Funeral Homily for Fr Kenneth Thomas
September 26, 2024
The Rt. Rev’d Mark Beckwith
Christ Church, New Haven, Conn.
I am humbled and honored to be here this afternoon, to offer a homily at Kenneth Dana Thomas’ requiem service, a homily he didn’t want, but is going to get – because while the liturgy carries us from grief to promise, pain to hope, it doesn’t directly lift up the life of the one who has died. And there is a lot to lift up about Kenneth, and stories that need to be told – particularly as his life connects with the Gospel.
Martha, Lazarus’ sister, is grieving. Her brother Lazarus has just died. Her grief manifests itself as anger, which she directs at Jesus: “If you had been here, my brother would not have died.” Jesus honors her grief, acknowledges her anger – and offers an extraordinary message of hope: “I am the Resurrection and life – those who believe in me – even though they die – will live; and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die. Do you believe this?”
In my nearly 50 years of friendship with Kenneth there were many times when I either avoided Jesus’ question – do you believe this? Or couldn’t answer it positively, because of loss, disappointment, grief, anger, or whatever. I would bring these incidents to Kenneth during the many meals we had together – and he would listen, nod his head – and move on.
What was clear to me in my rather frequent moments of lament – and is even clearer to me now, was that he believed in the Resurrection – down to the marrow in his bones. He didn’t speak of it – well, he did, from this pulpit and the other pulpits he ascended over 69 years of ordained ministry, delivering extraordinary sermons filled with insight, depth, eloquence – and faith. He lived that faith – in a style that and method that came right out of a Jane Austen novel. It was solid, grounded, authentic – and part and parcel of who he was. I – and so many of us, came to trust it, and count on it.
He had a rule of life – fashioned by his early years at St. John’s in Bridgeport, at Trinity College, GTS – and his 70 plus years as an associate of the Order of the Holy Cross – a rule of life that would not – could not, be broken. He told me several times over the years that he resolutely read the daily office – every day without fail, even if the water was up to his neck. He sometimes shared the regret of missing his daily routine – once, many years ago, while in the hospital for surgery, the water wasn’t up to his neck – but the pre-op IV was firmly implanted in his arm, and a nurse grabbed his prayer book out of his hands as she wheeled him into the operating room.
A rule of life is often depicted as a railing – something to hold onto – as we navigate the bumps, peaks and valleys – if not chasms, of life’s journey. Kenneth’s railing was forged in trust, commitment and spiritual discipline. Many of us would tease him over the tenacity of the grip he had on the railing – and his near obsession with his daily routine, which he relaxed – somewhat, over the years. But his devotion, his faith, his discipline made an indelible impact in so many of our lives. It certainly did on me.
As I continue to work through my grief over Kenneth’s death, a realization that I have come to – is that in a wonderful and ironic way, Kenneth himself – his humor, his brilliance, his quirks, but more particularly his unyielding devotion to the promise of the resurrection, all of that – he has been my railing. His fierce but understated spiritual commitment was contagious. Life wasn’t always easy for him, but he held on. I have held on to his steadfastness as he has held on to me. There are no doubt hundreds of people for whom Kenneth was their living railing. I am not alone in that regard.
Many years ago, after my then fiancée met Kennth for the first time, after he charmed her with stories (always the stories) and his excitement for us, she said that she didn’t think she would be able to love me as fiercely as Kenneth did. Few people can. His love was refracted from God. God’s love came through him. And people cherished it – and remembered it.
Among the many stories he would tell – oh sweet Jesus, were there stories (he called them monologues, some of which went on for awhile, and many of them were told more than once – but I never got tired of hearing them) – were memories of acolytes from his time at St. Paul’s in Hartford (this was sixty years ago) seeking him out to meet their grandchildren. There were kids from his seminary days, when he had a ministry on the Lower East side, who generations later, asked him to officiate at their children’s weddings. Former acolytes would show up years later with kids and spouses in tow, filled with memories of his care, humor and wisdom.
When I think of Kenneth’s love for so many of us, I am reminded of words from an Emily Dickinson poem – tell all the truth but tell it slant. Kenneth’s love wasn’t overly effusive or sentimental. It came slant. And it was God’s love, yes, and he passed it on. Eagerly and easily, and from a pre-Victorian angle.
There was a time in Kenneth’s life when love was occluded and hidden. He felt confined, if not trapped, in his hidden identity. It was suggested that he try worshipping at the Metropolitan Community Church in New Haven, which he did, a bit reluctantly, because at that time his railing really didn’t extend beyond the Episcopal Church. He reported to me – with his classic shaking of the head, that the liturgy was dreadful. But the community, the community, was transforming for him. It opened him up. He loosened his grip. Many from that community are here today. He called you his children. You became was his chosen family. His love – God’s love – had a new opening. What a gift. I could see it. It often heard about. The loving care given to him by his growing number of children and the grace and gratitude with which he received it has become my image of the beloved community. He would regale me about his many trips to Provincetown, and his excitement over attending the daily tea dances – the picture of which I can’t easily conjure up. The slant angle of love became more direct.
I was last here at Christ Church in 2005 for Kenneth’s 50th anniversary of ordination. What was implicitly said then, in deep and sincere gratitude, was that Kennth was a railing for the congregation during a rather difficult time. People held on to his consistency, his wit, his care – all of which were manifestations of his faith. It was a wonderful celebration of his ministry – and the exchange of love was so powerful. He told me afterward that he really didn’t do anything to warrant the congregation’s praise. Oh, yes you did, I said in response. You were yourself, in your consistent slant loving way. You were – and are, an exemplar of God’s love.
I think the most important thing that can be said about a person in life is that they loved and were loved in return. Kenneth was richly blessed with this. As he awaited death – and he was a bit miffed at God for taking his sweet time of it, he spoke of gratitude for his family, his friends – even for his stints in the Army – the first at the end of WWII, and the second in Korea. There were seasons in his 97 years when the fullness of love had a hard time penetrating Kenneth’s need for self-protection. But his faith was so deep that instead of retreating into himself he faithfully continued to be a priest of God’s love – extending that love to his family, his friends, his parishioners – and over time the slant of love became easier to give and receive.
Human life is a gift, a gift to be honored and a gift to be treasured. We are here to honor the gift of Kenneth’s life, and all that it has given us. And we are here to claim the promise – as we continue to work at letting go, that we can hold onto the promise that Kenneth will continue to receive the love of those gathered here, and those many people who are not here but are nevertheless remembering him at this moment with their thoughts and prayers; and the promise that he will continue to receive the love of God, who is the author of life itself. And the ultimate promise – that love is stronger than death. He believed that. He lived it. He lives it still.
Well done, good and faithful servant.