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  PassionistsGlasgow

father frank's log...

23/11/2019

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 17th – 24th NOVEMBER
Last Saturday night I left the church, after celebrating the Vigil Mass, to go to a birthday party. The previous Tuesday my older brother, the doyen of Scottish sports’ journalists, had turned 70, and it struck me that I’m not too far behind him. His birthday was well publicised on the radio, all in good humour, and he had already celebrated with his beloved wife, and with some media and sports people. Saturday night was especially for family.
 
We were to gather in my niece’s house and when I arrived, thinking I would be the last, it turned out that in fact I was the first. Timing isn’t one of our family’s best suits. Before too long, however, the gang started to arrive and the first part of the night was dominated by the six grandchildren, who hadn’t all been together in one place for quite some time, as two of them live with their parents in Brighton. Chaos reigned amid the excitement as children ran from room to room, games were played, and then the grandchildren’s food was distributed and devoured. Eventually the table was cleared and the junior revelry moved to another room, which then allowed the adult food to be dished out – by this stage I was ravenous.
 
Like many family’s nowadays, even though we are not very numerous, we have, between the generations; vegetarians, vegans and carnivores, so the food was quite varied. As the dishes were laid on the table, I was reminded of St. Peter’s vision in the Acts of the Apostles, of a sheet lowered down from heaven that gave him an insight into foods clean and unclean, paving the way for a more benign acceptance of Gentiles into the church, inviting inclusion and acceptance in God’s name, without anyone having to change their eating habits. My thoughts returning to the party, we all began with gorgeous butternut squash and chilli soup; perfect for a bitterly cold night; there then followed chicken curry or vegetable curry; chilli con carne or chilli sans carne; beef lasagne or vegetable lasagne; there was plenty for the vegans and vegetarians, and we carnivores just tried everything, as is our wont. All of it was delicious, and all of it was home made. There was beer and wine but I was on the 7-Up.
 
At this stage the birthday boy pulled rank with regard to the music. It was his party and now it was time for Tony Bennett. The mix and match playlist was discarded, and on went one of the doyen’s favourites, whom he had gone to see many times. The grandchildren looked bemused as he insisted that they listen to this great man, whose real name, he told them, was Anthony Benedetto. Perhaps, as Tony Bennett is now 93, it helped him to feel still young.
 
Time was moving on and, as I had an early start at St. Mungo’s the next day, I made the difficult and painful decision to skip dessert. As I made my farewells and headed for the door two meringues topped with all sorts of delicious looking stuff were put in a container and thrust into my hand by my two nieces. These were devoured within minutes of my arriving home to Bishopbriggs, and they tasted as good as they looked.
 
Early in the week I encountered one of our volunteers talking to our receptionist. She was recounting how one of her male relatives was giving out about my brother because of something he had said on Super Scoreboard. She then said that when she told her relative that his brother was the parish priest of St. Mungo’s he decided he might not be so bad after all. It struck me that the profession my brother has been in for almost 50 years now, and the role that he plays, sets him up for all kinds of flack, and that’s just accepted, but the real person is the doting husband, father  and grandfather, who is never more in his element than when surrounded by the family, he loving them, and they loving him. Ad multos annos, big brother!
 
The kingdom of God is not a matter of eating and drinking, but of righteousness, peace and joy in the Holy Spirit… (Romans 14:17)

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father frank's log...

16/11/2019

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 10th – 17th NOVEMBER
In one of the weekday Masses last week Jesus said in the Gospel, anyone who has ears to hear, let him listen. Unfortunately, at the time, I had no ears to hear as they were bunged up with earwax, and I couldn’t listen even if I wanted too. This is a problem I get from time to time, and I usually have to get them syringed about once every 18 months. Recently, however, there was a text message from my surgery in Bishopbriggs saying that they could no longer offer this service and that in future I would need to make other arrangements.
 
At first, I thought I would self-medicate and try pouring in some almond oil in the hope that my ears would clean themselves out, as ears are meant to have a capacity for self-cleansing anyway. I didn’t hold out much hope for this however, as I knew from previous experience that as soon as I started pouring oil into my ears, whatever little hearing I had would disappear altogether, and so it proved. After the first pouring I couldn’t hear a single thing. I told the people at Mass that this would be a good time to come to me for Confession.
 
I decided then to turn to Google in the hope of finding a clinic that would clean my ears for me, even though I knew I would have to pay for it.  I found a clinic in the city centre whose website said that there was no need to be pouring in oil for days on end beforehand, as their wonderful suction system, not syringing, would do the trick. Wanting to get the job done as quickly as possible I gave them a call and arranged a visit for the following day. The clinic was very swish and swanky, and a bit futuristic, but that was fine by me if it did the job.
 
Bang on time, I was invited into the surgery where, after a brief conversation with the clinician, a camera was shone into my ears and there, projected onto a large screen, I could view my eardrums, showing great gatherings of wax and quite a lot of hair surrounding them. The clinician began the task but was shortly making tutting noises about how hard and how compact the wax was and that really it needed a few days of softening with oil for the job to be done properly, which wasn’t what the website said. The hair was causing a problem too, and she had to keep snipping away at that. It had been a long time since I’d had a problem with having too much hair. After repeated attempts at one ear, and then the other, she decided she couldn’t complete the job and that I would need to come back for a second session after a few days of oil softening. I told her I had to travel to Belfast a couple of days later and that I would really like to have the job done before then. I was then sold a rather expensive bottle of oil that she said was good for softening the wax and an appointment was made for the next day, but at another branch of the same clinic, with a different clinician, and I was instructed to be very liberal with the oil both that night and the following morning.
 
The next evening, I arrived at the other clinic, this one in Bearsden, but less swish and swanky. I was the last appointment of the day. I was greeted by a clinician from South Africa, whom I congratulated profusely on beating England to win the Rugby World Cup, after which she worked tirelessly, above and beyond the call of duty, to clean my ears completely, showing me the finished results of lovely clean and hairless eardrums, back on the screen, and then she gave me a hearing test. The hearing test consisted of going into a booth and putting headphones on, then listening to various sounds at different pitches, at which, if I could hear them, I was to push a button. When the test was finished, she delighted me by saying that my hearing was good, but then spoiled it by adding – for my age!
 
Either way, it was such a relief and a joy to be able to hear again, but I wonder what the spiritual equivalent of earwax is that prevents us from hearing the Word of God:
 
Faith comes from hearing the message, and the message is heard through the Word about Christ. (Romans 10:17). Anyone who has ears to hear, let them listen (Mark 4:23).

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father frank's log...

9/11/2019

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 3rd – 10th NOVEMBER
This week I had to pass up the opportunity of a few days in Paris. Our Passionist parish of Holy Cross, Ardoyne in Belfast is, like St. Mungo’s, celebrating it’s 150th Jubilee this year. The main celebration is on Sunday 24th November. The parish priest of St. Joseph’s at Avenue Hoche in Paris is Father Aidan Troy, who preached so beautifully at our Jubilee Novena in St. Mungo’s last September, but he is also a former parish priest of Holy Cross, Ardoyne. He hopes to be able to join the Holy Cross community for the celebration, but to do that he would need someone to cover Masses in St. Joseph’s in Paris for a few days, as he is there on his own at present. Last Wednesday morning I had a phone call from our Provincial asking if I would be free to cover for him, but, unfortunately, I’m not.
 
I first visited St. Joseph’s in 1983, travelling on an overnight sleeper train from Rome, where I had just finished my diaconate year and was heading home to Glasgow for my priestly ordination on 18th June that year. Never having been to Paris, this seemed like a good opportunity to relax and unwind for a week or so, and I was warmly welcomed by Fr Eugene McCarthy, the then parish priest of St. Joseph’s who, as it turns out, is the present parish priest of Holy Cross, Ardoyne.
 
In 1983, when I visited, it was still the original church, before the present, modern church was built. It was from the original church that Father Cuthbert Dunne, a young Passionist priest, attended Oscar Wilde on his deathbed. For most of his life Father Cuthbert didn’t speak about it, but before he died in 1950, fifty years after the event, he set down this recollection of it:
 
He (Oscar Wilde) made brave efforts to speak, and would even continue for a time trying to talk, though he could not utter articulate words. Indeed, I was fully satisfied that he understood me when told that I was about to receive him into the Catholic Church and give him the Last Sacraments. From the signs he gave, as well as from his attempted words, I was satisfied as to his full consent. And when I repeated close to his ear the Holy Names, the Acts of Contrition, Faith, Hope and Charity, with acts of humble resignation to the Will of God, he tried all through to say the words after me.
 
This deathbed scene was, or so I’ve heard, the very moving high point of a recent film on Oscar Wilde that came out last year called The Happy Prince, but I’m afraid I didn’t get the chance to see it. A few years after my first visit there in 1983, and just before the old church was demolished, I visited St. Joseph’s again with Father Paul Francis where, with the help of the late Father Marius, we found the entry in the baptism register for Oscar Wilde’s reception into the church. Again, by God’s providence, St. Joseph’s is also celebrating, this year, the 150th jubilee of the site on which the old church, and now the new church was built.
 
Very often, when a door closes for one person, it opens for someone else. And so it was that, after I had reluctantly turned down the opportunity of those few days in Paris, the Provincial asked if Father Gareth might be interested. I asked him, and indeed he was. It will be Father Gareth’s first visit to St. Joseph’s and to Paris, and I hope he enjoys it very much. Quite what Paris will make of Father Gareth I don’t know, but no doubt he will make the usual, unforgettable impression in St. Joseph’s that he makes wherever he goes.
 
Here are some of my favourite quotes from Oscar Wilde:
Always forgive your enemies; nothing annoys them so much….
We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars…
Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future…

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father frank's log...

3/11/2019

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 27th OCTOBER – 3rd NOVEMBER
​
One of the regrets I have in life is that I have never had a gift for languages. I admire the polyglots of this world, but I must confess I envy them a bit too as, over the years, living in different countries for a time, I have experienced both the loneliness of not having the language, and the way in which the language opens doors for those who do. I have mentioned before an Irish Passionist, now gone to God, who, due to a strange set of circumstances, ended up finishing his Theology studies in Argentina and being ordained there, before returning home to take up residence at Mount Argus in Dublin. When Celtic won the European Cup in 1967, and were due to travel to Argentina later that year for the World Club Championship as a result, he chanced his arm and phoned Jock Stein to offer his services as a translator. Incredibly the offer was accepted and, not only did he get to go with the team on what turned out to be a disappointing and notorious trip, but he also became good friends with the great man and his family ever after – and all because he spoke the language.
 
I’m also thinking of another Passionist with whom I was in Rome at the time of the canonisation of Maximillian Kolbe. The night before the canonisation there was to be a press conference with the man for whom Kolbe offered his life, and this Passionist thought it would be great to be there, and he invited me to join him. It turned out that the event was for press only, but somehow my colleague bluffed his way in by offering his services as a translator from Polish to English. The irony was, he didn’t even speak Polish, but he was so proficient in a host of other languages that he was confident he would get away with it if challenged, which thankfully he wasn’t. And, just one more example, there was a previous Passionist Provincial, already proficient in a number of languages, who had an abiding passion for China and so, throughout his eight-year tenure as Provincial, he arranged for a tutor to come in every week to teach him Mandarin. When his time as Provincial was over he set off to become part of a new Passionist project in China, and was able to make a significant contribution to our presence there, and all the more so because he had the language.
 
I do feel though, that this past couple of months, I have been learning a new language – the language of construction. There are works going on in St. Mungo’s church at this time. They began on 16th September and are scheduled to finish on 2nd December. Even with the hitches we have had along the way, our excellent contractors are confident of finishing on time. But, before these works began, if you had mentioned to me block and beam; Topcem screed; dwarf walls and Doc M packs, I would have looked at you with glazed eyes and open mouth, not having the faintest notion of what you were talking about. Now they have become the language of every day conversation which, at least to some extent, I understand.
 
It made me think about the importance of the language of faith, and the value of learning that language from an early age, and not just the words and phrases, but what the words and phrases refer to: God; Prayer; Word; Sacrament; Blessed Trinity; Father; Son; Holy Spirit; Saviour; Holy Eucharist; Blessed Sacrament; Holy Water; Holy Oil; Reconciliation; Mass; Pope; Bishop; Priest; Religious; Laity; Liturgy; Ministry; Mission; Sin; Grace; Our Lady; Parish; Diocese; Penance; Blessing; Saint; Tabernacle; Vestments; Vocation; Conscience; Confession; Sacred; Genuflection; Reverence; Gospel; Epistle; Psalm; Consecration; Ordination; Sign of Peace; Doctrine; Scripture and Tradition; Angels and Archangels; Good and Evil; Heaven and Hell; Mercy; Compassion; Commandment; Love; Passion; Crucifixion; Resurrection and Salvation – to  name but a few, and in no particular order. Just knowing the words and phrases will not in itself deepen faith, but to be in the church without the language must be a lonely place and it saddens me when this seems to be the case for so many.
May the Lord soon touch your ears to receive His Word and your mouth to proclaim His Faith, to the glory of God the Father. (from the Rite of Baptism)
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    FATHER FRANK KEEVINS C.P.

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