Back in 1998, after preaching at the funeral of U.S. Supreme Court Justice Lewis Powell, James Goodloe of Grace Covenant Presbyterian Church in Richmond, Va., received a letter commending the “reverent and inspiring” service he had conducted. 

“In my aging years, I have attended so many funerals of prominent people that I consider myself a connoisseur of the genre,” read the letter, which expressed dismay at “how often eulogy is the centerpiece of the service [at Christian funerals], rather than … the Resurrection of Christ and the eternal life which follows from that.”

“I am told that, in Roman Catholic canon law, encomiums at funeral Masses are not permitted — though if that is the rule, I have never seen it observed, except in the breach.”

The letter was from Justice Antonin Scalia. By then, he had served on the high court for 12 years. In that role, he had attended many funerals for prominent Americans and had made a bit of a study of typical sermons.

The justice applauded the Catholic Church’s official guidance on funeral homilies. As he saw it, the prohibition of “encomiums” had both a practical and spiritual value. It “spares from embarrassment or dissembling those of us about whom little good can truthfully be said, but also because, even when the deceased was an admirable person — indeed, especially when the deceased was an admirable person — praise for his virtues can cause us to forget that we are praying for, and giving thanks for, God’s inexplicable mercy to a sinner.”

On Feb. 20, 2016, during a funeral Mass celebrated at the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception in Washington, it was Justice Scalia’s turn to be mourned by a grateful nation. Father Paul Scalia, a priest of the Diocese of Arlington, Va., and one of the justice’s nine children, served as the chief celebrant of the televised liturgy.

“We are gathered here because of one man, a man known personally to many of us, known only by reputation to many more; a man loved by many, scorned by others; a man known for great controversy and for great compassion,” said Father Scalia, in the opening of his homily. He paused, then added slowly, “That man, of course, is Jesus of Nazareth.”

The surprising turn of Father Scalia’s homily quickly hit its mark.

“One might have assumed Rev. Paul Scalia was speaking about his father,” noted a Washington Post reporter who covered the funeral Mass and seemed a trifle bemused that the justice’s son used the occasion to praise God rather than his famous father.

Indeed, while the homily reflected a grieving son’s deep love for his father, Father Scalia directed the congregation’s attention to the blessings of God in the life of a man of faith.

“We give thanks, first of all, for the atoning death and life-giving resurrection of Jesus Christ. Our Lord died and rose not only for all of us, but also for each of us. And at this time we look to that yesterday of his death and his resurrection, and we give thanks that he died and rose for Dad. Further, we give thanks that Jesus brought him to new life in baptism, nourished him with the Eucharist and healed him in the confessional. We give thanks that Jesus bestowed upon him 55 years of marriage to the woman he loved — a woman who could match him at every step and even hold him accountable.”

Many in the congregation and others watching the funeral Mass on television probably wondered when Father Scalia would start ticking off his father’s accomplishments: the Ivy League law school, his influence within the conservative wing of the high court, and the fact that he had been the longest-serving justice at the time of his death. That never happened.

And if you hadn’t seen the latest headlines, you’d never guess that Justice Scalia’s death was big news, triggering a political firestorm in Washington. 

Yet the decision to set aside the deceased’s credentials served two important purposes. First, it reminded political leaders and voters on both sides of the partisan divide that politics is not ultimate. To paraphrase St. Paul in his oft-quoted 1 Corinthians 13 verse, faith, hope and love are the only treasures we will be able to carry into the next life.

More importantly, Father Scalia’s gratitude for God’s “love for all of us, but also for each of us,” extended an invitation to an entire nation that has lost its spiritual moorings.

In the justice’s letter to Goodloe that was posted online after his death, the court’s first Italian-American jurist emphasized that funeral homilies provided a chance for a meaty catechesis and expressed regret that so many pastors failed to make the most of a golden opportunity to share the faith.

“Perhaps the clergymen who conduct relatively secular services are moved by a desire not to offend the nonbelievers in attendance — whose numbers tend to increase in proportion to the prominence of the deceased,” he speculated. “What a great mistake. Weddings and funerals … are the principal occasions left in modern America when you can preach the Good News not just to the faithful, but to those who have never really heard it.”

Almost two decades later, that sharp assessment deserves a serious hearing.

Today, preaching on the Four Last Things — death, judgment, heaven and hell — is almost as rare as a homily on Humanae Vitae. No wonder most Catholics view a funeral Mass as a vehicle for “celebrating the life” of the deceased.

Yet the Catechism of the Catholic Church says that a funeral homily must “avoid the literary genre of funeral eulogy and illumine the mystery of Christian death in the light of the risen Christ.”

Father Scalia got it right, and we have to believe that his father, Justice Scalia, would be very pleased to know that his funeral homily made the most of a remarkable opportunity to proclaim the Gospel of Jesus Christ to a people hungry for the Word that inspired the life of a great American.