Requiem Mass for Keelan Shorten

Preached by Fr Philip Chester, Thursday 6th November 2025

Laudabo Nomen Domini

Lamentations 3. 22-26, 31-33; Romans 8. 18-end; St John 6. 35-40

We gather today in the long shadow of sorrow, following the devastating death of someone we knew and loved. The church, which so often resounds with the confident cadences of praise, feels different now — the air weighted with things we cannot fully understand. We come today to pray for Keelan, and to give thanks for him. Because Keelan mattered, and matters still — to his family, his friends, to this community — and to God. His life was no mere aside in the story of the world; it was a word breathed by Love itself — tender, particular, and unrepeatable. And that Love, as St Paul reminds us, never ends.

For the light is stronger than the darkness, and the day will overcome the night.

When someone so young dies, and dies in this way, the heart rebels. Questions rise up like waves, crashing again and again: Why? Could we have done more? Where was God? There are no quick or tidy answers to these profound questions. The silence of God can feel immense, and yet, even in that silence, there is presence — not the absence of God, but the God who suffers with us, wordless and watchful beside the cross.

For the light is stronger than the darkness, and the day will overcome the night.

R S Thomas once wrote, ‘The meaning is in the waiting.’ And perhaps that is what faith feels like today — waiting. Waiting for understanding, waiting for healing, waiting for hope. Waiting for the light to return, even if it comes slowly. But it’s important to stress we do not wait alone. The same Christ who hung on the cross, whose hands still bear the marks of the nails, waits with us. He knows the darkness from within. There is no grief or guilt, no loneliness or fear that he has not already carried in his wounded body.

It was a privilege to work with Keelan, and to witness the light he brought into every room. He engaged with people of every age and background, listening and speaking with a sincerity that drew others out. He had a huge thirst for understanding; many times he would stop me in the corridor to ask a profound theological question, eager to grasp what lay at the heart of God’s truth.

I remember one occasion when we stood on the stairs for half an hour, talking about the meaning of mercy and forgiveness — transported, for that time, beyond the ordinary world. There were times when in the early morning he raised a question, and I had to say to him Keelan, it’s too early to discuss theodicy - I haven’t had my coffee yet.

But I loved our conversations. He was always gracious. After we said Morning Prayer together, which we did every day — he would always say, ‘thank you.’ At first I was surprised, but over time I realised it came for a heart of gratitude.

He was a person of deep appreciation, great courtesy, and abiding kindness. These qualities, these moments, are part of the legacy he leaves behind — the light that will not be extinguished.

For the light is stronger than the darkness, and the day will overcome the night.

And yet, today, the weight of loss is immense. Keelan died out of turn — in the morning of his life. We are not made for such partings. The order of things feels broken, as though creation itself has slipped out of rhythm. And so we try to make sense of it — to understand, to explain, to find reasons where there may be none. We turn the questions over in our minds: Was there something we missed? Could we have done more?

But these questions, honest as they are, can wound as much as they seek to heal. Sometimes love is not about understanding, but about letting go — surrendering what we cannot explain into the mercy of God.

When a life ends suddenly, it’s perhaps understandable that our first instinct is to search for explanation, to try to make sense of what feels senseless. Yet Keelan’s life cannot be reduced to its tragic ending. He was more than his struggles. Those who knew him will recall a quick wit, a tender heart, flashes of laughter that could light a room, and a stubborn spark of love that endured even when words failed. These qualities are not erased; they are gathered into the memory of God, treasured beyond what we can see.

And thank God our Scriptures do not flinch from pain. The psalmist cries, ‘How long, O Lord? Will you forget me for ever?’ Job sits in the ashes, unable to understand what has befallen him. Even Jesus, at the hour of death, cried out, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ Our questions do not drive God away; they draw him nearer, for he knows the language of anguish intimately.

For the light is stronger than the darkness, and the day will overcome the night.

For too long, the Church spoke little — or spoke harshly — about those who die by their own hand. But God’s mercy has always exceeded our understanding. Today we acknowledge the depth of anguish, the invisible burdens, the torment that can narrow the horizon until only darkness seems left. None of this cancels the truth that Keelan was made in the image of God, that his life was precious, that his soul rests in divine compassion.

Our role is not to make sense of what happened, but to stand at the foot of the cross, as Mary and John did, simply staying there in love. At the cross, all seemed lost. The one they loved hung lifeless. Yet even there, redemption was being born. So may it be with Keelan. We cannot yet see what God is doing, but we trust — stubbornly, faithfully — that he is not lost, but found; not alone, but embraced.

For the light is stronger than the darkness.

The gospel assures us that nothing — not life, nor death, nor things present, nor things to come — can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. Nothing. Christ’s reach extends beyond the final moment of despair, into the places we cannot go, to gather his lost ones home.

As the old prayer says, ‘where our understanding fails, your mercy is deep and sure.’

And so we commend Keelan to that mercy. And we do so in the context of the Eucharist where we become church together. At the altar, heaven and earth meet, life and death converge, sorrow and glory intertwine. We share bread and wine, consecrated, as we are, and changed. The broken made whole, the lost restored. In that mystery we glimpse what God will complete in Keelan: the transfiguration of pain into peace.

To those who loved Keelan most, grief is not a problem to solve but a journey to live. There will be days when his absence feels like a gaping wound; days when memories bring laughter; days when questions flood the mind. God is patient with all of that. He can bear our anger, our confusion, our unfinished prayers. We do not need to ‘move on’ – how I hate that phrase - we are rather invited to move forward, step by step, with the One who walks beside us, like he did with the disciples on the road to Emmaus.

And so — do not be afraid to speak Keelan’s name. Do not silence his story. Remember him — not only as he died, but as he lived, loved, and laughed. Memory itself becomes prayer, a way of saying to God, ‘Hold him close.’

It is absolutely and fundamentally right that we pray for him — for his soul, and his continued life in God. We do so not in fear, but in hope, trusting that all who die in God’s mercy are healed and made whole. Our prayers are like lamps left burning in the dark, signs that the day will arrive, and overcome the night.

For the light is stronger than the darkness.

We pray too for ourselves, that this loss may make us gentler, more compassionate, and more alert to hidden hurts in others. If any good can come from such a tragedy, it is the renewal of love: the love that notices, listens, and refuses to give up on anyone. Christ calls his Church to be precisely that: a community of mercy, a fellowship of wounded healers.

The Christian faith insists that death is not the end. The grave is not the final word; resurrection is. The risen Christ carries the marks of the nails, yet he lives — not as a ghost of what was, but as the promise of what shall be. So it shall be for Keelan. He will rise, not merely restored to what he was, but transfigured, radiant with the light of God’s kingdom.

One day, when all is made new, we shall see him again — no longer burdened, no longer fearful, but laughing that easy laugh once more, free in the peace of God.

Until that day, we hold him in prayer, and we hold one another in love. And we wait, not in emptiness, but in hope.

May Christ, who walked through death into life, grant to Keelan eternal rest and to us the grace to trust that love is stronger than death, that light is stronger than the darkness.

May the angels lead him into paradise;may the martyrs receive him at his coming;and may he find light, refreshment, and peace.

Amen.