Moving Rite Along

I hate nothing more than going to the dentist. Well, really, I hatednothing more. Now I actually look forward to going to the dentist. A few months ago I decided to find a new dentist. I met with him and I was very honest about my negative feelings toward his profession. We sat and talked for a long while. I got to know him as a person, not just as a perceived purveyor of pain. As it turns out, he and I have a lot in common, not the least of which is music. Every time I visit his office, he has a CD for me to take home or a song or two to listen to. The other day he shared a song that he called his anthem, his personal mission statement. It was the Jimmy Buffet song “It’s My Job.” I never imagined my dentist was the kind of person whose life would be defined by the Coral Reefer Band, but when I listened attentively to the lyrics, I understood. It’s a simple song with a poignant message: we are all given jobs in this life, and whatever our job, big or small, we do the best we can.

I was called to do a job recently. I knew the moment I got the phone call that it would be one of the toughest jobs I’d ever have to do. A very old and dear friend of mine, Rita, had passed away. Her oldest daughter was on the phone, and she could barely speak as she choked back tears: “I know you live a long distance away, but could you please play and sing for my mother’s funeral?” I responded with three words: “I’ll be there.”

And I was. I was there in the same church where my friend married the man of her dreams. There in the same church where her children were baptized, confirmed, married, and received first Eucharist. There in the same church from which her husband had been buried more than 25 years earlier, the victim of a dreadful accident. There in the same church where they worshiped as a family week in, week out, year in, year out. There in the same church where we gathered to say our last farewell to a woman I was proud to call my friend. Yes, I was there.

I was perched in a choir loft that morning before Mass, looking down on Rita’s family. As I waited, my mind whirled with memories. I thought about how many times I’d been there before, for happy occasions and sad. I thought of how important the sacraments of the church are to this one family. I thought of how the church has been there to strengthen, support, sustain, console, nourish, and sanctify this family. I thought of how this family was like Catholic Christian families throughout the centuries and across the globe, families that came to the church at times of major life events. I thought about how the physical life of this family and countless others are inextricably intertwined with the sacramental life given to us by the church.

I had always admired my friend Rita. She was a great mother who devoted her life to her children. She took seriously her responsibility as their first teacher of morals, theology, faith, and spirituality. I remembered when she presented each one of her children to be baptized. In front of the assembled community, she and her family pledged to assist and guide their children on their spiritual journeys. She knew that her children were now claimed for Christ. Her faith told her that her children were incorporated into the life, death, and resurrection of Christ and heirs to the gift of eternal life.

I smiled as I recalled Rita’s house, which sat directly across the street from mine. A party always seemed to be going on there, evidenced by the constant flurry of activity and people coming and going — friends, neighbors, relatives, kids, and adults. I marveled at the way a feast could be placed on the table on short notice or no notice at all — good food, good wine, good friends, and Irish music always playing in the background. Everyone was welcome at her table. I had watched as each of her three girls graduated from infant seats to high chairs to a place at that table with adults, entering into the grown-ups’ conversation and feasting. Shortly thereafter, each came to the table of the Lord to be fed and nourished by the Eucharist.

Shortly before her second child was scheduled to receive her first communion, Rita’s husband was killed in an industrial accident. Many were stunned when Rita decided that her daughter would receive her first Eucharist at her father’s funeral. I wasn’t. It was a testament to Rita’s faith, her witness, and the depth of her understanding of the Blessed Sacrament. I cried as her daughter, clothed in a beautiful white communion dress and veil, received the Body and Blood of Christ. What a witness to our faith! Through Rita’s pain and grief shone the knowledge that we are nourished for life’s journey by the eucharistic feast; through the death of her beloved husband, she was secure in the belief of eternal life and the communion of saints.

I had to leave my thoughts, for the moment at least, because I had a job to do — the job of praying and singing my friend home. I had worried much in the days leading up to Rita’s funeral Mass. Would I be able to sing and play? Would I be reduced to a puddle of tears? I wasn’t sure, but my worries were unfounded. I was calm and serene as the Mass started, and I was able to enter into the prayer of the church. As the priest greeted the body, they were all there: the water, the white pall, the paschal candle — all signs of life eternal. The same symbols were there the day Rita was baptized, the day she entered into the mystical Body of Christ. I maintained my composure until the final commendation. I choked back some tears, but just like my dentist’s anthem says, I did my best.

The funeral concluded and we processed to the parish cemetery for the committal and then back to the “old neighborhood” for the repast. It was good to see old friends and people who had been like family to me. Rita’s “girls,” now adults, were so grateful and appreciative. “Thank you for being here for us. Thank you for traveling so far. Thank you for preparing such a beautiful worship aid.” They didn’t know that it was I who should have been thanking them, I who had the privilege, the honor. They didn’t know what a gift this funeral had been to me.

I have a dentist’s appointment tomorrow: some pesky old crown needs to be glued on, I think. No doubt, I’ll get to hear a few more of his tunes. I’ll be sure to thank the doctor for sharing his anthem with me. I’ll tell him about how his song helped me to get through a really tough day, how it reminded me that doing my best is all that God, all that anyone, expects of me. I’ll tell him about my friend Rita, tell him about her funeral. If he’s not too busy, maybe I’ll tell him about one family’s faith and how privileged I have been to be part of their sacramental journey. Ultimately that’s what we in ministry do. We walk with friends and family, seekers and strangers, doubters and disciples. We heed Christ’s call: “Go, therefore, and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you” (Mt 28:19-20).

It’s rare that anyone who ministers to the people of God are as deeply involved in another’s faith life as I was with my friend Rita’s. Her life and her death remind me how privileged I am, how privileged we all are, to share in the sacramental journeys of those we encounter. Sometimes our jobs, our ministry, can seem mundane — another wedding, another funeral, another baptism. The people we are called to minister to are sometimes kind and loving, sometimes not. Yet each time we are called to serve an individual or a family, each time we are present to one of our brothers and sisters, we do what Christ commanded. We teach, we preach, we pray, we console, we sing, we play, but most importantly we love, all in the name of Christ. It’s our job! ML

Ada L. Simpson is director of liturgy and music at Our Lady of Mount Carmel in Boonton, N.J. She holds a master's degree in pastoral ministry from Caldwell College, Caldwell, N.J.

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