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  PassionistsGlasgow

father frank's log...

29/6/2023

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 2nd – 9th JULY

It’s that time of the year again when Father Frank’s Log will take a bit of a break, both to give the right side of my brain a rest, and also to give your sanity a rest. As I have often said, there are times when I sit down to compose the log, usually on a Thursday, when my mind is blank, and I haven’t a clue what I’m going to write about, and then some little thread of an idea comes to mind that I begin to tease out, and something appears at the end of it. Usually, that thread is connected to some ordinary event that has happened to me in the previous week, or something that has connected with a memory from the past. If there is a purpose to Father Frank’s Log, it is quite simply this, that, in all the various circumstances of life, the rough and the smooth, the serious and the silly; the happy and the sad; the sublime and the ridiculous; the expected and the unexpected; God is there, God is in all things, and God is present at all times. I have always found that, and, in my own stuttering way, that is what I try to convey in the log, in a light-hearted way. Faith sometimes has to be lived with a smile on its face, no matter what.
 
Perhaps the most memorable recent event came on the night that Scotland were playing Georgia at Hampden in the European Nations Qualifiers. Our Parish Pastoral Council were meeting that same night, lamenting our bad timing, and hoping that the meeting wouldn’t last too long, so that we could at least get home for some of this very important match. At some point in the meeting one of the members got a message on her phone. Scotland had scored. Almost simultaneously with that, we heard a massive whoosh from the adjoining kitchen as the sinks began to overflow. The rain outside, as at Hampden, was of Noah proportions, a veritable flood, and our drains just couldn’t cope with such a volume of water in such a short time. As the teams were being taken off the pitch at Hampden, back in St. Mungo’s, some of our parish council members were scooping out the overflowing water from the sinks, seeking out every bucket and bin we could find, and forming a chain to get rid of the water out into the yard. Others were using shovels to try and scoop up the water that had already accumulated on the floor; while the main man was out in the yard finding the valve that would release the pressure and stop the sinks from filling up. It was a horrendous task, but it was carried out with great efficiency and in a very good spirit.
 
Where was God in all of the this? Well, in the first place, if the parish council had not been meeting that night, can you imagine the damage we would have arrived into the next morning, with the sinks overflowing all night? In the second place, even though our exertions had extended the meeting, we were still finished, and on the way home, before play resumed in the match, and so, those who were interested, saw most of the game after all, which happily Scotland managed to win. Remedial work has now been carried out and, hopefully, we are protected from this happening again during this period of very unpredictable weather. We are, however, considering investing in an ark to keep in the yard, just in case.
 
Thank you for reading Father Frank’s Log, whether that’s weekly on the website, or monthly in the Flourish; and thank you for the affirmation and encouragement I receive. I will look forward to resuming the log very soon, as life goes on, and so does God, always and everywhere.
 
Meantime, protect yourself, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.

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father frank's log

25/6/2023

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 25th June – 2nd July 2023

This week I’ve been celebrating school leavers’ Masses for St. Martin’s and St. Mungo’s Primary Schools. It occurred to me that it’s exactly 60 years since I made my own transition from primary to secondary school. My primary school years had been spent at St. Peter’s in Partick but, during my final year at St. Peter’s, the Keevins family, mother and three sons, moved from Partick out to Drumchapel. My mum’s two sisters and their families had already moved from Partick to Drumchapel, once described by Billy Connolly as a “desert wi’ windaes”, and so it was a kind of family re-gathering. For a “desert wi’ windaes” Drumchapel has produced some notable residents: Billy Connolly himself; actors James McAvoy and Sharon Small; Booker Prize winning novelist James Kelman; footballers Danny McGrain and Andy Gray; and also, David Moyes, who has just won, as a manager, the European Conference Trophy with West Ham United. That’s to name but a few – not bad eh!
 
For the last few months of primary school, having previously only had a short walk, I now had to travel in on the bus each morning to Partick, which meant a very early start. Then came the transition to secondary school. My older brother had already gone to St. Thomas Aquinas in Jordanhill, and my younger brother would follow him there a few years later. However, for better or worse, there had been a family decision that I would go to St. Mungo’s, the school that my late father, and namesake, had attended in the 1930’s. I attained a bursary to go to St. Mungo’s and I started schooling there in the autumn of 1963. I spent two years in the Duke Street annexe; two years in the Barony Street annexe (imagine going to school in a Rennie McIntosh building), and my final two years in Parson Street. This of course meant, not one, but two bus journeys from Drumchapel, which meant that I was often late. Parson Street especially was memorable for the way it’s rather eccentric head teacher would deal with latecomers. He would wait until he had a few of us gathered in the yard, thereby making us even more late, and invite us to make up a story as to why we were late. It didn’t need to be true, it just had to be a good story. The boy with the best story would be let off, while the rest would get some form of punishment, one of his favourites being that we would have to hop around the yard a few times. I must say that, while I’ve no doubt it would be frowned upon in present times, I never experienced it in any way as cruel or demeaning, and often it was quite stimulating of the imagination as, whenever I realized I was going to be late, I would be sitting on the bus trying to make up a fantastic story so as to be let off.
 
Travelling long journeys seems to have been a feature for me. I spent most of my working life at the Olivetti typewriter factory at the Queenslie Industrial Estate, so that was also a two-bus journey. For those years, 1969-1975, late-coming wasn’t an option, and so I had to be up and out of the house bright and early, and be there in time to clock-in. For most of those same years I was in a folk group, playing folk clubs in Glasgow and beyond, sometimes up to three or four times a week. On a significant number of occasions Billy Connolly would have been on the same bill, he at the top of the bill, and we somewhere in the middle or bottom. That was quite a hectic period, getting home from work, heading out again to play my double bass, getting back late, and then up the next morning for work. When I look back, I don’t know how I survived it. Nowadays of course, while carrying out my ministry in St. Mungo’s, I live in Bishopbriggs, and so that’s a bit of a trek each day as well, some days better than others depending on traffic, road works and the like, although now of course I travel by car. All in Bishopbriggs are well, thank God. Father John is still in India.
 
May our thoughts and prayers go with those children making their transition from primary to secondary school, one of the toughest challenges they will ever face. May God go with them.
 
As ever, protect yourself, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.
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father frank's log...

15/6/2023

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 18th – 25th June 2023
​

I was listening to news reports this morning about an exhibition by Banksy, the renowned graffiti artist, which will run for three months, beginning this week, in GOMA (Gallery of Modern Art), in Glasgow, which is probably best known for the traffic cone on top of the equestrian statue of the Duke of Wellington outside. The cone on top of the Duke of Wellington’s head, perhaps initially considered an act of vandalism back in the 1980’s, when it first appeared, has now become a famous Glasgow landmark, reflecting the humour of the locals. It even appears on postcards of the city. There is, of course, a Passionist connection with the Duke of Wellington, as he was the uncle of the first rector of Mount Argus in Dublin, Father Paul Mary Packenham CP. While other family members were disowning him for becoming a Catholic, and, even more so, for becoming a Passionist, the Duke said to him, that if he was as good a monk as he was a soldier, he would do well. I have to confess that GOMA isn’t my favourite gallery in Glasgow, I’m a bit more of a traditionalist when it comes to art, but I imagine I will make the effort to get to this exhibition at some stage. Last week, however, I did pay one of my occasional visits to my very favourite gallery at Kelvingrove, just a stone’s throw from where I was born and grew up in Partick Bridge Street. I have mentioned before how a visit to the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum was a regular Sunday outing for us as kids, so it has a very special place in my heart. I visited my usual favourite exhibitions, but there was also a new, temporary exhibition on loan from the V&A on the fashion designer, Dame Mary Quant, who died recently. It’s not that I am all that interested in retro fashion, but I do consider the “Swinging Sixties”, during which she was a leading figure, as a time engraved in my memory, encompassing my years of teenage angst, and as a very special period of my life, especially in regard to my favourite music. I have often quoted the late, great, Leonard Cohen, who said that those who were around at that time didn’t really realise it was the sixties, we just thought it was “ordinary time”.
 
This weekend I will be celebrating my 40th anniversary as a Passionist priest. In these times of journeying towards a humbler church, and a humbler priesthood, I’m not planning any big celebration. I will simply wonder with amazement that, with all my weaknesses, I have made it this far. I will give thanks to God for family, friends, formators, and others who have helped me along the way; I will ask pardon for the many ways in which I have at times failed; and I will seek the grace of God to be able to give a little more for as long as I can. This same week will also see my 72nd birthday, so I’m not getting any younger. As the Passionists and the Archdiocese seek to find a creative and positive way forward in the present climate of shortage of priests, alongside many other challenging issues, not just here, but throughout the world; the likelihood is that more, rather than less, will be asked of us priests in our senior years, until we are no longer able. More and more we will require the ministry of committed laity and, indeed, that’s at least in part what this present Synodal Way journey is all about.
 
Forty years ago, after completing my diaconate year in Rome, I took a sleeper train to Paris and spent a week with our Passionist Community at St Joseph’s, Avenue Hoche, near to the Arc de Triumph, at our famous church where Oscar Wilde received conditional baptism and last rites on the eve of his death on the Feast of St. Andrew, 1900. It was my first time to visit St. Joseph’s, and my first time in Paris. I enjoyed the week, and then flew home to Glasgow, to be ordained by Cardinal Winning in St. Mungo’s on 18th June 1983, which was also my mother’s 64th birthday. The rest, as they say, is history. Father Justinian, of course, can add 20 years on to my journey, while Father Gareth and Father John are 30 years behind me, and, arguably, they are the ones who are facing the biggest challenge. Please pray for all of us.
 
As ever, protect yourself, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.

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father frank's log...

10/6/2023

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 11th – 18th June 2023

We’ve had some beautiful, sunny days this past week, and it’s good to see people in lighter, brighter clothes, with their spirits lifted, which, God knows, we need in these troubled times. But while I love to see the sun, I am also very wary of it, which is a lesson I have had to learn slowly and harshly over the years. Let me tell of you of just three instances. In 1969 I was a parishioner of St. Laurence’s in Drumchapel. I had just left school and, while seeking for longer term employment, I was working for a catering supplier, firstly as a delivery boy, and then as a fondant maker. I finished up in the late summer and took my first ever trip abroad, when myself and seven other young men accompanied our parish curate on a camping trip to France and Spain. The curate had acquired an old van and had fitted it out with discarded corporation bus seats. It wasn’t luxury, but it did the job. We drove down to Dover and took the cross-channel ferry to Calais. Our intention was to spend a few days in Lourdes after a stop-over in Rouen. After our time in Lourdes, we drove over the Pyrenees to spend the main part of our holiday in Lloret de Mar. When we arrived in Lloret de Mar the weather was overcast but, after we pitched our tents, we headed off to the beach. Overcast or not, the sun was lurking behind those clouds and, that same night, I tossed and turned in my sleeping bag, and ended up getting into the van to try and sleep sitting up. My problem was that, on either side of my back, near to the shoulders, there had developed two of the biggest blisters you could ever imagine, and boy, they were painful. Even putting a shirt on my back for the next few days was agony. I was eventually rescued by three Irish nurses who arrived to pitch their tent quite near to us. They splattered vinegar on my back and, unbelievably, it did the trick. I hadn’t experienced any miracles in Lourdes but, for me, the sheer relief from such pain was a miracle in Spain.
 
Did I learn the lesson? Unfortunately, and foolishly, I didn’t. In 1972 I went on holiday to the Isle of Barra with some friends I had got to know through the Passionist Retreat House at Coodham, in Ayrshire. They are still friends to this day. It was the Glasgow Fair fortnight but, even so, the weather was scorching. Perhaps I was complacent in that this was the Outer Hebrides and not Spain. I didn’t lie on any of the beautiful beaches on Barra, but just strolling around the island I managed to get badly sunburnt on my head and ended up with sunstroke. Surely, this time, I would have learnt my lesson? But no, some years later, in the late 1980’s, I was on holiday with a fellow Passionist on Achill Island, on the west coast of Ireland. Once again, the weather was beautiful. We headed to Keel Bay, where there were some basking sharks. I had a gentle dip in the water and then sat on the beach and read for a while. I thought I was well covered up and lathered in Factor 50+ sun screen (children’s version), but, very, very foolishly, I hadn’t covered my feet, and they ended up badly burnt and swollen. After the holiday was over, I was due to fly to Glasgow for some family time at home. I had to travel back in flip-flops, and I spent most of that time in serious pain, and being tended to by a family member who was a nurse. So, by this stage, I have managed to get burnt quite literally from head to toe and, at first sight of the sun, I now go into Dracula mode to avoid it.
 
I was recalling last Sunday how St. Augustine used the analogy of the sun to explain the Holy Trinity, saying that the sun is like the Father, the source of everything. The sun, sending out its rays, is like the Father sending his only Son into the world. Finally, as the rays of the sun touch the earth with light and warmth, this is like the fire of the Holy Spirit. Taken together, they are a Blessed Trinity, and an undivided unity. Perhaps I can pass myself off as a great mystic, having been burnt up by the Triune God on at least three occasions. Enjoy the sun while it lasts but, unlike me, be wise and careful, and take all the necessary precautions.
 
As ever, protect yourself, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.

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father frank's log...

1/6/2023

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 4th – 11th June 2023

Last night, under the supervision of Father Justinian, I went through our kitchen worktop, fridge and cupboards, rooting out things that were way past their dates for safe consumption. At the end of it I had created a substantial pile of stuff and today, as I write, Father Justinian will be engaged in the task of disposing of it in a responsible way, making sure the right bins are used for each item of food and each container. It will be a tedious task, and a challenging one, but I think, even at 92, that he is relishing the challenge and, with his background in the hospitality and catering trade, before he joined the Passionists, a task that I think he will do wisely and well, and at his own pace. It’s truly extraordinary how much stuff can accumulate, but we look forward to beginning again, with the best of intentions, not to let it happen again. Those may be famous last words, but we will draw inspiration from Laudato Si, keeping care for the environment, for our common home, and also our own health, ever in mind.
 
Last Saturday, I also had to acknowledge that my favourite shoes had gone past their safe-to-wear date. I bought these shoes about 6 years ago, and they are probably the most comfortable shoes I have ever worn. Recently, however, I had noticed that, on a rainy day, I was in danger of slipping and falling on the wet pavements, and this was because the tread on the sole of the shoes had almost completely worn away, and so there was no grip. Reluctantly, I headed out to buy a new pair. Buying shoes is never an easy matter for me, as I have very small feet for a man. Years back, I had a contact in a shoe factory, and I discovered that the shoes that fitted me best were the bigger sizes in a children’s shoe, and he would help me to source them. Since then, I have settled on a size 6 (EU39) in adult sizes, but most shoe shops don’t keep a size 6 in stock, and I have to order. I headed to the same shop I bought the last pair in. I picked out something similar from the rack, and then asked the assistant if it was available in my size. He asked me to pick out an alternative, so that if he didn’t find the first choice in the stockroom, he could search for the second choice while down there. About 10 minutes later he returned, not having found the first choice, but with the second choice in hand. I asked for a long shoe horn, as a bit of a bad back makes it difficult for me to bend down. I tried the shoes on and walked about the store for a while. They seemed just right, and so I purchased them, then and there, and I can only hope that they will serve me as well as the previous pair which, of course, I have not discarded, and will continue to wear on occasion.
 
On arriving to St. Mungo’s this morning, I was suddenly aware of so many items here too, in the church and sacristy, and in the old retreat house, that are well past their use by date. We have many liturgical books, some in English, some in Latin, that we will be unlikely ever to use again. We have books on Theology, Philosophy, classic literature, poetry, art, and so much more, that will hopefully find a good home in some library or archive in our Province, but will probably never be read again, except perhaps by some enthusiast from a future generation. We have vestments in the sacristy presses belonging to another liturgical era that will never be worn again. I could go on and talk about old paintings, old items of furniture, old crockery, old typewriters and computer screens, old printers, all now defunct. And now, in the restructuring of our diocese, as also in many other dioceses throughout the world, we are looking at old presbyteries and old churches that may have reached the end of their time as well. All of this under the umbrella of Evangelisation and under the title of – looking to the future, being faithful to the past. There is, I suppose, an inevitability about it all, but a sadness just the same, and yet, a hopefulness too. As ever, we trust in the Holy Spirit to blow where she will, and lead us in the way we are to go. Thankfully, Father Justinian is still well within his use by date, and I trust he is successfully getting on with the task in hand.

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

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    Picture

    FATHER FRANK KEEVINS C.P.

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