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father frank's log...

25/3/2023

FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 26th MARCH – 2nd APRIL 2023

At the beginning of this week, I travelled over to our Passionist Retreat Centre in Crossgar, County Down. The reason for my journey was to attend a meeting of leaders and administrators from different parts of the newly expanded St. Patrick’s Province – Ireland & Britain. The task before us was to make progress towards a unified approach to elements of our Passionist life that previously would have had a slightly, or in some areas, more than slightly, different approach when we were two distinct provinces. This applied to areas such as mission, finance, media & communications, safeguarding, formation, and others. It was a very big agenda to get through, and we will be at this task for some time to come.

Miraculously, I had no problems on my travels. Flights departed and returned on time. Despite them being small, propellor type aircraft, and the weather being stormy, everything went smoothly. When I arrived at Belfast City Airport on Monday night, Father Antony was there to meet me. He had travelled by car from Minsteracres to take the Cairnryan-Belfast Ferry. He had planned his trip to fit in a visit to the brethren in Holy Cross, Ardoyne, and then on to collect me for the final stage of the journey. As a note of interest to St. Mungo’s people, on that same day, Father Terence McGuckin, much loved in St. Mungo’s in years past, left Holy Cross to take up residence at Mount Argus in Dublin, where he will be able to be better cared for, as he, like most of us, gets older and frailer. When I was first posted to St. Mungo’s, after ordination in 1983, it was to replace Father Terence as Vocations Director. At the beginning I had to struggle to be accepted, simply because of people’s sadness at seeing Father Terence go. In the end, however, people’s goodness and kindness, and their love for the Passionists in general, won them over – as well, of course, as my sparkling personality! Arriving at Crossgar, Father Antony’s classmate, Father Aidan, came down to open the gate for us and then, after a quick hello to those who had arrived earlier, we retired for the night, both of us being very tired.

In preparation for the meeting, our Provincial Secretary had put together a document outlining our personnel situation as we expect it to be at the end of 2023. It makes for sobering reading. If there are no deaths, which in itself seems unlikely, there would be 52 members of St. Patrick’s Province; 4 of whom would be over 90; 20 of whom would be over 80; 14 of whom would be over 70; 8 of whom would be over 60, and only 6 of whom would be under 60. We would also have 3 members on loan from other provinces, 2 from India and 1 from Africa, all of whom would be in their 40’s. Obviously, the stark realism of that has to be taken into account in moving forward. Still and all, we travel with faith and hope.

At the end of the meeting, I was brought to the airport for the journey home by Father Tom, the rector of Crossgar. Also in the car was Father Martin, one of our English brethren. I was fascinated to hear Father Martin speak of his current Passionist life as a leader in a community in North London, quite near to the Passionist church of St. Joseph’s in Highgate, which is part of the Catholic Worker Movement founded by Dorothy Day and Peter Maurin in 1933. Hospitality is one of the keystones of the Catholic Worker Movement and, at present, Father Martin lives with two other leaders, and nine guests, most of whom are asylum seekers. It’s a hard life, and I have great admiration for him in the selfless work that he does, which he easily and rightly connects with our Passionist spirituality as having a care for the crucified of today. I think it’s fair to say our province is now more diverse than ever before. Pray for us.

Father Frank’s Log will take a wee break now until after Easter. I hope you all have a very happy and blessed time.

As ever, protect yourself, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.

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father frank's log...

17/3/2023

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 19th – 26th MARCH 2023
This last week has been quite alarming. Let me explain. Last Wednesday night I went out for a stroll to take my mind off a certain football match. It was a bitterly cold night but very clear and there was a beautiful Lenten moon in the sky. I was well wrapped up and enjoying the walk immensely. About two miles out from home I received a phone call from Father Gareth, and, almost simultaneously, a text from one of the teachers in St. Mungo’s Primary who was leaving a meeting, both telling me that the intruder alarm was going off at the church. I had a brisk walk back to the house to collect the car, and drove into the church. Even as I approached, I could hear the alarm bell sounding. Thankfully, we don’t have any nearby neighbours to annoy at such times. The reason for the alarm going off was a bit of a mystery. I pressed the usual buttons and nothing happened. Then, however, it suddenly stopped. Whether it was anything I had done, or it just stopped sounding, I didn’t know, but it was lovely to hear the silence. The next day I tried to contact the alarm company for an engineer call-out, as there was clearly a fault. To cut a long story short, we seemed to be caught in the limbo of a takeover of our alarm company by a bigger company, and I kept running into a brick wall, as the takeover company were denying our existence. This persisted for a couple of days, but at least the alarm was still silent. Of course, all of this was happening while my trusted maintenance man was on holiday. Last Friday evening I arrived home, intending to take a little rest before our usual Friday night community meal. I was no sooner in the door, coat still on, when I received a phone call to tell me, once again, that the alarm was sounding. In I went once again, to follow the same procedure, pushing buttons forlornly until, for no apparent reason, the alarm went silent. It remained silent until the following Tuesday. I arrived back from a meeting in Clyde Street, and immediately became aware of the alarm sounding again. My maintenance man was back from his holiday, but, between the two of us, we couldn’t silence the alarm. With the bit between my teeth, I got back on to the alarm company until, perseveringly, our existence, and our maintenance contract, was acknowledged. An emergency call-out was logged and, within a couple of hours, an engineer arrived and resolved the problem. At times such as these that the disadvantage of living 5 miles away from the church becomes more acute, but still, we dream that we might resolve that someday too.

The devastating effects of Tropical Storm Freddy in Malawi these past days, brought to mind, for me, another alarming experience from some years back. I was vice-Provincial at the time, and I had to go out to Malawi, and to the capital, Blantyre, to attend the ordination of a young Passionist who would become a part of our St. Patrick’s Province overseas mission, at that time centred in Botswana, South Africa and Zambia (now part of a pan-African configuration of Passionists). I had to fly from Edinburgh to Heathrow; Heathrow to Nairobi, Nairobi to Blantyre. Unfortunately, the flight from Heathrow to Nairobi was delayed, and I missed the connection to Blantyre. There would be no flight now until the following morning, the day of the ordination. Those travelling on, just myself and a family of four, were to be put up in a hotel in Nairobi overnight, which involved a lot of paperwork, but, eventually, we got there. We had most of the day still to pass and I was invited by the family to join them on a visit to the Nairobi National Park, Giraffe Centre and Karen Blixen Museum, which wasn’t too far away. On the trip there I discovered that the mother of the family was the daughter of a former Celtic full back, whom I remembered well from my younger days. We had an enjoyable day together. I went to bed that night, very tired, and with a very early start to get to the airport. However, at 2 o’clock in the morning, I was awoken by the fire alarm going off. We all had to assemble outside the hotel until it was deemed a false alarm. After I got back into bed, I never slept a wink. I got the flight from Nairobi to Blantyre, via Addis Ababa, and arrived an hour or so before the ordination was due to begin. I managed to dumb my bag where I was staying and hailed a taxi to the church. I arrived too late, the Mass having just begun. It was an outdoor Mass in searing heat. I decided just to attend as part of the big congregation and found myself a sheltered spot in the shade. But then the bishop noticed me, and after much whispering on the sanctuary, I was invited up to join the concelebrants, but still in my civilian clothes. I felt a bit awkward, and also uncomfortable, as I was now sitting in an unshaded seat. Eventually, the very long ordination Mass was over, and I lived to tell the tale. I’m happy to say that the first Mass of the new priest, the following day, went much more smoothly.

As ever, protect yourself, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.

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March 11th, 2023

11/3/2023

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 12th – 19th MARCH

This week we heard of the death of Brother Francis, a Passionist who had spent much of his Passionist life in Sweden, but who died, aged 96, at Herne Bay, in Kent. The Passionists have been in Herne Bay since 1889, and there, we administer the parish of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart. Brother Francis becomes the first Passionist from the old St. Joseph’s Province of England and Wales, to die since St. Joseph’s became part of St. Patrick’s Province last year. By profession he was the oldest man in the revamped province. I have no memory of ever meeting him, but I do have a memory of being in Herne Bay to conduct an Advent Retreat in the parish back in the early 1990’s. Our Lady of the Sacred Heart was, at that time anyway, a very traditional parish, but they were lovely people and the retreat went well. My only memory of the town itself was of a whole line of beach huts along the seafront from where I half expected to see bathers emerging in Victorian swim suits, to go for a dip in the Thames estuary, like the Broons in the comic strip, when they used to head “doon the watter for the Fair”. Herne Bay is very near to Canterbury, and I remember the parish priest at the time bringing me on a visit to Canterbury Cathedral, which will always be inextricably linked to the murder of the Archbishop, Thomas Becket. That was back in 1170.

Staying with the old St. Joseph’s Province, we are at present saying farewell to a retreat house called St. Non’s, on the beautiful Pembrokeshire coast. St. Non was the mother of St. David, and the city of St. David is just a walk across the fields, via St. Non’s Well. At one time it was the only city in the UK without traffic lights, earning its city status because of the impressive cathedral which sits in a hollow. I have fond memories of going there too, firstly as a student, when myself and another student spent the summer painting and decorating the retreat house. We had been invited by the then rector, Father James, when he had passed through Mount Argus. The worked was hampered because Father James loved to talk, and he loved to cook (and eat), and every hour or so he would call us down from the ladders, having prepared a snack, and we would be ages trying to get the work started again as he regaled us with many stories. The experience was repeated a year or two later when he was then rector of the Passionist parish in Carmarthen, where they made a hard, Welsh cheddar cheese called Llamboidy. We have no Passionist houses in Wales any more – but at least we have Father Gareth to remind us of former times. I was reacquainted with Father James again many years later when he was rector at the Passionist monastery in Sutton, near St. Helens on Merseyside, where there is the Shrine of Blessed Dominic Barberi; the Venerable Father Ignatius Spencer, and the Venerable Mother Elizabeth Prout. I was based in Minsteracres at the time, and I had gone to help him out with the weekend Masses because one of the priests had taken ill. I remember us sitting watching the Edinburgh Military Tattoo on television. Suddenly, he disappeared upstairs and came back with his father’s war medals, and I had to listen to the story of each medal. He was a lovely character, but he could also be quite exhausting. I returned to St. Non’s when I was novice master for North Europe and I brought the novices there for a week’s holiday. The weather was beautiful and it was an idyllic time. At night we would put some food out on the porch and sit, very quiet and very still in the dark, in the kitchen, and wait for the badgers to come and take the food. Memories are made of this.

It's sad that diminishment has brought us to this point, but at the same time, for the Passionists on these islands, it’s like family reuniting again after many years apart. Diminishment is a reality in these times, certainly with regard to the church, and, here in St. Mungo’s, we are getting ready to play our part in the discernment required for the restructuring of the Archdiocese, which the archbishop has signalled now needs to be embraced with faith and courage going forward. Back at Bishopbriggs we are all well. This Friday is Father John’s birthday, the Feast of St. John Ogilvie, so he can choose the menu for our Friday night soiree.

As ever, protect yourself, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.

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father frank's log...

4/3/2023

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 5th – 12th MARCH

At the beginning of this week in St. Mungo’s, we celebrated the Feast of Saint Gabriel of Our Lady of Sorrows, the young Italian Passionist student who died in 1862, just two days short of his 24th birthday. He is one of the church’s patrons of youth, as well as being the patron of Passionists who are in the initial stages of formation. At present, in our own St. Patrick’s Province of Ireland and Britain, we have three young men in initial formation: our student Connor; our novice Cian, and our postulant Niall. All three are Irish. The statue of St. Gabriel in St. Mungo’s stands on the same side of the church as the shrine to Our Lady of Sorrows, to whom he had an extraordinary devotion. Until quite recently the place where every Passionist began his formation in St. Patrick’s Province was at St. Gabriel’s Retreat in Enniskillen. I started there myself in October 1975, after finishing accountancy studies, and giving up my job in Olivetti, and I was reminiscing on that during these past few days.

There were two of us joining from Scotland that year. We were collected at our family homes by Brother Brendan and brought down to the retreat house at Coodham in Ayrshire. From there we were driven via the Ardrossan- Belfast ferry down through the north west of Ireland, passing through places such as Augher, Clogher, and Fivemiletown, in South Tyrone, heading for County Fermanagh. There were no helpful motorways in those days, and so the journey took a long time. I remember seeing the rather imposing monastery from a distance as we drove the three miles out of Enniskillen, and then turning into the driveway to begin a new life. We were greeted by the Postulancy Director, Father Bernard, dressed in full habit and mantle. He looked a bit stern and I thought he was ancient, but in fact he was only 55. In truth he really was a bit stern, but he was also a very good and holy man. We were introduced to our other classmates, two from Belfast, one from County Clare, and the other from Nigeria. Initially, accents were a bit of a problem to communication, but we gradually overcame that.
I was shown to my room, in monastic terms my cell. It was very stark; a bare light bulb hung from the ceiling; there were no curtains, only shutters on the window; there was an old iron-framed bed with a mattress that had seen better days, more of a hammock really, with a sheet and a couple of threadbare blankets. There was a small desk and chair, and a wardrobe that needed a folded piece of cardboard to keep the door closed. There was a crucifix on the wall, and a portrait of St. Gemma Galgani. This was to be my new home for the next 12 months. I lay in bed on the first night wondering what I had done.

We followed a very strict Horarium, with almost every moment of the day being accounted for, from the time we rose for Morning Prayer, until the time we went to bed after Night Prayer. There were fixed times for class and study, and a variety of chores, both inside and outside of the retreat to keep us occupied. Being a city boy, garden work and planting trees was not my strong suit, but I had to learn. There was also a farm attached to the retreat, and on occasion we would be asked to assist with things like bringing in the hay, which was also new to me, and back-breaking, as I quickly discovered.
On a Thursday we would go out to visit a number of housebound people, and people in nursing homes, which necessitated me learning to ride a bike. I was 24 years of age and had never ridden a bike beyond the 3-wheeler we shared as kids. The people living in proximity to the monastery had great fun watching my initial efforts, crashing and remounting, crashing and remounting, but eventually I mastered it, which was rather essential as, when I would move on to Dublin to begin studies the following year, that would be the required mode of transport for getting to university.

We had a few hours off on a Saturday afternoon, when we could walk into town and potter around Enniskillen. I was asked to take on a children’s choir for Sunday Mass and, arising from that, I was also asked to take catechetics classes for sacramental preparation for catholic children who were attending a non-denominational school. Father Bernard was also into Charismatic Renewal at the time. We had a big meeting in the retreat on a Thursday night at which I would play guitar, and he would also as me to bring the guitar to other meetings in outlying country areas. Those were nice diversions from the usual fixed routine. On the Feast of St. Gabriel, we were treated to a day out in Bundoran, accompanied by our director, which we all enjoyed, although February was a bit too cold for the beach. We had an hour’s recreation in the evening but were only allowed to watch the news on TV, and Match of the Day on a Saturday night. All in all, it was a quiet, simple, prayerful life, but also a very blessed time that I will always remember and be grateful for. It’s all very different now.

As ever, protect yourself, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.

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father frank's log...

father frank's log...

March 11th, 2023

father frank's log...

FATHER FRANK KEEVINS C.P.

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