by Vincent | Jun 18, 2014 | General Interest, Reflections, Religion
The past few days I have been in Dalgan Park, Navan, Co. Meath. It is the home of the Columban Missionaries. A fine facility, set on spectacular grounds it is home to many events, including Diocesan Priests’ Retreats. It is to that end, I am here, with the priests and bishop of the Diocese of Ardagh and Clonmacnois. The days have passed quickly and, thank God, gone well. It’s always good to meet with priests like this and to hear some of their stories – humorous and otherwise. I’m lucky to be able to do this.
The weather has been fantastic and the heat almost unbearable but a welcome change to winds and rain. I walked a bit – though not as much as I could have or should have but that’s another story.
The cemetery here is amazing. It is so well maintained and a sacred piece of God’s earth. God rest all buried here – included among them Fr Frank Gallagher, an old family friend, who died in 2010 after more than seventy years of priesthood.
I heard in my youth that Fr Frank had been subjected to some tragic torture and treatment during his Missionary Days in Korea. I never heard that from Frank, since he did not speak about this time but it seems certain that there’s truth in it.
Earlier today I spent a bit of time in the main chapel here in Dalgan Park and there’s a collection of pictures on the back wall, twenty-four in all, of members of the Columban Society who lost their lives tragically in the course of their “journeying for the Lord”. Twenty-three of them are priests and one a sister. May God rest their souls. They are not buried in Dalgan, most of them are buried where they were killed and for some, to this day, the whereabouts of their bodies is unknown. It was humbling to look at these faces – most of them very young – and to realise how much they were prepared to give.
Fr Frank Gallagher lays hands on me the day of my ordination in St Patrick’s Church, Gurteen, June 1987
I took photos of the photos. They’re not great quality but it’s my way of taking them home with me and, more than that, sharing them and their Ministry with you. (If you click on an image you will have the option of viewing in larger format and the captions will be more easily read.)
Further information available on the Columban Website
by Vincent | Jun 14, 2014 | Reflections, Religion
Earlier today, whilst travelling to Castlebar for a wedding rehearsal I turned on the radio. It was mid interview and a man (whose name I didn’t get) was talking about his grandmother who had given birth to a baby outside wedlock. She had been sent to a home where she had her baby and stayed for two years to pay back, through work, the help she had received. It was, of course, a sad story, made sadder by the fact that it had not been revealed by the grandmother during her lifetime. My heart goes out to all involved.
He said she was sent to the home by a priest who was “helping her” and then with a sarcastic chuckle, he repeated the line “helping her” as if this could not have been further from the priest’s mind, intention or desire. I wondered if maybe he was, in fact, trying to help her. Is there room for doubt? Is there, even a slim chance, that the man thought he was doing the right thing by her in the circumstances?
In fairness, the presenter tried to broaden the canvas a little and said the problem was wider than the Catholic Church. She said surely it was the woman’s family or families of women like her, who found themselves in this situation, that often turned their backs on them. He was determined in his response – the fault lay with the Catholic Church who controlled everything in society. When she said the problem was also linked with other religions, there was no turning on his part. The Catholic Church was to blame for it all. She didn’t pursue her line of questioning and other contributors to the panel were quick to row in their support for the blame resting solely with the Catholic Church and its control.
I was saddened to think we have come to this place where we are blamed for everything. My thoughts went again to the priest and the summary dismissal of any chance that he had in fact tried to help in what may have been the only way open to him.
All the while I drove to be with a couple preparing for their wedding day. I knew that from there I would go to the funeral of a relation and a priest and join others in prayer and support. Yesterday I stood with another couple as they exchanged vows. Last week, with another. A few days before that I sat with a young woman in her home, left empty by her father’s death and felt her pain as she sought to come to an acceptance that he was gone from her, and gone forever. I spoke with a young man who was saddened by life’s journey and wanted no more from me than an open ear. I recalled visits to hospitals and homes to spend some time with people coping with illness. I remembered the recent celebration of First Holy Communion in the parish and the joy I felt in seeing the happiness on children’s faces as they reached a milestone in life.
I thought of daily Mass in the parish and the, sometimes small but always devoted, attendance of those able to join with me around the Altar and thought of Sundays with a larger congregation, choir, people involved in various ministries and people passing by who might just join us because they happened to pass at that moment when we gather to worship on the Sunday in every week.
Twenty-seven years ago, this very day, I was ordained a priest in my home parish. My parents were there, my family and many friends from home, from the seminary – people supporting me in the moment, wishing me well and telling me they’d pray for me. I asked them to – I needed them to – and they said they would. I’ve never doubted but they kept their word. My parents are now gone from me but I still feel their support and presence. Did they think I was becoming a priest so that I could control people, make life difficult for them or ever subject them to situations that they’d regret for the rest of their lives or into a new generation? Did they think I’d treat any girl who came to my door, with a story of uncertainty, to a cruel fate that her grandchild would recount on radio forty years later? Is that why I became a priest?
The answer to all these questions is, I believe, no! I can say in honesty that I have never set out to hurt anyone in my life as a priest. That doesn’t mean I haven’t done so. I can nonetheless say I never intentionally sought to make life difficult for anyone. I have, as far as I know, always tried to be helpful. I cannot recall a time when I chose to ignore a genuine cry or whisper for help.
Do I think I am different from other priests? Of course we are all individuals and have our own ways but I don’t believe I am that different. I think most priests operate out of a desire to help rather than hinder, encourage rather than discourage, praise rather than condemn, share the load rather than burden – in short, try to do their best.
At this evening’s Mass I praised, in all sincerity, the three children who were serving at the Altar. I told them, in front of the congregation, that I was proud of them. Then I put the question – the wondering – if in thirty or forty years time they’re sitting in company and people are giving out about the church, about priests about our mistakes, will they just sit there, order another drink, sit quietly by or will they say, “That’s not my experience”? Will one of them say ” I remember a priest saying at Mass that he was proud of me”?
I’d love to think they would but sometimes the silence of people in the now of our confusion makes me sad. Surely there are very many people out there who have had good experiences of the work of their local priests? Surely there are very many who have felt the nourishment of their Faith and the strength of sacraments celebrated? Where is their voice? Where are their words?
Where is “the good word”?
by Vincent | Apr 23, 2014 | Reflections, Parish and Diocese, Religion, Photography
For the third year, we gathered on Easter Sunday Morning for a Dawn Mass in the grounds of Urlaur Abbey. There was a fine gathering of people from the parish and beyond – some from Ballymote, Curry, Charlestown, Carracastle, Knock, Kiltimagh, Ballaghaderreen, Monasteraden and, I’m sure, other places. It was lovely to see so many come together to welcome “hope” on Easter Sunday.
I shared a few words there, as I had done at the Vigil Mass and, again at the later Masses of Easter Day.
I mentioned that I was moving a bookcase in my bedroom earlier in the week and that a bank card fell on the ground. I felt it wasn’t mine but I stooped to pick it up and noticed it was a card of my mother’s. It expired in 2008, a year before she herself entered Eternity. I said I looked at the card for a while and it was the standard issue – embossed lettering giving her name, the expiry date and other details, the logo of the bank and the little security tag. In effect, a piece of plastic.
It was when I turned it over its full story unfolded. On the back I saw my mother’s signature. The writing was shaky but the name and signature hers. I found myself sitting back on my bed and crying. I cried, not flowing or endless tears, but those tears that well up in the eyes, burn a little and surprise you by their arrival. Real tears nonetheless that both shocked and reassured me. Shocked insofar as they were not expected and reassured to the degree I realised yet again, the strong bond that exists within family and among loved ones. It is a bond that transcends time and bursts open graves. There was a presence in that signature.
What struck me most was remembering my mother say to me many times; “Nobody will ever love you as much as I do”. I have two brothers and I have no doubt her love for them was as strong but I suspect she may have said this to me more often since they have families of their own. It struck me, as I looked at the bank card, that she was saying to me I’d never be alone and that her love would always be there. (So too, and I know this for certain, my father’s, R.I.P.)
I wondered though how seriously I took her words to heart when she spoke them. Did I really allow them in? Did I fully believe what she was saying? Though, I’m happy enough I believed it, chances are I didn’t fully understand.
That’s the link with the Easter Story in my mind this weekend. The women go to the tomb on Easter Sunday morning, not to meet the Risen Christ but to anoint a dead body. Time had denied them the opportunity on the Friday evening in the shadow of the approaching Sabbath so he was buried without the customary anointing. They felt badly about this and wanted to set things right. So, it was to visit the dead they went that morning, not to witness the central teaching of our Faith, that “he is risen”. The Angels told the women that he had, in fact, risen and added “as he said he would”. That’s the line that hit me very much this weekend – “as he said he would”.
They heard him say it but seemingly it hadn’t sunken into their hearts. Yes, they believed but, no more than my mother’s words, they hadn’t fully grasped that he absolutely meant what he was saying.
Jesus used words well. He would have been quite at home in the world of “Twitter” and “SMS” where a few characters tell a story that far outweighs their numbers. It’s not that Jesus was mean with his words or careful how much he said. He said what needed to be said and, more than that, he meant it.
Maybe we need to hear his words again – perhaps some of our favourite phrases from the Scripture – and allow them sink in, be real, understood and believed.
I told the people on the shore in Urlaur (and at other Easter Masses last weekend) that I’ve told them many times I am proud of them, happy to be with them, grateful to them and I wondered did they really believe me or think these were just words falling from an open mouth? I mentioned my classmate, Archbishop Eamon Martin, whom I’d seen on TV during the week. He was speaking at a presentation of awards to young people in the Archdiocese of Armagh and said that the young people were not our “future” but were, more vitally, our “present”. I had not thought of it in that way before. I said that I had tried to encourage young people over the years to be involved in parish life since they are the new generation and the builders of the church of tomorrow but, listening to Eamon, I had it wrong – they are our “now” – it is today we need them, depend on them, hope in them and call them to life in the Faith. Again, I did not want these to be words they hear but don’t believe. I’d like to think, I’m saying what I believe, despite my own confusions and uncertainties from time to time.
“Nobody will ever love you as much as I do” …. a plastic card, a shaky signature but a totally TRUE statement.
“Lord, increase our faith …..”
by Vincent | Apr 1, 2014 | General Interest, Reflections, Religion, Photography
I was asked if I’d consider including the text of “The Enchanted Way” on the Blog for Lent. This was first published in 1999 and re-printed in 2005 so thought might be no harm to include here at this stage. Thanks to all who have mentioned these reflections to me over the years. It’s lovely to hear that they’ve been used and if this platform gives them another airing, that can’t be bad!!
(Click on “pause” to spend a bit of time with an image, story or prayer or just let it play through on its own. Whatever works best for you).
Also available here on PDF
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(If you wish to order a hard copy of The Enchanted Way you can do so through the Veritas Website at this link)
by Vincent | Feb 27, 2014 | Reflections, Parish and Diocese, Religion
Yesterday we had a Funeral Mass here for a little baby girl, Sarah Ann. We tried to support her parents and family around the Altar and through God’s Word. It was lovely to see so many people there with the family, offering support and the certainty of their presence, even in the uncertainty of the moment. I want to share the few lines used at Mass yesterday. I hope they might bring comfort, maybe to a reader, who knows all too well the story of loss in these circumstances.
Dear Mammy, Daddy, Amy and Seán,
Thank you for your letters, I’ve read them over and over. Amy’s picture of the church is lovely. It’s great to have them and I know that I’ll often look at them. I thought maybe I should write to you too. I hope it makes sense …
Thanks for welcoming me! I felt so safe with you – that seems a daft thing to say since how else could I feel. I loved the way you talked about me and, though you might not have said it out loud, wondered what I’d be like, who I’d be like. I wondered that too. Chances are, I’d be like both of you. Now that wouldn’t have been bad.
I was ready to meet ye. I so looked forward to it. Amy was so grown up in my world with her talk of school and friends and games and dresses … She seems like great fun. I know she’d have made me very welcome. I loved that black dress she has and all the red flowers on it. I thought I might borrow it sometime. I felt so lucky to have her as a sister and knew we’d always be friends.
Seán! Now what can I say about him? He’s mighty craic. In fairness he might have preferred if I was a boy. He imagined us having all sorts of adventures around the house, playing in old cars and hiding things in places nobody would find. Things like Jammy Dodger biscuits, cap guns, spanners … He’s a live wire for sure. Was he ready for another sister? I know now that he was. To be honest, I’d have loved to play around the house with him and I love cars, even the Vectra that was sprayed Green and Red last September! The games around the house, the hidden biscuits, the endless laughter and wondering what he’d do next! … You’re the best Seán.
It’s great to have the four grandparents. I know that many children don’t. I know that they are sad for mammy and daddy but I hope not too sad. All I wanted was to make them happy. I’m glad they’re here now and I know they’ll be a great help. Thanks for loving me too. I’ll always love ye.
These last few days have been strange for us all. None of us expected this. I hate to see you all so sad, my parents, brother and sister, my uncles, aunts, grandparents and all of you here today. I know there are other mammies and daddies here who know what this feels like. I’m sorry you are sad. Like all of you, I wish it were different. None of us saw this coming but we’re here now, it’s an hour we have to go through. Jesus told me he had an hour like this too, in a garden when he didn’t know what was happening. He said his best friends fell asleep while he worried. He put his hand on my head and said, “Your friends didn’t sleep Sarah …. they’re all awake with you” – I knew what he meant.
You’ve all done your best for me. I love the names you gave me. Sarah! What a mighty woman? She was kind and giving and had such a hearty laugh. She believed in God even when it was hard to believe. God never forgot about her and sent a little baby to her when she was very old. God doesn’t forget about anyone. I know He is with us all today and always will be. Ann? I love that name too. She was Mary’s mother and helped Mary so much. Mary is kind. She doesn’t say a lot but she notices everything. She was one of the first to hold me. She told me I’d be fine but I knew she felt sorry for all of you too so I told her how much you did for me.
I told her about the Butterfly people who’d made little clothes for me. I told her about the photographs you have of me. My footprints, handprints and the teddies Seán and Amy gave me. She noticed the little Rosary Beads too and I told her it was mammy’s. She cried a little, as if she knew what sadness means but then she smiled when I told her about Amy’s black dress with the red flowers … She laughed out loud when I showed her the red flowers … “Sarah”, she said “did you take those from your sister?” “No Mary, she cut them off herself and gave them to me. I think that means ….. ”
… and, before I could finish Mary said, “Yes, it does Sarah Ann, it means she loves you …… they all love you”,
I felt happy then because I know how much you all love me. That will never change. I love you too.
Look after one another.
Sarah Ann xxx
by Vincent | Feb 23, 2014 | General Interest, Reflections, Religion
Two young people were sitting at the same table as me. They were having a conversation and, though I didn’t set out to eavesdrop, I couldn’t really help but hear them. They were two students in Maynooth college and they were discussing college life. I had a clearer view of the lad as he was sitting across the table from me. I’d describe him as “student” – a sort of laid-back look, cool, longish hair, unshaved, casually dressed (but aware of looking the part nonetheless) and well able to talk. She seemed very nice, pleasant and happy to be chatting with him. They seemed to know each other but, I thought, not too well. Maybe he wanted to get to know her better, I can’t be sure. I’d not blame him if he did! They talked about their courses, the train-fare and how they were choosing to stay at home as it saved them a bit of money but they found the daily commute tiring. They seemed to enjoy their life in Maynooth and, as they talked, my mind wandered back to my own days there and I could identify with their enjoyment.
They talked about socialising and the things they liked to do. It was obvious they mixed study and pleasure with an ease you’d admire. “Where do you go for a drink?” she asked. “I’m a Pioneer”, he replied. I wondered. I felt he’d add, “Ah no, I’m only joking” but he didn’t. He said he saved a lot by not drinking. I knew he was serious. She took it in her stride and said what she liked to drink but there was a real respect there.
I’d not have added “pioneer” to his list of attributes but I was so happy to hear him say it. It seemed so natural and so right. It didn’t interfere with his ability to enjoy her company, to share their experience and to shorten the journey. I thought how lovely it would be to hear more young people say this – without blush or embarrassment. I wondered if he knew that he was giving witness to something very powerful– the ability to stand back from the “done thing” and to realise drink didn’t have to be part of his life.
I chatted to the two of them for a while. I never mentioned drink or abstinence but met them on a journey of memory along corridors of a place that was home to me for six years and has been part of my story for nearly two-thirds of my life! I was glad to meet them and it makes me wonder ….
What about another look at “The Pioneers” – especially for our younger travelling companions?
The past few days I have been in Dalgan Park, Navan, Co. Meath. It is the home of the Columban Missionaries. A fine facility, set on spectacular grounds it is home to many events, including Diocesan Priests’ Retreats. It is to that end, I am here, with the priests and bishop of the Diocese of Ardagh and Clonmacnois. The days have passed quickly and, thank God, gone well. It’s always good to meet with priests like this and to hear some of their stories – humorous and otherwise. I’m lucky to be able to do this.
I heard in my youth that Fr Frank had been subjected to some tragic torture and treatment during his Missionary Days in Korea. I never heard that from Frank, since he did not speak about this time but it seems certain that there’s truth in it.
