As a 24 year-old newly ordained deacon (ordination as a deacon usually occurs 12 months before priesting in the Anglican Church) my first training priest, Fr Bart O’Donovan, introduced me to the art (and it is an art) of conducting funerals, including what to say in the homily.
He was pleased with the homily that I delivered at the first funeral that I conducted solo. He was present in the congregation, along with the grieving family and friends. A couple of years later, another very experienced priest thanked me for what I said about grief at another funeral, which was based closely on the sentiments of that first homily with Fr Bart.
But it really wasn’t until my father died just over 5 years ago, that I personally knew, without a doubt, that what I had been preaching was indeed deeply and profoundly true.
Grief comes in waves: shock, numbness, denial, nothing, sadness, despair (sometimes), anger, laughter (don’t feel guilty about that one – it can be extraordinarily healing), hope, love, and, eventually, but you can’t rush this one: acceptance.
These emotions can occur with apparent randomness. Just when you think you are moving nicely and neatly to the next stage of grief, you will suddenly you find yourself shouting at God at the injustice of it all.
Yet, when you hold your grief lightly, but nonetheless accept that it is there, then the beautiful parts of grief, the laughter, the hope, the love, and the acceptance, will find their way out. That’s when Jesus’ promise to his disciples, “In my Father’s house there are many dwelling-places” (see John 14: 1–6) starts to materialise as a hope worth handing on to.
When acceptance, in particular, does emerge, she is truly is a remarkable thing. But she will not be rushed, I can promise you that.
The Reverend Dr Theo McCall
School Chaplain