All of this social involvement nurtured my hidden hope to avoid the normal ministry of the sick and dying. But after several years, my deeply suppressed fear of death slowly began to give way to the reality that death was all around me. Of course, it had always been there; but now I was entering the well-known mid-life crisis where one begins to encounter many hidden forces in one’s life.Now an avalanche of negativity began to attack my comfortable world. My grand illusion of being a crusader for justice and social change ran into the harsh reality of the deep racism that the African American community has known so well over the centuries. My experience of the institutional Church was painful and puzzling. I found my personal commitment to celibacy on the negotiating table in a frightening way. Most of my friends had already settled the issue and had left the priesthood. The fire and enthusiasm of my youth had been reduced to some smoldering ashes. All this was new. All this frightening. All this was terribly confusing.
Looking back, I can see now how powerful, and almost paralyzing, my fear of death had become. But three funerals over the period of a few years helped me to begin the long process of coming to grips with my mortality.
The first funeral was of an older white lady residing in a local nursing home. I had been called to give her the last rites. Then I visited her a few times before her death. During this time, my interaction with some of the other residents in the home had become quite painful. They were relentless in their complaining about “the colored people.” My patience, not to mention my compassion, was running on empty. When I celebrated her funeral mass, I did a very poor job without even a homily for the few people who were there.
On reflection, I began to see how terribly wrong this had been. At least, I began to have some questions, if not any answers.
The second funeral was that of my brother-in-law, Jim Heenan. He and my sister Mary had six children. The youngest was just four years old when Jim got sick and missed work for the first time ever. A few weeks later, the cancer won out and we had his funeral.
For several weeks, after getting her own seven kids off to school, my oldest sister Ellen had to go by bus over to Mary’s home. She was trying to convince Mary to get out of bed to take care of her children. Her husband’s death had left her completely overwhelmed and helpless. Mary was facing the stark reality of raising six young kids—including two sets of Irish twins (both born in the same twelve-month span). And, of course, she would eventually have six teenagers to raise at the same time.
In due course, Mary got out of her bed and became the mother of a fabulous family.
In my eventual reflections on this period, I was able to see that I had been almost totally oblivious to Mary’s trouble through self-absorption in my own crisis and crusades. No doubt, my fear of death had a major impact on my evasion of this very difficult scene with Mary. Here again, I at least had some awareness of my failure.
Finally, my father died on May 15, 1971. I celebrated the Mass and preached the homily. I remember a bright, Fall afternoon a few years later when I was walking along the lake in Jackson Park. I was agitated about something and all of a sudden, I blurted out to my father, “Will you get off my back!” When I surfaced what I was feeling, I finally was able to bury my father. This allowed me to begin to realize within myself that, in truth, I was going to die. That was the beginning of some true freedom.
It has been a long journey of accepting my limits and broken dreams as simply part of normal human experience. Over the years I have slowly begun to learn that the true journey is with Jesus to Jerusalem, where we will only save our life if we lose it.
To understand that death is part of life is the beginning of true peace and wisdom.
Liturgy’s Message about Death Our Mortality and Our Immortality
Liturgy plays a dominant role in the life of the Church and its members. Liturgy is called the source and summit of the faith for the people of God. Among its many treasures for the faithful, liturgy has a distinct and rich teaching about death.
One of the gifts of Catholic liturgy is the weekly reading from the Gospels. There are three annual cycles in which the Gospels of Matthew, Mark and Luke are read in the course of the liturgical year. In the final two Sundays of each of these years, the issue of personal death and the conclusion of history are presented to the faithful. As one year ends and another begins, the church invites us to ponder the mystery of time. This involves reflection on both our mortality and our immortality.
The thirty second Sunday of ordinary time in each of the three Gospel cycles raises the issue of our corporal death. The next week, the thirty third, and final Sunday of ordinary time, challenges us with the end of the total historical venture, the end times. The first three weeks of the new year give us the Advent message that longs for the new reality, “Come, Lord Jesus!”
The feast of Christ the King is a bridge between the two years. This liturgical arrangement connects the transiency of our human reality, our mortality, with our ultimate purpose and goal of life: to be forever in the embrace of our loving Lord, our immortality. This special gift of the liturgy liberates us to encounter death free from the crisis mode. So often, we ponder death only when our pattern of denial must face up to the undeniable facts. Death has come to our doorstep. It may be a critical conversation with a doctor or a search for a new miracle drug or procedure. It may be a notification of an accident. Whatever the case, it is filled with dread and fear. The message of the liturgy frees us from the darkness of the frightful predicament. It invites us to consider the absolute reality of death in a positive way through the lens of the gospel vision of eternal life.
The Coming of the Lord
The liturgy has a fascinating plan for the ending of one year and the beginning the new cycle. This weaving together of the message of salvation leads us to ponder the Christian perspective on time.
We learn that time is relentless. It waits for no one. We learn that it is pregnant with life and hope. We learn that ultimately it is gracious in the victory of Christ. It is urgent yet calls us to be patient in our longing for the coming of the Lord. The Advent mantra, Come Lord Jesus or maranatha, is found in the last two verses of the Book of Revelation, the final verses of the Bible: “The one who gives this testimony says, Yes, I am coming soon. Amen. Come, Lord Jesus! The grace of the Lord Jesus be with all.” (Rev 22:20-21) It is, indeed, calling us into a merciful and compassionate future of new life, even in the face of death.
