The Requiem Eucharist for Jonathan Andrew Flom

The Requiem Eucharist for

Jonathan Andrew Flom

(October 21, 1965-January 10, 2023)

January 14, 2023

St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church

Fargo, ND

+ For those of you who know me know that I have been friends with Jonathan for more than 25 years.

Actually we became friends thorough my long, wonderful friendship with Leslie.

Again, most of you who know me know that Leslie and I have had a very long, sibling-like relationship from the moment we first met each other back when we were very young at Gethsemane Episcopal Cathedral in Fargo, where we were both active, Leslie in the Choir and music ministry and me as Ministry Coordinator and Youth Leader.

Now, I guarantee you this: you can judge a lot by a man in how he reacts to his wife being very close friends with some weird asexual guy in a church.

And Jonathan passed that test with flying colors.

(not all guys do, let me tell you)

 And through these many years—years of great joys and terrible tragedy and deep sorrow in both of our lives—I have been very grateful for my friendship with my sister Leslie and her wonderful family.

And during that time, I have walked with Jonathan. From afar.

In fact, Leslie and I just talked on the phone the last Monday night about our careers and our families.

I asked about Jonathan and had all the information about his latest move back to Fayetteville.

Early the next morning, I was awakened by a text from Leslie at 3:00 a.m. telling me that Jonathan had died so suddenly earlier that morning

I was, like all of you, devasted.

And also like you, I don’t know why this happened.

I mean, I know how it happened.

Jonathan, like all of us, was fractured human being.

Like all of us, he was fighting his own demons.

And sometimes those individual fights we end up sucking those closest to us into our struggles as well.

But it still just frustrates me, as I know it does all of you.

It frustrates me that this incredible man who had just kindness and gentleness and graciousness struggled as he did and was in the prime of his life taken so quickly.

And there was nothing any of us could do, no matter how hard we tried.

Like you, I hoped for something else.

For something better for Jonathan.  

I don’t know if any of us knew exactly what that was.

But we just hoped it would be—just something other than what it was.

For me, the only answer I have to all of us this—and it isn’t much an answer—is that I’m am frustrated.

I feel frustration in it all.

None of this should have happened to someone like Jonathan.

None of this should have happened to Laurel or Jillian or Ben or Leslie or to Jonathan’s mother and father or brother or the rest of the family.

We shouldn’t be gathering here in this little church in some far=flung corner of Fargo, North Dakota on this cold afternoon to say good-bye to Jonathan.

I’m really frustrated that there wasn’t more time to just make things right.

But Jonathan would be the first to tell us that life’s not fair.

Nothing’s fair.

It’s just the way it is.

And we could leave it there.

But, for those of us who have faith—for us, even in the face of this gut-wrenching pain we feel today, even in the face of our frustration and sadness and numbness we know this…

This isn’t just the way it is.  

Despite everything, Jonathan was a person who made a difference in the world and in other people’s life.

Jonathan helped people.

He helped me.

I have shared this story many times over the years but here it is again:

Way back in February of 2002, I was diagnosed with cancer.

It was a terrible time in my life.

I did not see that diagnosis coming.

And it floored me.

Actually it pulled the floor from right out beneath me.

The day of surgery was actually a horrendous day.

I did not want to be dealing with this in my life.

But that day, as I sat there waiting for surgery, I was surrounded by people who loved and cared for me.

My parents were there. My bishop was there. My dear Ann Anderson (now Ann Schutz) was there. And Jonathan was there (Leslie had to work that day; she would’ve been there).

And Jonathan, with his medical knowledge and his natural compassion, made very clear to me that everything was going to be all right.

And you know?

It was!

Everything turned out all right.

And here I am, twenty-one years later.

I wish I could’ve said the same thing to Jonathan.

I wish I could’ve returned the favor.

I wish I could’ve told him that everything was going to be all right.

But that was not meant to be.

But I do believe, today, in my core of cores, with the faith I have in a loving God, and in the eternity that that God promises us, that for Jonathan, everything now is all right.

He is freed from all that he had to carry.

He is freed from those unhealed wounds, from all that pain, from all that suffering.

When Harold and Alita stopped by the church the other day, Harold gave me this slip of paper, that read,

“Now Johnny feels no anxiety or urge for alcohol.

He feels no pain and will never be depressed again.”

 And it’s true!

And we can find comfort in the fact.

But, still, we will all feel that absence and loss in our life.

This world is a bit more empty today without Jonathan in it.

But, it is vital to remember this: our goodbye today is only a temporary goodbye.

We must cling to our memories of all that was good about Jonathan, all that was loving about Jonathan, all that we loved in Jonathan.

We can put his demons to rest to today.

But we can hold close all that was beautiful and wonderful about him.

All that we knew and loved about Jonathan is not gone for good.

It is not ashes.

Is not grief.

It is not loss.

Everything that Jonathan was to those who knew him and loved him and now miss him is not lost forever.

All we loved, all that was good and gracious in Jonathan—all that was fierce and strong and amazing and loving and caring and beautiful in him—all of that lives on.

It lives on his children.

It lives on with all of you who experienced the kindness and generosity and love of Jonathan in this life.

It lives on in those who were on the receiving end of his love and compassion.

And for those of us who have faith, faith in more than this world, we know that that love and compassion and beauty continues on somehow too.

I don’t claim to know how.

I don’t claim to know for certain what awaits us in the next world.

But I do cling to the words we find in scripture and in the Book of Common Prayer.

I do believe that all that is good and gracious and loving in Jonathan now dwells in a place of light and beauty and life unending.

And I do believe beyond a shadow of a doubt that we will see him again.

And that he will be whole and beautiful and as he was created by God to be.

In that glorious Light there will be no shadows, no darkness, no pain, no unhealed wounds.

He will be our ideal of him, in that day.

And on that day every tear will truly be wiped from your faces.

And it will be beautiful.

We will all miss him so much.

But I can tell you we will not forget him.

Jonathan Flom is not someone who will be easily forgotten.

He is not someone who passes quietly into the mists.

His presence lives on in us.

His strength, his dignity lives on in Jillian and Laurel and Ben and in everyone who knew him and loved him.

His strength and his compassion live on in those lives in those he helped and encouraged and led and was an example to. 

At the end of this service, we will all stand and I will lead us in something called the Commendation.

The commendation is an incredible piece of liturgy.

In those words, we will say those very powerful words:

All of us go down
to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia,
alleluia, alleluia.

That alleluia in the face of death is a victorious alleluia.

This alleluia we sing and say today is an act of courage and victory and unending life in the face of death.

By it we can hear this:

Not even you, death, not even you will defeat me.

That is Jonathan’s voice.

That is what Jonathan is saying to all of us today.

Death does not have victory today.

This world and all its suffering and pain is not victorious today.

Death and this world have not defeated Jonathan Flom.

Even at the grave, he makes his song—and we with him:

Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia.

It is a victorious alleluia we make today with him.

Let us say our Alleluia today with confidence.

Let us face this day and the days to come with gratitude for this incredible person God let us know.

Let us be grateful.

Let us be sad, yes.

But let’s remind ourselves: death has not defeated him.

Or us.

Let us sing loudly.

Let us live boldly.

Let us stand up defiantly.

Let us embody courage

That is what Jonathan would want us to do today, and in the future.

Into paradise may the angels lead you, Jonathan.

At your coming may the martyrs receive you.

And may they bring you with joy and gladness into the holy city Jerusalem. Amen.