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Fr. Paul Scalia’s homily at his father’s funeral

Fr. Paul Scalia, front center, departs the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception in Washington after the funeral Mass for the late Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia Feb. 20.

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Fr. Paul Scalia, one of Justice Antonin Scalia’s nine
children and a priest of the Arlington Diocese, was the
homilist at
his father’s funeral Mass
at the Basilica of the National
Shrine of the Immaculate Conception in Washington Feb. 20.

We are gathered here because of one man. A man known
personally to many of us, known only by reputation to even
more, a man loved by many, scorned by others, a man known for
great controversy, and for great compassion. That man, of
course, is Jesus of Nazareth. It is He whom we proclaim.
Jesus Christ, son of the Father, born of the Virgin Mary,
crucified, buried, risen, seated at the right hand of the
Father. It is because of Him, because of His life, death and
resurrection that we do not mourn as those who have no hope,
but in confidence we commend Antonin Scalia to the mercy of
God.

Scripture says “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today and
forever.” And that sets a good course for our thoughts and
our prayers here today. In effect, we look in three
directions: to yesterday, in thanksgiving; to today, in
petition; and into eternity with hope. We look to Jesus
Christ yesterday–that is, to the past–in thanksgiving for
the blessings God bestowed upon Dad. In the past week, many
have recounted what Dad did for them, but here today, we
recount what God did for Dad; how He blessed him.

We give thanks, first of all, for the atoning death and
life-giving resurrection of Jesus Christ. Our Lord died and
rose, not only for all of us, but also for each of us. And at
this time we look to that yesterday of His death and His
resurrection, and we give thanks that He died and rose for
Dad. Further, we give thanks that Jesus brought him to new
life in baptism, nourished him with the Eucharist, and healed
him in the confessional. We give thanks that Jesus bestowed
upon him 55 years of marriage, to the woman he loved, a woman
who could match him at every step, and even hold him
accountable. God blessed Dad with a deep Catholic faith, the
conviction that Christ’s presence and power continue in the
world today through his body, the Church. He loved the
clarity and coherence of the Church’s teaching. He treasured
the Church’s ceremonies, especially the beauty of her ancient
worship. He trusted the power of the sacraments as the means
of salvation, as Christ working within him for his salvation.
Although, one time, one Saturday afternoon, he did scold me
for having heard confessions that afternoon, that same day.
And I hope that is some source of consolation, if there are
any lawyers present, that the roman collar was not a shield
against his criticism. The issue that evening was not that
I’d been hearing confessions, but that he’d found himself in
my confessional line. And he quickly departed it. As he put
it later, “Like heck if I’m confessing to you!” The feeling
was mutual.

God blessed Dad, as is well known, with a love for his
country. He knew well what a close-run thing the founding of
our nation was. And he saw in that founding, as did the
founders themselves, a blessing. A blessing quickly lost when
faith is banned from the public square, or when we refuse to
bring it there. So he understood that there is no conflict
between loving God and loving one’s country, between one’s
faith and one’s public service. Dad understood that the
deeper he went in his Catholic faith, the better a citizen
and a public servant he became. God blessed him with a desire
to be the country’s good servant, because he was God’s first.

We Scalias, however, give thanks for a particular blessing
God bestowed. God blessed Dad with a love for his family. We
have been thrilled to read and hear the may words of praise
and admiration for him, his intellect, his writings, his
speeches, his influence, and so on. But more important to
us-and to him-he was Dad. He was the father that God gave us
for the great adventure of family life. Sure, he forgot our
names at times or mixed them up, but there are nine of us. He
loved us, and sought to show that love, and sought to share
the blessing of the faith he treasured. And he gave us one
another, to have each other for support. That’s the greatest
wealth that parents can bestow, and right now we’re
particularly grateful for it.

So we look to the past, to Jesus Christ yesterday. We call to
mind all of these blessings, and we give Our Lord the honor
and glory for them, for they are his work.

We look to Jesus today, in petition, to the present moment
here and now, as we mourn the one we love and admire, the one
whose absence pains us. Today we pray for him. We pray for
the repose of his soul. We thank God for his goodness to Dad,
as is right and just, but we also know that, although Dad
believed, he did so imperfectly, like the rest of us. He
tried to love God and neighbor, but like the rest of us, did
so imperfectly. He was a practicing Catholic, practicing in
the sense that he hadn’t perfected it yet, or rather, that
Christ was not yet perfected in him. And only those in whom
Christ is brought to perfection can enter Heaven. We are here
then, to lend our prayers to that perfecting, to that final
work of God’s grace, in freeing Dad from every encumbrance of
sin. But don’t take my word for it. Dad himself, not
surprisingly, had something to say on the matter. Writing
years ago to a Presbyterian minister whose funeral service he
admired, he summarized quite nicely the pitfalls of funerals
and why he didn’t like eulogies. He wrote “Even when the
deceased was an admirable person, indeed especially when the
deceased was an admirable person, praise for his virtues can
cause us to forget that we are praying for and giving thank
for God’s inexplicable mercy to a sinner.” Now, he would not
have exempted himself from that. We are here, then, as he
would want: to pray for God’s inexplicable mercy to a sinner;
to this sinner, Antonin Scalia. Let us not show him a false
love, and allow our admiration to deprive him of our prayers.
We continue to show affection for him and do good for him by
praying for him, that all stain of sin be washed away, that
all sins be healed, that he be purified of all that is not
Christ. That he rest in peace.

Finally, we look to Jesus, forever, into eternity–or better,
we consider our own place in eternity, and whether it will be
with the Lord. Even as we pray for Dad to enter swiftly into
eternal glory, we should be mindful of ourselves. Every
funeral reminds us of just how thin the veil is, between this
world and the next, between time and eternity, between the
opportunity for conversion and the moment of judgment. So we
cannot depart here unchanged. It makes no sense to celebrate
God’s goodness and mercy to God if we are not attentive and
responsive to those realities in our own lives. We must allow
this encounter with eternity to change us, to turn us from
sin and toward the Lord. The English Dominican Father Bede
Jarret put it beautifully when he prayed “Oh strong son of
God, while you prepare a place for us, prepare us also for
that happy place, that we may be with you and with those we
love for all eternity.

Jesus Christ is the same, yesterday, today and forever. My
dear friends, this is also the structure of the Mass, the
greatest prayer we can offer for Dad, because it’s not our
prayer but the Lord’s. The Mass looks to Jesus yesterday. It
reaches into the past, to the Last Supper, to the
crucifixion, to the resurrection, and it makes those
mysteries and their power present here, on this altar. Jesus
himself becomes present here today, under the form of bread
and wine, so that we can unite all of our prayers of
thanksgiving, sorrow and petition with Christ himself, as an
offering to the Father. And all of this, with a view to
eternity, stretching towards heaven, where we hope to enjoy
that perfect union with God himself and to see Dad again, and
with him rejoice in the communion of saints.

Transcribed from the C-SPAN video by Monica Klem.

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