Bishop John Dolan

The following is Bishop John’s homily given at a Mass of Remembrance,
in Phoenix, AZ, sponsored by Red Bird Ministries on September 27, 2025

My dear brothers and sisters in Christ,

Today we gather in a sacred space of memory and love. We remember children of every age who have gone before us; some before birth through miscarriage or stillbirth, some as infants or little ones, some in their teen years, and some as adults. Some left this world suddenly, even through the tragedy of suicide. No matter the circumstance, each of these beloved children is still cherished by you and by the Church.

Red Bird Ministries, which sponsors this Mass, understands the long road of grief. Their mission is to accompany families through the complexity and trauma of losing a child. And today the entire Church joins that mission of accompaniment. We are here to remember, to grieve, to pray, and to let the Lord himself comfort us.

The first reading from Lamentations gives voice to profound sorrow. The prophet writes at a time of national collapse and personal heartbreak. Yet in the middle of this lament comes a radiant confession of hope:

“But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning.”

Those words are not naïve optimism. They are the hard-won faith of someone who has walked through devastation and still discovered God’s faithful presence. Parents who grieve often feel like their world has collapsed. In that place the Lord speaks quietly but firmly: My love for you and for your child has not ceased; my mercy is new every morning.

This year the Church is celebrating the Jubilee Year of Hope. How fitting that we hear these words of Lamentations now. A jubilee is a time of renewal and release—a year when captives are set free and land is restored, a year when God proclaims fresh beginnings. In the midst of grief, hope might seem distant. Yet the Jubilee reminds us that hope is not wishful thinking; it is the steady assurance that God is already at work bringing new life where we see only loss. Your presence here today, even with heavy hearts, is itself an act of hope, a quiet but powerful witness that death does not have the last word.

The psalm response echoes that assurance: Shepherd me, O God, beyond my wants, beyond my fears, from death into life. Like a shepherd who never leaves the flock, the Lord walks with you through the valley of the shadow of death. He does not hurry you through grief. He keeps company with you step by step, year by year, tear by tear.

In the heart of this remembrance lies a truth at the center of our Catholic faith: human dignity is innate and cannot be lost. From the instant of conception, every person is willed, created, and loved by God. The Church calls this ontological dignity—the deepest layer of who we are. Nothing can annul it. Nothing! No illness, no accident, no stage of development, not even death can annul it.

Some of the children we honor today may never have received the sacrament of baptism. That can weigh heavily on a parent’s heart. But the Church teaches that God’s mercy is not bound by the ordinary means of the sacraments. There is a beautiful tradition of what we call baptism of desire. Parents who longed for their child to live, to be happy, and to know God already expressed that desire. And God, who knows every longing of the heart, receives that desire.

The law of Christ is written on every human heart. We can therefore entrust these little ones with confidence to God’s loving care. They are His children even more than ours, and His mercy is infinite.

Many of you grieve not only infants or children but sons and daughters who were grown men and women with families of their own. Their lives may have been cut short by illness, accident, violence, or even by their own hand. Your grief is no less piercing. Know this: they are still your boys, still your girls. That bond of parent and child is eternal.

But remember too: they belong to God. The same God who fashioned them in His image now calls them into fullness of life. In the mystery of death and resurrection, they are safe forever within His embrace.

In today’s Gospel Jesus proclaims: “Blessed are the poor in spirit... blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” These words are not platitudes. They are promises spoken by the One who conquered death. The Beatitudes reveal the surprising geography of God’s kingdom: the places of loss and emptiness become the very places where grace takes root.

When you weep for your child, heaven is not indifferent. Your tears join the tears of Mary at the foot of the Cross. They become, in God’s mysterious plan, a prayer that will be answered with comfort.

To be blessed does not mean to feel happy. It means to be held, to be known, to be accompanied by the living Christ. Even in grief, you are blessed because the Lord Himself walks with you.

Every time we celebrate the Eucharist, heaven bends close to earth. Around this altar the Church on earth and the Church in heaven are united. We believe that our loved ones in Christ are not far away but very near, present in the Communion of Saints.

When you approach the altar today, know that your child is not a distant memory but part of this living communion. In Holy Communion, Christ feeds you with the very life that already sustains your children. This is not a poetic idea; it is the mystery of our faith.

Dear parents, grandparents, family members, and friends:
The God who called your children into being has not abandoned them, nor has He abandoned you. His mercies are new every morning. He is the Good Shepherd who walks every step of the valley with you. In this Jubilee Year of Hope, may you taste that hope in the Word proclaimed, in the Eucharist received, and in the quiet companionship of those who love you.

May the words of Scripture settle deep into your hearts.
May the Eucharist unite you with the children you remember.

And may the blessing of Christ who wept at the tomb of his friend and who rose in glory bring you the peace the world cannot give.