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father frank's log...

29/5/2025

FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 1st – 8th JUNE 2025

Last Monday, all four members of our Passionist community here in Glasgow set off for an assembly in Crossgar, Northern Ireland, as the final part of our preparations for our Passionist Provincial Chapter, which will take place from 16th-20th June in Larne. Father Gareth was the designated driver, and so, after the 10 o’clock Masses in both St Mungo’s and St Roch’s, we all piled into his 2012 Renault Clio to make our way to Cairnryan for the Stena Line ferry to Belfast. Claiming privilege of seniority and age, I claimed the front seat beside Father Gareth. As is our practice, we had left in plenty of time, just in case there were any delays en route. As is also our practice, if we were making good time, we stopped off in Girvan for a bit of lunch. We arrived at Cairnryan without any hitches. Being a bank holiday Monday, we could see that the ferry was going to be busy. When we were put into lane 11, I knew immediately that when we boarded, we would be directed down to deck one, into the very bowels of the boat, like Jonah in the belly of the whale. It’s a horrible place to be, with a very steep ramp to negotiate down and back up again. Climbing from there to deck 8, I found a corner seat, read my book, looked over some notes for the meeting, and then had a wee snooze. Before I knew it, we were in Belfast and, after coming out of the belly of the whale, on our road to Crossgar.

Monday night was more of a meeting up, catching up, socialising kind of night, with guys whom I hadn’t seen in quite a while. It was very pleasant. Tuesday was a serious work day but, all in all, it went well, carried out in a good spirit, and now we have to wait and see what the Chapter and its aftermath will bring. The journey home was without hitch as well. The ferry was quieter, and we were directed to park on deck 5, next to a couple of livestock trucks, one bringing chickens, and the other bringing sheep, to meet their final end. I know that the late Pope Francis said that we should get the smell of the sheep, which we certainly did, but I don’t think this is quite what he meant. Chicken and lamb is now off the menu.

We arrived back to Bishopbriggs about half an hour after midnight. My mind was still very active and so I read until around 1.30 a.m. before putting my head on the pillow to try to sleep, not very successfully. The next day I went off to collect some of the family, and together we went to St Kentigern’s Cemetery to bury Patrick’s ashes, and then to go off and have a bit of lunch together. As mentioned last week, Patrick was buried beside our mother and father. Our mother, to whom Patrick was incredibly close, had died on the Solemnity of the Ascension in 2001, and as this was the eve of the Ascension, I felt there was a certain serendipity about that. When I say that our mother died on the Solemnity of the Ascension, that was because I was based in Ireland at the time, where the Ascension had been moved to the nearest Sunday. While I see the reasoning behind moving Holydays of Obligation to the nearest Sunday, the two that I feel shouldn’t be touched are the Ascension and the Epiphany. The Ascension should certainly be a Thursday – 40 days after Easter; and the Epiphany should certainly be the 6th of January – 12 days after Christmas. The rest I can live with.

Of course, that brought to mind another Solemnity that was once always celebrated on a Thursday but has now been moved to the nearest Sunday, and that is Corpus Christi. Many of us will remember the Solemnity of Corpus Christi on 25th May 1967, with Celtic preparing to play in the European Cup Final in Lisbon, and many of the team going to Mass for the Holy Day in the morning, then later defeating Inter Milan 2-1 in the final. Perhaps, for that reason alone, Corpus Christi should have remained on a Thursday. Inter Milan are once again in the final this weekend, but sadly it’s against Paris Saint-Germain. May the best team win.

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

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fr frank's log...

24/5/2025

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 25th MAY – 1st JUNE 2025

One day, during Holy Week, I decided to go out for a walk from St Mungo’s, just to get a breath of fresh air, and to clear my head, which was over-occupied with so many things. I didn’t want to go too far, and I didn’t want to be out for too long, so I just headed over to the Necropolis, the famous cemetery beside St Mungo’s Cathedral. I can never go there without thinking of the old lady who was in the Royal Infirmary, who said to the late Father Anthony Behan CP, that she found great consolation in looking out at the statue of the Sacred Heart, rising up out of the Necropolis. Father Anthony didn’t have the heart to tell her that it was, in fact, a statue of John Knox she was looking at, and perhaps even praying to. Interestingly, the Necropolis was modelled on the Père-Lachaise cemetery in Paris, which hosts the graves of Jim Morrison, Oscar Wilde, Frederic Chopin, Edith Piaf, and other famous celebrities. By far the most visited grave in Père-Lachaise is that of Jim Morrison, lead singer and songwriter with the Doors in the 1960’s, and who died tragically, aged just 27, in 1971. I was never a big fan, his voice was a bit depressing, but he has become an enormous cult figure since. Apart from a few industrialists, politicians and the like, including the founder of Tennents brewery, I’m not aware of anyone particularly famous being buried in the Necropolis, not even John Knox. His statue, dominating the hillside, predates the Necropolis, erected when it was still parkland, 200 years ago this year, in 1825. He is buried at St Giles Cathedral in Edinburgh.

I hadn’t been to the Necropolis (which means the city of the dead) in ages but, in times past, when I have gone over, I have tended to pass through the main gates, cross over the Bridge of Sighs, then turn left, and take the downward path towards the Jewish enclosure. The very first burial in the Necropolis, which was always intended as a non-denominational cemetery, was a Jewish jeweller called Joseph Levi, and people of all faiths, including Catholics, were buried there throughout the years. On this occasion, for whatever subliminal reason, I crossed the bridge and turned right. As I followed the path, I came across what I can only describe as a small meadow, with two gorgeous cherry blossom trees looming over it. The meadow was arrayed with beautifully coloured wild flowers. When I got closer, I noticed a small plaque, and I discovered that this was in fact a memorial garden, still in construction, to over 8,000 people who were buried in that vicinity in the earlier part of the 19th century. They were buried in common ground, and in unmarked graves, prior to the time, later in the century, when family graves and plots became the more normal thing. At some point, when the garden is completed, a stone marker will be placed at the site, with the exact number of people buried there engraved on it. I found this very poignant, and much in contrast with the famous figures in Père-Lachaise cemetery. How important that the unremembered are remembered.

At the moment I am still in the process of getting the gravestone inscribed for the late Father Justinian at our Passionist plot in St Kentigern’s. Next week, I will also be burying the ashes of my dear brother Patrick, and making arrangements for his name to be inscribed on the gravestone alongside my father, Frank, who died in 1960, and my mother, Alice, who died in 2001. This will also be in St Kentigern’s, not far from our Passionist plot. I regularly visit these graves when I am conducting a burial or a cremation in St Kentigern’s or in Lambhill. In faith we know that our loved ones are not in these graves, and that, with the help of our prayers, their souls are speeding to heaven, as the hymn says, but still, there is a value in marking their graves, and visiting their graves, just as there is a value in creating a beautiful memorial garden for those who might otherwise be forgotten, and lost in the mists of time. Sometime soon, I must head over to the Necropolis again and see how the garden is progressing, and if the stone marker has yet been erected. I might even say a prayer to the Sacred Heart, a.k.a. John Knox, while I’m there. May our deceased loved ones rest in peace.

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

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father frank's log...

18/5/2025

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 18th – 25th MAY 2025

In these days we are enjoying some beautiful weather, however long it may last. Having said that, I know I have to avoid being out in the sun as much as is possible and, if I am out in the sun, I have to ensure that I have just about every part of my body covered, and the factor 50+ sun protection cream on, the one for babies. Over the years, I have been very slow and foolish to learn how prone I am to burning, but now I know that the slightest glimpse of the sun will likely have me reddening like a tomato, and my skin flaking and peeling like hoar frost. It’s not that I am, or ever have been, a sun worshiper. I have never been attracted to a holiday lying on a beach trying to get a tan, my troubles have come mainly from just walking in the sun, or sitting reading a book, while not adequately covering the necessary body parts.

My first bad burning was as a teenager on my first trip abroad. In 1969, our curate in St Laurence’s in Drumchapel took a group of 7 lads in a minibus to France, eventually ending up in Lourdes for a 3-day pilgrimage. We then drove over the Pyrenees into Spain, intending to enjoy a week’s holiday in Lloret-De-Mar. On the first day, after pitching our rather scruffy looking tents, compared to some of the luxury tents of others in the campsite, we headed down to the beach. I remember that it wasn’t even a particularly sunny day, but rather cool and cloudy. However, behind the clouds, the sun was lurking with evil intent. That night, I couldn’t settle to sleeping in the tent, because my shoulders were irritating me. I ended up sitting upright in the minibus all night. When morning came, I had, on each shoulder, blisters the size of tennis balls. For three days I was unable to put a shirt on my back and couldn’t go out, except in the cool of the evening, and even then, only very short distances. Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy, sang John Denver, but not me. My saviours came in the form of a group of Irish nurses who arrived and took great pity on me. One of them burst the blisters, and slathered vinegar on my back. I nearly screamed with pain but, lo-and-behold, the next morning I was cured, and was able to enjoy myself for the last couple of days.

You would think I would have learned a lesson, but no. In 1973, I was holidaying on the Isle of Barra with a group of friends whom I had got to know through the Passionist Retreat Centre at Coodham in Ayrshire, now closed for many years. The weather was scorching. When my friends took some time to lie on one of the many beautiful, and mostly deserted beaches on the island, I went walking. There is a road, 14 miles long, that encircles the island, and I walked it all. However, I hadn’t covered my head, and I ended up with quite severe sunstroke. The husband of the lady who ran the guesthouse in Castlebay, where we were staying, was the lobster dealer for the island, and we often had lobster for lunch cooked in a variety of different ways, but my friends joked that no lobster was ever nearly as red as me.

I joined the Passionists in 1975, and in the summer of 1976, at the Graan Monastery in Enniskillen, my class of postulants was asked to help bring in the hay, not something a city boy like myself was used to. Again, it was a scorching summer, and again, I got sunstroke. Fast forward to 1989, I was on holiday with some classmates on Achill Island in County Mayo, and again it was scorching. We went to Keem Bay, home at that time to basking sharks and seals. After a dip in the sea, I sat in a shady cove reading a book. Every part of me was covered, except my feet, and this, I think, produced the most painful burning of all. My feet blew up like balloons. At the end of the week’s holiday, I was travelling home to Glasgow, and I had to wear flip-flops on the plane. I spent two weeks in Drumchapel in lock-down with my feet up, and my nursing cousin coming to tend to me daily. After that, I really did learn my lesson. I now have a selection of hats that I wear for protection, whenever the sun appears, and I ensure the rest of me is covered, from head to toe, as well. Never again!

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

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father frank's log...

8/5/2025

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 11th–18th MAY 2025

As I write this week’s log, election fever is in the air. Last night, on the Vatican News website, I gazed at the chimney pot in St Peter’s Square, seagull and all, waiting for smoke of one kind or another, as the cardinal electors met in the Sistine Chapel to elect the successor of St Peter as our new pope. The expectation had been that the first smoke would appear at around 6pm our time, but in fact, as I’m sure you know, there was no smoke until just after 8pm, by which time I was watching the start of the Arsenal v PSG game on TNT Sport. As expected, the smoke was black, but by the time you actually read this, I would imagine there will have been white smoke and we will be praying for our new pontiff.

A few days earlier I received in the post some papers from the preparatory team who are working towards our Passionist Provincial Chapter in June. These papers were an invitation to engage in a straw vote as to who might be our first three choices for our new Provincial. Our current Provincial is nearing the end of his second 4-year term and can’t be elected again, except in extraordinary circumstances, so there should definitely be someone new, or perhaps someone old recycled. The straw vote has no authority, it is simply meant to provide an indication as to what names are in the running, which is pretty much what was happening in the first vote in the Sistine Chapel yesterday. It struck me forcibly that, when you take out the names of those who might be considered too old or too infirm to reasonably elect, we are left with very few choices, such has been the diminishment in our Province in recent years, despite a few ordinations. While this has been happening over a period of time, it now seems to be upon is in a very stark way, and it is difficult to predict the outcome. When the Holy Spirit has completed the task in Rome, that same Spirit will be very much required at the Drumalis Retreat Centre in Larne, where our Chapter will take place from 16-20 June.

There will of course be many important issues to discuss at the Chapter, around mission and ministries, houses and locations, community life, the wider Passionist Family (e.g. Lay Associates, Partners and Companions), care for our aged and infirm brethren, finances, and the like. However, human nature being what it is, election fever will be in the air, usually around the third day of the Chapter when, not only will we elect a new Provincial, but also four consultors to be part of our new Provincial Council, and this team will hopefully guide us through the next four years. A few times I have been elected on to the Provincial Council, but only once did I come close to being elected Provincial. At that Chapter it became a two-horse race and I can’t begin to tell you the relief I felt when, on the fifth ballot, the other person was elected. As it transpired, the Holy Spirit had worked well, and it proved to be exactly the right choice to embrace the challenges of the ensuing years.
I have always been fascinated by the notion of the Room of Tears, that small antechamber within the Sistine Chapel where the newly elected pope changes into his white, papal cassock for the first time. The title of that room expresses so much and, I would imagine, in these difficult challenging times, for the church and for the world, that anyone elected as a pope, a bishop, a Provincial, or to any similar kind of leadership, would resonate with entering a room of tears on assuming office. Anyone who really wants the role might not be the best person to elect. Those who accept humbly are so much in need of our gratitude and prayers.

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

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father frank's log...

1/5/2025

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 5th – 11th MAY 2025

As I write this week’s log, I am conscious that, by the time the next log comes along, we may well have a new pope. The last two conclaves only took two days before there was white smoke, and so, with the conclave beginning next Wednesday, there may be a habemus papam announcement by Friday or Saturday. I mentioned last week that this would be the eighth pope of my lifetime, although it will only be my seventh election, as Pius XII was already 12 years into his pontificate when I was born. I was 7 years of age when Pope John XXIII was elected, although, young as I was, I still remember it well.

The election I remember best though, took place on 26th August 1978. I was a student with the Passionists at the time, but I was at home in Glasgow for my summer holidays. We were encouraged to work during our holidays and so, that summer, I worked Monday to Friday in a project run by a group called Community Industry, helping to supervise young men from a List D school who were doing some painting for the Good Shepherd Convent in Bishopton. The most memorable experience came when one of the lads disappeared with the convent dog and I had to do a tour of Ferguslie Park in Paisley to try and find both of them, which I did. By night I was engaged as a barman at the Downhill Bar in Partick, where my mother worked for many years, pulling pints and pouring shorts. There were no fancy cocktails to worry about in those days, but it was hard work. At closing time, after clean up, we would get the number 9 bus back to Drumchapel together, stopping to pick up pokes of chips to share with Patrick when we got home. Hugh was married with two children by this time.

However, on Saturday 26th August, I had the day off, and Father Michael Doogan, rector and parish priest of St Mungo’s at that time, suggested to myself, and another student who was home at that time, that we take a drive down to Windermere, in the Lake District, for the day. We headed off in the early morning. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and we enjoyed a nice drive, lovely walks, a sail out on the lake, a good lunch, and lots of ice-cream cones, before heading back to Glasgow again. We hadn’t been listening to the news at all during the day, and there was no radio in the car. However, when we got near to St Mungo’s, around 10 o’clock at night, we heard a newsvendor announcing the next morning’s Sunday Mail for sale. I used to love getting this for the football pages, but this was during the close season. Still, I got out of the car to buy one anyway, and was immediately struck by the face of a man on the front page, underneath the caption, the Smiling Pope. Yes, this was the day of the election of Pope John Paul I, the first pope to take two names, after the previous two popes, John XXIII and Paul VI, both of whom had been a big influence on his life.

The very look of this smiling pope seemed to offer hope of a new era, but little did we know that, 33 days later, he would be dead, and his short pontificate would be over, yet still he made his mark. It was a nice touch of his successor, the goalie and philosopher from Poland, to honour him by taking the name John Paul II, who would hold the office, not for 33 days, but for 27 years. His influence on the church, and on the world, was quite remarkable, but still we might wonder what might have been if the smiling pope had lived longer.

Let’s pray fervently this week that the Holy Spirit will guide the cardinal electors to choose the right shepherd to guide us through these turbulent times and, once again, God rest Pope Francis, and thank you so much, for all you were, and for all you did.

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

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father frank's log...

fr frank's log...

father frank's log...

father frank's log...

father frank's log...

FATHER FRANK KEEVINS C.P.

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