The following homily was preached by the Master of the Order, fr. Gerard Francisco Timoner III, OP, on the occasion of an annual Mass for deceased members of the Dominican Family.
We are gathered around the Eucharistic table to give thanks to the Lord for the gift of life and vocation of our dear deceased brothers and sisters. In this Mass we pray for all the deceased members of the Dominican Family: friars, nuns, sisters, and members of the lay and priestly fraternities. We remember in a special way those who died during the past year, in particular fr. Orlando Rueda, OP, and fr. Dominik Duka, OP.
The famous question of Saint Dominic—“What will become of sinners?”—moved him to tears, drove him to preach, and ultimately led him to found an Order whose very soul is mercy. Today we turn that same Dominican heart toward our departed brothers and sisters. We do not remember them as distant figures of the past, but as companions in mission, members of the same family, pilgrims who have reached the destination to which we too ardently aspire.
Clothed in Christ even in death
In death we lose everything that is earthly. As Job said: “Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked I shall return there. The Lord gave, the Lord has taken away.” Yet there is something we do not lose: the sacramental character of baptism, which configured us to Christ. For this reason, we are never entirely naked—we are “clothed” with Christ. With this white garment the baptized person crosses the threshold of death and appears before a God who is just, yet merciful.
In our religious profession we embraced the promises of baptism more fully. But our white garment, like our Dominican habit, is not immaculate: it bears the stains of sin. Therefore we offer this Eucharist and our prayers of suffrage for our departed brothers and sisters, that they may be cleansed of every stain of sin that still remains.
Sanctified in the Truth
The Gospel we have heard leads us into the very heart of Jesus, into His priestly prayer on the night before His Passion. It is a prayer for His disciples then and for His disciples now. And as we remember our deceased brothers and sisters, this prayer shines with particular clarity. Jesus reveals His will for us when He prays: “Sanctify them in the truth. Your word is truth. As you have sent me into the world, so I have sent them into the world. And for their sakes I sanctify myself, so that they also may be sanctified in the truth.”
Jesus wants us to be sanctified—made capable of approaching and touching the Divine through truth. To “sanctify” means to dedicate someone or something to a sacred purpose. To be sanctified in the Truth means to be immersed in that Truth which makes us fit for contact with God. God is Truth. In a profound sense, we can say that in baptism we were sanctified in the truth because we were configured to Christ, the One who is “the Word made flesh… full of grace and truth” (Jn 1:14).
Voices that continue to preach
The brothers and sisters we remember today were consecrated to the Truth and preached it in many different ways: from pulpits and in classrooms, in confessionals and hospital corridors, through books and quiet counsel, in missions and in convents. Not even death has silenced their voices. They continue to preach—not with sermons, but by the witness of their fidelity.
They preach to us when we remember the simplicity of their lives. They preach to us when we recall their love for preaching, their joy in community, their hunger for truth, their compassion for the poor, their zeal for souls. They preach to us every time we open a book one of them wrote, every time we celebrate the Liturgy of the Hours in the choirs they once occupied, every time we teach, preach, or forgive a sinner, carrying forward the mission they entrusted to us.
Today we proclaim that death has not torn them from us, for in Christ—the Preacher who conquered the tomb—we remain one Order, one body, one mission.
We renew our hope that one day,
when our earthly preaching is complete,
we will join them in the eternal Liturgy,
where truth is no longer sought but contemplated,
where charity is no longer imperfect but full,
where our common life is no longer fragile but glorious and everlasting.
