Preached on Saturday, June 6, 2026 at Trinity Cathedral, Little Rock in memoriam Wade Alwyn “Al” Dalrymple (January 24, 1934 – March 12, 2026).

Jesus said, “The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.” (John 10:11)

First things first: we have to talk about Al being in the Navy. After all, that’s the first thing Al told me when I met him two years ago, on what was my very first pastoral call as a clergy person here at Trinity. He was rightfully very proud of his service in the Navy.

And that strikes a chord with me. My father went to the Naval Academy, though he left as a Marine. (When I told Al that two years ago, he said, “Don’t worry, Reverend, we won’t hold that against him.”) My dad had left the armed service by the time my older brother and I came around. But we grew up with that pride that only comes from life in a military family. We’d ask for stories, and dad would oblige, the stories always seeming to be of heroic proportions to our young ears. But if we got a bit too star struck, my father, a bit bashful, would remind us that there were veterans of far greater valor than him. He had in mind people like Al.

Al was a Frogman––a classic example of military understatement! That is, he was a part of the Underwater Demolitions Team, a Navy SEAL, one of the very early ones. In fact, he was a leader amongst a team of Navy SEALs. That meant that he was a part of the most elite and highly trained sailors in the U. S. Navy.

Dad would tell me that military training is always based on recent eras of conflict. For Al, that meant World War II informing his own training in Newport, Rhode Island. Imagine an Arkansas boy training in New England waters with the Pacific Theater in the rearview mirror and the Cold War dead ahead. Imagine a young man swimming long distances in the ocean, deactivating underwater explosives, sketching shorelines under the cover darkness, and undergoing rescue missions. It was cold, dark, difficult, dangerous, and a very long way from home––that’s what Al did.

As Al described it to me, he and his team chiefly had the job of clearing the way for the others—clearing the way for marines driving amtracs like my father, or pilots flying overhead, or foot soldiers preparing to land on hostile shores. That was their job. They went first. They prepared the way for everyone else.

And I suspect Al loved it. Anyone who knew him knows that there was something adventurous about him. There was a spark there, a willingness to step into difficult things. The adrenaline, the challenge, the camaraderie, the sense of purpose: I imagine all of that appealed to him. Yet when we speak of military service––and especially service like his, and especially for Christians like us––we are speaking of something more than excitement. We are speaking of sacrifice. There is something noble about a young life spent preparing the way for others, putting yourself in harm’s way so that someone else might walk a safer road, accepting difficult duties so that folks back home might live in peace.

Al’s military service gives us a glimpse, however small, into the words which Jesus speaks in today’s Gospel: “The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep” (John 10:11). Later in the same Gospel, Jesus puts all His cards on the table: “No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends” (John 15:13). 

Al had a very full life, as a sailor, as a veteran, as an insurance man, as a friend, as a husband and father. He left a mark on many. Yet among the many things that could be said about him today, it is fitting that we remember this early chapter of his life, because it reminds us of something larger than any one human story, larger than Al and larger than you and me. It reminds us that a love-shaped life is a life of sacrifice and service. It reminds us that courage often means stepping forward when others step back. It reminds us that a life spent preparing the way for others is a life very well spent.

Which brings us to Jesus Christ.

The centerpiece of the Christian faith is that Jesus Christ is Himself the One Who goes ahead of us. He is the One Who prepares the way, the One Who enters the darkness first, the One Who steps into danger long before the rest of us ever arrive.

Al once sketched unfamiliar shorelines under the cover of darkness so that others might safely follow. Christ did something infinitely greater. He entered the far country of death itself. He crossed that final sea. He went where none of us could go on our own. He has mapped the territory beyond the grave. He has prepared a place for His people––for Al, and for you, and for me.

When Jesus speaks of laying down His life, He speaks of the Cross. He gives Himself willingly. He bears our sin––Al’s, and yours, and mine. He enters our mortality. He accepts death, as cold as New England waters and as cruel as human warfare. Yet He does not remain there. On the third day, He rises again. The shoreline beyond death is no longer unknown, because Christ has already been there and returned. The path has been cleared. The way has been opened.

And so, today, we commend Al to the mercy and keeping of Almighty God. We give thanks for his courage, for his service, for his friendship, and for the life he shared with so many. And above all, we give thanks that the Good Shepherd has gone before him. The One Who once laid down His life for the sheep now gathers one more sheep into His fold. The One Who conquered death now leads Al through death and into life. The One Who prepared the way now welcomes him home. And there, in that country whose shores Christ has already claimed as His Own, we trust that Al now rests in peace and awaits with all the saints the day of resurrection, when death shall be no more, and God shall be all in all. 

“Anchors aweigh” [1].

Amen.

[1]  Zimmermann, Charles A. Anchors Aweigh. Official march of the United States Navy, 1906; lyrics by Alfred Hart Miles, revised 1926.