Just as Bad as Everyone Else

As I looked at the large gathering, many of them familiar faces, the poignant lyrics of Her Town Too – James Taylor’s song about the social fallout of divorce – kept cycling through my mind.

                                                                                            

She gets the house and the garden, he gets the boys in the band.
Some of them his friends, some of them her friends.
Some of them understand.

So what happens when those bifurcated friends find themselves under the same roof a dozen years later? In a church. At a funeral.

Jason Roy was 57 years old, a former salesperson, a percussionist, a bit of an eccentric, and a deacon at my parish of St. Joseph’s who was devoted to his prison ministry. Last Friday, December 23, he stayed in the hospital all day for the birth of his first grandchild, relishing the moments that he could finally hold tiny, newborn Olivia. The next morning, Christmas Eve, Jason never woke up.

I met Jason 22 years ago during a weekend program at St. Joe’s titled Christ Renews His Parish (CRHP), which we pronounced “Chirp.” CRHP weekends are very personal, emotional, and intense between the two dozen or so participants. The experience builds faith and often cements lifelong bonds of friendship between the participants.

Until something changes. And that’s why the James Taylor song was stuck in my head. I had been alienated from many of my “CRHP brothers” for 12 years, ever since I was blindsided by the divorce. She got the house, the garden, the boys in the band, and nearly all of the friends. Only a few bothered to understand.

The hurt ran deep; I often felt abandoned by these men with whom I had been so close. Looking at things from their point of view, it was easy to understand and, as such, very easy to forgive them – from afar. The bonds had already been broken and relationships would never be the same.

Funerals have a way of bringing perspective
to our lives, our relationships, and our mortality.

The funeral was the first time I had been in the same place with so many of them. Over the years, a couple had remained friendly, a couple were cordial, others simply polite. The funeral was no different. A couple ignored me. Not unexpectedly, one looked straight through me as though I didn’t exist.  

During one of the many glowing funeral reflections, I learned Jason and I had one important thing in common – we both believe every experience holds meaning from which we can learn and grow. As I looked at this widely diverse crowd of hundreds of people – many of my former CRHP brothers scattered among them – I tried to make some sense of it all. And then it all fell into place.

Many people in this congregation argue with their spouses. Some cheat on their taxes. Others lie, pass judgment, are prejudiced, and call people hurtful names. Most, if not all, break the speed limit. Some eat too much, some are alcoholics, and some almost assuredly have committed other, more serious acts. And most of the people at Deacon Jason Roy’s funeral Mass were Catholic.

I’m often frustrated by people who say the walls would cave in if they ever showed up for Mass. They don’t – or won’t – acknowledge what I could easily see in all of the people mourning Jason. Catholics – all Christians – are just as vulnerable to human nature as everyone else. We’re all human. We all make mistakes. We can all be dishonest, miserable, and hurtful as the next person.

And that’s WHY we go to Mass. If we were perfect, then Jesus’ sacrificial death was meaningless – we wouldn’t need Jesus or his redemption. But we do because, as humans, we’re just as fallible as everyone else. Pope Francis reminds us of that, writing that the Eucharist “is not a prize for the perfect but a powerful medicine and nourishment for the weak.”

We’re Catholic because we’re weak. Because we’re human. Because we can’t do it ourselves. And being Catholic gives us the opportunity to be forgiven and to try again (and again and again and again) with the strength of that “powerful medicine.”

Funerals tend to remind us humans that we are all mortal. They smooth our rough edges and soften our hard hearts. They can brush away ill feelings and even lead to unexpected olive branches. Maybe that’s why, at the end of Mass, for the first time since changing the locks, my ex-wife approached me, said hello and wished me well. Possibly the result of that powerful medicine. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the influence of a former CHRP brother who’s now in a much better position to help us build bridges.