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  • St.Paul of the Cross
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  • St Mungo Patron Saint of Glasgow
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  • Photo Album
  • Safeguarding (Updated Oct 2022)
  • Archdiocese Privacy Notice
  • Father Franks Log
  • Fr Thomas Berry CP and the Environment
  • Synodal Path
  PassionistsGlasgow

Father Frank's Log...

29/3/2017

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 26th MARCH – 1st APRIL
​

In the last few weeks I’ve gone through a lot of Lemsips and a lot of Strepsils trying to get rid of a cold and a cough. Thankfully it’s mostly gone, although a little bit of the cough lingers on. I’ve also felt desperately tired at times as there has really been a lot of things going on, so I’ve been on vitamins too. Not that any of it did much good, it just seemed to take its course no matter what, and others have told me the same. It did, however, spark a memory from over thirty years ago when I was based in St. Mungo’s and taking my turn doing duty.
 
A day’s duty is quite different now from what it was then. Now if I’m on duty I’ll come in from Bishopbriggs to arrive at the church for 9am. The church will already have been opened so I’ll make my way to the office and do some deskwork before starting to hear confessions from 10.30-12.00. The priest on duty generally celebrates the 12.15pm Mass, after which there might be a bit of lunch. After that there may be people to see, people to visit, or more deskwork. Confessions begin again from 4.30-5.30 and, sometime after that, the church is closed unless there is a service on. If there are no meetings of parish groups, or any other commitments, I can then make my way back to Bishopbriggs. The phone is switched through to the priest on duty and he takes any calls that come in from closing time until the next morning’s opening time. The following will give you an idea of how different it used to be.
 
On this particular day in the early 1980’s I was on duty, and I was just going constantly from morning till night. I opened the Church at 6.30am to find a scrupulous penitent seeking Confession before the early Mass. It was the Thursday before a First Friday and so Confessions throughout the day were very demanding. Callers were regular at the door, the listening was intense, and I barely had time to eat my meals. This continued throughout the whole day until 9.00pm, which was when the day’s duty finished. At that point I just wanted to close the door behind me, relax in front of the telly, say a few prayers, and then go to bed with a good book.
 
Just before lock-up time the doorbell went again and my heart sank. I opened it to see a regular and familiar face. He was a character I could at times enjoy. I knew he was going to give me a long and entertaining story with an Oscar winning performance and then ask for a few pounds at the end of it. This night however I was just too tired. He had barely started the story when I held up my hand and said,
“I’m too tired Jimmy, how much do you want?” He looked at me, smiled and said, “A fiver.” I’ll give you £2”, I said. “Could you make it £3”, he replied. “Fine”, I said, and got him the money. Off he went happy as can be.
 
I locked the place up, again longing for rest, but I had barely reached the recreation room when the bell went again. I couldn’t believe it. I opened up once more, and there was my friend who had just left. He looked at me sympathetically, handed me a Lemsip, and said,
“Here Father, take this and get to your bed, you look a bit rough”. I have to say I roared laughing and went to bed in great form. There seemed to be many such incidents like that in St. Mungo’s back then. Perhaps these selected words from a lovely song speak volumes:
 
Stranger, standing at my door, you disturb me in the night: you have needs I can’t ignore, you have eyes that speak your plight. Do I know you, nameless face?
I am fearful of your claim, yet I cannot turn away. Stranger with the unknown name, are you angel come to stay? You are messenger and guest, you, the Christ, I can’t ignore, you my own compassion’s test, stranger, standing at my door. you, the Christ, I can’t ignore. you, the Christ, I can’t ignore.
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FAther frank's log

25/3/2017

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 19th - 26th MARCH

For the first time in over 150 years there are no Irishmen in the Passionist Community in St. Mungo’s, instead we are three Scotsmen and a Welshman; but that doesn’t mean we had no cause to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. The Passionists are an international congregation that has communities in 61 countries throughout the world promoting the memory of Christ’s Passion. Part of the structure of the congregation is that it is divided into provinces. Our communities in Ireland and Scotland, together with an English-speaking parish in Paris,
(where incidentally Oscar Wilde was received into the church at the end of his life, and where also the actor Martin Sheen made his confession to return to the church); and a formation community in London, form the Province of St Patrick. Every St. Patrick’s Day, then, is an opportunity for us to celebrate our province feast, and so it was that Fr. Justinian; Fr. Lawrence; Fr. Gareth and myself shared a nice meal together on 17th March.

For me, it felt strange not being in Ireland for St. Patrick’s Day, as that’s where I had spent the last 16 years, surrounded by all sorts of events and parades, and where the River Liffey and the Guinness turned green. To be honest I never, ever, went to the parade as our Mass times didn’t allow. After the Masses were over I would simply enjoy a celebration meal with the community and then relax for the rest of the day, which of course was a public holiday.

On just one occasion, though, after our meal on St. Patrick’s Day, I decided to walk into the city to observe the revelry, and soak in the aftermath of the parade. My chosen route took me down Grafton Street, Dublin’s best known shopping area, and I stopped awhile to join a gathering crowd around some street entertainers. The parade floats, the Irish dancers, and the pipe and ceilidh bands had long since disappeared, and instead a surreal atmosphere was being created by the rhythmic beat provided by a host of creative percussionists, one of whom was eliciting some remarkable sounds from the nearest litter-bin. There were a variety of jugglers and acrobats to marvel at, and the combination of the setting sun, the constant drum beat, fire-sticks being tossed into the air, and dancers weaving patterns in the air with beautifully coloured streamers, made me feel as if I were somewhere more exotic than downtown Dublin on St. Patrick’s Day, perhaps Rio for the Mardi Gras or some such place.

Into the midst of all this came a young Irishman, perhaps early twenties, unconnected to the entertainers, totally sober it seemed to me, while others around him were certainly a bit the worse for wear after a day of heavy binge drinking, and he was walking around the crowd politely and respectfully asking people if they would like a free hug. He was so sincere you just couldn’t have turned him down, and nobody I saw did turn him down, male or female. Eventually he came to me and I too accepted my free hug and off he went. It may have been my imagination, but afterwards it seemed to me that there was a gentler, warmer, happier feeling in the crowd as a result of our unexpected and unconditional hug, what I suppose nowadays might be called a feel-good factor. So, whoever that young man was, he did a good job, and I hope he felt happy afterwards too.
In our Celtic tradition there are many breastplate prayers, prayers for the protection of Christ, but the one we all know best is St. Patrick’s Breastplate. Here is just an extract:

I arise today through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity, through belief in the Threeness, through confession of the Oneness, of the Creator of creation. Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ on my right, Christ on my left, Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down, Christ when I arise. Christ in the heart of everyone who thinks of me, Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me, Christ in every eye that sees me, Christ in every ear that hears me. I arise today…
​
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FATHER Frank's Log...

16/3/2017

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 12th – 19th March

Just recently some items were stolen from Father Gareth’s car. He had been exposing the Blessed Sacrament for Adoration at 4.30pm on a Saturday evening, when a man walked in through the back of the church and out into the yard, seemingly knowing the lay of the land, managed to get into the car, and walked out past Father Gareth carrying Father Gareth’s bag with some important documents inside, and also wearing Father Gareth’s coat. By the time it dawned on Father Gareth what had happened the thief was gone. I had great admiration for Father Gareth when he prayed for the perpetrator at the Vigil Mass just an hour or so later.
 
On the very same day I realised that I had been the victim of identity theft when I received confirmation from Amazon of an item being delivered to me in Dublin, costing £260, that I had never ordered. I managed to cancel the order but then had the inconvenience of having to cancel my credit card and request a new one. A lesson on vigilance for both of us! It’s not a nice experience being the victim of theft, but then neither is it a nice experience being wrongly accused of theft, and that was something that happened to me a few years ago.
 
I had gone into Dublin city centre on the bus and while I was there the sky darkened, the thunder clapped, and the heavens opened. To get out of the rain I went into Bewleys Cafe. I got a mug of coffee and then took a notion on a bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice. I brought them to one of the tills and paid for them, then realised I had no cup for the orange juice, so I went back and picked one up and then cut down by the other till and found a nice table by the corner. I discarded my wet coat and settled down with my drinks – no sticky buns or Danish pastries as it was Lent. Just as I was enjoying my coffee a big burly security man approached the table and said to me,
“Excuse me sir, but would you mind going back and paying for those.” “Pardon,” says I. “You walked past the till and didn’t pay for those,” he said. “I certainly did pay for them,” I protested. “No, you didn’t, sir,” he says.
 
With the eyes of other patrons on me, no doubt enjoying the show, I did not feel like the disciples on Tabor last Sunday, that it was good to be there, in fact I felt quite the opposite.
Suddenly I realised what must have happened, that when I had gone back to get a cup for the orange juice I then passed by a different till from the one at which I had paid, and this had caused the confusion. I also realised that, for once in my life, I hadn’t crumpled up and      discarded the receipt and that it was lying on the table in front of me. I calmly produced this to the satisfaction and embarrassment of the security man who then offered me a humble apology. I had hoped for free coffee for a month and a year’s supply of carrot cake, or some other such recompense for my humiliation, but none was offered, and to be fair it was an understandable mistake. Since then I always hold on to receipts until safe to discard.
 
I don’t imagine there would be much repentance from the man who stole from Father Gareth, or from the person who stole my identity, but let’s give them the benefit of the doubt. Here's a reflection on the repentant thief by Thomas Merton, from
No Man is an Island:
 
God does not demand that every person attain to what is theoretically highest and best. It is better to be a good street sweeper than a bad writer, better to be a good bartender than a bad doctor, and the repentant thief who died with Jesus on Calvary was far more perfect than the holy ones who had Him nailed to the cross… The dying thief had, perhaps, disobeyed the will of God in many things: but in the most important event of his life he listened and obeyed. The Pharisees had kept the law to the letter, and had spent their lives in the pursuit of a most scrupulous perfection. But they were so intent upon perfection as an abstraction that, when God manifested His will and His perfection in a concrete and definite way, they had no choice but to reject it.
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FATHER FRANK'S LOG...

9/3/2017

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 5th – 12th MARCH
On the Second Sunday of Lent, 1995, I was living and working in Botswana, at our Passionist Novitiate, in a place called Forest Hill. That afternoon, inspired by that Sunday’s Gospel of the Transfiguration, I set out to climb the hill of Kgale, the highest point in the country, which wasn’t too far from our novitiate house. The path up the hill was fairly non-descript and would have been very difficult to follow, except that every now and again helpful arrows had been painted on to rocks or tree stumps to guide would be climbers. Most of the ascent was through heavy growth and only at the top did the terrain open out into a beautiful vista of the surrounding land, which was as flat as a pancake save for this hill of Kgale.

I spent some time at the top of the hill, thinking and praying, trying to set myself on Mount Tabor with Jesus, and with Peter, James and John. There wasn’t another soul around. It was good to be there. Eventually I decided to make my way back down again. By now it was about 4.00pm and I knew that at 6.00pm it would get dark and the baboons, having made their way down the hill at sunrise, would be streaming back up again at sunset. I had often watched them do this, and listened to the strange and almost fearsome barking sound of them from a safe distance.

At some point in my descent I realised I had lost the path. At first I didn’t panic, but when my attempts to find it again kept bringing me to dead ends my anxiety level began to rise. I had heard that when you got lost on a mountain the best way to go is up, and so I began to create my own path towards the top again. Insects didn’t bother me, but when a few grass snakes slithered across my path I began to fear encountering something bigger and more deadly. Still I kept climbing. I then saw some weird creatures I had never come across before. They were about the size of a small dog with thick, tight, brown fur. Thankfully they scampered away, rather than towards me. I later discovered they were rock rabbits.

At the back of my mind I’m thinking of meeting these baboons, hundreds of them, coming home for the night, and how they would take to meeting me in their path. All the unheeded warnings I’d received about how stupid it was to go climbing on my own came flooding back to me. The prayer to my guardian angel popped into mind, I hadn’t prayed it in years, but I prayed it fervently then. Suddenly, and unexpectedly, I caught sight of a white arrow. Somehow, I had stumbled across the path again. My heart leapt with relief and delight. I took a deep breath, whispered a prayer of thanks to my guardian angel, and painstakingly began to follow the arrows in reverse towards the bottom. I was never so glad to reach level ground. Not for the first time in my life I believed there was a divine providence looking after me, I had been brought to safety by the goodness of God and the hand of an angel.

I’ve always enjoyed Thomas Merton’s descriptions of what could be called transfiguration moments in his own conversion story. Perhaps this beautiful description of one such moment centred on an insight into the Blessed Sacrament from his “
Seven Story Mountain” is appropriate for this Transfiguration Sunday:
​
“I did not even know who Christ was, that He was God. I had not the faintest idea that there existed such a thing as the Blessed Sacrament. I thought churches were simply places where people got together and sang a few hymns. And yet now I tell you, you who are now what I once was, unbelievers, it is that Sacrament, and that alone, the Christ living in our midst, and sacrificed by us, and for us and with us, in the clean and perpetual Sacrifice, it is He, alone, who holds our world together, and keeps us all from being poured headlong and immediately into the pit of our eternal destruction. And I tell you there is a power that goes forth from that Sacrament, a power of light and truth, even into the hearts of those who have heard nothing of Him and seem to be incapable of belief.”                  
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March 02nd, 2017

2/3/2017

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 26th FEBRUARY – 5th MARCH

As I was preparing the ashes on Shrove Tuesday for the Ash Wednesday Masses, I was reminded of an incident you may have heard of back in 2014 when a number of parishioners in various churches in Galway were quite literally branded by the ashes, complaining of a burning sensation as the priest signed them on their foreheads and spoke the accompanying words. One priest had to actually stop the Mass and advise the people to go into the sacristy and wash the ashes off. He then sent the ashes to a public health laboratory for testing. It turned out that the parishes where this happened had painstakingly prepared their own ashes which, as you know, are produced by burning the branches of the leftover palms from the previous Palm Sunday. It emerged that the palms they burned were too dry, so that the ashes turned caustic when water was added and produced the chemical potassium hydroxide, which doesn’t mix well with human skin. Apparently, it’s best to burn the branches while they are still green. The priests involved lamented that in very many years of preparing their own ashes in such a way, this was the first time that there had ever been any problem. I’m not too sure if they continued doing it that way, I suspect they did, but here in St. Mungo’s we are happy to get our ashes already made up in Prinknash Abbey with just the water requiring to be added. Staying with Galway, it is reported that one parish there this year is offering drive-thru ashes, with people able to drive in one church gate, be stamped with the ashes, and then drive out through another gate without having to leave their car. This is absolutely true, so it would seem that Galway is the place to be for a bit of excitement on Ash Wednesday.

As ever, there would have been big crowds at the Masses throughout the Church on Ash Wednesday, perhaps the biggest crowds of the year, even more so than at Christmas and Easter, and it’s a bit of a mystery as to why that should be, although here in St. Mungo’s, as a Passionist Church, it may be that Good Friday has even bigger crowds. What both days have in common is powerful ritual – the signing with ashes and the veneration of the cross. What deep places within ourselves must such rituals touch into?
​
Still with Lent in mind, a few years back, when I was working in Ireland, I preached a sermon on the Sunday before Ash Wednesday, which that year was Temperance Sunday, in which I suggested that any one of us can become addicted to almost anything, and I couldn’t resist a reference to my own predilection for chocolate. After Mass a parishioner came up to me a little embarrassed and apologetic because she had in her bag a bar of chocolate for me. This lady and her husband had on occasion, over the years, kindly brought me a variety of unusual chocolate bars. This one came from
Past Times, a shop you may be familiar with. It was called Ration Chocolate, inspired by the war time rationing of confectionary that began in 1942, sometime after the rationing of other foodstuffs. I’m too young to remember rationing, I was only three when it came to an end in July 1954, but I do remember seeing the ration book that my mother and others had been issued with. This was a 3½ ounce bar of chocolate with seven sections marked Monday to Sunday, allowing for a ½ ounce ration each day. Needless to say, I had it all eaten that night, as is my wont, and I marvelled at the kind of will power and discipline it must have demanded to take just one section a day. I will be off chocolate again this Lent, in the hope that my fasting will awaken in me an even deeper hunger for God, who alone can satisfy my deepest longings. Here’s a poem I came across on hungering for God, by the Christian poet Deborah Ann Belka:
I have a holy hunger for God’s strength within, so that I may always flee from Satan and sin; I have a holy thirst to be in God’s word, a need for living waters to be constantly stirred;               I have a holy longing for God’s mighty power, to overcome temptation, every waking hour;       I have a holy want needing to be satisfied, a deep desire in my soul to be refined and purified; I have a holy hunger, a deep, yearning thirst, a burning desire to put God ~ in my life first.                       
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    FATHER FRANK KEEVINS C.P.

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