A Homily for the Celebration of the Life of Ann Collins

A homily preached at the Tower Chapel at Mountain View Cemetery in Oakland, California during the celebration of the life of Ann Collins.

It has been deeply moving to learn about Ann and her extraordinary life through these beautiful written and spoken remembrances. As I prepared for this service, I found myself going down a bit of a reading rabbit hole, learning more and more about Ann’s most recent intellectual interest: Aphra Behn — whose haunting, poetic words we just heard.

I think of myself as a student of history — particularly women’s history, particularly English history. And yet, if I ever looked deeply into whom Virginia Woolf was referring when she told us, “All women together ought to let flowers fall upon the tomb of Aphra Behn,” I don’t remember what came of it.

As I learned more and more, it struck me that I was being led on an educational journey, and that, through that journey, I was feeling something of Ann’s presence. As though she were encouraging my curiosity and leading me on; giving me the gift and power of knowledge.

Which was, of course, her gift.

In so many ways: through textbooks, yes. And at the dinner table, during travels, on walks through museums, and through the well-worn pages of books read aloud. Her lessons were not exclusively academic. Ann was, clearly, a great collector and sharer of all kinds of knowledge.

In John’s Gospel, Jesus tells his friends that he is going to prepare a place for them. He tells them that they know the way to the place where he is going. But Thomas responds: “Lord, we do not know where you are going. How can we know the way?”

Thomas. Another great asker of questions. Another great seeker, always wanting to understand more. Jesus never discourages him or quells his curiosity. But he does remind him of what he already knows: “I am the way, and the truth, and the life.”

As Ann, the knowledge-seeker, walked through this life, she faced challenges both great and complex. And there are some things about this life, and death, that no amount of study can explain. But God assures us, in the end, we do know the way.

“My Father’s house has many rooms,” Jesus says. “I am going to prepare a place for you.” This is the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection: Ann is held in the closeness of God.

I find myself imagining her relishing that place prepared for her. And perhaps exploring some of those many rooms; full of glorious wonders beyond our wildest dreams. Still curious. Still discovering. Collecting and sharing knowledge. Sharing her gift. Without the burden of this life’s challenges, great and complex.

I know that the assurance of eternal life does not change the deep pain — the often-complex grief and sorrow — that separation brings.

And, my hope for you is that you continue to feel Ann’s presence as you walk your own paths through life. Perhaps when you learn something new. Or when you set eyes on a city for the first time. Perhaps when you taste a different dish. Or linger before a fresh work of art. Any time you receive the gift and power of knowledge. She’ll be there. And so will God. Holding you in love.