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.

1 Epiphany

 

The Baptism of Our Lord

 

January 8, 2023

 

Isaiah 42.1-9; Matthew 3.13-17

 

+ Let’s go back in time, shall we?

 

We’re going back all the way to…1995.

 

More specifically, this Sunday, and this day in 1995.

 

In 1995, January 8 fell on Sunday.

 

And that Sunday was also the First Sunday After Epiphany or the Celebration of the Baptism of Jesus.

 

That Sunday was a momentous Sunday for me.

 

The 25 year old Jamie.

 

25 year old grunged out Jamie who was probably wearing my Sunday best plaid flannel and sporting a goatee.

 

I was a bit of a searcher at the point in my life.

 

I had been a good Catholic boy in my teens, converting to Roman Catholicsim 10 years before in 1985.

 

But by the time I was in my late teens, the Church had changed, or I had changed, or we both had changed, and I no longer felt comfortable and at home there.

 

And so I began wandering.

 

My wanderings took me far and wide.

 

I explored Zen Buddhism, I became a Unitarian-Universalist, and then finally I became a plain old-fashioned  agnostic who still loved things Christian, just not the Church.

 

For some time before that cold January morning in 1995, I was craving something more.

 

I had tried to go back to the Roman Church, but we were both so different from each other.

 

I tried to go back to my parents’ Lutheran Church, but it didn’t quite challenge me enough.

 

It seemed too simple. It seemed to lack the mystery I was longing for.

 

I was friends at the time with my parents’ pastor, and around Christmas of 1994, I shared with her my frustration that I was just searching for something and was not able to find it.

 

It was she who said to me, “Have you tried to Episcopalians?”

 

Hmmm, I thought.

 

By this point in my life, I was a poet, I had published a book of poems when I was 22, and my second book would be published the following April.

 

And so I looked at the whole experience through the eyes of a poet.

 

T.S. Eliot was an Anglican, I rationalized. And Robert Lowell was an Episcopalian. Anne Sexton had been attending the Episcopal Church in the months before she died.

 

I loved the beauty and poetry of The Book of Common Prayer.

 

So, yes, I thought I would try it out.

 

So, I looked for a church to attend.

 

I perused the phone book (that’s what we did in those days of the infancy of the internet), and I came across a little Episcopal Church.

 

I talked my mother into going with me.

 

And so we went that morning.

 

And we came to a little red left-wing church in a far corner of Fargo.

 

St. Stephen’s.

 

St. Stephen’s in 1995 looked very differently than it does now.

 

The entrance was on the side, where the labyrinth is now.

 

There was no narthex at that time.

 

We arrived early.

 

No one else was here except for organist.

 

Who was James.

 

We sat in the back pew, along the wall.

 

Sandy came in and gave us bulletins.

 

And the Mass proceeded.

 

And suddenly…I felt at home for the first time in a long time.

 

It was everything I longed for.

 

It was the Eucharist, which of course I loved! And craved!

 

And with a woman priest nonetheless.

 

It was the Book of Common Prayer.

 

It was Anglican hymns.

 

It was mystery and beauty.

 

And it was also weirdly liberal and against the norm and eccentric.

 

And it was beautifully Anglican.

 

And that was it for me.

 

I never looked back.

 

And, all these years later, here I am.

 

I never would’ve thought on that cold morning in January 1995 that I would one day be the Rector of the first Episcopal Church I ever attended.

 

But, you know what?

 

That’s how life works sometimes.

 

That is what this crazy, bizarre journey of following Jesus is like sometimes.

 

All the paradoxical stuff, all the strange, bizarre things that don’t make sense suddenly, somehow making sense, is what this baptismal journey is like sometimes.

 

I think it’s especially great that the Sunday I first visited here was the feast of the Baptism of Jesus.

 

And today, we celebrate it again, as we do every year.

 

As I do on a very regular basis, I preach about baptism, and how important baptism if for us as followers of Jesus.

 

After all, everything we do as Christians should come from the joy and amazing beauty of that simple event—that baptism, in which we were washed in the waters of Baptism and marked as Christ’s own forever.

 

As you all know, as you have heard me preach from this pulpit many, many times, probably to the point you start rolling your eyes, Baptism, for me anyway, is not a sweet little christening event for us as Christians.

 

It is not a quaint little service of dedication we do.

 

For us Episcopalians, it a radical event in our lives as Christians.

 

Just as the Eucharist is a truly radical event in our lives, over and over again.

 

It is the event from which everything we do and believe flows.

 

It was the day we were welcomed as loved children of God.

 

And it was the day we began following Jesus.

 

And when we look at the actual service of Baptism in the Book of Common Prayer, the words of that service drive home to us how important that event is.

 

For example, after the Baptism, when the priest traces a cross on the newly baptized person’s forehead, she or he says, “You are sealed by the Holy Spirit in Baptism and marked as Christ’s own for ever.”

 

You have heard me preach how truly transformational those words are many times before.

 

And trust me, I will preach them again and again.

 

I will because they are probably the most important words we are ever going to hear in our lives.

 

That is not just some nice little sentiment.

 

Those words convey that something transformational and amazing has happened in the life of that person.

 

This is essential to our belief of what happens at baptism.

 

In baptism, we are marked as Christ’s own.

 

For ever.

 

It is a bond that can never be broken.

 

We can try to break it as we please.

 

We can struggle under that bond.

 

We can squirm and resist it.

 

We can try to escape it.

 

But the simple fact is this: we can’t.

 

For ever is for ever.

 

On this Sunday on which we commemorate Jesus’ own baptism—on this Sunday in which we remember the fact that Jesus led the way through those waters of baptism and showed us a glimpse of all that happens in this singular event, we should remember and think about what happened at own baptisms.

 

Yes, we might not remember the actual event.

 

But the great thing about baptism is that, our own individual baptismal event was, for the most part, just like everyone else’s.

 

In those waters, God spoke to us the words God spoke to Jesus in today’s Gospel reading.

 

In those waters, the words we heard in our reading from Isaiah were affirmed in us as well.

 

Here is my servant, whom I uphold,
   my chosen, in whom my soul delights;

Those words are our words.

 

Those words were spoken to us in those waters.

 

In those waters, we were all made equal.

 

In those waters, the same water washed all of us—no matter who are.

 

In those waters, there are no class distinctions, no hatred, or discrimination or homophobia or sexism or war or violence.

 

In those waters, we are all equal to one another and we are all equally loved.

 

In a few moments, we will stand and renew the vows we made at baptism.

 

When we are done, I will sprinkle you with water.

 

The sprinkling of water, like all our signs and actions that we do in this church, is not some strange practice a few of  High Church-minded people do.

 

That water that comes to us this morning is a stark reminder of those waters in which we were washed at Baptism—those waters that made us who we are, those waters in which we all stand on equal ground, with no distinctions between us.

 

Here at St. Stephen’s, all of our ministry—every time we seek to serve Christ and further the Kingdom of God in our midst—is a continuation of the celebration of baptism.

 

Sometimes we lose sight of that.

 

Sometimes we forget what it is that motivates us and charges us to do that wonderful work.

 

Sometimes we forget that our ministry as baptized people is a ministry to stand up and speak out against injustice.

 

Our ministry is to echo those words from Isaiah God spoke to us at the beginning of our ministries:

 

I have put my spirit upon [you];
   [you] will bring forth justice to the nations. 
   [You] will faithfully bring forth justice. 
[You] will not grow faint or be crushed
   until [you have] established justice in the earth;

 

The water of our baptism is a stark reminder to us of our call to the ministry of justice.

 

There is a reason the baptismal font in the narthex—the place we actually baptize—is always uncovered and always filled with fresh, blessed water.

 

Again, this is not some quaint, archaic tradition that spiky Fr. Jamie introduced here.

 

This is a very valid and real reminder that in that place, in those waters, we began to do the radical things we are called to us as Christians.

 

It is good for us to take that water and bless ourselves, and with it to be renewed for our call to justice.

 

It is good for us to be occasionally sprinkled with water as a reminder of what we must still do in this world

 

It is good to feel that cold water on our fingers and on our foreheads and on our faces as a reminder of our equality and our commitment to a God of love and justice. 

 

And, as you have heard me say so  many times, it is good to remember the date of our baptism and to celebrate that day, just as we would a birthday or a wedding anniversary.

 

Today, on this first Sunday in Epiphany, we start out on the right note.

 

We start out celebrating.

 

We start our commemorating the baptism of Jesus in the river Jordan.

 

And by doing so, we commemorate our own baptism as well.

 

In our collect today, we prayed to God to “Grant that all who are baptized into [Jesus’] Name maybe keep the covenant that they have made, and boldly confess him as Lord and Saviour.”

 

That should be our prayer as well today and always.

 

We pray that we may keep this Baptismal covenant in which we seek to follow Jesus and serve all people equally and fully in his name, no matter who they are.

 

And we pray that we may boldly live out our covenant by all that we do as Christians in seeking out and helping others in love and compassion and justice.

 

May we always celebrate that wonderful baptismal event in our lives.

 

And may we each strive to live out that baptism in our radical ministry of love and service of God and of one another.

 

Amen.

 

Holy Name

 

January 1, 2023

 Numbers 6.22-27, Psalm 8, Galatians 4.4-7 and Luke 2.15-21

  + Happy New Year, once again.

 I always sort of revel in the New Year.

 I really kind of like this time.

 I love getting up early on New Year’s Day and driving around town.

 It is so quiet and so serene.

 This getting up early on New Year’s Day is a fairly new tradition for me, especially ever since I became a teetotaler several years ago.

 It’s nice waking up on New Year’s Day and not having a hangover, or, as my mother used to call it, the “bottle flu.”

 There is always something so hopeful and wonderful about New Year’s Day.

 But…I am going to share a story of a time when it wasn’t so wonderful and hopeful in my life.

 Twenty-one years ago, as the new year of 2002 began, I faced a bleak new year.

 I had just been laid off from a job I really enjoyed because, surprise of surprises, I had some issues with my superiors.

 If you thought I was rebellious now, you should’ve seen me back in 2001.

 It was an unpleasant situation, and two days after Christmas, they informed me that they were letting me go due to a “financial shortfall.” 

 I knew the real reason., We all did.

 But I limped toward the end of that year beaten down a bit.

 I was still two years away from being ordained a priest, and the past year had been a particularly difficult one for me in ministry.

 I was still transitioning from my pre-ministry life to the stark realities of what real ministry was like.

 And, let’s just say, it was hard.

 And it wasn’t always fun.

 As that New Year dawned, I, for the first time in several years, had very serious doubts about whether I should be ordained or not.

  And I was, to put it bluntly, struggling.

 I was definitely praying for an answer, but no clear answer came.

 In fact, rather than a clear answer telling me I should definitely go forward, the new year brought me a bigger devastation than losing my job.

 In February of 2002, I was diagnosed with cancer.

 And I spent most of the rest of that year dealing with that.

 It’s not the most pleasant story for us to hear on this New Year’s Day.

 But…actually it kind of is.

 The answers I received to the prayers I was praying on that bleak New Year’s Day in 2002 were answered.

 They were just not answered in the ways I expected, or even wanted.

 My zeal for being a priest was renewed.

 I was healed.

 I got well.

 I pushed forward.

 And look! I endured.

 And when anyone asked me then, or even now, what got me through, I say:

 The love of my parents, the support of my friends and the Holy Name of God.

 In the midst of the stress and turmoil of it all, in those moments, when I couldn’t form a tangible prayer in my head, the prayer I prayed most was simply the Name of God.

 Sometimes it was just, “God, help me” or “Please, God” or simply “God.”

 If any of you have ever been anointed by me in the hospital or at any other time, you will have invariably heard me repeat a wonderful passage that we find in the Book of Common Prayer.

 Which brings us to the importance of this day.

 For us Episcopalians, is more than just New Year’s Day.

 Today, we celebrated this beautiful Feast of the Holy Name of Jesus. 

 This feast used to be known at the Circumcision of Our Lord. 

 We have kept the feast, but we’ve changed the name, probably for good reason. 

 On the eighth day following Jesus’ birth, he, like all Jewish males born in his time, was brought to the temple, to be circumcised and named. 

 His name, Jesus or Joshua, Yeshua in Hebrew, was a common name in his day.

 There are two differing translations of the name: one is “God with us.”

 The other is “God saves,” or more specifically “God saves us from our sins.”

 Today is an important feast.

 It’s a VERY important feast.

 Because, that Name is important to us.

 It’s important to those of who have been healed by it.

 It’s important for those of us who have found that it is, at times, the only prayer we can pray.

 Today’s feast also reminds us that we do truly have an intimate relationship with God.

 God is no longer a nameless, distant deity.

 God has a name.

 The God who came to us in Jesus has a name. 

 Names, after all, are important.

 Our names are important to us.

 They define us. 

 We have been trained to respond when we hear our name called.

 We, in effect, are our names.

 Our names and ourselves are bound inexorably together. 

 Our name is truly who we are.

 The same can be said of God.

 In the Old Testament God reveals the Divine Name as Yahweh.

 Yahweh is such a sacred and holy word to Jewish people that it cannot even be repeated.

 In a sense, the name Yahweh becomes so intertwined with Who God is that is becomes, for the Jews, almost like God. 

 And I agree completely.

 It is the Name God revealed to Aaron.

 God said, “they shall put my name—Yahweh—on them and I will bless them.”

 The message here to all of us is that to have a truly meaningful relationship with anyone—to truly know them—we need to know them by their name.

 So, too, is this same idea used when we think about our own relationship with God and, in turn, God’s relationship with us.

 God knows us by name and we know God by name.

 This is important.

 God is not simply some distant Being we vaguely comprehend.

 God is close.

 God is here, with us.

 God knows us and we know God. 

 We know each other by name.

 This is why the name of Jesus is important to us.  

 That is why we give the Name of Jesus a certain level of respect.

 Like the Name that was revealed to Aaron, so has the Name of God’s own Son—this Messiah, this anointed One—has been revealed to us. 

 And like the name Yahweh to the Jews, the Name of Jesus is holy and sacred to us Christians. 

 Certainly even for us, the Name is a vital and important part of what we believe as Christians. 

 The collect for today recalls that the name of Jesus is the “sign of our salvation.” 

 Now, I don’t see that as a sweet, overly sentimental notion.

 I see it as a very important part of who we are as Christians.

 As most of you know, I take the Name of Jesus very seriously.

 As a somewhat High Church Episcopalian, you’ll notice during our Mass on Sunday or Wednesday night, I bow my head every time the Name of Jesus is mentioned.  

 Again, I don’t see that as an overly pious action.

 I see it as a sign of respect for Jesus at a time when his Name is widely abused and misused.

 And we’ve all done it.

 We’ve all sworn, using the Name of Jesus in a disrespectful way.

 We have not given the rightful respect to Jesus’ name in our lives, even when we know full well that a name is more than just a name.

 A Name is, in a sense, one’s very essence. 

 Certainly in the case of Jesus case, it is.

 God is revealed to us in a unique and special way by Jesus.

 In Jesus, we are able to have a truly deep and intimate relationship with God.

 In Jesus we find “God with us.”

 In Jesus, we find “God saving us.”

 By this very name we have a special relationship with this God who has come among us

We belong to this God whose name we know.

In Jesus God has come to all of us.

In Jesus, God knows each of us by name.

We are special to our God.

We are, each of us, deeply loved and cared for by our God.

Certainly those of us who are Christian know this in a unique way.

When we were baptized, we, like Jesus eight days after his birth, were named.

At our baptism, we were signed as Christ’s own forever.

We were claimed by God by name.

By Baptism, our own names became holy names.

By Baptism, God came to know us by name and because of that, our names are sanctified.

We bear in us our own holy name before God.

So today—this day we celebrate not only God’s holy name but our own as well—and in the days to come, take to heart the fact that God’s name is holy and sacred. 

Be mindful of the words you use and be mindful of that name of Jesus in your life.

But also be mindful of your own holy name. 

When you hear your own name, remember that it is the name God knows you by and, as a result, it is truly holy.

In a sense our own names can be translated as “God with us.”

When we hear our names, let us hear “God saves us.”

And let us be reminded that God knows us better than anyone else—even our own selves.

Claim the holiness of your name and know that God in Jesus is calling you to your own fullness of life by name.

Amen.