“Unless a wheat grain falls on the ground and dies, it remains only a single grain; but if it dies, it yields a rich harvest” (Jn 12:24).

This is Christ speaking, speaking of himself not long before his death and Resurrection. It’s also him speaking of us, of everyone, of humanity. And hearing it today, how can we not think of Roy? We think of Roy the farmer, Roy who had plenty of experience of seeds and harvests, Roy who stood in the long line of those who for 5000 years now, ever since Neolithic times, have farmed in the fertile Laich of Moray. And Sunday after Sunday, with exemplary fidelity, this large figure, ever more stooped in recent years, would come through the double glass doors which were the gift of his parents and above which their initials are inscribed. And Sunday after Sunday he would take his place at the back of the church and then come forward, at the right time, to eat the wheaten bread that had been transformed by the prayer of the Church into the Body of Christ.

In the book of Sirach (or Ecclesiasticus), we find this: “Do not hate hard labour or farm work, which was created by the Most High... Do not exchange a friend for money, or a real brother for the gold of Ophir. Do not dismiss a wise and good wife, for her charm is worth more than gold... Do you have cattle? Look after them; if they are profitable to you, keep them. Do you have children? Discipline them, and make them obedient from their youth... With all your heart honour your father, and do not forget the birth pangs of your mother... With all your soul fear the Lord, and revere his priests. With all your might love your Maker, and do not neglect his ministers... Stretch out your hand to the poor, so that your blessing may be complete” (Sir 7:15, 18-19, 22-23, 27, 29-30, 32).

“Mortal things touch the mind,” as an old farming Roman poet said, and the life of a man is poignant thing. Sown in his mother’s womb, born, growing up, enduring school, finding his work and embarking on it, finding a spouse and having children, living out his three score years and ten or more, and then returning to the dust from which he came. And in all that, I suppose, it’s really our work (which is our relationship with the world around us) and our family life, our loves (our relationships with the people dear to us), that make our life, fill it, give it content and substance, make it feel worth living, determine its happiness or otherwise. And yet it ends. Sirach again: “All living things become old like a garment, for the decree from of old is, ‘You must die!’ Like abundant leaves on a spreading tree, that sheds some and puts forth others, so are the generations of flesh and blood: one dies and another is born” (Sir 14:17-18). It’s hard not to think of the death of Roy as the felling of a great tree - so familiar, and now suddenly no longer part of the landscape.

But - Libbie, Kate, Willie, Charlie, Liza, Ian and all of us - we say: that is not the end. To the two strands I mentioned, add an intertwining third. Our work, our human loves, and faith, prayer, a bond with the living God from whom we come and to whom we go, who is Truth and Love. In the name of the faith of the Church, in the name of the Gospel, it’s my joy to say this to you: that the word of Ash Wednesday, which we are living in sorrow day, “Remember man that you are dust and unto dust you shall return”, is overcome, swallowed up by the word of Easter: “Christ is risen, he is truly risen.” The transformation Roy as a farmer witnessed every year, the transformation of seed into harvest, is a parable of another, even more astonishing. “I am going to tell you a secret,” said St. Paul. “We are not all going to fall asleep, but we are all going to be changed, instantly, in the twinkling of an eye, when the last trumpet sounds. The trumpet will sound, and then the dead will be raised imperishable, and we shall be changed... Death is swallowed up in victory. Death, where is your victory? Death, where is your sting?” (1 Cor 15: 51-52, 54-55). “We shall all be changed.” What Easter, what the Resurrection of Christ, has done for us even now, already, is change the horizon of our lives and our deaths. And, Libbie, I’d like to say this especially. When we love someone, aren’t we really saying to them: I want you to live, I want you to exist? And that can only be “for ever.” That is why death seems to mock love, seems to invalidate it. But when the loved one dies, faith says to us, Easter says to us, No, this love of mine has not been invalidated, nullified. “The trumpet will sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible.” And even now, before the day of general resurrection, the loved one lives. And therefore my love lives. It is not a delusion. It was right all along, and it is right and true and good now, and shall be for ever. In the hope of the resurrection. Grief is love in another form: that can be a comforting thought. But even more comfortingly: it isn’t the final form. Which is union, re-union. In the resurrection.

And so we remember Roy, pray for Roy and hope for Roy: Roy the farmer, Roy the family man, but Roy too, the man of faith, the great looming figure coming through those doors Sunday after Sunday, and Sunday after Sunday, eating the wheaten bread changed into the Body of the Risen One. May he rest in peace and rise in glory, and all who love him be comforted. Amen.