Musing on a Funeral Liturgy
Today I attended the funeral of a young woman named Renae Fusako Stewart.
I have never met this woman, though by God’s Grace I may meet her yet.
She was a convert, having asked for Baptism while in hospital after suffering a stroke. She was, by all accounts a cheerful and engaging young woman. Her health suffered terribly after her stroke, and she eventually died of kidney failure.
Her family and friends were unchurched or Pagan – there was a car in the parking lot with a bumper sticker that read “Never piss off a Witch”.
The young lady had requested a funeral Mass, and Fr. Sacco obliged, even though counting myself and Father Sacco, there were perhaps four Catholics in the church when the rite began.
It was pretty obvious that the folks attending had no idea how to behave in a church. They were talking loudly, wandering up the aisles, joking around, and generally acting like it was some sort of party. The young lady had died several weeks ago, so my operating assumption was that they’d worked through the worst of their grief already and were here as a show of support for their friend Renae.
The instant Father began processing with the family, speaking the introit, silence fell. Now that folks could see that we were starting, they settled down. All perfectly understandable.
Other than Father and myself, there were only two older Catholic ladies with whispery voices who knew anything about how the liturgy is done. I was the only one responding audibly during the peoples’ parts of the Mass. It was a very odd feeling, perhaps akin to what the altar boys who serve at the Extraordinary Form of the Mass might feel.
Father drafted me as an Extraordinary Minister of Holy Communion, a signal honour I neither sought nor deserved.
The liturgy was extremely stripped down. There were no musicians, no singing, no incense. And yet the power of the liturgy was absolutely evident – the presence of Christ was absolutely evident – to those there. Where they had begun the Mass in boisterous familiarity, by the time it ended the people I observed were somber, many in tears.
In the liturgy, they had permission to grieve, a permission that the world often withholds under the guise of “cheering up” or “getting over it”.
I helped Father clean up the church after the Mass. We talked a little about the experience, but there’s quite a lot still for me to process here.