Homily from the Mass of Christian Burial of
Father Justin Martin
The following is the homily given by Benedictine Archabbot Justin DuVall, superior of Saint Meinrad Archabbey, at the Mass of Christian Burial of Father Justin Martin on July 22.
Just a little over three years ago, on June 30, 2002, here in this church, many people gathered together, their hearts bursting with joy, as the newly ordained Father Justin Martin presided at the Eucharist for the first time.
This morning, we gather once again at St. Charles , but today our hearts are burdened with sorrow as we offer our Eucharist at this funeral liturgy for Justin. We should not be here today. We should not need to be here.
The two occasions that have brought those who knew and loved Justin Martin to this church could not be more different. And yet, whether we are joined in sorrow or in joy, Christ stands in the midst of this assembly. It cannot be otherwise. For Christians, joy is the sweetness of contact with Christ, and sorrow is the wound of this same contact when it is painful; and as the mystic Simone Weil wrote, “Only the contact matters, not the manner of it.” Today, Christ touches us in our sorrow even as we remember the joy of better times.
The sadness that gathers us here this morning is profound. We would be dishonest to call it anything other than the tragedy that it is. The pain of a sudden loss, especially of someone so young with promise, leaves a gaping hole in the human heart. The reading from the Book of Wisdom that we heard speaks eloquently about the early death of the just man, whom God snatches away before wickedness can twist his mind or deceit can corrupt his soul. But still, as it says, people see and do not understand, nor take God’s providence into account. How can they? Their hearts are wounded by expectations left forever unfulfilled.
Our hearts suffer the same fate. Father Justin’s family has lost a son, a brother, a nephew. He had only begun to fulfill the promise that his young life held, and pride, the rightful pride, that his family felt for him has suddenly been snuffed out. We can’t begin to imagine their sorrow.
This parish, too, has lost a son. When a man comes forward for ordination, the bishop tells him, “Remember that you are taken from among the People of God and appointed on their behalf for those things that pertain to God.”
St. Charles was not the only place in his life where Justin Martin stood among the people of God, but it was the place whose pastor and people nurtured his vocation enough that he called it his home parish, and returned here to celebrate his Mass of Thanksgiving. St. Charles Church has lost a son.
But the loss extends even further to the Church of Indianapolis , whose priests have lost a younger brother. Darkness has swallowed the bright promise of this young man, not just for those brother priests present here today, but for generations yet to be born and ordained who might have benefited from the years of wisdom and the welcome friendship that Father Justin would have had to offer.
Our hearts are heavy with sadness today at the loss we feel in this death, a human weight that presses down on us. God may well be wise in ways that escape our ability to understand. But this loss nevertheless leaves us wondering just how wide the arms of God’s compassion really stretch.
Yet, in Christ, God has known the depths of our human sorrow. The great emblem of God’s inexhaustible wisdom is the Cross of Christ. Here the contact with God was at its most bitter, when Christ cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” That dreadful hour, when he was all alone and for all appearance dead and gone, swallowed him up, but it could not hold him. To stand beneath Christ’s cross is to be touched by the mercy of God’s tears. From the cross, God began the work of making all things new, wiping away every tear and banishing death and mourning forever.
Justin became a priest because he believed in the power of Christ to make all things new. He was still young, to be sure, and he may still have had some lessons to learn from life, but he had already become familiar enough with sorrows. No stranger to loss, especially when his beloved grandmother was buried from this same church, he allowed sorrow to find a comfortable home in his own heart, after the example of Christ, so that he could offer consolation to others in their time of need. It helped make Justin Martin a good priest. It helped him be the open person that he was, a man unafraid to show his own vulnerable side when it was right to show it. This wonderful human quality endeared him to people he met and helped put his ministry as a priest on solid footing.
Father Justin’s faith stood on the firm ground of Christ’s resurrection, that utterly amazing message that the women heard at the empty tomb. Our sorrow today may run deep, but the real power of the Resurrection affirms that there are some pains too deep to relieve, and some sorrows too awful to pretend that they have an explanation. This is Christ’s gift to his Church—that he is unafraid of the depths of our sorrow and has made of it a point of contact with the love of God, even when it is at its most bitter.
In union with Christ, then, we must entrust Father Justin—and ourselves—to the arms of God’s mercy. For us, it is an act of faith. Here at this Eucharist, Christ gathers us to remember his own death and resurrection, and how that mystery embraced the life and ministry of Father Justin, if only for a short time by our count.
This loyal son of Saint Meinrad went on to study in Rome , a clear signal that the Archbishop and vocation director saw the promise that he held. There, his friendly ways put him in contact with students, faculty, some bishops and even a cardinal or two. Rome held a lot of adventures for him, but his savoring of its delights wasn’t limited to ecclesiastical circles. After all, the Eternal City offers cannoli as well as cardinals; and Rome has more pastas to sample than popes to see.
Justin took it all in and enjoyed it all. We can smile a little at these recollections, but let’s not be derailed. Justin wasn’t. Over and above all those wonderful experiences that he enjoyed, he knew that priesthood meant service to others, and he put himself at their service. Over these past days, we’ve heard and read the stories of the connections he made with all the people of God. He heeded well the words at his ordination: “Remember that you are taken from among the people of God and appointed on their behalf for those things that pertain to God.”
He did connect with people along the entire spectrum from the young to the old. His own warm nature offered them a vehicle to contact the love of God. Whatever our individual memories of Father Justin Martin may be, we treasure them today. And in union with Christ, today we also entrust him, along with our joys and sorrows, to God, whose arms of mercy open wide for all of us.
St. Augustine wrote in his Confessions, “Memory is indeed a sad privilege.” This morning, we remember a man who was son, brother, friend, priest, and we remember his passing with sadness. But we also remember with grateful hearts the privilege of having had his light shine in our lives, however briefly.
We pray for him. We pray also that Christ will teach us to understand that only great love is capable of bringing such sadness, but in the end, sorrow will change into a glowing love that will warm our heart and soul. Christ, whose arms embrace both the living and the dead, is the same, yesterday, today and forever. In the meantime, for us who remain behind, only the contact matters.
The readings from the Mass were Wisdom 4:7-15, and Mark 15:33-39; 16:1-6.
(Printed with permission from Archabbot Justin DuVall, O.S.B.)