This is the season of Advent, full of excitement as we wait to welcome the baby Jesus. Even so, as Catholics this is actually a penitential time. We are required to fulfill our obligation in the sacrament of Reconciliation at least annually, and encouraged to do so ahead of Christmas.
However, this can also be a time we remember all those who are no longer with us. Thus, it will be a reminder that our loved ones will be absent from the Christmas dinner and Midnight Mass. I say this not to cause any added grief but simply as my reflection on some of the events in my own life and what this means as a Catholic trying to live a life of faith.
In particular, I have personally experienced the loss of far too many Black men recently. Fathers, brothers, uncles, and nephews who had meaningful contributions they were offering in this life. Suddenly, they are gone, but not from weeks or months of a severe illness in a hospital bed surrounded by family—instead, alone and unexpectedly.
Death is a part of living. However, that does not make it any easier to process. This is especially true during a time of year when everyone is expected to be joyful and full of cheer. Where do I begin as I now accept this as the first Christmas when these Black men I have known and loved are gone? Moreover, lost in the fog of grief, how can I share those emotions while surrounded by so much anticipatory joy?
My reflection here stems from the belief that death is not the end, as Christ has already won the victory. Christmas Day as a Catholic is a celebration beyond gift giving. It is a recognition of the glory that Jesus came to earth to become a sacrifice. However, what I am mourning to grasp is why so many Black men are also being sacrificed? I cannot comprehend such losses, as I believed that everything was “OK” and I simply did not see the full weight of their sufferings. As a result, while during this season of Advent and Christmas so many will be filled with joy, my joy has turned to sadness.
I enjoy the month of September. The fall colors are beautiful and the days are bright with sunlight. Typically, people seem to be more pleasant and the gravity of winter’s cold is a distant reality. That said, this past fall will be etched forever in my mind, as it began what felt like a tidal wave of loss. Therein, I had the misfortune to attend funeral services in three consecutive months for Black men. Aged between their thirties and sixties, they did not have a serious illness, at least to the best of my knowledge.
Black men face so many pressures, and even those in the faith still struggle with the stress of daily life. I know Christ is calling them to be men who are leaders in the community and share their gifts and talents with the world. Jesus loves all of us and Black men are no exclusion. I think it is fitting and worth repeating: Black Lives Matter.
Our faith inspires us to realize the fragility of life. Christ entered this world as a helpless infant but also to be cherished as a gift from God. I do not think that many Black men fully appreciate what this actually means in their own lives. Most notably, though, I do not know the stress of constantly feeling like an outsider because of simply being oneself. I cannot comprehend what the daily stressors may be that, although perhaps small, add up and become too great a burden. I do not know the difficulties that come with the need to insist on fair and equal treatment as a regular occurrence. I do not know the levels of adrenaline that become activated when one is pulled over by law enforcement. I do not know the feelings of inadequacy that say, no matter how hard and dedicated of a worker you are, it still feels as though you are not moving forward.
Such things are all crosses that Black men carry. However, in uniting the suffering to the suffering Christ endured through his passion, and his offering of salvation should lead our men to have hope. I am not speaking of sentimental hope, but a deeper hope by complete surrender of your life in Christ. There is an enduring hope that can be found in cultivating a relationship with Christ and the love he has ushered into this world. Given all of this spiritual leverage, how can so many Black men simply die?
Upon even deeper reflection, I keep asking God: Why? What happened that my cousin, at 31 years of age, simply did not wake up? Even more tragic is the loss of a neighbor I have seen over the course of 10 years and shared many conversations with, who violently ended his life. I also had to watch a friend mourn as she buried her brother unexpectedly. I could not stop weeping as I watched his funeral online; his life touched so many. Why did each of them leave this world in such traumatic ways? Possibly, each of them were suffering but had the ability to mask this reality.
Reflecting on this matter, I am bewildered because I would think men of faith would take all of their sufferings to Christ. However, is the weight of vulnerability so tremendous that it makes it difficult to seek him and his undying love?
My neighbour was a kind, meek and humble man of faith who was retired and lived in the community for decades. He was one of the very few individuals I interacted with as I first moved into the neighborhood in 2015. He attended a non-Catholic church, but we shared a love of Bible studies. I was notified by police this month that he ended his life. The previous week we saw each other and spoke of God as we always had. Nothing seemed unusual and he never expressed any serious illness or medical issues. He was a gentle soul and he ended his life traumatically, alone, and in his apartment. What was happening that he felt he had no other way? Where was God in those final moments? Was his life not worthy to be saved?
This Christmas will remind me not only of my neighbor, but also the other Black men among family and friends whom I have lost. I am left with all the “Why?” questions. Through Christ, I would have loved the opportunity to ease any emotional pains they may have endured. This is my appeal to Black people: I beg you from a crying heart please shatter this silence and ask for help. Black men, your lives are so precious and we need you. Reach out to your fellow family members and sisters in Christ, as we desperately want to help you. Please do not think that you need to suffer in silence as a means to demonstrate strength. There is great strength to be found in seeking help. Most of all, take all of your pain, anxieties, and disappointments to the foot of the cross.
I know this is not the season of the crucifixion, but for those like myself who have lost someone, especially a father, brother, uncle, nephew, or friend, this is a time of sorrow in the midst of what should be a season of joy.
I know that I am not the only person who will mourn during this Advent. I also know that it is in moments such as these that faith can easily shrivel. Given such understanding, tonight as I went to bed I prayed the Fatima prayer: “O my Jesus forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of hell. Lead all souls to heaven especially those in most need of thy mercy. Amen.”
God does not owe me any explanation. However, sometimes I feel helpless. How am I able to escape desolation without the loss of my own faith? Maybe God is calling me to dive deeper and grow my faith in the face of such tragedies. How do I now support the Black men who are closest to me? Moreover, how can I help if I do not know the depths of their suffering?
Tamika Royes has fifteen years of experience in the social services sector in various roles. She has been a tireless advocate of justice causes, beginning in high school. She is currently pursuing a post-graduate certificate at Assumption University.
