For all the faithfully departed.

The memorial Mass of an eccentric high-school friend turns into an act of faith

A FRIEND OF MINE DIED AND NONE OF OUR OTHER friends knew until he was already buried. He wasn't exactly a friend, but he was more than an acquaintance. He was an eccentric guy I knew in high school. During those four years he was such a fixture in my world that I can hardly imagine going through high school without him.

I heard about Ken's passing from Tony, another high-school classmate, who is now a priest in the old neighborhood. While looking over a list of people who had died recently at a local hospital, Tony was stunned to see Ken's name. Ken had died essentially alone. No one had attended his last days. No wake had been held. He had been buried without a funeral. Tony called to ask if I would come to a memorial service.

Six or eight of us showed up. It was a large, cavernous church, made intimate by the few lights glowing above the altar. I shook hands with guys I hadn't seen in more than 20 years, scanning their mature faces for the fresh-faced boys I knew so long ago. I had mastered time travel, it seemed: I was back in high school and also here in this church, responding to "So what have you been up to?" The membrane between these eras grew thin, as did the membrane between us and our old classmate.

Ken had continued to live in the neighborhood he'd grown up in. I imagined he'd remained a fanatic for championship wrestling, but that may only be my attempt to lock him into the time when I last knew him. His job as a butcher did him in. That, and his stubbornness, which we all had been familiar with. He caught pneumonia that winter and never attended to it. He was stoic. He was proud. He was self-reliant. He continued to walk in and out of meat freezers despite his worsening health. One night he went home from work and died.

As we gathered, Tony warmly welcomed us and asked us to stand with him behind the altar. Our small talk flowed seamlessly into prayer. Standing in dim light around a table set with bread and wine, I imagined what the earliest Eucharists might have been like. Do this in memory of me. The light and shadows around us were pulsing with memories.

That night I got to celebrate Mass as never before. Never had Mass felt so immediate, so necessary, so real. There was no distance at all between our host and those whom he invited to gather. We were one.

Our gathering was an act of faith for a classmate we had probably hurt, shunned, and humiliated. And yet we loved him, too. We had been young and fearful. He had been different. He had developed a thick skin. Perhaps he had learned how not to feel. And maybe that learning how not to feel had led to his ignoring his illness and led to his early death.

"I confess to almighty God, and to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned through my own fault." "Lord have mercy."

We remembered the golden moments of our high-school days, when there were laughs all around. "Glory to God in the highest, and peace to God's people on earth."

We gave the homily to one another by reminding ourselves of Ken's special gift of daring to be a unique person in those years when being cool seemed life's highest goal. At that point Ken was with us, too, and the membrane all but gone.

We recognized the gifts that each of us carries into the world and offered up "the work of human hands, which will become for us the bread of life."

The Mass flowed on. We spoke the words together. We stared at the reality of death and meaninglessness, and it was overcome by the mystery of love. When Tony broke the bread, we knew how fragile life was, and we tasted the pain of that fragility in the bread we shared. "The Body of Christ." "Amen."

When Mass was ended we gathered in the rectory dining room for coffee and Polish pastries in honor of Ken. We conjured up more memories and swapped stories. We relived those days, this time with a newfound kindness.

It got late and we said our goodbyes. When I got in the car for the long ride home, I felt at peace. There are few days that end with the certainty that you've done something decent and good. This was one of them. I went to work the next day and, through the grace of God, saw everyone around me with clearer eyes and a heart awash with mercy and compassion.

By TOM MCGRATH, executive editor of U.S. CATHOLIC magazine.