Homily for the Funeral of Yohko Matsumoto

St. Augustine,

one of the great theologians of the Christian church,

who lived over 1600 years ago,

once pointed out how risky it is for us to love another person.

When we commit to loving someone else, he noticed,

it leaves us incredibly vulnerable.

Because, he said, the day will come when the two of you are separated by death.

When either you or the other person will die.

And one of you will be left without the other.

Left with grief Augustine could only imagine.

It’s risky to love another person.

This is true in any relationship where there is love,

where people have committed to love one another.

But nowhere is it more true than in marriage.

Because, of course, when two people get married,

they promise to spend a lifetime loving one another:

for better for worse,

for richer for poorer,

in sickness and in health.

They promise to give and receive love from one another

until the day when they are parted by death, as the marriage vows put it.

Loving another person this much and for so long is risky.

It leaves our hearts open and vulnerable,

including open and vulnerable to grief.

The grief we feel when we lose someone we have loved so much,

and who has loved us.

I guess this grief is the other side of the coin:

You can’t experience love without grief one day.

And yet, it’s only in taking this risk,

only in allowing ourselves to be vulnerable,

that we can open ourselves to love in the first place.

Dan, I can only imagine that in the days since Yohko died two weeks ago,

you have gotten to know this kind of grief.

The grief that can only come because you took a risk

and loved our sister Yohko so much for so many years.

And because Yohko took a risk too,

and loved you so much and for so many years.

You both took a big risk when you got married over half a century ago.

You opened you hearts and your lives to love.

We give thanks today that you two took such a risk.

You and Yohko inspire us to risk loving others, too.

Hopefully, those of us who are married ourselves,

or those of us blessed with the gift of close friendships,

will be able to love as faithfully and fiercely as you and Yohko did.

Although none of us loved Yohko for as long or as much as you did, Dan,

we certainly share in your grief today.

We also share in your grief, Evan,

and in the grief of your whole family.

We can’t take your grief away.

We wouldn’t want to!

Since it’s a sign of your love for Yohko.

But we can stand beside you, and grieve with you,

and do our best to be channels of God’s great love and comfort for you today,

and also in the weeks and months ahead.

You are not alone.

I wanted to tell you a story about something that happened last week,

when Dan and Evan and people from church got together for the sodan,

the meeting to plan Yohko’s funeral.

Something interesting took place.

First, we sat down and shared stories about Yohko.

And then, with these stories fresh in our hearts,

we picked all of the hymns and readings for the service today.

And after we had chosen them all,

Jim Yoshida noticed something about many of them:

that they had to do with shepherds and shepherding.

First, there’s the 23rd Psalm that we just recited together.

These comforting, familiar words

about the shepherd who provides for all our needs.

Who invites us to rest in green pastures.

And to walk alongside still waters.

Who restores our souls when we are weary

And helps us to be in right relation with God and the world.

Who doesn’t abandon us even in our most difficult hour,

the times when we are afraid or uncertain.

Who prepares a table for us,

and anoints our head with oil like kings are anointed,

and fills our cup until it spills over.

And then there is the hymn we chose,

the one we sang earlier:

“The King of Love my Shepherd Is,”

which is itself a paraphrase of the 23rd Psalm.

Perverse and foolish, oft I strayed,

But yet in love he sought me,

And on his shoulder, gently, laid

And home, rejoicing, brought me.

And finally, our Gospel story for today,

from the Gospel of John.

The story about the Good Shepherd.

I am the good shepherd.

The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.

The hired hand is not the shepherd and does not own the sheep.

So when he sees the wolf coming,

he abandons the sheep and runs away.

Then the wolf attacks the flock and scatters it.

The man runs away because he is a hired hand and cares nothing for the sheep.

After we picked these readings and the hymn, Jim said something like:

Now I know these readings about God,

and I know that Jesus is the Good Shepherd,

but they’re the perfect readings for Yohko,

because she was like a shepherd to all of us too.

She was like a shepherd to all of us too.

It’s true, what Jim said.

It is the Lord who is our shepherd.

And it is Jesus who is the Good Shepherd.

But as Christians, we don’t just experience God as some kind of abstract concept.

We experience God in other people,

people who, in the way they live their lives,

give us a glimpse of who God is.

Yohko was one of these people.

Because in the way she lived her life,

she surely gave us a glimpse of the Good Shepherd.

She embodied him.

In a real sense, we are all here today because we have all, over the years,

been shepherded firsthand by Yohko in different ways.

As a wife and mom.

As a school teacher, and as a youth group leader.

As the music director and organist here at St. Peter’s for decades.

As a founding member of the prayer group here at church.

As a presence at the senior center.

As an American who found it in her heart to forgive her country for the crimes committed against her and other Japanese Americans during the war.

Yohko was a shepherd.

A soft-spoken, humble shepherd

who shepherded generations of people from all walks of life.

Who made real to all of us who knew her the Good Shepherd’s

gentleness, and kindness, and patience and generosity and compassion.

Who made real to us his love.

And like the Good Shepherd,

Yohko has gathered us all together today, her sheep.

Maybe she knew that we might be a little lost without her.

Perhaps like sheep without a shepherd.

And so, even in her absence,

she has gathered us all together in our grief.

She has shepherded us one last time,

giving us strength and courage to meet the days to come.

Speaking of things that give strength,

Yohko loved receiving Communion, the Body and Blood of Christ.

She drew great strength from it,

especially when her physical strength became more and more diminished.

During the last years,

when her Parkinson’s disease made it too difficult for her to come to church,

church members, especially Jim and Lucille,

would bring Communion to her and Dan at home.

This was also the way I got to know Yohko.

I feel so blessed to have been able to take Communion to them

a number of times since I arrived at St. Peter’s this year.

Yohko wasn’t able to say much on these visits.

But she didn’t have to.

Because I feel like I got to know what was most important about her

by the way she received Communion.

By the way she received the Body of Christ in her hands,

with the greatest care and the greatest tenderness.

No words were needed for me to experience her deep faith and trust in God

and her love for Jesus.

These things were part of her,

as much a part of her as the bread.

And so today, in just a few moments,

we too will celebrate the Holy Eucharist at this table.

We will come forward and share Communion,

the Body and Blood of Christ

And here is the most beautiful thing about Communion:

Every time we share it together, Yohko will be there.

Because every time we gather at this table,

it’s not just those of us who are physically present who are there:

it’s the whole Communion of Saints.

Those of us who are still living,

and those we love and have lost in death, including Yohko.

Every time we gather here,

it’s as if the curtain that normally

separates us is pulled back.

And we’re in one another’s presence again.

Feasting at the meal that will sustain us until,

in God’s good time, we too will be called home

to rest in the arms of the Good Shepherd.

Amen.