PRAYER FOR OUR DEAD

Lift up our dead
strong Son of God;
You are the God of the living
and not the God of the dead.
Come into our upper rooms
with words of “Peace”,
when we feel dead
because of our dead.

Remember their goodness,
their acts of kindness,
all the many ways they
have lifted up our life with their love.

Lift up our dead
strong Son of God;
You are the God of the living
and not the God of the dead.


Andrew Costello

(© Markings Prayer for November 1997)

ALL SAINTS

Lord,
I don’t know
any of your Saints personally,
but I do know mine:

- a lady in our church
who quietly and faithfully
has run the soup kitchen
all these years;

- a guy at work
who would give you
the shirt off his back;

- my mom and dad
who taught me how to love,
how to forgive
and how to pray;

- a friend who always listens
when things just aren’t going right,
and you can count on this:
that’s as far as it goes.

Oh yeah, there’s this old nun in our parish
who takes care of the school library in the morning,
visits some people in the nursing home in the afternoon,
and answers the rectory phone in the evening.
She just doesn’t want to retire.

Lord, I don’t know any of your Saints personally,
but I’m sure you know mine.

Andrew Costello

(© Markings Prayer 

for November 1995

NOVEMBER PRAYER

Lord, it’s November Month:
All Saints, All Souls, All People
called to be pilgrims gathering for Thanksgiving.

Lord, it’s November Month:
bright autumn leaves finally all falling down,
old age, crisp and cold, retired,
traveling across the country,
leaves swept with wind across the sidewalk,
across nursing home lawns, till finally we are leaves,
dead, resting snug and secure
as cemetery stones in November Month.

Lord, it’s November Month.
Aren’t we all pilgrims,
stopping this moment for prayer, with food - Eucharist,
at the family table, the family altar,
filled with Thanksgiving for it all:
the gift of family, the gift of place, the gift of time -
the journey from birth to death, one’s lifetime:
the budding leaves of spring,
the green years of our summer,
the splash of autumn life,
till death do we part and find our rest,
All Saints, All Sinners, All Souls,
All Pilgrims headed for a far country, Heaven,
the Promised Land, the place with many mansions
the place of the Great Banquet, the eternal Eucharist,
the eternal Thanksgiving dinner.


Andrew Costello
(© Markings Prayer for November 1990)

NOVEMBER DAYS

Someday we’ll arrive
at the November days of our life.
We’ll have our particular aches and pains,
walkers and canes.
We’ll have the struggles of our last days,
our hands like hanging on November leaves
shaking in the cold wind,
Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s.
And then we’ll finally move into
our December days,
to the day we’re buried in the earth.
But we shall all rise at the call of the Risen Christ,
“Lazarus, come forth!”
“Mary.”
“Thomas, take your finger 
and examine my hands. 
Stop your unbelief! Believe!
“Simon, son of John, do you love me?”
“Come to the banquet.”

Andrew Costello

(© Markings Prayer

 for November 2002)

ALL SOULS DAY

All Souls Day:
prayers sinking from our hearts
down deep into the graves
of our dead beneath our feet
or in the cemeteries in our hearts,
prayers for those we talked
at table with,
prayers for those we walked
these streets with,
prayers for all those
who have gone before us.
Amen. Come Lord Jesus!
Come Lord of the Living
and not of the dead,
because our creed is:
we believe down deep
you have risen from the grave. Alleluia.

Andrew Costello
(© Markings Prayer

for November 2000)

*

GRAVEYARD
STORIES!

INTRODUCTION

The title of my homily is, “Graveyard Stories.”

Hey it’s close to Halloween – but my real reason for talking about graveyards is because today is All Souls Day – the day we remember our dead and pray for them.

Who are your dead? Where are your graveyards? What are your graveyard stories?

Talk to each other about your graveyard – your cemetery stories. Share the stories?

When you drive by a graveyard, does something happen to you that is different than going by a mall or McDonald’s?

When you drive by a graveyard where someone you loved and laughed and lived with died, what happens in the ground of your soul?

Get a ballpoint pen and paper – or a blank screen on your computer - and jot down the funerals you’ve been at – the cemeteries you went to afterwards. Jot down: what was the first death you experienced; what was the first cemetery you visited?

KAIROS RETREAT
I was on a Kairos Retreat with some of our high school seniors this past week. I was moved when one of the girls told about getting her grandma’s prayer book – after her grandma died. The girl described going through the prayer book and seeing all those death cards. As the girl talked I could sense it was a sacred moment for her – thinking about all her grandma’s friends who had gone before her. She had seen her grandma page through that prayer book – remembering her friends and family who had died – whom she loved and missed.

I couldn’t help but think, wouldn’t it be horrible if that prayer book was pitched. I guess that’s why people want stones – gravestones with their names and dates on them.

What do we do with the memorial cards we pick up in the back of the funeral parlor – just before or after we sign the book – because we want to say, “I am here for you at this tough moment.”?

Do we have a shoe box, a prayer book, a spot for our sacred stuff?

Who are your dead? Where are your graveyards? Whose names are on the stones? What are your graveyard stories?

CEMETERY SUNDAY

Have we lost the old traditions – like today being called, “Cemetery Day” or “Cemetery Sunday” – when families go to cemeteries to remember their dead?

PAUSE – CLOSE YOUR EYES – AND LOOK
Pause, close your eyes, and look at the gravestones in the slide show called our memory. Doing this can be a power point presentation of who has been who in our lives – how we got to where we are – where we have picked up our values, outlook – besides our DNA.

What have been your death experiences? Where are your gravestones? Whose names are on your stones?

Let me tell you some of mine – with the hope that it will get you to tell each other some of yours.

JIMMY HENNESSEY
The first death I remember was Jimmy Hennessey. He died when we were in grammar school. In those days some wake services took place at home. My only memory is being quiet – creeping forward – a line of boys going up the steps of the brownstone Hennessey House on 64 Street in Brooklyn - and quietly going into the house. There was Jimmy in a casket – in his black first communion suit. We stopped and looked. I hope we prayed. Then we silently walked out. I don’t remember the funeral mass or anything else – just the going into the house to see a dead body of a little boy.

His brother John was in my class and he came to my first mass and met my cousin Miggy again. They dated and married and I did that wedding and I did John’s funeral a few years ago. My cousin Miggy got remarried and I did that wedding as well. Life is a circle.

MY DAD’S FUNERAL
My dad died June 26, 1970. I was 29 years old. It was my first family death.

He was 68 – had emphysema and lung cancer – and I was there in Moses Maimomedes hospital that Sunday afternoon at 2 PM with my brother and two sisters and my mom – when my dad left us. Death.

I was to discover slowly, one of the greatest blessings of being a priest is the gift of being able to celebrate not just baptisms and family weddings, but a parent’s or a family funeral. I still have that sermon – one page – quite faded – hand written. It’s a visible reminder that I once preached very short homilies.

After the Mass came the procession and ceremony we all know very well: the slow dance down the church aisle with the casket to the hearse - the tears, the flowers, the holding onto mom arm in arm – the slow starting drive to the cemetery.

My dad is buried in St. John’s Cemetery in Brooklyn, N.Y. My mom heard about a great bargain. Talk about big time. She bought two spots in a mausoleum for them. It looked like an apartment house. It was a funny feeling going up this big elevator to the 3rd floor – with a casket – and then proceed to the spot in this big high ceilinged corridor. We stopped. We stood there in silence. We prayed. I remember being quick enough to switch the wording of the prayer in the book: “We consign the body of the deceased into the ground” to “We consign the body of the deceased into the wall.”

And that was the only funny moment that day.

MICHAEL

My next family funeral was my nephew Michael’s – age 15 – who died June 14, 1977. It was only 4 days after they found out he had cancer. He was such a strong kid and an athlete. He was just finishing his first year at Regis High School in New York City. I remember walking into the church and seeing what looked like 400 high school kids. What were they thinking? Was this their first death? They were a bit older than me when I went to my first funeral for Jimmy Hennessey. Are they still remembering that moment?

My sermon was three pages. It began. “It rained the day Michael died.”

The cemetery was in Staten Island. It was outdoors – a great grass lawn – filled with white tombstones and plastic flowers that were bright – and lots of dead flowers. To me the scene was much more powerful than the indoor mausoleum that my dad was buried in.

And to lose a 15 year old is much more horrible than a dad who had a full life – dying at 68. I’m older than my dad now – so that’s another thought for another day.

MY BROTHER BILLY
My brother Billy died on March 21, 1986 in Washington Hospital Center. Once more I was able to do that funeral. I’ve gone to his grave near DC at various times. He died of cancer – melanoma – at the age of 51. I miss him big time – but he told me before he died, “Thank God mom and dad gave us the gift of faith.”

It was a powerful funeral – about 70 cars – and once more I experienced the honor of being a priest – and being able to help my sister-in-law, Joanne, and their 7 daughters and the rest of the family and my brother’s friends deal with the death of a great character.

The sermon was 4 and a half pages long.

MY MOM
My mom was killed in a hit and run accident the following year on April 7, 1987. She was on her way to church. She was still working at the age of 83. It was a horribly difficult death and funeral. Our provincial was next to me at the funeral mass and whispered at the sign of peace, “I don’t know how you can do this.” I didn’t say anything but, “It’s my mom and I’m honored to do this.”

I don’t know how long that sermon was – but it was short.

After Mass and the drive, once more we were back at St. John’s cemetery mausoleum. This time the prayers were in an inside chapel – and then we went upstairs in the elevator. By now they had piped in music – all through the place. It was very nice – elevator or dentist office music – but not the stuff my mom or dad would ever listen to. Once more like in my dad’s casket, besides a rosary, someone put in a deck of cards. Like many couples, they prayed the rosary together, as well as played a hundred thousand games of cards together.

Once more I wished it was outside – with green grass and blue or grey skies – even rain. Looking at marble vault covers up near a ceiling – with names on them – doesn’t hit me like a gravestone in a graveyard does.

IRELAND
In 1996 I went to Ireland with my two sisters and my brother-in-law. It was a trip to go back together to the place where my mom and dad were from.

Looking back – and looking back is the best part of any trip for me – one of the moments that stands out – was walking with my Aunt Nora, my mom’s sister, who stayed in Ireland, down to the graveyard – right on Galway Bay. What a spot!

To get into the cemetery, there was a rusty metal turnstile. Interesting. It was to prevent cows from getting in – and you know what cows do. She warned us about what cows do. And surprise cows did get in there. My sister Peggy, a nun, didn’t heed the warning and ugh.

Aunt Nora pointed out the graves of our grandparents – only one of whom I met – an old lady who wore high tie black shoes and smoked a pipe – when she came for a visit to America when I was a kid.

This cemetery moment was a sacred moment – just like that girl on our high school retreat last week – who was handed her grandma’s prayer book. I was standing there with grand parents, great grand parents – and relatives from before that – all buried there. It was a sacred moment.

Praise God.

We were standing on holy ground - but good thing we didn’t heed the biblical call when standing on holy ground to take off one’s shoes – especially my sister Peggy.

CONCLUSION

The title of my homily is, “Graveyard Stories.”

What are your graveyard stories?

I just told you some of mine – 5 and a half pages worth – with the hope you too will tell each other your graveyard stories.

And make sure we tell each other our great graveyard story. When Jesus was buried they put him in a cave – a borrowed mausoleum – but on the third day – that stone was rolled back and Jesus rose from the dead – giving the hope and promise of resurrection to all of us. Alleluia.

* My mom, dad, and my sister Peggy (Sr. St. Monica, IHM-Scranton) and myself at the grave of one of my dad's sisters in Portland, Maine. Three of his sisters were Sisters of Mercy. [c. 1967]