A Funeral Homily for The Rev Paul Tracy

My name is Nathaniel Adishian, I am the priest at St Paul’s Mishawaka where Paul served from the years of 1986 to 1995. It is my great honor to be here with you all. Today we gather to commend to God the soul of Paul Tracy—priest, teacher, learner, and faithful seeker of God. We come bearing grief, gratitude, and memory, trusting that the God whom Paul spent his life seeking has already received him with mercy and joy. Paul was not content with a faith that merely endured. He sought. He asked. He listened. He leaned forward toward God with his mind, his hands, his voice, and his life. And in doing so, he taught generations of people how to seek God themselves. This is the story we tell today, the story of a man who sought after God.

He sought God in the Liturgy. Paul served as a priest during a time of deep transition in the Episcopal Church, especially in the years following the implementation of 1979 Book of Common Prayer. These were not merely cosmetic changes; they were theological shifts—new ways of understanding worship, community, and the work of God among the people. He reintroduced the sung liturgy at St Paul’s believing that prayer carried by melody could reach places mere words alone could not. He pulled the altar away from the wall, allowing the priest to face the congregation—not to center the priest, but to proclaim something far more radical: that worship is something we do together. That the Eucharist belongs to the whole people of God. Paul embraced these changes not as disruptions, but as invitations.

Paul did something even more important than changing the shape of worship. He explained why he made certain changes seeing in these explanations not just authoritarian demand, but as opportunities to teach and thus inviting questions. He treated liturgical reform not as a mandate imposed from above, but as an opportunity for relationship, creating a culture at St Paul’s. One that continues on to this day. In Paul’s hands, liturgy became catechesis. Worship became a classroom. The sanctuary became a place where people learned not only what we do, but why we do it. For Paul, liturgy was not performance. It was prayer shaped by centuries, a discipline that trains the heart to recognize God’s presence. He trusted that when we pray rightly—week after week, season after season—God slowly forms us into people of mercy, patience, and hope.

So, Paul sought God in liturgy, and he sought God in learning. One person I talked to this week described Paul as ‘curious.’ Paul was a reader. An avid one. A demanding one. A faithful one. Early in my own ministry at St. Paul’s, several boxes of Fr Paul’s books were donated to the parish. As I thumbed through them, it was immediately clear that these were not decorative volumes. They were worn. Annotated. Loved. Margins filled with questions, underlining, arguments, and exclamations. These books had been wrestled with. And not light reading, either. These were works like The Theology of Jewish Christianity by Jean Daniélou; the writings of Irenaeus, Justin Martyr, Gregory the Great; collections of early spiritual texts from the mothers and fathers of the Church—one of them so frequently read it was held together with tape.

Paul understood something many priests learn the hard way: that the demands of ministry can quietly consume the time needed for study, reflection, and prayer. Administrative tasks multiply. Urgencies intrude. And unless one fiercely guards the life of the mind, it is slowly starved. Paul refused that malnourishment. He prioritized learning because he believed seeking God required thought as well as devotion. He believed faith deserved rigor. That God was not threatened by questions. That the Church is healthiest when its leaders continue to learn. One parishioner once noted that Paul’s mind often moved faster than his speech. He was always thinking—always reaching for the next connection, the deeper layer, the larger truth.

There is a story that captures this for me personally. I got to know Paul through my visits to him at Holy Cross. Upon learning that Paul was an avid fan of Guinness beer, I suggested a book I had read a few years back—God and Guinness by Stephen Mansfield. The next time I returned, there it was: the book sitting on top of the stack beside him. He had his friend TJ read it to him twice. We were able to briefly discuss the philanthropic work of Arthur Guinness and his desire to serve the Irish people. Paul sought God with his intellect because he believed loving God meant loving truth wherever it could be found.

So, Paul sought God in the Liturgy, in reading, but also in others. Paul’s seeking did not remain confined to sanctuaries or libraries. It spilled outward into community. Paul was Christ to so many. One person I talked to, throughout the conversation, used words to describe Paul like, friend, father-figure, mentor, teacher, hospitable. These are all characteristics of Christ. At St. Paul’s, he cultivated a parish that was intellectually alive, pastorally generous, and deeply hospitable. Doctoral students found a spiritual home. Newcomers found kindness. Those wounded by the Church found healing. There are parishioners who have said plainly: the reason they are still Episcopalian is because of the hospitality they experienced under Fr. Paul. When they were forced out of another parish by a priest, Paul and the people of St. Paul’s opened their doors without hesitation.

People knew Jesus because of Paul. Many people were sustained in Christ and became Christians because of his witness in ministry. Paul became a fixture with firefighters showing his hospitality by keeping Oreos in his car and bringing them to the bar to share with firefighters.  That kind of welcome is not accidental. It is the fruit of a priest who understood that seeking God always leads us toward the other—toward compassion, generosity, and care. Paul was known for his generosity—not only with material resources, but with time, attention, and patience. He listened. He encouraged. He made room.

And in quieter ways, too, Paul served. In honoring his vocation as husband, father, grandfather, veteran, and friend. All of it flowed from the same source: a life oriented toward God. Paul’s long seeking has come to rest—not in absence, but in fulfillment. The God whom Paul encountered in liturgy, in books, in teaching, and in communities has now met God face to face. The light perpetual, the visio dei, shines upon him. The questions that drove his reading are answered and held in divine wisdom. The prayers he offered are answered in ways beyond our knowing. We commend him to that God with confidence, trusting the promise we proclaim at every Christian funeral: that life is changed, not ended. And we hear, quietly but clearly, the invitation Paul leaves with us: Seek God. Seek God in worship that forms the heart. Seek God in learning that stretches the mind. Seek God in service that opens the hands. May we, like Fr. Paul Tracy, ever strive to seek God.