The sermon preached at the funeral of Ian Keatley at The Parish Church of St George, Belfast on Friday 23 August.

There’s a magical moment just before any piece of music begins.  The conductor stands there, their arms raised, looking at those who’ll be playing, those who’ll be singing, holding them there, almost in suspended animation, for that long and pregnant moment.  Then, when they’re ready, they bring the performers in and out of the silence music appears.

I used to love watching Ian at that moment.  I was encouraged at theological college to practice what’s called in religious circles, custody of the eyes, not looking around, but as all who’ve worked with me know, I’m useless at that.  Instead, I’d watch from my stall caught up in that breath holding moment as Ian waited for the right moment to bring the choir in.

It’s almost impossible to express the sadness with which we gather today.  Ian’s sudden, untimely, so unexpected death has left us all shocked and our lives so much the poorer.  But we’re particularly thinking of Viviene and James, Ian’s parents, of Simon and Niall, his brothers and of the rest of his family who he loved so much, and of whom he was so proud.  Our thoughts, our prayers, our love go out to each of you and not least to Ashley who was with Ian, in Austria, when he died and did all she could to save him. 

So much has been written and said about Ian since he died, so many wonderful tributes paid, so many features of his rich life revealed, things perhaps of which even his family were unaware, things of which he never particularly spoke but which all contributed to a life given to music, yes, but also a life given to so much more and to making others welcome and happy and loved. 

Ian did love life, loved his food, loved his wine, loved learning to sail, loved laughing, loved dressing as smartly as any event would allow, loved filling a room with his laughter, loved simply being alive.

But Ian also loved God.  One of the things that made me want Ian to be the Director of Music at Southwark Cathedral, and a reason for appointing him, was not just that he was a brilliant choir director, bringing the best out of those he directed, but also that he had a real, deep-down understanding of the place music has in worship.  It’s poignant that just before he died, he’d been visiting a church and waxing lyrical, so I’m told, about the building and the acoustic and what music it would suit.

Jacob lying there under the stars realises he’s at the gateway to heaven, angels ascend and descend and heaven and earth are connected, by a ladder, but also by that sense of awe and wonder that the patriarch describes. 

"How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven."

Worship is always a participation in the things of heaven and as we heard in the Second Reading heaven is lived with a musical accompaniment.  The whole company of heaven sings of the glory of God, angels and archangels rejoice in the presence of God and every creature there is caught up in the song that is being sung.

A former Dean of St Paul’s, the metaphysical poet, John Donne, captures this so well in words from a sermon which have become a prayer and have been set by so many to music.

Bring us, O Lord God, at our last awakening

into the house and gate of Heaven,

to enter into that gate and dwell in that house,

where there shall be no darkness nor dazzling, but one equal light;

no noise nor silence, but one equal music.

The equality comes from the fact that what is sung in heaven is echoed in what is sung on earth, just as those shepherds experienced on that first Christmas night as the darkness and the silence that surrounded them were broken through, breached, by dazzling light and heavenly song.  It was song and light that sent them from abiding in their fields to experience God in the midst, the baby lying in the manger.  But their response, as we just heard in the gospel reading was to return

‘glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen.’

Their lives had been transformed by the angels’ song which had inspired them to leave the security of their fields, to find God where no one had yet looked and then to return with songs of praise on their lips that would wake up the sleepy town and echo through to our liturgy today.

And Ian knew all this, he knew it not just in some professional, learnt way, he knew it because it was in his heart.  He knew that what he could bring to the liturgy, to any service, to any act of remembrance, big or small, to any evensong be there a full nave or two or three gathered together, was a touching place with heaven, a place where the divine ladder would find a place to rest, on which singing angels would descend and our equal song would ascend. 

And out of that pregnant silence, before a single note had been played, before a single note had been sung, out of that seeming emptiness, the fullness of joy and worship emerged.  And then …. the piece ends – the last note is sounded, the last word sung and Ian’s arms, still held up moved no longer and he held that moment for a long, long second, until his arms were lowered and it was over and we breathed again.

Music is held, framed, contexted by and in, silence – it comes, emerges from silence, it ends, retreats, is held in silence.  There’s a wonderful and mysterious completeness about it.

In the obituary in The Times a week ago, mention was made that Ian was taken by his father with his brothers to Southwark Cathedral when he was only seven.  They had a photo taken in front of the High Altar to mark the occasion.  How wonderful that he came back to the place in 2002 to be the Organ Scholar, and then what a blessing that he came back in 2019 as the Director of Music.  He went full circle, from boy to man making music in that sacred space, as he made music in so many sacred places including this church, so that you and I may know just a little more about the nature and the beauty and the glory of God.

And now he’s held in that place of ‘no noise nor silence, but one equal music’, where the ladder ends, where the angels gather, where the song is sung and where God is truly known.  And at this altar and in this sacrament we come to that thin place where we hear the angels song and eat the angels’ bread, where we glimpse, just for a moment, what Ian now knows into eternity.

Like you I loved him, like you I will never forget him. But for the moment, bereft, heart-broken, yet thankful we leave him in the divine embrace of the one who created him, the one who saved him and the one who graced him, who Ian worshipped here, with us, and can now adore with the angels for ever and ever.  Amen.