Funeral Homily for Mary Schrank

Readings: Wisdom 3:1–6, 9; Psalm 23; 2 Corinthians 4:14–5:1; John 6:51–59

There is a story told of a woman diagnosed with a terminal illness who called her pastor to her home to discuss her final wishes. She carefully outlined the hymns, the readings, the dress she wished to wear, and requested to be buried with her favorite Bible. But as the pastor prepared to leave, she said excitedly, "There’s one more thing. This is very important: I want to be buried with a fork in my right hand."

Puzzled, the pastor asked her why. She smiled and explained, "In all my years of attending church potlucks, whenever the main course was being cleared, someone would always lean over and say, 'Keep your fork.' It was my favorite part because I knew something better was coming—velvety chocolate cake or deep-dish apple pie; something wonderful and rich. I want people to see me in that casket with a fork in my hand and ask, 'What's with the fork?' Then I want you to tell them: Keep your fork... the best is yet to come."

That woman understood the heart of the Christian faith: she knew that in God, something better is always waiting.

We gather today in the quiet comfort of Holy Cross Parish—a place that Mary Schrank loved so dearly and served so faithfully—to celebrate a life rich in love, faith, and joy. At 79 years young, Mary returned home to the God who fashioned her with extraordinary care. While our hearts carry the heavy ache of grief, we do not mourn as those who have no hope. We gather anchored in the promises of the Scriptures she cherished, knowing with absolute certainty that for Mary, the best has now arrived.

The Book of Wisdom reminds us that "the souls of the just are in the hand of God, and no torment shall touch them" (Wisdom 3:1). To our human eyes, Mary’s passing is a sorrowful loss, but in the light of eternity, she is at peace. God tried her, found her worthy of Himself, and has received her like a sacrificial offering into His eternal rest.

A Faith Nourished at the Altar

Mary’s faith was not passive; it was the vibrant heartbeat of her entire life. As a dedicated member of the Legion of Mary, she walked under the gentle mantle of Our Lady, carrying a servant's heart into the world. And as an Extraordinary Minister of Holy Communion right here at Holy Cross, Mary held the sacred privilege of placing the Body of Christ into the open hands of her brothers and sisters.

How fitting it is, then, that we hear Jesus’ words from the Gospel of John: "I am the living bread that came down from heaven; whoever eats this bread will live forever" (John 6:51). Mary did not just distribute the Eucharist; she fed her soul on the Living Bread, allowing Christ’s life to transform her own into a daily offering of kindness, service, and love.

A Heart Full of Joy, Spirit, and Beauty

Saint Paul writes to the Corinthians that "if our earthly dwelling, a tent, should be destroyed, we have a building from God, a dwelling not made with hands, eternal in the heavens" (2 Cor 5:1). Mary lived her 79 years with a deep appreciation for the gift of this earthly life, embracing every single moment.

Together with her beloved husband, George, Mary spent summer after summer traveling, exploring, and enjoying the vast beauty of God's creation. She possessed a spirit-filled, infectious personality that lit up every room. She also had a rare, wonderful gift with children—never hesitating to get down on their level, playing, laughing, and making them feel endlessly cherished.

Her artistic heart was another reflection of the Creator’s grace. Whether she was knitting, sewing, restoring, designing, or creating, Mary’s hands were always at work making the world more beautiful. In many ways, Mary’s whole life was her greatest masterpiece—a tapestry woven with threads of deep devotion to her family, unwavering faith in her Lord, and a quiet, steadfast commitment to caring for anyone in need.

Resting in the Good Shepherd’s Care

In the words of Psalm 23, the Lord was truly Mary’s Shepherd. He led her beside restful waters, refreshed her soul, and guided her along right paths. Now, as she walks through the valley of the shadow of death, she fears no evil, for the Lord is with her. His rod and His staff give her eternal comfort.

George, and all of Mary’s family and friends: the sadness we feel today is real, but it is not the end of the story. St. Paul assures us that "the one who raised the Lord Jesus will raise us also with Jesus and place us with you in his presence" (2 Cor 4:14).

When the respected minister Bishop Warren Chandler lay on his deathbed, a friend leaned in and asked, "Bishop, tell me honestly—as you get closer to the end, are you afraid to cross over the river of death?" The old bishop smiled and replied, "Why should I be afraid? I belong to a Father who owns the land on both sides of the river."

We do not cross out of God's reach when we die. Whether in this life or the next, Mary remains on property owned entirely by her Heavenly Father. She has simply crossed to the other side of the river into the home prepared for her—a dwelling not made with hands, where every tear is wiped away and beauty never fades.

May the Blessed Virgin Mary, Queen of Heaven, lead her daughter Mary into the presence of the King. Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.

 The Beheading of Saint John the Baptist (Mark 6:14–29 / Matthew 14:1–12)

 Introduction: The Trap of Vanity

Grace, peace, and mercy be unto you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.

Every day, we make hundreds of small decisions. Most pass without much notice, but occasionally, we stand at a critical crossroads where doing what is right clashes directly with what is comfortable, popular, or safe.

In today’s Gospel, we witness one of the most tragic examples of a life destroyed at that crossroads: King Herod Antipas. Herod was a man of power, wealth, and influence, yet he became a prisoner of his own vanity. When forced to choose between the life of a holy prophet and the temporary approval of his dinner guests, Herod chose to save face instead of choosing to do what was right.

His decision stands as a timeless warning for every believer about the dangers of spiritual cowardice and the true cost of human applause.

 

1. The Divided Heart of King Herod

To understand Herod’s failure, we must look at his inner conflict. Mark’s Gospel tells us something fascinating about Herod: he actually respected John the Baptist. He knew John was a righteous and holy man. Herod protected him, and when he listened to John preach, he was deeply perplexed, yet he heard him gladly.

Herod’s conscience was not entirely dead. He felt the pull of truth when John spoke. Yet, Herod was a man divided. He wanted the comfort of his sin—his unlawful marriage to his brother's wife, Herodias—while still desiring the spiritual intrigue of listening to God’s prophet.

Because Herod refused to surrender his pride, his divided heart laid a snare for him. When Herodias’s daughter danced before his court, a foolish, alcohol-fueled oath spilled from his lips: "Ask me for whatever you wish, and I will give it to you, up to half my kingdom."

 

2. The Cost of Saving Face

When the girl requested the head of John the Baptist on a platter, the true state of Herod’s character was exposed. The Gospel tells us that the king was exceedingly sorry. He knew the request was evil. His conscience screamed against it. He knew John was innocent.

Yet, look at why he succumbed: "Because of his oaths and his guests, he did not want to refuse her."

Herod was terrified. But he was not terrified of God, nor of divine judgment, nor of shedding innocent blood. He was terrified of looking weak in front of his dinner guests. He was afraid of the whispers, the laughter, and the loss of status among the powerful people seated at his table.

In that single, fateful moment, Herod decided that his public image was worth more than a righteous man's life. He traded eternal integrity for temporal reputation. He saved face, but in doing so, he forfeited his soul.

 

3. The Modern Table of Herod

It is easy to look at Herod with disdain, but if we are honest with ourselves, we must ask: how often do we sit at Herod’s table?

• How often do we remain silent when a colleague or friend is demeaned, simply because speaking up would make us look awkward or unpopular?
• How often do we compromise our Christian convictions—in business, in relationships, or online—because we care more about fitting in than standing out?
• How often do we let peer pressure, fear of ridicule, or public approval dictate our moral choices?

Whenever we choose what is popular over what is true, whenever we sacrifice our principles on the altar of public opinion, we are repeating Herod’s mistake. We are choosing to save face instead of doing what is right.

 

Conclusion: Courage at the Crossroads

Saint John the Baptist lost his physical head, but he kept his eternal soul, his honour, and his testimony before God. Herod kept his crown for a few more years, but he became a broken, haunted man who could no longer recognise the truth—so much so that when Jesus later stood before him during His trial, Herod saw Him only as an entertainment act.

Brothers and sisters, Christ calls us to a different way of life. He reminds us that "What does it profit a man to gain the whole world, yet forfeit his soul?"

Let us pray for the gift of holy courage:

• Courage to care more about God's approval than human applause.
• Courage to speak the truth, even when our voices shake.
• Courage to do what is right, no matter the personal cost.

May Almighty God deliver us from the fear of man, anchor our hearts in His truth, and grant us the grace to stand firm whenever we are tested. Amen.

 

 

 

Prolife Homily, January 22^nd. Isaiah 49:1-6,uke 1:39-56

"Every masterpiece begins with an invisible stroke of the brush before the world ever sees the canvas. Today, the church in the US reflects on the most profound masterpiece of all: human life. In the eyes of our Creator, no life is a 'surprise,' no conception is a 'mistake,' and no person is a 'burden.' From the silent knitting together of a soul in the hidden sanctuary of the womb to the final, quiet breath of the elderly, God is present, naming us and claiming us as His own. Today, we look at what it means to truly cherish the gift that began in the heart of the Father long before it began in the world."

The passage from Isaiah 49:1-6 is one of the most powerful biblical foundations for the sanctity of human life, speaking a universal truth about the origin, dignity, and destiny of every human person.

The prophet declares: "The Lord called me before I was born, while I was in my mother’s womb, he named me."

In our modern world, we often define "personhood" by what a human being can do—their ability to think, to move, or to contribute to the economy. But Isaiah flips this logic. Before the servant had performed a single act, before he had even drawn breath, he was already named and called.

In the eyes of God, our dignity does not begin when we become "useful" or "independent." Our dignity begins at the moment of conception, because that is when God’s specific call for our lives is established. To be "named" in the womb means that every child is not a "choice" to be made, but a gift to be received.

Isaiah uses the imagery of a "polished arrow" kept hidden in God’s quiver.

The womb is the first "quiver." It is a sacred, hidden space where God polishes a new life. Just as an arrow is crafted for a specific target, every unborn child is being prepared for a unique mission that only they can fulfil. When we protect life in the womb, we are protecting the potential that God has carefully crafted. We are saying that the "Archer" knows the right time for that life to be released into the world, and it is not our place to break the arrow before it can fly.

In verse 6, God tells the servant that his mission is not just for a small group, but to be a "light to the nations."

Every life lost to abortion is a light extinguished—a light that might have found a cure for a disease, composed a masterpiece, or simply provided the specific love a family needed. When we advocate for the pro-life cause, we aren't just "pro-birth"; we are pro-mission. We believe that every child has a destiny that reaches "to the ends of the earth."

The Gospel of Luke 1:39-56, known as the Visitation and the Magnificat, is perhaps the ultimate pro-life narrative in Holy Scripture. It is a story of two women, two hidden children, and a God who works wonders in the quietest, most vulnerable spaces of human existence.

The passage begins with Mary travelling "with haste" to see Elizabeth. The moment Mary’s greeting reaches Elizabeth’s ears, something extraordinary happens: "the infant leapt in her womb."

Saint John the Baptist, though still in the womb, becomes the first person to recognize the presence of the Savior. This encounter shatters the idea that a child in the womb is merely "potential" life or a "cluster of cells." Long before Jesus preached on the Mount or performed miracles, He was already a transformative presence. Elizabeth, filled with the Holy Spirit, acknowledges this by calling Mary "the mother of my Lord." She does not say "the mother of the one who will become my Lord," but recognizes his full dignity and Lordship from the moment of conception.

The Visitation is a beautiful model of how we are called to support life. Mary, though young and facing her own uncertain future, goes to serve her elder cousin. Elizabeth, in turn, offers Mary a sanctuary of affirmation and joy.

Like Elizabeth, we are called to be the ones who welcome both the mother and the child with a blessing, providing the communal support that makes the choice for life a joyful reality. Elizabeth proclaims, "Blessed are you who believed that what was spoken to you by the Lord would be fulfilled."

To be pro-life is an act of profound faith. It is the belief that every child, regardless of the circumstances of their conception, is part of a divine plan. It is the faith that God will provide for the mother and that He has a purpose for the child. When we stand for life, we are standing with Mary in her "Yes"—a "Yes" that changed the world because she trusted that God is the author of life.

Sometimes, the task of ending abortion and building a culture of life feels impossible. We look at the laws of the land or the hardness of hearts and feel small. But the pro-life mission does not rely on our political might; it relies on the God who does "immeasurably more." Every time a life is saved, every time a heart is healed after an abortion, and every time a family opens their home to a child in need, we see this power at work.

This morning, we reflect on the sanctity of life not as a political argument, but as a mission of love. Let’s pray that the Lord may make us aware of the call we have received to be a people who protect the vulnerable, support the frightened mother, and cherish the elderly, proving to the world that every life is a light that deserves the chance to shine.

 

  

A Homily on Mark 2:13–17 and 1 Samuel 9:1–4, 17–19; 10:1

The Gospel of Mark presents a radical shift in how we understand community, worthiness, and the very heart of God. In this brief scene with Levi, Jesus does far more than call a disciple; he overturns the social and religious categories of his time and reveals a God who draws near precisely where others draw back.

The Call of Levi

The scene begins by the sea, but very quickly Jesus moves to the tax booth. In the first century, tax collectors like Levi were not just unpopular; they were regarded as traitors and religious outcasts, collaborators with the Roman occupiers who often enriched themselves at the expense of their own people. That is where Jesus goes.

Jesus initiates: he does not wait for Levi to repent or to clean up his life.

The command is simple: “Follow me.” No conditions, no probation period, no moral pre‑screening.

The response is immediate: Levi leaves his booth—his source of wealth, identity, and security—and follows.

Already here, Jesus shows that vocation begins not with our worthiness but with his call. Grace reaches us where we are, not where we think we ought to be before God can notice us.

The Scandal of the Table

The scene then moves from the street to the table. In the ancient world, to eat with someone was a sign of intimacy and approval. By reclining at table with “many tax collectors and sinners,” Jesus is not accidentally in bad company; he is making a public statement that these people are welcome in his presence and at his table.

This scandalizes the scribes of the Pharisees. Their religious outlook is built on separation—avoiding what is “unclean” in order to preserve holiness. Seeing Jesus at table with such people, they ask, “Why does he eat with tax collectors and sinners?” What they cannot accept is a holiness that moves toward the mess rather than away from it, a holiness that seeks out the morally and socially excluded instead of keeping them at a distance.

The Divine Physician

Jesus answers with a single image that sums up his mission: “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick; I have come to call not the righteous but sinners.” He identifies himself as the Divine Physician and teaches us at least three things.

First, holiness is healing, not fragile. Jesus is not afraid of being “stained” by sinners; his grace is stronger than their sin. When he enters a sinner’s life, it is the sinner who changes, not Jesus.

Second, the real barrier is pride. The only people who cannot be healed are those who insist they are not sick. The Pharisees are just as much in need of grace as Levi, but their idea of their own “righteousness” has hardened into a wall that keeps mercy out.

Third, the Church is meant to be a hospital. The Christian community is not a museum to display perfect saints but a clinic for those who know they need God. If the Church sometimes feels full of broken, complicated, wounded people—that may be a sign that the Divine Physician is at work.

Levi’s story challenges us to look honestly at our own “tax booths”—those habits, fears, resentments, or compromises that keep us from following Jesus wholeheartedly—and to examine how we treat those we quietly consider “outcasts.” Are there people we have written off as beyond God’s reach? Do we use our faith as a way of separating ourselves from others, or as a mandate to bring healing into their lives?

Jesus reminds us that his table is open. He does not call us because we are perfect; he calls us because he is merciful. As Erasmo Leiva‑Merikakis observes, “The deepest meaning of Christian discipleship is not to work for Jesus but to be with Jesus.”

The God of the Ordinary: Saul and the Lost Donkeys

The first reading shows the same God at work in a very different context. The story does not begin in a temple or a palace, but with a very ordinary problem: lost donkeys. Kish, a Benjaminite, loses his animals and sends his son Saul to find them. Saul is stalwart and handsome, standing “head and shoulders above the people,” yet he spends days wandering through the hill country, unable to complete a simple task.

How often do we feel like Saul? We set out to take care of routine matters, only to end up frustrated, exhausted, and “lost” in our own way. We think we are just chasing “lost donkeys”—looking for work, mending a relationship, surviving a difficult week—without realizing that God may be using these very detours to lead us into a deeper calling.

The Appointment in the Gateway and the Oil of Anointing

When Saul finally decides to seek out a “seer,” he imagines he is looking for someone who can tell him where the animals are. But God has already spoken to Samuel, telling him exactly when the future king will arrive and how to recognize him. At the gateway of the town, their paths cross.

The contrast is striking: Saul is looking for animals; Samuel is looking for a leader; God is looking for a heart that can be shaped to govern his people. Samuel invites Saul to go up ahead, seats him in the place of honor at the banquet, and only later mentions the donkeys. In other words, Saul’s small problem has become the doorway to a much larger grace.

The story culminates in a hidden, intimate act. Samuel takes a flask of oil, pours it on Saul’s head, and kisses him, saying, “The Lord anoints you commander over his heritage.” In a moment, the man who was searching for animals becomes the anointed leader of Israel. The oil symbolizes the Holy Spirit: Saul is no longer relying only on his natural gifts—his height, strength, and appearance—but is being drawn into God’s own plan to save his people.

Our Takeaway

Together, these readings teach us that God’s timing is perfect, even when our lives feel chaotic.

Trust the detours: your “lost donkeys” may be the very means God is using to bring you where he wants to bless you.

Look for the “seer”: seek spiritual wisdom—through prayer, Scripture, and the counsel of the wise—when you feel lost; God often guides us through the people he places in our path.

Accept the anointing: every baptized Christian has been anointed to share in Christ’s mission. We are called to govern our lives with virtue and to serve “the Lord’s heritage,” the people entrusted to us.

On this Memorial of Saint Anthony, Abbot, we see the same pattern. Anthony left the “ordinary” security of wealth to seek God in the desert, and in that apparent wandering he became a father of monasticism. Whether in the desert or the city, at a tax booth or on a donkey‑hunt, God is ready to pour out his Spirit, to call us by name, and to weave our ordinary stories into his saving work.