Homily for my Dad

The altar at Cathedral of St. Luke. The kneeler was given in memory of my Dad's mom.

                                            

Rev. Molly F. James, PhD

Homily for Eliot Field

Lamentations 3:22-33; Psalm 46; 1 Corinthians 13:1-7; Luke 24:13-35

In the name of God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

“Then they told what had happened on the road, and how he had been made known to them in the breaking of the bread.” The Road to Emmaus is the story of the holy, of God’s very person and presence, being made manifest in the midst of ordinary life. Jesus meets the disciples while they are walking on the road. But they are so self focused, so distracted that they do not realize the resurrected Christ is walking along with them. It is not until they stop to rest and eat at the end of the day, that they realize who had been their companion on the way. 

For all of us who had the privilege of traveling with my Dad - walking, hiking, sitting on a train or boat, bus or plane - or the gift of sitting next to him at a dinner table, we know something of what the disciples experienced. We know how God can be made manifest in the course of conversation and a meal. My Dad was someone who lived with gratitude for the present moment. He paid careful attention to the beauty of his surroundings, and especially to the people he was with. I like to think if he had been walking with the disciples on that road, it might not have taken him so long to recognize Christ’s presence among them. Because even in the midst of the ordinary moments and interactions of daily life, my Dad was always on the lookout for the holy, for the extraordinary. He knew that God - God’s very being and love - were most evident to us in the midst of our interactions with each other. 

And there is a far more profound truth being communicated in the story of the disciples on the road. It is not only that God’s love and presence are made manifest to the disciples that day. It is the fact that the resurrected Christ is walking with them. There in their midst is the truth at the heart of the Christian faith. The truth that God is always at work, even in the midst of the most difficult of circumstances. Even in the midst of tragedy and loss and pain and heartbreak. God is present. The horrors of life, the evil realities of this world, never have the last word. Hope is real. New life is possible. Love is stronger than death. That is the beautiful truth of Easter morning. And the glorious reality is that truth was not just for the disciples. It was not just for that first Easter. It is a truth that continues to be manifest again and again in our lives and in the world. 

The best compliment I think we can give to a person of faith is that their life pointed us to God. Their life pointed us to hope, to beauty, to love, to the reality that there is more to life than we can comprehend. My Dad was such a person. A person willing to embrace the mystery, that there is so much we cannot fully understand. Remarkably acknowledging all that is beyond the limits of human comprehension can be a source of comfort. It is an act of surrender, of turning it over. 

An act of faith to trust that even in the midst of that which we cannot fully understand, even as we are going through life, at times like the disciples, distracted, afraid, grieving, or uncertain, God is with us - pointing us to the future with hope and love. 

That was what my Dad did. Pointed us to the future with hope and love. It was especially evident in the care and attention he took for each conversation. Whether you had come to him for legal advice or life advice or for help on a worksheet from school or just had the opportunity to sit next to him at dinner, he was fully present to whatever questions you had, whatever might be weighing on your heart or your mind. You would feel as though sitting with you and your question was the most important thing he had to do all day. This joy of conversation, of connection, of learning together, were central to who he was and how he lived.

All of us gathered here, all of us who have had the privilege of sharing some piece of our journey, walking some portion of the road of life with the remarkable human being who was Eliot Field, have benefited from his wisdom and grace. Whether it was because he taught us some scientific fact, helped us out of a sticky legal situation, invited us to marvel at the splendor of creation, or inspired us to be more graceful and pay more attention in the present moment. 

He has left us a multifaceted legacy. You can find his name in legal briefs and court cases. His influence in improved processes and more compassionate, rational municipal governments. In the speed of Jesse’s backhand. In the napkins and first aid kit in my car. In the fact that all his grandchildren know how to ski and hit a tennis ball. In the fact that meals on that Dresden hilltop still stop so we can all stand in awe as the sun sinks slowly behind the White Mountains. We will remember him in so many actions and places. Perhaps most of all, though, we will remember and honor him in how we are in the world. When we hold on to the lessons of the Road to Emmaus and all the meals and conversations we have shared. When we slow down and pay attention. When we trust that hope is real and love always has the last word. When our first reactions are patience, grace, and good humor. When we look for the holy in the midst of the ordinary. 

Whenever you have one of those moments in the days and weeks and years ahead. I hope you will pause. I hope you will remember. I hope you will smile. And I hope you feel that my Dad is smiling right there with you. Amen. 

Eliot Field 1947-2022

Eliot Field died at home on the hilltop he loved, on May 26th, 2022. He was, and will always be, beloved for his sense of wonder. He inspired all those who knew and loved him to pay attention to the present moment to the miracles of life - from the way a cut heals, to the ability to climb a mountain, to the beautiful colors of a sunset, to the way a piece of music can transport us, to the simple joy of a conversation. 

He was born in New York City in 1947, the second child of Charles Walker Field and Anne Eliot Field (Hiatt). He grew up on the banks of the Hudson River on the Palisades, in a house designed by his father. The Field family was known for tennis prowess and their parties; even childhood birthday parties involved parades. 

Eliot always felt at home in the splendor of creation, mountains especially. He found much joy and lifelong friendships in his years at Colorado College. Following his graduation, he spent a year teaching before going to law school. He graduated from the Boston University School of Law in 1973. While there, he met the love of his life, Taffy. They married in December of 1973. Eliot began his legal career in the Maine Attorney General’s office. One day on his commute between Wiscasset and Augusta, he drove up Blinn Hill Road in Dresden. Captivated by the view from that hilltop, he and Taffy were determined to move there. Following training at The Shelter Institute, they built a passive solar home that stood for 40 years. Then the wonderful Hennins built a new post and beam house for them with a few more modern conveniences. 

In the early 1980s, Eliot moved into private legal practice in Wiscasset, first with Soule, Soule, and Logan, and then into solo practice until he retired. He took the “counselor” part of “Attorney and Counselor at Law” very seriously. He was widely respected and valued in the midcoast community for his careful, diligent, and compassionate work. His practice focused mainly on real estate and municipal law. He served as the lawyer for multiple towns over the course of his career. He also shared his legal expertise, his knowledge of nonprofit governance, and his passion for teaching through long stints of volunteer work with Maine Audubon, the Morris Farm, The Episcopal Church (particularly St. John’s in Dresden; St. Philips in Wiscasset; and the Cathedral of St. Luke in Portland). 

When he was not dictating letters or legal briefs, he could generally be found outside somewhere. His endless patience and love of all things athletic combined to make him a teacher and coach for his children, Jesse (born 1976) and Molly (born 1980), particularly on tennis courts, ski slopes, and soccer fields. He also shared his passions with many nieces and nephews and many friends. His athletic aptitude meant that he won the Dresden Open Mixed Doubles tournament on an annual basis, but the championship trophy always went to his mother, Nancy, for teaching him everything he knew.

He loved travel and outdoor adventure. He climbed the Grand Teton three times. Rafted down the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon four times. His passion for photography has left an enormous number of photos, slides, and super 8 movies of these and countless other adventures. Even in recent years when Parkinson’s Disease limited his physical mobility, his spirit of adventure and joy for life remained undiminished. He navigated the challenges of the disease with characteristic grace and good humor. To the end of his earthly pilgrimage, he continued to inspire those around him to be present to the beauty of each moment, and never to take the gifts of life for granted. His beloved family and friends will carry that inspiration with them for years to come. 

He was predeceased by his parents, his step-father, Robert Hiatt, and his brother Sam. He is survived by his wife, his children and their families; his sisters - Cally, Rebecca, and Rosamond - and a gaggle of beloved nieces, nephews, and cousins. 

A memorial service will be held at St  Luke's at 10am on Friday, May 27th. The bulletin is here. The livestream is available here: https://video.ibm.com/channel/Ev3GjBysEwX

Funeral arrangements were made by Daigle in Bath.  In lieu of flowers, memorial donations may be made to: Michael J. Fox Foundation and CHANS Hospice. 

All will be well. Really.

Rev. Molly F. James, PhD

St. Alban's, Simsbury, CT

Psalm 23; Acts 9:36-43; Revelation 7:9-17; John 10:22-30

Julian of Norwich, May 8, 2022

May God’s Word be spoken. May God’s Word be heard. May that point us to the living Word who is Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. 

Good morning all. It is good to be back with you in person. Happy Easter. I am so grateful that Easter is a whole season. It is not just a day. We get to spend fifty days celebrating the truths at the center of our faith - that hope is real, new life is always possible, and love is stronger than anything, even death. 

In addition to being the fourth Sunday of Easter, it is also the feast day of Julian of Norwich. For me, that makes it a day when I get to visit with an old friend. Julian is one of the five thinkers about whom I wrote in my doctoral dissertation. So, she is indeed an old friend who just about lived with me for years!

Given how much I value her wisdom and insight, I could probably come up with reasons why her message was relevant any day of the year. And yet I think she has some particularly important messages for us as the people of faith in the midst of all that is going on in our lives and world right now. Here we are, more than two years into a global pandemic. The realities of war, poverty, natural disasters, gun violence, racism, and all the forms of oppression that keep us from realizing the kingdom of God here on earth, are ever present in our headlines and our communities. Not to mention whatever challenges we are all dealing with in our own families and relationships. It is enough to leave us feeling exhausted and even despondent at times. I would imagine all of us have had moments or even days where all the challenges of the present time feel overwhelming. This is why I am so grateful for the Easter season, for Psalm 23, and our readings today. Together with the life and writings of Julian of Norwich, they ground us in our faith and provide a sure foundation for our hope. They all affirm for us that we are never alone in the midst of challenges and that the love of God is stronger than everything else. What I love about our readings today and about the life and writings of Julian is that they offer a hope that is grounded in experience. They do not offer rose colored glasses or just blithely assure us all will be well. They acknowledge the reality of the valley of the shadow of death and remind us that God is leading us out of that valley. We can look ahead with hope. 

Just in case you don’t know much about the life or times of Julian, let me give you a brief synopsis. Her name “Julian” is taken from St. Julian's Church in Norwich where she lived as an anchorite for many years. An anchorite is someone who lives a solitary existence in a cell attached to a church. They have a window into the Church to watch mass being celebrated and a window through which they can serve as a counselor to the people of the world, but they do not generally leave their cell. She lived like that for decades! Don't I wish I could have called her up when we all went into lockdown in 2020 to learn how you live well in circumstances like that.

Julian was born in the late 1300s and died in the mid 1400s. She lived through the Black Death, a plague that came multiple times in the 14th century and took approximately 40% of the population. Hear that again - 40% of the population. She would be marveling at all the advances of modern medicine and how many people are surviving and recovering from the virus. Recent reports from the WHO put the mortality rate for COVID worldwide is about 18%. 

Julian is famous for her writings. It was a rare thing in the 1400s for a woman to be able to read and write, but Julian was definitely a scholar who knew her Scripture and the theology of her day well. She had a series of visions during an illness which she then spent many years reflecting on and writing about. Her writings are collected in a text known as Revelations of Divine Love.

If she is known in popular culture at all, she is known for her saying, “All will be well. All will be well. And all manner of things shall be well.” Taken out of context this can seem like a pollyanna statement that seems to completely disregard the realities of the present moment. But Julian was not oblivious to the realities of pain and suffering. She knew them well in her own life, and in the lives of the people who came to her for counsel and advice. 

Julian lived in a time where, as scholar Barbara Tuchman notes, “death was to be met any day, around any corner.” The fragility and sacredness of life was a truth she knew all too well. Suffering and hardship were an expected part of daily life. Her conviction that all will be well is a deeply meaningful one, precisely because it is a statement of deep faith and hope born out of a daily life where things rarely went well. It is a statement that believes there is more to life than what we can see in the present moment. It is a belief that tomorrow can and will be different than today. It is a belief that there is always the possibility of more, the possibility for new life, for transformation, even in the midst of our darkest moments. 

Julian lived and wrote a theology that is also beautifully articulated in the 23rd Psalm. It is the steadfast belief that no matter what shadows we may have encountered, no matter how we are struggling through the valleys of life, we can trust that we never walk alone and that the valley is not our destination. There will be rest and still waters. There will be a feast spread before us. Our cup indeed overflows. And it's important to note that neither the Psalm nor Julian would say that feast, that rest, are only found in the next life. Remember it says that God spreads out a table in the presence of our enemies. There is hope and much joy to be found even in the midst of whatever struggles we face. 

That bit about rest and care for our bodies is key. Reading the writing of Cole Arthur Riley has helped me to better understand the connection between rest and salvation. She notes that in Scripture the two are often connected, as they are in our Psalm or in that familiar prayer, "in returning and rest we shall be saved." Riley writes, "What a peculiar answer to the valley of the shadow of death. You might expect God's response to be to have people rise, to empower them to fight. But God's answer is unapologetic care for the body. The deepest yet most neglected of needs." (This Here Flesh, 147). And she goes on to say, "Yet when we invite people into spirituality, too often rest is reduced to an inner posture someone should adopt while exhausting their body. And she cautions us, "If the 'salvation' you have been promised requires you to do and say more, you can be rightly suspicious of it." (148)

I don't think we necessarily need to go to the extreme of becoming an anchorite like Julian. We don't need to spend our lives separated from the world. No doubt, though, we could all use a little more rest. I don't necessarily mean sleep, although that certainly counts. We need the rest that restores our souls. The rest that grounds us in the truth of God's presence and reminds us that all will be well, even if it isn't today. 

So in this Easter season, when the days are lengthening and creation is bursting forth with beauty, when we are surrounded by messages that say we need to do more and have more, we can pause and renew those practices that restore our souls. Maybe it's time outside, maybe it's conversation with a friend, maybe it is opting to sit down and savor a cup of coffee or a meal instead of eating standing up in our kitchen or while we drive. Maybe it's a new book or an art project. Maybe it's just taking a few minutes each day to be, to reflect with gratitude on the gifts of our surroundings and our companions on the way. Whatever it is for you, I hope you will find ways to rest and restore your soul in the weeks ahead.

And may those moments of rest ground you in Julian's conviction that All shall be well. No matter what today or this week or next week bring, we can hold fast to that beautiful truth. All shall be well. Amen.