I n early August I made my annual retreat at the College of the Holy Cross in Worcester, Massachusetts, recalling with God all the gifts of my long life. Since I grew up in Worcester and went to Holy Cross for two years before entering the Jesuits, a lot of my memories had to do with that city and college.


In the evening, I walked through the Jesuit cemetery, stopping at the graves of my former teachers to thank them for what they had done for this naïve young man that led me to the Jesuit life and to great joy. In effect I was praying to them.


Catholics have always prayed to the canonized saints. But have you ever prayed to your loved ones who have died? Is it appropriate to do so?


I am happy to do so, since I often do pray to loved ones who have died; I think I began to do it when my mother died. I just presumed that she was with God. In fact, I had the distinct impression that she knew more about me now than I would ever have been willing to tell her while she was alive. That thought made me realize that I was hiding things from God too. In this month of November when we remember not only the canonized saints, but also all our loved ones who have died, let’s reflect together on whether and how we might pray to our departed loved ones.


Y ou may have noticed that my prayer to my former teachers was not what we usually associate with prayer. I wasn’t asking them to intercede for me with God; I wasn’t asking for anything. I was just thanking them for what they had done for me. Actually, I was chatting with them about the years I knew them in college and what their inspiration had done for me. I do the same with my mother and father. Of course, I sometimes ask them to pray for me to God, but most of the time I just tell them what’s going on, or thank them, or mention my hopes and fears. It’s a conversation with them, and that’s how I define prayer — as a conversation with God or with Mary or with any of the saints. In fact, just being conscious of the presence of God or Mary or one of the saints is prayer. Prayer is, for me, nothing but conscious relationship.


Recently I published A Friendship Like No Other (Loyola Press), in which I develop the notion that all God really wants of any of us is friendship. On this supposition, prayer is similar to what happens with your closest friends when you are aware of their presence. God wants to engage in such friendly conversations with us. We can thank God for all the gifts we have received; we can tell God about our concerns, our fears, our loves, and our hates just the way we might talk with our closest friends. And then we can wait for an answer. So what I did in the cemetery at Holy Cross was prayer. I was telling these old teachers, most of whom died at an earlier age than I now am, how much I appreciate them and how much I like my life as a Jesuit, a life they inspired me to enter. They have now become my friends.


How do you react to these thoughts? Do you sometimes talk with your loved ones who have died? I know a widow who talks regularly to her late husband and often feels his presence. She tells him about her day, her anxieties, joys and concerns, and about their children. She senses that he is listening and enjoying the conversation. Sometimes she asks him for advice and help and for his intercession with God. Often enough, a way forward suggests itself to her.


I have spoken with some of my Jesuit friends who have recently died to thank them for their friendship and to let them know about my joys and concerns. Sometimes, like the widow, I ask them to intercede with God for people who are in need. This kind of conversation is prayer. It’s the kind of prayer we can engage in with God as well as with our dead loved ones. And it can be very consoling. I write about this because some people are afraid to admit that they pray this way even though it’s great prayer.

J ust recently a Jesuit raised the question of where we go when we die. Where are our loved ones? How do we know that they can hear us and engage with us in conversation? Here I fall back on our faith in the Resurrection of Jesus. Our faith in the Resurrection means that Jesus is, in some mysterious way, bodily present in this universe. Bodies have physical ties with the whole universe. In spite of what many of us may think or imagine, whatever remains of us after our death is not some disembodied soul. We are persons because of our relations to the rest of the universe and to the triune God, and we remain persons even after death.

So after death we must retain some relation with our universe and with our loved ones. Our belief in Jesus’ Resurrection means that in some mysterious way, all those who die in Christ are with Him awaiting the “new heavens and the new earth” which God has promised at the “end of time.” Heaven is not someplace apart from this universe; God creates the universe and all that is within it, including us, and promises that this universe will be made new with all of us who die in Christ.

It may be that we are already in heaven, in other words, but have blinders on that keep us from seeing the true reality of our situation. Death, then, would remove the blinders, and we would be able to see the truth — that we are all in God.

R ecently one of my Jesuit friends told me of the day his mother was dying. She began to smile; when he asked her what she was smiling about, she named her deceased husband and other loved ones who had just appeared to her. She died with a smile on her face. Is this an instance of having the blinders removed and seeing the world for what it really is, a place where God and all of our deceased loved ones dwell with us eternally? I choose to believe so. How about you?

I have been talking about praying to loved ones. But sometimes we have unfinished business with people who have died. They may have hurt us, or we may have hurt them. We can hope that these people, too, are with Christ and open to conversation with us. We can speak with them about what happened and ask for forgiveness or express our anger or hurt and wait to see what happens. We may not hear a voice, but we may sense something happening in us that indicates that we have been heard. We might feel a load taken off our hearts or sense a new closeness to the person.


Once we take seriously that God has created each one of us for friendship with God, we soon realize that God’s offer of friendship excludes no one. So even those who have hurt us and have died may be among God’s friends and hoping for our forgiveness, and those we have hurt may just be waiting to let us know that they have forgiven us.


What I am suggesting is that we take seriously God’s offer of friendship and let our prayer change accordingly. Then we may well find ourselves spontaneously conversing — that is, praying — to those who have died. It’s a rather simple idea. I hope that it helps you this November when we recall all our beloved dead, whether canonized saints or not

Father William Barry has been a Jesuit for 58 years and a priest for 46 years. He writes, gives spiritual direction, and is the co-director of the Jesuit tertianship program. His latest book is A Friendship Like No Other: Experiencing God’s Amazing Embrace (Loyola Press, 2008).

A prayer for the dead 
Julie L. Rattey

D ear Lord,
I pray for all those —
family and friends, saints and strangers —
who have gone before me
from this world to be with You.

May their sins be cleansed.
May their souls be united with You
fully and without delay.
May they experience the everlasting joy
of your presence.

Help me to hope, Lord,
that those who have died on Earth
live on with you in heaven,
and that, through our prayers, they speak to us still.

Help me to follow your ways, O Lord,
that one day I, too, may walk in
the wonders of heaven,
meet the glorious ancestors of our faith,
be reunited with those I love,
and live in perfect friendship with You
for all eternity.
Amen.