The Church gathers today in faith and hope to commend our sister Teresita to the mercy of God. We do so not simply in sorrow, but in trust — because every Christian death is both a moment of loss and a proclamation of victory: the victory of Christ over sin and death.

What we celebrate today is not the end of a life, but its fulfilment.
The liturgy speaks in the language of faith: “For your faithful people, Lord, life is changed, not ended.”
And so, while we grieve, we also give thanks — for a life marked by grace, and for the promise that death does not have the final word.

In the first reading, St Paul reminds the Ephesians of the unity that binds the Body of Christ: “One Lord, one faith, one baptism, one God and Father of all.”

This unity is not merely a human agreement — it is the supernatural bond that joins us in Christ, both living and dead.
When we gather for a Requiem Mass, we stand within that communion of saints.
We are not alone in prayer.
Around this altar are the prayers of the Church on earth, the intercession of the saints in heaven, and the mercy of the Lord who reigns above all.

At baptism, Teresita was claimed for Christ; at this Mass, we entrust her back to Him. The same faith that marked her beginning now accompanies her home.

In the Gospel, we hear Christ’s own charter for holiness — the Beatitudes.
They are not sentimental ideals; they are the shape of the Christian life. “Blessed are the poor in spirit… blessed are the gentle… blessed are the merciful… blessed are the pure in heart.”

Here Jesus describes what sanctity looks like — not worldly success, but hearts formed by grace.
These words remind us that the true measure of a human life is not wealth, power, or recognition,
but the depth of charity, humility, and mercy with which we have lived.

Every disciple is called to this pattern.
Every act of kindness, every silent prayer, every act of forgiveness — these are the building blocks of the Kingdom.
In such lives, often hidden from the world’s attention, the Gospel bears fruit.

Death confronts us with our own limits.
It strips away pretence and leaves only what endures: faith, hope, and love.
But for the Christian, death is not darkness.
It is the final step of discipleship — the moment when faith becomes sight, when the soul that trusted in Christ is brought to His presence.

The resurrection of Jesus is the foundation of that hope.
Because He lives, the grave is not the end.
Because He conquered death, we can speak of peace even in mourning.

That is why the Church never tires of praying for the dead: not because we doubt God’s mercy, but because we believe in its power.
Every prayer offered today — every word of the Mass, every gesture of reverence — participates in that great communion of grace that unites heaven and earth.

At this altar, the Church once more celebrates the mystery of Christ’s death and resurrection.
Here, the same Lord who once said “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted” becomes present to us under the signs of bread and wine.
Here, the sacrifice of Calvary is offered again, and the hope of eternal life is renewed.

The Eucharist is both memorial and promise —
memorial of Christ’s sacrifice that has opened heaven to us,
and promise of the banquet where all His faithful will one day rejoice together.
In that heavenly liturgy, every tear will be wiped away, and the Beatitudes will be fulfilled forever.

Today, we commend Teresita to that mercy.
We thank God for the faith she shared in this parish community,
for the unity we share with her in baptism,
and for the hope that she now sees what we still await.

Let us then pray as the Church always prays:
that the Lord will forgive whatever is sinful,
perfect whatever is lacking,
and welcome her into the light and peace of His Kingdom.

And let us pray also for ourselves —
that we, strengthened by this same Eucharist,
may live the Beatitudes with faith and humility,
so that when our own hour comes,
we too may be found ready to see the face of God.