Several people have asked for my words at John’s memorial service. I didn’t have a manuscript but some thoughts scribbled down. I’m thankful for the gift of a transcript. I’ve deleted the impromptu comments I made and augmented some thoughts with what I meant to say but left on the page.
Rest easy, brother.
Hi. My name is Johnny and I love John.
Colleague, friend, brother I chose.
I’ve lived in that reality in the last days and it occurs to me that a lot of you chose John, too. So, the family is gathered this morning to talk about a homegoing.
And yet in the eternal promises that we know and hold so dear there is that sense of what happened? How are we even here today?
Part of a reading from John O’Donohue “For Grief” hit me this week, and I keep living with these words:
When you lose someone you love,
Your life becomes strange,
The ground beneath you becomes fragile,
Your thoughts make your eyes unsure;
And some dead echo drags your voice down
Where words have no confidence
Your heart has grown heavy with loss;
And though this loss has wounded others too,
No one knows what has been taken from you
When the silence of absence deepens.
Flickers of guilt kindle regret
For all that was left unsaid or undone.
We all have John stories.
We all know what a John hug feels like.
We all know what it’s like to hear those words of greeting, that for me were either in person, sometimes on the phone, but more often a text after I’ve tried to reach him on the phone.
Hey buddy.
Hey pal.
Hey bro.
Those were the names we shared with one another. I’m not sure I can remember when we ever called each other by our given names. But there was always that feeling that there was a whole lot more that I was trying to share with him than he was willing to share in return. That his interest in my life while genuine was a way to keep him from fully sharing his with me.
And at times that’s frustrating, that’s maddening. And given where we are this morning, I’m mad as hell about that.
This one, this brother I chose, who stood tall. For the life of me I could never understand why a man who stood that tall would choose to wear a tall hat. I mean, the Stetson company must be really sad about the market share they’re losing from John alone.
But here’s where I am this morning: I say this because I’m trying to convince myself that it’s true for me: “We are not a glum lot. No, we are not.”
John’s life, John’s ministry, life in ministry, while it belonged to the whole of the city, it emerged from this room. There’s no other place we could do this service today right except here.
This is the place where he welcomed people. This is the place where he asked if it was your first time and people would raise their hands and he’d say, “you’re already part of the family.”
This is the place where he would say, “if you didn’t get fed, it’s your own fault because Mama Way had plenty of food.” This is the place that became sanctuary for those who in the vulnerable places of recovery aren’t sure what’s safe anymore, but this was safe. And this is going to continue to be safe space.
So, Friday night, 6:00. Right here. We’re going to welcome people, we’re going to feed their bodies, and we’re going to give a message that feeds their souls. And we’re going to talk about the steps we’re taking to lead us into a sober life, and we’re going to sing, and play music and we’re going to hear the words that matter more than ever before: that “We’re gonna love ya and there ain’t nothing you can do about it.”
A week ago yesterday, I accompanied John on a plane to Minneapolis, hoping and believing that the light hasn’t been extinguished, it was just dimmed a bit.
I told him over and over “There was no shame in relapse. It’s okay, we’re back to step one, we’re all powerless man, it’s okay.” He was consumed with overwhelming shame. He asked me “Are you gonna fire me as your recovery minister?”
“Are you kidding? No!”
Here’s what I’m learning. You never know the pain someone seated next to you is carrying. But you best assume that it’s something. And if we suspect that the ones next to us are hurting, even as we’re trying to figure out how to live with our own pain, maybe we ought to start treating each other a little kinder. Maybe we ought to start demonstrating love a little more freely.
Among the last things I said to John was to remind him of what he said countless times to those just starting to find their way in recovery. It’s theological tenet we built The Way on, and it applied to him, too, he just wasn’t able to receive it.
Sometimes those of us who lead...it’s not that we don’t believe what we’ve preached anymore, but it’s that when we’ve forgotten to keep doing the work of recovery, our spirits can be blinded to the truth. And the truth I so desperately wanted John to know was that even in relapse, especially in relapse, that you were going to love John and there was nothing he can do about it.
So this morning, in the face of deep pain, but with conviction and assurance and of all I am and all I believe, within the heavenly hosts this day, there is a distinctly Memphis groove going on. And the One to whom he vowed his life, for whom he lived in ministry, is going to figure out how to hug him. And he’s going to say “John, I love you and there is nothing, nothing, nothing, there is NOTHING you can do about it.
The apostle Paul said-
“For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything [ANYTHING] else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
My name is Johnny, I love John.
I’m a brother to him, a brother I chose. And I’m looking at all my siblings in the room and we’ve got to carry on. Together.
Thanks be to God.
