we also rejoice for Andrew, for he has been resurrected to eternal life. A life that is available to all who commit their bodies and souls to Jesus.