Week ending May 29th 2012
While much of the Roman Catholic Church focus in early June will be on the Eucharistic Congress in Dublin, the ordination of two young men to the priesthood in the Cathedral of The Assumption, Tuam next Sunday will probably take pride of place for many in this part of the country. We wish Deacons Eugene O’Boyle and Shane Sullivan every blessing. They are being ordained at a very challenging time for the church, but they know that. They are not going into it with their eyes closed and they know they will have the full support of the Archbishop and the priests as well as the congregations in the parishes to which they are soon to be assigned.
While Shane Sullivan was born and reared in the United States, his Irish home is in Cill Chiaráin in this parish of Carna, from which his father, Bart Ó Súilleabháin emigrated. He has many close relatives in the area and he preached beautifully recently at the funeral of his grandaunt, Juidín Seoighe who died a couple of months short of her hundreth birthday. She would love to be present at his first Mass in Cill Chiaráin church on Monday, 4th June at 6.30pm, and I am sure that she will, in spirit. She was a lovely lady whose wit and wisdom I miss on my monthly holy communion rounds.
Shane has worked very hard on his Irish in recent years in order to be ready for all eventualities in the Archdiocese of Tuam, one of which is, for many, the ability to serve in a Gaeltacht parish. He attended a crash course in the language in An Cheathrú Rua (Carraroe) and between that and talking to neighbours and relatives on his visits West, he has the right blas and an excellent command of Irish. He is more likely, of course to be assigned to one of the larger towns, in which the numbers of priests has been greatly reduced in recent years, but I would not dare pre-empt or second guess the decisions of the Archbishop. Both Eugene, whom I do not know, and Shane, will, I am sure be great assets to the people in whichever parishes they serve.
It brings a dose of reality to my life when I realise that by the time Eugene and Shane are as long in the priesthood as I am, I will be 107 years old. The world will probably have changed even more in those forty one years than it has since I was ordained in 1971, which incidentally seems just like yesterday. The first children I christened are in their forties, and some are probably grandparents at this stage. While the years have added highlights to my hair and beard, and the bones are a bit more weary, I can still agree with the quote from Saint Paul I used on an ordination card at the time: “I am not ashamed of the gospel.” I have been ashamed of myself and the church from time to time, but not of the gospel of Jesus Christ.
My advice to the youg ordinands is the advice given to me by the priest who was curate in Belcarra in my earliest years, Father Tommy Gibbons. He wrote to me from his then curacy of Annaghdown when I found myself posted overseas to Inis Oirr and Inis Meáin in the Aran Islands in November 1971 as a result of an article I had written. “Don’t take yourself or life too seriously,” he told me, ‘too’ being the operative word.
While Shane Sullivan was born and reared in the United States, his Irish home is in Cill Chiaráin in this parish of Carna, from which his father, Bart Ó Súilleabháin emigrated. He has many close relatives in the area and he preached beautifully recently at the funeral of his grandaunt, Juidín Seoighe who died a couple of months short of her hundreth birthday. She would love to be present at his first Mass in Cill Chiaráin church on Monday, 4th June at 6.30pm, and I am sure that she will, in spirit. She was a lovely lady whose wit and wisdom I miss on my monthly holy communion rounds.
Shane has worked very hard on his Irish in recent years in order to be ready for all eventualities in the Archdiocese of Tuam, one of which is, for many, the ability to serve in a Gaeltacht parish. He attended a crash course in the language in An Cheathrú Rua (Carraroe) and between that and talking to neighbours and relatives on his visits West, he has the right blas and an excellent command of Irish. He is more likely, of course to be assigned to one of the larger towns, in which the numbers of priests has been greatly reduced in recent years, but I would not dare pre-empt or second guess the decisions of the Archbishop. Both Eugene, whom I do not know, and Shane, will, I am sure be great assets to the people in whichever parishes they serve.
It brings a dose of reality to my life when I realise that by the time Eugene and Shane are as long in the priesthood as I am, I will be 107 years old. The world will probably have changed even more in those forty one years than it has since I was ordained in 1971, which incidentally seems just like yesterday. The first children I christened are in their forties, and some are probably grandparents at this stage. While the years have added highlights to my hair and beard, and the bones are a bit more weary, I can still agree with the quote from Saint Paul I used on an ordination card at the time: “I am not ashamed of the gospel.” I have been ashamed of myself and the church from time to time, but not of the gospel of Jesus Christ.
My advice to the youg ordinands is the advice given to me by the priest who was curate in Belcarra in my earliest years, Father Tommy Gibbons. He wrote to me from his then curacy of Annaghdown when I found myself posted overseas to Inis Oirr and Inis Meáin in the Aran Islands in November 1971 as a result of an article I had written. “Don’t take yourself or life too seriously,” he told me, ‘too’ being the operative word.
Week ending May 22 nd 2012
To paraphrase a line from an old song: “My vote is still afloat in the teeth of wind and weather...” I remain among the undecideds with regard to the Fiscal Treaty Referendum in less than two weeks time. My gut instinct is to make my vote conditional’ for an ‘All Politics Is Local’ reason, to try and retain the services of a teacher in Aird Mhóír, one of the local schools here in Carna. What I can say for certain is that if that teacher is officially retained in the next ten days I will definitely vote ‘Yes’ If not I will vote ‘No.’ So it’s over to you, politicians of Galway and Mayo. It is not just my vote that is riding on this but the votes of a few hundred parents, grandparents, teachers, etc. Cynical politics you might say – You should know all about that: If the announcement of the closure of the Vatican Embassy had been made a week earlier, who would be President of Ireland now?
It was good to see a doughnut of politicians surrounding Giovanni Trappatoni on TV recently at the foot of Croagh Patrick. I too am an ardent supporter of Trap and the Irish team. There is another aspect of Irish culture in urgent need of attention, the survival of the Irish language in Gaeltacht areas. Schools are only one aspect of this, but an important one. To see a teacher whose position was under no threat at the start of the year because of adequate numbers undermined by the goalposts being changed in the last Budget, is galling, particularly when the young man in question is a nationally known musician who offers far more than ‘teaching’ to the school.
Right now I am annoyed enough about this to consider resigning as Parish Priest of Carna/Cill Chiaráin and as a member of the five National School Management Boards in the parish. This would be unlikely to change minds in the Department of Education or the mind of the Minister, Ruairí Quinn, TD, but it would raise the question: What is the point of being on Boards whose wishes and appeals are ignored by civil servants who have apparently never visited, or who know nothing about an area, its school or its people? How can an Education Department which replies to Irish language letters in English, or else ignores them altogether, deal with matters such as this in what are still significantly large and strong Gaeltacht areas?
Minister for Education Quinn is famous for headhunting, whether for the head of Taoiseach Albert Reynolds in the past or that of Cardinal Sean Brady more recently. It might be time for him to get his own head around the issue of small Gaeltacht schools. He was sufficiently contrite to save teachers in some DEIS schools in areas in which Labour seats might be in danger. The ideological bee he has in his bonnet about the patronage of Roman Catholic schools seems to prevent him from seeing the small picture. Secular groupthink? As the in word for resign has it, perhaps he should – ‘REFLECT.’
The feeling that Southwest Conamara had been abandoned by Government was highlighted for weeks by the fact that only Sinn Féin ‘Níl’ posters hung on local poles. Many of these were sensibly recycled election posters from the campaign of now Senator Trevor Ó Clochartaigh in last year’s General Election. At the wind blows the posters around the poles the Senator appears upside down in some of them. The sublimal message seems to be that Sinn Féin are going head over heels for this one. There is also an echo of Saint Peter crucified upside down because he did not want to be executed in the same way as his Saviour. Either way An Seanadóir Ó Clochartaigh is likely to be a TD for this area next time. A few Fine Gael posters appeared like mushrooms on the eve of a Ministerial visit but so far Fianna Fáil and Labour have no visible presence.
My vote is still afloat.
It was good to see a doughnut of politicians surrounding Giovanni Trappatoni on TV recently at the foot of Croagh Patrick. I too am an ardent supporter of Trap and the Irish team. There is another aspect of Irish culture in urgent need of attention, the survival of the Irish language in Gaeltacht areas. Schools are only one aspect of this, but an important one. To see a teacher whose position was under no threat at the start of the year because of adequate numbers undermined by the goalposts being changed in the last Budget, is galling, particularly when the young man in question is a nationally known musician who offers far more than ‘teaching’ to the school.
Right now I am annoyed enough about this to consider resigning as Parish Priest of Carna/Cill Chiaráin and as a member of the five National School Management Boards in the parish. This would be unlikely to change minds in the Department of Education or the mind of the Minister, Ruairí Quinn, TD, but it would raise the question: What is the point of being on Boards whose wishes and appeals are ignored by civil servants who have apparently never visited, or who know nothing about an area, its school or its people? How can an Education Department which replies to Irish language letters in English, or else ignores them altogether, deal with matters such as this in what are still significantly large and strong Gaeltacht areas?
Minister for Education Quinn is famous for headhunting, whether for the head of Taoiseach Albert Reynolds in the past or that of Cardinal Sean Brady more recently. It might be time for him to get his own head around the issue of small Gaeltacht schools. He was sufficiently contrite to save teachers in some DEIS schools in areas in which Labour seats might be in danger. The ideological bee he has in his bonnet about the patronage of Roman Catholic schools seems to prevent him from seeing the small picture. Secular groupthink? As the in word for resign has it, perhaps he should – ‘REFLECT.’
The feeling that Southwest Conamara had been abandoned by Government was highlighted for weeks by the fact that only Sinn Féin ‘Níl’ posters hung on local poles. Many of these were sensibly recycled election posters from the campaign of now Senator Trevor Ó Clochartaigh in last year’s General Election. At the wind blows the posters around the poles the Senator appears upside down in some of them. The sublimal message seems to be that Sinn Féin are going head over heels for this one. There is also an echo of Saint Peter crucified upside down because he did not want to be executed in the same way as his Saviour. Either way An Seanadóir Ó Clochartaigh is likely to be a TD for this area next time. A few Fine Gael posters appeared like mushrooms on the eve of a Ministerial visit but so far Fianna Fáil and Labour have no visible presence.
My vote is still afloat.
Week ending May 15th 2012
It is a time of the year that church focus moves from Jesus, the second person of the Blessed Trinity to the Third Person we refer to as the Holy Spirit. After a recent confirmation ceremony the Spirit seems to already have a higher profile around here than in other years. We can’t catch it in our hands as you might the dove that represents the Spirit in so many medieval paintings, or as you might catch one of the pigeons that is so fond of your vegetable patch. It is one thing to beat the carrot-fly, another to fend off not so much the doves of peace as the doves of seeds. Maybe that is the answer, feed them plenty of birdseed, so that they won’t bother your vegetables.
The Holy Spirit came in for some re-branding about forty years ago, as it was known as the Holy Ghost when I was growing up. I suppose the word ghost had scary connotations and it could have been seen as implying something dead. Spirit on the other hand implies life. The Holy Spirit is the life-force of God which Christians see as living within us even if we are not always inclined to let it out. Just as we often allow the God-son Jesus remain boxed up in a fancy box called a tabernacle in the church, we are sometimes inclined to neatly file away the Spirit in a mythical box of its own in case it might bother anyone.
One of my smart-alecky jokes to anyone within earshot as I close a church door or gate at the end of the day is that I am doing so in case God escapes during the night. God knows it is a joke but sub-consciously it carries a grain of truth. It is handy for us to keep God stashed away at arms length. It is nice to have the power with us so long as it doesn’t bother us or anyone else too much. A place for everything and everything in its place, including God. We can be scared of what might happen if we were really to allow God get off the leash in case he might lose the run of himself.
It happened before, and where did he end up? Like a scarecrow on a cross between two thieves. Not very politically correct if you ask me. He pushed things to the limit altogether when he died and came back to life like a butterfly flitting from flower to flower, arriving in locked rooms or walking the roads with disciples who did not recognise him until he broke bread at table with him. He even went so far as to put on a barbeque for some of them, lighting a fire on the strand and cooking fish for them when they came ashore with a great haul of fish. Water into wine, walking on water, calming storms, there was always that touch of a showman about him. No wonder we like to keep him under wraps as much as we can.
Then he took off. Just like that. We call it the Ascension. He had done all a person could do. God the human had lived and died, taught and showed the way, but as one of us he was confined by space and time and the constraints of this world. But he did not go away without making one of the great promises: “I will be with you always, yes until the end of time.” How was he to do that? The Holy Spirit, the Jesus Spirit, the Risen Jesus glorified and unrestrained, unconstrained, unconfined, unrefined in so far as it was the same incarnated, en-fleshed Godman who had walked the roads of Gallilee. He is back. Without a vengeance. “Come Holy Spirit. Fill the hearts of the faithful and enkindle in them the fire of your love.”
The Holy Spirit came in for some re-branding about forty years ago, as it was known as the Holy Ghost when I was growing up. I suppose the word ghost had scary connotations and it could have been seen as implying something dead. Spirit on the other hand implies life. The Holy Spirit is the life-force of God which Christians see as living within us even if we are not always inclined to let it out. Just as we often allow the God-son Jesus remain boxed up in a fancy box called a tabernacle in the church, we are sometimes inclined to neatly file away the Spirit in a mythical box of its own in case it might bother anyone.
One of my smart-alecky jokes to anyone within earshot as I close a church door or gate at the end of the day is that I am doing so in case God escapes during the night. God knows it is a joke but sub-consciously it carries a grain of truth. It is handy for us to keep God stashed away at arms length. It is nice to have the power with us so long as it doesn’t bother us or anyone else too much. A place for everything and everything in its place, including God. We can be scared of what might happen if we were really to allow God get off the leash in case he might lose the run of himself.
It happened before, and where did he end up? Like a scarecrow on a cross between two thieves. Not very politically correct if you ask me. He pushed things to the limit altogether when he died and came back to life like a butterfly flitting from flower to flower, arriving in locked rooms or walking the roads with disciples who did not recognise him until he broke bread at table with him. He even went so far as to put on a barbeque for some of them, lighting a fire on the strand and cooking fish for them when they came ashore with a great haul of fish. Water into wine, walking on water, calming storms, there was always that touch of a showman about him. No wonder we like to keep him under wraps as much as we can.
Then he took off. Just like that. We call it the Ascension. He had done all a person could do. God the human had lived and died, taught and showed the way, but as one of us he was confined by space and time and the constraints of this world. But he did not go away without making one of the great promises: “I will be with you always, yes until the end of time.” How was he to do that? The Holy Spirit, the Jesus Spirit, the Risen Jesus glorified and unrestrained, unconstrained, unconfined, unrefined in so far as it was the same incarnated, en-fleshed Godman who had walked the roads of Gallilee. He is back. Without a vengeance. “Come Holy Spirit. Fill the hearts of the faithful and enkindle in them the fire of your love.”
Week ending May 8th 2012
As often happens when the busy times like Easter and Confirmation are over and we are expecting to sit back, draw breath look forward to the hopefully long hot summer, tragedy strikes out of the blue and throws not just a family but a community into a spiral of grief. A young man who knows the sea like the back of his hand sets out in his currach and does not return. His boat is found out near the Aran Islands and his body by a local place of pilgrimage, Saint McDara’s Island. Gerry Folan is laid to rest in Moyrus cemetery, within sight of his home after one of the biggest funerals ever seen in the area.
If anything tragedy strikes even harder in an area that has known plenty of such hardship. People relive their own grief as well as that which has just happened. Crises as always bring out the best in people, bring a community together, and not just a local community but the larger coastal community who are more than willing to get out there and search the seas for the one who is lost. The loss of a life is bad enough but the failure to find a body, to say a proper goodbye, to have a decent burial makes the sense of loss all the greater. Thankfully in this case as in the great search in Union Hall in Cork earlier this year, the body was found.
I have written here in the past of the number of drownings I have had to deal with in more than forty years as a priest around the coast of South Galway as well as by the shores of Lough Mask. Many were around the Aran Islands, Ros a’Mhíl, Galway Docks and one from as far away as Alaska, but nonetheless a local fisherman who had gone to where the work was. People take more care now than they used to when I first found myself by the coast, when a lifejacket was a rarity, but the sea is tricky no matter how good the fisherman or boatman, or how deep their respect for the ocean’s various moods and chamges..
Every drowning tragedy reminds me of John Millington Synge’s famous short play: “Riders To The Sea.” I took a particular interest in that drama as it was based on the loss of a young man’s life while Synge was staying in Inis Meáin, the middle island of Aran in Galway Bay on which I spent about a seventh of my life. Maurya, the young man’s mother’s speech at the end of that play sums up much of loss and grief on such an occasion, even to the extent of her having a sense of relief at no longer having to worry about her son every time he went out to fish.
The mother’s grief in that short play has always reminded me of Michangelo’s ‘Pieta’ or the thirteenth station of the cross as depicted in so many churches, Mary, the mother of Jesus with the body of her dead son in her arms. She is a long way now from the joy of that Christmas night when she first held her little boy. The cold body of her dead son is that of a crucified criminal just taken down from his cross of shame. “What has it all come to?” It is a Good Friday question answered on Easter Sunday but not the less poignant on that Friday evening. The Easter story does not give us all the answers, but at least it gives us hope.
If anything tragedy strikes even harder in an area that has known plenty of such hardship. People relive their own grief as well as that which has just happened. Crises as always bring out the best in people, bring a community together, and not just a local community but the larger coastal community who are more than willing to get out there and search the seas for the one who is lost. The loss of a life is bad enough but the failure to find a body, to say a proper goodbye, to have a decent burial makes the sense of loss all the greater. Thankfully in this case as in the great search in Union Hall in Cork earlier this year, the body was found.
I have written here in the past of the number of drownings I have had to deal with in more than forty years as a priest around the coast of South Galway as well as by the shores of Lough Mask. Many were around the Aran Islands, Ros a’Mhíl, Galway Docks and one from as far away as Alaska, but nonetheless a local fisherman who had gone to where the work was. People take more care now than they used to when I first found myself by the coast, when a lifejacket was a rarity, but the sea is tricky no matter how good the fisherman or boatman, or how deep their respect for the ocean’s various moods and chamges..
Every drowning tragedy reminds me of John Millington Synge’s famous short play: “Riders To The Sea.” I took a particular interest in that drama as it was based on the loss of a young man’s life while Synge was staying in Inis Meáin, the middle island of Aran in Galway Bay on which I spent about a seventh of my life. Maurya, the young man’s mother’s speech at the end of that play sums up much of loss and grief on such an occasion, even to the extent of her having a sense of relief at no longer having to worry about her son every time he went out to fish.
The mother’s grief in that short play has always reminded me of Michangelo’s ‘Pieta’ or the thirteenth station of the cross as depicted in so many churches, Mary, the mother of Jesus with the body of her dead son in her arms. She is a long way now from the joy of that Christmas night when she first held her little boy. The cold body of her dead son is that of a crucified criminal just taken down from his cross of shame. “What has it all come to?” It is a Good Friday question answered on Easter Sunday but not the less poignant on that Friday evening. The Easter story does not give us all the answers, but at least it gives us hope.
Week ending May 1st 2012
My wild duck and drake, Lachan and Bardal, to give them their Irish names, have surpassed themselves this year. Fifteen little ducklings float proudly behind them on the pond or little lake at the rear of Carna presbytery. While I was hatching the plot of a novel in recent times, the ducks were obviously involved in a different kind of hatching. Could one duck spread herself over fifteen or more eggs, if we are to allow for a couple of gluggers? I doubt it. The drake must have had to display his feminine side, put his maternal instincts to the test and gotten broody. However they did it they have done it and I can only look on in admiration as they swim about in a lovely display of family solidarity..
The wild ducks have replaced the two swans who seem to have taken off after their winter hibernation. I miss them but I’m glad that they are not around at the moment at the same time. I just don’t know how they would deal with curious baby ducklings getting too close to them. They will be welcome home when the baby ducks have grown or flown. The same swans caused me some surprise one day when I looked out against a low morning sun and saw what seemed like the sails of two boats in the distance. They were too small to be real boats and I imagined they might be replica Galway hookers which people sometimes float on the water under full sail or even equipped with remote control steering systems. It turned out that my ‘sails’ were the tail feathers of the swans whose long necks were reaching deep beneath the surface for food at the time
As we get older we tend to appreciate the joys of spring and early summer and the fact that we are around to see at least one more display of nature’s wonders, new buds, new leaves, new flowers, new life. It is no accident that resurrection is celebrated at this time of year. My favourite flowering is probably that of the whitethorn, or hawthorn, for its aroma almost as much as its colour. I often think of an old phrase used by my father: “When all fruit fails, welcome haw.” I welcome it even more this year as I learned a little about its properties from TG4’s excellent gardening programme ‘Garraí Glas.’ The white blossom of the hawthorn can be eaten and is supposed to have a calming effect on a person, lowering blood pressure among other things. Check the facts though, before trying it out yourself, or you will be blaming me for driving you haw-wire.
Traditionally we have been told that April showers bring May flowers. The flowers of May have been used on May Day in this and many other countries to honour Mary, mother of Jesus, a woman held in high regard by Muslims as well as by Christians. It is a tradition worth preserving, whether flowers are strewn on the ground in her honour or used as part of a little shrine, or both. I was in Crete once on May Day and was amazed at the amount of flowers strewn on roads and about houses and churches. It happened to be the Greek Orthodox Easter that year, but was also in honour of Mary as the many icons showed. We are inclined to think sometimes that some of out traditions are local while they are in fact virtually universal. Whether wet or fine I expect May Day to be ‘a great day for ducks.’
The wild ducks have replaced the two swans who seem to have taken off after their winter hibernation. I miss them but I’m glad that they are not around at the moment at the same time. I just don’t know how they would deal with curious baby ducklings getting too close to them. They will be welcome home when the baby ducks have grown or flown. The same swans caused me some surprise one day when I looked out against a low morning sun and saw what seemed like the sails of two boats in the distance. They were too small to be real boats and I imagined they might be replica Galway hookers which people sometimes float on the water under full sail or even equipped with remote control steering systems. It turned out that my ‘sails’ were the tail feathers of the swans whose long necks were reaching deep beneath the surface for food at the time
As we get older we tend to appreciate the joys of spring and early summer and the fact that we are around to see at least one more display of nature’s wonders, new buds, new leaves, new flowers, new life. It is no accident that resurrection is celebrated at this time of year. My favourite flowering is probably that of the whitethorn, or hawthorn, for its aroma almost as much as its colour. I often think of an old phrase used by my father: “When all fruit fails, welcome haw.” I welcome it even more this year as I learned a little about its properties from TG4’s excellent gardening programme ‘Garraí Glas.’ The white blossom of the hawthorn can be eaten and is supposed to have a calming effect on a person, lowering blood pressure among other things. Check the facts though, before trying it out yourself, or you will be blaming me for driving you haw-wire.
Traditionally we have been told that April showers bring May flowers. The flowers of May have been used on May Day in this and many other countries to honour Mary, mother of Jesus, a woman held in high regard by Muslims as well as by Christians. It is a tradition worth preserving, whether flowers are strewn on the ground in her honour or used as part of a little shrine, or both. I was in Crete once on May Day and was amazed at the amount of flowers strewn on roads and about houses and churches. It happened to be the Greek Orthodox Easter that year, but was also in honour of Mary as the many icons showed. We are inclined to think sometimes that some of out traditions are local while they are in fact virtually universal. Whether wet or fine I expect May Day to be ‘a great day for ducks.’