A Moral Catholic Life: Is it possible without grief?

A Moral Catholic Life: Is it possible without grief?

You could have a PhD in theology. Would that be enough to help you recognize and live a moral life? No.

Is being truly good and moral about following rules? Or is it found in both loss and connection with others? We’re about to talk about grief. And I’m not just talking about losing a loved one. This can be the disappearance of a friendship, a failed marriage, the collapse of a career, or sudden illness.

If you are at a Catholic Mass this Sunday, be warned that the readings will cause some anxiety. “The day is coming, like a blazing oven” (Malachi 3:19) and “When you hear of wars and insurrections…” (Luke 21). My friend Fr. Diego Puricelli in his own homily reassured me that Jesus is not trying to cause panic among his disciples. The Gospel is trying to shake us out of our complacency — something that impacts all of us and is impossible to avoid just by reading a theology textbook. Fr. Diego said, “Only when you realize that time is not infinite, then will you truly begin to live.”

The apostles had the best teacher you could find—Jesus himself. But even his lessons weren't enough to show them how to live a truly good life. But they didn't really understand until they faced sadness and loss when the crowd cheered for Jesus' death and they realized they might be next.

I too thought my Catholic instruction as a young teenager was enough. My high school theology teachers spent a lot of time discussing the importance of forming a good Catholic conscience, but for many years I had this mental model of following a checklist or a flowchart of God-given rules. What if there are some preconditions to having a good conscience? What if we can’t even live a fully ethical life until we’ve been fundamentally changed by grief.

What if grief is the actual precondition for living a good life? It was a question I would soon answer myself when I finally had the courage to be totally honest about my own life and came out of the closet. I didn’t realize how much turmoil was surfacing until much of my Catholic circle abandoned me... Some of my closest friends, those whom I relied on and shared all of the best moments of life for nearly a decade, suddenly gone. The chaos and negativity sent me into a spiral of loss before eventually propelling me into a newfound life of friendship with (and service to) others who have felt discarded.

We usually think of grief as a pain or weakness we have to “get over.” According to Fr. James Keenan, grief simply reveals a form of love. When someone we feel the loss of someone (or as the Italians like to say “disappearance of a loved one”) we are connecting again with the profound love that had tied us together. This is even true for acquaintances and former colleagues whom we have not thought about for many years but see a notification online that they left us.  Refusing to grieve is a refusal to acknowledge how connected we all truly are.

Fr. Keenan points out the disciples hiding in a room after Jesus’ death. We often focus on their fear amidst the absence of their teacher and Lord. But wasn’t there also profound grief and loss? The loss of Jesus left them recognizing their own fragility – and the possibility that they were next to be killed.

This is where Professor Keenan says vulnerability comes in. Vulnerability isn't a weakness; it's simply the basic human ability to be hurt. It creates an openness that forces us to connect with one another. Thus, the 12 Apostles after Jesus death gathered and locked themselves in a room together.

Imagine for a second. Would they have been so unified if Jesus had simply passed a natural death? Old age? Or would they have begun fighting to be the successor and chief of the apostles?

In the D’Arcy lectures, we’re reminded that moral failure is often not because we did the wrong thing – big mistakes happen in life all the time—but because we failed to even notice the other person’s need... Fr. Keenan continues, if vulnerability is the moment that we open our hearts, then that is when we can begin living a truly moral and ethical life.

So, what does this realization mean for us? It means a moral life isn't just about what we do; it's about what we are willing to feel. Finding Mercy in Brokenness and Friendship

The powerful idea that morality is forged in connection and not in rules hit home for me personally.

I had always wanted to be seen as the “Good Catholic.” I was always focused on rules, traditions, and it would be difficult to find a better Catholic networker than me. The Knights of Columbus gave me several awards one year in acknowledgement of all of the men I had recruited to my college council.

I understood the Eucharist, intellectually. My brain could wrap itself around the idea that Jesus died on the cross for me. But the true depth of mercy felt distant.

The moment I got engaged to someone I fully loved —another man— half of my Catholic social circle vanished. Now imagine, thinking as a teenager that I was never going to have that perfect Catholic family, I built a sort of social insurance for myself. I worked for many years to build up a Catholic social circle in it’s place. It was large too! But life changed and eventually I got engaged to someone I truly loved.

They left me. Quite a few individuals close to me…My support and my friends of a decade just abandoned me.  I asked myself a painful question: Did my life ever matter enough to my friends to be grieved?

The system and institution of the Church that I had served so loyally was in a messed up way forging a precondition for my own future exclusion. That realization and brokenness was a terrible thing to feel. But it changed me profoundly.

I began feeling mercy for others in society who were discarded. I began feeling moved to friendship with others who also grieved. We weren't just "trauma bonding" (healing because we were both broken). Instead, we were truly able to see the full human dignity in each other, something I couldn't do before I was hurt myself. This would not have been possible if I had not been thrown away myself.

This new love, born directly from my own pain and exclusion, didn't just give me comfort; it gave me the courage to finally live a truly moral life. This moral life wasn't a set of rules; it was a real, physical encounter with others who are also created in the Image of God.

This realization deeply echoed in the calling of a Catholic group I already belonged to, the Community of Sant’Egidio. You may have heard of them because of their reputation for charity work in 60 countries. But the organization’s calling is to live out the faith by truly identifying with someone’s suffering. When we allow ourselves to be changed and transformed by their pain, it moves us. True lifelong friendships develop and wounds are no longer judged but healed together. Professor Keenan’s work is a vital reminder that ethical action is not a solitary mental task. It’s forged in the depths of our shared human suffering and our willingness to be open to both loss and love.