It might have been a wonder of nature that was too remarkable for words: the stillness of silent, softly falling snow; the placid lake reflecting that gorgeous sunset; the late-October maples that seem on fire. Perhaps it was the sleeping newborn, the lump in the throat when your child overcame a challenge with determination and courage, the first time your spouse-to-be said those words, “I love you.”

There are also things too terrible for words, when awe takes the form of fear, or grief, or deep sadness at sufferings and sorrows. Silence also abides for some as a constant reminder of loneliness, or loss, or being forgotten by others with busy lives.

The Book of Lamentations addresses this painful disquiet in the soul that ironically quiets our voices, when no words suffice. Traditionally ascribed to the prophet Jeremiah, it is a collection of laments for the anguish that visits even those God has chosen when the power of sin, pride, war and destruction take center stage. Yet among those words of heartache, we read surprising words of hope: 

“It is good to wait in silence for the saving help of the Lord” (Lamentations 3:26).

This is Advent for us: to wait in silence for the saving help of the Lord.

The Church sets the Advent season of preparation to see the Lord in what might seem the worst of times for reflection and stillness. The crowded stores, the stack of cards to send, the traditions to maintain in kitchens and decorations, the travels to plan and the gatherings to ready: all this makes the weeks before Christmas an exhausting time for many. Silence? No time for that; maybe later, when things settle down. Yet the words ring true: it is good to wait in silence for the saving help of the Lord.

Advent — “he comes” in loose translation from the Latin — is not solely nor even primarily about remembering the past. True, the early days of the season recount the prophetic promises of the coming Messiah, and the later days turn to us to fulfillment of those promises with the birth of Jesus. The Son of Mary is the Son of God. Here in our midst is Emmanuel, “God-with-us.” We sing “Silent Night” and “O Little Town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie” and “how silently the wondrous gift is giv’n!”

Yet our Advent today is primarily about a future that still awaits: the coming of the Lord when time itself ends and the eternal Now of God can become our own endless life. 

“Eye has not seen, ear has not heard, nor the human heart conceived, what God has prepared for those who love him” (I Corinthians 2:9).
The awe of that hope is what inspires Advent silence, waiting for the saving help of the Lord.

The best Church document I have ever read comes from Pope Benedict XVI: “Spe Salvi” (Saved by Hope). The late Pope reminded us that Christian faith understandably became a source of hope for the poor and outcast, those without power in the Roman Empire, with the radical Gospel message of the equality of all people before God, each made in the divine image and called to the same eternal joy. But it also brought hope to the wealthy and the powerful, when they recognized that all the advantages and privileges of worldly life did not quiet their souls. Something was missing for both rich and poor, powerful and powerless, the movers and shakers and those moved and shaken, that no merely earthly goods could supply. God alone suffices; and now God had come into the world as one like us.

That fact, that event, changed everything. It still does.

Pope Benedict wrote: “We see as a distinguishing mark of Christians the fact that they have a future: it is not that they know the details of what awaits them, but they know in general terms that their life will not end in emptiness. Only when the future is certain as a positive reality does it become possible to live the present as well. … The dark door of time, of the future, has been thrown open. The one who has hope lives differently; the one who hopes has been granted the gift of a new life” (Spe Salvi, 2).

There is much to trouble our Advent. War and rumors of war, opioids, rising costs, callous destruction of human life all across the lifespan, violence and harm — all of this is mind-numbing daily news. The familiar carols and the beeping credit card readers distract us for a bit but cannot still the longing we have for relief, for peace, for hope, for God.

This Advent, amid all the noise, choose a place and time where you can be quiet, still, attentive, transparent before the gaze of the Redeemer who looks upon you with human eyes and divine love. For many, this gaze is found in time before the Eucharistic Presence of Jesus. Pour out whatever is in your heart — your worries, your sadness, your gratitude, your regrets, your hopes — in the unshaken confidence that life will not end in emptiness. Let awe hold you speechless. Experience for yourself: it is good to wait in silence for the saving help of the Lord.

—

Father Tom Knoblach is pastor of Sacred Heart in Sauk Rapids and Annunciation in Mayhew Lake. He also serves as vicar for healthcare ethics and vicar for clergy for the Diocese of St. Cloud.

The post Ask Father Tom: Think of a time when awe held you speechless appeared first on The Central Minnesota Catholic.

For decades, the Church in our diocese has experienced changes in parishes: a few were twinned, and then many more. Triplets, clusters, and eventually Area Catholic Communities developed. As the number of priests continues to decline — and the number of participants in parish life as well — we will be asking the Holy Spirit to help us map out the next generation of parish life. Many might feel that same chemistry of restlessness, anxiety, sadness and anticipation.

Pondering the change in prayer, words clearly from Jesus came unbidden to my mind: “You’re simply going to spend time with another part of my family.” That gift of insight, simple but profound, reframed the picture and calmed my spirit.

Pope Francis famously characterized the Church as a field hospital. Today, pastors and other leaders can feel something like the emergency room doctor who did not create the challenging situation that presents itself, but now must coordinate the response under stress and mobilize resources to nurture life and healing.

Parishes and every structure in the Church share in the pattern of the Lord’s Incarnation. They exist to make present, visible and accessible the mystery of the universal Church and the mystery of salvation in Christ at an immediate level we can encounter in a human, direct way. They are our point of entry into a reality far greater than meets the eye.

Parishes are differentiated by their unique identity, history, festivals, colorful personalities and cherished customs. But connecting them all are far deeper bonds: the same creed and faith, the same sacraments, the same Scriptures, the same bond of Communion in the one Body of Christ.

One of the natural fears, especially of smaller communities, is that they will be consumed, absorbed, “eaten up” by their larger neighbors. Yet this is by no means inevitable: instead, respecting the identity and heritage of each brings us into relationships of collaboration, not competition, and we enrich one another in the larger family of God.

Those are easy words to say. The Eucharistic Revival helps create a richer image of this concern. Jesus instituted the Eucharist precisely so he could be consumed, taken in, “eaten up” by his faithful people. This does not reduce the Lord’s presence — it multiplies it. As St. Augustine put it, consuming the Body of Christ, we become the Body of Christ.

In his timeless work, “The Confessions,” Augustine records that as he struggled with surrendering to his mother Monica’s Christian faith, the voice of Jesus came to his mind: “I am the food of the fully grown. Grow, and you will feed on me. But you will not change it into your own substance, as you do with the food of your body. Instead, you shall be changed into me” (“The Confessions,” VII.10). 

“You will be changed into me.” This is the purpose of the Eucharist. While change is always hard — even when it is something we desire — change is in fact at the very heart of Catholic life. We are called to continual, lifelong conversion and growth in our relationship with God. And in the greatest prayer we have, the “most august Sacrament” given to us through the celebration of Mass, the key moment is transubstantiation. Bread and wine are changed into the living and glorified Body and Blood of Christ. Change toward deeper communion together in God is in fact our life, our future, and our hope.

In a quote I cannot now find, then-Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger gave a talk in Germany and remarked something like this: “The Lord assures us that his Church will endure forever. But he never said there would always be a Diocese of Mainz.” While we find a home and a point of entry into the mystery of God’s life through our parishes, the Church is far broader than what any one of us can experience. Though what is familiar to us may evolve into something new, the communion we have in Jesus will not be lost. Indeed, it may even become richer. 

Our memories are essential in creating a sense of self, situating us in place and time and relationships. At Mass, Jesus confirms the connection between remembering and identity: “Do this in memory of me.” When we celebrate Mass, we recall and we become who we are in him: one Body, united in one communion of grace, love and mission for his Kingdom.

Changes we cannot now foresee or predict may happen in what is familiar and even dear to us. As we learn anew every Lent, change is just plain hard sometimes. May Jesus help us remember who we truly are in him, and his own purpose for choosing us.

And perhaps he is nudging us to see what some of the other folks in his family are up to.

The post Ask Father Tom: ‘You will be changed into me’ appeared first on The Central Minnesota Catholic.

Lobbyists, marketers, our day’s “influencers” also know this. They understand that making a case for a policy proposal, a product or service, or a social change is best done not with statistics, graphs and reasoned arguments, but with stories of people’s lives. Mary, the struggling single parent; Joe, the carpenter down the street who coaches youth soccer; Jennifer and Matthew, whose child died by gun violence. Stories make abstract concepts and future possibilities come alive.

Jesus also knows this, of course. His familiar parables and their characters like the Good Samaritan, the Rich Man and Lazarus, the Lost Sheep and the Sower and the Seed have entered our everyday conversation and stimulate our imaginations.

Stories compel us.

The past seven years have seen regular renewed efforts to introduce legislation in Minnesota permitting assisted suicide. The bill introduced
in 2016 was withdrawn by its author when it was clear there was overwhelming opposition. The “End of Life Options Act” reappeared in 2019 and now again in 2023 in both chambers (HF 1830, SF 1318). Though its outcome is uncertain, it remains a risk in our state.

Modeled largely on Oregon’s 1994 law and buoyed by the gradual but eventual success of similar efforts around the country, the proposed legislation has grown increasingly expansive and erodes distinctions and precautions once considered necessary. Any licensed practitioner could prescribe lethal drugs. Families need not be notified. A psychological evaluation would be optional. Facilities would have limited control over the practice within their walls.

Trends in recent years add to the pressure behind this effort. The mental health crisis around the country, various barriers to access to medical and palliative care in many areas, the challenges in retaining an adequate health care workforce and the persistent individualism in our culture all add to the enticing illusion of control over one’s lifespan with the time and manner of dying.

Because stories compel us, you have already seen articles, news features, videos and other media telling the stories of people who advocate for assisted suicide. But there are also life-affirming stories, and we need more of them told — the families who keep vigil with a dying loved one; the No One Dies Alone volunteers who sit with those otherwise unknown to them when family cannot be present; the compassionate providers who bring an array of comfort measures through palliative care to improve the quality of life for those who will not get better, but can feel better; the neighbors who listen, do chores and offer small gestures of kindness to relieve the sorrow and pain that naturally come with serious illness and approaching death.

Of course, one can dismiss such testimonies easily enough: “That’s great for you if you choose it. But that’s not what I choose.” But this issue is not simply a matter of personal convictions and preferences. Compelling as they are, stories can mask essential questions we need to ask when we move past poignant episodes and think through the larger picture of passing legislation to permit assisted suicide. What kind of society will we become if this is part of our response to sickness and human need?

Leaving aside any claims of faith and morality, a purely pragmatic analysis raises grounded concerns. Legalizing assisted suicide undermines the social contract with, and commitments by, the medical community of healers to help the sick and protect the vulnerable. It normalizes death as a remedy for anxiety, fear and dependency. It aggravates the bias against those living with disabilities and chronic diseases of body and mind, and it can readily shift from the desire to die for some to a “duty to die” for others who are perceived as exhausting scarce resources. It discourages development of better techniques for alleviating human suffering and making palliative care more broadly available. It elevates the individual choice of a few to become the obligation of the many.

But those read like abstractions. We need stories of those whose resilience, courage and selfless compassion inspire hope in both those who give and those who receive. Create those stories with those in need and tell them widely.

While death will claim each of us, it need not be our master. Suffering, fear and dependence on others may threaten what we cherish and hold important in life, but assisted suicide allows death to silence the stories of life embraced in all its variety. Is that silence the story we want to tell those who will follow?

Father Tom Knoblach is pastor of Sacred Heart in Sauk Rapids and Annunciation in Mayhew Lake. He also serves as vicar for health care ethics for the Diocese of St. Cloud.

LEARN MORE

Go to mncatholic.org for more information and a simple way to contact your elected officials to make your voice heard on this proposed legislation and many other issues grounded in Catholic social teaching.

Adobe Stock / patient in bed

The post Ask Father Tom: Telling stories of life and death appeared first on The Central Minnesota Catholic.

So reads the Roman Missal as we prepare for Communion with the Body of Christ in the Eucharist.

Lent leads us to Holy Week and the Paschal Mystery. During the Eucharistic Revival, this familiar Mass text is worth a closer look.

The two sentences in the invitation to look upon the Lamb of God are straight out of Scripture, though from importantly different sources. The first is from John the Baptist, whose mission was to point out the Messiah, the Anointed One. As the Gospel records, John the Baptist saw Jesus coming toward him and said: “Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world.” And then the following day — significantly, the third day featured in this Gospel passage, a subtle reference to the Resurrection — two of John’s own disciples were with him, “and as he watched Jesus walk by he said, ‘Behold, the Lamb of God.’”

The title “Lamb of God,” of course, links to the Paschal lamb from the book of Exodus. The blood of this lamb was to mark the doorposts and lintel of the Israelites who partake of the flesh of the lamb, sparing them from the 10th plague on Egypt — the death of the firstborn in every household.

Tracing the deep and intricate historical and theological connections of the “Lamb who was slain” is beyond this brief column. But the record of the Passover event was decisive in shaping Christian understanding of the death and resurrection of Jesus: The Lamb of God is the eternal only-begotten Son of God, whose freely-offered sacrificial death destroys the power of sin and death. Christians consume the Body of the Lamb of God and drink of his Blood and thus share in the life he brings beyond death.

That brief outline summarizes the first sentence of that invitation at Mass. But the second line is richer still: “Blessed are those called to the Supper of the Lamb.”

It is natural and correct to connect the liturgy’s “Supper of the Lamb” with the Last Supper; even the celebration of Holy Thursday is titled “The Mass of the Lord’s Supper.” We are blessed indeed to be able to share in this eucharistic banquet and receive the glorified Body and Blood of Jesus himself, uniting us to him and to one another in a communion of life and love. Yet there is another related phrase like this in Scripture, from the Book of Revelation (19:6-9).

There we read: “The Lord has established his reign … let us rejoice and be glad and give him glory. For the wedding day of the Lamb has come; his bride has made herself ready. … Then the angel said to me, ‘Write this: “Blessed are those who have been called to the wedding feast of the Lamb.”’

At Mass, then, we are linked not only to past events — the Exodus and the Paschal Mystery of Jesus’ dying and rising — but also to the future life of glory they foreshadow and make possible. St. Paul uses this image of Jesus the Bridegroom and the Church as his bride because this relationship is the prototype for the sacrament of marriage: a perfect interpersonal communion of life and love expressed through the body (to borrow the words of St. John Paul II’s “theology of the body”).

The Eucharist is the fullness of that communion, where we are joined to the life and love of God through the risen Body of Christ. Mass is the “wedding feast of the Lamb.” We are made one with Jesus, and one another, in his Body. We receive him, and he receives us, in a communion of love. Like a wedding, it establishes an enduring relationship but does not exhaust that relationship. It is only the beginning of “all the days of my life.”

This leads us to yet one more element. After the Resurrection, John’s Gospel tells us, Jesus appeared to the Eleven on the shore. Unrecognized by them, this stranger directed them to cast their nets on the other side of the boat, resulting in a catch of overwhelming abundance. Overjoyed at now knowing their Lord, they bring the fish to shore to find that Jesus has already prepared for them a meal of bread and fish. (In Greek, fish is “ikhthus,” which early Christians adopted as an acronym for “Iēsoûs Khrīstós, Theoû Huiós, Sōtḗr” (Jesus Christ, Son of God, Savior). It is John’s way to indicate that the eucharistic bread is truly the saving Body of Christ.

When the Eleven come to shore, Jesus invites them: “Come, have breakfast.” Supper is the meal at the end of the day when the work is over. Breakfast begins a new day with all that lies ahead. John tells us that the Eucharist is this sacred nourishment, only the beginning of the new day that has no end. That journey is not yet complete, but we have set out with Jesus at our side.

Blessed are those called to the Supper of the Lamb: the Lord’s Supper, the wedding feast and breaking our fast to share already the beginning of the endless day of joy.

Father Tom Knoblach is pastor of Sacred Heart in Sauk Rapids and Annunciation in Mayhew Lake. He also serves as consultant for health care ethics for the Diocese of St. Cloud.

The post Ask Father Tom: ‘The supper of the Lamb’ appeared first on The Central Minnesota Catholic.

Those words need no introduction. The consecration of bread and wine to become the very body and blood of Jesus Christ is the source and summit of the life of the Church, and the Eucharistic Revival now begun invites us ever deeper into this inexhaustible mystery of faith.

The Eucharist centers the Church, of course, not as an object of devotion or a cherished and ancient ritual, but because it is the living and abiding, real and personal presence of Jesus himself: “Know that I am with you always, until the end of the age” (Matthew 28:20).

Two things are proclaimed in the words of consecration. With “This is my Body” we know by faith the sacramental but fully real presence of Jesus — the same Jesus who hung upon the cross and rose from death and now draws us into communion with God and one another.

But the second clause is also essential: “given up for you.” At the core of the Eucharist is the sacrifice of Christ. The Revival reminds us that sacrifice is also the pattern of our discipleship: “Whoever does not take up his cross and come after me cannot be my disciple” (Luke 14:27).

Indeed, just before the Preface at every Mass, the celebrant invites: “Pray that my sacrifice and yours will be acceptable to God, the almighty Father.”

My sacrifice and yours: What does that mean? In the first place, of course, it means our prayerful union with the one perfect offering of Jesus on the cross, the redemption of all things. When we gather for Mass, mercy is fully revealed, and time itself is changed, so that we do not just remember something that happened 20 centuries ago; it is our reality, here and now. As Jesus offered his life for us, so we too offer our lives through him to the Father.

But “my sacrifice and yours” also gets very personal, very individual. Over the years of ministry, I have been inspired and truly humbled by glimpses of the sacrifices the members of the body of Christ offer, and I don’t mean whatever folks put in the collection or donate to worthy causes.

These sacrifices go far deeper. Some offer their sorrows and losses; their prayers and anxieties for loved ones; their frustrations at hopes that will never be fulfilled, plans that will never be realized, reunions that will not take place in this world. There are the aches and pains and diminishment of aging; the abilities and opportunities that have disappeared with time; the friendships that are gone, sometimes suddenly and sometimes gradually.

Some offer weary hours of work and care for others who may never say thank you; misunderstandings and even lies that have damaged relationships; or the dull routine that seems more like just staying alive rather than truly living. Some offer their struggles with addictions, or habits of anger or impatience or being hypercritical, or even their doubts and questions about a God who makes us wait, does not seem to answer questions, and sometimes simply says “no.”

All of these sacrifices and more are gathered up as the assembly says: “May the Lord accept the sacrifice at your hands.” Here is the heart of a eucharistic disciple: All our offerings of prayer, service, daily routines and remarkable moments are handed over with intentional trust as a sacrifice to God, our sacrificial gift of everything we are and experience as members of the body of Christ.

Coming to the Eucharist is a not a bracketed time of piety or prayerful refuge in an otherwise secular existence; it is the integral and natural breath of our Christian life. We gather to take in Jesus; we are sent by him to give out his love in everything the next hours and days hold, pleasant and difficult. My sacrifice and yours … what does it mean to you, today?

When Mother Teresa was canonized in 2016, one of the parishioners gave me a copy of a small card she had received from Mother Teresa in 1992, when this woman was dealing with some serious health issues. The card encouraged her to pray for Mary’s intercession, and then Mother Teresa wrote: “She will help you to recover if it is God’s will for you, or else obtain for you the grace to take what He gives and give what He takes, with a smile. For this is real holiness.”

After she died, the world came to know that other than a five-week respite in 1959, Mother Teresa experienced literally decades of emptiness in her own prayer life. Her spiritual life seemed frozen in that moment of Good Friday when Jesus cried out from the cross: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

Like Jesus, her solidarity with the suffering around her united her so completely to the cross that her sacrifice is beyond our comprehension. What God took from her was a sense of his presence in prayer, though she never gave up that search; what he gave her was a heart so deeply touched by suffering that charity flowed out from her spiritual wounds, just as it did from Jesus at Calvary. And, all this, she accepted with a smile — not a grim or ironic surrender, but the unshaken conviction that God’s will leads unfailingly to happiness in the end, even if it is an end we cannot see.

Find some quiet time and place this week, even for a few minutes, and ask for St. Teresa of Kolkata’s intercession to say: “Jesus, give me the grace to take what you give, and to give what you take, with a smile: my sacrifice, and yours.”

Father Tom Knoblachis pastor of Sacred Heart in Sauk Rapids and Annunciation in Mayhew Lake. He also serves as consultant for health care ethics for the Diocese of St. Cloud.

Image: Bigstockphoto.com

The post Ask Father Tom: ‘My sacrifice and yours’ appeared first on The Central Minnesota Catholic.

I had never met this gentleman, whom I’ll call Andrew. He had fled civil unrest in his country some 50 years before. For political reasons, his wife did not come to the United States, and he refused to return to his homeland. Andrew never saw her or the rest of his family again.

Two lasting lessons remain with me from that funeral Mass. First, it struck me that the Church uses the same funeral rites for everyone. While there are various options that reflect the uniqueness of each journey of faith, the essential rites do not differ, underscoring that God plays no favorites (Acts 10:34, Romans 2:11, Galatians 2:6). It matters not how prominent or obscure, how wealthy or poor, how old or young, how educated or unread, how cherished or neglected by others. In the eyes of God, each life is of infinite value, and a place is prepared for every person in the Father’s house, as Jesus assures us (John 14:2).

This is part of the symbolism of the funeral pall that covers the casket of the baptized: We are all clothed in Christ and “there is neither Jew nor Greek, neither slave nor free person, neither male or female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus” (Galatians 3:28). Our human differences are not negated, but they are not barriers — nor leverage — to sharing the one divine life opened for us in the cross and resurrection of Jesus.

The second lesson was the generosity of that parishioner there with us. She did not know this man, either. There was no luncheon, no eulogy, no favorite songs (in fact, I think we had no music at all). She was just there to do a corporal work of mercy and pray for a man she had never known, but whom she recognized as a brother in the family of God. Professionals and volunteers who work in this field — funeral directors, liturgists, florists, those who maintain cemeteries and make meals, and so many others — share in this work of mercy and quietly witness to the value of every human life.

Increasingly, obituary columns are populated with “celebrations of life,” presented as a gathering with “more meaning than a traditional funeral” (as one Kentucky funeral home website says).

It is certainly important to honor the distinct individuality of each person. As St. John Paul noted in his first Christmas message: “For God and before God, the human being is always unique and unrepeatable, someone thought of and chosen from eternity, someone called and identified by his own name.” Memories and stories of each “someone” can personalize our gratitude for that life and inspire us to learn from and imitate their virtues and sacrifices.

While a “celebration of life” inherently looks back on a life now ended, the Christian funeral does that but much more. Our rites intentionally engage the whole range of time. We acknowledge the past that was. But we also pray in the present — attentive to the grief, family and community support, and faith of the people who are affected by this death. And, most of all, we rejoice in the horizon of the future, and the promise of eternal life rooted in the redemptive love of God and the mystery of the Lord’s cross and resurrection.
[perfectpullquote align=”right” bordertop=”false” cite=”” link=”” color=”” class=”” size=”14″]While a “celebration of life” inherently looks back on a life now ended, the Christian funeral does that but much more. [/perfectpullquote]

Hundreds of times, I have relied on 1 John 3:1-2 at the vigil services ahead of the funeral: “See what love the Father has bestowed on us, that we may be called the children of God! Yet so we are. … Beloved, we are God’s children now. What we shall be has not yet been revealed. We do know that when it is revealed, we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is.”

Two things stand out here. First, we are always children of God; this is our fundamental identity and dignity. Regardless of the particular details of each biography, each person is created by Love, in love, and called home to that same Love. We recognize that we do not always live in the image of God, and so the Church’s funeral rites are not a canonization or a declaration of glory achieved; they also petition for divine mercy to bring our loved ones to glory.

In our funerals, we do not judge the person’s life, but we do acknowledge their infinite worth as a child of God, and our common hope in the infinite mercy of God. It is charity to pray for one another, even beyond the veil of human dying.

Second, we hear those four words in the center of that reading: “what we shall be.” It is a simple declaration that when our earthly pilgrimage is complete in God’s eyes, there is not only a past to be remembered. A future is prepared for us, a future that the God “who delights in clemency” (Micah 7:18) desires to share with us. That future promises the healing of all our wounds, the consolation of all our sorrows, the end of all our sufferings and fears, the restoration of all our losses. We cannot adequately describe it or even properly long for it: “Eye has not seen, ear has not heard, nor has it entered the human heart, what God has prepared for those who love him” (1 Corinthians 2:9).

Legendary New York Yankees’ catcher and coach Yogi Berra famously said: “Always go to other people’s funerals; otherwise they won’t come to yours.” Like many of his quotes, there was a tongue-in-cheek wisdom hidden beneath the apparent humor. I can’t speak to Yogi’s faith convictions, but this quip appeals to our human compassion to support others in their sorrows and our divine faith that death does not end our relationships; it simply changes them. In Christ, we look not only to the past, but also to a future in the fullness of life. More than just a social courtesy, funerals are an act of resurrection faith, undaunted hope and living charity.

May Andrew, and all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.

Father Tom Knoblach is pastor of Sacred Heart in Sauk Rapids and Annunciation in Mayhew Lake. He also serves as consultant for health care ethics for the Diocese of St. Cloud.

Top photo: Bigstockphoto.com

The post Ask Father Tom: The Christian funeral: An act of faith, hope and charity appeared first on The Central Minnesota Catholic.