A Sermon for John Boulton

 Text:  1 Corinthians 15. 51-58

There’s a profound sense of loss hanging in the air today, isn’t there? It’s like the silence after the final note of a beloved jazz melody. We are here to say farewell to John (Boulton), a man whose very name conjures up images of laughter, community spirit, and an unquenchable zest for life.

We have heard the powerful words of St Paul in his first letter to the Corinthians: “Listen, I tell you a mystery: We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed— in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed.” These are words that have echoed through centuries, words that speak of a transformation beyond our earthly comprehension, a victory over death itself.

But what does this transformation mean for us, here today, as we mourn the passing of our dear John? How do we reconcile the sting of his absence with the promise of imperishability? Perhaps the key lies not just in a future resurrection, but in the very real and tangible transformation that John brought about in our lives, in our community.

Think for a moment about Langstone and Havant without John. Imagine a village event without his infectious enthusiasm, a Monday Club gathering without his warm welcome, a street party lacking his mischievous grin – perhaps even a monkey suit appearing when least expected, just to break the ice and bring a smile to our faces. John was the heartbeat of Langstone, and latterly of St Faith’s too.  He was the organiser, the instigator, the one who effortlessly wove the threads of individual lives into the rich tapestry of community.

 In so many ways, John embodied the spirit of Christ that Paul urged the Corinthians to embrace. He loved without reservation, he served without seeking reward, and he brought people together, fostering connection and belonging. He showed us, in his own unique and wonderfully eccentric way, something of the boundless love and inclusive spirit that lies at the heart of the Christian message. He was, dare we say it, a little Christ in our midst, his life a testament to the power of love in action.

And so, as we grapple with the mystery of death and resurrection, let us consider the legacy John leaves behind. It is not etched in stone or confined to the pages of a book, but it lives on in the countless acts of kindness he inspired, in the friendships he forged, in the memories he created. The joy he spread, the laughter he provoked, the sense of community he nurtured – these are the imperishable fruits of his life. These are the ways in which we, and Langstone itself, have been changed by knowing him.

For Cecily, for John Jnr and Billy, and all of John’s family and closest friends, the pain of loss is immeasurable. But I urge you to also hold onto the profound truth that John’s love did not die with him. It lives on in you, in the values he instilled, in the memories you shared. And it lives on in this community, which is stronger and more vibrant because of the man he was.

Paul’s powerful words conclude: “Therefore, my dear brothers and sisters, stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labour in the Lord is not in vain.” John’s life was a testament to this truth. His labour of love in this community was most certainly not in vain. It has enriched our lives immeasurably.

The sting of death is real, the grief we feel is profound. But let us also remember that the power of love, the bonds of community, the joy of connection – these are forces that even death cannot extinguish. John showed us that. He lived that. And his legacy calls us to continue that work, to keep building the kind of loving and connected community that he so cherished.

So, as we say our earthly farewells to John, let us do so with gratitude for the gift of his life, for the laughter he shared, for the love he gave. And let us carry forward his spirit, ensuring that the transformation he brought to Langstone and Havant continues to ripple outwards: a testament to a life lived fully, a life that truly made a difference. Amen.