Christ Church Episcopal
Savannah, GA

Isaiah 11:1-9
Psalm 148
Revelation 21:2-7
John 14:1-6

In the Episcopal Church, 
our funerals force us to find Easter—
to celebrate it,
yearn for it,
hope for it—
to declare boldly the resurrection
no matter the season or the circumstance.

Even if today were Good Friday, 
still, we would pull out the gold vestments, 
light up the Paschal candle, 
and make our song 
“Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!”
because what we know, dear friends,
is that nothing can ever or will ever
overshadow the glory of Easter
and the promise of the resurrection.

But today is not Good Friday. 
Instead, we find ourselves 
holding an Easter liturgy
in the middle of Christmastide.

Christmas and Easter.
Incarnation and Resurrection.
Poinsettias, the Paschal Candle, 
and the Real Presence of Christ
all in one place.

This, y’all, is the liturgical jackpot . . . 
and Henry Louttit would be so pleased.

Here today 
between the crèche and the cross 
we see the whole story of the One 
who was born for us, 
who died for us,
who rose for us, 
and who has promised to come again 
to gather us, judge us, and love us 
for all eternity. 

Days like today—
in all their unintended intersection 
and accidental beauty—
give us a vision 
of the whole of God’s plan 
and of the Bridge he has built for us
between this life
and the life of the world to come.

What better day could there be 
to celebrate and remember our 
bishop, 
priest, 
husband, 
father, 
grandfather, 
brother, 
uncle, 
and friend 
Henry Irving Louttit, Jr.?

* * *

Of course, we are not the first
to have a mystic vision
of the fullness of God’s plan
or of that Bridge that stands
between this world and the next.

As we just heard,
Isaiah had that vision, too.
So did David.
So did John.

For Isaiah it was that old stump of Jesse 
springing back to life, 
pointing to a day when
the wolf will lie with the lamb, 
the lion will graze with the ox,
and a little child will lead them all
in a kingdom filled with peace.

For David, it was the vision
of all creation belting out God’s glory:
from the angels of the highest heaven 
to the sea-monsters of the deep,
everything pouring forth 
God’s eternal praise.

And for John?
For John it was that city
sparkling in the sky: 
a new Jerusalem for you and me,
adorned like a bride 
coming down the aisle 
to meet her beloved groom.

If this collection of readings 
tells us anything,
it tells us that 
to see the Kingdom of God 
requires imagination,
a certain kind of whimsy, 
a spiritual make-believe 
or mysticism.

To see the Bridge God has made 
between the world as it is 
and the world as it will one day be
requires a unique kind of vision.

This was the vision 
our friend Henry
carried in his heart.

* * *

I imagine if I asked today, 
“When was a moment in your life 
when Henry Louttit showed you 
the Kingdom of God 
or the Bridge between 
this world and the next?” 
the thought-bubbles over our heads 
would astonish and delight us, 
make us laugh and make us cry, 
and number in the thousands.

Henry Louttit saw the Kingdom of God,
and in his unique, gentle, creative way,
he pointed us to it as often as he could.

Henry saw the Kingdom of God,
and he believed it to be a place 
of gentleness and peace.

Someone recently told me
of a moment at Christ Church Valdosta
when an angry neighbor of the church 
came barging into Henry’s office, 
yelling about something 
they believed was wrong 
“because God said so!”

Henry never lost his cool, 
never raised his voice, 
never flinched. 

He just said—quietly but firmly—
“Well, I’m glad you heard
God say that so clearly. 
God has not said that to me yet, though, 
so for now we’re going to keep going.”

Some have said
Henry did not like confrontation,
which may be true,
but the greater truth is that he 
willingly, purposely, and repeatedly 
aligned himself with
the Prince of Peace.

He also had that disarming way
of speaking in the third person. 

As a young priest I would get angry
and complain about this person or that,
hoping he—as my bishop—
would take my side.

Inevitably he would sit patiently, 
grin, and say, “Now now. 
Henry and Lonnie have known 
many wonderful human beings,
and Lonnie must remember 
that God loves all his children, 
even when Lonnie
is frustrated with them.” 

Every time! 
With gentleness and peace 
the voice of God would come through, 
and gentleness and peace 
would win every time. 

Henry saw the Kingdom of God,
and he also believed it to be a place 
where everyone matters,
everyone needs each other,
and everyone has gifts to bring.

As a shy, studious introvert, 
he hated church camp as a child 
where everything was centered on sports, 
so as an adult he helped to create 
a whole new way of doing camp where
the scholars, artists, and poets among us 
could also find a place, 
and know themselves to be loved
and valued by the Lord Jesus
in community.

The crown jewel of his camp vision 
was Camp St. Gregory, 
a music camp where 
kids could learn to sing
and explore their gifts for music. 
The lucky ones got to take recorder lessons 
with Father Louttit, and that continued 
even after he became bishop.

In the 80’s and 90’s at Christ Church 
he raised up women for leadership—
lay and ordained—
when others had not yet 
had the courage to do so. 

He cultivated teens and college students
to exercise their spiritual gifts.

As the rector of the only
Episcopal church in Valdosta,
he could have been territorial,
but instead he wholeheartedly supported 
starting St. Barnabas across town, 
and he welcomed with open arms
a young Stan White
and his pentecostal church
into the Episcopal fold.
And the Episcopal Church in Valdosta grew.

As our current bishop
is fond of mentioning, 
when Henry became bishop 
he did the unthinkable: 
he put us at round tables at Convention! 
With people we did not know! 
And forced us to talk, and pray, 
and come to know one another! 

He taught us to value each other’s gifts. 
He taught us to love one another. 
He took what once was 
a competitive ecclesiastical meeting 
and turned it into our annual 
diocesan family reunion. 

Henry saw the Kingdom of God,
and he believed it to be a place 
where worship brings
heaven and earth together
and where every altar
becomes the throne of God.

As a priest he was a phenomenal liturgist. 
This is something those of you 
who only ever knew him as bishop 
never really got to see in full force, 
but as a priest he celebrated
the fullness of the prayer book 
with that characteristic whimsy of his, 
putting cacti in the windows during Lent 
to immerse us in the wilderness, 
and baptizing people by full immersion. 
(In the Episcopal Church!
Who’d’ve thought?)

He made Jesus come to life for us, 
and the way he grafted the life of Jesus
onto the lives of his parishioners
permanently transformed
generations of us in Valdosta.

He taught children to hold the prayer book
and how to officiate the evening offices.

He filled dark places with candlelight
and helped us to know and believe 
the mystery and majesty of God.

He gathered people together.
He truly said his prayers.
He taught us to pray, too.

And finally,
Henry saw the Kingdom of God,
and he believed it to be a place of joy.

Probably no one knew this better 
than those four women 
lucky enough to live with him. 

We all knew Henry in one way or another, 
but I suspect the most wonderful version  
was the silly, joyful husband and father: 

who would pretend to dance ballet 
with his girls in the living room;

who once brought a bunny home  
because its fur had a white band 
around its neck like a clergy collar, 
and taught it to use a litter box 
and walk on a leash; 

who played Old Maid 
and wore a doily on his head 
any time he lost; 

who took his family on nature walks 
in the mountains
and marshes
and beaches 
and taught them to marvel
at God’s creation; 

who instilled in Amy the librarian 
his love of
literature,
learning,
and words; 

in Katie the teacher 
his love of
people,
empowerment,
and instruction; 

and in Susan the priest
his love for Christ’s Body the Church;

and who loved Jan:
beautiful, wonderful Jan, 
who loved him back fiercely;

Jan, whom he’d encountered
plenty of times as a child
on his father’s visitations to her church
but had always been too quiet,
too shy to say hello;

Jan, whom he promised his
college friend he would “look after”
because his college friend
was dating her at the time 
but had to go overseas; 
(apparently Henry did an excellent job);

Jan, whom Henry adored 
with a love, a gentleness, and a joy 
that taught others of us 
how to love our spouses, too, 
and that rivaled John’s vision
of that bride and that groom
at that heavenly banquet
in the new Jerusalem.

Henry saw the Kingdom,
and he knew it to be a place
of peace and gentleness,
of unity, worship, and joy.

* * *

Somehow, ever since I was a child
I always associated Henry with C.S. Lewis.

Maybe it’s because he loved Lewis
and taught me to love him, too.

Maybe it’s because Henry’s brand 
of whimsy and mysticism 
often had a lot in common with Lewis’. 

Or maybe it’s just because
the guy’s license plate 
said “Aslan” for all those years.

But I close with a quote from the end
of Voyage of the Dawn Treader,
in which the great lion Aslan 
tells Lucy and Edmund
they are now too old to return to Narnia
and must remain in our own world.

“Oh Aslan!” Lucy says.
“How can we live 
never meeting you again?” 

“But you shall meet me, dear one,”
said Aslan. 

“Are-are you [in our world] too, Sir?”
said Edmund. 

“I am,” said Aslan.
“But there I have another name. 
You must learn to know me by that name.”

“Oh, Aslan,” said Lucy. 
“Will you tell us how 
to get into your country 
from our world?”

“I shall be telling you all the time,”
said Aslan.
“But I will not tell you 
how long or short the way will be; 
only that it lies across a river. 
But do not fear that, 
for I am the great Bridge Builder.”

Brothers and sisters,
we have seen and know 
the great Bridge Builder.

In our world,
he is the One
between the crèche and the cross, 
who was born for us,
lived for us, 
died for us, 
rose for us, 
and will come again for us. 

He is the One
who goes before us
to prepare a place for us. 

We know him by his name.

He is Jesus: 
the alpha and the omega, 
the way, 
the truth, 
and the life. 

He is both
the Bridge Builder 
AND the Bridge.

He is the One to whom
the mystics have all been pointing
all this whole time:

Isaiah with his peaceable kingdom; 
David with his joyful creation; 
John with his new Jerusalem; 

and Henry—our beloved Henry—
with his candles and music, 
with his liturgies and prayers, 
with his vision of unity and
fellowship despite our divisions, 
with gentleness and joy, 
with whimsy and make believe, 
with faith, and hope, and love. 

We know Jesus better—
we see the Bridge better
and the Kingdom more clearly—
because Henry helped 
to point the way.

So on this day 
as Christmas and Easter collide 
and we celebrate with joy
the fullness of our redemption, 
rejoice . . . 

Rejoice, my friends,
for today our 
bishop, 
priest, 
husband, 
father, 
grandfather, 
brother, 
uncle, 
and friend 
has crossed that Bridge
and entered into Aslan’s true country. 

And looking now from that distant shore, 
with saints and angels 
and all the company of heaven, 
he forever makes his song, 
“Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.”

Amen.