HOMILY for the Solemnity of ALL SAINTS, November 2nd., 2014
“Blessed are the poor in spirit”
Mrs. Amelia Carducci was an unmistakeable figure at St. Hugh’s church. She came to Mass every day, or at
least to most of Mass, for she always arrived just after the start, with her bobble hat and faded green overcoat,
always carrying at least two shopping bags which she put down beside her with noisy plastic rustlings, before
remembering that she had not lit a candle to St. Anthony or the Sacred Heart, and had to make her way to
each, dropping her coin in the slot with a loud metallic ‘clonk’ which interrupted what Father Andrew was
trying to say. “She’ll be moving about at her own funeral,” Father commented to the server afterwards in
the sacristy.
Not very much was known about her. She had come from Italy in her youth and still spoke very
ungrammatical English with a broad accent. She had bright eyes and an open, honest face. She probably
took in more than people thought. She lived in a little flat above a shop just off the High Street and could
be seen in the supermarket buying frugally but with just the odd bar of chocolate peeping out from among
her simple purchases. She was distressed by down and outs and winos and dropped the odd coin into their
hat on the pavement, and even bought a Big Issue.
Every afternoon unless it rained Mrs. Carducci was in the park, on a bench by the main walkway quite near
the entrance, a strange place to choose, quite noisy. She took on the classic task of feeding the birds, and
otherwise just sat and looked. Sometimes she smiled or even gave a discreet little wave.
Her husband had died some 20 years before, always a sick man. One of her two sons had been killed in a
road accident; she had another in the USA but nobody could recall seeing him. Some parishioners
wondered if she was lonely but she didn’t like being pushed into things or being fussed over, and would just
say: “I’ll be OK”.
The day she didn’t come to Mass, it was so surprising that Father Andrew lost the thread of what he was
trying to say. That evening there was a message to the Presbytery. Mrs. Carducci had died in her sleep.
The neighbours had called the police who had broken in. It all looked very peaceful. Just the empty beaker
of her milk drink by the bed, and a couple of biscuits. The usual holy prints and cards that you would expect
of a woman from southern Italy who had been born, apparently, in 1928.
Her Requiem was attended by the parish regulars but not by many others. The son came with his wife from
America but seemed out of place and left soon after the burial. One of the local winos parked himself on
the back bench and growled at attempts to remove him; was he mourning, or just keeping warm? Mrs.
Carducci was on time for the funeral and did not move about during it. So she was buried, and that was that.
And Father Andrew settled down to wait for the arrival of the next parish ‘character’.
Mrs. Carducci lay on the bed and prepared to sleep. She had a strange sense of slipping, of losing focus. She
didn’t feel alarm, but she didn’t feel she was in control.
For a second everything went black. Then an amazing thing happened. She was enveloped in a wonderful
light, not painfully dazzling, but complete, perfect. A sound, not harsh or frightening, but like a unique
music. A warmth, not a fire, nor burning, but glowing, comforting in a way never experienced before. And a
gentle sweet smell; not a perfume or scent, a sense of soft total sweetness, health. It seemed to be all around
her.
Then thousands of images swept into her. Not terrifying, but irresistible. Very fast, but she knew them all.
Grandparents, parents, school friends, villagers, her young husband, children. Things, too: meals, flowers,
knitting needles, the Sacred Heart altar kept on coming and going. Sometimes the image would slow;
something seemed to be saying: “do you want this?” Television programmes, her chocolate bars. But she
sensed them all in and through this wonderful indefinable Presence, and she wanted the Presence. Images
of negative things, her little mutters and moans, things she’d long forgotten; her son saying goodbye for
America and going rather abruptly and coldly. She knew she was in Purgatory; all her life before her, and
God was offering his love.
Thousands of faces; who on earth were they? The down and out on his cardboard in the street. All the
people Mrs. Carducci had looked at in the park. Because when she had looked, she had cared. Yes, she had
cared, she couldn’t deny that. Nothing dramatic, but totally real.
Then it stopped.
The warmth became warmer, the light brighter, the sound sweeter, the fragrance
captivating. An invisible force said: “come”. And Mrs. Carducci het herself go. People she saw, but did
not know, now a sense of a multitude of presences that she knew, but did not see.
And Mrs. Carducci entered Heaven.
A Zen Master was challenged to work a miracle. He replied: “my miracle is that I eat when I am hungry and
drink when I am thirsty”. Not because the clock says ‘eat’, not to comfort oneself or because one is bored
and thinks of nothing else to do. But because it is natural, right, and whole. The greatest miracles are the
unspectacular ones, but they are perfect.
St. Augustine said: “Should you ask me: ‘what is the first thing in religion?’ I would reply: ‘the first thing is
humility, the second thing is humility, and the third thing is humility”. Not love? No, because without
humility, love is not possible: an activity of the ego disguised as love, but not love. Humility is the altar from
which God receives our sacrifices.
So thank God for all the anonymous saints of all time. Mrs. Amelia Carducci, pray for us.