Eulogies are a lot like best man speeches at weddings; most are forgettable, rare ones are eloquent, and some are cringe-worthy, and even offensive.
Obituaries are usually more formal and detail-oriented, especially when someone of great worldly acclaim is being memorialized. A moon walk, an Oscar win — these are the engines that drive monumental obituaries. For the rest of us, we must settle for a brief mention in a local newspaper, if the town still has one, or more likely some verbiage about your life on the back of the holy card handed out at your funeral.
Ray Perry was a quiet, simple man whose recent death generated no fanfare and certainly no formal obituary. For decades he was the religious ed guy at our parish. He held this position through five pastors, which is probably some kind of world record, but to say he was a constant presence at our parish would be an understatement.
He was not a physical presence, as Ray was extremely private and uncomfortable in any form of recognition. But he was an amazing spiritual presence, as his devotion to the religious education for both children and adults was immovable.
My paths crossed with Ray’s many times when I served as the master of ceremonies and director of the altar-serving program at our parish. That may sound like a lofty title, but it just means I was the world’s oldest altar boy.
Every Easter during my tenure, Ray and I would be in contact — well, sort of contact. You had to catch Ray as he was moving from one thing to another. He would give a little information but do so while he was physically moving away from you.
Even though I am sure the Easter Vigil was the highlight of Ray’s year, as the adults he had readied for reception into the Church took their places up on the altar, after the Mass began, he was hard to find. He would somehow just blend into the congregation as the candidates and catechumens fell into the arms of Holy Mother Church, thanks in no small part to Ray Perry.
When there were boys and girls who were not enrolled in our parish school but were studying in Ray’s CCD classes, he would contact me and the results were some of the best altar servers I had in the program. I have no doubt these kids were the way they were because of their parents, and the man to whom these parents entrusted their spiritual care: Ray Perry.
Ray lived in rented rooms like an ascetic. He obviously did not give much thought to his financial standing as, toward the end, our current pastor tried to find a place for him to live after the house in which he was renting a room was put up for sale. He was resistant to charity; an irony God must have especially loved in a man who gave so much of himself away to so many.
Our parish had a memorial Mass for Ray Perry and all the usual suspects showed up. People who worked with him at the parish, a former pastor, and people who had befriended him as best they could despite his reclusive nature.
Like Ray, the Mass was simple and all about praising and worshipping Our Lord — just as he would have liked it. He would not have been happy with the eulogies that followed Mass, though, because that spotlight he so fervently avoided in life had caught up to him in death.
The person who ran our school’s confirmation class spoke eloquently of her friendship with Ray and how fitting it was that he died on Jan. 7, the feast day of his patron saint Raymond of Pennafort. Both our current and former pastors spoke and captured the essence of this intensely private man. And both men saw him as we all did, as a kind of spiritual enigma.
None of us in the parish old guard recognized the last person to speak at Ray’s memorial. She introduced herself as the mom of a boy who had received his religious education from Ray. It was touching and a beautiful testament, until it turned deep as the Grand Canyon and twice as profound. The mom had been trying to reach Ray in early January because that boy who learned to love his Faith thanks to Ray had become a young man with faith, but had tragically died. She wanted Ray to know how much his ministry meant to her and to her son.
After not being able to get an answer on Ray’s phone, she finally heard the news that Ray, too, was gone. As she put it so purely, instead of asking Ray to pray for her son, she prayed that her son was already in heaven before Ray and had met him there.
He may not have cured a disease or discovered a new planetary system, but he loved God. And more importantly, in his own extremely quiet and enigmatic way, he evangelized and won souls for Christ. And that is an obituary fit not so much for a king, but apropos for one of the King’s sons.
