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father frank's log...

30/10/2021

FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 31st OCTOBER – 7th NOVEMBER

It has been a case of trial and error these past few days as I seek to find alternative routes to Drumchapel from St. Mungo’s to perform my caring duties for my brother. Normally, I would take the Clydeside Expressway, but that route has been closed off due to COP26. I have no complaints. You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, and I am willing to accept such a minor inconvenience so that this hugely important event can take place in our dear Glasgow. Hopefully, in years to come, we will look back on Glasgow as being the place where a major breakthrough was made in the commitment to take care of our planet, in order that this world of ours can be passed on in all its beauty, to our children, and to our children’s children. On Sunday I went via the Maryhill Road and that seemed fine, but I wondered what it would be like during the weekdays. I found out on Monday, as my journey took me a whole lot longer than the previous day, and it has taken a bit longer still, each day, since then, so I have resolved, when possible, to leave a little earlier each day until things get back to normal.

Out at the Passionist community house in Bishopbriggs, we are bracing ourselves for Father Gareth’s departure. This past couple of weeks he has been packing his books away into big
storage boxes and placing them in the spare room. Father Gareth is a man of many books, and most of them are big books - big books for a big man. A lot of his books are sacred scripture commentaries. As people will know from his sermons, of which there are usually about five in every Mass, Father Gareth loves the scriptures, Old Testament as well as New Testament, and he can remember the most obscure of details to expound with evangelical zeal. He would have made a good tele-evangelist in the mould of Billy Graham. He had also been packing his XXL clothing into storage boxes as well, so the spare room had filled up with his stuff.

There is, I think, a removal company called Two Men and a Van, but, last Monday, it was Two Men, a Priest, and a Van that arrived from Belfast. The men were parishioners of Holy Cross Parish; the priest was Father Frank Trias, known to most of you, I’m sure, who is an assistant priest in Holy Cross. It was Father Frank who had arranged the trip with the two men and their van which killed, not just two, but three birds with one stone. Father Frank got a lift home to see his mum; Father John Varghese had his stuff brought over. (Father John is the Passionist from India who will become part of our parish team here in Saint Mungo’s once we have finalized Home Office approval), and Father Gareth had his stuff taken over to Holy Cross, his new home. I’m sure Father Gareth and Father Frank together, working in Holy Cross, will bring a bit of new life and energy to the people of North Belfast, under the guidance of Father John Craven as parish priest. So, there will be an Irishman, a Scotsman and a Welshman. No doubt Father Gareth will find a joke or ten in there somewhere.

Sadly, we have been unable to hold any proper farewell for Father Gareth. Covid rules for church halls are the same as for restaurants. That would have meant having to take track and trace details; people having to be seated at tables, and any food brought to the tables; masks would have to be worn if people were moving around or going to the toilet. The numbers we could have coped with safely would come nowhere near the number of people who would have wanted to come, and there was no way we could make distinctions on who could or couldn’t come. All of which suits Father Gareth well as he really does want to go with no fuss at all. Hopefully people will find their own opportunity, and their own means, to say goodbye, and to wish him well. St. Mungo’s will be a much quieter place without him.

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

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Father frank's log...

23/10/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 17th – 24th OCTOBER

I used to have the reputation of being a bit of a Jonah when it came to travel, especially air travel. Flights would be delayed or cancelled; my luggage would go missing and end up in Dubai instead of Dublin; bad turbulence would be experienced just after the meals had been distributed, which would result in food spilling all over the place and the flight stewards then frantically trying to gather trays in again. On one occasion I had timed my flight to be home in Glasgow to watch the World Cup Final on television, only for the plane to turn around in mid-air and go back to Dublin because of a technical fault, which then resulted in having to change planes and miss the match. On yet another occasion I arrived in Dublin from a Passionist meeting in the Netherlands, intending to celebrate the four o’clock Sunday Mass in Mount Argus, only to realise that, in my rush to get to the airport for my outward journey, I had totally forgotten where I had left my car in the long-term car park. I had to phone back to Mount Argus to ask someone to cover the Mass for me. About two hours later I found the car. On a Mount Argus Parish Pilgrimage to Lourdes, when I was parish priest, we were stranded on the plane on the tarmac for three hours because the air traffic controllers at Dublin Airport had been distracted by a penalty shootout as Ireland played Spain in the 2002 World Cup, and we missed our take-off slot.

These are just a few of my jinxed experiences with air travel. Until now, though, I hadn’t experienced too much trouble with ferry travel, but that all changed last Sunday. As I had mentioned in my Log last week, I had to travel to Dublin in my capacity as Provincial Bursar, to meet with our Provincial Secretary and our Accountant/Auditor to examine and finalise our Charity Accounts for the year gone by. I had chosen to take the car and travel by ferry as it allowed me to attend to some other business on the way. All went well on the journey over. The meetings went well, and I was able to catch up on a friend or two that I hadn’t seen from before lockdown. The last time I was in Dublin was, in fact, January 2020, so the best part of two years had gone by. I also celebrated Mass in Mount Argus Church for the first time since I finished up as parish priest in October 2016, and so I was able to greet parishioners I hadn’t seen for a long time too. I was telling the people of St. Mungo’s this week, on the feast of St. Paul of the Cross, the founder of the Passionists, that while our Passionist church and parish in Dublin is named after St. Paul of the Cross, nobody knows it, or calls it by that name. It is only ever referred to as Mount Argus and, under that name, is a very iconic church in the city.

Then came my journey home. I was on the evening ferry and I arrived at the Port of Belfast in good time. I was just beginning to relax in the passenger lounge when we were suddenly called to return to our vehicles, a full hour before departure. My first thought was, great, maybe we’re going to set sail early. I settled myself on the ferry, ready with my book and my nibbles to help pass the time on the crossing but, when it came departure time nothing seemed to be happening. I couldn’t even hear the hum of an engine. Then came the first of many announcements. The crossing was delayed because of a technical fault. Then, engineers are trying to locate the fault. Then, the engineers have located the fault and are trying to fix it. Then, the engineers are still trying to fix it. Finally, the engineers have fixed it and we’ll be setting sail in a while. On eventually arriving at Cairnryan, it was pitch dark and raining. I was trying to drive carefully around the windy roads to Girvan, much to the annoyance of some of the drivers behind me who wanted me to go faster. On reaching Turnberry a sign told me that the road ahead was closed, and I was taken on a huge diversion via the Trump Turnberry Leisure Complex; Culzean Castle, and the electric bray into Ayr, eventually connecting with the A77 again. Twice I had been confused by the diversion signs and taken a wrong turn. I thought I would never get home, and it was almost 1.30 a.m. before I turned into our estate. The last part of the journey was made more pleasant because, having eventually received a decent radio signal, I listened to the latter part of Ian Anderson’s late-night show on BBC Radio Scotland, during which he was paying tribute to Paul Simon, who had just turned 80; and to Paddy Moloney of the Chieftains, who had recently passed away – two musicians whom I admired greatly. Still, I was glad to get home and fall into bed, pondering whether the next time I have to travel, should I risk a return to air travel. We will see.

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

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Father frank's log...

14/10/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 10th – 17th OCTOBER

I’m writing the Log very early this week as I will be travelling to Ireland on Wednesday, to attend some meetings in my role as Provincial Bursar for the Passionists of Saint Patrick’s Province, which is principally Ireland and Scotland, but also takes in our house and parish in Paris, as well as still retaining a link with our former missions in Botswana, South Africa and Zambia. The role of Provincial Bursar is essentially one of providing financial management to the province as part of the leadership team. It’s a role that for 25 years I tried to avoid. Having been a Cost and Management Accountant before I joined the Passionists, I kept being told it was a role I was destined for but, thankfully, there were always other, very competent people, to take it on. Then, after our Provincial Chapter in 2008, the inevitable happened, and I have been locked into the role ever since, having just been re-elected at the recent Chapter, for yet another 4 years. Thankfully we have a secretary in our Provincial Office in Dublin, who does all the day to day work, and who really has a much better grasp of all the ins and outs than I have. She is quite extraordinary and I really couldn’t do the job without her. If I ever get wind of her thinking of retiring, I’ll be sure to get in first and retire before her.

Since becoming Provincial Bursar the role has changed substantially, as there has emerged a whole host of new financial legislation that has to be meticulously adhered to and complied with to the letter. Also, as a Religious Congregation, we operate as a charity, and so we have to comply with all the various charities legislation too. As luck would have it, there are four different charities regulators for Ireland, north and south, for Scotland, and also for France, so it can get a bit complicated. But, even apart from that, the role is as far from what I used to do as an accountant in the 1970’s, as you would imagine. In those days, working in the Olivetti typewriter factory in Queenslie, I would come in on a Monday morning to find a foot-high printout on my desk from the data processing department, and somewhere in there I would find the material that was going to constitute my task for the rest of the week, whether that was at my desk, or patrolling the factory floor investigating anomalies. One of my early tasks was to do costings for the production of a new, and innovative, golf ball typewriter. That was about the height of technology in those days. Computer technology was still in the early stages and the data processing department, operating a punch card system, took up a vast amount of space on the ground floor of the factory. I doubt very much if I would be able to revive my accountancy career in these times of ever-changing technological wonder.

I almost had to cancel my trip as, last Monday, I took a quick walk into town after morning Mass, to do a little shopping. On the way back, coming along George Street, it began to rain very heavily. I was wearing an anorak with a hood, so I pulled the hood up over my head, as you do. The hood, however, obscured my vision a little, and the next thing I knew I had tripped over the pavement and was lying flat on my face, feeling sore and embarrassed. I, very gingerly, got up, and gathered in my bits and pieces of shopping. I felt a bit like the man beaten and left for dead on the Jericho Road, as people quickly passed me by on the other side, perhaps thinking I had a few too many. There wasn’t even a good Samaritan in sight. In terms of damage done, I realised I had sprained my left wrist and staved both thumbs. On the drive up to my brother’s house later on, I found changing the gears a very painful task. Father Antony kindly supplied me with some gel and a tight bandage. Within a couple of days, the healing process was well under way and now, while there are still twinges, especially when I drive, I feel fine. Fr. Gareth and Fr. Antony will ably hold the fort while I’m away.

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

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father frank's log...

7/10/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 3rd – 10th OCTOBER

October is the church’s Mission Month, which automatically makes us think of the foreign missions, and foreign missionaries, those who serve Christ by becoming, what we often refer to, as green martyrs, leaving their own land to spread the Gospel in far-away places. For us, as Passionists, while we do have foreign missions in many places, being in over 60 countries throughout the world, the idea of Mission can have a different connotation, and we can tend to talk of missioners, rather than missionaries. When we were founded in the church by Saint Paul of the Cross, 300 years ago, our main apostolate was the preaching of parish missions. The founder and his companions would travel around the country, often walking barefoot, and with a preference for the poorest of places, preaching these missions, and teaching people to meditate on the Passion of Christ as a work of infinite love. He preached hundreds of these missions in the course of his lifetime and so, while he never left his native Italy, he was a true missioner, and it’s an apostolate we Passionists have tried to sustain in some way ever since.

When I was ordained in 1983, as well as being appointed vocations director for Scotland, a position to which Father Antony has just been appointed, I was also installed as part of a three-man mission team, along with Father John Mary and Father Paul Francis. There were a number of other mission teams appointed throughout the province at the same time. We preached many missions in Scotland and beyond, and one of the earliest of those was in the parish of St. Michael’s, Moodiesburn. It was a most enjoyable mission. Only two preachers were needed, so it was just myself and Father Paul Francis. The parish priest, Father Michael, was a delightful character, and exceptionally jovial, kind and generous. The children in the parish absolutely adored him. I remember that his housekeeper had put him on a diet and so, every morning, he would get up early and make a big fry-up. After devouring it, he would open all the windows to disperse the smell, and remove all evidence before the housekeeper came in. She pretended to be fooled by it, but I think she knew rightly what he was up to. When I returned to St. Mungo’s in 2016, one of the regulars at Mass here told me that he could remember that mission very well, even to the point of recounting some of the stories we told, and this was over 30 years later. That same gentleman died recently, and his funeral is taking place from St Michael’s, Moodiesburn, this week. Father Antony will represent us.

Not all of our experiences were as positive as St. Michael’s, in the sense that sometimes we were put up in poor conditions and, on more than one occasion, we had to drape the bed clothes over a radiator to get the damp out of them before we could try for a night’s sleep. But then again, I’m sure even those conditions were luxurious compared to St. Paul of the Cross’s missionary travels in his own time, and, of course, Jesus himself spoke of not having anywhere to lay his head, so who were we to complain? Our experience of the people, on the other hand, was always very positive. There was a great hunger for the Word of God, and, as well as the mission sermons, there was always a meditation on the Passion of Christ, what we called a fervorino, staying true to the conviction of St. Paul of the Cross that, to remember and to meditate on the Passion of Christ was a powerful remedy for every ill, and that there is something in the Passion of Christ that touches into everybody’s life experience. How true!

Father Gareth is home, at present, with his mum in Merthyr Tydfill, from where he returns next week, to start preparing for his move to Holy Cross, Ardoyne. We’re still getting used to the idea of his departure, but we also look forwarded to welcoming Father John soon after.

So, as always, protect yourself, your loved ones and others, and protect Christ in your lives.

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father frank's log...

2/10/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 26th SEPTEMBER – 3rd OCTOBER

Tuesday of this week, the 28th, was the anniversary of both my first, and final profession as a Passionist, also known as temporary and perpetual profession. I was temporarily professed in 1980, and perpetually professed in 1982. Normally, there should be a three-year gap between the two but, because of studies I had previously done, I was granted a special dispensation from Rome, and was fast-tracked after just two years in temporary vows. It struck me this week that, due to the disorientation of Covid-19, I had neglected to mark my 40th, or Ruby anniversary of first profession, which is usually just a simple community meal, and so I made a mental note to celebrate the Ruby anniversary of my final profession next year.

I have different memories of both. First profession comes at the end of the novitiate year which, for me, was 1979-80. The beginning of the novitiate was slightly delayed because Pope John Paul II was visiting Ireland. I sang in the choir at the papal mass in the Pheonix Park, and attended the special event for seminarians at Maynooth college. I would later be glad that I had attended these as, when the pope came to Scotland in 1982, I was tied up with my final Theology exams in Ireland, and so was unable to get home for the occasion.

The novitiate took place in what is now our Passionist Retreat Centre at Crossgar in County Down. It was a year that I really enjoyed, being a very quiet and reflective year, and so, well suited to my introverted nature. It was a time for deepening our understanding of religious life, and of the Passionist charism, before making our commitment to it. I remember, at the end of the novitiate year, my older brother, the doyen of Scottish sports journalist, coming over for my profession, but then I had to get him to the airport that night as he was due to fly out the next day to Romania for a Celtic match in the European Cup Winners Cup which, if memory serves me, we inauspiciously lost, and went out of the competition on away goals.

Two years later, to the day, I made my final profession at Mount Argus in Dublin. The next morning, I was scheduled to fly out to Rome. The Provincial Bursar at the time, whom I have more sympathy for now that I have held that post myself for the past 12 years and continuing, rather than book me a direct flight, had saved a few Irish punts by booking me on a charter to Gatwick, from where I had to get a bust to Luton, and then a flight to Ciampino, from where I would be collected by the rector of the Passionist Monastery of Saints John and Paul, which was to be my home for the next year, as I undertook my diaconate year in preparation for my ordination. As I waited in the departure lounge in Dublin my name was called out over the sound system, requesting me to return to check-in. I was a bit anxious as to the reason for this, but when I got there, I was assailed by a delegation from a group called CASA, which is the Caring and Sharing Association, a group with whom I had been involved for some years, ministering to people with physical and mental disabilities. They had come to see me off, and they proceeded to present me with this enormous pink teddy bear. The airline staff were very accommodating at letting me on the plane with it but, when I arrived at Gatwick, I thought to myself, there’s no way I am getting collected in Rome by the rector of J&P’s carrying a pink teddy bear as big as myself. I looked around the terminal and spotted a mother with her little girl, about 5 years old. I approached the mother, explained my predicament, and asked if she would mind if I offered the teddy bear to her daughter. Both she and her daughter were very delighted and I was relieved of the potential embarrassment that could have ensued. There then followed a very enjoyable diaconate year in Rome before coming home for ordination.

So, as always, 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...

Father frank's log...

father frank's log...

father frank's log...

FATHER FRANK KEEVINS C.P.

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