PassionistsGlasgow
  • Welcome To Saint Mungo's
  • Parish Newsletter
  • Parish Office / Visiting Saint Mungo's
  • Passionists Young Team
  • Universalis Mass Readings for Today
  • Website Links
  • St.Paul of the Cross
  • St. Paul of the Cross for Children
  • St.Charles of Mount Argus
  • St Mungo Patron Saint of Glasgow
  • St. Mungo's Parish
  • Photo Album
  • Safeguarding (Updated Oct 2022)
  • Archdiocese Privacy Notice
  • Father Franks Log
  • Fr Thomas Berry CP and the Environment
  • Synodal Path
  • Welcome To Saint Mungo's
  • Parish Newsletter
  • Parish Office / Visiting Saint Mungo's
  • Passionists Young Team
  • Universalis Mass Readings for Today
  • Website Links
  • St.Paul of the Cross
  • St. Paul of the Cross for Children
  • St.Charles of Mount Argus
  • St Mungo Patron Saint of Glasgow
  • St. Mungo's Parish
  • 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...

28/5/2021

2 Comments

 
FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 23rd – 30th MAY
​

Normally, I sit down to write my log on a Thursday, and today, Thursday 27th May, happens to be the 20th anniversary of my mum’s death. I was based in Dublin at the time, and that date happened to be, in Ireland, the Solemnity of the Ascension. So, needless to say, I have come to associate the Lord’s Ascension into heaven with my mum’s death ever since; the end of one kind of presence, and the beginning of a new kind of presence. My mum was cremated, as she was claustrophobic. That went back to her younger days when she was on the subway, and the subway got stuck in a tunnel for some hours, and, ever after, she couldn’t abide being in enclosed spaces. One consequence of that was that she would never go on the subway again. My father was from Govan and so, whenever we would go to visit his family, we had to take the Govan Ferry from Partick, and I have many memories of dashing down the Ferry Road as a family, and just managing to jump on the ferry before it set off on its short journey across the River Clyde, from north to south, and then, later that night, back again from south to north. She also wouldn’t go on a lift, and when her mother, my granny, was moved from her Partick tenement to the 18th floor of a high-rise flat on Lincoln Avenue in Knightswood, my mum would climb the 18 flights of stairs, have a wee blether, do a bit of housework, then descend back down again, go and do her mother’s shopping, then carry the shopping back up the 18 flights of stairs a second time. Thankfully my granny was soon moved back to Partick.
 
Like many of her generation, my mum was a hard worker. She had to be, especially after my father died and left her with 3 bairns to raise. She worked about 4 jobs, both day and night. She did school cleaning in the early morning, then cleaned wealthy people’s houses during the day, and at night she was a barmaid at the Downhill Bar in Partick. She was legendary among the regular clientele. I can vouch for how hard the work was as, in my earlier years as a Passionist student, when we had longer holidays in the summer, she got me a job in the bar to earn a few shillings and, between the setting up, the constant pulling pints, opening bottles, pouring wee hawfs from the optics, and then the cleaning up afterwards, I always went home totally exhausted. How she did that, day in, day out, year in, year out, I’ll never know; but she loved it, and it left a big gap in her life when she retired. When she could, she loved a game of Bingo. She would go with her sister, or a friend. If she won a line, she would come home bearing fish and chips, but mostly she was always “just waiting on wan” for the big prize.
 
She was very small, a good bit under five feet, and I think I’ve mentioned before that I was 11½ pounds at birth, which she said nearly killed her. When I think of my time in the womb, I often think it should have been me that was claustrophobic and not her, as it must have been very cramped in there. She was a constant worrier, and I take a bit of that from her too. She could never go to sleep at night without knowing that we were all safely home, which was understandable as our teenage years coincided with the gangland era in Glasgow. By this stage we had moved from Partick to Drumchapel, which had a plethora of gangs, but I always found the thought of facing my mum when I came home later than I was meant to, far more terrifying than facing the Fleet, the Tongs, or whoever. Drumchapel never had the help of Frankie Vaughan, as Easterhouse did, but there was an ex-boxer called Peter Keenan who did a lot for us. My mum also worried when joining the Passionists meant that I started out in the North of Ireland, in Enniskillen, at the height of the troubles; and again, years later, when I went out to do a stint in South Africa when things were very volatile there too. Looking back, I regret having been the cause of so much worry, but that was the way she was. She worried about my older brother too, the doyen of Scottish Sports journalism, when he was getting a rough time from callers on Super Scoreboard. She had no interest in football, but she liked to listen to her son on the radio. Her favourite, though, was our younger brother, and rightly so. He looked after her so well in later life, and now I look after him a bit, with no regrets. So, on that note, look after yourselves, loved ones, and others, and look after Christ in your lives.

2 Comments

father frank's log...

22/5/2021

0 Comments

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

I once heard a novelist describing the creative writing process as staring at a blank piece of paper until your forehead bleeds and then committing words to the page. That’s how it feels sometimes when I sit down on a Thursday to try and write this log, although sometimes the words can flow quite readily. I sometimes wonder what it was like for the sacred writers of the scriptures to compose under the influence of the Holy Spirit. I also reflect on the example of St. Paul of the Cross, the founder of the Passionists. Paul received the Passionist habit in a vision of Our Lady. After he was clothed in that habit, he began a forty-day retreat, during which he fasted and prayed continuously, and prepared himself to write the first rule of the new religious order he hoped to found. He spent long hours in prayer in front of the Blessed Sacrament, and had a vision of different founders of religious orders before him, instructing him, and praying for him. In the light of all this, it took only five days for Paul to complete his rule because he said, "When I was writing, I wrote as quickly as if someone were dictating to me; I felt the words coming from my heart!" All of this preamble is just to say that I’m struggling to think what to write about this week, and the Holy Spirit and the saints seem to be on holiday, because I am not experiencing any great inspiration. It was Thomas Edison who famously said that “genius is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration”. Not that, even for a single moment, I would describe these logs as the work of a genius, more likely they are the work of a fool, but hopefully a fool for Christ. But, whether genius or foolishness, it seems neither inspiration, nor perspiration, seems to be working this week.
 
It can be the same, of course, when trying to write a homily, a retreat talk, or even a mission sermon. When I was first ordained, I was appointed Vocations Director for the Passionsts in Scotland, but I was also installed as part of a mission and retreat team, along with Father Paul Francis and Father John Mary. Being newly ordained, every homily, talk, or sermon, had to be written from scratch as I had no back catalogue to draw on. In those days I wrote out every word in longhand. It would be a long time before I would change that, despite the emergence of word processors and computers that would simplify the task significantly. I always tried to root my thoughts, as our founder did in writing the rule, in a process of prayer and, it felt to me, there was a greater connection between my mind, my heart, my soul, and my words on the page, when I held a pen over paper, even if there were many forehead bleeding moments before the words tumbled on to the page. Experienced missioners would always say that a sermon needs to be preached, and then reworked, at least seven times, before it would reach fruition, and I came to know the wisdom of that in the passing of the years.
 
After a time, I gave way to more mechanical means, and I imagine that if I wrote anything in longhand these days, I wouldn’t be able to read it, so much of a scrawl has my handwriting become. Also, as well as a process of prayer, I have adapted a new method of preparation. Nowadays, it’s mainly homilies I am preparing, as It’s a long time since I last preached a mission. I think the last parish mission I preached was in Buncrana, in County Donegal, about 20 years ago, with Father Augustine and Father Charlie Cross. I also preached a number of Triduums of Hope around Ireland, after the Canonization of Saint Charles of Mount Argus, and a few Novenas, both in Ireland and Scotland, but nothing of that nature for some years. In preparing homilies now, I have found myself being drawn to one of my favourite psalms, Psalm 62, and to the words in that psalm, “on my bed I remember you, on you I muse through the night”. After reading the texts, and gathering initial thoughts, I now ponder on my pillow, and fall asleep, hoping that in the course of the night, the Holy Spirit will inspire, and I will awaken in the morning with the homily having taken shape. Usually, it takes shape in a very different way to what I imagined when going to bed, so, hopefully, the Holy Spirit gets more of a say in it than I do. Anyway, I’m sorry I’ve nothing to write about this week. However, as always, protect yourselves, protect your loved ones, and protect Christ in your lives.

0 Comments

father frank's log...

15/5/2021

1 Comment

 
FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 9th – 16th MAY
​

One of the hardest things to get used to during this past year of lockdown and restrictions, has been the ban on congregational singing. It seems a natural thing to want to sing when you hear a familiar hymn, and I’ve not felt comfortable saying to people at a funeral, or at a Mass where were having a bit of singing from a cantor, to please not sing. The latest instruction from Government is that from next Monday more than one person may be permitted to sing at religious services, but as yet, we do not yet have any detail about what that might involve, or what precautions might still be needed. But congregational singing is not allowed, as the Government has said it’s too soon; although, I think sneaky singing happens beneath masks.
 
From when I was young, I have always loved singing. I think I take it from my mother’s side of the family. I have no memory of my father singing, although he died when we were young, but I do know that my mother was a lovely singer and often appeared on the programme of concerts at the Partick Burgh Hall, which were put on by my grand-uncle Tony, who was a bit of an impresario. My mother had two sisters, no brothers. Her older sister had a daughter who became a reasonably well- known jazz singer. Her younger sister had a son who was an excellent guitarist and singer, and played with a popular pop group on the dance hall circuit. I, myself, was more into contemporary and traditional folk music, and played with a couple of groups that worked the folk club circuit in the late 1960’s and early 1970’s. Although I was also the double bass player, of very limited talent, it was really the singing I loved most.
When I got involved with the Passionists at our Retreat House at Coodham in Ayrshire, long since closed, I became heavily involved in the music for the liturgy. It was an experimental time in the wake of Vatican II, and some of the new music wasn’t great, but some of it was, and has stood the test of time. I was, by then, a reasonably competent guitarist, and when I joined the Passionists in 1975, I was asked to put together a folk group to sing at Masses at the Graan in Enniskillen. When I moved on to Mount Argus in Dublin, I was asked to do the same. I also became involved with Charismatic Renewal for a few years, playing guitar, and leading the singing, at prayer groups all over Ireland. When I later returned to Mount Argus as parish priest and rector, 20 years ago this year, I found myself getting involved with the folk group again, still containing a remnant of the group I had started 25 years previously.
 
I’m no purist when it comes to music, even liturgical music. I appreciate beautiful music, but I also believe that everyone has a right to raise their voice to God in song and that, much more important than the sound that comes out of the mouth, is the praise that comes out of the heart, and I much prefer to hear a congregation singing their hearts out, than sitting back like an audience at a concert to just listen. Of course, there are reflective moments when it is appropriate to just sit and listen, and let the music take you deeper, but not all the time, and I have a feeling that God would appreciate the heartfelt efforts of even the most discordant voices, if they were genuine and sincere.  So, here's hoping that congregational singing will return very soon, and we can all pray twice by singing.
 
I think where I am missing the singing, Father Gareth is missing the hugging. It was always a feature of post-Mass greetings in St. Mungo’s to see Father Gareth extending a huge hug of friendship to all and sundry. He is so big that he could wrap his arms around four people at one time. Sadly, for him, that while the news has been making much of the ability to hug each other again, or at least shake hands, from next Monday also, this only applies in private dwellings, or in gardens between close family and friends. It doesn’t mean that we can begin to shake hands at the sign of peace, or give big hugs as people enter or leave the church. So, we will need to wait a bit longer for that as well. Father Anthony is well, having just had his first Covid jab; and Father Justinian is now the oldest man in our Province at age 90. So, as ever, protect yourselves, protect your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.

1 Comment

father frank's log...

8/5/2021

0 Comments

 
FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 2nd – 9th MAY

Last Sunday I contacted our web manager Paul, and asked him to delay opening the bookings process for next weekend’s Masses until later that night, or else until the following morning. The reason was that I was one of the 13 million or so people in the nation gripped by Series Six of Line of Duty, having ardently watched Series One to Five, and indeed having watched Series Five a second time in preparation for Series Six. That night was to be the final episode, perhaps the last episode ever, and it was expected that the identity of a mysterious character, who had featured in the background since the beginning, was going to be revealed at last, as well as lots of other loose ends being tied up, and issues clouded in doubt being clarified. As it turned out, I was also one of 13 million or so people left a little underwhelmed at the end, still not convinced that the character revealed was truly the famous “H” or 4th man, as he, or perhaps even she, was frequently alluded to, and still not sure whether this was truly the final series ever, or if there might yet be a Series Seven. I was surprised to find the main character in Line of Duty, played by Adrian Dunbar, appearing on the cover of The Tablet, the Catholic weekly publication. Inside was an article alluding to his frequent references to Jesus, Mary and Joseph, even including “the wee donkey” at one point, or to the Holy Mother of God, which always came across, not as careless uses of holy names, but as genuine prayers and pleas and ferverinos coming from a place of faith. Adrian Dunbar himself, as one of seven siblings, says that he took these from his father growing up, and that they just came naturally to him in the course of the drama, and that he was encouraged to include them whenever he felt it appropriate to the scene. They became one of those moments you listened out for.
 
My mind went back to two other drama series that gripped the nation in years gone by. The first was The Fugitive which ran from 1963-67. The big mystery, of who was the murderer, was broadcast on the same night Celtic played Vojvodina in the quarter final of the European Cup, the year that Celtic went on to become the first British club to win the competition. As a family at home, we had followed the drama ardently for four years but, on that final night, myself and my older brother, the doyen of Scottish sports journalism, at that time aged 12 and 14 respectively, were two of the spectators in a 75,000 crowd at Celtic Park. What a night it was but, one the things I remember as we were getting our two buses home to Drumchapel at the end of the game, was that, as well as people on the bus asking supporters the score, the supporters were also asking the other passengers if it was the one-armed man, a shadowy character who was always somewhere in the background as having been seen running away from the house on the night of the murder in The Fugitive. It turned out it wasn’t him.
 
The final drama that comes to mind wasn’t one that I was particularly interested in myself, but it really gripped one of my colleagues when I was a Passionist student at Mount Argus in Dublin. The year was 1980, the series was Dallas, and the big question was, who shot JR? At that time Dallas was broadcast on a Saturday night, just before Match of the Day. As the bulk of the student body assembled in the Recreation for the football, this particular colleague would be seated at the front, glued to the screen, and God help any of us who even whispered until Dallas was finished. He was totally consumed by it. I couldn’t even tell you, at this stage, who shot JR, as I never, ever watched it, but I will never forget the rule of terror we were under, not to make a sound when it was on. I exaggerate of course – but only a little.
 
As I write, today is election day in Scotland. I haven’t voted yet, but I will do so tonight on my way back from my younger brother’s house. I will vote as a matter of principle, but I am still at a loss as to who to vote for. Now that politicians can no longer vote according to their conscience, but have to toe the party line, I feel at times a little disenfranchised in terms of voting for someone whom I feel holds good and true values, and will uphold them bravely.

As ever, protect yourselves, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives
0 Comments
    Picture

    FATHER FRANK KEEVINS C.P.

    Archives

    January 2023
    December 2022
    November 2022
    October 2022
    September 2022
    August 2022
    July 2022
    June 2022
    May 2022
    April 2022
    March 2022
    February 2022
    January 2022
    December 2021
    November 2021
    October 2021
    September 2021
    August 2021
    July 2021
    June 2021
    May 2021
    April 2021
    March 2021
    February 2021
    January 2021
    December 2020
    November 2020
    October 2020
    September 2020
    August 2020
    July 2020
    June 2020
    May 2020
    April 2020
    March 2020
    February 2020
    January 2020
    December 2019
    November 2019
    October 2019
    September 2019
    June 2019
    May 2019
    April 2019
    March 2019
    February 2019
    January 2019
    December 2018
    November 2018
    October 2018
    September 2018
    July 2018
    June 2018
    May 2018
    April 2018
    March 2018
    February 2018
    January 2018
    December 2017
    November 2017
    October 2017
    September 2017
    August 2017
    July 2017
    June 2017
    May 2017
    April 2017
    March 2017
    February 2017
    January 2017
    December 2016
    November 2016
    October 2016

    Categories

    All

    RSS Feed