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Homily
(by Father Gabriel Baltes)
Funeral of Sister Mary Charles McGough, OSB
Several months after my father died, my youngest nephew Luke, who was four at the time, began to exhibit some rather curious behavior. For example, he would say to my sister, "Grandpa told me I don't have to take a nap this afternoon." And when my sister asked when Grandpa supposedly said that, his answer was "This morning when I was talking to him down in the basement."
"This morning?" my sister asked, "are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure! And he was wearing his blue shirt—the one with the hole in it."
Well, episodes like this went on for several weeks, and some were quite amusing like the time Grandpa said he should have ice cream every night. There had always been a special bond between my dad and Luke, so one day my sister asked me what I thought was going on with Luke's behavior. And I simply said, "Either he has discovered some very creative and effective manipulation tactics, or else he's seeing our dad."
Whichever the case, it was then that I realized in a concrete, close-to-home way that death, both for the one who died and for those who remain, is not a single, static, isolated moment, but is rather this gradual unfolding of a reality—a process—much more than a product, that can only be perceived by those who dare to become like little children.
I believe St. Paul would be comfortable with this understanding of death given what we heard in today's second reading:
"We are always carrying about in our bodies the dying of Jesus," he says.
For Paul, Jesus' death was not one particular historical event of the crucifixion. It was the ongoing process of daily dying that he himself encountered in all those hardships that came with being a disciple.
And then he adds "we who live are constantly being given up to death for the sake of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may be manifested in our mortal flesh.
In other words, death and life are these interwoven onward moving realities that spiral us into eternity. And the most humble part of all this is that they are enshrined in our bodies—these earthen vessels which become privileged places for this Divine Revelation.
What does this make us?
It makes us icons—tangible images who embody and make visible the dying and rising of Jesus. This is the mystery that lies at the heart of our worship. It's the Christian paradox that reduces us to silence and causes even our finest theologians to stammer. That's why we need poets. But it is also the greatest source of hope for all who are plunged into this mystery through baptism.
And that is precisely where it all began for Mary Helen McGough; not in a monastery, not in a classroom nor an art studio, but at a baptismal font—the watery womb of the Church where she was reborn and became herself an icon of the living God.
As her journey continued, it found her here at St. Scholastica Monastery. And I would like to think that St. Benedict wooed her here because he wanted his monasteries to have artisans. I believe Benedict knew that they, better than anyone else would be able to foster that incarnational character that is a hallmark of Benedictine spirituality. By using their talents, humbly, he added, they would show that we live in a graced world where beauty, like truth and goodness, gives us glimpses of the God who dwells in unapproachable light.
And so it happened. Mary Helen became Mary Charles and unleashed her talent. From classrooms, to studios, to churches and synagogues, to homes and to hearts, her artistic creations, and especially her icons, became not only ways of teaching, but vehicles of revelation that inspired faith and caused people to bow low in wonder and awe.
And yet we can reduce all her works to mere products if we're not careful. They can become products if we fail to recognize that every act of creation begins with an act of desctruction. Art, like all of existence, is an ongoing process of life and death. We can reduce them to products if we forget the ancient rituals that preceded and accompanied the writing of icons—fasting, prayer, meditation which made this a sacramental action. We can reduce these works to products if we forget the uniqueness of the person who fashioned them:
- Sister's passion for justice, non-violence, and the equality of women and men.
- Sister's bold and prophetic character manifested in that magisterial wag of the finger used to emphasize her point.
- And how could we forget that lustrous sparkle in her eyes...
- that mystical gaze on her face...
- the love she had for
-
--animals
--angels
--the little people of Ireland
--and most of all her beloved Sisters in this monastic family.
Remembering these things about Sister Mary Charles will keep her works from becoming mere products.
But something else may happen too. Perhaps in a moment of prayer, with our eyes closed and our hearts open, we may hear her voice or feel the touch of that wagging finger, because the dead are not very far away. Just ask my nephew or better yet St. Paul who tells us that what is seen is transitory. It's what we don't see that's eternal.