I watched “Springsteen on Broadway” on Netflix during the week. It’s a recording of a sold out stage show on Broadway where Bruce Springsteen comes on stage with guitar and piano and just talks to and sings for his audience. It’s a very powerful show and Bruce speaks from the heart about his background, his home town, family and faith.
His love for music is palpable and the sincerity of the story told, unquestionable. Through that story he speaks of his relationship with his father saying he was his greatest hero and greatest foe. A tension, for sure, but one that does not blind Springsteen to the role his father played and continues to play in his life. He said when he looked for a voice he found his father’s because “there was something sacred in it”. He said he had a dream after his father’s death of him performing on stage but leaving the stage and going to his father in the audience, kneeling beside him, brushing his forearm and, with his father, looking at himself on stage – the “man on fire” – and then telling his father: “Look dad, that man on stage, that’s how I see you.” He speaks near the end of the show about his father arriving to visit him, unannounced, a few days before the birth of Springsteen’s first child. He says it is as if his father is encouraging him to be a good father – maybe in a way, he hadn’t been. He said it was an apology of sorts without apology ever being mentioned.
Through it all he sings – sings well known hits in a way that maybe we’d not hear them before but spellbinding. He is honest that many of the things he sings about are not things he knows first hand. He speaks about being drafted for Vietnam but being lucky enough not to be sent. A sadness comes over him and he said he often wonders who went in his place. He then sings “Born in The USA” … something very real about it. He talked about being like most young people and reacting against his home town and rallying to get away from it, shake it off and leave it all behind. Now he says he lives “ten minutes” from that home town and would want to be nowhere else! Life teaches us lessons but it can take us a while to let them in.
I think the most remarkable moment of the show comes near the end when he speaks again about the local church. He grew up beside it, the convent, priests’ house and local school – St Rose of Lima. As a child he said the sense of church and family was everything to him. He said he was surrounded by God. Towards the end he comes back to this. Says that they say “Catholics are never let go” – and that what was given to us in childhood stays with us forever. He says he remembers saying prayers and singing hymns that meant nothing to him. Maybe he even resented them but standing near the church, remembering his father and all that is important to him, he said these words came to him – words that are ingrained. The camera x-rays his face – his Soul and he speaks – no, he prays:
“Our father who art in Heaven hallowed be thy name thy Kingdom come thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day ……
The words then become his – “Just give us this day ….. forgive us our sins … our trespasses as we forgive those who might trespass against us. Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil – all of us, for ever and ever.. Amen”
Wonderful. The camera holds, the face is solid, the heart is touched and he blesses his audience: “May God bless you, your families and all those you love; and thanks for coming out tonight.”
I’m so glad I watched this. I don’t know much about Bruce or listen much to his music but he reached me. I had hoped to see this show sometime but it’s over now and was fully sold out so glad to have been able to see it in this way.
There are many emotions running around in my head today. They include memories of my mother and father, R.I.P. and how lucky I was to have them as parents. I think a bit about home and family and remain grateful to my brothers for their support through the years. I think of people who have died, my parents obviously enough, and my God Parents too (John Shannon and May Callaghan, R.I.P.) and I think of the friends I’ve had through the years. For all of these I am so grateful and through them so blessed.
My thoughts too are with all those caught up in the stories of horror from places like Tuam where children were less fortunate, their mothers, it seems, labelled and wrong decisions were clearly made. I’ve no doubt that in these places there were women of immense kindness who saw in these children and their mothers people not statistics, lives to be cherished and nurtured not ignored and shunned. Yet too, it’s almost certain, there were people dressed in the clothing of religious life, who saw themselves above and removed from the twists and turns that weave themselves into the human condition.
I can’t begin to imagine what it must have been like. There’s a line in the Old Testament that speaks of “Rachel weeping for her children” and that sound of weeping can surely be heard today. Countless stories of harsh treatment, finger pointing and tongue wagging that has to be among the worst of all human traits. There are stories shared too of kindnesses received but these are overshadowed by the pain so real to far too many. It’s heartbreaking.
I’ve been a priest since 1987 and hope that I have been kind to people, not least those who have become pregnant at a time in life and in circumstances they might not have wished for or imagined. I am not aware of ever saying or doing anything nasty or hurtful to anyone in this regard and neither am I aware of any priest friend of mine doing or saying anything to add to confusion and hurt. I have never heard a priest condemn in public or private a girl who finds herself pregnant. I have never encouraged anyone to speak ill of another and would hope – sincerely hope – that I’d only do what might be helpful and not hindering of another at a vulnerable and uncertain stage on the journey of life. I have baptized many babies through the years and, among them, babies where no father was present on the day or maybe there but not part of the mother’s life anymore or again, there and hoping to put the pieces together for the future of the baby and mother. There can be no room, on days like this, for anything but compassion. In the majority of these days, the mother and baby, the father too, received nothing but support from their own families and circle of friends. That’s as it should be and needs to be for the good of all – for the good of society.
I don’t fully know what to say to people about all this. I don’t fully know what to think myself but somewhere I hear the call to recognise the kind face and tender word that brought peace rather than hurt, reassurance rather than confusion, tenderness rather than harshness – if we cannot somewhere find that face, those faces in the midst of a darkened and sullied past, there’s little hope or little to hope for. I believe in hope. I saw the list of names the other night, accompanied by a haunting piece of music, and thought someone at the very least (and very is the key word) recorded names and dates and, in so doing, recorded existence and life, however brief. “I have called you by name” says The Lord.
I am deeply aware of friends who have lost babies during pregnancy, at birth or in the very early days of life. I am too, remembering those who lost sons and daughters in their childhood years or young adult lives and saddened they experienced this grief and would give anything to turn back their clocks and help them avoid that awful heartbreak. Likewise for all involved in the Tuam story and stories like it.
Maybe we share our birthdays with all these children, with their mothers and all who carry a burden not of their own making this day. Certainly we pray for forgiveness and the heart of Christ who was at pains not to condemn but to heal.
The last few days the place I remember and call Maynooth has become a hashtag #maynooth or #maynoothscandal. Someone just asked me how I feel about this. The answer is sad, very sad – because the truth is my abiding memories of Maynooth centre around happy days when I looked forward to becoming a priest, of good friends, enthusiasm around church, dreams for the future and a belief that I was in the right place and doing the right thing with my life.
When I started in Maynooth there were seventy-five in my class, most of them my own age with a few, some years older, having worked in other places before making the decision to explore God’s Call. I’d imagine there were 300-400 students in the college at the time, people from all over Ireland. I believed we were there because it’s where we felt we were meant to be. At that time, as far as I recall, there were seminaries in Thurles, Carlow, Waterford, Kilkenny, Wexford as well as All Hallows in Dublin and Clonliffe College which was the seminary specific to students for the Archdiocese of Dublin. There was too, the Irish College in Rome. With the exception of Maynooth and the Irish College in Rome, all are now closed. I’ve no doubt many of the buildings are still there, perhaps other roles were found for them but I’m certain that memories specific to each place remain for those who walked their corridors, sat in their lecture halls and sought to find and deepen the faith “within” in their chapels.
Through the years I have visited Maynooth. In the earlier years of being a priest I’d have visited the students as we had people from the diocese studying there. As time passed, I found that happening less and less. I have however attended meetings there to do with bits of work I do here in the diocese, so I haven’t lost contact with the place entirely. I know there are people that left Maynooth who never re-visited but I think it more the case that most past pupils of the college, whether they were ordained or not, would allow it hold a special place in the heart and feel comfortable enough to wander around its corridors and grounds. The Classpiece pictures (lines of them) along the corridors, remind us of faces from the past, some known to us and many not, and give witness to the reality of vocation and response. I often think about those pictures, my own included, and have come to the conviction that we remain the “man” in that photo. By that I mean, whatever has happened in life, successes and failures, good days and bad, we are still the one who sat in front of a camera and allowed the shutter to close on the face of one preparing for ordination. Whatever hopes and dreams we had at that moment, whatever goodness was in us at that moment, whatever belief in priesthood was in us at that moment, remains the truth of that moment. It is a truth we have to re-visit and, at times, reclaim.
What do I remember of the journey in Maynooth? I remember struggles with prayer and with study, I remember confusion around feelings and somewhere too, of course, wondering about celibacy. I knew that priesthood meant I would not have a wife but at eighteen years of age a wife wasn’t the first thing on my mind!! Even at twenty-four, I’m sure I might not have given too much thought to that. There were nonetheless those “stirrings” in us that seemed at odds with being “holy”, “men apart” and yes, they gave rise to questions and quite likely doubts. I recall someone telling us once during a talk, a retreat maybe, that our feelings around sexuality were normal. As men (women too I’m sure) it was natural to wonder about this side of life and to have to make choices. He said “your hormones don’t even know you’re Catholics, never mind celibates”. I’m sure we laughed but he was making a good point. Hormones are hormones and feelings are feelings, irrespective of creed or calling. It’s what we do with and about them that ultimately shapes us. Somewhere and somehow in vocation and priesthood, with the Grace and help of God, the support and understanding of people and inner will, we have to try to align the hormones with the calling, and bring them to a place where they know “we are catholic and striving to be celibate”.
I don’t recall a “gay culture” in Maynooth when I was there. Neither do I recall “a heterosexual culture”. I felt as people we were rounded, balanced and doing the best we could. I think what I recall was a sincere effort to respond to the call to be a priest. People left along the way. It was the rule of thumb that about half the first year class would leave before ordination and, give or take that was the story with our class too. Why would people leave? Some, I am sure because they came to the realisation that priesthood was not their calling. This may or may not have had to do with celibacy. Others quite likely came to the point where they knew they could not live life without sharing it specifically with another. The idea of parenthood, handing on life through a loving relationship held more value for them and understandably so. It’s certain some might have realised their orientation was homosexual and that seeking and responding to the love of another was something they could not live without. There were, in fairness, many reasons to leave and many too, to stay. It would also have been the case that people might have been asked to leave for various reasons. That surely had to be the role of the Seminary formation team, that it journeyed with the students and observed the lifestyle and the choices being made and if these were considered incompatible with priesthood, then the recommendation would have been made that another life choice might be more in keeping. I suspect similar would happen in any field of training, from the Teacher Training College to nursing, medicine, military, Gardaí and so forth.
The time in Seminary is a time of discernment. What does that mean? It’s something to do with looking at life, seeing where the road is leading and arriving at a decision that the road ahead looks as if it’s leading to the destination you seek. Equally it might lead us to a moment where we need to stop, gather our thoughts, and admit this is not the road for me. It’s a good road and an important road but if I continue on it I will arrive at a destination, yes, but not the one I need. What I am searching for, where I am being led, is not to be found on this road. It’s no harm I’ve travelled this road and chances are I will remember much from the journey but it’s time to look to another path. That’s discernment. It’s about reflection and choice.
So what about the Maynooth of these days? As I said, I’ve lost contact a bit with students. We don’t have any student for our diocese at this time. My interaction then with present day Maynooth in terms of students and indeed staff is practically non-existent. I was involved a number of years ago in giving a retreat to the students and I wondered what that would be like. I recall meeting a small number of them in advance of the retreat to have a chat about it and when I asked what I should do, one of the students said “Don’t apologise for being here”. I am sure we laughed at that too but his point was also valid. What he was saying to me was don’t come in thinking you are not worthy to be here or that you haven’t something to say. Come to us as you are. I very much appreciated that comment and have tried to apply it to other situations in life since then. I went to Maynooth for that retreat expecting to find people at a low ebb (it was at the height of other scandals in our church), where morale would be low and people at a loss. That was not my experience. I met lovely people there. Many of them spoke with me on a one to one basis during times of reconciliation or between talks. I was amazed by their enthusiasm. The hundreds had shrunk to numbers less than a hundred but I found again a sense of purpose among these men. They seemed at ease with themselves and I came away thinking they never knew the Maynooth of hundreds or seminaries scattered across Ireland. This is the only seminary life they’ve experienced and they are making their own of it. I’d like to think I gave something to the students over those few days but I know for certain they gave a lot to me, not least hope.
It is the choice of a bishop to send seminarians to any college he feels would be good to and for them. The Irish College in Rome is an equal partner in the seminary formation of the Irish Church. Indeed when we were in Maynooth, Bishop Flynn (R.I.P.) let it be known that should any of us like to go to Rome to study we were welcome to do so. Furthermore he encouraged this and some of my fellow students chose or maybe were asked to attend the Irish College. There was nothing out of the ordinary about this decision. I’m sure from a practical point of view, the bishops were trying to support both colleges through sending students there. For that reason, I would not like to see Rome and Maynooth being pitched against each other now. It’s my belief they both seek to assist those who feel God’s call to priesthood and it’s for the good of both that a student body is maintained in each. Furthermore, it is my belief that any diocese lucky enough to have a number of students could well benefit from sending some of those students to each or, as was the case in the past, encouraging that they spend time between both.
I am very sorry for anyone who has been hurt in Maynooth. I truly am and I feel much of what is happening these days is sincerely born of personal hurt and a belief that the seminary could and should be better. It is my hope that this hurt will be healed. Whatever needs to be said or done should not be left unsaid or undone. I believe there are very sincere people, staff and students, clerical and lay, men and women still walking the corridors of St Patrick’s College.
Though there is sincerity in the recent comments about Maynooth, I don’t like some of the approaches taken as the story unfolds. It seems certain that some linked with this story have made questionable decisions around social media. At least the allegations made suggest as much. What lies behind those alleged decisions and possible needs of those involved is the journey of discernment. It has to be personal though and to seek to embarrass people through innuendo and invasion seems at odds with a Christian approach to seeking a lasting peace for all involved. My hope is that Maynooth will be to and for all involved a certain companion who will walk the road, listen and offer guidance. Equally may it listen to the voice of students and those believing there is room for change.
At day’s end, I believe Maynooth will continue to shape and be shaped by those who call it “home” during their time there. I would be deeply saddened were it to remain a hashtag when it has offered, offers and has the potential to offer much, much more.
Truth told, I didn’t know what to say or how to say it. He’s in his early twenties and has been in hospital since the summer of 2015 with a serious illness. His eyes were so bright as we spoke, he looked at me in a way that was, at once, humbling and frightening. Humbling because I knew I’d find it very difficult to be in his position and frightening because I feared he’d be angry and vent that anger.
“And faith”, he replied!
And faith! I wasn’t quite ready for that. “Did you ever lose it?”, I asked. “Never”, came the instant and deeply lived reply. “It’s just that I was talking to a parent yesterday and we were talking about teenagers maybe losing their faith for a while. Just wondered if that ever happened you or have you always had faith?” “Always”, again his reply was from a place within.
“And”, he continued, “I don’t know why people would blame God for this. It’s not God’s fault. Just one of those things that happens.”
Silence followed. It was needed – perhaps more for me than him.
“Is there anything you’d like – anything I could get for you?”, I heard myself say.
“Pears”, he replied. “I like pears”.
On this day of World Prayer for the Sick, I pray for him and for all who are sick – pears and prayers- reward and healing.
Yesterday we had that great gospel account of the healing of Bartimaeus, the blind man on the roadside near the town of Jericho. It’s one of my favourite Gospel passages and I am always happy when, like Jesus on that far off day, it makes its appearance in our Liturgical Cycle.
I like it because, being something of a dreamer, I like to imagine happy endings. I know they are not always possible and that they are often replaced by sadness and tragedy but, in the dreamer’s world, there’s always room for belief in things working themselves out.
Better endings don’t come much better than a man beginning the day unable to see and ending the day with 20/20 vision. That’s how it went for Bartimaeus. An encounter with the one he had heard of and had come to believe in took him to that place for which he had longed – a place of vision, vision that led to new independence and independence that led to a choice to “follow” Jesus along the way.
I sometimes imagine asking children in school to draw a picture of this gospel moment. I can see them with blank sheet and crayons beginning to capture the scene. Most likely Jesus with Bartimaeus, maybe touching his eyes or just looking at him. Perhaps some of them might add speech bubbles with Bartimaeus saying thanks to Jesus. I think it likely most of the pictures would feature the two – since they are the story and the ones named. I have no doubt the pictures would be lovely.
There’s more to it though, than just the two. Let’s think about it for a little while. Bartimaeus sits, as it’s likely he did most days, on the side of the road. The world, even the small world of a town, village or even city, passes him by and one day passes to the other with little by way of joy or opportunity. His senses are in tune though and being aware of more traffic than usual he asks what is happening. Someone tells him “Jesus of Nazareth is passing by”. I often think that person, whoever he or she was, deserves the “Man of The Match” award since he or she gave Bartimaeus the chance to seek help. He didn’t need to be given the chance a second time, calling out; “Jesus, Son of David, have pity on me” he seized the moment.
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