The Memorial Service for Jared Fahey

Memorial Service for

Jared Matthew Fahey

St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church

July 3, 2015

None of us want to be here this afternoon. This is not how it is supposed to be. We should not here, mourning the loss of a thirty-seven year old man—a son, a brother, a grandson, a nephew, an uncle, a friend.  

What most of us are asking, no doubt, this morning is “why?” This “Why” is probably the deepest and most honest prayer we can pray.  And the answer to this prayer is not clear to us.

There is no easy answer to the question. I wish I could give an easy answer.

All I know is this: What Jared—and those who knew him and loved him—had to endure and live with was an illness. A life-threatening, destructive illness, just as lethal, just as vile as cancer.  That illness was depression.  And for someone like Jared, who was so ultra-sensitive, who was so brilliant, who was so unique, this world and everything about it could seem at times like a cruel and terrible place. 

When one is so ultra-sensitive, one has to find ways to protects oneself. Often the best way is so isolate. To become a loner. To turn away from family and friends and God, because dealing with all those things becomes too much.

Still, we realize there is no answer to the question.  One would think that, by now, we would have answer. Why would things like this happen?  But we don’t.

What we can do, however, is cling to whatever faith we have. And in these moments, this faith can keep us afloat.

Jared was vocal often in these last years of his disbelief.  He did not consider himself a Christian. He was a self-declared atheist. I am one of those rare Christians who actually has a deep and abiding respect for atheists. I have lots of them in my life. And I love them dearly. I understand how easy it is to be one. I mean, let’s face it: it is easy to look into the void and see nothing.  It’s actually sometimes very hard to believe, to be a Christian, to do all the things Christians are told to do.

But because I know so many atheists, I also don’t worry about them or the loss of their souls.  I know that for many Christians, his declaration of atheism is tantamount to saying that Jared turned his back on Christ. But for us, for us Episcopalians, we can take hope in the overriding fact that: Just because any of us may turn our backs on Christ, Christ never turns his back on us. Christ is with us even when we don’t want Christ with us.

I looked back at the records of St. Stephen’s and found that Jared was baptized right here at St. Stephen’s, in the very font we passed as we came in today. He was baptized here on Feb. 5, 1978. I can tell you this:  On that, in this church, in that font, something incredible happened. It might not have seemed like much to anyone looking on. It might have seemed like a quaint little ritual, with some water and some nice words.

But what happened there, in those waters, in this church, on that day was important.  When Jared was baptized, he was marked with the sign of the Cross.  We say when we mark the newly baptized with the sign of the Cross, that the newly baptized is sealed by the Holy Spirit and “marked at Christ’s own forever.”

At his baptism, Jared was truly marked as Christ’s own forever.  It was something that could never be taken away from him.  That relationship that was formed at his baptism has been there throughout his entire life, whether he was fully aware of it or not, whether he wanted it or not.  

Christ never turned away from Jared. Not once, never, in all of those years. And if you asked me where God was last Monday, I can tell you. Christ was right there with him, right besides Jared, even despite that darkness that was encroaching upon him, even despite the depression, which had reached its inevitable breaking point.  Christ was there with him that day. And I have no doubt that Christ welcomed him and that the first words Christ said to Jared were words of love and consolation and welcome.

In a few moments, we will all pray the same words together.  As we commend Jared to Christ’s loving and merciful arms, we will pray,

Give rest, O Christ, to your servant with your saints,

where sorrow and pain are no more,

neither sighing, but life eternal.

It is easy for us to say those words without really thinking about them. But those are not light words. Those are words that take on deeper meaning for us now than maybe at any other time. Where Jared is now—in those caring and able hands of Christ—there is no sorrow or pain. There is no sighing.  But there is life eternal.

There is no more darkness in Jared’s life. There is no more depression.  There are no more tears in his eyes.

For us, who are left behind, it isn’t as easy. We will shed many more tears for Jared in the days and weeks and years ahead.  But we can take consolation in all of this.  Because we know that Jared and all our loved ones have been received into Christ’s arms of mercy, into Christ’s “blessed rest of everlasting peace.”

This is what we cling to on a day like today. This is where we find our strength.  This what gets us through.

No, we might not have the answer we want to our question of Why. But we do know that—despite the pain and the frustration, despite the sorrow we all feel—somehow, in the end, Christ is with us and Christ is with Jared and that makes all the difference.

For Jared, sorrow and pain are no more.  Rather, Jared has life eternal. And that is what awaits all of us as well.

We might not be able to say “Alleluia” with any enthusiasm today.  But we can find a glimmer of light in the darkness of this day. And in that light is Christ, and in that light Christ is holding Jared firmly to himself.

The Memorial Service for John Hagensen

The Memorial Service for

John Hagensen

(June 19, 1957-June 27, 2015)

St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church Fargo, ND

Thursday  July 2, 2015

+ It is a real honor for me to be doing this service this afternoon. As most of you, John was my cousin. Actually, I think we were second cousins, but that doesn’t matter.  I actually didn’t know him all that well until a couple of years. Around the time his mother, my great-aunt Florence died, we had several deep talks. 

I really enjoyed talking with him at that time. We had some great, very in-depth discussions. I don’t think I need to tell anyone here this afternoon that John was….intense.  And those conversations were certainly intense.

One of the things he talked about was the deep faith he had, despite all the things that had happened in his life.  And he talked about his belief that God was, in the end, always good to him.

About a week and a half ago, I went up to see John at Sanford. He wasn’t able to talk because of the tube, and I didn’t want to stay too long because I knew he tired easily. But when I asked him if he wanted me to pray with him, he very enthusiastically nodded. And when I asked him if he would like to be anointed with holy oil, again he nodded.  As I prayed with him and his daughter Britany that day, I was felt that sense of faith in God. And it was a good thing.

So, I am very honored to be here.  I am very honored to be able to help all of us say goodbye to John.  But, I’ll be honest. Even despite the fact that he had been ill for some time, even despite the fact he knew he probably wouldn’t make it through this last bout, it’s still hard to take it all in.

I think many of us feel that way today.  How is it that John is no longer around, somewhere? We are definitely feeling a gap in our lives now that he is no longer with us.  I know these last years were particularly difficult for him, health-wise.  I think the more limited he became physically, the more frustrated he became. For many of us who have suffered from debilitating illnesses, we know what that frustration is like. Those physical limitations, let me tell you, are very hard.  And we now how, as much as we depend upon these mortal bodies, they can also become kind of prisons for us at times.  For those of us who have felt that our bodies have turned against us, we feel a certain sense of betrayal. I think John would’ve understood that sense of betrayal of his body. He would’ve understood that that body of his betrayed him. He would understand how that body of his became a kind for cross for him to bear.

And John knew a few crosses in his life. He bore his share of crosses.  

For that reason, if you notice, there is a crucifix by his urn. 30 years ago in April, my great-aunt Florence gave me that crucifix when I was confirmed (she was my sponsor). When she died in 2012, that same crucifix was on top of her casket. And today, that same crucifix is here with John’s urn.

It’s a good symbol for us today.  Yes, he understood what that cross stood for. He understood what bearing a cross meant.  He bore some crosses in his life.

But today, we get to take some consolation too. Today, for John, that is all behind him. That betrayal of his body. The frustration. That limiting of his life.  The crosses in his life.

We can rejoice today, even in the midst of our sadness,  in the fact that John is there, on the other side of that “veil” that separates those of us who are still here with those who have gone before us. We rejoice today in the fact that that that mortal body of his is no longer an issue for him. He has been freed from it. There are no physical limits for him in this moment.  It is always important to be reminded sometimes that we are more than these physical bodies.

I like to share one of my favorite quotes from the great French Jesuit priest and paleontologist Pierre Teilhard de Chardin. Teilhard one famously made the statement that we are not physical beings have spiritual experiences.  We are in fact spiritual beings have a physical experience.  We are spirits, here and now, having this physical experience. I love that. And I think John would’ve liked that and would’ve understood it perfectly.

I like that quote because it shows us that we are, in very our essence, spirit. Certain John was spirit in his essence. Even when he couldn’t talk on that last Sunday I saw him, there was much spirit in his eyes.

Yes, these physical experiences can great and wonderful sometimes, but sometimes, they can be hard and painful. And that just because these mortal bodies fail us and eventually lie in dust, we—in our essence, in our very truest selves—live on.  These physical experiences are only temporary. But our spirit goes on.  I’ve thought a lot about that in these days since John left us.

In our scripture reading from the book of Revelation today,  we get a glimpse of what awaits us on the other side of that veil, when we are freed from these bodies.  We hear the Apostle John saying,

“God himself will be with them;
he will wipe every tear from their eyes.
Death will be no more;
mourning and crying and pain will be no more...”

I love that image! I love to take consolation in the fact that there will be a day, for all of us, when death will be no more, mourning and crying and pain will be no more. I  look forward to that time when those things will pass away and we will not have to deal with them anymore.  I look forward to a time when there will be nothing to separate us from each other, when all the cares and worries and petty issues in our lives here and now, in this world, will be washed away and gone for good. I look forward to that day when our relationships will be restored and our illnesses healed and everything negative in our lives has been washed away once and for all.

Today, this afternoon, John is in that place—in that place where death no longer exists. He is in that place where he is fully and completely alive—where is himself.  He is a place where all the bad things of his life have been washed away, and he is now purely and fully and completely himself—pure spirit.  

Now, for us, who are left behind, for us who cared for John and who will miss him, this all can be painful. But, our consolation is that the place in which John now dwells—that place of light and joy and unending life—that place awaits us as well. Yes, now we have tears in our eyes. Yes, now feel real sadness. Yes, now, in our lives, we know true pain.

But our consolation today is in the fact that in that other place, that place of light, that place in which our spirits will dwell, there will never again be pain. There will never again be tears. There will never again be sadness.

That is our consolation today. That is how we move from here into the rest of our lives. That is how we go forward. We go forward knowing full well that we are truly spirits having a temporary physical experience.  This is what gets us through this awful time in which John is not with us anymore.   This is where we find our strength—in our faith that promises us an end to our sorrows, to our loss. It is a faith that can tell us with a startling reality that every tear we shed—and we all shed our share of tears in this life, John knew that very well in his life—every tear will one day be dried and every heartache will disappear. It will.

And on that great and glorious day, we will awake into that place of joy and gladness and light and life. And none of that will ever be taken from us again.  So this morning and in the days to come, let us all take consolation in that faith that John is complete and whole in this moment.

I will miss John. We all will miss him.  But, even in the midst of this mourning, even in the midst of these tears, I know. I know that where he is, we too will one day be. And what is incomplete now, will be complete once again.

So, even with these tears, even with this pain, let us be glad. Let us be glad that one day we too will be sharing with John in that joy, that light, in that place where all pain and sadness and death will never again exist.   

Into paradise may the angels lead you, John. At your coming may the martyrs receive you, and bring you into the holy city Jerusalem.

Amen.

5 Pentecost

Mark 5.21-43

+ So, this last week was an eventful one, to say the least On Friday, of course, we celebrated the Supreme Court’s decision on marriage equality, which was HUGE.

Also, yesterday, the Episcopal Church elected Bishop Curry as the new Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church—a very good choice in my humble opinion.

But, on Friday, I posted a little illustration on my Facebook page to celebrate the Supreme Court decision.

As I did, I had a well-meaning friend respond to it by private FB message.

Now, to be clear, I occasionally get these comments from people. A priest’s personal lives are, for some reason, endlessly curious and fascinating to some people. I don’t get it, but I kind of understand it.

So this friend wrote, “Fr. Jamie, I love that you posted the rainbow banner on your FB page, but I need to be honest about something and I feel bad even sharing this. To me, it seems like these issues don’t really involve someone like you…”

Someone like me??? I’m not sure what that means, but ok…

“…by that, I mean you’re a single priest. I grew up with only celibate priests and the always seemed so asexual or nonsexual or whatever. I guess it was a shock to see you post it since it seems to me like these kind of issues don’t really affect you personally.”

I had to chuckle over the email a bit. And I wrote her back a very nice response.

But the fact is, that yes, there is kind of a drawback of being a single priest in the church these days. People seem to think issues like marriage equality—or marriage in general, for that matter—don’t really matter to people “like me.”

But the fact is, it does. No matter who I am or what I am—whether I ever get married one day or not—the Supreme Court decision on Friday affects all of us. And not just as Americans. It affects all of us as Christians.

Why? Because it’s about equality. It’s about the fact that in, in Christ, we are all equal. In Christ, we are not male or female, gay or straight or…asexual? We are human. Equal humans. Fully loved and fully accepted by the God we love and worship.

A few years ago, when James and William were married and I was honored not only to stand up as one of their witnesses, but also hosted their reception t the Rectory, I shared this story. I said, in my toast, that for someone like James, who played all those weddings all those years, he no doubt never thought there would be a day when he too would be able to experience the joy of being truly and legally married. And now it has happened. That is a kind of miracle—a miracle that James and William can no doubt attest to.   

Fifteen years ago, five years ago, what happened Friday seemed like a million years away. But now, here is it. And because it is, here we are, celebrating. All of us.

This is what is like to rise from what seems like to death into a new and wonderful life.

That is what we are experiencing today in the story of Jairus’ daughter.

The joy he felt at the miracle of his daughter coming back from the dead is what many of us are feeling right now. This us true joy that what seemed like something dead—or unreal or beyond our reach—is now real and alive.

Resurrection comes in many forms in our lives and if we wait them out these moments will happen. What happened on Friday was a kind of resurrection moment. It was a miracle.

So, in our own lives, rejoice. Whether we are gay or straight or something in between or nothing on the spectrum, let us rejoice. This resurrection, this miracle story belongs to all of us who long for equality and God’s all-encompassing love.

Let us cling to this joy this morning and let us find strength in it and hope in it. Let this joy we feel give life to our faith. If we do, those words of Jesus to the woman today will be words directed to us as well: “your faith has made you well; go in peace.”

3 Pentecost

June 14, 2015

Mark 4.26-34

+ One of the things we priests encounter on a regular basis are people who tell us about why they don’t attend church anymore. In fact, that’s very common. Invariably, whenever I do a wedding or a funeral and sit with people afterward at the receptions, people get to feeling a bit guilty and start telling me why they don’t attend Church. Which is good.  I like hearing those stories.  They’re important for all of us to hear on occasion.  And one of the most common reasons, I’ve found, is that, oftentimes, it is not issues of their belief in God, or in anything spiritual that causes them to stop attending.

In fact, I very rarely ever hear someone say they stopped attending church because of God.  The number one reason? The Church itself.  Capital C. The oppressiveness of the Church. The actions of the Church. The close-mindedness and the restrictions of the Church and, more especially, those agents of the Church who feel that their duty is is to uphold he institutions of the Church over the care of those who attend the Church.

(Those agents are the same ones who, it seems, forgets that WE are the church).

And even then, it’s not big things that do.  It’s not giant things that drive people away from Church. It’s sometimes small things. A comment made at coffee hour. A seemingly innocent critique. A shake of a finger from a priest or a bishop from a pulpit.

I hope I haven’t been guilty of that.  I don’t know to tell anyone here this morning:  small things do matter when it comes to the Church, to our faith in God.

Jesus definitely understood this.  In our Gospel reading is Jesus comparing the Kingdom of God to the smallest thing they could’ve understood.  A mustard seed. A small, simple mustard seed.  Something they no doubt knew.  And something they no doubt gave little thought to. But it was with this simple image—this simple symbol—that Jesus makes clear to those listening that little things do matter.

And we, as followers of Jesus, need to take heed of that.  Little things DO matter.  Because little things can unleash BIG things.  Even the smallest action on our part can bring forth the kingdom of God in our lives and in the lives of those we serve. But those small actions—those little seeds that we sow in our lives—can also bring about not only God’s kingdom but the exact opposite.  Our smallest bad actions, can, destroy.  Our actions can destroy the kingdom in our midst and drive us further away from God.

Any of us who do ministry on a regular basis know this keenly.  You will hear me say this again and again to anyone who wants to do ministry: be careful about those small actions. You’ve heard me say: when it comes to dealing with people in the church, use VELVET GLOVES. Be sensitive to others.  Those small words or actions.  Those little criticisms of people who are volunteering.  Those little snips and moments of impatience.  Those moments of frustration at someone who doesn’t quite “get it” or who simply can’t do it.  “Use velvet gloves all the time,” I say, and I mean it.

None of us can afford to lose anyone from the church, no matter how big the church might be. Even one lost person is a huge loss to all of us.  

I cannot tell you how many times I hear stories about clergy or church leaders who said or did one thing wrong and it literally destroyed a person’s faith.  I’m sure almost everyone here this morning has either experienced a situation like this first hand with a priest or pastor or even a lay person in a leadership position in the church.  Or if not you, you have known someone close who has.

Now, possibly these remarks by ministers were innocent comments.  There may have been no bad intention involved.  But one wrong comment—one wrong action—a cold shoulder or an exhausted roll of the eyes or a scolding—the fact that a priest did not visit us when were in the hospital or said something that we took the wrong way—is all it takes when a person is in need to turn that person once and for all away from the church and from God. That mustard seed all of a sudden takes on a whole other meaning in a case like this.  What grows from a small seed like this is a flowering tree of hurt and despair and anger and bitterness.

So, it is true.  Those seeds we sow do make a huge difference in the world.  And I can tell you, I have done it as well. I have made some stupid comment in a joking manner that was taken out of context.  We all have. So, knowing that, we now realize how important those mustard seeds in our lives are. We get to make the choice.  We can sow seeds of goodness and graciousness—seeds of the Gospel. We can sow the seeds of God’s kingdom.  Or we can sow the seeds of discontent.

We can, through our actions, sow the weeds and thistles that will kill off the harvest. These past several years you have heard me preach ad nauseum about change in the church.  Well, I am clear when I say that the most substantial changes we can make in the church are not always the BIG ones.  Oftentimes, the most radical changes we can make are in the little things we do—the things we think are not important.  We forget about how important the small things in life are—and more importantly we forget how important the small things in life are to God.

God does take notice of the small things. We have often heard the term “the devil is in the details.”  But I can’t help but believe that it is truly God who is in the details.  God works just as mightily through the small things of life as through the large.   This is what Jesus is telling us this morning in this parable.

So, let us take notice of those small things.  It is there we will find our faith—our God.  It from that small place—those tentative attempts at growth—that God’s kingdom flourishes in our lives. So, let us be mindful of those smallest seeds we sow in our lives as followers of Jesus.  

Let us remind ourselves that sometimes what they produce can either be a wonderful and glorious tree or a painful, hurtful weed.  Let us sow God’s love from the smallest ounce of faith. Let us further the kingdom of God’s love in whatever seemingly small way we can.  Let that love be the positive atom which, when unleashed, creates an explosion of goodness and beauty and grace in this world.

11 years a Priest

 Obligatory anniversary photo (I look a lot more holy than I actually am)

Celebration Supper at Porter Creek Grille

11 years ago today, on the Feast of St. Barnabas, I was ordained a priest. Thank you to everyone who has journeyed with me this far. You will all no doubt receive a jewel or two in your crowns on the other side of the veil for enduring the weirdness that is me. 

11 years a Priest

11 years ago today, on the Feast of St. Barnabas, I was ordained a priest. Thank you to everyone who has journeyed with me this far. You will all no doubt receive a jewel or two in your crowns on the other side of veil for enduring the weirdness that is me. (Here is the obligatory photo from last night's Mass at St. Stephen's looking much more holy than I actually am -- thanks, Gin​)

Gerard Manley Hopkins

Today is the 126th anniversary of the death of poet and Jesuit priest, Gerard Manley Hopkins who, a few hours before his death from typhoid at age 44, was overheard quietly repeating, 

"I am so happy."

"When, when peace, will you, Peace? I'll not play hypocrite
To own my heart: I yield you do come sometimes; but
That piecemeal peace is poor peace."