Stewart Adams Funeral Sermon

For all of us who knew and loved Stew, it seems only fitting to pick a gospel story that has to do with boats. And, since many of Jesus’ disciples were fishermen on the Sea of Galilee, we’ve got several stories to choose from. But it’s this one, this fantastical tale of Jesus and Peter walking on the water, that stands out to me today.

But as I picture the scene, there’s one part of the story I find jarring: When Jesus invites Peter to come out on the water to walk with him, the storm is still raging. It’s not how’d I’d tell the story. If I were telling it, or making a movie of it, the storm would be raging; the disciples would see Jesus amidst the waves and be all freaked out; then Jesus would call out, “Don’t be afraid! It’s me!” And then he’d calm the sea – it’d become like glass – and Peter would step out and walk with him. Can’t you just see it? It’d be beautiful.

That’s how I’d write the story because it’s how I wish it were with this life. And with this faith. I wish all we had to do was to see Jesus amidst the storm, to hear his voice, and that everything would calm down, and we could join him on the waters in peace and beauty.

I wish when the diagnoses came in – when the jobs were lost or the children were struggling – that all we’d have to do is have faith, and the seas would calm, and we could walk with Jesus in miraculous tranquility and wonder.

But that’s not how the story is told – for Peter, for Stew, for ourselves. Our faith brings no power to calm the seas. It only says, “Come. Come to me where, at times, it will be even less safe out there on the seas, and learn to see that I am there.”  God in Christ is there – there amongst the waves, there in the doctor’s office, in the hospice bed, in our lungs… and in the air itself that we breathe. God is there. For God is.

Stewart spent his life upon the seas, navigating them (and all the challenges of this life) with skill and his trademark responsibility. He knew what to do to stay afloat and to stay alive. But even now, when the cancerous waves have overcome him, our faith proclaims the voice of Christ, “Even there, I am: I, too, am drowned in the seas, am nailed to the cross, am buried in the tomb. And I am risen. And you, Stewart, are risen with me. So come. Come with me.” And so, he has.

But, perhaps for many, those are just so many words – words about God, words instead of God, words which hold precious little comfort – when all we want is Stewart. We want Stewart Adams – Stewart’s Adam to Judy’s Eve, partners together in their litany of projects in the garden of their shared life. We want – not words about God the Father – but Stewart the actual father, whose own words and corniness and embrace and acts of service were the architecture of Chelsea and Summer’s world.

We want this good father – this good husband, this good friend – to be with us still. For the goodness of this life was made manifest by the presence of this good man.

He was, in his way, preparing us for this day all along. Whenever I had a home project that was beyond me, I’d call Stew. I would have liked for him simply to come and do it. (Lazy and fearful that I am.) But that’s not what Stew would do. He’d come over and talk me through it. If it required a tool, he’d bring it. And then he’d leave, leaving me to muddle through it on my own. (Or with Henry’s help.) Then I’d call Stew back to inspect the work and to get his seal of approval before I covered it up with sheetrock. He was definitely of the “teach a man to fish” school of thought.

This is how he cared. He taught me how to do plumbing and wiring and thereby formed me into a better homeowner and a better man. But for his family – for Judy and Chelsea and Summer – he was always forming you to know yourselves as beloved and worthy of love – a gift and a truth that has not ended with his death.

Which isn’t to say that the days ahead will be easy. Because they won’t be. But you are now – in your persons – ones shaped by love. Stewart has given you what you will need to live forward in this life.

The storm of cancer is now passed. The wind has now ceased. But as any sailor knows: windless seas make for very bad sailing. It may be safe, but it’s not very fun.

These days ahead may well feel like motoring alone on a trip you don’t want to be on – on a boat you don’t want to be on, on an ocean you don’t want to be on. But you are. And thank God there’s a motor. You are not stranded at sea. And docking alone may be frightening, because that was always Stewart’s job. But you’ll do it. And you’ll find there are those who are ready to throw you a line.

And along the way, there will be sea birds to watch, and horizons to scan, and in the quiet: words and whispers of words – living and true and spoken for you.

And you will be ready to say, “Here I am.”