In memory of the Reverend Canon Gary Philbrick

A friend of mine died a couple of weeks ago. I know, it’s quite a bleak way to begin a story. But storytellers occasionally do it. Charles Dickens starts a Christmas Carol with a death. He felt it was important. And it’s important for this story.

He was a friend for a very short time and I’m not even sure if he would have remembered me. But I counted the Reverend Canon Gary Philbrick among my friends. He served God and showed love to the people of Winchester, UK.

Winchester Cathedral rises among the rolling hills of Hampshire County in southern England. The small town has seemingly been there forever. Winchester is the home of history and tales. People lived here before the Romans came. Alfred the Great, King of the West Saxons ruled after that. King Arthur tales are a big deal here. They have a round table hanging in Winchester Castle to prove it. But nothing compares to the thousand-year-old Gothic Cathedral. It towers over this quaint town. But not like and angry old man scolding a child. It’s watching and caring for the people. It holds hearts and treasures the bones of the long and beloved departed, such as Jane Austen.

I make it a habit of scoping out old cathedrals. And whenever I’m in the UK, I like to attend Morning Prayer. The rain drizzled lightly (as it seems to do a lot in Southern England) as I walked the old stone streets of Winchester. Morning Prayer began at 9:00 and I wanted to be early. I see videos all the time on Instagram of idyllic English landscapes. Mist coming off the grass. Birds chirping. Stream rushing with geese a-play. Light, soft rain. And yet today, that’s exactly how it was. A perfect Saturday morning.

I rushed past pubs and storefronts, slid down a side-street, and popped into the grassy park area in front of the Cathedral. A smallish, heavy wooden door was propped open at the front of the building, welcoming morning worshipers. I pulled off my cap as I walked in and was greeted by quiet smiles. Colorful light sighed down through the stained-glass Rose Window. Most cathedrals are not simply one big open and vaulted room. Several smaller chapels line the side of the building. I made my way to the designated chapel. A few others sat in chairs dotted with Books of Common Prayer. A handful of candles burned and smoked. And in walked a smiling priest. Tufts of mostly white hair surrounds his mostly balding head. But a darker moustache gives him youth. His wire-rimmed glasses frame piercing eyes.

“Oh Lord, open our lips,” he prays.

“And our mouth shall proclaim your praise,” we all respond. And Morning Prayer begins. It’s a call and response of prayer and Scripture reading. It’s contemplative and beautiful.

When the service ended, I was greeted by Canon Gary. We chatted about where I was from, what brings me to Winchester. He spoke of the Cathedral and the goings on here in southern England. I was struck by his kindness. He took the time to greet a visiting American. And it was like talking to an old friend. He invited me and Christina to the Sunday service. I assured him we’d be there. He saw us sitting in the middle of a row of chairs next day and made a point to smile and give a little wave while he walked toward the front of the sanctuary.

That was almost a year ago.

The littlest kindness reaches farther then we know. Our Beloved Savior says that even a cup of water given in his name is a loving act and service to God himself. My combined time with Canon Gary amounts to no more than 2 hours. I hadn’t talked to him since then. But his friendship was dear to me. He went into hospital last month. He died after a short stay. It came as a shock to all. But he is now in the presence of our Lord.

He will be missed and his reach will last for years to come.

One day I’ll make it back to Winchester in Hampshire County and go to Morning Prayer in the Epiphany Chapel. I’ll look up from my prayer book. But Canon Gary won’t be there.

anthony forrest