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  PassionistsGlasgow

November 29th, 2018

29/11/2018

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 25th NOVEMBER – 2nd DECEMBER
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Apologies that I never managed to write the log last week. There has been a lot of to-ing and fro-ing to Ireland recently for meetings as I carry a few different roles in our Passionist Province of St. Patrick, as well as being rector and parish priest of St. Mungo’s. That put a fair bit of extra pressure on me; but mostly I am missing Father Gareth who has been at home in Merthyr Tydfil for the past 5 weeks giving support to his mum who is ill at this time. I miss his unique presence, his good humour, his generous spirit, and his appetite for working hard and easing my load. Having said that, he is absolutely where he needs to be at this time, and he and his mum are constantly in our prayers. Obviously, there is a mountain of good will towards him around St. Mungo’s, and the two phrases I keep hearing from people again and again are: your mother is your mother; or, you only have one mum. True enough!
 
That got me to thinking about my own mum, whom we always referred to as mammy. She was a great woman, despite being under 5 feet tall, who, having been left widowed at an early age with three young sons, worked herself tirelessly to raise us and care for us. Her main job for many years was as a barmaid in the Downhill Bar in Partick, where we were born and grew up. She was very well known and liked among the regular patrons. I got a good sense of that myself when I worked behind the bar during my summer breaks home as a Passionist student. I also discovered how hard the work was. On top of that she took on cleaning jobs in some of the big houses around Downhill, Kelvinside and Hyndland; and she did some school cleaning as well. Her weekly game of Bingo was one of her rare breaks and enjoyments.
 
One thing I often neglect to recall about her, however, is that she was considered to be a lovely singer. My uncle Tony, who was really granny’s brother, and therefore mammy’s uncle, was renowned as a bit of an impresario around Partick, and the concerts he put on in the Partick Burgh Hall and other places attracted well-known entertainment figures and big audiences; and very often mammy was one of the support acts. It was a gift she passed on to her three sons, as every one of us is capable of holding a tune. Patrick is a bit shy about singing, but has a lovely voice, but not so shy at times at being a mimic, with an extraordinary memory for funny one-liners from the classic comedians; give Hugh the floor and Frank Sinatra comes to life again; but I suppose I was the one who developed it a bit more than the others, singing and playing double bass in a couple of folk bands before entering religious life, and later becoming involved in contemporary liturgical music.
 
I have lots of memories from my folk band days, such as playing the folk clubs in the early 70’s with the likes of Billy Connolly; Gerry Rafferty and Barbara Dickson; touring Scotland with Billy Connolly in 1971-72 to raise funds for the struggling families during the Upper Clyde Shipbuilders work-in, during which Jimmy Reid came to prominence; coming second to the wonderful JSD Band in the Scottish Folk Group Championships, when Finbar and Eddie Furey played the interval; less salubriously, getting stranded overnight in Dunoon at the opening of a new folk club when the organisers disappeared with the takings; my double bass falling apart when playing our opening set at The Singers Club in Clydebank when , once again, Billy Connolly was topping the bill; and enjoyably, a regular Tuesday night gig at Sloans in the Argyle Arcade which would be packed out, but mostly with family and friends. These are just a few of many great, and not so great memories from a former life, stemming from a gift of music passed on in the family, and especially by mammy. St. Augustine may or may not have said that, “He who sings, prays twice, for when you sing praise, you not only praise with gladness, but also with love” but, if not, I’ll settle for St. Paul in Ephesians 5:19;
 
Be filled with the Spirit, singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs among yourselves, and making music to the Lord in your hearts.

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father frank's LOG...

18/11/2018

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 11th – 18th NOVEMBER
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I’m late getting to the Log this week as I have been in Mount Argus again for meetings. I only returned on Friday and was glad of the company on the return flight of two friends from Dublin who were coming to Glasgow for the weekend to attend a Christmas Craft Fair in the SECC. As we were making our way to the departure gate, we passed what was obviously a hen party, coming off the Glasgow plane and heading to Dublin for a wild weekend, and we agreed that we were glad they weren’t travelling in the opposite direction. When we got to the gate, however, we discovered that there was a stag party heading from Dublin to Glasgow for an equally wild weekend. One of the differences we noted between the hen party and the stag party was that, while the women had taken the bother to dress up with rabbits’ ears, and glitter, and T-shirts with all kinds of slogans on them, the men just wanted to get down to the serious business of drinking themselves silly.
 
Boarding the plane was a bit chaotic as the stag party didn’t seem to have paid much attention to what seat they were in, or whether they were to board from the front steps or the back steps. I had to greatly admire the patience of the cabin crew and eventually they got everyone settled down. Once we were in the air, and as soon as the fasten seat belts sign was switched off, some of the group were delegated to descend on the cabin crew to more or less clear the trolley of small bottles of spirits, as obviously waiting for the trolley to come up the aisle would have taken too long and reduced drinking time. It seemed as if we were hardly up in the air before the fasten seat belt sign was switched on again for landing, which meant of course that the toilets were now out of bounds; however, that didn’t prevent the stags from trying to get to the toilet, only to be gently turned back by the ever-patient crew. To be fair, nobody really caused any bother and, apart from being boisterous and noisy, there was never any fear of trouble. As we got off the plane my two friends and myself expressed the hope that the stag party wouldn’t be on the same bus as us going into Glasgow. We needn’t have worried, however, as once we were through security and into the terminal, they headed straight for the bar. I hope the hens and the stags enjoy their respective weekends in Dublin and Glasgow, but I wouldn’t want to be them on Monday morning trying to get up for work.
 
Back in St. Mungo’s today, scaffolding has arrived and work has begun on changing all the light bulbs in the church, which is a major task. Over the past while a significant number of the lamps had gone out and the church had become quite dim. A surprising number of people said that they really liked the atmosphere this created and found it prayerful, relaxing and reflective, a bit like praying or celebrating Mass in the catacombs. Still, we had no choice but to change them before it got too dark altogether. It had once been a task that our own maintenance people could carry out on a staggered basis, but due to new health and safety regulations this is no longer possible and so we had to go down the more complex, and costly route of engaging contractors. No doubt it will all be worth it when the task is complete. The biggest difficulty, of course, is the great height that is involved, and I was reminded of one of our volunteers at Mount Argus in Dublin who frequently used to scare me to death by his total lack of fear of heights. At times like Christmas and Easter he was determined to create atmosphere in the church by placing candles around a ledge at the top of the sanctuary, and he would do this by simply using an extended step ladder. I could never convince him not to do it and I always had to leave the church as I couldn’t even bear to look at him. The effect was beautiful, but then he would undertake the task of taking them all down again. He was a great guy, but I had to admit to a certain relief when he married and moved away and surrendered his role in the parish, only to discover that his father was just as fearless as he was. Health and safety regulations may go over the top at times, but they can be useful too.
 
He will raise you up on Eagles Wings… (based on Psalm 91) – that’s how to fly and go high.

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father frank's log...

8/11/2018

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 4th – 11th NOVEMBER


I’m writing my log this week on the Feast of St. Willibrord (658-739 AD). Willibrord was a missionary from Northumbria, known as the Apostle to the Frisians, in what today would be the Netherlands. He later became the first Bishop of Utrecht. My interest in Willibrord goes back to when I was living in the Passionist Monastery at Minsteracres in Northumberland, which I imagine corresponds to part of Northumbria back in the day. At that time, I was the novice master for the Passionists of North Europe and on visits to our Dutch Province, the Province of Mary, Mother of Holy Hope, I would always meet people who spoke with great love and affection for Willibrord who brought the faith to them back in the 7th/8th century.
 
Willibrord became the first bishop of Utrecht and that sparked off an extraordinary memory from a time I was visiting the Dutch Passionists in their mother house at a place called Haastrecht, about 25 miles from Utrecht, which is a really beautiful city. While I was there the community hosted a meal, and among the guests was an Irish girl who played the viola in an orchestra based in Utrecht. She was placed beside me so that we could chat away in English as my Dutch was non-existent. Almost immediately she asked me if I knew an Irish Passionist called Father Herman, which of course I did, God rest him.
 
Father Herman was a lovely, but rather eccentric man, a poet and a musician, who was very much involved in the Legion of Mary. He had been a great friend and confidante of Frank Duff, the founder of the Legion of Mary, and he inherited Frank Duff’s bicycle when he died, keeping it suspended from the ceiling of his small cell in Mount Argus monastery. Herman himself loved to go cycling, especially to Glendalough, site of the monastic settlement in County Wicklow founded by St. Kevin in the 6th century. Sometimes he would go there and forget that he was due back to celebrate the evening Mass. When I was rector and parish priest at Mount Argus, he could at times frustrate and infuriate me because of his unpredictability, but I could never stay angry with him because I liked him so much, and he was always willing to help out if I was under pressure – so long as he remembered.
 
Glendalough was the location for this story told to me by the Irish viola player. She was off somewhere with the orchestra when her father died and, for whatever reason, the family were unable to get in contact with her. Funerals happen quickly in Ireland and so, by the time she found out, he father was already buried. She went home, and one day she was walking in Glendalough, where her father had often walked. She was thinking about him and feeling sad when she came across Father Herman pushing his bicycle up a steep hill. She had never met Father Herman before, but they got talking and she told him about her father and about missing the funeral. Herman asked her if her father was also a musician, which he was. Father Herman then told her that he had known her father, and had once written a poem about him, which he happened to have in his jacket pocket at the time. He then reached into his pocket, produced the poem, and gave it to her to keep. She was overwhelmed, shed floods of tears, and shed them anew as she told the story to me, and never forgot Herman ever after. As I always say, there is no such thing as coincidence in the life of faith, only providence.
 
Collect for the Feast of St. Willibrord:
O Lord our God, you call whom you will and send them where you choose: We thank you for sending your servant Willibrord to be an apostle to the Low Countries, to turn them from the worship of idols to serve you, the living God; and we entreat you to preserve us from the temptation to exchange the perfect freedom of your service for servitude to false gods and to idols of our own devising; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.


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father frank's log...

3/11/2018

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 28th OCTOBER – 4th NOVEMBER
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Last Saturday our Passionist Young Team hosted a Quiz Night to raise funds for the Apostleship of the Sea, and also to put some funds aside for themselves to help pay for Day Retreats and nights out etc. Fancy Dress was essential and, if you were to walk around the tables, you would have found sailors; Arab sheiks; princesses; goths; cowboys; politicians; rock- stars; monsters; super-heroes; witches, and a blood-soaked surgeon with a saw sticking out of her head, to name but a few. If there were a prize it might have gone to Shrek and Princess Fiona, who really looked the part. I have to confess I hadn’t intended dressing up, but Father Gareth had bought a few bits and pieces and then was unable to be there as he has gone home to Merthyr Tydfil to be with his mum who is quite ill at this time – prayers please. I knew that everybody was going to miss him so in his honour I put on his costume which, I think, was meant to be a pirate. I had a three-cornered hat; a stripey-jumper; an eye patch with a skull-and-crossbones on it; a telescope, and a false beard and moustache which wouldn’t stay on. It was an effort anyway.
 
It had also been intended that Father Gareth be the quiz-master, so Brother Antony stepped into that breach. He also excelled in fancy-dress and might have given Shrek and Fiona a run for their money. He was covered in black from head to toe and every now and again, in between quiz rounds, he would change his mask. He started off as the grim reaper; then the Scream; and finally, a skeleton skull, before returning to the grim reaper. I think he may have had in mind the Danse Macabre (Dance of Death) which he had been discussing earlier with the young team in relation to Halloween. The Danse Macabre was originally inspired by the horrors of the middle ages, especially the Black Death. It is an artistic personification of death containing representatives from all walks of life dancing along to the grave, usually with a pope, an emperor, a king, a child, and a labourer. reminding people of the fragility of life and that death is no respecter of persons, it comes to everyone from all walks of life.
 
I was reminded of a road trip I took with Father Paul Francis over twenty years ago. With him as guide (Fr. Paul Francis didn’t drive at the time) I drove from Paris, where he was then based, down through the Burgundy region of France, where we visited a few Cistercian Abbeys, beginning with Citeaux, and also the occasional winery. We then made our way through Switzerland and over the Great St. Bernard Pass, stopping off at the monastery where they breed the St. Bernard dogs, and down into Aosta in Italy.
 
Our destination was Turin where we were to meet up with an Italian Passionist who had studied with us in Dublin. He didn’t drive either and, between the two of them, I found myself driving along the main thoroughfare in Turin in the wrong direction, being honked at by four lanes of irate Italian motorists. How we survived, except by the grace of God and the Holy Shroud, I’ll never know. For the return journey we came back by Mont Blanc and decided to take a couple of detours. The first was to Tours, where St. Martin of Tours was its famous third bishop, and which was now a stopping-point for pilgrims on the Camino to Santiago de Compostela in Spain. Our second detour was to Ars, the little town where St. John Vianney, the Cure of Ars, was parish priest in the early 19th century. Somewhere along the way, in a very remote rural area, Fr. Paul Francis had discovered that there was a little church where the interior walls were covered in frescoes of the Danse Macabre. We just had to pay a visit and it was a haunting, eerie experience that has stayed with me ever since. Let me seek solace in St. Paul (1 Corinthians: 55-57)
 
“Where, O death, is your victory?  Where, O death, is your sting?”
 The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law,
 But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.

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    FATHER FRANK KEEVINS C.P.

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