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  • Welcome To Saint Mungo's
  • Parish Newsletter
  • Parish Office
  • YouTube Channel
  • Universalis Mass Readings for Today
  • Website Links
  • Passionists / Pastoral Team
  • St.Paul of the Cross
  • St. Paul of the Cross for Children
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  • St Mungo Patron Saint of Glasgow
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  • Photo Album
  • Safeguarding (Updated Nov 2021)
  • Archdiocese Privacy Notice
  • Father Franks Log
  • Upkeep of Saint Mungo's
  • Fr Lawrence R.I.P.
  • Passionists Jubilee
  • COP 26
  • Fr Thomas Berry CP and the Environment
  • Supporting Women affected by seperation and divorce
  PassionistsGlasgow

November 27th, 2021

27/11/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 21st – 28th NOVEMBER
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I am on catch-up today as I have just returned from meetings in our Passionist Retreat Centre in Crossgar, County Down. It was a meeting of the local superiors and leadership teams in each of our locations, as we try to move forward on the priorities we set at our Provincial Chapter last July. It was a productive meeting and a good opportunity to meet with each other face to face again. While there, I had a good chat with Father John Varghese, the Passionist from India, whom we are waiting to welcome to St. Mungo’s once we have received Home Office clearance. He can’t wait to come but, for the time being, he will carry out ministry in Holy Cross, Ardoyne, for which he has already been cleared. If there could be such a thing as an Indian Father Gareth, he might be it. He is a lovely character, and let’s hope he is able to come soon. I was also chatting with Father John Craven, who is the parish priest in Holy Cross and, needless to say, he is delighted to have Father Gareth, who is settling in well.
 
A few days before leaving I had yet another adventure with the car. Let it be said that, while I think I am a good and careful driver, I know next to nothing about cars, and that is especially true in these times when there is so much technology attached to them. On this occasion I was driving into the church when a light came on, accompanied by a message to inflate my tyres and re-initialize (whatever that means!). I had received this message before and I knew it was simply resolved by putting air in the tyres, and so, I resolved to do this sometime after the morning Mass. When I got to the church, I had a look at them, and they seemed not too bad. Around noon I headed to a local garage but, when I looked at the car then, one of the tyres was quite deflated. I decided my best bet was to put some air in and then head to the nearby Kwik Fit. By the time I got there the tyre was in shreds, but they weren’t going to be able to look at it until evening time. I rescheduled my day, getting good use out of my bus pass, until I eventually got the call offering the usual three options of a re-tread, a mid-range, or a top range tyre. I made my choice and then set out from Drumchapel, to where I had, by then, bussed it to perform my caring duties, back to Bishopbriggs before they closed. On arrival I was asked if I knew that I had lost my wheel trim. I didn’t know this, but I knew I had it when I first went to put air in the tyres and so, having paid for the new tyre, I left the car where it was and started to retrace my journey. It was dark by this time and I knew that my chances of finding it were slim, no matter how much I promised Saint Anthony, and, even if I did find it, it would probably have been smashed to bits by other cars having run over it. However, just as I got near to Springburn Cross, and was about to head for the other side of the road, I spotted my wheel trim sitting against someone’s garden fence, all in one piece. It was a miracle. I wasn’t sure whether to attribute it to St. Anthony; St. Christopher (patron saint of travellers), or St. Frances of Rome (patron saint of car drivers), but I was certainly extremely grateful to the very kind person who must have picked it up and placed it there. I was also grateful that, when I got back to Kwik Fit, just as they were shutting up shop, they generously put it back on for me, being just as amazed as I was that I found it.
 
All of which meant I was able to safely drive to Crossgar and back via the Cairnryan-Belfast ferry. There are lots of roadworks en route to Cairnryan and back as construction takes place to provide a Maybole bypass, which looks as if it will open soon. On quite a few occasions I came upon temporary traffic systems which advised me to stop here – and wait for the light, and I thought, well, there’s an appropriate theme for Advent if ever there was one. It was good to get home, very tired but safe, and all of us, thank God, are well in Bishopbriggs.

As ever, protect yourself, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.
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father frank's log...

19/11/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 14th – 21st NOVEMBER
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Sometimes in the Gospels you get, what seems to be, an ad hoc, and disjointed, collection of sayings from Jesus, and that’s the format this week’s log will follow as well; an ad hoc, and disjointed collection of anecdotes from Father Frank. To begin with, last Saturday, I set out in the car from Bishopbriggs to Saint Mungo’s. I soon noticed a light on in the car that I didn’t recognize. In the process of trying to turn it off I discovered a feature of the car that I didn’t even know I had. In more hope than expectation, I pushed a button near to the unidentified light and, suddenly, an alarm began to sound in the car. I went into a panic and wondered what to push next to silence the alarm. At this stage, let me assure you, I had pulled into the side of the road. The next thing, a disembodied voice appeared, to ask me what emergency service I required. I apologised profusely and said that I didn’t need any emergency service, I just needed to know how to switch the alarm off. The rogue light that initially concerned me had already gone off. Once the person behind the mystery voice was convinced that I didn’t need an emergency service he cut himself off, with me continuing to implore his help on how to turn the alarm off. It then, mercifully, went silent, so he clearly was able to do it remotely.
 
The next day, Sunday, I was scheduled to celebrate a baptism after the 12 o’clock Mass. The family turned up in good time and, in conversation with the baby’s mother, I discovered that I, in fact, knew her mother and father from years ago. The said mother and father duly turned up and, when I got talking to the mother afterwards, she mischievously produced, on her phone, a photograph of me dancing with her at her wedding back in 1985. I had no memory of this whatsoever. As old photographs go, it wasn’t too bad, but there was general agreement that, while myself and her husband had changed a fair bit throughout those thirty-six years, and now looked, shall we say, more “mature”, she, herself, had hardly changed a bit.
 
The next day again, on the Monday, I was celebrating the funeral of a young man of just 47 years of age. I knew his mother and his late father well, from back in the days when I was based in Saint Mungo’s after ordination, the same period, in fact, when the afore mentioned wedding would have taken place. What I discovered, though, in the course of preparing for the funeral, was that the mother and father had first met at the Saturday night dancing in the church hall of Saint Simon’s in Partick which, as many of you will know, was the parish I grew up in. During the period that they met, my uncle Tony, who was really my granny’s brother, was the one who looked after Saint Simon’s church hall, and who also ran the dances. Every Saturday afternoon, I would be given the job of going round to the hall and, with a big lump of wax and a grater, I would grate the wax onto the floor, so as to make it nicely slippy and slidy for the dancers that night. At the dances themselves, myself and my older brother, the doyen of Scottish sports journalists, as I like to call him, would have the job of selling the ginger and crisps through a hatch to the side of the hall stage. When it got a bit later, older family members would take over, and we would be sent round to my granny’s, stopping en route to pick up bags of fish and chips from the local Italian chippy. Happy days! But, it’s highly likely that I met and served this couple at the dances back then, years before I actually knew them from saint Mungo’s. What a small world it can be sometimes.
 
Back at Bishopbriggs, Father Gareth’s absence is deafening; Father Justinian is keeping well, Father Antony is in Dublin for meetings and, when he comes back, I, myself, go to Crossgar for meetings, so we will both be running a one-man show for a few days. We will survive!
​
As ever, protect yourself, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.
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father frank's log...

12/11/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 7th – 14th NOVEMBER
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As many of you will know, I like a good drama on television, and there are plenty of good dramas around at present. The only one I am watching in real time is the wonderful Shetland on a Wednesday night. There are two others, Angela Black and The Tower, that my brother records and, when I go up to make him a dinner the day after each of them, we sit and watch them together. This means that, if I know of other people who are watching them in real time, I need to swear them to silence, and tell me nothing of what went on. It reminds me of the days, pre social media, when I would enjoy watching football highlights without knowing the scores, and I would begin conversations with certain people by pleading with them, “don’t tell me the score!” Nowadays, it’s almost impossible to not find out the scores from someone before the highlights programme comes on. It makes it less exciting, but more relaxing.

This week, however, I was drawn to a very different TV programme. It was a documentary on BBC Scotland called the Hermit of Treig, about a man who has been living as a hermit for almost 40 years in a remote woodland north of Fort William. He lives in a log cabin, built by himself, with no electricity, no running water, and no phone. He survives by fishing, by growing a few vegetables, and by foraging for other food. If you love nature, he says, nature will love you back, and look after you. It all began when he was beaten up by a gang and thrown through a jeweller’s shop window in his twenties. He suffered brain injuries and wasn’t really expected to survive, but he did, and he decided that from then on, he would live on his own terms. He went walking in the Yukon but, when he returned, his parents had died, and so he went walking again. When he discovered this remote area above Loch Treig, which apparently means the Lonely Loch, because there is no public road leading into, or out of it, he stopped walking, grieved at last for his parents, and settled. Part of the story focussed on a stroke that put him in hospital for seven weeks, and he is being encouraged by people to leave his hermitage and return to “civilization”, where he can be better cared for, but there is very little chance that he is going to do that. He wrote to a priest who came and consecrated a patch of ground where he wants to be buried, and he believes strongly in life after death. He has, so far, made 80 gallons of wine, stored at his cabin, so that, when he dies, anyone who wants to, can come and raise a glass to him. I may just keep an eye out for him, and do that.

I was drawn to this documentary, I think, on two counts, firstly as an introvert, and secondly as a Passionist. Over the years, for various reasons, I have done a number of personality type indicators – the Enneagram and the Myers Briggs to name just two of them. Always, I have emerged as an almost “off the scale” introvert. Introverts draw energy from being on their own, and so solitude has always been something I have found attractive, fascinated by the lives and experiences of the early Christian desert fathers and mothers, and by hermits like Thomas Merton and Charles de Foucauld.  The founder of the Passionists, St. Paul of the Cross, also a very strong introvert, felt passionately drawn to solitude, and for long periods lived the life of a hermit, but, when God led him in other ways, he took refuge in the hermitage of the heart, and inserted into the rule of his new order, that the members were to foster and develop a deep spirit of solitude so that they could reach closer union with God, and witness to His love. Could I have lived as a hermit? Certainly, my novitiate year with the Passionists, my 30-day silent retreat when training for Formation ministry, and my many other retreats and holidays, where I preferred to self-cater, go walking in solitude, and find renewed energy by being on my own in beautiful and remote places, have been among the best experiences of my life, but, living for 40 years in a remote forest above a lonely loch – that would probably have been too much – and there is a part of me that laments that.

As ever, protect yourself, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.
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father frank's log...

6/11/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 7th – 14th NOVEMBER
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Last Monday, All Saints Day, I had a disconcerting experience. I had started writing out my November List of loved ones who had died. One of the first names I always insert is the brother of my granny, on my mother’s side. He had a huge influence on my childhood and early life, and was probably the most influential person in my life, in terms of passing on the faith to me. However, when it came to putting him on the list, my mind went blank. I could remember his surname, but I couldn’t remember his Christian name. I knew it, of course, but I just couldn’t bring it to mind. I went through the alphabet in my head, but still nothing came. I was bordering on panic – how could this possibly happen? In that moment, I had to let it go, and my list went into the box with only his surname inserted. Afterwards, of course, when I wasn’t thinking about it, his name popped into my head. It was Tony. My grand-uncle Tony Farrell – always shortened to Uncle Tony. He was a great man, stern in many ways, and serious, but he was a solid rock of wisdom and generosity in the family, to whom everyone turned in time of trouble, and he was a legend in our parish of St. Simon’s in Partick. I have sometimes heard people say how afraid they were when, sometime after a loved one’s death, they were struggling to remember their face, or to remember the sound of their voice, and yet I know how easily it can happen. But this was the nearest I had come to it myself. It brought home to me the importance of taking all the opportunities we have to remember, and also the wisdom behind the church’s setting aside of a whole month, November, to remember.
 
At 7 o’clock this morning (Thursday 4th November), Father Gareth set off for Cairnryan to catch the 11.30am ferry to Belfast, and then on to Holy Cross, Ardoyne, to take up his new position as assistant priest in Holy Cross Parish, as well as being the Vocations Director for Ireland. On Tuesday night, after the community had enjoyed some pizza, we all went to our rooms. I was sitting, reading, when suddenly I hear a loud bang, followed by loud shouts of exclamation. I thought something untoward had happened, but it turned out that Father Gareth had taken the notion to open a bottle of prosecco. The cork had exploded out of the bottle and, of course, expanded in the process. Realising that there was no way he could get the cork back into the bottle, he knocked on our doors to ask if we would join him in a glass and help to finish the bottle. Father Gareth is a very, very occasional drinker, so I took this as a desire to sit and have a chat, as his time in the community was rapidly winding down. I don’t like bubbly drinks, so I said I would come down and have a small single malt with him.
Father Justinian, also a very occasional drinker, agreed to a small glass of bubbly. Father Antony, unfortunately, was unable to join us.
 
Hardly had we begun to chat when I noticed a car outside, whose occupants seemed to be a bit lost, as if searching for some particular house. Our estate is not the easiest to navigate, as pizza delivery people, and others, will testify to. By the time we got to the door, the car had moved on. We settled down again, but then the phone rang. I answered, and it was the people in the car, still lost, but wanting to call on Father Gareth to say their last goodbyes. We directed them to the house and Father Gareth met them at the door and brought them in. Father Justinian and I left them to it and, when I came down the next morning, the bubbly was finished. Father Gareth spent his last day cleaning his room, so as to leave it clear for Father John Varghese to move in, once he is able to come. Such is the life we live. There is not a trace of Father Gareth left in what has been his own personal space for the past five years, but of course, in another sense, his presence will linger with us always. So, for the moment, we are a community of three, facing up to the reality of a quieter house, which won’t be so easy. We will miss him a lot and, today, I am feeling a bit empty and sad.

As ever, protect yourself, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.
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father frank's log...

30/10/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 31st OCTOBER – 7th NOVEMBER
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It has been a case of trial and error these past few days as I seek to find alternative routes to Drumchapel from St. Mungo’s to perform my caring duties for my brother. Normally, I would take the Clydeside Expressway, but that route has been closed off due to COP26. I have no complaints. You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, and I am willing to accept such a minor inconvenience so that this hugely important event can take place in our dear Glasgow. Hopefully, in years to come, we will look back on Glasgow as being the place where a major breakthrough was made in the commitment to take care of our planet, in order that this world of ours can be passed on in all its beauty, to our children, and to our children’s children. On Sunday I went via the Maryhill Road and that seemed fine, but I wondered what it would be like during the weekdays. I found out on Monday, as my journey took me a whole lot longer than the previous day, and it has taken a bit longer still, each day, since then, so I have resolved, when possible, to leave a little earlier each day until things get back to normal.
 
Out at the Passionist community house in Bishopbriggs, we are bracing ourselves for Father Gareth’s departure. This past couple of weeks he has been packing his books away into big
storage boxes and placing them in the spare room. Father Gareth is a man of many books, and most of them are big books - big books for a big man. A lot of his books are sacred scripture commentaries. As people will know from his sermons, of which there are usually about five in every Mass, Father Gareth loves the scriptures, Old Testament as well as New Testament, and he can remember the most obscure of details to expound with evangelical zeal. He would have made a good tele-evangelist in the mould of Billy Graham. He had also been packing his XXL clothing into storage boxes as well, so the spare room had filled up with his stuff.
 
There is, I think, a removal company called Two Men and a Van, but, last Monday, it was Two Men, a Priest, and a Van that arrived from Belfast. The men were parishioners of Holy Cross Parish; the priest was Father Frank Trias, known to most of you, I’m sure, who is an assistant priest in Holy Cross. It was Father Frank who had arranged the trip with the two men and their van which killed, not just two, but three birds with one stone. Father Frank got a lift home to see his mum; Father John Varghese had his stuff brought over. (Father John is the Passionist from India who will become part of our parish team here in Saint Mungo’s once we have finalized Home Office approval), and Father Gareth had his stuff taken over to Holy Cross, his new home. I’m sure Father Gareth and Father Frank together, working in Holy Cross, will bring a bit of new life and energy to the people of North Belfast, under the guidance of Father John Craven as parish priest. So, there will be an Irishman, a Scotsman and a Welshman. No doubt Father Gareth will find a joke or ten in there somewhere.
 
Sadly, we have been unable to hold any proper farewell for Father Gareth. Covid rules for church halls are the same as for restaurants. That would have meant having to take track and trace details; people having to be seated at tables, and any food brought to the tables; masks would have to be worn if people were moving around or going to the toilet. The numbers we could have coped with safely would come nowhere near the number of people who would have wanted to come, and there was no way we could make distinctions on who could or couldn’t come. All of which suits Father Gareth well as he really does want to go with no fuss at all. Hopefully people will find their own opportunity, and their own means, to say goodbye, and to wish him well. St. Mungo’s will be a much quieter place without him.

As ever, protect yourself, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.
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Father frank's log...

23/10/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 17th – 24th OCTOBER
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I used to have the reputation of being a bit of a Jonah when it came to travel, especially air travel. Flights would be delayed or cancelled; my luggage would go missing and end up in Dubai instead of Dublin; bad turbulence would be experienced just after the meals had been distributed, which would result in food spilling all over the place and the flight stewards then frantically trying to gather trays in again. On one occasion I had timed my flight to be home in Glasgow to watch the World Cup Final on television, only for the plane to turn around in mid-air and go back to Dublin because of a technical fault, which then resulted in having to change planes and miss the match. On yet another occasion I arrived in Dublin from a Passionist meeting in the Netherlands, intending to celebrate the four o’clock Sunday Mass in Mount Argus, only to realise that, in my rush to get to the airport for my outward journey, I had totally forgotten where I had left my car in the long-term car park. I had to phone back to Mount Argus to ask someone to cover the Mass for me. About two hours later I found the car. On a Mount Argus Parish Pilgrimage to Lourdes, when I was parish priest, we were stranded on the plane on the tarmac for three hours because the air traffic controllers at Dublin Airport had been distracted by a penalty shootout as Ireland played Spain in the 2002 World Cup, and we missed our take-off slot.
 
These are just a few of my jinxed experiences with air travel. Until now, though, I hadn’t experienced too much trouble with ferry travel, but that all changed last Sunday. As I had mentioned in my Log last week, I had to travel to Dublin in my capacity as Provincial Bursar, to meet with our Provincial Secretary and our Accountant/Auditor to examine and finalise our Charity Accounts for the year gone by. I had chosen to take the car and travel by ferry as it allowed me to attend to some other business on the way. All went well on the journey over. The meetings went well, and I was able to catch up on a friend or two that I hadn’t seen from before lockdown. The last time I was in Dublin was, in fact, January 2020, so the best part of two years had gone by. I also celebrated Mass in Mount Argus Church for the first time since I finished up as parish priest in October 2016, and so I was able to greet parishioners I hadn’t seen for a long time too. I was telling the people of St. Mungo’s this week, on the feast of St. Paul of the Cross, the founder of the Passionists, that while our Passionist church and parish in Dublin is named after St. Paul of the Cross, nobody knows it, or calls it by that name. It is only ever referred to as Mount Argus and, under that name, is a very iconic church in the city.
 
Then came my journey home. I was on the evening ferry and I arrived at the Port of Belfast in good time. I was just beginning to relax in the passenger lounge when we were suddenly called to return to our vehicles, a full hour before departure. My first thought was, great, maybe we’re going to set sail early. I settled myself on the ferry, ready with my book and my nibbles to help pass the time on the crossing but, when it came departure time nothing seemed to be happening. I couldn’t even hear the hum of an engine. Then came the first of many announcements. The crossing was delayed because of a technical fault. Then, engineers are trying to locate the fault. Then, the engineers have located the fault and are trying to fix it. Then, the engineers are still trying to fix it. Finally, the engineers have fixed it and we’ll be setting sail in a while. On eventually arriving at Cairnryan, it was pitch dark and raining. I was trying to drive carefully around the windy roads to Girvan, much to the annoyance of some of the drivers behind me who wanted me to go faster. On reaching Turnberry a sign told me that the road ahead was closed, and I was taken on a huge diversion via the Trump Turnberry Leisure Complex; Culzean Castle, and the electric bray into Ayr, eventually connecting with the A77 again. Twice I had been confused by the diversion signs and taken a wrong turn. I thought I would never get home, and it was almost 1.30 a.m. before I turned into our estate. The last part of the journey was made more pleasant because, having eventually received a decent radio signal, I listened to the latter part of Ian Anderson’s late-night show on BBC Radio Scotland, during which he was paying tribute to Paul Simon, who had just turned 80; and to Paddy Moloney of the Chieftains, who had recently passed away – two musicians whom I admired greatly. Still, I was glad to get home and fall into bed, pondering whether the next time I have to travel, should I risk a return to air travel. We will see.

Meanwhile, as ever, protect yourself, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.
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Father frank's log...

14/10/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 10th – 17th OCTOBER
​
I’m writing the Log very early this week as I will be travelling to Ireland on Wednesday, to attend some meetings in my role as Provincial Bursar for the Passionists of Saint Patrick’s Province, which is principally Ireland and Scotland, but also takes in our house and parish in Paris, as well as still retaining a link with our former missions in Botswana, South Africa and Zambia. The role of Provincial Bursar is essentially one of providing financial management to the province as part of the leadership team. It’s a role that for 25 years I tried to avoid. Having been a Cost and Management Accountant before I joined the Passionists, I kept being told it was a role I was destined for but, thankfully, there were always other, very competent people, to take it on. Then, after our Provincial Chapter in 2008, the inevitable happened, and I have been locked into the role ever since, having just been re-elected at the recent Chapter, for yet another 4 years. Thankfully we have a secretary in our Provincial Office in Dublin, who does all the day to day work, and who really has a much better grasp of all the ins and outs than I have. She is quite extraordinary and I really couldn’t do the job without her. If I ever get wind of her thinking of retiring, I’ll be sure to get in first and retire before her.
 
Since becoming Provincial Bursar the role has changed substantially, as there has emerged a whole host of new financial legislation that has to be meticulously adhered to and complied with to the letter. Also, as a Religious Congregation, we operate as a charity, and so we have to comply with all the various charities legislation too. As luck would have it, there are four different charities regulators for Ireland, north and south, for Scotland, and also for France, so it can get a bit complicated. But, even apart from that, the role is as far from what I used to do as an accountant in the 1970’s, as you would imagine. In those days, working in the Olivetti typewriter factory in Queenslie, I would come in on a Monday morning to find a foot-high printout on my desk from the data processing department, and somewhere in there I would find the material that was going to constitute my task for the rest of the week, whether that was at my desk, or patrolling the factory floor investigating anomalies. One of my early tasks was to do costings for the production of a new, and innovative, golf ball typewriter. That was about the height of technology in those days. Computer technology was still in the early stages and the data processing department, operating a punch card system, took up a vast amount of space on the ground floor of the factory. I doubt very much if I would be able to revive my accountancy career in these times of ever-changing technological wonder.
 
I almost had to cancel my trip as, last Monday, I took a quick walk into town after morning Mass, to do a little shopping.  On the way back, coming along George Street, it began to rain very heavily. I was wearing an anorak with a hood, so I pulled the hood up over my head, as you do. The hood, however, obscured my vision a little, and the next thing I knew I had tripped over the pavement and was lying flat on my face, feeling sore and embarrassed. I, very gingerly, got up, and gathered in my bits and pieces of shopping. I felt a bit like the man beaten and left for dead on the Jericho Road, as people quickly passed me by on the other side, perhaps thinking I had a few too many. There wasn’t even a good Samaritan in sight. In terms of damage done, I realised I had sprained my left wrist and staved both thumbs. On the drive up to my brother’s house later on, I found changing the gears a very painful task. Father Antony kindly supplied me with some gel and a tight bandage. Within a couple of days, the healing process was well under way and now, while there are still twinges, especially when I drive, I feel fine. Fr. Gareth and Fr. Antony will ably hold the fort while I’m away.

As ever, protect yourself, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.
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father frank's log...

7/10/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 3rd – 10th OCTOBER
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October is the church’s Mission Month, which automatically makes us think of the foreign missions, and foreign missionaries, those who serve Christ by becoming, what we often refer to, as green martyrs, leaving their own land to spread the Gospel in far-away places. For us, as Passionists, while we do have foreign missions in many places, being in over 60 countries throughout the world, the idea of Mission can have a different connotation, and we can tend to talk of missioners, rather than missionaries. When we were founded in the church by Saint Paul of the Cross, 300 years ago, our main apostolate was the preaching of parish missions. The founder and his companions would travel around the country, often walking barefoot, and with a preference for the poorest of places, preaching these missions, and teaching people to meditate on the Passion of Christ as a work of infinite love. He preached hundreds of these missions in the course of his lifetime and so, while he never left his native Italy, he was a true missioner, and it’s an apostolate we Passionists have tried to sustain in some way ever since.

When I was ordained in 1983, as well as being appointed vocations director for Scotland, a position to which Father Antony has just been appointed, I was also installed as part of a three-man mission team, along with Father John Mary and Father Paul Francis. There were a number of other mission teams appointed throughout the province at the same time. We preached many missions in Scotland and beyond, and one of the earliest of those was in the parish of St. Michael’s, Moodiesburn. It was a most enjoyable mission. Only two preachers were needed, so it was just myself and Father Paul Francis. The parish priest, Father Michael, was a delightful character, and exceptionally jovial, kind and generous. The children in the parish absolutely adored him. I remember that his housekeeper had put him on a diet and so, every morning, he would get up early and make a big fry-up. After devouring it, he would open all the windows to disperse the smell, and remove all evidence before the housekeeper came in. She pretended to be fooled by it, but I think she knew rightly what he was up to. When I returned to St. Mungo’s in 2016, one of the regulars at Mass here told me that he could remember that mission very well, even to the point of recounting some of the stories we told, and this was over 30 years later. That same gentleman died recently, and his funeral is taking place from St Michael’s, Moodiesburn, this week. Father Antony will represent us.

Not all of our experiences were as positive as St. Michael’s, in the sense that sometimes we were put up in poor conditions and, on more than one occasion, we had to drape the bed clothes over a radiator to get the damp out of them before we could try for a night’s sleep. But then again, I’m sure even those conditions were luxurious compared to St. Paul of the Cross’s missionary travels in his own time, and, of course, Jesus himself spoke of not having anywhere to lay his head, so who were we to complain? Our experience of the people, on the other hand, was always very positive. There was a great hunger for the Word of God, and, as well as the mission sermons, there was always a meditation on the Passion of Christ, what we called a fervorino, staying true to the conviction of St. Paul of the Cross that, to remember and to meditate on the Passion of Christ was a powerful remedy for every ill, and that there is something in the Passion of Christ that touches into everybody’s life experience. How true!

Father Gareth is home, at present, with his mum in Merthyr Tydfill, from where he returns next week, to start preparing for his move to Holy Cross, Ardoyne. We’re still getting used to the idea of his departure, but we also look forwarded to welcoming Father John soon after.


So, as always, protect yourself, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.
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father frank's log...

2/10/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 26th SEPTEMBER – 3rd OCTOBER
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Tuesday of this week, the 28th, was the anniversary of both my first, and final profession as a Passionist, also known as temporary and perpetual profession. I was temporarily professed in 1980, and perpetually professed in 1982. Normally, there should be a three-year gap between the two but, because of studies I had previously done, I was granted a special dispensation from Rome, and was fast-tracked after just two years in temporary vows. It struck me this week that, due to the disorientation of Covid-19, I had neglected to mark my 40th, or Ruby anniversary of first profession, which is usually just a simple community meal, and so I made a mental note to celebrate the Ruby anniversary of my final profession next year.
 
I have different memories of both. First profession comes at the end of the novitiate year which, for me, was 1979-80. The beginning of the novitiate was slightly delayed because Pope John Paul II was visiting Ireland. I sang in the choir at the papal mass in the Pheonix Park, and attended the special event for seminarians at Maynooth college. I would later be glad that I had attended these as, when the pope came to Scotland in 1982, I was tied up with my final Theology exams in Ireland, and so was unable to get home for the occasion.
 
The novitiate took place in what is now our Passionist Retreat Centre at Crossgar in County Down. It was a year that I really enjoyed, being a very quiet and reflective year, and so, well suited to my introverted nature. It was a time for deepening our understanding of religious life, and of the Passionist charism, before making our commitment to it. I remember, at the end of the novitiate year, my older brother, the doyen of Scottish sports journalist, coming over for my profession, but then I had to get him to the airport that night as he was due to fly out the next day to Romania for a Celtic match in the European Cup Winners Cup which, if memory serves me, we inauspiciously lost, and went out of the competition on away goals.
 
Two years later, to the day, I made my final profession at Mount Argus in Dublin. The next morning, I was scheduled to fly out to Rome. The Provincial Bursar at the time, whom I have more sympathy for now that I have held that post myself for the past 12 years and continuing, rather than book me a direct flight, had saved a few Irish punts by booking me on a charter to Gatwick, from where I had to get a bust to Luton, and then a flight to Ciampino, from where I would be collected by the rector of the Passionist Monastery of Saints John and Paul, which was to be my home for the next year, as I undertook my diaconate year in preparation for my ordination. As I waited in the departure lounge in Dublin my name was called out over the sound system, requesting me to return to check-in. I was a bit anxious as to the reason for this, but when I got there, I was assailed by a delegation from a group called CASA, which is the Caring and Sharing Association, a group with whom I had been involved for some years, ministering to people with physical and mental disabilities. They had come to see me off, and they proceeded to present me with this enormous pink teddy bear. The airline staff were very accommodating at letting me on the plane with it but, when I arrived at Gatwick, I thought to myself, there’s no way I am getting collected in Rome by the rector of J&P’s carrying a pink teddy bear as big as myself. I looked around the terminal and spotted a mother with her little girl, about 5 years old. I approached the mother, explained my predicament, and asked if she would mind if I offered the teddy bear to her daughter. Both she and her daughter were very delighted and I was relieved of the potential embarrassment that could have ensued. There then followed a very enjoyable diaconate year in Rome before coming home for ordination.

So, as always, protect yourself, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.
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father frank's log...

24/9/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 19th – 26tn SEPTEMBER

Shortly after the Log was published last week, our post-Chapter appointments were finalized. There is a saying that, the more things change, the more they stay the same. On this occasion, however, they are not staying the same. Father Gareth has been asked by our Provincial to join our Passionist community at Holy Cross, Belfast. He will be part of the parish team at Holy Cross, and also be part of a North Belfast project we are initiating to try and develop our Passionist mission in that part of St. Patrick’s Province. Father Gareth spent his first two years, after ordination, at Holy Cross, before being handed his first official appointment to come to St. Mungo’s. Needless to say, he was very popular in Belfast, and they were sorry to see him go. No doubt they will now be delighted to welcome him back.
 
The two of us arrived at St. Mungo’s in the early days of October 2016, never having lived, or worked together before. I remember our first Sunday here, after the morning Masses, we went for lunch to La Vita’s in Bishopbriggs, and had a good chat, trying to get to know a bit of each other’s stories. From the offset, we clicked together well, and we put our combined energies into the task we had been given, to try and revitalize the mission in St. Mungo’s. We were glad of the assistance offered by Father Lawrence, God rest him, and Father Justinian, and then we were blessed with the arrival of Brother Antony, still a student at that time, to take up a role with regard to college and university chaplaincies. By then, Father Gareth had gotten the Passionist Young Team up and running, a great achievement, and Brother Antony readily partnered with Father Gareth to form a dynamic duo. Of course, the Passionist Young Team is full of leaders and, over the years, despite a big turnover, when international students would finish their courses and return to their own countries, it has gone from strength to strength, and I have no doubt it will continue to do so. On those occasions when it was God’s will that Father Gareth spend time with his mum in her illness, we missed him terribly, but he always came back larger than life and soon picked up where he had left off, as if never away.
 
Brother Antony became Father Antony at the end of 2019, but hardly had the chrism dried on his hands when lockdown came. I won’t go into all the ins and outs, ups and downs, of that period again, but the two have been just about inseparable and now, as we inch towards a more normal situation, Father Gareth is moving on. However, they will combine to be joint directors of Passionist Vocations, Father Gareth in Ireland, and Father Antony in Scotland. If our Passionist Mission in Scotland is to continue far into the future we will need vocations, and I’m sure the dynamic duo will put great enthusiasm and energy into achieving that. I would imagine, also, that they will combine in trying to develop our ministry to, and with, young people and, I know, that sad though they are, our Young Team will be well up for that.
 
I’m delighted that Father Antony is remaining on the mission here in St. Mungo’s with me. As well as Father Justinian out at the house in Bishopbriggs, we will be joined by Father John Varghese, a Passionist from India, who is going to be with us for a minimum of three years. Father John will work mostly with me on the parish as we try and free up Father Antony for his chaplaincy and vocations work. But, no doubt, the three of us will be creative in finding energy for other projects too. It’s not easy to replace someone as much-loved as Father Gareth and, of course, there could never be another Father Gareth, like for like, he is too much of a one off for that, but we will give Father John a very warm welcome, and we can look forwarded to experiencing the unique giftedness that he will bring too. God be with us.

As always, protect yourself, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.
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FATHER FRANK'S LOG...

16/9/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 12th – 19th SEPTEMBER
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Today is the morning after the close of the Novena to Our Lady of Sorrows. It was a very blessed time for all of us and we are so glad we decided to have it this year, after only being able to do it online last year. The Novena to Our Lady of Sorrows has been running for more than 50 years in St. Mungo’s. It was begun by the then rector, Father Pancras Fanning, who presented it as a short 10-minuite reflection after the evening Mass for the nine nights up to, and including the Feast. Over the years it developed into the format we have now. There is at least one person in the parish who was present when the Novena began, and has been present at every novena ever since. We hope and pray that this tradition will continue for many years to come, which I am sure it will, so long as there are Passionists to serve in St. Mungo’s, and that is something we need to constantly pray about, as our average age increases, and our number of active religious decreases, in these difficult times. We need Passionist vocations.
 
That, of course, is why our Provincial and his Council have such a difficult task in making appointments after the Chapter, which is what they are in the process of doing right now. They are in the final two days of meetings and, by this weekend they would hope to have completed their task. In St. Patrick’s Province we have our mother house at Mount Argus in Dublin; a rural monastery in Enniskillen; a parish in Belfast; a retreat house in County Down; a parish in Paris, and of course, a parish in Glasgow. When I say parish, as we are a religious order, our ministries do not confine themselves solely to parish work, and there will be a number of religious in those locations who are engaged in other ministries too. All of those places need to have leadership – rectors; vicars, bursars, parish priests, assistant priests and so on. There will also need to be people appointed as vocations directors, novice masters, and student directors – what we call the work of Formation. We also have various chaplaincies to look after – a hospice in Dublin; the Gardi (Irish police); as well as colleges and universities. We are engaged in media work; counselling; preaching missions and retreats; and spiritual direction. We manage two pastoral centres. We try to look after our frail and elderly men in their own communities for as long as is feasibly possible. On top of that, the Provincial and his Council will be looking to set up a number of task forces to assist the areas of mission that were prioritised at the Chapter. And, even all that, does not exhaust the list. Inevitably, in these times, anyone who is active will end up wearing a number of hats and have to engage in a variety of ministries and, with regard to any thoughts of retirement, most of us will die with our boots on, and are willing to do so. However, one area of priority is to engage more and more with those laity who are involved with us in our charism and mission, and to find ways in which we can work together to keep doing what we have been put in the church to do, which is to promote the memory of Christ’s Passion as the greatest and most overwhelming expression of God’s love for us. By the time of the next Father Frank’s Log, all of the main appointments, and how they affect St. Mungo’s, will be known – so, watch this space!
 
Today, the day after the Novena, is also the Feast of St. Ninian. An occasion like a Novena heightens our appreciation of the faith that we have received from those who handed it on to us, and St. Ninian was among the first, if not the first, to do that. He arrived at the Mull of Galloway, towards the end of the 4th century, possibly with 12 monks gifted to him by St. Martin of Tours, whom he visited in France on his way to Scotland from Rome. Together, they achieved so much with so few, and that, today, gives me hope. I have twice visited the cave where he found space for prayer and contemplation away from distractions – beautiful!
As always, protect yourself, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.
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father frank's log...

11/9/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 5th – 12th SEPTEMBER
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As I write this week, our Novena to Our Lady of Sorrows is well under way. It has been good to see old, familiar faces, devotees of this Novena over many years, returning to our church, after only being able to celebrate it online last year. I was thinking back to the Novena in 2016 when, at the closing Mass, which I attended because I was at home on vacation, Father Jim Sweeney, the Provincial of the Passionists in Scotland and Ireland, introduced me as the new rector and parish priest of St. Mungo’s. That seems so long ago now but, here we are, in post-Chapter mode once again. The Provincial and his council are at present considering new appointments and I wonder if, at the close of this year’s Novena, next Wednesday, the Feast of Our Lady of Sorrows, we will be announcing any changes to the present Passionist team.
 
Change is part of the life of a religious. Since I joined the Passionists in 1975 I have moved communities 15 times, sometimes it was back to places I had been before, only this time to take up a different role; but most times it was to new places where I had never lived before. There is a belief that moving home is one of the most stressful things a person can experience and often that was what I felt, but, after a time, you settle in and put down new roots, even if knowing that, in time, you may be pulling them up again.  Some changes have certainly been more difficult than others, but always, they have been challenging and grace-filled.
 
In the earlier years of our Passionist Congregation, the religious were permitted to have very little in their cells – as their rooms were then called. And even within the monastery itself, men would be asked to move cells from time to time. This was so as to encourage a spirit of detachment. For example, in the old monastery at Mount Argus in Dublin, the cell of Father Charles was turned into a little museum after his cause for canonization was introduced. But this was only the cell that he happened to be living in when he died. Throughout his many years in Mount Argus, he had lived in different cells. I imagine it must have been much easier for the religious to move, not just from cell to cell, but from monastery to monastery, when they had so little in the way of goods to bring with them. Times have changed, of course, and we are permitted to have more than we used to have. Like many people, depending on varied personality types, there can be a tendency to accumulate stuff, and that can make the process of moving even more stressful. To bring or not to bring, that is the question?
 
For me, books have always been the problem. I have never accumulated much of anything else, except perhaps documents connected with various roles I’ve held, but I have never been one for accumulating clothes, shoes, or nick-nacks. However, as a voracious reader of just about anything and everything, deciding what books to bring and what to leave behind has always been painful. The best thing about having had to move 15 times over the years is that this cull has been periodic. If I had never moved I might, by this stage, have been unable to navigate my cell for books, as indeed is the case in my brother’s house. Also a voracious reader, he has books piled high in just about every room where, remarkably, he seems to know exactly where each one is and, if I were ever to move one when I’m in tidy-up mode, he won’t be long in noticing, and asking me where I put it. One of the small pleasures of his enforced retirement, due to ill-health, is that he is returning to read books that he first enjoyed many years ago, and finding the pleasure in them once again. When I moved from Dublin 5 years ago, I brought just enough books to fit in the bookshelves that were already in the room, and, with the help of my Kindle, I have managed to restrict the number of books to the space available – so, I am ready to move for the 16th time, if necessary. Although, my guess is, that I won’t be asked to move this time around, and, at aged 90, I doubt if Father Justinian will be asked to move. That leaves the dynamic duo, Father Gareth and Father Antony. It would be so sad to lose either of them, but we will need to wait and see. Watch this space!
So, as ever, protect yourself, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.
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father frank's log...

4/9/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 29th AUGUST – 5th SEPTEMBER
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I’ve been drawn into two crime dramas on television at the moment, both set in Scotland. The first is called Annika, on Alibi, starring the magnificent Nicola Walker, who stars as a Marine Homicide Detective, investigating murders along the River Clyde, the Firth of Clyde, and so far, even on the Isle of Bute and on Loch Katrine. The other drama is Vigil, on BBC One, which has a fantastic cast, including Suranne Jones and Martin Compston, centring around the disappearance of a fishing trawler, and a murder on board a nuclear submarine. The naval base is obviously meant to be Faslane, and there are scenes shot around Largs as well. In both series there have been some wonderful shots of Glasgow along the Clyde, and of the Cowal Peninsula. As always, this sparked off a distant memory for me, from my days playing double bass in a folk group, touring around various clubs, mostly in the West of Scotland.
 
In the early 1970’s, a new folk club opened in Dunoon, part of the Cowal Peninsula, back in the days when there were American sailors based on Dunoon, connected to the Royal Navy submarine base on Holy Loch. The group I played with were invited to be part of the opening night, along with some other fine acts. It was a weeknight, and I was working with Olivetti at the time, but I managed to get away from work early to get ready. Living up the same close as me in Drumchapel, was a West Indian gentleman, one of the nicest, kindest people you could ever wish to meet. He had a van, and he often drove our group to various venues, and picked us up again, for nothing more than petrol money. He was very fatherly towards us. On this occasion he drove us to the ferry port at Gourock, where we had to offload everything and hump it on to the ferry and make our way to the folk club on the other side by foot, thankfully not too far from where we would disembark. The plan was that he would meet us off the last ferry to Gourock at the end of the night, and bring us home again to Drumchapel.
 
The night went well but, at the end of the night, it transpired that someone had run off with the takings, and all these acts, including ourselves, were waiting to be paid. Not that we were being paid much, but it was the principle of the thing, and we still had to pay my friend, the van driver. By the time the hullabaloo was over, with none of us yet paid, and little chance of it happening, we discovered that we had also missed the last ferry. There were no mobile phones in those days, so we had to find a red phone box to call our families, and also to call the wife of the van driver, to apologise and explain as, by this time, her husband would be on his way back to the Drum, minus his passengers, and wondering what had happened to us. We slept on benches overlooking the Firth of Clyde, cold and uncomfortable, more than once being questioned by American sailors who thought we might be up to no good. The next morning, I had to phone my boss in Olivetti and explain why I wouldn’t be in that morning. He took it in good part, being very sympathetic, but also having a good laugh at our expense. Very kindly, our roadie came back out in his van and brought us home again, chastened by the experience. We never went back to that folk club again. The mad things we do for our art! I’m looking forward to the unfolding of these two dramas over the next few weeks.
 
Meanwhile, we are getting ready for our annual Novena to Our Lady of Sorrows. The last time we held the novena in the church was in 2019, when we had a special jubilee novena to celebrate the 150th anniversary of the church. We had some special speakers and on the last night Archbishop Tartaglia celebrated the closing Mass. Immediately after that novena the church was closed for three months for refurbishment. When the church was re-opened, the archbishop was there again, as one of the first events was the ordination of Father Antony. Then came Covid-19 and lockdown. The 2020 novena was celebrated online. In that period, Father Lawrence, and also Archbishop Tartaglia passed away. Our feeling this year was, that while we will still be restricted, and it will be very low key, it will be good to gather to pray.
So, as ever, protect yourself, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.
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father frank's log...

28/8/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 22nd – 29th AUGUST

I unexpectedly found myself on call for hospital chaplaincy duty last Sunday, and I received three very different call-outs in the course of the day. One was to a 60-year-old man who, without prior warning, had suffered a serious stroke. It was a reminder of how a person’s life can suddenly change in the blink of an eye. The second was to a 93-year-old lady who had smashed her hip and was due to go into palliative care. She was delighted to receive the Holy Eucharist and the Sacrament of the Sick but, every now and again, she would turn her gaze away from me and begin to talk to Jesus as if he were standing right there at the side of her bed. She spoke in such an affectionate way that it was obvious this was the kind of intimate conversation that she had regularly with the Lord. I was reminded of that famous description of prayer as simply looking at Jesus looking at me. The third call was to a maternity ward where twins had been born but, sadly, one of them had died in the womb. It was one of those situations where there is no formal ritual, and you just have to let the prayers come from the heart. I blessed the wee child, still in his cot, who had died; also the wee child who lived, who was resting in her mother’s arms, and was doing quite well; and I blessed the parents, each trying to cope with this tragedy in their own way, and yet trying to support each other as well.
 
Often, in such situations, when you are just on call, you never find out how things worked out afterwards. It’s like planting and watering a seed and then trusting the Lord to make it grow. This brings to mind that, as I write, today is the feast of Blessed Dominic Barberi who, as a young man, dreamt of planting a seed that would revive the Catholic faith in England. He joined the Passionists and encouraged the Congregation to send missionaries to England. This eventually came to pass in 1842 when Dominic and another Passionist came from Belgium and obtained a house at Aston Hall in Staffordshire. In a very humble way, he planted that seed of faith, and received many converts into the church, including, most famously, the now Saint John Henry Newman. Blessed Dominic became known as the Shepherd of the Second Spring, the Second Spring being the revival of the faith in England. So, Dominic planted and watered the seed, and then God brought the growth, which Dominic never lived to see in full.
 
I can’t let the Log pass without lamenting the death of Charlie Watts, the legendary drummer of the Rolling Stones, who passed away this week, aged 80. In the early 1960’s, as I entered my teens, I was caught up in the revolution that was taking place in popular music. In the so-called battle between the Beatles and the Stones, while my older brother was very much a Beatles fan, I opted strongly for the Rolling Stones. For some obscure reason and, as always, inclined to be different, our younger brother didn’t like either, and chose the Dave Clark Five as his favourite group. Not only was the Rolling Stones my favourite group, but Charlie Watts was my favourite group member. His fantastic drumming, and his laid back sombre-faced style, fascinated me. I joined the fan club and collected memorabilia, especially on Charlie. I would buy the New Musical Express (NME) and get excited when I read about a new single or a new album coming out, and I would be at the nearest record shop to buy it on the day of release. I would then almost wear it out by playing it over and over again on my Dansette record player. I did this up until 1972, and the album Exile on Main Street, before my interests, and my musical tastes, went in other directions. Like most of us, though, the music I liked in my youth never really left me, and I find myself going back, again and again, to listen to a lot of those early tracks. So, God rest you Charlie, you brought me a lot of joy.
 
Back at Bishopbriggs, we are all doing okay. Father Justinian is getting used to new carers. Having been elected consultor, Father Antony is heavily involved in the consultation process before appointments are made. Father Gareth seems to be touting for a transfer to Hawaii. Brother Brendan is home on holiday and will join us for a meal this Friday. So, as always,
protect yourselves, protect your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.
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father frank's Log...

21/8/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 15th AUGUST – 22nd AUGUST
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While it doesn’t appear in the Liturgical Calendar for Scotland, I noticed that last Tuesday was the Memorial of Our Lady of Knock, and that sparked off a memory for me. After I was ordained in 1983, I was posted here to St. Mungo’s, primarily as the Vocations Director for Scotland, replacing Father Terence. One of the things I inherited from my predecessor was an annual pilgrimage to Knock to pray for Passionist vocations. As this was something that a number of people appeared to look forward to, and, as I had a task on my hands to win the hearts and minds of those who were going to miss the much-loved Father Terence, I decided that I had better keep this pilgrimage going, which I did for the three years that I spent here, before being transferred to Dublin to take up another post.
 
It was, however, never a burden. It was always a most enjoyable trip, combining serious prayer with good company, and great fun. We would fill a coach load with pilgrims and travel over to Ireland on the ferry to Belfast. On route to Knock Shrine, we would stop off at the Passionist Monastery at the Graan, in Enniskillen, where we would be heartily welcomed and treated to tea and buns. There were Passionists at the Graan who had once been stationed in St. Mungo’s, and so they were happy to reminisce about former times. The same thing would happen at the Passionist Monastery at Cloonamahon, County Sligo, as we continued our journey west, then south to County Mayo, where the village of Knock is located.
 
While there, we would have a full programme of pilgrimage activities, but there was always a day when we went into Westport, and then out to Croagh Patrick, the holy mountain. A few of us would ascend the mountain and take in the wonderful views out over Clew Bay; others would climb up, only as far as the statue of St. Patrick, while the rest would assemble at the foot of the mountain, and wait for us in a variety store that catered for just about every need imaginable, including tea and scones, but also pints of Guiness or lager for those who so wished. I have to confess that I enjoyed a nice pint of Harp lager to quench my thirst after the climb, and I remember that the store manager had to move a statue of the Child of Prague out of the way to get to the lager pump. I remember too, that on our first trip, there was a local man sitting on a stool, enjoying a nice pint of Guiness, or two, and playing a tin whistle. This soon developed into a sing-song that was thoroughly enjoyed by everyone. The second year, when we went back, the same man was sitting on the same stool playing the same tunes, and the third year he was there again. It turned out he was the local postman, and I did wonder whether he ever left that stool, and did the local people ever get their mail delivered.
 
I’ve always found the Apparition at Knock quite intriguing. An August night in 1879, with torrential rain pouring down, everywhere, except, that is, at the gable end of the church where the apparition took place, witnessed by most of the village. An extraordinary ensemble of Our Lady; St. Joseph; St. John the Evangelist; the Lamb of God; the altar; the cross, and a circlet of angels. Not a word was spoken. The Shrine was visited by Pope Francis on his recent visit to Ireland, a couple of years ago, and he has raised the status of the Shrine from a national to an international Marian Shrine. At that time it even had a Marriage Bureau, where many a searching Catholic found a compatible partner over the years, but that closed in 2019.
 
Out at Bishopbriggs we have just had a post-chapter visit from our Provincial, consulting with each of us about how to move forward during these next few years. There remain two further stages in this consultation process before appointments are made, probably sometime in the middle of September. When the dust settles, there may be changes to our team at St. Mungo’s, or there may not. Trusting that we have had the chance to speak, and be listened to, we leave it all in the hands of the Provincial and his team and, of course, the Holy Spirit. So, as ever, protect yourselves, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.
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father frank's log...

14/8/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 8th – 15th AUGUST
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On my way home tonight, I will be calling in on my older brother, the undisputed doyen of Scottish football journalism. The reason for my visit will be to bring a gift and a couple of cards from myself and our younger brother to mark his, and his beloved’s, Golden Wedding
Anniversary, which they will celebrate this coming Saturday, 14th August. I remember the day well. The Nuptial Mass took place in St. Laurence’s in Drumchapel, and I was the best man. I was playing in a Folk Group at the time and I had the most horrendous long hair with a straggly beard that was shaved away at the chin. I had hoped that by now those photographs would have long since been destroyed, but I think my sister-in-law deliberately keeps them so as to embarrass me by showing them to anyone who comes to the house, and who didn’t know me in my younger, wilder days. 

You will forgive me, given the occasion, for making this week’s Log partly about football. Hugh had started his journalistic career about a year previously but, inadvertently, had booked the wedding for the first day of the 1971/72 Scottish football season, a day when Celtic were due to meet Rangers in the opening round of the League Cup. The game should have been at Celtic Park, but because the main stand at Celtic Park was being re-built, it ended up being played at Ibrox as Rangers objected to Hampden. Regardless, Celtic won 2-0. “Jinky” Johnstone scored the first goal, and then big “Yogi” Hughes was pulled down for a penalty. The captain, Big Billy “Caesar” McNeill, who had kindly given Hugh his first big, major interview just days after he started work, and who remained very friendly towards him, called on a young striker, making his debut in a big game for the first team, to step up to take the penalty. His name was Kenny Dalglish. Kenny stooped down to tie his boot lace, placed the ball on the spot, then calmly placed it past the Rangers goalie, Peter McCloy. What a day to have booked your wedding?

I remember that, when the Nuptial Mass was over, and we were due to go into the Sacristy to sign the register, Hugh went missing. He was, of course, trying to find out what the score was at Ibrox. This was pre-mobile phone days, and so, he was depending on someone having a transistor radio somewhere on their possession. There were probably about 20 of our family members and friends who had transistor radios on that day, and so he eventually appeared for the signing with a big smile on his face. The wedding reception took place in a function suite in Clydebank. After I had performed my best man duties by reading out the telegrams and making some kind of a speech, I handed over to the man himself to make his groom’s speech. He began by saying that this was one of the happiest days of his life – because Celtic had beaten Ranger 2-0. His tongue was in his cheek, of course (well, mostly), but, in reality, it wasn’t just one of, but the happiest day of his life. They have been truly devoted to each other ever since and have been an inspiration to their son, two daughters, four grandsons, and two granddaughters, even though they affectionately call Hugh, Victor Meldrew, or Mister Grumpy, and know that Janet has been the rock in his, and all of their lives. Hugh may not be the flavour of the month with the Celtic support at present, because he has been a bit “Mister Grumpy” with regard to Celtic’s prospects for this season, perhaps saying things that a lot of supporters themselves feared inside, but he and his good lady are very deserving of a good celebration to mark this landmark achievement. So, well done, and congratulations!

Meanwhile, out at Bishopbriggs, we are all doing well. Father Antony is easing into life as a consultor, having to go backwards and forwards to Dublin for meetings, as part of the process of discernment for making appointments. The rest of us just continue on as normal, make our own contribution to the process, and await the outcome, which will probably take until mid to late September. It’s all in God’s hands and under the guidance of the Holy Spirit.  So, as ever,
protect yourselves, protect your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives. 
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father frank's log...

7/8/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 1st – 8th AUGUST
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Yesterday was the Memorial of St. John Mary Vianney, and that sparked off a memory. I once took a road trip with Father Paul Francis, but it wasn’t Route 66 in the U.S.A., the Great Ocean Road in Australia, or even the Wild Atlantic Way in the West of Ireland. Father Paul Francis was based in Paris at the time, and, if memory serves, I was based in Prestonpans, not much difference! The Passionist Community at St. Joseph’s in Paris, very near to the Arc de Triumph, had a nice Renaut 13 car but, at that time, Father Paul Francis didn’t drive. He was, and is, however, an extraordinary map reader. For our summer holidays, I took a flight to Paris, stayed the night, and then, the following day, we embarked on a memorable journey. We drove south to the Burgundy region. I remember at one stage he directed me along a dusty track at the side of a cornfield. To my astonishment we came out on the road we wanted, having cut about half an hour off the journey. His map reading skills were proven.
 
At Father Paul Francis’ behest, we visited a few Cistercian Abbeys, including Cîteaux, the original house of the Cistercians, founded by St. Bernard of Clairvaux in the 11th century. We also visited the Benedictine Abbey at Cluny, near to Taize, where we spent a few hours in prayer, joining the many young people from all over the world who were on retreat. In the early 1980’s, when we were both based at St. Mungo’s, we had brought a group of young people from the parish to Taize for a week’s retreat, and it remains a very precious and happy memory. Later, in the late 1980’s, when I was a Formation Director in Dublin, I brought a group of Passionist students to Taize, and then, in 2007, after the Canonization of St. Charles of Mount Argus, I made another trip to visit the grave of Brother Roger, the founder of Taize, who had been sadly and brutally murdered, while at prayer, a few years before. That was the last time I was there, but it remains a very special place, and I love the simple style of prayer, and the chants that are at the heart of it. It wasn’t a totally religious trip with Father Paul Francis. At my behest, we visited a couple of Burgundy vineyards and, as we were resting in a farmhouse B&B overnight, we sampled the local produce with good, simple food.
 
The next stage of the trip was through Switzerland, but we only stopped once to get a very expensive cup of coffee and a Swiss pastry, and to admire a scenic view. We were actually heading for the Great St. Bernard Pass to cross over into Aosta in North Italy, stopping off at the famous pilgrim hospice founded by St. Bernard nearly 1000 years previously, and where they still were breeding St. Bernard dogs, brandy kegs and all. I had never driven such scary mountain roads before, with hairpin bends, sheer drops, and long tunnels excavated through the mountain. I was very glad to get to Aosta. From there we made our way to Turin, where we were joined by an Italian Passionist who was guiding us to a Passionist Monastery up in the hills, where we would relax for a few days. It was near to Lake Maggiore, which spans Switzerland and Italy, and so it was quite pleasantly cool. Unfortunately, the Shroud of Turin was not on display, but the Cathedral of John the Baptist, which is its home, was beautiful.
 
Like the Magi, we travelled back by a different route, over Mont Blanc. When we were back in France we made a few detours along the route to Paris, one being in Annecy, where we visited the Basilica of the Visitation, with the relics of Saints Francis de Sales and St. Jane de Chantal. St. Francis de Sales had a big influence on St. Paul of the Cross, the founder of the Passionists, but he is also the patron saint of writers and journalists, so he must have had a big influence on the Keevins family as well. And then, not too far from Annecy, we visited Ars, where St. John Mary Vianney was, of course, the Curé for over 40 years. You had probably forgotten that this was how this Log began. We joined the many pilgrims at the Shrine and, as we were both parish priests at the time, paid tribute to our patron. The next stop was Paris, an overnight stay, then home to Prestonpans, and back to porridge. It was a great road trip.
As ever; protect yourselves, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives. 
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father frank's log...

29/7/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 25th JULY – 1st AUGUST

Welcome back to the Log. There was no Log last week, of course, because I, with all the community, was at our Passionist Provincial Chapter in Larne. I had presumed that the Log this week would be all about the Chapter, but then came the terrible news yesterday about Saint Simon’s Church in Partick being burnt to the ground, with the unlikelihood that it will ever be restored, or opened, ever again. Readers of this Log will be aware that my roots are in Partick. I was actually born in Partick Bridge Street, with Saint Simon’s at the bottom of the road. I was baptized there, and celebrated my 1st Communion and Confirmation there too. I served on the altar at daily and Sunday Masses, as well as Wednesday night Devotions and Friday night Stations of the Cross. I had many, young prayerful moments, sitting in the church, while my father and, after his death, my uncle, serviced the boiler out in the yard. I was spiritually formed by three good priests of the parish, each of them very different. When I moved out to Drumchapel with my family, and even after I joined the Passionists, I would return again and again to this most beautiful little church, the cradle of my faith. Even after I was ordained, my first Parish Mission was preached in Saint Simon’s and then, quite some years later, when my youngest niece decided she wanted to be married there, to make the connection with her forebears, I came over from Dublin to celebrate her Nuptial Mass. The parish priest, at that time, had inadvertently double-booked, and we had to delay the bride’s arrival by about an hour, while a Polish Mass was being celebrated in the church. But now it’s gone, and I feel a great sense of sadness and loss, as I know many other people will; but I also feel a great sense of gratitude for all that Saint Simon’s meant to me in my life. I will be processing this in my mind and heart for a long time to come.
 
Regarding the Chapter, as I mentioned in my last Log, we were very happy to welcome our Superior General, Father Joachim Rego, to stay with us for a few days before the Chapter, over which he would preside. We had great fun the night before we travelled, as we all had to take a Covid test, photograph the results, and send them to the Retreat House where the Chapter was to take place. All five of us, the General included, sat around the kitchen table, anxiously waiting for the required half-hour to expire, before we could confirm 5, hopefully negative results. One positive test and none of us could travel and, in all likelihood, without the General, the Chapter would have been postponed for a third time. Thankfully, that didn’t happen. It was good to gather with the men who came to Larne, especially as we hadn’t seen each other since before Covid, except on Zoom. The spirit was good as we entered into the task of the week, to face critical issues and make realisable plans for the next four years. I think a Chapter can be like a marathon. There comes a point when you hit a wall, usually when you have to move beyond discussions and conversations, and start making decisions and concrete proposals. We hit that on Wednesday, and then, somehow, got through the wall on Thursday morning. On Thursday afternoon we elected our Provincial, thankfully returning Father Jim Sweeney for a second term. We maintained a good tradition of electing one of our younger men as one of the Provincial’s 4 consultors and, after a bit of a neck and neck tussle with Father Gareth, Father Antony was elected, much to the relief of Father Gareth. The Chapter came to a close on Friday and we prepared to journey home, minus Father Joachim, who would fly to Vienna on Saturday, to preside at the Germany/Austria Passionist Chapter.
 
So, now we begin a process of discernment, as we take the pastoral priorities that came from the Chapter, and try to put together teams in the various locations of Saint Patrick’s Province, who can best realise these priorities. More and more, we realise, that we cannot do this on our own, and so we have to forge deeper relationships with people who are involved with us, and who share a love for our charism of proclaiming the Passion of Christ as the greatest and most overwhelming expression of God’s love for us. So, watch this space! Meanwhile, as ever, protect yourselves, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.
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father frank's log...

18/7/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 11th – 18th JULY
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Last Sunday night, we celebrated the final streamed Mass from the Oratory in Bishopbriggs, at least for the time being. There was a poignancy about it, as we feel we have made a real connection with those who have joined us on the streaming service for the past 16 months or so. There are a lot of memories attached to it. It was on St. Patrick’s Day 2020 that Father Laurence was taken into the Marie Curie Hospice as his long, brave battle with cancer of the oesophagus neared its end. Father Gareth, Father Antony and myself, all spent time with him that evening, but then, early on the morning of 18th March, I received a call to say that he had passed away. The following day again, 19th March, St. Joseph’s Day, all the churches were closed for the first lockdown. We decided we would need to provide a streaming service, but the Oratory in the house was far too small and not fit for purpose, so we thought it would be a fitting tribute to transform Father Laurence’s room into a temporary Oratory for the duration, never imagining that it would be required for such a long period of time.
 
The week before Father Laurence died, we had been visited by our General Consultor from Rome, Father Mirek, who was kindly accommodated in St. Dominic’s in Bishopbriggs. This was intended as a fraternal visit in preparation for our Provincial Chapter, scheduled for the following June, but now only taking place next week, 13 months later. With the pandemic hitting Italy hard at that time, Father Mirek was unable to return to Rome, and so, instead, he returned to his native Poland.  It was round about that time too that Father Gareth went down to Wales to see his mum, and then got stranded because of lockdown restrictions. We wouldn’t see him again for another five months.
 
Father Antony, being young and fit, transported all the things that we would need from the church for Mass. An altar, which once belonged in the old Retreat; a lectern; altar missal; Lectionary; altar linens; vestments, and much more besides. To make space, the old Oratory became a storeroom for things from Father Laurence’s room, including his bed, and a wide assortment of equipment provided by the district nurses, and by the NHS. At first, we simply celebrated daily Mass but then, as time moved on, and restrictions continued, we began to provide a variety of other services as well, and so it went on. Father Gareth returned and, at first, he seemed to be curtailed by being such a big man celebrating in a comparatively small space, but he soon got over that and became a larger-than-life figure in peoples’ homes when it was his turn to celebrate the streamed service. Sometimes, all three of us were celebrating together, and it did seem quite cramped. When the church opened up again, albeit in a limited way, we continued the streaming for those still unable to get out to church, but now it must come to a close. As I said, our belated Chapter will now take place next week and, for three days beforehand, our Superior General wants to come and stay with us, so the Oratory must be transformed into a bedroom again. That’s the task on hand at present and, thankfully, it’s almost complete. The small Oratory is now restored to former glory; a new bed has had to be acquired, as well as new bed linen, for what will now become a visitor’s room; everything taken from the church has been returned. Father Laurence’s equipment, as well as his old medication, has been packaged for return. No sooner had we put together his personal items than his brother phoned. Now that the family are able to travel, they are keen to come and see us, and to collect those items, so we will arrange that for after the Chapter. It all feels like the end of an era, and we can only hope that there are better days to come.
 
All four of us in Bishopbriggs will head for the Chapter; Father Gareth and Father Justinian in one car; Father Antony and myself, together with Father Joachim (our Superior General) in the other car. The house and church will be well looked after in our absence, and we will be back before you know it, to begin a less restricted schedule in the church. Please pray for us. As always, protect yourselves, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.
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father frank's lof...

11/7/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 4th – 11th JULY
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Last Saturday, after celebrating the streamed Mass from the Oratory at Bishopbriggs, I left the house to do a bit of shopping before heading into the church for the evening Confessions. While I was in the supermarket the heavens opened and, very quickly, the roads seemed to be flooding on the journey into St. Mungo’s. Later on, it would be noted that no city’s drainage system could have coped with the sheer volume of rain that fell in such a short space of time. On arriving at the church, I immediately went to inspect areas of the old house, corridors and halls that were prone to water coming in, even after many attempts to resolve the issues by a number of my predecessors. What was new this time, however, was that water from the main connecting corridor had seeped under the door at the back of the church, creating a rather substantial puddle on the tiled floor. Before we could open for Prayer and Confessions, the two volunteers who had arrived for duty, had to get working with mops and buckets, and we had to cone off that area of the church for the evening. On Sunday morning other volunteers had to do a bit more work until eventually we could remove the cones and open the area up. I was so grateful, once again, for the selfless commitment of our volunteers.
 
I was thinking back to my time as parish priest in St. Gabriel’s, Prestonpans. The church is quite a modern church, and one of the first to be built in Scotland to reflect the liturgical changes after Vatican II. On certain days, when there was torrential rain, and the wind was blowing in a particular direction, water would stream down onto the sanctuary, very near to the altar. No matter how often we went up on to the roof, and no matter how hard we tried, we could never find the source of this water, and so we just had to live with it. On other days, of course, with the rain just as torrential, but with the wind blowing in a different direction, there was never a problem.
 
I remember, during the time I spent in Botswana in 1993/94, there were prayers being offered continuously for rain, as there had been no rain for a long time and everything seemed very dry. Botswana, of course, is home to a great stretch of the Kalahari Desert. Interestingly, the currency of Botswana is the pula, but pula literally means "rain" in Setswana, the language of Botswana, because rain is very scarce, and is therefore considered valuable and a blessing. The pula is also the national motto of Botswana. As it so happened, while I was there, and living in the Passionist Novitiate house just outside the capital of Gabarone, the rain came, and there was such joy among the people. So, whenever I am tempted to complain about the rain, I just remember that precious time, and the joy of pula!
 
On my way home from Botswana, I spent two weeks in Nairobi, in Kenya, to pay a visit to our Theology house there, and to catch up on a former student colleague of mine, who was the director of the theology students. I had only arrived when he was diagnosed with malaria, which confined him to barracks for most of the time I was there. So, one day I set out on my own, to walk the dusty road to Karen, named after Karen Blixen, the author of Out of Africa. Her farm and former home, now a museum, still occupied the land, and I remember sitting under a tree, enjoying a cup of tea when, once again, the heavens opened, and the rain fell in torrents. The rain fell for about an hour and then the sun came out again. I started walking back to the Theology house, which had taken me about an hour in the first instance, only to discover that the road had been largely washed away and was now quite indistinguishable. I had to follow my nose on the way back, going astray once or twice, and it was a great relief when I came to some recognisable landmarks that I knew were close to my destination.
 
Back in Bishopbriggs, we are getting ready for our Provincial Chapter, which we all hope to attend from 19th to 23rd July, which means that the church will be closed for those few days.
As always, protect yourselves, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.
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July 03rd, 2021

3/7/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 27th JUNE – 4th JULY
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As I write this log, on a Thursday as usual, today is the 1st of July, the 70th anniversary of my Baptism, exactly one week after my birth. I was baptized in St. Simon’s in Partick, which is on Partick Bridge Street, the same street in which at that time we lived, and where I was house-born on the 24th of June 1951. Before the liturgical reforms after Vatican II, the 1st of July was the feast of the Precious Blood, the companion feast of Corpus Christi, but now they are both combined into the Solemnity of the Body and Blood of Christ. However, given how closely the Precious Blood is connected to our Passionist charism, focussing on the Passion of Jesus as a work of infinite love, in Passionist churches we still celebrate the feast of the Precious Blood on this day. In fact, I have just come off the altar after celebrating this Mass along with Father Gareth. Father Justinian and Father Antony celebrated it at home.
 
I am also hoping that, as I write today, a long quest has come to an end. For some time now I have been trying to find a chiropodist to attend my brother at home. Last year it was arranged by the local health centre, but they no longer do it. They gave me the contact details for a clinic, but they no longer do it either. I have tried various numbers that either ring out, ask me to leave a message, or else promise a call back that never comes. However, at last, I have found someone to come, and she has promised to be there this morning to do the needful, for which I am grateful. As my brother is on a thinner, hopefully no precious blood of his spills.
 
It must be 15 years ago or more that I, myself, swallowed my foolish pride and asked our community nurse at Mount Argus in Dublin to cut my toenails. I was a bit embarrassed to ask her, but I had developed some back trouble, partly due to a fall, and partly due to a stubborn tendency to do heavy lifting around the church, when there were parishioners who would gladly have helped me with that. This meant that I found the task of cutting my toenails very difficult, and any attempt to do so left my back aching for a long time after. Thankfully, our nurse was more than willing, and from then on it became a regular appointment.
 
It was towards the end of the last millennium that the decision was made to get a full-time nurse for our Passionist community in Dublin. Mount Argus is our mother house and by far the biggest house in the province. The men, however, were getting older and more fragile. Our desire was to do all we could to enable our religious to live in their own community for as long as was possible, and that, only as a last resort, would we look to a nursing home. Up until then we had, from time to time, on a temporary basis, engaged a nurse for a specific member of the religious community as needed, but now was the time, we felt, to engage a nurse for all. There was some reluctance among the members initially. Some found it difficult to come to terms with their own diminishment, and some were concerned that a new nursing station would be set up within what used to be called the enclosure. There were ground-floor areas of the monastery that were open to the public, but the enclosure was always reserved as a private area for the religious only. The fact that the nurse we engaged was also a woman created particular problems for those who considered the enclosure sacrosanct. However, within a short space of time, because our nurse was such a lovely person, sensitive to the men and their needs, and amazingly good at her job, those who had protested most, soon became first in the queue on any given morning to demand her attention. She established herself very quickly as a much loved, and absolutely vital part of the life of the monastery. She retired only recently and it’s hard to imagine Mount Argus without her. Our Passionist community in Bishopbriggs is too small to have its own nurse, but we have been glad in recent times that Father Lawrence lived in the house right up to the end, which is what he wanted, and Father Justinian, at 90, is well cared for in the house too. Father Gareth and Father Antony are too young to even be thinking such thoughts, and I hope I am too, at least for a few years yet. So, as always, protect yourselves, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives
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FATHER FRANK's LOG...

26/6/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 20th – 27th JUNE

There’s no getting away from it, I’m 70 years old today, and while I know it’s only a number, and that you are only as old as you feel, which some days is 50, and other days is 90, still and all, 70 seems quite significant. When Psalm 90 says that our normal span of years is 70, and 80 for those who are strong, I take comfort in the knowledge that, while this is written in Holy Scripture, it was written in a different time, and that perhaps in our time, 80 is the new 70, and 90 is the new 80 – just ask Father Justinian!
 
Tonight, I will go out for a meal with my brother and his wife, and my two nieces. Of those, my brother and his wife will be 50 years married in August; my youngest niece just turned 40 recently; and my other niece’s daughter will be 21 next Thursday, so there will be plenty of significant landmarks to celebrate, and lots to catch up on. Of course, my older brother and myself, if left to it, would probably want to talk football most of the night, but none of the three ladies has been known to be stuck for words, so I think that, apart from family matters, and given the interests and occupations of those involved; politics; education and the NHS will feature heavily in the conversation. It’s a long time since we actually had a family meal out together in a restaurant. Usually, we gather in one of the niece’s houses to celebrate our family occasions but, as there is usually a fair amount of chaos with grandchildren present, someone has decided this time that it would be good to have a better chance to chat, and so, my niece’s husbands have kindly undertaken to mind the bairns and leave it to us.
 
Having not been near a restaurant for a long time, certainly since lockdown began, I will now be going out two nights in a row as, tomorrow night, our Passionist community foursome in Bishopbriggs will head out to a local restaurant and have a meal together, so I am looking forward to that as well. Usually, on a Friday night, we make sure we are all there anyway, and have fish and chips together, or else we bring in Chinese or Indian food, but, given the occasion, we thought it would be nice to go out, especially as we weren’t able to do it for Fr. Justinian’s 90th as the restaurants hadn’t opened up yet, so it will be a double celebration.
 
I’m not really one who likes going out to restaurants too often, I prefer it to feel like a special occasion, and so, every now and again suits me better, and when I do go out, I really enjoy it. Growing up in Partick in the 50’s and 60’s of course, restaurants were only for people who could afford it, and the nearest we ever got was when, on a rare occasion, our mother would take us to the University Café on Byres Road for a high fish tea, which essentially was fish and chips, with bread and butter and a cup of tea. We thought this was fantastic, and, when I think back on it, it was fantastic. On my occasional jaunts to Partick, I notice with nostalgia that the University Café is still there, but whether they still do high fish teas or not, I’m not so sure. However, they also used to sell lovely ice-cream, and I’m sure they still do that.
 
My first encounter with a proper restaurant was probably in my late teens and early twenties. I had started going with my parish, which was then St. Laurence’s in Drumchapel, to retreats down at Coodham, the Passionist Retreat Centre in Ayrshire. I made friends on those retreats that I still have to this day, and it became part of our routine that, when we got off the bus on a Sunday night on our way back from the retreat, we would head across the road to Dino’s on Buchanan Street, now sadly no longer there, and have a big plate of Spaghetti Bolognese. Any pretence we had of being sophisticated restaurant patrons was probably scuppered by the fact that, each and every one of us, to the horror of the Italian waiters, would smother our Spaghetti Bolognese in tomato sauce. I would never do that now but, and don’t tell him I told you, on Tuesday nights in Bishopbriggs we usually order in pizzas, and Father Gareth loves to smother his pizza in tomato sauce, regardless of what the toppings are. What a man! So, as always, protect yourselves, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.
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father frank's log...

17/6/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 13th – 20th JUNE
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Living in different countries, or visiting different countries, for meetings and gatherings, if ever there was a social night and a sing-song, I used to enjoy giving a rendition of the old Glasgow street-song, “Wee Johnny’s Lost His Jorrie”. If you don’t know it, essentially it tells the story of a wee boy who thought he had lost a marble (jorrie) down a drain (stank), doon at the Broomielaw (on the north bank of the River Clyde). He tries to retrieve it using a clothes pole (claes pole), then his brother and sister tied to the claes pole, which he rammed doon the stank; and at the end he even uses some dynamite, and blows up the Broomielaw, only then to discover that the jorrie was in his back pocket all the time.
 
I always thought it unlikely that you could have a marble in your back pocket and not realise it, but that all changed last Sunday when, after the 12 o’clock Mass, Father Gareth thought he had lost his church keys. Now, we’re not talking about one or two keys here, we’re talking about a whole bunch of keys of varying sizes. Father Gareth is always very fastidious when it comes to locking doors. He is one of those people who will always go back two or three times to check that he has locked them properly, so the thought of losing his keys was quite distressing for him. With the help of Deacon Joe, he searched everywhere; all over the church; out in the church porch; the street outside the church; every drawer and nook and cranny in the sacristy; even the safe where the sacred vessels and the tabernacle key are put back; every part of the office; every toilet. He searched all over his car, and checked every pocket of every garment he possessed – except one. He returned home despondent. Someone must have them, he thought. Would we have to change all the locks? Then, when he sat down in the chair in his room, out at Bishopbriggs, he was conscious of something in his back pocket – and there were the keys. “I never put anything in my back pocket – ever!”, he said. Aye right! Anyway, he, and all of us, were mighty relieved that the keys had been found, and Father Gareth has been in great form ever since, even more so now that Wales are doing so well in the European Championships.
 
As I write I am looking forward to conferring, for the second time this week, the Sacrament of Confirmation. Last Monday we celebrated with last year’s P7’s from St. Mungo’s and St. Stephen’s Primary Schools who, because of Covid-19, had their Confirmation postponed. In fact, the day the church closed, 19th March 2020, was the very day that the late Archbishop Tartaglia had been scheduled to come and confer the Holy Spirit upon them. It was postponed another couple of times since then but now, at last, as they near the end of their first year in secondary school, they have been able to conclude this stage of their faith journey, having now celebrated all three Sacraments of Initiation. Tonight, I will be celebrating with this year’s P7’s from both schools, having been granted faculties for both.
 
I have had the privilege of conferring the sacrament before when a bishop, for one reason or another, wasn’t available, but I was recalling a time in Dublin when, instead of delegating the parish priests, the Archdiocese asked a retired missionary bishop to do the Confirmations. He was a Divine Word Missionary who had been a bishop in Africa and was now retired back home to Ireland. I remember when he took his mitre out of its case that it was pristine white, and had obviously never been worn. He told me that he had passed through Rome on his way back and was advised that Pope John Paul II would almost certainly die while he was there, and that he would be invited to join with many other bishops at the requiem Mass. He thought that his mitre was rather tatty and so invested in a new one but, of course, the pope didn’t die, not then, and not for a couple of years after. The bishop was glad of the chance to use his new mitre at least once, but equally glad to put it back into mothballs after, and enjoy retirement. Anyway, we are all well in Bishopbriggs and hoping Father Antony is enjoying his holiday.

So, as ever, protect yourselves, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.
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father frank's log...

11/6/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 6th – 13th JUNE
​
Yesterday I was trying to gather a few thoughts for the feast of Saint Columba, and it took my thoughts back to my one and only visit to the Island of Iona, which was probably well over twenty years ago. Back at that time, when I would have three weeks holidays in the summer to take, I would usually take two of those weeks at home with the family, and then spend the third week going somewhere to self-cater and do some hill walking, nothing too strenuous. In that particular year I was staying on the shores of Loch Linnhe, north of Oban, and south of Fort Willam. The walking was beautiful, within striking distance of Glencoe; Glen Nevis and the Caledonian Canal banks. and, believe it or not, the weather was beautiful.
Without wishing to be irreverent, it was also near Castle Stalker, where the final scene in the film Monty Python and the Holy Grail was shot, referred to as Castle Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh!
 
One day I decided to head for Iona, taking the ferry from Oban to Mull; the bus to the Mull Ferry Terminal at Fionnphort, then the short Ferry hop from Fionnphort over to Iona; a bit of a trek, it must be said, but well worth it. If you’ve never been, Iona is a place where, as soon as you step off the ferry, you have a sense of the sacred, and of the abiding presence of God. I thought of Columba making his tour of the island on the day of his death, and blessing every nook and cranny, before being helped to raise a final hand in blessing on the island that same night, after he collapsed on his way to pray the midnight office. Certainly, that final day of blessings has left a lasting impression that even the Vikings couldn’t eradicate. I had always intended to go back to Iona and a couple of years ago I tried to book my retreat on the island, but, for a variety of reasons, it didn’t work out. Someday I will go back and spend real time.
I’ve paid more visits to the Holy Island of Lindisfarne in Northumberland. Lindisfarne was founded from Iona by Saint Aidan, almost 40 years after Columba’s death. Minsteracres, the Passionist Retreat Centre where I lived and worked as Novice Master for a few years back in the 1990’s, is in Northumberland, so Holy Island was only a short drive away. Also, it was very accessible via a causeway, so long as the tides were in your favour; with no need to be waiting on ferries to get there and back. Trumping Castle Stalker and Monty Python, quite near to Lindisfarne, and also in Northumberland, is Alnwick Castle, which starred as the magical Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry during the 2001 Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, and the 2002 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets films. By then, however, I had left Minsteracres and Northumberland, to take up my role as rector and parish priest at Mount Argus in Dublin, the mother house for the Passionists in Scotland and Ireland.
 
Of course, Mount Argus itself was used in the TV series, The Ambassador, back in the late 1990’s, with Pauline Collins starring as the British Ambassador to Ireland; and again, in the film, The Professor and the Madman, starring Mel Gibson and Sean Penn. That was filmed quite a few years back but only came out in 2019 because of legal wrangles. Both of these very fine productions used the old monastery at Mount Argus, but even the new monastery was used as the rural undertakers in a fairly recent Irish drama called Red Rock. We live in times where the sacred and the profane are always rubbing shoulders but, in times to come, and well after Monty Python, and even Harry Potter, have been long forgotten, we will still be visiting Iona and remembering Columba, and visiting the Holy Island of Lindisfarne and remembering Aidan. The sacred has always outlived the profane, and always will. No doubt, too, people will still be visiting Dublin and remembering Saint Charles of Mount Argus, the Passionist saint noted for his ministry of healing, hope and reconciliation, in the late 1800’s.
Back home in Bishopbriggs, all is well. Father Gareth had a great time with his mum in Wales and, thankfully, she is keeping well. He returned with the usual red suitcase full of chocolate. Father Antony will have a well-deserved period away with his family next week. Father Justinian is being collected regularly to share a meal with family now it’s allowed.
So, as ever, protect yourselves, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.
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father frank's log...

5/6/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 30th MAY – 6th JUNE
​
I recently received a notification from the Chancery of the Archdiocese, and the very same notification from the Passionist Provincial Office, warning of a scam that is targeting parishes and religious houses, whereby a person, or persons unknown, spin a very plausible story to try and elicit substantial sums of money under false pretences. It would seem that many places in England had been duped by this and now the scam has moved north. Of course, scams of all kinds are commonplace now, and there will be very few of us who have not been the victims of, at least, an attempted scam. Perhaps I am naïve, but it seems to me that scams are much more sinister and malicious than they were in the past, targeting the vulnerable as much as anyone else. Over the years, as a priest, I have listened to some extraordinary stories from people who came to the door of the monastery looking for money. Most of them were scams, but they often had a kind of entertainment value, and a kind of innocence, whereby I thought even the person spinning the story didn’t expect me to believe it. Sometimes I would give the person something for sheer creativity, and I often thought it would be good to have a kind of Booker prize, or a Bafta award, for the best story or performance.
 
Shortly after I was ordained, I was in my room in St. Mungo’s, when the community vicar (assistant superior) came to my door and asked if I could spare an hour or two. He had been in the parlour listening to a good yarn being spun by a gentleman who simply had to get to London that night. In the unlikely scenario of the story being true the vicar discreetly decided that, instead of giving him money, he would take him to the bus station and buy him a ticket. As the vicar didn’t drive, he asked if I would act as chauffeur. I drove them to Buchanan Street bus station and waited while the ticket was purchased. The vicar waited until our friend got on the bus and the bus pulled out of the station. When he got back into the car, he asked me if I fancied a run to Hamilton, which was the first stop on the way to London. I agreed and off we went. We got there before the bus and waited. When the bus pulled in to the bus station our friend made to get off, but when he saw the vicar standing there, he sheepishly got back on the bus again. So, at the very least, he would have to go as far as Carlisle, which was the next stop. We never saw him again.
 
Another colleague at the time in St. Mungo’s, gave a man a few pounds after listening to a long story, but then followed him down the High Street and watched him turn into the Old College Bar. As the man ordered his pint and whisky chaser, my colleague stepped in beside him and said to the barman, “make mine a double”. Our friend’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. At the end of a very long day’s duty, I remember the doorbell ringing late at night. I brought the visitor into the parlour and, about 10 minutes into his story, which was obviously a contender for Jackanory, I stopped him and told him I was just too tired, and asked how much he was looking for. He said “£10”. I said, “I’ll give you £5”. He said, “Brilliant!” About 5 minutes after I bade him farewell the doorbell rang again. I could have wept, but when I opened the door, there was my friend again. He handed me a single Lemsip and said, “Father, why don’t you take this and go to bed, it might do you good”. I could only laugh.
 
I remember we had a head teacher at secondary school who would hover around, waiting to catch anybody who was arriving late. I was frequently late as I had to rely on 2 buses from Drumchapel to the City Centre, and then from the City Centre out to the school. However, he would wait until he had gathered a few latecomers; he would then invite us to come up with a story as to why we were late. It didn’t need to be true, it just needed to be as entertaining as possible. The person with the best story would avoid punishment; the rest paid the price.
Back at the ranch, Fr. Gareth has been home in Wales and returns tonight; Fr. Antony is painting the fence and is as brown as a berry; Fr. Justinian is enjoying lockdown easing.
So, as ever, protect yourselves, others and loved ones, and protect Christ in your lives.
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