“Blessed are you who mourn...”
Luke 6:21
I have remarked in several earlier blogposts (noted below) that one of the blessings of my diaconal ministry has been to be present for funerals.
It is important to recall that often, when there is no funeral Mass, we pray the funeral prayers in the home of the persons who have died, where they have been waked since the last night. Almost all funerals are held within twenty-four hours of death, because there is no embalming.
Since the start of the pandemic in March, I have presided at and been present for at least eight funerals. In the past two weeks I have presided at three funerals.
No funeral is easy. At times, when I know the person I can add something more personal. But often I don’t know the person who died or only met the person one or two times. The hardest are the funerals of babies and of those who have been killed violently.
The first was of an infant, under three months, who had been hospitalized. The mother was almost inconsolable. I saw with her in her bedroom, surrounded by relatives. At one point I was between the grieving mother and her mother (whom I know.) All I could do was put my arm around them. (At this point, “social” distancing was not conceivable.) Her husband embraced her on the other side. As I was there with them, in silence, I felt the sorrow in the two persons at my side. It was a pure moment of grace that helped me say a few words of hope and comfort around the tiny coffin.
The second was of a woman here in Plan Grande who has been ill for quite some time. As I entered the house I recognized so many people, friends and family. It was a little easier to pray there since I knew many of those who were grieving and knew that the woman who died had a deep devotion to the Eucharist.
In the middle of these funerals, I went twice to distant villages to meet with family members of a woman who had been violently killed. I spoke with her husband, her five children, her parents and other friends and family members, including a mother-in-law who had arrived as the woman was killed.
Because of the serious trauma I am arranging a visit of a psychologist from the diocesan Caritas office to help them deal with the trauma. I also decided to visit the community where the woman was killed to preside at the Sunday Celebration of the Word.
That evening I got a called that the mother of the murdered woman had died of a festering sore on her leg. I offered to come for a funeral. The pastor couldn’t get there and so I arrived and we had a prayer service in their home. I had met the woman’s husband the previous week and could see his grief as well as the grief of other family members. As we gathered to bless the body at the end of the service, I always give some time to the family to say something. One son also prayed for another brother who had been killed six or seven years ago. The grief was palpable.
What does one say?
I believe there is almost nothing we can say – except that God is here. Often I note how Jesus cried at the tomb of his friend Lazarus – because he loved him, as those gathered had loved the one who had died. I also try to give some hope of resurrection. Jesus is alive; death does not have the final word.
I don’t try to offer trite words of consolation. I don’t urge “resignation” as many people here do. I just try to be there – to share the grief.
As Pope Francis noted in the Joy of the Gospel (88), “…the Gospel tells us constantly to run the risk of a face-to-face encounter with others, with their physical presence which challenges us, with their pain and their pleas, with their joy which infects us in our close and continuous interaction.”
How do we do this?
About a week ago I remembered a phrase that I had read more than twenty years ago – “Come sit with me on my mourning bench.”
I first encountered this phrase from Nicholas Wolterstorff, Lament for a Son, at the end of a book of Stanley Hauerwas, God, Medicine, and Suffering. Reflecting on the tragic death of his son, Wolterstorff wrote:
“Death is awful, demonic. It you think your task as comforter is to tell me that really, all things considered. it’s not so bad, you do not sit with me in my grief but place yourself off in the distance away from me. Over there, you are of no help. What I need to hear from you is that you recognize how painful it is. I need to hear from you that you are with me in my desperation. To comfort me, you have to come close. Come sit beside me on my mourning bench.”
Often no words help. What we need to do is draw near to the one who is suffering, open to share their grief, their loss.
Today, as I reflect on what I have been experiencing and on today’s reading of the Beatitudes in the Gospel of St. Luke, I am reminded of the reflection of Pope Francis. I’ll conclude my thoughts with these words from Gaudete et Exsulate- Rejoice and Be Glad (74-76):
“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted”
The world tells us exactly the opposite: entertainment, pleasure, diversion and escape make for the good life. The worldly person ignores problems of sickness or sorrow in the family or all around him; he averts his gaze. The world has no desire to mourn; it would rather disregard painful situations, cover them up or hide them. Much energy is expended on fleeing from situations of suffering in the belief that reality can be concealed. But the cross can never be absent.
A person who sees things as they truly are and sympathizes with pain and sorrow is capable of touching life’s depths and finding authentic happiness. He or she is consoled, not by the world but by Jesus. Such persons are unafraid to share in the suffering of others; they do not flee from painful situations. They discover the meaning of life by coming to the aid of those who suffer, understanding their anguish and bringing relief. They sense that the other is flesh of our flesh, and are not afraid to draw near, even to touch their wounds. They feel compassion for others in such a way that all distance vanishes. In this way they can embrace Saint Paul’s exhortation: “Weep with those who weep” (Rom 12:15).
Knowing how to mourn with others: that is holiness.
May God grant us the grace of tears – summoned by the Lord to “the revolution of tenderness.”
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