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FATHER FRANK's LOG...

26/6/2021

FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 20th – 27th JUNE

There’s no getting away from it, I’m 70 years old today, and while I know it’s only a number, and that you are only as old as you feel, which some days is 50, and other days is 90, still and all, 70 seems quite significant. When Psalm 90 says that our normal span of years is 70, and 80 for those who are strong, I take comfort in the knowledge that, while this is written in Holy Scripture, it was written in a different time, and that perhaps in our time, 80 is the new 70, and 90 is the new 80 – just ask Father Justinian!

Tonight, I will go out for a meal with my brother and his wife, and my two nieces. Of those, my brother and his wife will be 50 years married in August; my youngest niece just turned 40 recently; and my other niece’s daughter will be 21 next Thursday, so there will be plenty of significant landmarks to celebrate, and lots to catch up on. Of course, my older brother and myself, if left to it, would probably want to talk football most of the night, but none of the three ladies has been known to be stuck for words, so I think that, apart from family matters, and given the interests and occupations of those involved; politics; education and the NHS will feature heavily in the conversation. It’s a long time since we actually had a family meal out together in a restaurant. Usually, we gather in one of the niece’s houses to celebrate our family occasions but, as there is usually a fair amount of chaos with grandchildren present, someone has decided this time that it would be good to have a better chance to chat, and so, my niece’s husbands have kindly undertaken to mind the bairns and leave it to us.

Having not been near a restaurant for a long time, certainly since lockdown began, I will now be going out two nights in a row as, tomorrow night, our Passionist community foursome in Bishopbriggs will head out to a local restaurant and have a meal together, so I am looking forward to that as well. Usually, on a Friday night, we make sure we are all there anyway, and have fish and chips together, or else we bring in Chinese or Indian food, but, given the occasion, we thought it would be nice to go out, especially as we weren’t able to do it for Fr. Justinian’s 90th as the restaurants hadn’t opened up yet, so it will be a double celebration.

I’m not really one who likes going out to restaurants too often, I prefer it to feel like a special occasion, and so, every now and again suits me better, and when I do go out, I really enjoy it. Growing up in Partick in the 50’s and 60’s of course, restaurants were only for people who could afford it, and the nearest we ever got was when, on a rare occasion, our mother would take us to the University Café on Byres Road for a high fish tea, which essentially was fish and chips, with bread and butter and a cup of tea. We thought this was fantastic, and, when I think back on it, it was fantastic. On my occasional jaunts to Partick, I notice with nostalgia that the University Café is still there, but whether they still do high fish teas or not, I’m not so sure. However, they also used to sell lovely ice-cream, and I’m sure they still do that.

My first encounter with a proper restaurant was probably in my late teens and early twenties. I had started going with my parish, which was then St. Laurence’s in Drumchapel, to retreats down at Coodham, the Passionist Retreat Centre in Ayrshire. I made friends on those retreats that I still have to this day, and it became part of our routine that, when we got off the bus on a Sunday night on our way back from the retreat, we would head across the road to Dino’s on Buchanan Street, now sadly no longer there, and have a big plate of Spaghetti Bolognese. Any pretence we had of being sophisticated restaurant patrons was probably scuppered by the fact that, each and every one of us, to the horror of the Italian waiters, would smother our Spaghetti Bolognese in tomato sauce. I would never do that now but, and don’t tell him I told you, on Tuesday nights in Bishopbriggs we usually order in pizzas, and Father Gareth loves to smother his pizza in tomato sauce, regardless of what the toppings are. What a man! So, as always, protect yourselves, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.

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father frank's log...

17/6/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 13th – 20th JUNE

Living in different countries, or visiting different countries, for meetings and gatherings, if ever there was a social night and a sing-song, I used to enjoy giving a rendition of the old Glasgow street-song, “Wee Johnny’s Lost His Jorrie”. If you don’t know it, essentially it tells the story of a wee boy who thought he had lost a marble (jorrie) down a drain (stank), doon at the Broomielaw (on the north bank of the River Clyde). He tries to retrieve it using a clothes pole (claes pole), then his brother and sister tied to the claes pole, which he rammed doon the stank; and at the end he even uses some dynamite, and blows up the Broomielaw, only then to discover that the jorrie was in his back pocket all the time.

I always thought it unlikely that you could have a marble in your back pocket and not realise it, but that all changed last Sunday when, after the 12 o’clock Mass, Father Gareth thought he had lost his church keys. Now, we’re not talking about one or two keys here, we’re talking about a whole bunch of keys of varying sizes. Father Gareth is always very fastidious when it comes to locking doors. He is one of those people who will always go back two or three times to check that he has locked them properly, so the thought of losing his keys was quite distressing for him. With the help of Deacon Joe, he searched everywhere; all over the church; out in the church porch; the street outside the church; every drawer and nook and cranny in the sacristy; even the safe where the sacred vessels and the tabernacle key are put back; every part of the office; every toilet. He searched all over his car, and checked every pocket of every garment he possessed – except one. He returned home despondent. Someone must have them, he thought. Would we have to change all the locks? Then, when he sat down in the chair in his room, out at Bishopbriggs, he was conscious of something in his back pocket – and there were the keys. “I never put anything in my back pocket – ever!”, he said. Aye right! Anyway, he, and all of us, were mighty relieved that the keys had been found, and Father Gareth has been in great form ever since, even more so now that Wales are doing so well in the European Championships.

As I write I am looking forward to conferring, for the second time this week, the Sacrament of Confirmation. Last Monday we celebrated with last year’s P7’s from St. Mungo’s and St. Stephen’s Primary Schools who, because of Covid-19, had their Confirmation postponed. In fact, the day the church closed, 19th March 2020, was the very day that the late Archbishop Tartaglia had been scheduled to come and confer the Holy Spirit upon them. It was postponed another couple of times since then but now, at last, as they near the end of their first year in secondary school, they have been able to conclude this stage of their faith journey, having now celebrated all three Sacraments of Initiation. Tonight, I will be celebrating with this year’s P7’s from both schools, having been granted faculties for both.

I have had the privilege of conferring the sacrament before when a bishop, for one reason or another, wasn’t available, but I was recalling a time in Dublin when, instead of delegating the parish priests, the Archdiocese asked a retired missionary bishop to do the Confirmations. He was a Divine Word Missionary who had been a bishop in Africa and was now retired back home to Ireland. I remember when he took his mitre out of its case that it was pristine white, and had obviously never been worn. He told me that he had passed through Rome on his way back and was advised that Pope John Paul II would almost certainly die while he was there, and that he would be invited to join with many other bishops at the requiem Mass. He thought that his mitre was rather tatty and so invested in a new one but, of course, the pope didn’t die, not then, and not for a couple of years after. The bishop was glad of the chance to use his new mitre at least once, but equally glad to put it back into mothballs after, and enjoy retirement. Anyway, we are all well in Bishopbriggs and hoping Father Antony is enjoying his holiday.

So, as ever, protect yourselves, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.

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father frank's log...

11/6/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 6th – 13th JUNE

Yesterday I was trying to gather a few thoughts for the feast of Saint Columba, and it took my thoughts back to my one and only visit to the Island of Iona, which was probably well over twenty years ago. Back at that time, when I would have three weeks holidays in the summer to take, I would usually take two of those weeks at home with the family, and then spend the third week going somewhere to self-cater and do some hill walking, nothing too strenuous. In that particular year I was staying on the shores of Loch Linnhe, north of Oban, and south of Fort Willam. The walking was beautiful, within striking distance of Glencoe; Glen Nevis and the Caledonian Canal banks. and, believe it or not, the weather was beautiful.
Without wishing to be irreverent, it was also near Castle Stalker, where the final scene in the film Monty Python and the Holy Grail was shot, referred to as Castle Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh!

One day I decided to head for Iona, taking the ferry from Oban to Mull; the bus to the Mull Ferry Terminal at Fionnphort, then the short Ferry hop from Fionnphort over to Iona; a bit of a trek, it must be said, but well worth it. If you’ve never been, Iona is a place where, as soon as you step off the ferry, you have a sense of the sacred, and of the abiding presence of God. I thought of Columba making his tour of the island on the day of his death, and blessing every nook and cranny, before being helped to raise a final hand in blessing on the island that same night, after he collapsed on his way to pray the midnight office. Certainly, that final day of blessings has left a lasting impression that even the Vikings couldn’t eradicate. I had always intended to go back to Iona and a couple of years ago I tried to book my retreat on the island, but, for a variety of reasons, it didn’t work out. Someday I will go back and spend real time.
I’ve paid more visits to the Holy Island of Lindisfarne in Northumberland. Lindisfarne was founded from Iona by Saint Aidan, almost 40 years after Columba’s death. Minsteracres, the Passionist Retreat Centre where I lived and worked as Novice Master for a few years back in the 1990’s, is in Northumberland, so Holy Island was only a short drive away. Also, it was very accessible via a causeway, so long as the tides were in your favour; with no need to be waiting on ferries to get there and back. Trumping Castle Stalker and Monty Python, quite near to Lindisfarne, and also in Northumberland, is Alnwick Castle, which starred as the magical Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry during the 2001 Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, and the 2002 Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets films. By then, however, I had left Minsteracres and Northumberland, to take up my role as rector and parish priest at Mount Argus in Dublin, the mother house for the Passionists in Scotland and Ireland.

Of course, Mount Argus itself was used in the TV series, The Ambassador, back in the late 1990’s, with Pauline Collins starring as the British Ambassador to Ireland; and again, in the film, The Professor and the Madman, starring Mel Gibson and Sean Penn. That was filmed quite a few years back but only came out in 2019 because of legal wrangles. Both of these very fine productions used the old monastery at Mount Argus, but even the new monastery was used as the rural undertakers in a fairly recent Irish drama called Red Rock. We live in times where the sacred and the profane are always rubbing shoulders but, in times to come, and well after Monty Python, and even Harry Potter, have been long forgotten, we will still be visiting Iona and remembering Columba, and visiting the Holy Island of Lindisfarne and remembering Aidan. The sacred has always outlived the profane, and always will. No doubt, too, people will still be visiting Dublin and remembering Saint Charles of Mount Argus, the Passionist saint noted for his ministry of healing, hope and reconciliation, in the late 1800’s.
Back home in Bishopbriggs, all is well. Father Gareth had a great time with his mum in Wales and, thankfully, she is keeping well. He returned with the usual red suitcase full of chocolate. Father Antony will have a well-deserved period away with his family next week. Father Justinian is being collected regularly to share a meal with family now it’s allowed.
So, as ever, protect yourselves, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.

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father frank's log...

5/6/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 30th MAY – 6th JUNE

I recently received a notification from the Chancery of the Archdiocese, and the very same notification from the Passionist Provincial Office, warning of a scam that is targeting parishes and religious houses, whereby a person, or persons unknown, spin a very plausible story to try and elicit substantial sums of money under false pretences. It would seem that many places in England had been duped by this and now the scam has moved north. Of course, scams of all kinds are commonplace now, and there will be very few of us who have not been the victims of, at least, an attempted scam. Perhaps I am naïve, but it seems to me that scams are much more sinister and malicious than they were in the past, targeting the vulnerable as much as anyone else. Over the years, as a priest, I have listened to some extraordinary stories from people who came to the door of the monastery looking for money. Most of them were scams, but they often had a kind of entertainment value, and a kind of innocence, whereby I thought even the person spinning the story didn’t expect me to believe it. Sometimes I would give the person something for sheer creativity, and I often thought it would be good to have a kind of Booker prize, or a Bafta award, for the best story or performance.

Shortly after I was ordained, I was in my room in St. Mungo’s, when the community vicar (assistant superior) came to my door and asked if I could spare an hour or two. He had been in the parlour listening to a good yarn being spun by a gentleman who simply had to get to London that night. In the unlikely scenario of the story being true the vicar discreetly decided that, instead of giving him money, he would take him to the bus station and buy him a ticket. As the vicar didn’t drive, he asked if I would act as chauffeur. I drove them to Buchanan Street bus station and waited while the ticket was purchased. The vicar waited until our friend got on the bus and the bus pulled out of the station. When he got back into the car, he asked me if I fancied a run to Hamilton, which was the first stop on the way to London. I agreed and off we went. We got there before the bus and waited. When the bus pulled in to the bus station our friend made to get off, but when he saw the vicar standing there, he sheepishly got back on the bus again. So, at the very least, he would have to go as far as Carlisle, which was the next stop. We never saw him again.

Another colleague at the time in St. Mungo’s, gave a man a few pounds after listening to a long story, but then followed him down the High Street and watched him turn into the Old College Bar. As the man ordered his pint and whisky chaser, my colleague stepped in beside him and said to the barman, “make mine a double”. Our friend’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. At the end of a very long day’s duty, I remember the doorbell ringing late at night. I brought the visitor into the parlour and, about 10 minutes into his story, which was obviously a contender for Jackanory, I stopped him and told him I was just too tired, and asked how much he was looking for. He said “£10”. I said, “I’ll give you £5”. He said, “Brilliant!” About 5 minutes after I bade him farewell the doorbell rang again. I could have wept, but when I opened the door, there was my friend again. He handed me a single Lemsip and said, “Father, why don’t you take this and go to bed, it might do you good”. I could only laugh.

I remember we had a head teacher at secondary school who would hover around, waiting to catch anybody who was arriving late. I was frequently late as I had to rely on 2 buses from Drumchapel to the City Centre, and then from the City Centre out to the school. However, he would wait until he had gathered a few latecomers; he would then invite us to come up with a story as to why we were late. It didn’t need to be true, it just needed to be as entertaining as possible. The person with the best story would avoid punishment; the rest paid the price.
Back at the ranch, Fr. Gareth has been home in Wales and returns tonight; Fr. Antony is painting the fence and is as brown as a berry; Fr. Justinian is enjoying lockdown easing.
So, as ever, protect yourselves, others and loved ones, and protect Christ in your lives.

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FATHER FRANK KEEVINS C.P.

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