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14 Jun 2015 - Eleventh Sunday in Ordinary Time, Cycle B

The sower sows the seed. But the seed becomes grain by mysterious means. The sower can’t take credit for what happens once the seed pushes its first sprout into the soil. That’s the work of the seed’s Creator. And it merits praise. The liturgical year doesn’t really have a designated “Praise Sunday.” Praise is the forgotten sister of our prayer cycle. Most of us are eager to bring forth our petitions. There’s so much need, and we have nowhere else to turn! Intercessory prayer, AKA supplication, is a good thing, and we should pray “asking prayers” daily. Our Eucharist, although it contains many asking prayers, is itself a prayer of thanksgiving. If the story of the 10 lepers is statistically reliable, one in 10 of us remember to give thanks for the good that comes to us. But even if we forget gratitude momentarily in the rush of relief and celebration, our Eucharist stands in as the ultimate prayer of thanks. Then there’s lamentation. We don’t usually think of this mode of prayer as prayer. It’s so instinctual and doesn’t seem like a very holy attitude at all. While it’s neither holy nor unholy to lay down and weep, or to lift up a howl of rage or disappointment, the direction of our lament makes the difference. If we lift it up to God—even with its barbed edges and recriminations—it’s a valid prayer. Read Psalms 6, 10, 42, 55, or the famous 22 if this seems dubious. Contrition, often a component of intercession and lamentation, is the prayer of regret that admits wrongdoing. It’s built into the sacrament of Reconciliation as well as into the Penitential Rite of the Mass. Intercession, thanks, lamentation, and contrition have their place in the prayer life of the believer. So does praise, a component of the practice of Adoration. But we neglect this prayer for all sorts of reasons. Part of it could be pride. To offer praise requires humility. We have to bow and implicitly recognize our smallness. Also, in our competitive culture, we’re quick to criticize but slow to give the glory away. Another factor in neglecting praise may be our sense that our activity in prayer should accomplish something. Logging our petitions hopefully results in divine responsiveness. Thanks permits us to close the loop of obligation to a benefactor. Lamentation allows us space for venting. But praise? What does it do? What do we get for it, and frankly, what does God get out of it? Praise and adoration draw us deep into the heart of right relationship with God. As someone once said about Adoration: “I look at God. God looks at me.” Deepening the intimacy of that relationship is accomplishment enough! Related scripture links The harvest is ready: Joel 4:13; Rev. 14:14-20 Seed and sower: Eccl. 11:6; Isa. 55:10; 2 Cor. 9:10 Birds: Gen. 6:20; Dan. 4:10-12 Cedars from Lebanon: 1 Kgs. 4:33; Ezra 3:7; Psalm 37:35; 92:12; Ezek. 27:5; 31:3

Authors Alice Camille

Prayer intercession thanksgiving Praise contrition lamentation

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Into the arms of a larger family

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

Funeral: Death of a child Readings: Lamentations 3:22-26; Revelation 7:9-10, 15-17; Mark 10:13-16 It is impossible and unwise to try to compare human sufferings, but many people have said that losing a child is the worst possible agony in life. One reason the death of a child is so wrenching is that it simply feels wrong, unnatural, so contrary to every instinct we have about the right order of things, the proper flow of life. We expect the next generation to outlive us. We expect to watch babies grow into children, and then into teenagers and young adults. We count on the ordinary progression of years, on the gradual, satisfying unfolding of the developmental process as a child grows physically, mentally, and spiritually. But even more than the feeling that a child's death is outrageously wrong, most of the pain comes from the fact that the love we bear for our children is unbelievably strong. Anyone who has given birth to or nurtured or raised a child can tell you how surprising it is to experience the intensity and the depth of love a child evokes. Perhaps it is programmed into our biology, one of the ways that God has made us like himself, this fierce attachment, this devotion we have to our children. The desire to protect them and the joy we experience in their presence is beyond description. And so to lose such a beloved child is like watching the sun fall from the sky. Naturally, you cannot be comforted now. You are in extreme emotional pain. You may feel that you cannot go on living, yourself. Or perhaps you are still in shock, living in that trance of numbness that the mind creates to cushion you from the unbearable fact of this loss. In these early days, and in this liturgy, this is simply a time for the church and the gathered community to carry you. We will hold before you all the symbols of hope, images and words and signs of God's guarantee that your child's life continues, now and forever in the beautiful kingdom." So now, in these early days, and in this liturgy, this is simply a time for the church and the gathered community to carry you. We will hold before you all the symbols of hope, images and words and signs of God's guarantee that your child's life continues, now and forever in the beautiful kingdom. This does nothing to ease your longing to hold your precious child right now, but some day, weeks, or months or years in the future, you will remember what you saw and heard here today, and these seeds of hope will grow into a vision, a deep knowing that will support you through the rest of your life. In baptism N. was brought into this eternal family of hope, love, and mutual support, and entered into everlasting life, which goes on now in a place beyond our sight. We believe in the communion of saints, and we know that N. has gone from our arms into the arms of those others, members of our greater family, who live now on the other side. There is a great multitude there, in the presence of our Lord Jesus, who is both tender Lamb and guiding Shepherd to them. There, in his presence, they will not hunger or thirst anymore. He will lead them to springs of life-giving water, and will wipe away every tear from their eyes. As desperately, wrenchingly hard as it is for us to let go of this one we love, still we can cling to this promise, this faith that tells us that those who have died in Christ are alive in perfect peace. But even if we can believe that N. is safe and happy, enveloped in God's love, we ourselves are left bereft. For this we have only the gentle and trustworthy word of God, the assurance that the favors of the Lord are not exhausted, his mercies are not spent. Childhood itself is a profound mystery, and one of the most amazing qualities of children is their ability to trust. When Jesus urges us to accept the kingdom of God like a child, perhaps this is what he means. If we allow ourselves to wait and hope in silence for the saving help of God, it will come. Grace and love and comfort and strength will come, in time, in so many ways, from so many directions. Even though the pain of this loss will never go away, there will come a day when you will see it all, N. and yourself and your whole life, through the infinitely compassionate eyes of God. Gratitude will flower, and you will understand the immense blessing that was N.'s brief life on earth, which has now become eternal life in heaven.

Authors Mary Vineyard

funeral death of a child/baby Lamentations 3:22-26 Mark 10:13-16 Revelation 7:9-10, 15-17

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We are going to have very big hearts

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

Funeral: Death of a baby Readings: Lamentations 3:22-26; Ephesians 1:3-5; Matthew 11:25-30 In the readings we have just heard, there is no explanation for suffering. No words could satisfy or explain away the grief we all face today. Scripture reaches out to comfort us. "The favors of the Lord are not exhausted . . . . God's faithfulness is renewed every morning . . . . Wait, and hope in the Lord." God knows our grief. God reaches out and touches us, reminding us, that this child, too, no matter how young, holds a very special place in the heart of God." God knows our grief. God reaches out and touches us, reminding us, that this child, too, no matter how young, holds a very special place in the heart of God. Before the foundation of the world, God dreamed of N. This child came to us with a wisdom that Jesus tells us belongs only to the little ones, a wisdom growing up robs from us. This child returned to God with that wonder and wisdom intact. Jesus cannot take away our grief, and so he offers us the next best thing. He offers to bear the burden with us. "Take my yoke upon you . . . ." Oxen, when they are well matched, can bear more than twice the burden that either of them could bear alone. This morning, Jesus offers to be yoked with us through this time of darkness. People often carelessly say that God would never give any of us more than we could bear. This morning, some of us here present would argue that this is not true. Jesus offers a different truth: There will never be more than we can bear when we are yoked with him. Hold on. Wait and hope in the Lord. Years ago I was asked to preach at a special memorial service for a group of families who had lost their babies during pregnancy. I was wandering outside the church wondering what words could possibly offer insight and comfort. Each of the families had been presented with a long-stem rose. I was lost in thought when I bumped into a little girl carrying a rose. "Did your baby die?" I asked her gently. Her face became sad as she answered seriously, "Yes." "I am so sorry." "I know," she lisped, her childish voice at odds with the maturity of that quiet response. She looked at her rose silently for a moment, then looked up at me and smiled. "My mommy says that our baby will live forever in our hearts." Her mother was chatting nearby and the child looked to her for confirmation. Her mother nodded pleasantly and continued her conversation, barely aware of our discussion. "Mommys are wise like that," I responded. "They know these things." "And my grandpa lives in our hearts." A little frown began to form in her brow. I wished her mother were paying a little more attention, because I could see a real problem coming. "And our dog lives in our hearts." By now, the little brow was deeply creased as she contemplated the complexity of this situation. I was afraid to speak, afraid to disturb the carefully constructed theology she had been given that was falling apart before my eyes. She stood absolutely still for a moment, eyes fixed on a faraway spot. Then, understanding suddenly blossomed almost physically across her face. She looked up at me and said confidently, "You know, if people keep on dying, we are going to have very big hearts!" It is impossible at a time like this not to focus on our loss. This child was so young. This child's time with us was so short. This baby was never able to become all he/she could have become. But it is important not to forget the verb in each of those sentences. This child was. This baby is. This baby lived. This baby touched our hearts and changed each of our lives. If we have become kinder, gentler, more compassionate people because of this baby, then any time we reach out to others in kindness and compassion, they will feel the touch of this child. If this baby has awakened us to the suffering of others, then each time we reach out with healing and help, those others will know the touch of this child. This child will live forever, not just in the eternity that Jesus has promised N., but in the lives of each of us who have been touched and changed, in all of our very big hearts.

Authors Kathleen Chesto

funeral death of a child/baby Lamentations 3:22-26 Matthew 11:25-30 Ephesians 1:3-5

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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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