Deacon Chris Cassidy RIP

On Friday 3rd October, my father, Chris, went to his eternal reward. He had been ill for a long time and had been an example of courage and faith to all who accompanied him during his illness. I celebrated his Requiem Mass on Tuesday 14th October.

Homily ~ Rev Chris Cassidy.

I would like to begin by thanking you all for being here. I know many have travelled long distances to be with us today. The countless cards and messages that we have received remind us his family, that this is not just our loss, but yours too. Dad would be very humbled by your love and kindness. And he would be thankful that his life had touched so many. Your being here is a testimony to him.

As I speak can I invite you all to have in your mind a picture of Chris. The one on the order of service might help, but maybe there is an image you have that is special to you – a shared experience, a smile or greeting , or for me the strongest one, from when I was still at school, and dad would wake me up and I would come downstairs to find him with the cat on his lap (who he always claimed to dislike) and praying his breviary. That cat must have become holy by osmosis. As I speak, hold onto the memory that you have, and when we gather later let us share them.

Over the last couple of years I have celebrated many funeral Masses. And I am always faced with the difficult task of summing up a life in a few simple words. And I have come to the realisation that words aren’t enough. We have a poverty of language when we come to explain the mystery of a person. Today is even more difficult as it is very close to home, as I find the words to remember this beautiful man.

But the Church teaches us that we remember best when we do not rely on words but on action. And the action we have before us today is Eucharist. The meal that is crucially, about remembering and being transformed in that action of memory, so that we might become what we receive. . St Augustine puts it beautifully. “When we remember, we make present the past.”

In remembering Chris we will learn more of Christ.

A couple of weeks ago I met with a Dominican friar who was giving a retreat at Aylesford. As friars seem to do when they gather, there was some serious conversation going on and we began to talk about the Eucharist. Three words still linger from that evening –

• Generosity
• Humility
• Vulnerabilty.

I would add a fourth – tenderness.

Dad was a man of the Eucharist. He loved God and this love was his hallmark. These four words seem to unravel the life of him for us.

The generosity of the Eucharist is that total offering of self. ‘This is my body for you.’ This is the promise of Jesus for us, a God who is wholly for us and whose love we are called to imitate. Some of the memories that have been shared with us over the last weeks have spoken of how Chris incarnated this generosity. We have heard of the words of encouragement given. Fr Wilfrid shared a story with me from the winter of 1987 when we had very bad snow. Wilfrid saw Chris pulling a sledge through the village laden with groceries that he was taking round to the elderly. This generosity was also closer to home in the welcome that both mum and dad have given over the years to family and friends. They seemed to operate from the idea that family is a very elastic concept. All who entered their home were welcomed and loved. That generosity is also a necessary part of the married life. The giving of oneself to another in marriage is something that stuns me and something dad never took for granted. The love that mum and dad have shared over fifty five years is a lesson in life that we all benefit from. Because of the experience I have had of marriage through witnessing the married life of mum and dad, I stand in awe of marriage and the love of God that it reveals.

The humility of the Eucharist is, I think, often overlooked. If love is generous it must always be humble. Jesus taught us that serving is about loving. In washing his disciples feet, he showed that those who minister in his name must not be about power or status, ministry is about finding things to love even in people who seem to be unloveable. We are able to love, because we are loved, and Chris saw his loving, not just as a gift of his self, but as God loving others through him. When dad first moved into Lulworth House he was still ministering to his people. In the first months there he found it difficult to sleep and he would often be found at the bedside of bed bound patients, holding their hands or simply sitting silently next to them. In his brokenness and fragility he passed on a peace to those around him. I am told that many of the staff would seek him out at the beginning of their shifts just to receive one of his smiles. It would set them up for the hours ahead.

But what of vulnerability? How is the body of Christ vulnerable? It is vulnerable because it is broken and poured out. Love requires that we are vulnerable, because love is about taking risks. There is a risk in living and living well. Part of this risk is not being able to understand why good people suffer. I do not believe that our suffering is fruitless. I do believe that suffering is a mystery and that I’ll never know its value in this life. Dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in the summer of 2000. He contained his illness through determination and down right stubbornness until 2003. He still walked miles visiting the sick in their homes, the hospital, and the hospice. If anything he valued this ministry more than ever. As his own illness ravaged him, he identified more with those he was helping and praying with. We will never know how fruitful this time was. It was hard for us to watch his memory fade and his body weaken. But dad remained steadfast and faithful to his family and his work.

If you have wonderful memories of Chris, then we his family are more deeply blessed. He was a wonderful husband and the best of fathers. My memories of dad usually involve the dinner table and a bottle of red wine. He was most complete when his family were around him. We will always remember the statement at the end of each Sunday lunch, when pushing back his chair from the table he would declare ‘I feel like a butchers dog.’ To which we would all respond ‘and you look like one too!’ I will always remember the gales of laughter that would occur when the grandchildren were visiting and a full English breakfast was on the menu. Can such fun actually be had by the mutual theft of sausages from one plate to another.

Our faith and dad’s own deep conviction tells us that love always has the final word, because love is stronger than death. The liturgy tells us that life is changed not ended. So, although we are sad that dad has been taken from our sight we know that his loving of us, and our loving of him has not ended, and that in God’s good time we will be together again. May he rest in peace and enjoy the great reward prepared for him.