Homily preached at a Mass of Requiem for Fr Andrew Wagstaff RIP at St Margaret’s, Ilkley
Thursday 15 May 2025
Fr Alexander Crawford
Luke 24. 13 – 35
“He took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him.”
Two disciples walking and talking on the road to Emmaus – in grief, shock, confusion, struggling to come to terms with the loss of their beloved friend, and what it all could possibly mean.
I’ve often talked about this reading with children, and asked them how they might’ve felt in the disciples’ shoes. They respond with all of those feelings. But one time, one little girl put up her hand and said, ‘I’d feel really bad, because I’d feel like I could’ve done more to help Jesus.’
I found that a really insightful response. I suppose I hadn’t really considered before that the disciples might be feeling a sense of guilt and regret in addition to everything else. But isn’t that so often what we do when we deal with grief, especially at a sudden loss. We add to it by making ourselves feel like we could’ve done something more.
We can perhaps recognise something of all those feelings today, as we gather to give thanks for dear Andrew. We share the disciples’ grief, but also their shock at the sudden loss of someone who was such a big part of our lives, so unexpected. Their confusion in trying to make sense of it all. Perhaps we share something of their regret over things we wish we’d said, or things left undone.
Andrew himself knew something of this feeling of confusion, and that sense of loss. I first met Andrew shortly after he’d moved back to England, and he was coming to terms with his recent diagnosis of Parkinson’s disease. Part of the reason I was put in mind of this particular Easter Gospel reading today is the importance of what happens when those disciples walk and talk with Jesus. And it was simple things like walking and talking, that most of us take for granted, that became a challenge for Andrew.
I would’ve loved to have known Andrew in his pomp, and no doubt you all have your favourite memories of your time with him – perhaps some of them best shared over a glass of something afterwards, rather than in a church.
But in truth I never really felt that I was missing anything from Andrew. Rather than taking away the things that made him so special, in a sense his new challenges actually caused those things to shine through even more clearly, and authentically.
I knew Andrew as a man of serious yet joyful faith; someone who could build you up with a profound and pastoral word – or bring you back down to earth with a glint in his eye when you needed it. A man who showed deep care for others, whether he’d known them for five minutes or all his life.
And a man who knew himself, first and foremost, as a beloved child of God; a sheep of Christ’s own flock, and a sinner of Christ’s own redeeming.
And in his own feeling of confusion and loss, and maybe grief too over the new challenges of life, Andrew knew that the only place to make sense of it all, was in Christ. And not to mourn the absence of things that were once such a big part of who he was, but to rejoice in the Presence; the presence of Christ, who gives himself to us in the Eucharist, and in whom we discover our true identity.
And that of course is what the two disciples discovered in our Gospel reading. The only way they could understand what had happened, to make sense of the promises of the scriptures with the reality of Holy Week, was by walking and talking with the one who is himself the fulfilment of those promises; the one who opens the scriptures for them, and sets their hearts on fire.
And it was only when he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them, that their eyes were opened; and in that glimpse of glory they recognized him. And in that moment what they felt as absence was transformed into presence: what they thought of as loss was shown to be the ultimate gain; and what they had given up to death was revealed to be full of life, beyond their imagining.
These truths were at the heart of Andrew’s priestly vocation, as one called to reveal the presence of Christ; in the Eucharist, and in his life of joyful prayer and service to the people of God. He spent his life drawing others to Christ, and enabling them to catch a glimpse of his glory, and know the transformation that comes from life in him.
We pray now that he knows not just a glimpse, but the fullness of that glory. And although the earthly part of his life is at an end, in a sense his vocation remains, as he is gathered up into the loving and redeeming presence of Christ our great high priest.
In death, as in life, he still draws us and points us to Christ. Because just like those two disciples, all we can do with our grief, our confusion and shock, our regret, and everything else we feel as we mourn Andrew, is to bring it to Christ.
Christ who walks with us in our grief; Christ who opens our minds and hearts to make sense of what seems incomprehensible; Christ who promises us that even when all seems like loss and end, there is life, and life without end.
And Christ who, in the Eucharist, transforms our experience of absence into presence. In that glimpse of glory that we receive again today, our eyes are opened not just to recognise the presence of Christ, but the presence of all the redeemed who are gathered up into him; who now rejoice in his life, and know the fulfilment of his promises.
So may we rejoice, with them, today. Rejoice for this part of our dear friend Andrew’s life that is now over: for all the memories we treasure, for all the ways in which knowing him changed us for the better.
And let us rejoice too for the new experience of life that he has begun in Christ, where grief and shock and confusion and regret are no more; where he may walk and talk freely with his Saviour and ours. And where he calls us to join him: now, in lives of joyful prayer and service dedicated to Christ; and in our life to come. Amen.