"A subitanea et improvisa morte, libera nos Domine."
"From a sudden and unprovided death, deliver us, Lord."

Father Louis' death was sudden. One thinks of it also as provident and provided. His whole Asian journey was a pilgrimage, so his state of soul would have been appropriate to any design of God. And his death was in the design of God, the point of the pilgrimage. Which is what Jean Leclereq had in mind, presumably, when told the news in Bangkok: "C'est magnifique!" "How splendid a leave-taking." As if Fr. Louis had staged it.

It was a Tuesday in the second week of Advent at Gethsemani, meaning Gethsemani Farms' work for most, and that for some weeks. Fr. Timothy was the reader at the noon meal. The book was a biography of Pierre Teilhard de Chardin. As the meal came to a close, the abbot, Fr. Flavian, got up from his place, walked to the reader's table, signed the reader to stop, picked up the microphone and said, "Brothers, I have sad news for you. Fr. Louis has died in Bangkok. That's all I know. I'll let you know as soon as I hear more." We said the closing meal prayer and the day went on.

The abbot had gotten a message at 10:00 that morning. The telegram read:

Abbot Burns. Trappist P.O. Gethsemani, KY.
Department regrets inform you following message received for you from American Embassy Bangkok Thailand. 'Informed by Abbot Weakland that Thomas Merton has died.'
--Mr. Hobart Luppi, Director Special Consular Services. Department of State.

Some years ago I traveled by horse with a Father along mountain tracks for some 6 hours or more in a cold, heavy rain. And the trail was dangerous, slippery shale, soft mud, steep drops. We often had to lead the horses. When the little mission center finally came into view, Fr. Gehlen said to me, "Someone's on the front porch waiting out the rain. I know who it is. It's the 7th Day Adventist pastor. I don't care, though. After all this cold and wet, we're going to have a glass of rum, despite his views on Rome and rum." --Which we did. After a change, we sat down for a small visit. In the midst of which small talk he said: "It's gonna be a Great Day." I said, "Sir?" "I said 'It's gonna be a Great Day'" "What do you mean?" "You know: Armageddon, the Valley of Jehosephat and the Final Judgment." I was so taken aback I laughed. He was puzzled that I laughed. I told him: Catholics believe in the Second Coming as much as he did and were doing it long before there were any Seventh Days. "He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead, and His Kingdom will have no end." And it's in the Mass: "We wait in joyful hope for the coming of the Savior." "But," I said, "we hardly have it up front all the time. It's rather an unconscious awareness, but an awareness for all that. We think about death, too, but don't have a casket ready in the basement."

Death is our first encounter with the Last Day. Advent is a preparation for such. Both our own and the ultimate. We are deeply involved in both. We shall all die in turn. And we'll all be present at the Last Great Day. However late, however early, and assuredly sudden, whenever.

It would seem we pray that the end -- either of them -- be not too sudden. And most of all not "morte improvisa," not a death unprovided for. The first is an appropriate petition. The last, essential. We trust the Lord understands that.

Today is Gaudete Sunday, Rejoice Sunday. You can wear colorful vesture exceptionally if you like. Yet, ours is not a joyous age. Most who know us do not see Americans as especially happy people. We don't look it. Not to others. Maybe not even to ourselves. The Southwest Indians said to Carl Jung about white people: "Why are they so angry?" How we look is not the major interest, of course. But there is no need to be glum because the end is coming, yours, mine, all creation. And it may be sudden. I'd say your happiness is a good sign that you're also provided for. I mean to say, you are right with God, with me, with all your brothers and sisters, yourself and everyone else. That being so, be glad you have work, can pray, are adequately housed and fed, clothed and cared for, warm and dry in a setting of beauty and peace. You have reason, may it be said, to rejoice. So have I. And if by some gift I could tell you how much longer you've got, perhaps your joy would only increase. Even so, this is someone's last Advent.

It was a first significant trip for Fr. Louis. And his last. And it's gonna be a Great Day, as the man said. Sudden let it be if it must. And provided for, certainly. And hopefully, not too soon. There's no hurry.  Amen.

* This homily was given on Dec. 11, 1994, the day following the anniversary day in the West of Thomas Merton's death at Bangkok. But it was actually Dec. 11th in Bangkok itself the day he died.