Earlier today I had a Wedding Mass. Shortly before the Mass I met a couple whose Wedding Mass I celebrated just over two years ago. I asked them what I should say to the couple. The wife said I should tell them to “Never loose the spark. To talk always and to arrange a DATE NIGHT, once a month, where they can go out together, be alone with no mobiles or distractions and just be together”. I looked at the husband, “Well?” I asked. “Tell him to get a good pair of ear plugs! And don’t ever talk about the in-laws, it always ends up badly!”
I told them I’d share this with the couple getting married. I don’t think they believed me but share it I did. As I hoped, people laughed but, in fairness there was something in it I suppose. The need to keep communication and excitement alive in the relationship and also, maybe at times, to close your ears to things that might lead to conflict or difficulty.
I went on to say that I also wanted to share a second thought. I called to a house where an elderly lady had dropped dead. Her husband was devastated. He told me that he’d never forget her and though he had great neighbours and family, nobody would ever replace his wife. “We were great friends”, he told me “and we knew each others’ ways.” I have never forgotten this nor the look in his eyes as he spoke these words to me. She died on their 42nd Wedding Anniversary and to be able to say after four and more decades that your wife is “your best friend” has to be as good as it gets.
Between the advice of the two year couple and the witness of the 42 year couple, I think there was something for my wedding couple today.
Maybe there’s something for us all. That’s the thought …. be grateful for the friend who knows your ways and is still your friend.
Today at Mass, we heard the Gospel account of Simeon meeting Mary and Joseph in the Temple when they brought Jesus to present him there in keeping with their custom. I like the passage and, like too, the entrance of Anna in the story. To me it’s about generations meeting in a place of worship and being at ease with one another. In many ways, it’s a model of and for church. A place of welcome for all ages and a place where all ages mix freely and faithfully with one another. Searched a bit and found this clip. Not sure what it’s like but it taps into this Scriptural moment and that can’t be bad!
Sometime ago, I asked for suggestions around what might be helpful on this blog. The other day I got one such suggestion. It was short and to the point, asking that I might write something on grief ….
The day I received that message was the day after I came home from holidays. While I was away, I received word that a young man from the parish had died in Adelaide. He was 28 years old, a hard worker and died doing what he liked to do, as someone put it at his Funeral Mass; “earning a day’s wage for a day’s work”. May he rest in peace.
For nearly two weeks I’d known that I was coming home the day before his Funeral Mass so, for much longer than usual, I had the chance to prepare a few words. That said, no words came to me, much as I tried to find them. I called to his home the evening I arrived and noticed the field beside his family home filled with cars and many young men from the parish, together with some of our older parishioners directing traffic, helping to park cars and being, what they needed to be, “supportive”. Saddened though I was, there was something in this display of solidarity that was wrapped in reassurance. People are not left alone when help is needed. It struck me that many of these young men were grieving the loss of their former team-mate on Kilmovee Shamrocks, mourning the loss of one who emigrated about five years ago but kept in touch with friends and family. Their grief expressed itself in “high-vis” jackets, in standing at the end of the road and directing those who wished to visit the home, say a prayer and offer condolences. Their grief may or may not have included tears but their grief was real. Thankfully it found a way to express itself – in “hands-on” help at a difficult moment.
Likewise the neighbour, whose field was being used, filling in soft spots with chippings so that cars could enter and leave the field without getting stranded. His opening the gap in a much cherished field was his way of grieving the “neighbour’s son” who was a daily visitor to his own family home during his childhood years. This man’s sister told me afterwards that it was “the hardest week of our lives”. She too knew grief as she remembered the boy, now a man sleeping in death’s arms, and the joy he brought to their kitchen with his childish stories and impish ways. The elderly neighbour down the road who seldom leaves his house had made the journey to pay his respects “Did you know him well?” I asked “There was scarcely a day he wasn’t here when he was a boy. He was a mighty worker”. Grief that took a man who seldom travels to see again the neighbours and tell them he was sorry for their loss. “I didn’t think I’d be able for the Funeral he told me”. Maybe he meant able to be in the church with so many people for so long but maybe too, he just wasn’t able to take in the fact a twenty-eight year old had died. Grief takes many forms and expresses itself in a myriad of ways.
I took my place in the home. I looked at the coffin and the young man within. I looked at his parents, brothers and sisters and wondered what I could ever say that could even go close to being a comfort. They weren’t sobbing or bent over in visible heartbreak but they were devastated. Happy perhaps, to have him home for the few hours. It had been a long wait and a long journey but there was a hard reality in that room. One of the children had died. Grief was present. Grief is real.
I searched for something there – something I could use as a landmark, a pointer that might in time, lead to a better place and a happier moment. Nothing came to me, much and all as I wanted it to. I looked at photos, football jersey and faces but none of them uttered a word. Grief sometimes doesn’t allow much to be said and, even if it is said, seems to dull the hearing. “I’m truly sorry” I told them in turn or “sorry for your trouble” or “I wish you hadn’t to be here ….” I tried to vary my words a little but the core truth was the same, it was a difficult and heart breaking moment for this family.
Without finding a landmark, I left the house and walked back to my car, past lines of people waiting to do what I had just done. Lines of silent people. Yes, they were talking but nothing much was being said. Grief envelops a crowd and brings the crowd to a stilled silence. I’m sure there were hundreds there but very little was being said. Grief does that, it stills the crowd in us and quietens the voice in us. I thanked the lads in the field and noticed how attentive they were to their tasks. There were no mobiles or walkie-talkies but they were all in communication with each other, even in the large field that, I’m told, parked over the hours around a thousand cars. Grief brought a singleness of purpose to those young people. They wanted to do the right thing by their friend and his family. Maybe grief has its good points too. It brings out, on occasion, the best in us.
Later that evening I returned to the home for a little while. I sat at the kitchen table and remembered sitting there a few weeks ago when there had been a baptism in the family. I thought how different the atmosphere had been, how much more joyful the conversation but it struck me we were at the same table – sharing food. That much was the same. I’d found my landmark. The table! Something solid around which people gather and from which they’re fed. Altar and Eucharist.
Maybe that’s what we search for in grief. That “landmark” that reminds us of what remains the same rather than what has changed. It may well be the love we had for a person, the need we felt for them the intention we had to be good to and for him or her. It might be a shared memory, a story, a journey – togetherness that remains as was, in spite of all that has happened. Grief has the ability to devastate us, to curl us up in a ball of uncertainty but I think too, it can take us to a place of recognition of the ultimate truth, what this person was in my life, all that he or she meant to me, remains constant.
I mentioned grief at the Funeral Mass. I said that I felt certain the family, member by member, the friends too, would be visited by grief. It might be a month or six; a year or more but someday tears will roll down the cheek and the stomach will tighten as if recoiling from a blow. The timing of its visit is not in our hands. Neither the duration of its stay. Grief sets out its own agenda and makes its own travel plans. Someone once said that they only way to ensure you never cry at a funeral is to never love anyone. The price we pay for love is grief. Grief at moving away, at separation and, of course, at death. There’s little, indeed nothing, that can be done to avoid it but maybe there’s a way to live with and through it.
A friend once told me that before a football game. the team manager was giving the warm up talk in the changing room. I’ve no doubt it was impassioned and colourful but the piece of advice my friend remembers, long after he hung up his boots for the final time, was around coping when the game wasn’t going your way. The manager told them if they found themselves going through a dry spell, when nothing seemed to work for them, that they shouldn’t try to be fancy. “Don’t try to solo the length of the pitch”, he told them, “you’ll not make it”. “Neither”, he said “try an elaborate pass” His advice was rooted in the simple. “Take a short pass from a team mate, move the ball to another, do something simple with the ball”. It makes such sense. It’s about getting confidence back, finding direction and knowing what you’re about. The manager concluded, according to my friend’s telling with these words; “If the game is going bad for you, do something simple with the ball. Play yourself back into the game”.
“Play yourself back into the game”. Grief? Connection? I think it’s something about finding something that gives you strength and confidence on the darkest days. It’s about knowing you are not on the pitch alone, that there are team mates there who will pass support to you and receive it from you. It’s about “doing something simple” to find peace for the moment and direction for the moments to follow. It’s about playing yourself back into the game because the bad patches pass and what’s important, the landmarks remain. Maybe it’s about reading a piece through which you’ve been consoled or spending some time with old photographs, it might be listening to a song, going for a walk or anything that connects you with the source of your grief, the one you miss. It’s not about doing anything dramatic. Just “something simple” … with the ball, with grief.
Is this enough about grief? Quite doubtful, I honestly don’t know but maybe it’s a start.
A week ago I spoke about Friday’s Referendum and mentioned it quite likely that by this weekend, the votes, cast and counted, would reveal a majority in its favour. I didn’t need to be much of a forecaster or analyst to arrive at that conclusion.
Such is the case today. On this Pentecost Sunday we stand with all who stood yesterday in the hope that they too stand with us. It is certain that many of those gathered yesterday, longing and waiting for our country’s yes, are today, like us, gathered in church, praying with their neighours and communities. We were not enemies yesterday, nor are we today. On the contrary, as one we seek peace and direction, strength, dignity and hope.
There is surely no better day to do it. Into the “locked upper room” came the Spirit of God to empower and release. Doors once locked were opened, voices once silenced found their breath, language once confused found a common and shared vocabulary. The Holy Spirit came to bring courage for the road and hope for the day. The Apostles left that upper room and walked onto the world’s streets. We have been walking since. That conversation continues.
Archbishop Diarmuid Marin spoke yesterday, in a timely and gentle tone, to say our church needs to have a “reality check”. I liked what he had to say and believe there’s a great truth in it. It’s certain we have lost contact with a sizeable number of our people. He spoke, in particular, of young people but I feel it goes broader than that. So on this Day of The Holy Spirit, what better way to begin that check than to ask that same Spirit to empower us, engage us and bring us to a place and point where discussion continues.
Are we about yes and no? Are we meant for division and hostility? Are we intended to be fearful or mistrusting of one another? I think not. We are on a journey as one and, to that journey, we invite again the Gifts and Fruits of the Holy Spirit. More than invite them, we rely on them.
I mentioned last week that if the referendum passed because people genuinely felt it was for the good of our country and its people that I could and would live easily with that decision. If, on the other hand, it was to be viewed as some victory over the Church and its teachings, I’d find it difficult to come to terms with that and considered it a high price to pay. For that reason, I think it’s only fair to acknowledge the many who called for “no”, voted “no” and believed in “no”. This “no” was and is rooted in love of something held very dear and sacred – something at the core of most of our lives – the reality that was father and mother, doing together their best. Of course there were exceptions. Sadly too there were tragedies and illnesses that deprived children of one or both parents but the truth remains that many among us value married life and felt it under threat. Out of that and because of that, there was a desire not to have its meaning changed.
This, for the majority of people calling for “no”, had nothing to do with hatred, homophobia or oppression. People – the Church (and its teachers) wanted to protect something held sacred. There was no wish to hold people back or create division but, as I understand it, a call to reflect before change might be made.
To that end, it is possible that many did in fact “reflect” as the bishops asked and having done so came to the conclusion, that they had enough faith to sustain marriage as we know it, to continue to cherish it whilst opening the way for other understandings. Should that be the case, we pray for the sustaining of that faith and a way to communicate it with generations to come.
My deep wish is that we can put “yes” and “no” behind us now and journey respectful of one another in a way that is dignified and worthy of human beings – men and women – sharing time and space.
Furthermore, I truly hope that all can come to see our church as a place of welcome and challenge. Through that welcome may we accept the challenge to be better people because of our Faith, Hope and Love. I don’t believe the church seeks to oppress people. That is not why we are Catholics. On the contrary, we are called to be people of hope and encouragement. We have to own our Faith and speak from it. There’s so much good to be cherished, valued and shared. I fear the apparent desire to silence this sharing and the lack of courage, at times, to bring our Faith alive to the market place. Of course some of our teachings are demanding and maybe even burdensome but, like all lessons taught with passion, seek to bring us to a place of understanding.
Indeed Archbishop Diarmuid’s words refer to this. Whilst most will focus (as did I) on his mention of the need for “reality check”, he had more than that to say – not least about the teachings of our church. He puts it well:
“we tend to think in black and white but most of us live in the area of grey, and if the church has a harsh teaching, it seems to be condemning those who are not in line with it.
“But all of us live in the grey area. All of us fail. All of us are intolerant. All of us make mistakes. All of us sin and all of us pick ourselves up again with the help of that institution which should be there to do that.
“The church’s teaching, if it isn’t expressed in terms of love – then it’s got it wrong,” he said.
So come again Holy Spirit and fill (again) the hearts of ALL your Faithful, enkindle in them, the Fire of your love, and we shall renew the face of the earth.
Earlier today I was in Kilmovee School and we talked a bit about peace and the need to pray for peace in a very troubled world. I told the children that I once heard a lovely poem that spoke of the cruelty of war. I even remembered where I first heard it. It was on a recording of Johnny McEvoy singing “The Town I Love So Well” and that I was sorry I don’t have the recording anymore. As I spoke, the teacher brought up the words of the poem on the whiteboard and we looked at it together. The poem is called “The Box” and its message seems tragically all too relevant right now. Maybe you might take a look, share a thought and say a prayer for all who are suffering because people have, once again, “battered in the lid”
The Box by Lascelles Abercrombie
Once upon a time, in the land of Hush-A-Bye, Around about the wondrous days of yore, They came across a kind of box Bound up with chains and locked with locks And labeled “Kindly do not touch; it’s war.” A decree was issued round about, and all with a flourish and a shout And a gaily colored mascot tripping lightly on before. Don’t fiddle with this deadly box,Or break the chains, or pick the locks. And please don’t ever play about with war. The children understood. Children happen to be good And they were just as good around the time of yore. They didn’t try to pick the locksOr break into that deadly box. They never tried to play about with war. Mommies didn’t either; sisters, aunts, grannies neither ‘Cause they were quiet, and sweet, and pretty In those wondrous days of yore. Well, very much the same as now, And not the ones to blame somehow For opening up that deadly box of war. But someone did. Someone battered in the lid And spilled the insides out across the floor. A kind of bouncy, bumpy ball made up of guns and flags And all the tears, and horror, and death that comes with war. It bounced right out and went bashing all about, Bumping into everything in store.And what was sad and most unfair Was that it didn’t really seem to care Much who it bumped, or why, or what, or for. It bumped the children mainly. And I’ll tell you this quite plainly, It bumps them every day and more, and more, And leaves them dead, and burned, and dying Thousands of them sick and crying. ‘Cause when it bumps, it’s really very sore. Now there’s a way to stop the ball. It isn’t difficult at all. All it takes is wisdom, and I’m absolutely sure That we can get it back into the box,And bind the chains, and lock the locks. But no one seems to want to save the children anymore. Well, that’s the way it all appears, ’cause it’s been bouncing round for years and years In spite of all the wisdom wizzed since those wondrous days of yore And the time they came across the box, Bound up with chains and locked with locks, And labeled “Kindly do not touch; it’s war.”
________________________________________
and here’s the song … the last word of the poem is there. I’d love to hear McEvoy recite this again.
And another fine song from one of my favourite singers ….
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