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November 27th, 2021

27/11/2021

FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 21st – 28th NOVEMBER

I am on catch-up today as I have just returned from meetings in our Passionist Retreat Centre in Crossgar, County Down. It was a meeting of the local superiors and leadership teams in each of our locations, as we try to move forward on the priorities we set at our Provincial Chapter last July. It was a productive meeting and a good opportunity to meet with each other face to face again. While there, I had a good chat with Father John Varghese, the Passionist from India, whom we are waiting to welcome to St. Mungo’s once we have received Home Office clearance. He can’t wait to come but, for the time being, he will carry out ministry in Holy Cross, Ardoyne, for which he has already been cleared. If there could be such a thing as an Indian Father Gareth, he might be it. He is a lovely character, and let’s hope he is able to come soon. I was also chatting with Father John Craven, who is the parish priest in Holy Cross and, needless to say, he is delighted to have Father Gareth, who is settling in well.

A few days before leaving I had yet another adventure with the car. Let it be said that, while I think I am a good and careful driver, I know next to nothing about cars, and that is especially true in these times when there is so much technology attached to them. On this occasion I was driving into the church when a light came on, accompanied by a message to inflate my tyres and re-initialize (whatever that means!). I had received this message before and I knew it was simply resolved by putting air in the tyres, and so, I resolved to do this sometime after the morning Mass. When I got to the church, I had a look at them, and they seemed not too bad. Around noon I headed to a local garage but, when I looked at the car then, one of the tyres was quite deflated. I decided my best bet was to put some air in and then head to the nearby Kwik Fit. By the time I got there the tyre was in shreds, but they weren’t going to be able to look at it until evening time. I rescheduled my day, getting good use out of my bus pass, until I eventually got the call offering the usual three options of a re-tread, a mid-range, or a top range tyre. I made my choice and then set out from Drumchapel, to where I had, by then, bussed it to perform my caring duties, back to Bishopbriggs before they closed. On arrival I was asked if I knew that I had lost my wheel trim. I didn’t know this, but I knew I had it when I first went to put air in the tyres and so, having paid for the new tyre, I left the car where it was and started to retrace my journey. It was dark by this time and I knew that my chances of finding it were slim, no matter how much I promised Saint Anthony, and, even if I did find it, it would probably have been smashed to bits by other cars having run over it. However, just as I got near to Springburn Cross, and was about to head for the other side of the road, I spotted my wheel trim sitting against someone’s garden fence, all in one piece. It was a miracle. I wasn’t sure whether to attribute it to St. Anthony; St. Christopher (patron saint of travellers), or St. Frances of Rome (patron saint of car drivers), but I was certainly extremely grateful to the very kind person who must have picked it up and placed it there. I was also grateful that, when I got back to Kwik Fit, just as they were shutting up shop, they generously put it back on for me, being just as amazed as I was that I found it.

All of which meant I was able to safely drive to Crossgar and back via the Cairnryan-Belfast ferry. There are lots of roadworks en route to Cairnryan and back as construction takes place to provide a Maybole bypass, which looks as if it will open soon. On quite a few occasions I came upon temporary traffic systems which advised me to stop here – and wait for the light, and I thought, well, there’s an appropriate theme for Advent if ever there was one. It was good to get home, very tired but safe, and all of us, thank God, are well in Bishopbriggs.

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

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father frank's log...

19/11/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 14th – 21st NOVEMBER

Sometimes in the Gospels you get, what seems to be, an ad hoc, and disjointed, collection of sayings from Jesus, and that’s the format this week’s log will follow as well; an ad hoc, and disjointed collection of anecdotes from Father Frank. To begin with, last Saturday, I set out in the car from Bishopbriggs to Saint Mungo’s. I soon noticed a light on in the car that I didn’t recognize. In the process of trying to turn it off I discovered a feature of the car that I didn’t even know I had. In more hope than expectation, I pushed a button near to the unidentified light and, suddenly, an alarm began to sound in the car. I went into a panic and wondered what to push next to silence the alarm. At this stage, let me assure you, I had pulled into the side of the road. The next thing, a disembodied voice appeared, to ask me what emergency service I required. I apologised profusely and said that I didn’t need any emergency service, I just needed to know how to switch the alarm off. The rogue light that initially concerned me had already gone off. Once the person behind the mystery voice was convinced that I didn’t need an emergency service he cut himself off, with me continuing to implore his help on how to turn the alarm off. It then, mercifully, went silent, so he clearly was able to do it remotely.

The next day, Sunday, I was scheduled to celebrate a baptism after the 12 o’clock Mass. The family turned up in good time and, in conversation with the baby’s mother, I discovered that I, in fact, knew her mother and father from years ago. The said mother and father duly turned up and, when I got talking to the mother afterwards, she mischievously produced, on her phone, a photograph of me dancing with her at her wedding back in 1985. I had no memory of this whatsoever. As old photographs go, it wasn’t too bad, but there was general agreement that, while myself and her husband had changed a fair bit throughout those thirty-six years, and now looked, shall we say, more “mature”, she, herself, had hardly changed a bit.

The next day again, on the Monday, I was celebrating the funeral of a young man of just 47 years of age. I knew his mother and his late father well, from back in the days when I was based in Saint Mungo’s after ordination, the same period, in fact, when the afore mentioned wedding would have taken place. What I discovered, though, in the course of preparing for the funeral, was that the mother and father had first met at the Saturday night dancing in the church hall of Saint Simon’s in Partick which, as many of you will know, was the parish I grew up in. During the period that they met, my uncle Tony, who was really my granny’s brother, was the one who looked after Saint Simon’s church hall, and who also ran the dances. Every Saturday afternoon, I would be given the job of going round to the hall and, with a big lump of wax and a grater, I would grate the wax onto the floor, so as to make it nicely slippy and slidy for the dancers that night. At the dances themselves, myself and my older brother, the doyen of Scottish sports journalists, as I like to call him, would have the job of selling the ginger and crisps through a hatch to the side of the hall stage. When it got a bit later, older family members would take over, and we would be sent round to my granny’s, stopping en route to pick up bags of fish and chips from the local Italian chippy. Happy days! But, it’s highly likely that I met and served this couple at the dances back then, years before I actually knew them from saint Mungo’s. What a small world it can be sometimes.

Back at Bishopbriggs, Father Gareth’s absence is deafening; Father Justinian is keeping well, Father Antony is in Dublin for meetings and, when he comes back, I, myself, go to Crossgar for meetings, so we will both be running a one-man show for a few days. We will survive!

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

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father frank's log...

12/11/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 7th – 14th NOVEMBER

As many of you will know, I like a good drama on television, and there are plenty of good dramas around at present. The only one I am watching in real time is the wonderful Shetland on a Wednesday night. There are two others, Angela Black and The Tower, that my brother records and, when I go up to make him a dinner the day after each of them, we sit and watch them together. This means that, if I know of other people who are watching them in real time, I need to swear them to silence, and tell me nothing of what went on. It reminds me of the days, pre social media, when I would enjoy watching football highlights without knowing the scores, and I would begin conversations with certain people by pleading with them, “don’t tell me the score!” Nowadays, it’s almost impossible to not find out the scores from someone before the highlights programme comes on. It makes it less exciting, but more relaxing.

This week, however, I was drawn to a very different TV programme. It was a documentary on BBC Scotland called the Hermit of Treig, about a man who has been living as a hermit for almost 40 years in a remote woodland north of Fort William. He lives in a log cabin, built by himself, with no electricity, no running water, and no phone. He survives by fishing, by growing a few vegetables, and by foraging for other food. If you love nature, he says, nature will love you back, and look after you. It all began when he was beaten up by a gang and thrown through a jeweller’s shop window in his twenties. He suffered brain injuries and wasn’t really expected to survive, but he did, and he decided that from then on, he would live on his own terms. He went walking in the Yukon but, when he returned, his parents had died, and so he went walking again. When he discovered this remote area above Loch Treig, which apparently means the Lonely Loch, because there is no public road leading into, or out of it, he stopped walking, grieved at last for his parents, and settled. Part of the story focussed on a stroke that put him in hospital for seven weeks, and he is being encouraged by people to leave his hermitage and return to “civilization”, where he can be better cared for, but there is very little chance that he is going to do that. He wrote to a priest who came and consecrated a patch of ground where he wants to be buried, and he believes strongly in life after death. He has, so far, made 80 gallons of wine, stored at his cabin, so that, when he dies, anyone who wants to, can come and raise a glass to him. I may just keep an eye out for him, and do that.

I was drawn to this documentary, I think, on two counts, firstly as an introvert, and secondly as a Passionist. Over the years, for various reasons, I have done a number of personality type indicators – the Enneagram and the Myers Briggs to name just two of them. Always, I have emerged as an almost “off the scale” introvert. Introverts draw energy from being on their own, and so solitude has always been something I have found attractive, fascinated by the lives and experiences of the early Christian desert fathers and mothers, and by hermits like Thomas Merton and Charles de Foucauld. The founder of the Passionists, St. Paul of the Cross, also a very strong introvert, felt passionately drawn to solitude, and for long periods lived the life of a hermit, but, when God led him in other ways, he took refuge in the hermitage of the heart, and inserted into the rule of his new order, that the members were to foster and develop a deep spirit of solitude so that they could reach closer union with God, and witness to His love. Could I have lived as a hermit? Certainly, my novitiate year with the Passionists, my 30-day silent retreat when training for Formation ministry, and my many other retreats and holidays, where I preferred to self-cater, go walking in solitude, and find renewed energy by being on my own in beautiful and remote places, have been among the best experiences of my life, but, living for 40 years in a remote forest above a lonely loch – that would probably have been too much – and there is a part of me that laments that.

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

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father frank's log...

6/11/2021

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FATHER FRANK’S LOG: 7th – 14th NOVEMBER

Last Monday, All Saints Day, I had a disconcerting experience. I had started writing out my November List of loved ones who had died. One of the first names I always insert is the brother of my granny, on my mother’s side. He had a huge influence on my childhood and early life, and was probably the most influential person in my life, in terms of passing on the faith to me. However, when it came to putting him on the list, my mind went blank. I could remember his surname, but I couldn’t remember his Christian name. I knew it, of course, but I just couldn’t bring it to mind. I went through the alphabet in my head, but still nothing came. I was bordering on panic – how could this possibly happen? In that moment, I had to let it go, and my list went into the box with only his surname inserted. Afterwards, of course, when I wasn’t thinking about it, his name popped into my head. It was Tony. My grand-uncle Tony Farrell – always shortened to Uncle Tony. He was a great man, stern in many ways, and serious, but he was a solid rock of wisdom and generosity in the family, to whom everyone turned in time of trouble, and he was a legend in our parish of St. Simon’s in Partick. I have sometimes heard people say how afraid they were when, sometime after a loved one’s death, they were struggling to remember their face, or to remember the sound of their voice, and yet I know how easily it can happen. But this was the nearest I had come to it myself. It brought home to me the importance of taking all the opportunities we have to remember, and also the wisdom behind the church’s setting aside of a whole month, November, to remember.

At 7 o’clock this morning (Thursday 4th November), Father Gareth set off for Cairnryan to catch the 11.30am ferry to Belfast, and then on to Holy Cross, Ardoyne, to take up his new position as assistant priest in Holy Cross Parish, as well as being the Vocations Director for Ireland. On Tuesday night, after the community had enjoyed some pizza, we all went to our rooms. I was sitting, reading, when suddenly I hear a loud bang, followed by loud shouts of exclamation. I thought something untoward had happened, but it turned out that Father Gareth had taken the notion to open a bottle of prosecco. The cork had exploded out of the bottle and, of course, expanded in the process. Realising that there was no way he could get the cork back into the bottle, he knocked on our doors to ask if we would join him in a glass and help to finish the bottle. Father Gareth is a very, very occasional drinker, so I took this as a desire to sit and have a chat, as his time in the community was rapidly winding down. I don’t like bubbly drinks, so I said I would come down and have a small single malt with him.
Father Justinian, also a very occasional drinker, agreed to a small glass of bubbly. Father Antony, unfortunately, was unable to join us.

Hardly had we begun to chat when I noticed a car outside, whose occupants seemed to be a bit lost, as if searching for some particular house. Our estate is not the easiest to navigate, as pizza delivery people, and others, will testify to. By the time we got to the door, the car had moved on. We settled down again, but then the phone rang. I answered, and it was the people in the car, still lost, but wanting to call on Father Gareth to say their last goodbyes. We directed them to the house and Father Gareth met them at the door and brought them in. Father Justinian and I left them to it and, when I came down the next morning, the bubbly was finished. Father Gareth spent his last day cleaning his room, so as to leave it clear for Father John Varghese to move in, once he is able to come. Such is the life we live. There is not a trace of Father Gareth left in what has been his own personal space for the past five years, but of course, in another sense, his presence will linger with us always. So, for the moment, we are a community of three, facing up to the reality of a quieter house, which won’t be so easy. We will miss him a lot and, today, I am feeling a bit empty and sad.

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

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November 27th, 2021

father frank's log...

father frank's log...

father frank's log...

FATHER FRANK KEEVINS C.P.

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