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I will give you rest

Funeral, Sacrament-based, Holy Day, Holiday, Special Occasion - Sample homilies to be adapted for your use

Funeral: Death after a long illness Readings: Lamentations 3:17-26; Psalm 25; Romans 8:14-23; Matthew 11:25-30 "I have forgotten what happiness is." So says the writer of the Book of Lamentations—and we know what he means. It's easy to forget what happiness is when your life is turned upside down by illness. Happiness can evaporate in an instant, in the hour of diagnosis: for the one who is sick, as N. was, and for those who are family and friends as well. Expectations for a different kind of future vanish. For those immediately involved, life suddenly narrows down to a predictable few rituals that take on a sacred character: rounds of medicines and decisions, doctors and hospitals and paperwork, the assistance of nurses and therapeutic equipment, hospice. It's certainly easy to forget, on the road toward dying, what happiness is. There's so much else to do and think about. And it can be hard, even now, to let all that go and lose the sense of emergency and crisis that has shaped the days [and years] for so long. As scripture also says, remembering every difficult bend in this road "over and over leaves my soul downcast within me." It may be hard even to recall the days before illness took over N.'s life—the happier, healthier times may now be hidden from view behind the final realities that were so harsh and so dominating. Those who were responsible for N.'s care are tired now, exhausted. So we glimpse hope in these words: "The favors of the Lord are not exhausted. God's mercies are not spent. They are renewed each morning." Renewed each morning! And the time for our own renewal is coming. Wait for it. Count on it. Trust it! The favors of the Lord are not exhausted. God's mercies are not spent. They are renewed each morning." Renewed each morning! And the time for our own renewal is coming. Wait for it. Count on it. Trust it! For N., this renewal is now a matter of fact. The long season of suffering and disability is a thing of the past. No more doctors, pills, or losses. Saint Paul said it best: The sufferings of the present world are fearful—but only for a time. The glory that awaits us is so far greater than all the pain that human history can hold. Because we are, all of us, children of a God who saves, who wants to save, who has made salvation into a job description for all time. God has nothing else to do from now till Kingdom Come than to save the world, one precious person at a time! God made this world in love and for love. Nothing can be wasted in love, nothing spared--can you stand to lose anyone who is beloved to you? Nor can God. There is no other reason for you and me to be here but that God's love is greater than all the forces that oppose love—stronger even than death. Death on a cross. Stronger even than hell. So our faith teaches us in its greatest mystery. We believe according to our faith that N. already knows the gracious comfort that you and I still hope and long for. God knows life in this greatly imperfect world does not always live up to its early promises or go the way we want it to go. This world will most certainly disappoint—the older ones here today know this better than the younger ones. But we are not left simply with hoping and longing. We find ourselves, even now, in the arms of the One who says throughout history: "Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest." Come to me when you're tired, or sick, or when your heartbreak is too heavy to bear. Come to me even when you don't want to come to me, when the injustice of the world makes you too mad to be comforted and too hurt to be touched. Come to me even if you hold me responsible for how bad it is, how bad things are with you. Come with great expectations or no expectations—just come and see. For I, the Lord, know what human agony is. I know suffering and death, and all about the world's injustice. I've had my heart broken by those I love, and I wondered why the innocent seem forsaken in the darkest hour of their crucifixion. There is no step along this journey I have not taken. Let me be your companion and your guide through the darkness into the light. And you will find rest for your souls, both now and forever. Amen.

Authors Alice Camille

funeral death after a long illness Lamentations 3:17-26 Psalm 25 Romans 8:14-23 Matthew 11:25-30

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They might not have been

Funeral, Sacrament-based, Holy Day, Holiday, Special Occasion - Sample homilies to be adapted for your use

Readings: Lamentations 3:17-26; Psalm 63:2,3-4,5-6,8-9; 2 Corinthians 4:14-5:1; Matthew 5:1-12a A CERTAIN NUMBER OF YEARS AGO our loved one came into the world. He learned to walk and talk, went to school and learned to read and do math, made friends and grew up, worked and loved and changed the life of every single person she encountered—simply because she was. What death helps us to see is that she might not have existed at all. Indeed, each one of us has been “rescued from nothingness,” to use G. K. Chesterton’s image. We might not have existed, yet here we are, gathered in this church on this day, to remember our friend and family member, our brother and uncle, coworker and neighbor. Suddenly we realize that every single thing in this world—every tree and flower, river and rock, giraffe and antelope, man, woman, and child—is important and necessary when we consider that it might not have been. Death also helps us to recognize and appreciate that life is not for the faint of heart. It takes a great deal of courage to leave the perfection of heaven and enter creation without any assurance that life will be smooth or that we won’t have too many difficulties. We don’t know if we will be born with disabilities or if we will experience the trauma of an earthquake, or a fire, or struggle with addiction, or feel deep loneliness after the death of a loved one. Yet in spite of the unknowns, the insecurities, and all the possible things that could go wrong, we are somehow willing to risk for life, we are willing to risk for love! It’s awe-inspiring when you think about it. In his poem Before He Makes Each One, Rainer Maria Rilke imagines what God says to us before we are born: "You have been sent out / by your senses / . . . Let everything happen / to you: beauty and terror.” Here on Earth a thing can only be known in relation to its opposite. We can only know something is hot if we know cold, we can only know bitter if we’ve tasted sweet, we can only appreciate beauty if we’ve experienced terror. In the Beatitudes Jesus affirms the duality of life: There is mourning and comfort, hunger and satisfaction, poverty and abundance, weeping and laughter. This life of contrasts must be, although at times like this it is difficult to accept this fact. Why must there be this great loss? Why must there be sorrow? Why dread and despair? The answer is that all these things must exist if we would have joy and ease, peace and tranquility, courage and hope. Why must there be this great loss? Why must there be sorrow? Why dread and despair? The answer is that all these things must exist if we would have joy and ease, peace and tranquility, courage and hope." A short story by Isaac Asimov illustrates the point. He writes about a planet with six suns, one of which is always high in the sky. Natural darkness is unknown and so of course are the stars. Consequently, the inhabitants’ understanding of the nature and scope of the cosmos is extremely limited. One day a previously unknown dark moon passes in front of a sun when it is the only one in the sky. The eclipse is total. The planet is plunged into darkness, and the vast, star-filled sky becomes visible. For a few brief moments the people glimpse the true depth and breadth of the universe. A life without the contrasts of joy and sorrow, high and low, laughing and weeping would be like life on a planet with six suns. Still, during difficult times, we need and desire reassurance—and all three readings today offer us hope. “God’s mercies are never exhausted,” proclaims the author of Lamentations. “We are not discouraged . . . as we look not to what is seen but to what is unseen,” writes Saint Paul. Finally, Jesus promises that those who mourn “will be comforted.” What that comfort will look and feel like will be different for each person. In the meantime, however, we can find solace in the fact that although our connection has changed form, it has not been severed. In fact, it has become boundary-less. Our loved one no longer has to be in same room or on the other end of a phone or computer to hear us or to know we are thinking of him. We can ask for guidance, blessing, support, and consolation—and he can give us these things in ways that would be impossible if she were still on earth. Rilke’s poem concludes with these words of comfort that God says to each one of us: “Don't let / yourself be separated / from me. The country / called life is close. / By its seriousness, / you will know it. / Give me your hand."

Authors Ann O'Connor

funeral all manner of death Lamentations 3:17-26 Psalm 63:2,3-4,5-6,8-9 2 Corinthians 4:14-5:1;Matthew 5:1-12a

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Word of the Week

24 November 2024

Solemnity

\sə-'lem-nə-tē\

From Latin sollemnis for “fixed ceremonial,” highest-ranking day of the church calendar that celebrates a mystery of faith such as the Trinity, an event in the life of Jesus, Mary, the Mother of God, or another important saint. Solemnities override every other feast or memorial, including Sundays in Ordinary Time. The church assigns Sundays and solemnities three readings—from a prophet, apostle, and gospel—to instruct the faithful in the work of salvation.

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