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Dying, we are born to eternal life

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

Funeral: All manner of death Regardless of the manner of its visit, death brings a dark spirit when it comes to call on the human soul. It announces the end of someone we know and love. Whether it comes suddenly and without warning or lingers and delays, biding its time until the moment of opportunity, death is the unwelcome guest, the gnawing presence we'd much rather avoid and put off until another day. Of course it is also true that death is a relief, an escape from pain and suffering, a liberation from the prison of infirmity and the mind's forgetful truancy. Still, it leaves a cold and empty place where once the warmth of life glowed and assured us that we had a father, a grandmother, a sister, a spouse, a son, a friend. But it is in our worldly perceptions that they are dead and their passing away an affliction and their end an unmaking of the life that we held dear and necessary. The truth is that life beyond our sight is eternal, and nothing in creation, above it or below it, nothing in our past or in our future can take that life away from us and from the God who created it. You see, God guarantees our lives at the beginning when we are brought to the church for baptism. We are enrolled into Jesus Christ as members of his body. We are attached to him and he to us, made one in the sacrament of new life. He joins us in the enterprise of flesh and blood, having been born of a woman like us, and like us suffering and dying. Come from eternity, he journeys with us in time, making his passage through human life. And while we live, he lives in us. Each Sunday we gather in thanksgiving to celebrate his life within. We tell the story and eat and drink his presence so that his flesh becomes our flesh and his blood flows in our veins. When we die, our bodies are brought back to the church where our lives in Christ began. At the door, the sign of water recalls our baptism and a white pall is the symbol of the new life we received in Christ. Here the candle burns like our baptismal candle; it is the light of Christ shining brightly in our hearts, our hope of eternal life. In this covenant we have with God in flesh and blood, Jesus Christ takes on a full share of our humanity and gives us in return a share in his divinity. He dies with us in his Crucifixion so that we may rise with him in his Resurrection. Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again. Jesus Christ takes on a full share of our humanity and gives us in return a share in his divinity. He dies with us in his Crucifixion so that we may rise with him in his Resurrection." From this perspective of faith we look to the day of judgment. Popular religion has it that on that day the righteous will be glorified and sinners will be condemned. It would seem, then, that because we are all sinners, we should all be very afraid. But we who are in Christ wait in joyful hope for the coming of our Savior. "There is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus," the Bible says (Rom. 8:1). We believe that Christ poured out his blood for the forgiveness of our sins. Though we are unquestionably guilty, we stand before the throne of judgment acquitted, pardoned; the sentence of death is lifted from our shoulders by the One who took it on himself and paid the price for us all. Salvation is God's gift to us, given at the beginning before we can do anything to gain it or lose it. Our grateful response is a life of witness, showing God's love and mercy to all. To the degree we believe and embrace this life, to that degree we live, die, and rise with Christ. And so we turn a full circle. We come from God bearing life, and when our mortal bodies wear out, succumb to human weakness and imperfection, or are struck down by violence or misfortune, we return to God, our beginning and our end. It is the way, it is God's truth, and it is our life.

Authors Father Paul Boudreau

funeral all manner of death Romans 8:1

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God's idea

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

Readings: John 6:37-40 We have come here grieving, and the grief is real. The sense of loss can be overpowering. But all of us together can bear witness to the awesome reality that our grief is not in vain, that death does not have the last word, that we are loved by a gracious God who never will abandon us. In your struggle to discover the true meaning and purpose of today's encounter with death, consider the story of a mother who thought it was time she explained the facts of life to her daughter. The youngster listened wide-eyed as her mother told her all about the birds and the bees. When it was over, the child asked earnestly, "Does God know about this?" Whereupon the mother explained that God not only had heard about the birds and bees, it was his idea. And so it goes in our pondering the story of the life we now commemorate. The true significance of this life and death exceeds far beyond our own wildest imagining because God does know about this, because it was God's idea. It is at a time such as this that our faith ceases to be academic. It is at a time such as this that our faith becomes extremely personal. It is at a time such as this that only our faith in the unbounded love and infinite mercy of the Lord enables us to see through the dark glass of this hour. The Italian master artist Raphael painted what is perhaps the most poignant of the Madonna and Child masterpieces. In it, he portrays the faces of the Madonna, the child John the Baptist, and the Child Jesus. The Madonna's face is serene as she gazes at the cross Jesus holds in his hand. We all have our crosses in hand. We must carry a cross. We would not be human otherwise. And so we have come together bearing the cross of mourning a great loss. We have come bearing the cross of grief. But in so doing we also carry the banner of hope in Jesus' promise of eternal life. Jesus' promise that our dear departed has not died in vain makes this heaviest of burdens bearable. We have come together bearing the cross of mourning a great loss. We have come bearing the cross of grief. But in so doing we also carry the banner of hope in Jesus' promise of eternal life. This is a time to come to terms with the meaning of death. In the gospels we are reminded that facing squarely the fact of our own death and the death of the people we love is part of the Christian life. At this very moment each of us is dying, partially. But the God who created us is creating a resurrection body for us. We will move into the next life in this resurrection body, and death will be transformed into life, despair into joy. In the apostle John's gospel we read, "Everything that the Father gives me will come to me, and anyone who comes to me I will never drive away; for I have come down from heaven, not to do my own will, but the will of him who sent me. And this is the will of him who sent me, that I should lose nothing of all that he has given me, but raise it up on the last day. This is indeed the will of my Father, that all who see the Son and believe in him may have eternal life; and I will raise them up on the last day" (John 6:37-40). In the Old Testament a Psalmist's lament includes these lines: "Lord, look away from me before I depart and be no more." For that psalmist, death was an ending. Jesus Christ transforms that ending into a crossing. While Jesus speaks to his disciples about the future, about the afterlife, about what happens to us when we die, he does not describe heaven in terms of where it is and what it looks like. What he talks about is God. He makes it clear to the disciples when they think of heaven, they should think of it not in terms of place but in terms of relationship with God. Think about this! The most important thing in your life is God: knowing God, experiencing God's presence, loving God, and expressing your love for God in and through your love for one another. This is what gives meaning to your life. This is what gives meaning to your death as well. This is what gives final meaning to all who now and forevermore rest in the arms of Jesus. And it is all far beyond our human comprehension, because it is all God's idea.

Authors James F. Colaianni Sr.

funeral all manner of death Grief John 6:37-40

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A dwelling place

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

Readings: Job 19:1, 23-27a; Psalm 122:1-2, 4-5, 6-7, 8-9; Romans 8:31b-35, 37-39; John 14:1-6 When someone we know and love dies, we usually wonder, fret, or worry about at least three things: We wonder what our lives will be like from now on. The person who died once occupied a large space in our lives that now stands empty. With what will that space be filled in the future? We also want to be sure that our loved one is "OK"; we hope that he or she is "safe" and with God. Third, we wonder whether we will ever see our loved one again. Will we be able to recognize not only ourselves but those we love when we die? Jesus' disciples had these same questions—even though they didn't really know it at the time—and he provides answers at the Last Supper. The first thing Jesus says to his disciples, and by extension to all of us gathered here today, is: "Do not let your hearts be troubled. You have faith in God; have faith also in me." In other words, Jesus is saying, You've got a powerful tool—it's your faith. Don't forget that. Use it. Ask for comfort and direction whenever you need it. You are never alone. I am with you always and God is with you always until the end of the age. This is your faith. It is a bottomless well of life-giving water, an infinite universe of comfort and consolation you can draw upon endlessly and forever. All you have to do is know it, and ask. Thus we have our first answer: The empty space will be filled with the love of God. Jesus understands that for us there is no mystery greater than death; no wall more impenetrable to the human mind than the one that separates life from what comes after, and he calms our fears right away: "In my Father's house there are many dwelling places.' Jesus understands that for us there is no mystery greater than death; no wall more impenetrable to the human mind than the one that separates life from what comes after, and he calms our fears right away: 'In my Father's house there are many dwelling places.'" He offers us an image that is at once simple and multifaceted, comforting and surprising, familiar and fascinating. We understand that a house is a home, a refuge, a place where comfort and security reside, where our friends and family are waiting for us. We picture our favorite chair with a stack of books nearby, or a window with a view of a garden or the street; we might think of a special corner where our treasures are arranged on a table; or maybe we imagine the kitchen, where everyone gathers to help prepare a meal and share the news of the day. We can picture it: Heaven really is a house. And so we can trust that the one who has died--the one whose life we are celebrating today—is dwelling in that house, with Jesus and God and everyone else who has gone before us. And, Jesus tells us, someday we will be in that dwelling place, too. Thus he addresses our third concern. 'I will come back again and take you to myself, so that where I am you also may be." We are assured that we will all be together again someday, that death is not a final separation, and that in time all of us will be gathered together in God's house. In the second reading, Saint Paul powerfully reaffirms his belief in this promise and shores up our own doubts in the process: "For I am convinced that neither death nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor present things, nor future things, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature will be able to separate us from the love of God." These words provide much reassurance about how we will fare and the fate of those who go before us. But celebrations like this one are also a time to reflect upon the here and now, to consider our own lives and the state of our own souls, to ask ourselves the questions, What am I doing with my life? Where am I going? Jesus has something to say about this as well: "I am the way and the truth and the life." If we follow Jesus' "way"—which is not a road as the disciples hope, but a mindset—we'll come from all directions, but we'll all be heading toward that awesome, enormous house of dwelling places where God and your loved ones are waiting for you—for us.

Authors Ann O'Connor

funeral all manner of death mystery of death Job 19:1, 23-27a Psalm 122:1-2, 4-5, 6-7, 8-9 Romans 8:31b-35, 37-39 John 14:1-6

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Between the mystery of life and death

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

Readings: John 14:1-6 We all live between the drama of life and death, two great mysteries that boggle our minds and perplex our hearts. The great gift of life is truly a miracle; the reality of death puzzles even the greatest of minds. We should walk with awe and wonder before these mysteries. As Christians we believe that all life and holiness come from a gracious, loving God. We celebrate in this liturgy the gift of life. Someone we have known and loved is gone. Our lives are different because of the people God has put on our path. As Christians we believe that death is not annihilation but rather a transformation. The preface of the Mass reminds us that life is changed and not ended, for we believe in immortality. Though death feels so final, we are told by Jesus to not let our hearts be troubled, but to have faith and trust. At the core of our liturgy and belief is that Jesus has set us free from two things we are powerless over: sin and death. Because of the cross we are redeemed from our sins and offered the gift of resurrection. All of this is based upon a promise by a God who is a promise-maker and a promise-keeper. At the time of death our faith bumps up against the pain and agony of loss. Someone who has been a significant part of our lives is no longer physically present. Yet at the time of death our faith bumps up against the pain and agony of loss. Someone who has been a significant part of our lives is no longer physically present. A familiar voice is silenced, a familiar face is absent, a familiar hand will no longer be touched. Our faith is tested: Do our beloved dead know peace and joy? C. S. Lewis wrote a series of children's stories titled The Chronicles of Narnia. It is a story of four children and their adventures in a strange land, Narnia, where they encounter the evil white witch and the good lion Aslan. In the final volume, the children all die in a car accident. Lewis comments that now they are out of the shadowlands into the fullness of reality. Death was a door of passage from our shadowy earth into the brightness of God's eternity. Sounds well and good until Lewis lost his wife to cancer. Then his heart was troubled and he even said that his faith was like a house of cards collapsing under the weight of death's mystery. Eventually he held firm, and he confirmed the conviction that his wife was with the Lord. Jesus, in the mystery of the Incarnation, took on our human condition. He, too, lived between the mystery of birth and death. During that journey his heart was troubled and deeply disturbed when his friend Lazarus died. In fact, Jesus wept. The sorrow and pain of Mary and Martha, the sisters of Lazarus, became the sorrow and pain of Jesus. His tears mingled with theirs at the death of a brother and friend. Yet we know the rest of the story. Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead. Jesus himself, because of his obedience, was raised by the Father to the fullness of life. Herein lies our Christian hope and faith. Death is not final; death does not have the final word. Thus the poet John Donne takes on death in his famous sonnet Death Be Not Proud. Donne concludes his poem: "One short sleep past, we wake eternally, / And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die." Because of the Paschal Mystery—Christ's Passion, death, and resurrection—death has lost its sting. In our culture, religion has not always received a warm welcome. Faith is tested by a secularism that interprets the drama between life and death very differently. One author, Daniel Bell, captures a current attitude: "Where death was but a prelude to eternal life, hell and heaven could be themes of serious discourse, and domination on earth had a reduced importance. But with the decline in religious belief went a decline in the power of belief in eternal life. In its place arose the stark prospect that death meant the total annihilation of the self." No surprise then that hearts are troubled. Death is total darkness and our life here on earth is totally terminal. There is nothing beyond. The sociologist Ernst Becker would describe the contemporary response to this phenomenon in a work titled The Denial of Death. But Jesus offers an alternative vision. We came from God and we are returning to God. The journey between life and death is to be one of love, forgiveness, and compassion. If so, we shall share in the glory of the risen Lord. We will go from glory to glory. In the end, all will be well. It is this that we Christians believe.

Authors Bishop Robert F. Morneau

funeral all manner of death mystery of death John 14:1-6

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Go forth and do likewise

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

Readings: Luke 10:25-37 "Go and do likewise." If we do not celebrate a person's life's work when they die, we make the same mistake as when we do not celebrate their work during their life. The story of the Good Samaritan is a story about N. Jesus was asked outright what we must do to inherit eternal life, and his answer was to tell the story of the Good Samaritan. Who was the Good Samaritan? We don't know for sure, but it is clear that he was a layperson, not a religious professional. In fact, it is probable that he was some sort of businessperson—for why else would he be on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho early in the morning, and just happen to have oil and wine with him, and be able to pay the innkeeper to take care of the victim, and promise to return on his "way back"? In other words, the Good Samaritan was in the midst of doing his job when he was asked to be a good neighbor. N. was like the Good Samaritan. S/he was a layperson who did most of her "Good Samaritaning" in the midst of the hustle and bustle of her busy life. N. was the kind of person who just did what needed to be done in her daily work on her job, with her family and friends, in her community, and here in the church. She didn't make a big deal out of it, didn't expect accolades or recognition, didn't hold herself up as some sort of saint. She just went about her work without complaint, always looking for opportunities to help others in need, without any thought about whether or not people would notice or thank her properly for her effort. What N. was really doing was helping to build the kingdom of God "on earth as it is in heaven," as Jesus taught us to pray in the Our Father. And in so doing, N. inherited eternal life: "You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your being, with all your strength, and with all your mind, and your neighbor as yourself." Do this, Jesus said, and you will live. N. did this, and in so doing she lived a full life [even though it may have been shortened in years] and has now inherited eternal life. The Good Samaritan was in the midst of doing his job when he was asked to be a good neighbor." "Who is my neighbor?" Jesus was asked, and he told the story of the Good Samaritan. He might have told any number of stories from the life of N. [Tell two or three stories about how the deceased was a Good Samaritan, if you know or have been told about the person's work.] N. was a good neighbor. She was a good neighbor for many years at her work at [name of workplace]. She was a good neighbor to those of us who live in [name the community]. She was a good neighbor to those of us in this church. And she was certainly a good neighbor to her family [name specific family members]. What N. did in her life was perhaps not considered heroic. Maybe it did not generate many headlines or garner numerous awards. What she did in her lifetime was to be a good neighbor. She saw someone in need; she stopped and did what she could—it wasn't rocket science, but it was what the Lord asks us to do. For N., acting like the Good Samaritan was what you do if you are a follower of Jesus. And Jesus told the rest of us to "go and do likewise." So let us take our cue from N. Let us go back into our own jobs and families and neighborhoods and do what needs to be done. That is how N. demonstrated that she loved God and loved her neighbor, that is how N. helped build the kingdom of God on earth as it is in heaven, that is how N. inherited eternal life. Let us go forth and do likewise.

Authors Nate Pierce

funeral all manner of death Good Samaritan Luke 10:25-37

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Take a deep breath

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

Readings: Mark 15:33-39 Passages from the Passion narrative are often used in funeral Masses. Recounting the death of Christ brings surprising comfort as we mourn the loss of a loved one. The exclamation of the centurion as he watches Jesus die, "Truly this man is the Son of God!" strengthens our hope that death isn't the end of the story for any of us. The centurion's confession comes when he saw how Jesus "breathed his last." That's not surprising. Being at the side of one who breathes his or her last breath is a profoundly spiritual moment. Knowing the end is imminent, you watch intently wondering, Will this breath be the last or this or this? You think you're prepared, but, no matter how many times you've witnessed death, when the final exhale comes, it is shocking and horrifying—an outrage against humanity. And yet, in the brief moment before your doubt, anger, and grief surface, there is wonder and awe. Just where did this person go who was here a second ago? All of your senses heighten as the last breath of the dying person lingers in the air. You're rendered totally helpless to aid the person. There is no recovery, no resuscitation. Yet there is an undeniable sense of peace. And that is the peace Jesus leaves with all of us. It is the peace of God's Spirit breathed into us with the last breath of each loved one. It is the peace Jesus promised to us, which we recount and renew at every celebration of the Eucharist: "My peace I leave you. My peace I give to you." It seems incongruous. With death comes Jesus' offer of peace, not for the deceased, but for those left behind. In all our sorrow at the loss of one who was beloved to us, we are asked to accept this gift of peace. Many of us will fight against it for a time. Like the apostle Thomas we will question that such peace—the very Spirit of the risen Jesus—is available to us. But our faith impels us to breathe in this peace—to accept that God is with us, that our sorrow is not in vain, that the person we loved is still lovable, still real, still in communion with us, that this person, so precious to us, so essential, is on the other side of an eternal life we all share in. It seems incongruous. With death comes Jesus' offer of peace, not for the deceased, but for those left behind. In all our sorrow at the loss of one who was beloved to us, we are asked to accept this gift of peace." But peace doesn't mean "pain-free." We never fully recover from the loss of someone we loved who loved us, who knew us like no other, and with whom we shared unique experiences that shaped us and brought joy and meaning to our lives. But we are not meant to recover, we are meant to remember, just as we ask Jesus to remember us when he comes into his kingdom. Remembering the dead is not to keep us frozen in time but to prove that time is irrelevant when we live in the life of Christ. He who is, was, and ever shall be, is our savior, and he will not forsake us. He assured us that eternal life is available to each of us, and, if we believe, then we cannot help but remember all those who have met death before us because they remain in us and together we share in divine life. So we carry on. Like the apostles in the Upper Room, we get past our fear and move out into the crowd and give witness to God's saving grace. We should wear badges: I survived the death of a loved one! It is an incredible act of faith to go on living and loving after such loss. We deserve a medal, but more than that we deserve the peace Jesus offers us. It is a hard-won peace, preceded by turmoil, anguish, and moments of utter exhaustion, when our body's need for sleep conquers our mind's desire to question, curse, bargain, and plead that this cup pass from us. But as any survivor will tell you, joy stands just beyond the sorrow waiting to call our attention back to what is true: that love conquers death. The last breath of our loved one may seem to signal the end of the life we knew, but it actually punctuates the reality of eternal life. Our beloved has been transformed by love, and we will be, too, if we take a deep breath and allow ourselves to be filled with God's Spirit. Now go in peace to love and serve the Lord and remember.

Authors Patrice J. Tuohy

funeral all manner of death Passion Mark 15:33-39

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The dance of life

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

Readings: Daniel 12:1-3; Psalm 42:2, 3, 5; Romans 6:3-9; John 14:1-6 In a museum in San Marco, Florence, resides The Last Judgment by 15th-century artist Blessed Fra Angelico. In a detail from that work, a scene depicts "the saved" joyfully dancing in a circle with angelic figures and others resurrected from the dead. This circle dance takes place before a walled city among the lush green foliage of a garden, filled with blossoming fruit and flowers, and exploding with color. In medieval times, dances were very common occurrences on the porches of the great churches. The porch represented paradise, the forecourt of heaven, where those saved gathered to enter. The interior of the church was seen as the heavenly temple. You and I gather here today in this earthly temple to both mourn and celebrate the passing of N. from the dance of earthly existence to the celestial dance before the vaulted gates of the Heavenly Jerusalem. We come together to pray that N. may be at the forecourt of heaven, engaged in a joyful dance with her loved ones. We ask a merciful God to usher her into the fullness of that eternal dance that Saint Ambrose claims is the "right of every Christian." Some may think us Christians a strange breed: We gather in the midst of the seeming definitiveness of death to celebrate our faith that our beloved, echoing Saint Paul's letter, will "live in the newness of life." But for Christians there is no contradiction. For we know that death is the essential prelude to the opening act of eternal life with God, the first pirouette in that eternal dance for which we are all destined. You and I spend a lifetime practicing for this moment N. has just met. Might that we meet it as courageously and decisively as she did! Some may think us Christians a strange breed: We gather in the midst of the seeming definitiveness of death to celebrate our faith that our beloved, echoing Saint Paul's letter, will "live in the newness of life." "When shall I go and behold the face of God?" asks the psalmist. "Send forth your light and your fidelity; they shall lead me on . . . . Then will I go to the altar of God, the God of my gladness and joy." N. was open to meeting God at that altar, when God chose to meet her, in that room lovingly prepared for N. from all eternity. The light and fidelity that led her to peaceful acceptance was the light and fidelity evidenced all around her in a family that never gave up on her, a family that she grew more and more grateful for as the dance of her life came full circle. After coming to terms with her impending death, N. embraced the reality of her life, and God responded by embracing her. God swooped into the dance and in an instant, N. was forever changed and transformed. That is the promise held out to each one of us. It is the hope by which we continue to live, here and now. It is the ultimate end of our human sojourn to which we daily aspire. This reminder is N.'s final gift to all of you. Through faith and friends, we move with the ebb and flow of human existence, accepting the small deaths of everyday life as well as rejoicing in the sometimes surprising, unexpected resurrections. It is the faith Jesus tenderly calls us back to in today's gospel, reminding us that our hearts need not be troubled. He personally is making room, preparing a place that is our unique spot in the dance of eternity, and he will personally lead us across the floor of time when our moment has arrived. For our part, we must be attentive to the manner in which we dance here in this life, that when the time for our eternal embrace arrives, we are as brave and courageous as N. In the twists and turns of life, we pattern our steps on those of Jesus. Like little children, we rest our feet on top of his and allow our deepest hope that one day we, too, will see God face to face, and he will carry us away. All life is learning how to be swept up in the divine embrace, to follow the divine footing, now imperfect, but one day eternally perfect. N.'s role in the dance of life continues in each one of you. Until that day when we are called home, let us not hug the walls but Christ in each other. Just as those in Fra Angelico's circle dance, like N., let us be fully engaged in the Christian dance of life with the Creator of the dance as our lead. Let us follow the daily lyrics of divine grace that draw our steps ever forward toward that place prepared for us from all eternity: the forecourt of heaven where God's arms envelop us.

Authors Father Andrew Carl Wisdom O.P.

funeral all manner of death Daniel 12:1-3 Psalm 42:2, 3, 5 Romans 6:3-9 John 14:1-6

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The journey home

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

Readings: Job 19:1, 23-27a; Psalm 23:1-3, 4, 5-6; 1 Thessalonians 4:13-18; John 14:1-6 Life is a mystery, not to be solved but to be lived. Life, indeed, is a mystery, and each time death visits us we are plunged more deeply into the tenuousness and fragility of life. As Mother Teresa once said: "We are all pencils in the hand of God." We are here, all of us, as relatives, friends, and acquaintances. Whatever our faith, we all face the common mystery of death. One whom we knew and loved has ceased to be, in the terms by which we all measure life. We feel alone, whether or not we are believers. Aloneness hits us in so many different ways. We feel this aloneness because we can no longer see nor hear nor touch nor share the joys of the one we loved. No matter how much we know that death will come to all of us, we cling to and prize the days of life that God gives us. At times like this we reach down into all those pockets of faith that sustain us. We try to trust in God to seek meaning even though we cannot see it through the mist of our tears. Loss and grief are intensely personal. You, alone, know the pain of it all. I cannot tell you not to feel it. The Catholic funeral service is an act of thanksgiving and an affirmation of hope. That's why both the vestments and the covering over the casket are white. The Easter candle, symbolizing the light of the risen Lord, triumphant over death, flickers nearby. Passing from life to death—or to new life—is but one more way station on the pilgrimage home. Death is a passageway through which the spirit goes after leaving behind the shell of its body, much the same way in which a caterpillar leaves its cocoon, transformed into a butterfly, and flies into the heavens. We are sons and daughters of God. "In my Father's house there are many rooms and I go to prepare a place for you." This is an image of welcome and hospitality, a gift from a loving God who preserves and invites to himself everyone he has created. "I know that my redeemer lives," says Job, "and my eyes will see him." When death arrives on our threshold, one of the comforts we can have comes through memory. Whenever we come together as family or friends, we usually enter into the act of remembering. The great religious testaments of the world express faith through telling stories. Whenever you remember the one whom you have loved and lost, you make him/her present. There was a wonderful movie years ago called Meet Me in St. Louis. In this movie the mother dies and all the children get together periodically and tell stories about her, prefacing each memory with "I remember Mama . . . ." As each story unfolded it was as if she were in the room again. During the Civil War women got together to make quilts, and as each one sewed a patch for the quilt she shared a loving memory. Memory heals our broken hearts and nourishes our parched souls. I have friends who lost their teenage son in an auto accident. It was devastating for them. One way they walked through their grief was to take out a photo of him on his birthdays and on holidays when the family got together. Each person shared a memory of him. Somehow, in that mysterious way that memory heals, their grief lessened as they felt his presence among them. He was gone, away from them, but he lived among them still. The communion we share with one another in life never dies. There is no shortcut or safe passage through grief. Time and the love and support of friends, together with trust in a loving God, will carry us to the sure conviction and certain hope that the one we love is in a safe house and will cry no more. The terms by which we measure life are far too narrow, and words often fail to express the depth of our pain. Perhaps the prayer of the 19th-century English cardinal John Henry Newman can offer some solace: "May the Lord support us all the day long, till the shadows lengthen and the evening comes and the busy world is hushed and the fever of life is o'er and our work is done. Then in his mercy, may he give us a safe lodging, a holy rest, and peace at last."

Authors Father George Fitzgerald C.S.P.

funeral all manner of death mystery of death Job 19:1, 23-27a Psalm 23:1-3, 4, 5-6 1 Thessalonians 4:13-18 John 14:1-6

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Letting go

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

Readings: John 14:1-6 To all of you, family and friends of N.: Please know that our community of faith is holding you up in prayer now in a special way. We stand with you in your grief. In the gospel passage from John, Jesus shows sensitivity to the fact that the disciples' hearts are troubled. Death and grief are things that trouble our hearts. The Lord understands that your hearts are troubled now as you struggle with the fact that N. will not be with you as she or he once was. In response Jesus assures us, just as he did earlier disciples that we know where he is going and the way to get there. But, Thomas perhaps speaks for all of us as he freely admits his doubts and confusions on what Jesus tells us to believe. We all get lost sometimes. Grief, anger, sorrow, and fear cause us to lose our way. N. got lost sometimes, too. That is part of the human condition Thomas expresses. But Jesus responds with assuring words that he is the Way. Jesus reveals the way to God, and the gift of faith helps us to find our way. It helps us discern how to get to eternal life. The gift of faith and the power of the Incarnation also help us to see that we can reveal the way to each other. That is why our Catholic tradition places so much importance on the community of the church, which constantly reveals the goodness of God and the path that is Jesus Christ. Jesus' response to Thomas also includes the assurance that he is also the Truth and the Life. So today we gather as a community of believers and we have an opportunity to reflect on how N. also showed us the way. And what some of the truths of his life were and how he brought us life. The gift of faith and the power of the Incarnation also help us to see that we can reveal the way to each other. That is why our Catholic tradition places so much importance on the community of the church," (Include several examples of how this person showed us the way, some truths about their impact on us, and how they brought life to us and others, such as:) Don grew up here in the Uptown neighborhood of Chicago. His father owned a prominent bar where many celebrities and show business people would gather and perform. He was inspired by the dance technique of people like Ray Bolger who later starred as the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz. That was when Don first got the show biz itch. His way in life included some rebellion, because he ran away from home at the age of 15, going to New York and trying out for dance parts in Broadway musicals. The police caught up with him and soon sent him back home. He ran away again at 19, again to New York and this time for good. The way was not always easy for Don, but he made choices based on his passion to entertain. The truth about Don was that he loved the stage. But he entertained in such a way that always showed respect for the audience and the performance. One of his fellow dancers once said, "With Don, it was never about him, it was always about the show." The truth is, Don loved to perform, and he always respected the gift of bringing enjoyment to others. Don brought life to many of us not only through dance, but other mediums as well. As he aged and his physical ability declined, he sharpened his magic act and found real success as a radio engineer and on-air personality. He didn't let his declining physical ability slow him down. He simply found other ways to entertain. It is hard to let go of someone we love. Much of what we struggle with now is letting go of N. The other day I was walking past our parking lot and I saw a young father with his little daughter who was trying to ride her bike. It appeared that the training wheels had just come off, and it was time for the significant rite of passage in which she was to ride the bike on her own, using her own balance. The father was trotting behind her as she made big circles in the lot. Her hair flew beneath her pink riding helmet that perfectly matched the color of her bike. The father would periodically let go so that she could balance on her own and then hold on again when she began to fall. I stopped to watch, and the combination of holding on and letting go was a constant. She even fell down a couple of times but got right back up with even more determination than before. There is often a fine line between holding on and letting go. Everything human about us says to hold on to N., but our faith tells us to let go. We want to hold on to what we know, and what we know is that a good person who has touched our lives is gone. There is often a fine line between holding on and letting go. Everything human about us says to hold on to N., but our faith tells us to let go. We want to hold on to what we know, and what we know is that a good person who has touched our lives is gone." The Gospel of John reminds us that Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life. His way leads to God the Father. It is only in letting N. go that we might be able to eventually let ourselves go when it is our time to pass the same way. Until then, let us be grateful that our lives have been enriched by this (creative, dedicated, joyful, hardworking, loving, or other adjective) person who has showed us the way, some truth, and a lot of life.

Authors Father Terry Keehan

funeral all manner of death John 14:1-6

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We belong to God

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

Readings: Job 19:1, 23-27a; Matthew 11:25-30 DURING HIS TENURE as senior minister of Riverside Church in New York City, the Reverend William Sloan Coffin lost his son Alex in a horrific automobile accident. Among the well-meaning folks who tried to be consoling were those who suggested that his son's death should be accepted as God's will. Coffin couldn't take it. As well-intentioned as the words might have been, he retorted: "It's not my God's will that Alex was killed!" "The one thing that should never be said when someone dies is, 'It is the will of God,'" Coffin said. "Never do we know enough to say that. My own consolation lies in knowing that when the waves closed over the sinking car, God's heart was the first of all our hearts to break." We sometimes say "It's God's will" or "She's in a better place" because we want to assure one another, but we ourselves are struggling to find a place for God in what is simply a terrible moment we can't understand. But we cannot allow ourselves to fall for easy answers or, as Reverend Coffin objected, to the presumption that we know God's will and attribute tragedy to God. Job is an ancient model for our human response to life's unfairness and loss. Job does not deny his pain: He bellows his laments. He's not afraid to complain that suffering is unfair or even that God seems unfair. If we are struggling to find God's light in the grey fog of loss, we first of all must allow ourselves the full range of our human emotions. Even Jesus wept at death and was moved by the pain of grieving parents. Job is an ancient model for our human response to life's unfairness and loss. Job does not deny his pain: He bellows his laments. He's not afraid to complain that suffering is unfair or even that God seems unfair." But broken as he is, Job cannot give up on God—even a God he cannot understand. Yes, there is in him sadness and anger, but there is also a rock-like trust. He even uses the image of a stonecutter to describe his confidence in God. "Would that my words were written down! Would that they were inscribed in a record: that with an iron chisel and with lead they were cut in the rock forever!" What are the words Job wants carved in stone? They are these: "I know that my Redeemer lives . . . and in my flesh I shall see God." When death intrudes upon us, we need not be ashamed of our tears, yet as Saint Paul says, we do not grieve as if we had no hope. We are Christian. We always have hope. But why? Because we belong to God. Consider Jesus' words, "Come to me." We turn to these words of Jesus not only as his invitation to our beloved one who has died, but we recall that these are Jesus' words to the living, to those who are, as Job says, in flesh. All through life, we keep returning to God when our sin or our worry or preoccupation looms large; the invitation from Jesus is always there: Come to me. We are welcome in life and in death. Right now we may find Jesus' "come to me, all you who find life burdensome" particularly significant because today is especially hard. The late Bishop Ken Untener once observed that the difference between Jesus and the religious leaders of his day was that they believed life was simple, but God was complicated and difficult, our relationships to God governed by many laws concerning everything from diet to ritual sacrifice. Jesus, on the other hand, knew that God is simple but life is hard. As a human being, Jesus tasted life's unfairness to the dregs. Only then could he lead us up, out of the depths of despair and grief, into the confidence of knowing that God was not on some unreachable star, but right here, with us, even weeping with us today in our loss. How could he not? As Saint Paul says: We belong to him. The picture that Matthew uses might slip by many of us urban folks who have little idea what a yoke is. It's a simple piece of equipment placed across the shoulders of two animals like oxen. It joins them in such a way that they will pull together rather than independently. Together they get the job done. "Take my yoke upon your shoulders." In other words, you, my friend, and I—together—will pull this load. We will share the burden and we will get this job of living done. And we believe that what was true of Jesus will also be true for us who belong to him. One Easter, two young parents were trying to explain Jesus' resurrection to their six-year-old son. But Joey would have none of it. "Nope," he insisted. "When you're dead, you're dead." His parents were patient and eventually persuaded Joey that they believed that Jesus really did rise from the dead. A bright look came into their son's eyes and suddenly Joey made a beeline for the telephone. "Joey! Where are you going?" Joey looked both intense and happy. "Does Grandpa know about this? I gotta tell him!" The sweetness and lightness of Jesus' burden: to know that even in death we belong to God and are not lost. It makes you want to run and tell somebody. Everybody!

Authors Father Larry Janowski O.F.M.

funeral all manner of death God's will Job 19:1, 23-27a Matthew 11:25-30

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