In January 2012, I attended the funeral of a dear family friend in a tiny rural village, nestling on the edge of Europe—the nearest transatlantic neighbour being Nova Scotia. Despite its geographical isolation, the church was filled to overflowing. Hymns were sung with power, reflections were read with deep emotion, and memories were shared. Kelly Roper writes simple poetry that speaks, to the heart and the soul, of our basic need for community:

Tip a glass in my honour

And perhaps pour a sip on my grave.

It's not so much the whiskey

As your company I crave.

Sing me one of our favourite tunes

We used to join in at the pub.

Remember me fondly as you sing,

And I'll remember you to God here above.

The wake that followed this funeral was a wonderful, life-giving event: we shared beautiful memories and played favourite songs. We thanked God for her faith-filled life that inspired and supported so many. We made promises that we would keep in touch—promises that could be so easily broken. We did meet up, but sporadically, and always at funerals. As the years dragged on, we realised that our tight circle of friendship was weakening, as we buried another dear friend.

In September 2002, I made the pilgrimage across the Irish Sea to that same beautiful church, standing proudly against the gales and storms of the Atlantic for another family funeral. Ten years had made a huge difference: Ireland was in another place—the Irish Church had been buffeted by the storm of the clergy abuse scandal, and subsequent coverup by both ecclesiastical and state authorities. The country had benefited from the economic growth that membership of the European Union, while sharing a global recession that we had not seen in decades. The nation, like so many others, was recovering from the trauma of Covid-19 that instilled fear and rocked our confidence. The church was barely half full—that spirit of faith was still there, but far fewer people seemed to be able to experience it—there was a palpable feeling of death on so many levels. November allows us to remember those 'who have gone before us, marked with the sign of faith.' We bring to mind those special people who gave so much; we remember those who we might never have met, but are dear ancestors, perhaps smiling down at us, in sepia tones, from an old photo frame. To remember another, at this time, is such a sacred thing: the centre of our Christian lives, the Eucharist helps us to realise that we are called to 'do this in memory of Me!'

Recently I have been reading the work of the Romanian writer and Nobel laureate, Elie Wiesel. I was lucky enough to attend a lecture of his in Boston many years ago where he was the emeritus professor of humanities at BU. I was humbled by his life experience and his desire to ensure that all are included. His whole life is surrounded by death, and his whole life experience is seen through the trauma of the Nazi persecution and holocaust. As a teenager he saw his family transported to the infamous Auschwitz Concentration Camp where his mother and sister were executed on arrival. As a hardy young man, he joined his father in the labour camp. In the midst of disease, hardship and death, Elie claimed that it was his father who kept him alive: he felt that if he was to give up, then his dad would give up too. A simple text, zoom or telephone call from your mobile could mean the world to another, perhaps so bound up in their own grief and problems that they cannot reach out themselves. You can be a bringer of life, especially in this month of remembrance, November.

Elie and his father were transferred to the Buchenwald death camp where the elder Wiesel died just before the US army liberated the prisoners in April 1945. Given his literary skills, a career in journalism beckoned in France. For ten years he resisted the temptation to write about his holocaust experience: the terror and fear was just too raw. A chance meeting with the French Nobel prize-winner for literature, François Mauriac changed that, as Mauriac saw that Elie had a story within him that touched the WHOLE world. As a member of the French Resistance, Mauriac realised that one had to stand up to evil and re-tell the story of injustice so that it does not happen again. Wiesel eventually published his memoir, 'La Nuit' in his adopted home of France in 1955, with the English publication coming in 1960:

Never shall I forget that night, the first night in camp, which has turned my life into one long night, seven times cursed, and seven times sealed. Never shall I forget that smoke. Never shall I forget the little faces of the children, whose bodies I saw turned into wreaths of smoke beneath a silent blue sky. Never shall I forget those flames which consumed my faith forever. Never shall I forget that nocturnal silence which deprived me, for all eternity, of the desire to live. Never shall I forget those moments which murdered my God and my soul and turned my dreams to dust. Never shall I forget these things, even if I am condemned to live as long as God Himself. Never. (from 'Night')

As you can see, Elie's feeling of despair and abandonment will far outweigh anything we might feel at this time: I especially find harrowing the thought that his horrific experience 'murdered my God'. He speaks of the need never to forget and that is why we have to instil in the lives of our families and friends, especially the young ones, that the Holocaust and that total disrespect for others must always be remembered. Adolf Hitler and his policy of separation came from a seemingly 'simple' desire for nationalism and a plan to bring Germany on from the ignominy of World War I. I am sure that the average German voter did not envisage torture, concentration camps and mass murder when they put their 'X' against 'National Socialism' as Hitler rose to power. Wiesel's testimony stands as a reminder to all of us not to be hoodwinked by attractive soundbites. Even in the midst of a global pandemic our elected leaders have to be accountable, just as our leaders in faith must be too. Elie eventually moved to the United States where he campaigned for the survivors of Nazi terror and held numerous academic posts in various Universities. His stand led to his winning the Nobel Peace Prize in 1986. Perhaps his most controversial writing was 'God on Trial' that was later turned into a television play by PBS and the BBC. Taking the Book of Job as his basis, Wiesel questions how a loving and caring God can allow evil to thrive? Why do bad things happen to good people?

We have seen a rise of neo-Nazi groups and a sickening racism across the world, even aligning itself to political campaigns at the highest levels: they imply that some groups are more IMPORTANT than others just as Hitler did. Sadly, I feel that there is a need to seriously question our own Home Secretary's recent language in reference to asylum seekers—surely, we are all called to a level of respect and basic kindness? As a Church we are a Church of inclusivity because Jesus saw the need to count everyone. Luke's parables of loss and counting (Luke 15) are so important and form an ideal source of meditation at this time: the one lost sheep is as important as the ninety-nine safe ones! The poor widow throws a party when she finds the lost coin! Both the prodigal and elder sons are appreciated by their loving Father. When we fail to count others, we move towards that uncaring society.

As we move forward from the pandemic, we have options to make: are we going to think only of ourselves or are we going to realise we are part of a global community? Are we going to realise that everyone actually counts? COVID-19 hit the whole world family and we can only find a real and lasting solutions as that world family. Wiesel reminds that love and care are so important if we do not want our lives to fall apart:

The opposite of love is not hate; it is INDIFFERENCE.

He experienced hatred in the Camps that was facilitated by indifference. The indifference that some of us are suffering during these days is especially hard to accept when it comes from those who do not hate us—they just don't seem to care. If you have a chance to make a difference in the life of those hurting, I urge you to take it: make that difference! As we move forward let us work for a Church that will always include; you have gifts that we need—even I can bring something to the table. The Irish have a lovely phrase that they often use in bereavement or in difficulty-they tell you to "MIND yourself!" So, mind yourself, mind your families, mind your friends, mind those you perhaps are showing indifference to. Make that difference that will help to move the world forward. Pope Francis shows us that indifference is actually the EASY way out: we do not have to become involved; we do not have to care. Involvement and caring helped us through the pandemic and they will definitely help us to move forward:

Indifference seems to be a medicine that protects us from involvement and becomes a way of being more relaxed. This is indifference. But this non-involvement is a way of defending our selfishness and saddens us … The challenge of reality also requires the capacity for dialogue, to build bridges instead of walls … I invite you to face 'the challenge of finding and sharing the mystique of living together, of mingling and encounter, of embracing and supporting one another, of stepping into this flood tide which, while chaotic, can become a genuine experience of fraternity, a caravan of solidarity, a sacred pilgrimage. (Pope Francis 29th November 2015)

Author: Fr Gerry O'Shaughnessy SDB

Photo by Pro Church Media on Unsplash