In Memorium

In Memorium, Father Stan D.
November 20, 1921 – May 18, 2004

Father Stan died on Tuesday, May 18, a week ago today. His funeral was this past Saturday, May 22nd. I can't say I knew him very well. His primary liturgical duties were at the 11:00 service; I normally attend the 9 o'clock. I think I heard him read the Gospel once, about a year and a half ago.

So why did I cry at his funeral?

I suppose it could be by association. I mean, his funeral may have reminded me of other funerals I have attended in my my life. The loss of this man with whom I shared perhaps two face-to-face interactions somehow reminded me of other losses in my life.

But I think it was more than that.

I knew Fr. Stan through "The Community of the Broken Cross," a group of people studying the Rule of St. Benedict. A handful, including Fr. Stan, are oblates of a near-by Roman Catholic Benedictine monastery. The remainder of us seek to apply the Rule to our daily lives, to varying degrees, with varying degrees of success.

Fr. Stan led this group with Mother Nesbitt, who now continues his good work. Fr. Stan would read a passage from the Rule, a meditation, then a commentary. Then the group as a whole would reflect on these passages. This is an application of Lectio Divina, which I have discussed (and applied) elsewhere.

Naturally, Fr. Stan would have his own responses, either to the reading or to the reflections which came out of the group. His reflections were always based on his own experience of a dedicated spiritual life. I maintain that a primary foundation of "integrity" is to practice what one preaches; that is, that one's words be integrated with one's actions.

The man I came to know as Fr. Stan was one who lived his life with integrity.

This is perhaps best exemplified by how he responded to reflections from the group's members. Every time he responded to one of my reflections, for example, I could tell he had truly listened. Even when he disagreed with a point, he would respond respectfully.

As I write this, I remember the first funeral I attended. I was four years old when Grandfather Samuel H— died. Today, I only have two clear memories of Sam: playing chinese checkers, and walking with him to the ice cream shop. I also remember that I cried at his funeral, to the embarrassment of my older brother.

But I knew then, as I know now, that Sam H— loved me. Just as I know that Fr. Stan loved each member of our group. Granted, this was not the love of a grandfather for his youngest grandson — though an argument for similarities may be made. But it was the sincere unconditional love of one who had dedicated his life to the Source of All
Love.