The Archbishop Wore Combat Boots. Nancy A. Collins
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Original transcript of my homily for President John F. Kennedy’s funeral. Requests for copies of it came from all over the world.
Pausing, I gazed out on the sad, confused eyes staring back as I evoked the powerful words of the principal passage from President John F. Kennedy’s Inaugural Address. With its unique gravity, sacred tone, and solemn ending — a restatement of the pledge made by our forefathers — the words brought, full circle, the philosophy Kennedy had promised at the speech’s beginning. “We observe today not a victory of a party but a celebration of freedom — symbolizing an end, as well as a beginning — signifying renewal, as well as change. For I have sworn before you and Almighty God the same solemn oath our forebears prescribed nearly a century and three quarters ago.” I paused, filled with a sense of privilege to read aloud Kennedy’s iconic, final challenge on the unique responsibility of being an American. “And so, my fellow Americans, ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country. With a good conscience our only sure reward, with history the final judge of our deeds, let us go forth to lead the land we love, asking His blessing and His help but knowing that here on earth God’s work must truly be our own.”
Looking up, I saw a congregation momentarily uplifted. Having heard again their President’s visionary proclamation for our country, their faces registered both justifiable pride and reverent acceptance. Descending the pulpit stairs, I was struck by my own sense of inadequacy in the face of such a monumental occasion. However, lest I forget that this was also the funeral of an iconoclastic Irishman, I was reminded by another of the breed. Returning to my seat, I passed in front of Cardinal Cushing who, breaking the silence whispered sotto voce: “Not bad.” Jack would have loved it. (In the weeks and months afterwards, I received requests from all over the world, asking for a copy of my eulogy, which I gladly sent. Theodore Sorensen, special counsel to the President, who worked with Kennedy on the Inaugural Speech, sent an extremely thoughtful letter. “The dignity and grace of your participation in last week’s services will be remembered by many of us for a long time,” he wrote. “As you may know, I had a hand in putting together the material you read — and, while my work is not usually used by Bishops, no one could have lent it more distinction and eloquence.”)
At the end of the Mass, the pallbearers reclaimed the casket, carrying their charge, followed by Jackie, Caroline, and John-John, back out the grand doors of St. Matthew’s. As they lifted the flag-draped coffin into position on the caisson, I noticed Jackie bending down to whisper in John-John’s ear. With a slight nudge from his mother, the little boy in the blue coat tentatively stepped forward. Raising his tiny right hand to his forehead, he snapped history’s most famously poignant salute to his father. Released from restraint, the crowds erupted in an earthquake of pent-up emotion: groans, yelps, uncontrollable sobbing. Though photographers and TV cameras, naturally, zoomed in on John Jr., most missed the equally moving shot of regular human beings, disassembling in pain. Forty years later, my mental snapshot of that moment, a searing image of indescribable anguish, remains stunningly vivid.
Slowly, deliberately, the majestic funeral procession, with its Green Beret military guard, began its long, elegant procession past the thousands of bystanders packing the streets and bridge leading to Arlington National Cemetery. Reaching its final destination, the casket was lifted off the caisson by the precision-perfect American soldiers, who, in perfect lockstep, carried the casket to the mechanical platform suspended over the newly dug grave. Moments later, Cardinal Cushing stepped forward to read the prayers of interment, followed by a detachment of Irish soldiers whose stirring rendition of the traditional, “Military Salute to a Fallen Leader” harkened back to the heritage of this beloved Irish-American, himself now in the pantheon of tragedy-plagued Irish heroes.
When they were finished, Cardinal Cushing lightly touched Jackie’s arm: “Now for Bobby’s remarks,” he murmured, adhering to the funeral plans approved by the First Lady. But she didn’t budge. “No,” she said quietly, “No.” Thinking she had simply forgotten the lineup, the Cardinal repeated his verbal cue. “No,” Jackie repeated, her tone firm and irrevocable. “No. I said, ‘No.’” With unerring instinct, Jackie had correctly judged that enough had been said. Anything else would be anticlimactic. Adhering to his sister-in-law’s directive, Bobby unobtrusively slipped a piece of paper back into his suit pocket. Moving purposefully away from the others, the former First Lady walked over to the unlit Eternal Flame where, handed a torch, she reached down and ignited the flame. The impact was immediate, as a collective murmer rippled through the crowd.
After returning to her place, the Army officer in charge of the interment detail gently presented Jackie with the casket’s crisply folded American flag. Taking our cue, Cardinal Cushing, Archbishop O’Boyle, and I approached Mrs. Kennedy to offer our own final words of condolence. Exhausted, her lovely face streaked with dried tears, she, nevertheless, clasped my hand. “Thanks for the sermon,” she said. “I thought it was great.” My own swirl of emotion did not permit a response.
Offering condolences to Mrs. John F. Kennedy at her husband’s funeral
It was after five when, after dropping Cardinal Cushing and Archbishop O’Boyle off at St. Patrick’s rectory, I finally made it back to St. Matthew’s to retrieve my civilian clothes. As my limousine reached the corner of Rhode Island Avenue and 17th Street, I noticed a lone, worn-out soldier still standing duty, left behind, no doubt, by his detail leader, who had forgotten him and returned to the barracks. Quiet and dejected-looking, the soldier reflected the confused feelings and loss of innocence that many of us shared — the confused feelings of a bereaved nation. At home, I telephoned his outfit. This weary guardsman could finally stand down.
That night, slumped in my chair at the rectory, my fatigued mind tried to sort out the jumble of paradoxes, at least as I knew them, in the life and death of John Kennedy. On the one hand, he was brilliant, witty, charming, a man navigating life with the utmost confidence. Though dominating every situation, he was never domineering. On the other hand, Jack was a complicated soul, incredibly talented, yet, flawed, categorizing his actions in a manner often hurtful to those who loved him. Though he never had to worry about money, he had forged a close bond with the poor, especially poor blacks, whose love and admiration for their President was visceral and responsive, thanks to his knack for being solicitous without condescension. Handsome and virile, he was attractive to women; a symbol (by virtue of his war record) of bravery and courage to men.
Above all, Jack challenged everyone — especially the young — to be his or her best self. “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country” had called to action the children whose fathers fought and won World War II, challenging them to do something important with that hard-earned freedom. I, personally, knew scores of engineers, architects, lawyers, and plumbers who, infused with Kennedy’s optimism, went on to get a masters, doctorates — or open their own businesses. Unlike no president before him, Jack Kennedy instilled in Americans that most imperative of all things: hope.
Though I was immensely privileged to have been his trusted friend and consultant, even more meaningful was having had a priest’s relationship with the President. God knows, we didn’t always agree on religious matters. But he never tried to change or twist my decisions. Flashing back to that whirlwind presidential campaign, I smiled, recalling his long, involved questions on Church policy … my, undoubtedly, equally long-winded answers which he always accepted. We might argue like the devil but no verbal skirmish was ever disrespectful of either of our identities. Oh, how I would miss that intellectual parrying — miss my friend, Jack. (Even now, a half century later, I still marvel that God saw fit to bring John Kennedy and me into each other’s lives at that particular moment in America’s history. In the end, I have only the most inexpressible wonder and gratitude for having enjoyed such a remarkable