We are not going to make sense of an accident. By definition an accident is not the culmination of a plan- God's or anyone else's- nor are accidents something one can undo or even fully explain. To be human is to be graced with free will in all its beautiful and dangerous possibilities. In the blink of an eye the unexpected happens. Sometimes surprise yields joy, this time we who stand on the side are left with tears, shock or remorse. I am not going to try to explain away Connor's death or try to fix blame. There is nothing to be gained by such an exercise. But part of what we can do is admit that we are broken and sad and feeling a hundred other things we can't even name - all at the same time. If fix on questions like "Why did this happen," expecting a pat answer that will somehow soothe away the shock and make all our pain go away instantly, we will be disappointed. There are no easy answers. But we do have solid ground on which to stand together as we find our way forward. There is light to guide our way. And we already know, in our bones, some of what we need to know. We just need to remember it.

I want to remind us of the power that communities have to form those who are part of them. The places we pass through and the words and actions we express while we are there do not simply disappear into the air. Neither will Connor's effect in our lives simply fade away in this new silence. Connor's life has meaning and value - to his family, his friends and to this Saint James community. Saint James is the place that Connor and his family choose year after year, and we in turn embrace them.

Saint James is not simply an institution that tries to deliver a good education. We are a community of people -church and school - who try to help form decent, productive, faithful human beings. And while we are neither perfect nor always successful we have high ideals, good intentions, and often do the right thing, with God's help.

We are a community that understands that life is more than the body, and that even our minds can carry us only so far. There are times, and this is one of them, when we must hold one another close and depend on the Spirit to lead us through.

And we have practiced so that we might be prepared for a day such as this. "When," you might ask, "did we do that?" "Every week in chapel," I'd reply, "and on Sundays, as well, for those who worship here." Those who say prayers, and read scripture regularly- and those who hear them- breathe in a certain sensibility that soaks into their bones.

An innate sense of the shape and sound of worship becomes like a tune we hum under our breath while thinking about other things. Ask Steve Baker or Tyler Roop about how they knew that candles could be so important or that telling stories has healing power. Memories have great power, and healing memories come in a variety of forms.

There are the personal memories - like the stories about Connor that were told on that wooden deck packed to the rails at the Baker's house this Wednesday night. There are community memories- stories we can tell about Saint James and our experiences here - with Connor and so many others over the years. Then there are those very much older memories, held in stories that have been read for centuries, but somehow still shed light on our life and times. These are the stories of Scripture, stories that we have acted out in chapel or have watched as clay figures, stuffed animals or paper bags were pressed into service to teach us the stories of faith as a part of regular worship in weekly chapel.

We learned about prophets and disciples, how to live lives full of meaning, and that not even death can separate us from the love of God. You have heard me say many times, in chapel and in church, that what we see is not all there is. This is the atmosphere of faith in which, for 10 years, Connor lived and moved and had his being.

In the year that Connor first came to Saint James I preached an All Saints Day sermon in which I told a story. This is a good time to tell it again because it speaks of growth and relationship, hope and eternity.

A man named Paul - not the great saint, but an ordinary man - told me this story.
Paul was a child in the days when telephones were a brand new thing.
But the words of his story are timeless.

When I was quite young, Paul said, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother talked to it. Then I discovered that somewhere inside that wonderful device lived an amazing person - her name was Information Please and there was nothing she did not know. Information Please could supply anybody's number and the correct time.

My first personal experience with this wonder came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor. Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer. The pain was terrible, but there didn't seem to be any reason in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy. I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway - The telephone hung on the wall there! I moved a chair and picked up the phone: Information Please I said into the mouthpiece. A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear. "Information."

"I hurt my finger. . ." I wailed into the phone. The tears came readily enough now that I had an audience. "Isn't your mother home?" came the question. "Nobody's home but me." I blubbered. "Are you bleeding?" "No," I replied. "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts." "Can you open your icebox?" she asked. I said I could. "Then chip off a little piece of ice and hold it to your finger."

After that I called Information Please for everything.
I asked her for help with my geography and she told me where Philadelphia was.
She told me my new pet chipmunk would eat fruits and nuts.
And there was the time that Petey, our pet canary died. I called Information Please and told her the sad story. She listened, said the usual things grown-ups say to soothe a child, but I was unconsoled.

Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers, feet up on the bottom of a cage? She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly,
"Paul, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in."
Somehow I felt better.

Another day I was on the telephone. "Information Please." "Information," said the now familiar voice. "How do you spell fix?" I asked.

All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. Then when I was 9 years old, we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my friend very much. But Information Please belonged in that old phone back home, and I somehow never thought of trying the tall, shiny new phone that sat on the hall table.

Yet as I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me; often in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.

A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I had about half an hour or so between plane, and I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there now. Then without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, "Information Please". Miraculously, I heard again the small, clear voice I knew so well, "Information." I hadn't planned this but I heard myself saying, "Could you tell me please how to spell fix?"

There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, "I guess that your finger must have healed by now." I laughed, "So it's really still you," I said. "I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time." "I wonder, she said, "if you know how much your calls meant to me. I never had any children, and I used to look forward to your calls." I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister. "Please do, just ask for Sally."

Just three months later I was back in Seattle. . .
A different voice answered Information and I asked for Sally.
"Are you a friend?" "Yes, a very old friend."
"Then I'm sorry to have to tell you that Sally died five weeks ago."
But before I could hang up she said, "Wait a minute. Did you say your name was Paul?"

"Yes."

"Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down.
Here it is I'll read it:
'Tell him I still say there are other worlds to sing in...He'll know what I mean.'"
I thanked her and hung up. I knew exactly what Sally meant, Paul told me.

If we listen to the tune that is singing in our bones- right now- and we remember the stories we have told and heard we will realize that we know what Sally meant, too. We will realize that we, and Connor, are part of what Paul experienced: the communion of saints, living and dead.

I know that in the third grade Connor wanted to learn about negative numbers, blackholes and inventors. I know that in the eighth grade he could not only say prayers from memory but could write new ones out of what had been written on his heart. You all know a piece of what Connor grew to be able to do. And we were part of this, together, you and I. We taught him, loved him and learned from him. We did it all in the soft light of a loving God who rains down consistent grace even in the face of random catastrophe. We share the hope expressed by the author of the letter to the Ephesians :"We pray that we may have the power to comprehend, with all the saints, what is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge". Even though we can no longer see Connor - for a time- we, and Connor, remained connected by water, words, faith and love. As John's gospel reminds us, the house of God has many rooms and we know the way home, all we have to do is remember.

So it is fitting that I close these remembrances with a prayer that has been, for many of us, part of our daily formation. It's the one that Connor heard, and probably spoke under his breath, at the end of every school day at St. James - If you know it, say it with me.

Almighty and ever living God,
we thank you for the gift of this day-
for the opportunities to worship, work and play together.

And now Father, send us in peace to our homes and out into the world
to love and serve you as faithful witnesses of Jesus Christ our Lord.

To him, to you, and to the Holy Spirit
be honor and glory, now and forever.
Amen

Rest in Peace, Connor, until we meet again in that place that has room for all of us.