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  PassionistsGlasgow

father frank's log...

29/2/2020

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 23rd FEBRUARY – 1st MARCH 2020
As we enter into the Season of Lent, my thoughts turn towards the desert, seeing as how, on the first Sunday of every Lent, we witness Jesus going into the desert wilderness of Judea, where he is tempted by the devil and cared for by angels. I visited the Judean desert of Jesus’ temptations on my one and only pilgrimage to the Holy Land almost 30 years ago, but it has been the memory of two other desert experiences that have filled my mind in recent days.
 
The first desert experience was on a holiday to Tunisia, and this was about 20 years ago. Included in that holiday were trips to the markets at Tunis and the site of the ancient city of Carthage, where some of the early church councils took place that gave shape to what we call the Canon of Scripture, which in the Catholic Bible is now the 46 books of the Old Testament and the 27 books of the New Testament. There was also a mini-cruise to Egypt and back where we visited, amongst other attractions, the Pyramids of Giza, the Valley of the Kings, the Sphynx, and the Cairo Museum, including the golden tomb mask of Tutankhamun – all very wonderful. But, most memorably, there was a trip to the Saharan Desert, where we took a camel ride to the dunes of Douz at sunset, stopped awhile to admire the stunning views across the Sahara, and then took the camel ride back again by the light of the moon. However, the beauty of this trip was somewhat lost on me. I am not the tallest person on the planet, and, as Eric Morecambe used to say about Ernie Wise, I have short, fat, hairy legs; and yet, I seemed to have been given by far the largest camel in the herd – although I believe the collective noun for camels is a caravan. This beast was huge, and I had never sat on the back of a camel before. My legs were spread far wider than they had ever been in all my life, and the more we trekked out into the desert the greater the agony I felt. The sense of relief when we reached the halting place was immense, but I couldn’t enjoy the panoramic views across the desert because all I could think about was that I had to get back on this beast again. Further agony ensued by the light of the moon, and I have never felt so glad to fall into bed at the end of a day, vowing never to get on the back of a camel ever again, a vow I have resolutely kept, and I think it was about three days before I was able to walk normally again.
On the way back from Douz we visited the El Jem amphitheatre in Tunisia that had been used for the movie Gladiator, which had come out that same year, and I can tell you, I would rather face the lions in the amphitheatre before ever getting on the back of a camel again.
 
The second desert experience was 25 years ago when I visited our Passionist mission in South Africa and Botswana. During Lent 1995, I gave a retreat to the Passionists living and working there. It took place in our Novitiate at Forest Hill, just outside of the Botswana Capital, Gabarone. The retreat ended on the Friday of the 5th week of Lent, after which all the men returned to their missions to celebrate the Palm/Passion Sunday Liturgies. At that time Father Lawrence was living 400 kilometres out into the Kalahari Desert, and he asked me if I would like to come and celebrate the beginning of Holy Week with him. I readily accepted his invitation and, on the following day, I borrowed a pick-up truck, and began my long drive out to the mission. It was a fairly bleak drive, it didn’t have the same beauty as the Sahara, but at least the pick-up was more comfortable than the camel. When I arrived at the mission the locals were cutting palms from the trees for the procession next day, and decorating the rondavel church with cow dung in beautiful spirals. In bed that night, even though tired from the long drive, I was kept awake by a disco in a local hall that went on to all hours – yes, a disco, 400 kilometres out into the Kalahari! I couldn’t believe it. That was forgotten next day however, as the Palm/Passion Sunday celebration was so full of life and captured so well the joy of Christ’s entry into Jerusalem and the sorrow of his Passion, although at times I was a little distracted by lizards leaping about the floor and window ledges. Here is Hosea 2:14:
 
I will win her back once again. I will lead her into the desert, and speak tenderly to her there.


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father frank's log...

22/2/2020

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 16th – 23rd FEBRUARY 2020
​

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about a Passionist who had died in our English Province, a man whom I had known since my student days and who, despite the very different paths our lives took as Passionists, he going down the worker-priest route, and me taking a more traditional Passionist ministry pathway, I had the greatest respect and admiration for. I also found him to be a very engaging and enjoyable companion whenever our paths crossed. When I finished that log, I went into my emails to send a copy to the person who uploads it to the parish website. No sooner had I done that than an incoming email popped up from the Provincial of the Passionists in England, giving details of this man’s funeral, which was to take place in the Passionist Monastery at Minsteracres on the Tuesday and Wednesday of this week. My immediate thought was that this was not coincidence, but providence, and that I should go to this funeral, which I duly cleared my schedule to be able to do.
 
The day of travelling didn’t start too well. Storm Chiara had passed but storm Dennis was still lingering, and I decided to get on the road early, so as to take the journey slowly and carefully. Before getting on the road, however, I had to get some shopping in for my brother, for whom I am the primary carer. I left his house after delivering the shopping but then, just as I was leaving the Clydeside Expressway to get on to the M8, an orange light appeared on the dashboard of the car, clearly warning me of something untoward. I didn’t think it was anything too much to worry about as it was a fairly new car that had just been through its first service, but equally I didn’t fancy embarking on a long journey with an orange light showing, and so I diverted to St. Mungo’s where I asked Father Gareth if he would swap cars with me and, being a very obliging man, he duly agreed. I swapped my things over into the boot of the other car and got on the road again, but then, before I reached the turn-off for the M73 to head south, I realised I had left my mobile phone on the front seat of the first car. Not wanting to be without it for two days, in case any emergencies arose, I turned back to St. Mungo’s yet again. By this time, Father Gareth had gone to the bank with the Sunday collections. We tried phoning him numerous times from the office but he wasn’t answering. Our receptionist said that when he left for the bank, he had said he wouldn’t be back that day. We both knew, however, that his pattern was often to head into ASDA after the bank for an all-day breakfast, so I decided that I would head for ASDA to see if he was still in the café. I got there quite quickly but there was no sign of him. I had a look in the bank, but I knew he would have gone from there. Without much hope, I decided to take a walk through the shopping centre in case he was having a mooch. Hardly had I entered the centre when I saw the unmistakeable figure of Father Gareth, surveying the world around him, and eating a big tub of ice-cream – his dessert after the all-day breakfast. I’m always glad to see Father Gareth, but even more so on this occasion. I retrieved my phone from his car and began the journey south once again, about an hour and a half later than intended.
 
I still arrived in Minsteracres in good time for the removal. I paid a visit to the monastery cemetery to visit the graves of old friends from my time there, 1992-96, and whose funerals I hadn’t been able to get to when I was living in Dublin. The removal was well done, with a moving reflection from a man from CAPS (Catholics for Aids Prevention and Support) to whom my friend had given years of service, standing at the foot of the cross as he saw it. Afterwards, over food and drinks, I enjoyed good conversations with old friends, before retiring, exhausted from the day, for an early night. The Mass next day was also a fitting tribute, with a fellow Passionist worker-priest rendering a beautiful homily. After the burial in the monastery cemetery, at which I thought I was going to freeze to death, I didn’t linger too long at the buffet meal, but got back on the road to Glasgow, hoping to get through the relentless downpour, before rush hour. It was a horrible journey, but thankfully I made it back safely, and I was very glad I had made the effort to say farewell to a fine Passionist. R.I.P.

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father frank's log...

15/2/2020

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 9th – 16th FEBRUARY 2020
​
I had one of my brief trips to Dublin recently for a couple of meetings. I was travelling two days after Brexit and when I arrived into Dublin Airport, Terminal 2, the signs through Passport Control had already been changed. Signs that had previously directed disembarking passengers to EU and Non-EU, now directed us to EU and British Citizens, and Non-EU. I presume that these will change back again at the end of this year to what they were before, and I will have to join the Non-EU queue. I also couldn’t help but notice that the Non-EU queue was much longer and much slower than the EU queue, and that there wasn’t the option of the E-gates which I have been using in recent times, and which were very efficient. If you haven’t used an E-gate before, all you do is slip your EU passport into a slot, look at the camera for a few seconds, retrieve your passport, and go. Nothing simpler. So, I can’t say I’m looking forward to joining the long queues again when Brexit takes full effect.
 
Even though my grandparents were Irish, Connemara on my mother’s side and Sligo on my father’s side, and even though I have lived in Ireland for 30 of my 68 years, I have never considered myself to be anything other than Scottish. Now, however, I am seriously considering applying for an Irish passport. The only thing stopping me is trying to find the necessary proofs that would be required for my application to be successful. For one year only, 1995-96, during my term as Novice Master, I lived in Sligo, in the Passionist Monastery at Cloonamahon, near Collooney, just three miles out of Sligo Town. I loved to wake up in the morning and look out of my window at the table top of Ben Bulben, and to climb it often enough, after visiting the grave of WB Yeats in Drumcliffe Parish Church Cemetery at the foot of the mountain, before making the ascent. His headstone is inscribed with his famous self-penned epitaph: "Cast a cold eye on life, on death, horseman, pass by."
 
During my time in Sligo I made some attempts to trace birth and baptism records for my paternal great-grandparents, my great-grandmother being from Ross’s Point, and my great-grandfather being from a small village called Magheraugh (I think that’s the right spelling) near the Sligo-Donegal border. I even searched local church graveyards looking for tombstones with the name Keevins on them, but all to no avail. I think Keevins is one of those names that may have changed it’s spelling after my great-grandparents emigrated to Scotland. In fact, I got quite excited a few years ago when my grand-niece, with the help of her teacher, tried to trace her family tree, and came up with the possibility that we may have been connected to another Irish poet, one of my favourites, called Patrick Kavanagh, whose grandfather was called Kevany, and which for some reason became Kavanagh at Patrick’s baptism. In his poem The Great Hunger, Patrick Kavanagh has one of my favourite lines of all time, and something I often quote at Mass, that God is in the bits and pieces of every day – isn’t that wonderful! Later on, with the dawn of digitisation, in the population census of 1911, I discovered Keevins’s in Ballymote that seemed to hold great promise of being connected to us. Ballymote is the town in Sligo where Brother Walfrid, the founder of Celtic Football Club, was born, and the town now boasts a sculpture of him in the local park. Brother Walfrid’s surname was Kerins, so, perhaps the doyen of Scottish sport’s journalists isn’t the only famous Keevins. Hopefully I will find the time and the energy at some other time to trace my ancestors and find the necessary proof to claim my Irish passport, even if only to avoid the airport queues. In the meantime, to recognise God's presence in all our everyday experiences, situations and relationships, read this:
 
". . . Men build their dreams as they build their circles of friends.
God is in the bits and pieces of Everyday.
A kiss here and a laugh again, and sometimes tears;
 A pearl necklace around the neck of poverty” (The Great Hunger – Patrick Kavanagh).


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father frank's log

8/2/2020

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 2nd – 9th FEBRUARY 2020
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Earlier this week the sad news came to us of the death of a Passionist in England. I had first met this man, a Geordie, when we were both students and working together on a project for homeless men in Leeds. This was in 1977. I was in the early stages of formation, having joined the Passionists in 1975; he was in the later stages, due to be ordained in 1979, so he celebrated 40 years as a Passionist priest last year. Being from different parts of the Passionist world our paths did not cross a whole lot over the years, but occasionally they did.
 
Our paths crossed a few times in the early 1990’s when I was the novice master for the Passionists in North Europe and secretary to the North European Conference of Passionists, and this man was part of a group of Passionists in North Europe called Group 72. This name was taken from paragraph 72 in our Passionist Constitutions which talks about St. Paul of the Cross seeing the name of Jesus written on the foreheads of the poor, and therefore calling we Passionists to make our lives and apostolate an authentic and credible witness on behalf of justice and human dignity. In their own way of being true to this, some of Group 72 were living lives in the tradition of the worker priest movement. The worker priest movement began Belgium after the Second World War. It was a movement in which priests set aside traditional roles to take on ordinary jobs, so as to share the living conditions, and the social and economic problems of the poor, who were their co-workers. The man I am referring to was, at that time, working as a road sweeper in London. I remember sometime during that period, after the demise of apartheid in South Africa, watching a TV documentary about a network of people who had been working clandestinely to bring an end to apartheid. Every now and again there would be an image of a sweeping brush being pushed along the streets of London, and also the repeated image of the front door of a house. Towards the end of the documentary the camera was raised to reveal the face of my colleague who, it turned out, was a major part of this network, and the house, which was being used as a secure drop house for clandestine postal communication, was revealed to be the house that he shared with another Passionist priest, who at that time was working in a factory as a fork-lift driver.
 
I remember that one other member of Group 72, a French Passionist, was driving a refuse lorry in Paris as well as being the union rep for the lowest paid employees, and another, also a French Passionist, was working as a hospital orderly. The hospital orderly, a man of many gifts, would later be invited out to Rwanda as one of a group of facilitators trying to negotiate peace and reconciliation after the awful genocide of 1994. In more recent years, my Geordie colleague who died this week, became active in supporting people living with HIV and Aids. At a time of great fear and prejudice directed at people living with HIV and Aids; he was recognised as a powerful presence of solidarity and support for men and women living with the virus, offering pastoral support to them, and also to their friends and families.
 
While my own life and ministry as a Passionist took on a more traditional form, and while I sometimes had questions about these chosen lifestyles, at the same time I could see first-hand the utmost sincerity and dedication of these good men. Their commitment displayed a willingness to be vulnerable and to share the place of weakness with poor and suffering people; it often entailed a surrender of the comforts and securities that religious life can bring; and it would sometimes lead to personal hardships that were undertaken as an embracing of the cross, so as to be faithful to the Passionist mission, seeing the cross of Christ as a work of infinite love, especially towards the poor and the suffering, the crucified ones of today. This was their way of living that out and I admired them greatly for it.
 
So, well done good and faithful servant, you have laboured hard and your work is done; may your good deeds go with you, and may you enjoy your deserved rest in the Father’s house.
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    Picture

    FATHER FRANK KEEVINS C.P.

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