I was asked earlier today to write a few lines for the tenth edition of our Parish Magazine. I said yes. There was no suggestion around what I should write but that’s the way the editorial team has been with me over the years. It’s left to myself. I was reminded of words I wrote nearly two years ago for the magazine. They’re elsewhere in this blog but I thought I’d bring them to the front again. It was a thought around the changes I’ve encountered since ordination but also of the consistency that remains for all of us, found in the day to day living of life and journeying in faith ……
There was, in poetry, a time
I thought things had to rhyme
That was, in poetry, the only way
At least that’s what I used to say!
But of that today I’m not so sure
Could it be I’m more mature?
The lines above speak to something of the truth. As a student in St Nathy’s College, I never fully understood poems that didn’t rhyme. More than that, I disliked them and the “poets” who wrote them so obviously unaware that poems should have a rhyming pattern. I remember pointing this out on one occasion, only to be told by a fellow pupil who understood things at a deeper level than I and who knew, even then, that poems didn’t have to rhyme: “Vincent, that is the basic essence of poetry”! I disliked him as well that day (had I been on Facebook, I’d probably have de-friended him!!)
It was handy when the poem rhymed! It was easier to learn, easier to remember and easier to churn out on a page of an Inter or Leaving Certificate answer book.
Back to the poetry!
So is that I’m more mature?
Like you, of that, I’m not so sure
From whence then came the clue
Some don’t rhyme and some just do
The answer I suppose lies in life … as a boy, a student in Maynooth, a newly ordained priest I thought answers were easily found. Things had an order about them – a sort of pattern like the rhyming poem. Before I was ordained, people wished me well. They seemed genuinely interested in what I was doing, felt the need for me to be a priest and, when I was ordained they assured me of their prayers, friendship and lasting support.
Most people went to Mass. Churches were well filed, if not full most of the time. Prayers were said and it seemed so important to keep the Parish together. I enjoyed those early days. I drove too fast and missed a lot of what was so powerfully on display. Good and decent people, doing the best they could for family, church and parish – for me; “the new curate!”
The rhyme was in full flow ……
“The Lord be with you”, I would say
“And also with you” as one we’d pray
Great to see you and so it was
And then to think we’d stand and pause
Sins confessed, Sacred Story shared
His Body for all, nothing spared.
First baptism, first wedding – such joyful occasions, shared easily with people oozing joy. Their new child, their early days of love, how easily to stand with them on days like that when photos were taken, words spoken and happiness owned the day. I don’t remember the First Confession I heard and often think that tells its own reassuring story of the sacredness of that Sacrament. Lines drawn in the sand, and no need to re-live or re-visit – that’s the way it’s meant to be, people move on renewed and refreshed having been forgiven by one in need too of God’s forgiveness. The rhythm of the Sacraments added its own shape to the rhyme.
He died in a tragic accident. His wife and children were devastated and the community drew to a halt. I went to the hospital for the removal and an elderly woman told me afterwards how sorry she felt for me in my short-sleeved shirt. I could as easily have been a boy in short trousers. Words were scarce and the rhyme was gone … it’s hard to speak in rhyme or think in rhyme when people’s hearts are broken. There were others like that, sudden deaths, car accidents, cancer and sickness, relationships ended, rows between people, loss of Faith, decline in practice, indifference, hostility, doubts and anger, nobody in Maynooth …. and still the whispered refrain “I the Lord of sea and sky, I have heard my people cry. I who made the stars of night, I will make their darkness bright …… Whom shall I send?”
Somewhere in and through all of this, unknown to myself, I leaned that …..
poems don’t have to rhyme but
they should speak
to a soul in need of Grace
a wound in need of healing
a heart in need of mending
a darkness in need of light
a thought in need
of sharing
And that’s what I want to say. Despite the difficulties and the sadness, the changes and the uncertainties, the Poem must go on. We must find time to share thoughts and place with one another, to bring people to that point where the Word is heard even if not fully grasped and prayers are prayed even in uncertainty.
I hope this piece isn’t out of place here – It’s just another angle, another verse in a lifelong poem, shared not by a poet but one who is privileged to share this place with all of you in a very special way and by one who depends so heavily on all of you for word and verse, song and tune, prayer and peace!
Earlier today, I spoke at the retreat in Kiltegan about Our Lady. I was trying to remember a poem given me by a priest a few years ago and talked about it, though I could not fully recall the details. A painting of The Annunciation was the backdrop to the piece and I couldn’t remember the artist either. I substituted with the name of an artist I could remember and said I was doing that. I remembered enough of the poem’s message to make the point I wanted to make. After the talk, one of the men said to me “I think it was Bellini”. I thanked him and hoped I’d remember to make note of that. After tea the same man slipped me a folded piece of paper. The poem was sourced! I appreciated the man taking the time to do this and thought, in honour of that kindness, that I might include the poem and picture here. It’s always good to clarify ….
and the poem, called IN THE KITCHEN, by Fr Killian McDonnell OSB.
IN THE KITCHEN (‘In the sixth month the angel Gabriel…’ Luke 1:26)
Bellini has it wrong, I was not kneeling on my satin cushion, in a beam of light, head slightly bent.
Painters always skew the scene, as though my life were wrapped in silks, in temple smells.
Actually, I had just come back from the well, placing the pitcher on the table I bumped against the edge, spilling water on the floor.
As I bent to wipe it up, there was a light against the kitchen wall, as though someone had opened the door to the sun.
Rag in hand, hair across my face, I turned to see who was entering, unannounced, unasked.
All I saw was light white against the timbers. A voice I’ve never heard greeted me,
said I was elected, would bear a son who’d reign forever. The spirit would overshadow me. I stood afraid.
Spotted this last night as I pulled in at home. Took three of four shots and within minutes the scene had totally changed. How difficult it can be to capture a moment! Worth the effort though. Take no chances with special moments today …
Just caught closing minutes of a documentary on Joan Baez and this song featured. I’d never heard it before. Glad I heard it today.
“GOD IS GOD” (Lyrics)
(Steve Earle)
I believe in prophecy
Some folks see things
Not everybody can see
And once in a while
They pass the secret along
To you and me
And I believe in miracles
Something sacred burning
In every bush and tree
We can all learn to sing
The songs the angels sing
Yeah I believe in God
And God ain’t me
I’ve traveled around the world
Stood on mighty mountains
And gazed across the wilderness
Never seen a line in the sand
Or a diamond in the dust
And as our fate unfurls
Every day that passes
I’m sure about a little bit less
Even my money keeps telling me
It’s God I need to trust
And I believe in God
But God ain’t us
God of my little understanding
Don’t care what name I call
Whether or not I believe
Doesn’t matter at all
I receive the blessings
That every day on earth’s
another chance to get it right
Let this little light of mine
Shine and rage against the night
Just another lesson
Maybe someone’s watching
And wondering what I got
Maybe this is why I’m here on earth
And maybe not
Following on from the few words posted for this weekend around the Road FROM Emmaus, I thought I’d re-post an entry from some time ago. There is a link!
________________________
I was at a weekend retreat in Killenard, Co. Laois a few years ago. In the dining room there hung a painting entiled something along the lines “Servant Girl At Emmaus” and it depicted a rather puzzled looking girl at a table. There were some items on the table but there was nobody at it. I assumed it was the table at which Jesus had sat with the two travelling companions and that they had left in a hurry – Jesus having “vanished” from their sight and the two men legging it back to Jerusalem to tell the others they had seen him. I remember thinking did she wonder “who’s going to have to pay for this?”
I mentioned the painting to a priest friend sometime later – one who is more appreciative of the arts than I. He knew the painting from my description and, though he shared my joke about the girl wondering would she have to pay for the meal since the diners had apparently done a runner, he let me know (gentlty, in fairness) that I had missed the point. The girl is actually in the kitchen and Jesus and the two may still be seen at a corner table. She is listening and wondering because she believes it is Jesus but realises his table companions haven’t recognised him. Here’s the painting …. have a look at the girl and the men in the corner …
The Servant-Girl at Emmaus (A Painting by Valasquez)
Earlier this evening, I googled this painting and came across the following poem by Denise Levertov that sums it up so well … The Gospel passage ends with us being told that they recognised him in the “breaking of bread” – this girl, it seems, recognised him in the serving of bread. Oh, to have eyes to see, ears to hear and Faith to believe …..
She listens, listens, holding
her breath. Surely that voice
is his – the one
who had looked at her, once, across the crowd,
as no one ever had looked?
Had seer her? Had spoken as if to her?
Surely those hands were his,
taking the platter of bread from hers just now?
Hands he’d laid on the dying and made them well?
Surely that face-?
The man they’d crucified for sedition and blasphemy.
The man whose body disappeared from its tomb.
The man it was rumored now some women had seen this morning, alive?
Those who had brought this stranger home to their table
don’t recognize yet with whom they sit.
But she in the kitchen, absently touching the winejug she’s to take in,
Had the good fortune to attend a Johnny McEvoy concert in Sligo on Sunday night. Have seen him a few times through the years and have many of his song numbered among my favourites. Didn’t know til last night that the first song he wrote “Long Long Before Your Time” was penned outside Kennedy’s in Doocastle! Always enjoy hearing the story of a song. I like this one too – the story of his love for his late wife, Odette, R.I.P. “The Planter’s Daughter”
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