Paul Watson: Mass of Christian Burial:

May 21, 2005

What do you say to a person who has come back from the dead?  Well…Not much I hope.  You listen.  Paul Watson was such a person, and those of us who did listen to him, benefited immensely.  Paul had a story to tell and wisdom to disseminate, and a profound, vital faith to share.  Paul came back from the dead in 1993 from near terminal alcoholism.  I’m not telling tales here – Paul’s struggles with this disease are a matter of public record, well documented in his personal conversion story, as well as a part of his personal history that he shared freely and often.

After Paul entered the Catholic Church at the 1995 Easter vigil, he offered his enormous gifts to Christ’s church, in many and varied ways, in the manner of his namesake and hero, the Apostle Paul.  How fortunate for us, his friends and fellow parishioners, who had the privilege of listening to Paul often: as a lector par excellence, proclaiming God’s word with conviction and profound personal faith.  We listened to Paul the Magister, teaching in RCIA or offering his artistic tour of this church, or relishing his witty and heartfelt prologue at the Mass of Rededication, offered right here at the 5:00 pm Mass on October 19^th 2003. We listened to him share his spiritual journey on various occasions: at Parish council, at scripture sharing, over coffee and donuts, or with anyone who wanted to engage him one-on-one.  And who can forget his compelling movie commentaries and critiques.  How will we know what is worth seeing now, without them.

We are fortunate also that so much of Paul’s interior life was an aspect of himself that he chose to reveal.  Recently he invited us to journey along with him through what he called his “Adventures:” the on-going trials and purifications of a soul responding to the reality of having cancer, and the fears and fallout that accompany it’s debilitating treatments. I am not the only one who thought, after reading Paul’s reflections:  “Oh God, may I respond with even a fraction of Paul’s faith and trust were such an affliction to befall me.”

His weekly “adventures” kept us all posted on what was happening, not only in his therapy, but more importantly, in Paul’s heart and soul.  Paul accepted the medical prognosis to be hopeful in the face of Cancer. But Paul entered this battle with potent spiritual weapons as well. He endured the chemo, the MRI’s the CT scans, the radiology, needles, and intravenous, but we know from his spiritual musings that he trusted more in Prayer, novenas, the Sacraments , and the Communion of Saints.

He writes:

“Now, at this particular turning point, I've managed to unearth

that old tattered novena. It really is quite lovely. The daily prayers

speak of God's love and compassion, of the need for simplicity and humility, of letting God shine through our frailty and weakness, of sensing that love does, and will prevail. So that will be my guide as the rapids approach.”

Paul also trusted in and depended upon his friends and community: He writes:

“There's another blessing, too. I can come back to my room, open up the e-mail and read messages from so many of you. They delight me, they move me, even to tears, they respond and encourage, suggest and even admonish. Thank you, each, all, for so much of your love.”

You are welcome Paul.  They were small tokens of the debt we owe you.

One of the great spiritual challenges to all Christians is…to befriend death. Befriending doesn’t mean we pretend that faith makes dying or death easy or without fear. As we sit here in the presence of the mortal remains of Paul Watson, we feel a profound sense of loss. A unique, wonderful and unrepeatable “I” has been taken from us. All of us here, particularly his lovely daughter, Amanda, know first hand, death’s cruel power to separate us from someone we love deeply.  In addition to death’s power to fill us with grief and loss, there is yet another, ruthless side to death, that we must acknowledge as well: death has a way of defining us. Death reveals our fragile, finite nature and imposes harsh limits on our dreams.

So, how can we befriend what appears so unfriendly…and alien?  To befriend death in the Catholic sense is certainly not to be enthusiastic about it – but rather, to be ready for it, in the same way that Jesus was ready.  While it is true that death has a way of defining our mortal lives, death is NOT the last word.  We are here today, gathered in faith, precisely because we believe that Jesus Christ is the Last word.  Because we are caught up in Christ, because He calls us friends, and has given us his Spirit, we do not allow death to define us. In Christ Jesus our Savior it is we who define death.  Faith enables us to look at death, no longer with our own eyes, but with the eyes of Christ.  

Imbued with the savior’s vision, we are not compelled to stare at death as an enemy, but to look through death, and see it for what it is:  not a door to be slammed in our face; but a doorway, a threshold, an horizon beyond which lies -  the fulfillment of god’s promise - fullness of life and love. 

Paul Watson believed what the Poet Wordsworth wrote:

“God's Life is eternal - God's Love is immortal.

Death is only a Horizon, beyond which our limited, earthy eyes cannot see. 

Lift us up Strong Spirit of God; that we may see further into the mighty expanse of your eternity.”

Befriending death is a life-long, spiritual task – it involves hard work, faith, and prodigious amounts of trust.  It was a task that Paul took seriously and even relished. 

I am reminded of another spiritual pilgrim and author, Henri Nouwen, who also spoke of befriending death, and, offers an image which I believe captures well, Paul’s approach to his own suffering and mortality and his way of faithfully surrendering to God’s providence and love.  

Nouwen tells of having gone to the circus and witnessed a amazing trapeze act – the flying Rodleighs. He writes this way:  “One day I was sitting with Rodleigh, the leader of the troupe…talking with him about flying.  He said – as a flyer, I must have complete confidence in my catcher. The public thinks that I am the star of the show; the spotlight being on me.  But the real star is my catcher.  He has to be there for me with split second precision; and grasp me out of the air as I come towards him. 

How does this work actually, I Inquired.  The secret, Rodleigh said, is that the flyer does nothing and the catcher does it all.  I simply stretch our my arms with absolute trust and wait, trying not to interfere with the catcher, as he links with me and pulls me up to safety.  I’m amazed said Nouwen. You actually do nothing. Yes, Rodleigh said.  The worst thing the flyer can do is try to catch the catcher and foul up his timing and grip.  It's the Catcher’s task to catch me. A flyer must fly, a catcher must catch; and the flyer must have absolute trust, with hands outstretched, that the catcher will be there when it counts.

Paul was a flyer – he was learning over the last 12 years, the beauty and power of “Letting go and letting God,”  the secret of flying. Paul was reflecting on a passage from the letter of Peter, where it says that suffering has a purpose in God’s plan, and; that you may be going through a brief time of trial now, even as gold is tested in the fire.  Thinking of his metaphor of gold and the refiner's fire, Paul writes:  “I began to think of my suffering as a process of burning away dross, of coming to my true, inner self. But how am I to accomplish this? That's obvious. I'm but a foot soldier and the Lord does the work. What I can do is get out of the way.” 

That is Paul the flyer, at his best, learning to embrace the reality of Jesus his catcher.  The great spiritual truth of all human life is something that Paul grasped:  that while we are expected to responsibly manage events and decisions of our lives, in the final reckoning, there is no managing certain things: there is no being in charge of Cancer, or darkness, or dying, or even one’s own heart and soul.  Such things are not in our hands but in God’s hands, where they belong.  Paul saw this and surrendered in his simple and humble way:  which is why he can write with a hint of humor”  “These past three weeks I've been trundled, gurneyed, wheeled and walked into places I had never visited, to experience things unfamiliar, to  meet strangers whom I realized care for me so they are strangers no more. This is just the beginning.”

Paul was so right, it is just beginning. One  moment Paul is languishing in an intensive Care Unit, held prisoner by the constraints of sickness and life sustaining machinery; not even in charge of his next breath, when suddenly, in the next moment of time, when time itself vanishes, he is caught and whisked away to a new beginning , to the new place,  Jesus Christ, his friend and Lord, has prepared for him; that place about which the other “Paul,” the apostle,” says:  eye has not seen, ear has not heard nor has it even entered into our imagination, what glory waits there..  

It is a shame Paul could not have written the final installment of his adventures:  sharing the details of what really happened in the hospital room that Pentecost morning, when the Spirit was poured out yet again, rendering Paul a man twice risen.   Let’s go back there, to the Hahnemann ICU, because hospital rooms can be mysterious places, where strange things happen, glorious things that all those sensitive, Hi-tech monitors don’t always pick up.

I imagine what transpired was something similar to what Michelangelo depicted on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel: that famous image of God stretching forth his creative finger, and Adam reaching with all his being with his own finger, desiring to make contact with his creator-God so that the breath of life could be transmitted.  As God leans in, towards Adam, God’s painted figure is convex, bowed outward towards Adam’s concave, receptive frame, suggesting a perfect, intimate and intertwining fit, artistically rendering a theological truth that we are God’s reflection, created in God’s own image. 

Lying unconscious with his physical life functions supported, Paul was very spiritually awake and alive, receptive and undistracted, finally able not to interfere any longer with Jesus the catcher who was moving towards him.  Trusting completely now, Paul, reached out his arms fully and was caught. This was no gentle, finger to finger touching, this was a strong clasp, an enduring embrace, the lock of life eternal.  Paul found himself flying free between heaven and earth, soaring…firmly held in the hands of Jesus, his savior. When you are held like that by Christ, you know it is finally OK to let go of every thing else.  This encounter never registered on the monitors, so the doctors were left to wonder what happened.  The monitors registered the end.  But we know it is just the beginning. 

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Fr. Chuck’s Memorial Mass

There is a poem that struggles to find words and images to measure the worth of a person.  The very first verse seems a good starting point for what I want to say about Fr. Chuck. The anonymous poet suggests that if you want to know the significance of some one who passed, ask  

Not…How he died… but, how he lived;

Not…What did he gain… but, what did he give?

Many people, upon hearing of Father Chuck’s death did in fact ask:  how did he die?  It’s a natural human inquiry I suppose, especially about one who was not in any apparent danger of death and not expected to expire.  I’m sure that when initial curiosity was satisfied about the circumstances of Fr. Chuck’s death, perhaps people did take the next step and reflect upon the poet’s more significant questions: How did he live and what did he give. 

When Father George offered his homiletic remarks about Fr. Chuck at the wonderful funeral liturgy at the Cathedral, he mentioned that Chuck was a big man who did every thing in a big way.  This is a key insight.  Chuck certainly ministered and served as a priest in a BIG way; his care and compassion on a daily basis was huge, his love for the students and for the Church was enormous, and his legacy of modeling what a faithful, self-donating and spirit-lead life should look like  is gigantic.  In my mind that is what we are doing here tonight: celebrating the man, the priest and his legacy. Most of us have a precious piece of Fr. Chuck to hold on to. We’re hoping some will share those at the reception.

I would like to offer my own thoughts about how a person’s life can be measured: I think by the quality of his /her “I DOs.”  When the Archbishop is ready to lay hands upon you in the rite of Priestly ordination, he first asks some questions and invites the candidate to make some promises:

-        about your willingness to embrace chaste and celibate loving; 

-        about your readiness for the humility of obedience so that you are free to serve God’s people where needed; 

-        and about your willingness to entrust your self to Christ Jesus totally.

     Father Chuck’s answer to those questions was “I do.”

Consecrated Religious make similar life-serving and love-offering vows to shape their commitment. And, there is a very similar stripping bare that happens before two lovers pledge themselves to each other in marriage: they make I DO vows.  Do you promise to be faithful and true? Do you promise to allow your loving to reach its procreative purpose and completion by spilling over into our children? Do you promise to love and honor each other through all  

your days – even in sickness, misfortune and tragedy?  “I DO!” they pledge.

This “I Do” willingness in a person is the critical quality of a life of faith, integrity, holiness, and joy.  In Baptism, parents face some daunting I DO questions:  DO you want your child baptized in the faith of the Church? Do you promise to do all in your power to help that child fulfill his baptismal commitment? “I DO.”

Immediately before conferring the sacrament of Confirmation on you, the Bishop asks you to re-affirm and choose for yourself those baptismal vows made FOR you by your parents:  Do YOU reject Satan and all his works and all his empty promises?  Is this what YOU want? Is this how YOU want to live YOUR life?  “I DO!” replies the candidate.  “I DO” seems to crop up in all the critical and formative moments where courage, commitment and sacrifice are required.   “I DO” is not merely the correct answer in all these circumstances; it is a loving commitment about who you are and how you will live.

I believe that “I DO” is an important part of Death and dying also.  Perhaps it seems strange to you to say:  “Death, I do.”  After all, dying is not something we choose but something we are resigned to…right?  “Wrong,” says the great German theologian of the last century, Karl Rahner.  He said: “Death should be an act I personally perform, not an experience I merely endure.”  He meant this for those who were believers in Christ, who bear His Spirit, because Christ’s posture towards death was: “I DO.”

When Jesus was talking about giving His life for the sheep as the Good Shepherd in the 10^th Chapter of John’s Gospel, He says about dying: “I lay down My life and take it up again.  No one takes it from Me.  I have power to lay it down and power to take it back up again.”  [John 10:18]  Death does not take from Jesus His life; He freely gives it as gift for others.  In other words, for Jesus, dying is a choice; it’s an “I DO.”  Living life for others is something he chooses to do; Dying for others is His choice as well. Death is His “I DO” to the Father and to all of us.  

In the same vain, Pontius Pilate, enraged by Jesus’ silence, said to Christ:  What’s the matter with you.  Don’t you realize I have the power to crucify you, to take your life from you? Jesus’ response makes it clear that He holds His dying in His own hands: “You have no power whatever over Me except what is given to you by God.”  Jesus’ dying is His gift of love and obedience to the Father…His final and grandest I DO, crowning a life full of many other “I DO’s” of service, sacrifice and love.

When I look at Father Chuck’s life and priestly ministry, I see clearly this Christic pattern and imprint.  Chuck’s life was a life offered and surrendered in serving others. For Jesus and for His followers, Death is not a thief stealing from us our most important possession.  Death cannot steal your life away from you, if your life is already freely given…lovingly…as gift.  

Common wisdom would say you can never be prepared for death when it comes.  Yet, if you spend your life, giving away your life to others in little increments…

Such daily dying-to-self is the best preparation for death.  If you give to others your time, your efforts, your goodwill, your care and compassion, your friendship, your love….your heart… then when it comes time to give your most precious possession, your life, Death won’t feel foreign or terrifying.  It will be one more moment of self giving and surrender, one more “I DO.”  That is how Fr. Chuck defined himself all along – by saying “I DO” to opportunities to love, finding joy and meaning in dying-to-self and serving others.   If you want to measure the quality of Fr. Chuck’s life and presence among us, 

Ask not how he died… but how he lived;

Not - what did he gain, but what did he give.

Please understand I am not suggesting that death is not a great and painful tragedy.   Death is the destruction of a unique I, and the loss of an irreplaceable, unrepeatable thou. Fr. Chuck’s departure diminishes all of us greatly.  We have lost a friend, brother, mentor, a God-man, an animator of others, a wellspring of life and vitality.   But for those who live and move and have our being in Christ Jesus, death is simply not an enemy. Christ’s death on the cross was the destruction of death.  It is a source of sorrow for us that we could not hold on to Fr. Chuck a little longer, but it is a source of great rejoicing that neither can death hold on to Fr. Chuck either, as death could not hold on to Christ.  As faithful Christians, we do not look at death as much as we look through death. Death is a doorway, a threshold, a final horizon, a Homecoming beyond which lies the new and more abundant, risen life of Christ Jesus.

I would end with a parable that captures for me the Catholic understanding of death as a horizon and a homecoming, and see Father Chuck’s death in light of this parable.

"I am standing on a sea shore, watching a ship depart.

 She spreads her white sails in the evening breeze and starts out for the mighty, blue ocean, majestic in sail. 

She is an object of great strength and beauty.

I continue to watch her, until at length, she is far off on the horizon; a mere speck of white, where the sea and sky meet.

And then someone at my side says: "she is gone!" 

"Gone?"  "Gone where?" I say.  "Gone only from my side perhaps, that is all".  She is still as great in size and majestic in sail as when she left my side.  Her diminished size is in ME, not in HER.

And just at the moment when someone at my side says:

"She is Gone!" … There are others on the other shore - waiting on the other side and shouting joyfully:  "Behold, she comes.”