"The angel showed me the river of life-giving water, sparkling like crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb down the middle of the street. On either side of the river grew the tree of life...Nothing accursed will be found anymore."
--Rev. 22:1-3
We buried my wife's aunt on the day after Thanksgiving. Like any good funeral, it was a day of both hope and sadness. After the Mass, we processed to the cemetery, a short walk down a country road from the church. The November sky was overcast and the wind was blustery, forcing us to huddle as we walked. I gazed down the road ahead at the long procession of loved ones, lead by the pall bearers gently carrying the departed.
We walked in silence, and I was suddenly struck by the image of all of us walking, not to our aunt's grave, but to our own. The feeling echoed a moment during communion a few minutes before, when I followed brother-in-law and nephews up the aisle to receive the Body of Christ, and I was acutely aware of the mortality of us all, that some day we would bury each other, one by one, until it was my turn, and then my nephews would follow, and every single one of us will pass from this body.
As I watched our collective procession to the grave, a great ocean of emotion stirred within me: sadness, for myself and for everyone else, a sense of loss and grief, but also a great sense of hope. Just as we were walking to the grave together, we had walked to communion together, a family united by God's grace and love. We are one in our brokeness, in our woundedness, and especially in our mortality. But we are also one in God's redemption, one in our love for each other, one in our faith and hope that we are intimately and inextricably connected far beyond the connections of family and social ties. We are the Body of Christ.
Being the Body of Christ does not spare us from the sadness of pain and loss, the surrender of what we want for ourselves. Jesus' own life gives abundant example of this. So we are, without question, walking to the grave together, and the suffering and grief that attends that passage. But we are most surely walking beyond that point--together--into a wholeness, a completeness, a glory and joy far beyond our meager imaginations. That is the mystery of life, the mystery of death, the mystery of Eucharist itself.
--Rev. 22:1-3
We buried my wife's aunt on the day after Thanksgiving. Like any good funeral, it was a day of both hope and sadness. After the Mass, we processed to the cemetery, a short walk down a country road from the church. The November sky was overcast and the wind was blustery, forcing us to huddle as we walked. I gazed down the road ahead at the long procession of loved ones, lead by the pall bearers gently carrying the departed.
We walked in silence, and I was suddenly struck by the image of all of us walking, not to our aunt's grave, but to our own. The feeling echoed a moment during communion a few minutes before, when I followed brother-in-law and nephews up the aisle to receive the Body of Christ, and I was acutely aware of the mortality of us all, that some day we would bury each other, one by one, until it was my turn, and then my nephews would follow, and every single one of us will pass from this body.
As I watched our collective procession to the grave, a great ocean of emotion stirred within me: sadness, for myself and for everyone else, a sense of loss and grief, but also a great sense of hope. Just as we were walking to the grave together, we had walked to communion together, a family united by God's grace and love. We are one in our brokeness, in our woundedness, and especially in our mortality. But we are also one in God's redemption, one in our love for each other, one in our faith and hope that we are intimately and inextricably connected far beyond the connections of family and social ties. We are the Body of Christ.
Being the Body of Christ does not spare us from the sadness of pain and loss, the surrender of what we want for ourselves. Jesus' own life gives abundant example of this. So we are, without question, walking to the grave together, and the suffering and grief that attends that passage. But we are most surely walking beyond that point--together--into a wholeness, a completeness, a glory and joy far beyond our meager imaginations. That is the mystery of life, the mystery of death, the mystery of Eucharist itself.
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