I had been visiting Brother Matthew Joseph every day during the week before he died. The onset of his final decline was steep and difficult. One morning he asked Lorinda to call me at Trappist Preserves with the message: “This is it.” That is what started the daily visits and the opportunity to listen to him reflect on what has meant most to him over the years. There was a big change from day to day and a growing sense of immediacy.
I chose the passage from Lamentations for our First Reading this afternoon, because those words could very well have been Brother Matthew Joseph’s own when I last saw him the morning before he died: “My soul is deprived of peace, I have forgotten what happiness is; I tell myself my future is lost . . . But I will call this to mind, as my reason to hope: my portion is the Lord, therefore will I hope in him. The Lord is good to those who wait for him, to those who seek him; it is good that one should wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord.” In just a couple of days, he experienced dramatic deterioration, and now he knew he had come to the end. He tasted the bitter frustration of not being able to do anything except undergoing the extreme weakness he was feeling, and now he wondered “what?” He looked up at me from his pillow with a face full of vulnerability and asked, “What should I do?” Words fail at such a moment, but I gently told him: “Just be, and know that Christ has never been closer to you, and please pray for the community.” At that, he said: “I am not afraid,” and with a faint smile added: “I am praying for the community.” He seemed to relax, with a job to do. Neither I nor anyone on the nursing staff expected that he would die two hours later, but he did, and peacefully. I was happy for him when Brother Amadeus came to the refectory to tell me, although shocked by the suddenness of it. Upon later reflection, it was that which inspired my choice of the Gospel for this afternoon, the simple exchange between the humble Dismas (“the Good Thief”) hanging on a cross next to Jesus, and Jesus experiencing a similar agony of helplessness: “Jesus, remember me when you enter into your reign.” “I assure you, this day you will be with me in paradise.”
Again, words fail, but I think these two Scripture passages somehow capture a moment of a defining grace in Brother Matthew Joseph’s life, something really known only to Brother Matthew Joseph and the Lord, but nonetheless affects us all. We all knew him as quiet and keeping mainly to himself for nearly 62 years as our brother. A number of us may feel we didn’t know him very well—but in truth, no matter how introverted or extroverted we are, each one of us is ultimately a mystery to each other, and even to ourselves. Personally, I am grateful for the impressions and stories about Brother Matthew Joseph that some of you shared with me these past few days, for they point to the grace and blessing of his life among us, for which we thank God as we commend him today to the Lord’s mercy.
Here is what some of the nurses, who took such good care of him in our Infirmary, shared: “Such a kind, quiet and spiritual soul. He had the tendency to know when we needed advice (yes, that resonates with me!) or a kind word or a warm smile. He had such a beautiful smile—it could light up a room. He told us he prayed for us all every night, as we are God’s earth-angels who care for the sick and elderly. He showed us all the greatest respect. He was always ready to lend a helping hand but never wanted to impose on anyone (that, too, resonates!). He would quietly observe and would do anything to help his brothers or infirmary staff. He was at his best when he was busy and productive—he was innately motivated to be on the go. Brother Matthew Joseph would always tell us not to worry because God is in control, not us: ‘why worry?!’ He had great respect for the earth and all creatures that inhabit it. He saw the beauty in the rain, flowers, and birds. He often would wish that others could slow down and appreciate the simple beauty of God’s creation.”
I certainly recognize him in this description. Many of us remember that he worked for many years at the Porter’s Lodge and Gift Shop alongside Br. Carl and Br. Leonard (between the 3 of them you can imagine the spiritual counseling about “the precious present” that was offered, visitors!). He also did the shipping at the Holy Rood Guild, often during dinnertime and meridian. When I worked at the Guild after my novitiate, I remember being amazed at how much he got done when no one was around…. But probably he loved outside work the most. During a conversation I had with him just 10 days ago, he told me how much it meant to him to care for the abbey roads, mowing their banks with the bush-hog to keep them attractive for the brethren to walk along. During the winter, we would see him moving tons of snow with the front-loader, enjoying the heavy equipment and no doubt the solitude it afforded. After a snowstorm, I would often see him from my window at Trappist Preserves clearing the parking lot and the area in front of the loading dock—a much-needed and appreciated service. Even after he became a resident in the Infirmary, he was pretty much ubiquitous around the property in his old, maroon van (which for years was missing a side door—something that never seemed to bother him). He was ever on the lookout to see what needed to be done around the place. He told me just last week that he “kept an eye on everything, even on the Abbot and Prior to see if they were doing what they should be doing!”—I just smiled, and thanked him.
I’d say that my fondest memory of him, particularly knowing how independent he was, was how every morning after the Infirmary Mass he would help Brother Jerome (a year older than himself) make his way from the chapel to the dining room for breakfast—he would take his hand as they walked, to make sure Jerome didn’t fall. The tenderness of that scene never failed to touch me—this was something I would never have expected to see, and remains with me an icon of what brotherliness can become.
Matthew Joseph didn’t talk much, but when he did, it was usually about spirituality—and then he spoke passionately and at length. He could get pretty wound up! He told me on several occasions that what he really loved and found inspiring was the faith and witness of other Christians that he discovered on YouTube. As he was telling me this again last week when he felt so miserable, his face lit up and his voice grew strong. He described how it nourished him these past years when he had so much time on his hands in the Infirmary. He spoke with wonder, and I was struck by how receptive and moved he was by the workings of God in people’s lives. Something profound resonated in him, and he just couldn’t get enough of it. Spirituality was truly his passion. Despite the deterioration of his health and the limitations it brought, he assured me he was never bored, but experienced a new peace and inner freedom from this exposure to the spiritual experiences and insights of others.
Well, each of us is full of paradoxes, presenting consciously and unconsciously many “facets” of who we are, but none of which reflects the whole (or simple) “light” at our core. As I said earlier, each of us is a mystery, a mystery to ourselves as well as to those with whom we spend a lifetime—but not to God. And that is all-important.
In this regard, the English Benedictine Cardinal Basil Hume once told the memorable story:
A priest started his homily at a funeral by saying: “I am going to preach about judgment.” There was dismay in the congregation, but he went on: “Judgment is whispering into the ear of a merciful and compassionate God the story of my life which I had never been able to tell.”
Only God knows us through and through and understands us far better than we could ever know and understand ourselves, or anyone else. Only he can truly make sense of the often confused and rambling story of our life—for who of us can explain to anyone else our deepest self, with our fears and anxieties? But if only we could whisper into the ear of someone who loves us deeply, understands us completely, and accepts us totally . . . . And here I go back to Dismas and Jesus hanging utterly helplessly next to each other on their crosses. I suspect this is what Brother Matthew Joseph did at the end when he was at a total loss as to what he could do in overwhelming weakness. His Lord was only a whisper away, and it wouldn’t take many words to whisper into the Lord’s merciful and compassionate ear the story of all his 96 years. He must have heard in reply, “This day you will be with me in Paradise.” Then came the moment for which the whole of his life was the preparation.
May Brother
Matthew Joseph and all the departed, rest in peace.
The face of Christ by Georges Roualt. Father Dominic's homily for the funeral of Brother Matthew Joseph
