John Neal Funeral Sermon

John’s older sister, Ruth, tells the story of when John still just a little boy – maybe 3 or 4 – far too young to read. But he loved the story, Ferdinand the Bull. Over and over he’d have her read it to him, until he had it memorized, word for word. He even knew when to turn the page.

And one day, Ruth brought John to school with her – partly as a field trip for him to ride the bus and see the big kids’ school – and partly as something of a show-and-tell for her, to show off her little brother to her classmates. And (I’m not sure how this was orchestrated), but the teacher knew to ask John to read to all the big kids. And he whipped out Ferdinand the Bull and began “to read.” And they were dazzled – such a little kid knowing how to read so well. And Ruth: she never told a soul. It was their little secret.

It’s a common enough story, a little child memorizing a book earlier than they can read a book. The memorizing comes naturally. No one needs to teach you how. You just keep paying attention and it happens. But for most of us, reading takes more work. It’s a skill you have to learn. But at the time, when you’re just little, you don’t know you’re not reading. You’re just figuring out how to be in this world, with whatever skill is most at hand.

Like everything in this life. We’re just winging it – step by step. Sometimes stumbling by luck onto the right path. More often, stumbling onto the wrong path. And sometimes, just plain stumbling. And…we keep going. A lot of these stumblings – they work themselves out: We grow up; we learn who we are and who we aren’t, what we’re called to do and what we can set aside. Our impulses learn to give way to responsibilities. And… some of the stumbling paths never do straighten out: We keep falling beneath the same fears and coping mechanisms that have long since ceased to be our friends. But they’re what we know. And these stumblings are a sorrow for us and for those who love us. And it’s okay. What else does it mean to love and to be loved, but for this love to hold us, in everything?

This is the beauty of this life we’re living – that where there is love, we belong. In our successes, in our failures, we belong. We are held.

John was a brilliant kid who grew to be a brilliant man.

He was raised in a poor family, on a small farm in Linesville, Pennsylvania. His siblings were all much older than he and had moved out by the time he was 7 or 8. His dad was often absent, working away in the mines or at the steel mill. His mother was cruel.

But John was brilliant – the valedictorian of his class. He went on scholarship to Harvard, but it was too big a leap for this farm boy from western Pennsylvania – the culture shock too great, the isolation too pressing. So after a year, he pulled out, dusted himself off, and joined the army. And that path worked. That’s what first brought him to Washington state. He was stationed at Fort Lewis, where he did some lab work. And after three years – his service complete – he enrolled at Eastern Washington University in Cheney. He studied chemistry, graduating in just three years, then began his doctoral degree in chemistry at the University of Washington. He was something of a whiz kid, embraced by his professors. He did some post doc work, then landed a job at the Georgia-Pacific pulp and paper mill in Bellingham. Soon he was promoted to Director of Produce Development – a position he held for nearly two decades. From there he took two other positions with other companies before retiring in 2000.

He was proud of his accomplishments at work. He’d found his path and walked it well. He was proud of the success, of the expertise, of the travel.

And along the way, he was also learning what it means to be in relationship and how to be husband. It wasn’t always smooth. It had to be learned, just like anything else. His first marriage, with Diane, didn’t turn out to be a lifelong marriage. But they made their family together, with John and Jason. And when they divorced, they did so amicably. They kept near each other, and the boys were at home with each of them. He married again in the mid-80s and was eventually widowed. And then he met Cristie. Or, rather, he met Cristie again. They’d first met, years before, when he’d bought a house from her and they’d stayed in touch ever since. And when they married – fifteen years ago – John had learned how to be with another in a less complicated way. They gardened and listened to music. They swam at the beach house and were each other’s true companions. He adored Cristie. And she, him. Right up to the end. Right up to that moment, sitting on the bedside, when his life ended. Without warning. Without drama. It just ended. And she was there – loved by him, until his final breath. She received from him the fulfillment of their marriage vows: till death do we part.

And so it must be that one spouse survives the other. Cristie must now find her way as “widow.” But she does so with the dignity of having been loved and cherished by another until the very end. And that love she carries with her. It doesn’t go away. It is now a part of her.

And, just as John learned how to be a husband, so he learned how to be a father. His big learning moment came after the divorce, when parenting now became a more solitary calling, something he had to figure out on his own. And this is what he figured out: camping was the key. In those first years, he and his sons must have gone up to Douglas Fir Campground on Mt. Baker a hundred times. They’d load the pickup and schlep all the gear up to their site. It was their place – their place together – in the woods, in the rain, around a fire. There were guns and target shooting and hunting. And they kept it up, for the better part of 50 years.

And he was also a stepfather to Sara and Lea. He’d known them since they were children. He’d fathered them in his way, when they were without. By the time he became their actual stepfather, they were already grown. But he was good to them and to their families. He could talk endlessly to Sara’s husband about guns and shooting.

And here’s the thing to know about John – where the strength of his character really shone: he was generous. He liked helping people. Jason writes,

“He believed in being helpful like he believed in doing a job well, or living up to a commitment: he thought it was just a good way to be. So many times I witnessed him being generous with people – friends, neighbors, acquaintances he hardly knew. He would offer his time, his labor, his expertise, his money. One time long ago, while living in Bellingham, he took a business trip to Houston. He arranged for his return flight to route through Pittsburgh, just so he could buy his co-worker’s son a Pittsburgh Steelers t-shirt (he’d heard that the boy was a Steelers fan, as was my dad…and that was all he needed to know).”

John goes on, “He helped me in countless ways, large and small, over the course of my entire life. Go-carts, tree houses, model rockets, homework, college tuition, living expenses, career advice, life advice…any hobby or responsibility or challenge, he was available to help. Soon after I moved to Montana, I told him I planned to build a wood shop inside the large steel-frame garage on the property. His only question was, ‘When?’ He would’ve been around 70 at that time, and suffering from arthritis in his hands, but he wired in every outlet, every switch, every breaker, and helped in so many other ways.

“For my dad, joy was seldom found in what he could give himself – he never sought extravagances. He found joy in the act of giving to others. He liked seeing people light up when he offered an unexpected gift, or did something that unburdened them, or helped them solved a vexing problem. Generous and helpful, with no strings attached. That was my dad.”

We’re all winging it in this life, all stumbling along, asking the same element questions in one way or another: What’s it all about? Who am I? How do I belong – to my kids, to my spouse, to my community, to my world?

And John figured out a lot of those answers – his professional life and the skills he had to offer his employers and his teams and the products they made for everyone; his love for his family; his generosity in giving and serving with what he had to give.

And, like it must be for everyone, there remained habits unbroken, questions unanswered and some blind spots that got in the way of even knowing what questions to ask. Like it is with all of us.

And the hope of the church is: It’s okay. It’s okay that life ends before everything is answered or everything’s made perfect. That’s not the way it works – for anyone.

Because the hope of the church is also this: The Creator who made us, who taught us to strive, who placed in us the yearning for meaning and the yearning for love, will – in the end – be the meaning and be the love we’ve sought all along. And this meaning and love will be big enough to gather unto itself all that has fallen. For God’s final answer is love – with a strength of mercy that knows neither enemy nor boundary, but only life.

We who were born of the dust of the earth, must return as dust to the earth, this season made complete. And, as creation has taught us: spring will come again. And with it, life unstoppable.

In the language of faith: “The first heaven and the first earth must pass away, and the new Jerusalem will come down:

“See, the home of God is among mortals. He will dwell them as their God; they will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them; and wipe away every tear. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away.”

Just as Jesus climbed the mountain, where he was given a foretaste of heaven, bathed in life and acclaimed by God, “This is my Son, the beloved,” so, too, is this the message for John Alexander Neal: You, John, are God’s son, the beloved.

The God you sought, the God for whom you waited – this God has called you home, and called you, “son,” and all shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well – for you, for us, for all creation – for all comes of God, and all returns to God, and all is cherished by God, this day and forever.

This is the gospel, John, you’ve known all along. Your heart knew its truth and was set to yearning, when you first fell in love with Ferdinand the Bull.

Ferdinand was a young bull in Spain who was different from the others. While they all wanted to run, jump, and snort to show how tough they were, Ferdinand preferred to sit quietly under his favorite cork tree and smell the flowers.

One day, men came to choose the fiercest bull for the Madrid bullfights. And just at that moment, Ferdinand got stung by a bee. He leapt and snorted and behaved so wildly that the men assumed he was the fiercest bull of all. But once in the arena, Ferdinand simply sat down and refused to fight. No matter what the matadors tried, he stayed calm, peaceful, and had no interest in violence.

And so they sent him back to his home. “And for all I know he is sitting there still, under his favorite cork tree, smelling the flowers just quietly.”

You are home, John.