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  PassionistsGlasgow

Father Frank's Log...

25/2/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 21st – 28th FEBRUARY
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Well, it looks like we are in for at least another 6 weeks of lockdown without public worship. Whether we return in time for Easter or after Easter remains to be seen, although, if returning for Easter means we are restricted to 20 people, that would, in itself, be difficult. As always, it’s in the hands of God, and God is always there, wherever we are, and not just in church. On Wednesday of this week, I watched a short video of an Anglican bishop walking through an ancient wood near Canterbury and, as he weaved his way, staff in hand, through age-old trees, treading his way carefully along an overgrown path, he said that, in these times of turbulence, it’s good to get close to something rooted. I was reminded of my 3 years spent in Minsteracres, the Passionist Retreat Centre in Northumberland, where I was enamoured by the ancient redwood trees that lined the avenues, privileged to be walking among them every day, feeling small, yet blessed. I also remembered St. Anne’s Park in Dublin, during a 30-day retreat in nearby Manressa in 1987, hosting really ancient trees with roots visible on the river banks. The famous words of St. Augustine came to me as, pondering his tardy conversion, he said “Late have I loved Thee, O Beauty, ever ancient, ever new.” Getting close to something rooted, something ever ancient, ever new, it seems to me, is also about getting closer to God, and how truly and urgently we need to get closer to God in these turbulent times.
 
We had cause in our community recently, with the upcoming Passionist Provincial Chapter in mind, to reflect on how we had been affected by the pandemic, both individually and as a group. Without breaking the confidence of our deeper conversations, when we began to talk about the experience of these past months, it was certainly turbulent. On March 18th last year Fr. Lawrence died. On March 19th the churches closed after the Morning Masses. (We had been scheduled to have Confirmations that same night - the children were prepared, Archbishop Tartaglia, sadly now deceased, was in waiting, but it didn’t happen). On March 20th Fr. Gareth was walking in town when he received a phone call from his mum which prompted him to make his way to Central Station and catch the first train to Cardiff, just in the clothes he was standing up in. It would be more than 6 months before we would see him again. That, for us, was the triduum that set the tone for the months ahead. Fr. Lawrence was buried on March 27th with only 10 people in attendance, 8 family members, plus myself and Fr. Antony. We still await the chance to celebrate his life and ministry more appropriately for the many who would have wished to attend. Back at home, Fr. Antony, only 3 months ordained, converted Fr. Lawrence’s room into an oratory, our existing oratory being far too small for purpose, and set up the streaming service that has sustained us, and many others, to this day, even during the periods of limited return to public worship in church. His daily lockdown walks took him past the nearby home of his mother where he would talk to her from the garden and assure himself that she was okay. In mid-July he became an uncle again and his joy affected all of us. Prior to this, in late May, Fr Justinian had been taken into hospital, just a few days after my brother had been taken in, for the 6th time in less than a year, and, in both instances, there was the sadness of not being able to visit because of Covid-19. Fr Justinian was the first of us to require a Covid-19 test during his hospital stay, and, since coming home, the daily visits from his carers have become a normal part of our community routine. Since then, Fr. Antony has required a number of Covid-19 tests as he undertook a new ministry, in collaboration with Deacon Joe and the Apostleship of the Sea, to celebrate Mass on board ships that were docked in various ports on the Clyde, unable to set sail, and so to provide some much-needed pastoral care for Catholic crew members. Since Fr Gareth’s return, larger than life, in early October, he and Fr Antony have replaced, what used to be their nightly swims, with nightly walks, brothers in arms. That just scratches the surface, but it may give a flavour, and I think you know enough about my experience through these logs. 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...

18/2/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG:  14th – 21st FEBRUARY

How strange it was not to be distributing ashes on Ash Wednesday. The best we could do was to follow the instruction from the liturgists and invite people to creatively provide their own ashes, using dried out soil from the garden; ashes from the grate; charcoal from the barbecue, cremated remains from last year’s Palm Sunday palms – if you managed to get any, seeing as how we were already in lockdown by then -  or whatever else would suffice, and then bless them virtually during the Ash Wednesday streamed Mass from the Oratory, and ask those tuned in to sign themselves with their ashes, using whatever formula they felt drawn to, whether to remember being dust and returning to dust; or promising to turn away from sin and be faithful to the Gospel. I’ve no doubt that people, steeped in faith, will have responded to that, sincerely and faithfully, in their own way, and entered into Lent as fervently as ever.
 
Last Sunday, at 6 o’clock in the morning, I was listening to a programme on BBC Radio 4, called Something Understood. I’ve often listened to it, and sometimes it’s better than at other times. The premiss is that different presenters take a topic and explore that topic through poetry, prose, music, scripture, interviews with experts, and so on. Last Sunday the presenter was the writer and broadcaster, John McCarthy, whom you may remember was one of the hostages held for more than 5 years, during the Lebanon hostage crisis in the late 1980’s and early 1990’s. The topic he explored was boredom. He didn’t really go into whether, in his captivity, during which he shared a cell with the Irish hostage, Brian Keenan, he ever got bored, but he did, at one stage, relate boredom back to the old monastic concept, most associated with the early Desert Fathers and Mothers, of acedia. The Desert Fathers and Mothers used this term to define a spiritual state of listlessness, and sometimes referred to it as the noonday demon. Evagrius of Pontus, for example, characterizes it as the most troublesome temptation of all and warns of the great danger of giving in to it. His contemporary, John Cassian, gives a very vivid description of the monk who does this: He looks about anxiously this way and that, and sighs that none of the brethren come to see him, and often goes in and out of his cell, and frequently gazes up at the sun, as if it was too slow in setting, and so a kind of unreasonable confusion of mind takes possession of him like some foul darkness. In the later, medieval tradition, of the seven deadly sins, acedia has generally been folded into the sin of sloth, and in modern psychology we might in some ways link it to depression.
 
I began to wonder if acedia might be a real danger for people in these times of lockdown. How do we prevent getting bored, listless, slothful, or even depressed? There is so much that we miss; so much that we can’t do, so many loved ones that we can’t see. One day can seem much the same as another. As Burl Ives used to sing, “Life sure gets tedious, don’t it?” I consider myself very fortunate. I take time to pray. I have my caring duties for my brother. I love to read, mostly spiritual books during the day, and a good novel at night. I can pick up my old guitar and play a few tunes. I still have various essential tasks to attend to at the church, and streamed services to prepare from our Passionist Oratory in Bishopbriggs. I can enjoy meals and conversation with the community. All in all, I feel reasonably shielded from acedia, but I know that’s not the way it is for everybody. I was thinking not just of people confined to their homes, but also of people arriving from other countries and having to quarantine in a hotel room for 10 days, unable to go out at all, how boring must that get? Although, an early monk, Simeon Stylites, lived for 37 years on top of a pillar and never got bored. For those early monks, the primary remedy for acedia was to be faithful to the ordinary demands of daily life that God's love calls us to face. Even when confined to home, there are simple daily tasks that must be done. When these are performed with the humility of prayer, in the spirit of St. Therese’s Little Way of Love, or Mother Theresa’s Doing something Beautiful for God, even mundane tasks can enkindle the fire of God's love in us and strengthen us against acedia.
So, protect yourselves, protect your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.

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father frank's log...

10/2/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG:  7th – 14th FEBRUARY
​

On Tuesday of this week, I had my Covid-19 vaccination. I had received the famous blue envelope at the beginning of the previous week and was looking forward to having it done, not so much for myself, although that was part of it, but more that I have always had a concern about bringing the virus into my younger brother’s house and passing on an infection that I didn’t know I had, and he with as many underlying conditions as you could care to count. Of course, on Monday night, I was listening to all the warnings about Storm Darcy, and the Beast from the East Two. It was at the time of the Beast from the East One that I had spent a couple of nights sleeping in the office here, being unable to make my way back to Bishopbriggs because of the deep snow. So, there seemed to be a very real danger that the predicted heavy snowfall and road chaos would prevent my finding my way to Barmulloch Community Centre where the vaccination was scheduled to take place.
 
I was determined, however, to get the vaccine, even though reports were saying that, if you didn’t feel safe travelling, there would be no problem getting another appointment. I was also anxious to get into the church afterwards and put some heating on. Someone had planted the thought in my head about the danger of frozen and burst pipes because of the plunging temperatures, and once the thought was in my head, I couldn’t shift it. With the church closed at present due to Covid-19, we don’t have the heating on at its usual repeat schedule, although I come in and put it on for a few hours most days, but there are also the halls and the old retreat. I lay awake most of the night imagining frozen and burst pipes, and I almost got up in the middle of the night to make my way in to St. Mungo’s to put the heating on, but even I thought that was a bit crazy, and decided to wait till the morning, until after the vaccine.
 
At 6 o’clock on Tuesday morning I got up, washed, shaved, showered, had some breakfast, and said my prayers, by which time I decided I had best check the car and the conditions outside. It looked bleak, but I thought, once I negotiated my way out of the estate, the main roads would be gritted and passable. On Monday morning I had made a dummy run to the Vaccination Centre, just to be sure that I knew the way. However, the road was unrecognisable in the snow and I took a wrong turn at a double mini-roundabout. I then encountered a driver stuck in the snow with a Good Samaritan helping to push her back to get going again. I followed the signs to the Centre and got parked. I was a wee bit early and it transpired I was there before some of the staff so I had to wait. Eventually I was called forward, a sizeable queue having formed behind me. The vaccine itself was painless, and very well organized. Once administered, I was asked to wait 15 minutes before getting back on the road. I sat watching fresh snowfall, anxious that I might be stuck where I was. I made my way out of the Centre to get on the road to St. Mungo’s. Before getting out of the Barmulloch estate I encountered another car whose wheels were spinning and couldn’t move. It took some time for him to get moving again and at last I felt I was on the road. There was one more incident of a car stuck in Townhead, on the Stirling Road, before I eventually made my way into the church yard. At last, I put the heating on in the church, the halls and the old Retreat, not considering how I would eventually pay for it, but feeling the cost was preferable to having frozen and burst pipes.
 
I still had another journey to make in the snow, up to Drumchapel to check on my brother and to make him a meal. While there, I remembered I had left a heater on in the office and, picturing myself lying awake all night, for the second night in a row, worrying about it, even though it would have been fine, I drove back into the church, turned it off, and then made my way home to Bishopbriggs. That night, I could feel the tension in my shoulders from all the driving in the snow, but, thankfully, I had a great night’s sleep, and was up bright and early the next morning to begin a new day. Meanwhile, everyone else in the community is fine.
So, protect yourselves, protect your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.
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FR FRANK's log...

4/2/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG:  31st JANUARY – 7th FEBRUARY

On Wednesday of this week, the Feast of Saint Blaise, I left the Passionist house in Bishopbriggs to walk down to the post office in the village, where I had to get some documents weighed and posted. It was a miserable morning, wet and windy, but I felt the need to stretch my legs, having spent three nights on my younger brother’s couch over the weekend in a caring capacity, the need for which thankfully alleviated as the days progressed. About half way between the house and the village there is a post box on the Kirkintilloch Road. Peering through the rain, I saw a postman opening this box and shovelling the mail into his sack, before continuing on past me. It was then that I noticed, on top of the post box, a huge crocheted tammy with a bobble on top, containing a beautiful array of colours and a perfect fit for the post box. My first thought was to wonder what kind of mad person would crochet a tammy for a post box, but when I mentioned this to a friend, who has spent a good part of lockdown crocheting all kinds of amazing and beautiful things, she asked me if it had brought a smile to my face. I had to admit that it had and she said, “well, there you are”. She also made me aware of a phenomenon called yarn bombing, which is a kind of street art that employs colourful displays of crocheted yarn to decorate, not just post boxes, but also street lamps, benches, railings, and all kinds of things to brighten up dull, cold, urban environments. I have since come to learn that it is also known as wool bombing; yarn storming; guerrilla knitting; kniffiti; urban knitting and graffiti knitting. Technically, it’s probably illegal, but I can’t imagine that law being too rigidly enforced, especially as it is so easily removed.
 
It’s always good to come across things that can put a smile on your face, especially in difficult times, such as we are living in now, and I have a sneaking admiration for those who set out to do that, such as whoever first thought of putting a traffic cone on top of the Duke of Wellington’s head on the equestrian statue outside the Gallery of Modern Art in Queen Street. The statue has been there since 1844, and was already one of Glasgow’s iconic landmarks, but the traffic cone has now become a permanent feature, and a Glasgow tradition, representing our ironic local humour, and I imagine it’s there to stay, bringing a smile to most people’s faces whenever they pass it, including mine. Of course, there is a link between the Duke of Wellington and the Passionists. His nephew, Charles Packenham, was the first rector of Mount Argus in Dublin. He had more or less been disowned by his family when he converted to Catholicism in the wake of John Henry Newman’s conversion, who of course had been received into the Church by the Passionist priest, Dominic Barberi CP. Relations with his family were made worse when Charles announced his intention to join the Passionists, not the most illustrious or prestigious of Congregations, and the only one in the family to show him any support was his uncle, the Duke of Wellington, whose words of goodbye to him were, “Well, you have been a good soldier, Charles, strive to be a good monk”. Shortly afterwards, in May 1851, Charles entered the Passionist Novitiate at Broadway in Worcestershire, a village known as the Jewel of the Cotswolds, taking the religious name, Paul Mary. His famous uncle died the following year and, the now Father Paul Mary, himself died a few years later in Dublin, aged just 36, after a short illness, and is buried in the cemetery at Mount Argus. So, whenever you pass the equestrian statue of the Duke of Wellington in Queen Street, let the traffic cone bring a smile to your face, and, whatever else you may think about the man known as the Iron Duke, just remember his kindness and encouragement to his young nephew at a difficult time.
 
I’m not sure if any of you are crocheting during lockdown, or perhaps you are baking, painting, doing jigsaws, or engaging in some other form of creativity to keep you going. Here, we are mostly reading, walking, and preparing streamed liturgies and, of course, we have Father Gareth to continually keep a smile on our faces. We may hire him out. So, as ever, protect yourselves, protect your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.

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    FATHER FRANK KEEVINS C.P.

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