Week ending November 27th 2012
The recent death of Father Tadhg Ó Móráin brought down the curtain on sixty-one years of priesthood, as chaplain in Kylemore Abbey, curate in Inis Oirr and Inis Meáin,, An Tulach, Lecanvey, Parish Priest in The Aran Islands and Louisburg, and Assistant Priest in Cornamona until his retirement in 2003. He was my first Parish Priest forty-one years ago, but we had miles of water between us, as he was in Inis Mór and I was attached to the smaller Islands of Aran, Inis Meáin and Inis Oirr. Tadhg was a strong personality and we did not always agree, but of all the people I ever met, he seemed to be the one who least held grudges. Today’s argument tended to be forgotten tomorrow.
What people thought of him made little difference to Father Tadhg. He would sometimes rub parishioners or fellow priests up the wrong way, but he never considered he was part of a popularity contest. He stood by what he believed in and got on with life. Cynics among the clergy used to refer to Aer Arann as Aer Tadhg, because he seemed to be on the plane to the mainland so often. Did that bother him? Not in the least. He just enjoyed the legend and went about his business. I am not sure had he ever taken flying lessons, but at least one of the pilots used to regularly allow him to take the controls while in the air, but land the plane himself.
Priests from many parts of the country joined clergy of the Archdiocese of Tuam for his funeral in Corr na Móna. Tadhg had been active in Cumann na Sagart, the Association of Irish speaking priests for most of his priestly life. Bishop Brendan Kelly of Achonry, himself an Irish scholar, joined Archbishop Michael Neary at the altar. As the coffin was carried into the church by, among others, local TD, Éamon Ó Cúiv, I heard a visiting priest remark: ”How many TDs would be seen to carry the coffin of a priest into their church? That rhetorical question was allowed hang in the air as the Mass was introduced by Brize-man, Fr, Billy O’Reilly, former Parish Priest of Clonbur and Corr na Móna, as well as The Aran Islands, and now in Cnoc na hAille, west of Spiddal.
In his homily Archbishop Michael Neary told the interesting story of how playwright Brendan Behan had got to know Father Tadhg while curate in Inis Oirr. Behan had gone to the island to brush up on his Irish at a time he had earned a cheque for fifty pounds from The Irish Times. This was big money in the fifties of the last century, and as there was no Bank on the island and Brendan did not want to drink too much at a time, he deposited the money with the local curate. They became friends, and when Behan’s play “The Quare Fella” was published in 1957, he wrote the inscription on the flyleaf. “Tuigeann an tAthair Tadhg Breandán Ó Béacháin” (Fr. Tadhg understands Brendan Behan.) He told the priest: “Don’t let your Archbishop ever see this, or you will never be promoted.”
Fr. Tadhg was reared in Limerick but his father was from the Newport area of Co. Mayo. An uncle, Fr. Andy was Parish Priest of Carraroe and was remembered with fondness there when I was a curate in that parish twenty years later. It was that connection that led Tadhg to Tuam rather than Limerick diocese. The adage: “He was his own man” probably sums him up best. He did it his way, and I don’t think he will have many regrets to report to Saint Peter. Ar dheis Dé go raibh sé.
What people thought of him made little difference to Father Tadhg. He would sometimes rub parishioners or fellow priests up the wrong way, but he never considered he was part of a popularity contest. He stood by what he believed in and got on with life. Cynics among the clergy used to refer to Aer Arann as Aer Tadhg, because he seemed to be on the plane to the mainland so often. Did that bother him? Not in the least. He just enjoyed the legend and went about his business. I am not sure had he ever taken flying lessons, but at least one of the pilots used to regularly allow him to take the controls while in the air, but land the plane himself.
Priests from many parts of the country joined clergy of the Archdiocese of Tuam for his funeral in Corr na Móna. Tadhg had been active in Cumann na Sagart, the Association of Irish speaking priests for most of his priestly life. Bishop Brendan Kelly of Achonry, himself an Irish scholar, joined Archbishop Michael Neary at the altar. As the coffin was carried into the church by, among others, local TD, Éamon Ó Cúiv, I heard a visiting priest remark: ”How many TDs would be seen to carry the coffin of a priest into their church? That rhetorical question was allowed hang in the air as the Mass was introduced by Brize-man, Fr, Billy O’Reilly, former Parish Priest of Clonbur and Corr na Móna, as well as The Aran Islands, and now in Cnoc na hAille, west of Spiddal.
In his homily Archbishop Michael Neary told the interesting story of how playwright Brendan Behan had got to know Father Tadhg while curate in Inis Oirr. Behan had gone to the island to brush up on his Irish at a time he had earned a cheque for fifty pounds from The Irish Times. This was big money in the fifties of the last century, and as there was no Bank on the island and Brendan did not want to drink too much at a time, he deposited the money with the local curate. They became friends, and when Behan’s play “The Quare Fella” was published in 1957, he wrote the inscription on the flyleaf. “Tuigeann an tAthair Tadhg Breandán Ó Béacháin” (Fr. Tadhg understands Brendan Behan.) He told the priest: “Don’t let your Archbishop ever see this, or you will never be promoted.”
Fr. Tadhg was reared in Limerick but his father was from the Newport area of Co. Mayo. An uncle, Fr. Andy was Parish Priest of Carraroe and was remembered with fondness there when I was a curate in that parish twenty years later. It was that connection that led Tadhg to Tuam rather than Limerick diocese. The adage: “He was his own man” probably sums him up best. He did it his way, and I don’t think he will have many regrets to report to Saint Peter. Ar dheis Dé go raibh sé.
Week ending November 20th 2012
“We don’t do God,” was a phrase famously used by Alasdair Campbell, who served as a spokesman for Tony Blair during his time as British Prime Minister. You don’t have to be a witchdoctor to be a spindoctor, it seems. Mr Campbell was answering, or failing to answer a question to do with religion, and that particular spin has become part of legend. Tony in fact “did” God and religion, regularly joining his wife Cherie and family at Mass, before becoming a Roman Catholic himself on completing his stint in Ten Downing Street. Alasdair Campbell bravely appeared on RTÉ’s “Late Late Show” a couple of months ago, speaking about his depression and alcolohism, and I am sure that his comments were a help to many. I don’t know if he is “doing God” yet, but he is certainly doing good.
United States of America politicians certainly do “do God,” as both newly elected President Barak Obama and his rival for that office, Mitt Romney, clearly demonstrated in recent times. In his congratulatory speech to the President, Mr Romney promised to pray for Mr. Obama and his family and he was most gracious in accepting the will of the people and conceding defeat. Both men were loud in their “God bless America,” and “God bless you all” remarks to assembled multitudes and television and radio audiences. “Doing God” seems to come easier to American politicians than it does to Irish and European ones. Perhaps we are more reserved or recitint, or maybe we make more allowance for those who do not believe.
Could you imagine an Irish politician getting away with a “God bless Ieland” declaration? He or she would be pilloried by a so-called liberal media, by fellow politicians squirming in their seats on the other side of the Dáil, not to speak of in their own benches. “God” is an embarrassment in Irish politics and public life, despite ninety per cent or so of the population suggesting in the census that they believe. Do you remember the reaction to Bertie Ahern wearing a cross of ashes on his forehead when presenting a budget on an Ash Wednesday in the nineties? It is an image regularly taken out and dusted off when Mr Ahern’s failings rather than successes (particularly with regard to Northern Ireland) are being reprised.
I am not suggesting that any of this bothers God too much. It doesn’t bother me either because our little world in Ireland or Europe is little more than a pimple on the map of the real world, where God is for the most part revered and worshipped in the prayers of many religions, great and small. The London Olympic Games gave us a picture in microcism of that great world. I drew attention at a secondary school Mass recently to the number of successful athletes who gave glory to God when they achieved their successes. Some raised their hands to the heavens, others used the sign of the cross. Many went on their knees in the direction of Mecca, or bowed their heads in prayer.
A number of people in the Irish media sniggered about Katie Taylor’s faith, but I feel that it was admired by many throughout the world. It came naturally to her, just as it does to billions throughout the world who are not ashamed to “do God.”
I am not suggesting that God is in any way bothered by this
United States of America politicians certainly do “do God,” as both newly elected President Barak Obama and his rival for that office, Mitt Romney, clearly demonstrated in recent times. In his congratulatory speech to the President, Mr Romney promised to pray for Mr. Obama and his family and he was most gracious in accepting the will of the people and conceding defeat. Both men were loud in their “God bless America,” and “God bless you all” remarks to assembled multitudes and television and radio audiences. “Doing God” seems to come easier to American politicians than it does to Irish and European ones. Perhaps we are more reserved or recitint, or maybe we make more allowance for those who do not believe.
Could you imagine an Irish politician getting away with a “God bless Ieland” declaration? He or she would be pilloried by a so-called liberal media, by fellow politicians squirming in their seats on the other side of the Dáil, not to speak of in their own benches. “God” is an embarrassment in Irish politics and public life, despite ninety per cent or so of the population suggesting in the census that they believe. Do you remember the reaction to Bertie Ahern wearing a cross of ashes on his forehead when presenting a budget on an Ash Wednesday in the nineties? It is an image regularly taken out and dusted off when Mr Ahern’s failings rather than successes (particularly with regard to Northern Ireland) are being reprised.
I am not suggesting that any of this bothers God too much. It doesn’t bother me either because our little world in Ireland or Europe is little more than a pimple on the map of the real world, where God is for the most part revered and worshipped in the prayers of many religions, great and small. The London Olympic Games gave us a picture in microcism of that great world. I drew attention at a secondary school Mass recently to the number of successful athletes who gave glory to God when they achieved their successes. Some raised their hands to the heavens, others used the sign of the cross. Many went on their knees in the direction of Mecca, or bowed their heads in prayer.
A number of people in the Irish media sniggered about Katie Taylor’s faith, but I feel that it was admired by many throughout the world. It came naturally to her, just as it does to billions throughout the world who are not ashamed to “do God.”
I am not suggesting that God is in any way bothered by this
Week ending November 13th 2012
My first novel “Súil le Breith” was reissued at the recent Oireachtas Festival in Letterkenny, twentynine years after being first launched at the Carraroe Oireachtas of 1983. As a curate in Carraroe parish at the time I was able to attend the first launch, but not the second, as it took place far away at one of the busiest times of a priest’s year, the November remembrance of the dead. The book has been republished by Darach Ó Scolaí of breacan.ie, son of the original publisher, Séamus Ó Scolaí of Cló Chonamara. When advising Darach to go ahead with the launch without me, I suggested that it would be like “Hamlet without the prince.” A quick return of e-mail told me it would be worse if I had compared myself to Yorrick, over whose skull Hamlet had one of his melancholy meditations.
The book itself, launched by Aran Islander and journalist Breandán Ó hEithir, caused a bit of a stir, and not just in Irish language circles. The Irish Times had the following comment on November’s Day 1983: “The main talking point of this year’s Oireachtas Festival Was the launch of a new book, “Súl le Breith” by a Carraroe curate, Rev Pádraig Standún. The novel sold six hundred copies within an hour of going on sale. The novel has aroused controversy because it deals with a fictional priest’s relationship with a young girl who becomes pregnant. The Irish language used by Fr. Standún is modern and the dilaogue throughout the book is frank. Part of the novel could be described as earthy.” The advantage of having the book launched by an Irish Times journalist was that it got a mention in a newspaper that nowadays ignores anything I and most other Irish language writers publish.
It was not just the selfstyled quality newspapers that got in on the act of commenting on the latest book from the far west.. The Sunday People had its own comment: “A Catholic priest’s sizzling novel of sex and intrigue is selling like hot cakes… O, Father, what a book.” Even after nearly thirty years I have not managed to write anything that had the same impact. Although I have eleven other Irish language novels published, I am still greeted by quite a few people with the words: “I read your book,” even though it has me tearing out my hair and wanting to ask: “Which of them?” I grit my teeth and remember the old adage: “Don’t change the legend.” Better be remembered for one than for none at all.
One of the things that pleased me most when I came to Carna was the number of people whom I met who had read not just one, but a number of my books, and did not seem to hold it against me. Admittedly some of them were school teachers who had to read the books as part of their course, as the Irish used is, I am told, simple and readable. I don’t have either the brains or the command of the language to write the hard stuff. One woman took one of the books she had bought nearly thirty years ago from her shelf and asked me to sign it. I hope people are doing the same in twentynine years time, when, God willing, I will be only a sprightly ninetyfive.
The book itself, launched by Aran Islander and journalist Breandán Ó hEithir, caused a bit of a stir, and not just in Irish language circles. The Irish Times had the following comment on November’s Day 1983: “The main talking point of this year’s Oireachtas Festival Was the launch of a new book, “Súl le Breith” by a Carraroe curate, Rev Pádraig Standún. The novel sold six hundred copies within an hour of going on sale. The novel has aroused controversy because it deals with a fictional priest’s relationship with a young girl who becomes pregnant. The Irish language used by Fr. Standún is modern and the dilaogue throughout the book is frank. Part of the novel could be described as earthy.” The advantage of having the book launched by an Irish Times journalist was that it got a mention in a newspaper that nowadays ignores anything I and most other Irish language writers publish.
It was not just the selfstyled quality newspapers that got in on the act of commenting on the latest book from the far west.. The Sunday People had its own comment: “A Catholic priest’s sizzling novel of sex and intrigue is selling like hot cakes… O, Father, what a book.” Even after nearly thirty years I have not managed to write anything that had the same impact. Although I have eleven other Irish language novels published, I am still greeted by quite a few people with the words: “I read your book,” even though it has me tearing out my hair and wanting to ask: “Which of them?” I grit my teeth and remember the old adage: “Don’t change the legend.” Better be remembered for one than for none at all.
One of the things that pleased me most when I came to Carna was the number of people whom I met who had read not just one, but a number of my books, and did not seem to hold it against me. Admittedly some of them were school teachers who had to read the books as part of their course, as the Irish used is, I am told, simple and readable. I don’t have either the brains or the command of the language to write the hard stuff. One woman took one of the books she had bought nearly thirty years ago from her shelf and asked me to sign it. I hope people are doing the same in twentynine years time, when, God willing, I will be only a sprightly ninetyfive.
Week ending November 6th 2012
Among the things that have impressed me most in a couple of score years in the priesthood is the respect people have for their dead. November brings out the best in people in this regard. Despite the early nightfall, the comfort of the fire and the better picture on Saorview, people still come out night after night to remember their loved ones, to honour them and pray for them. The church concept of ‘communion of saints’ means that people consider living and dead are still part of the same family. Love does not end with death. Living and dead can help each other out, can pray for each other, wish each other well. We can reach across the divide by imaginative prayer. We can bring our loved ones who are gone to life in our minds and imaginations, sit them down, and ask God to care for them.
Some people think any talk of death is morbid, but it above all a recognition of one of the more obvious and important facts of life. Death has had a hundred per cent success rate down through the centuries, and there is no sign of that changing anytime soon.. We can postpone it but we can’t avoid it. Money, fame, religious belief or the lack of it, are no protections against death. It has to be faced at some stage or other. We don’t need to get obsessive about it or hung up on it, just be prepared to face up to it. Most of us would like to postpone death for another while, but the older we get, the surer we are that we have to face it sooner rather than later.
One of the advantages of Halloween is that it gives us a chance to cock a snoot at death as darkness descends and nights grow longer. For the past few days and weeks people have had the chance to poke fun at the greatest darkness of them all, to say that we are not scared. Well, not too scared. We are prepared to deal with it when it comes our way. Children enjoying the festival of course don’t know or don’t need to know the centuries of history behind Halloween. Basically it seems to be a recognition that death is a natural part of life. Just as the leaves fall, so will we, but growth and renewal will come again.
Moving from parish to parish I see subtle differences in the way in which death is dealt with. Conamara has never taken to covering over the grave until the mourners have gone, and filling it in later. Everyone waits for the harsh reality of watching the grave being closed. The fact that most graves are in deep sand and people are not listening to stones rattle on the coffin probably makes this a little easier. There are those who say that the grieving process is helped by watching the tough reality of seeing the grave being filled, but every community to its own way.
The one exception Christians see to death’s hundred percent success rate is the man hung out to die on a Friday cross about two thousand years ago, whom we claim to have defied and defeated death. We make the outrageous claim that Jesus turned death on iis head, and made eternal life possible. We don’t know the details of that new life, but we have such trust in Jesus that we take his word for it. It is an exciting prospect, a life so different from this one that we don’t have the imagination to begin to grasp what it’s all about. This present life continues to surprise those who have experienced it for any length of time, especially its technological achievements which most of us could not have imagined twenty or thirty years ago. If those developments continue to pleasantly surprise us, how can we expect to imagine the eternal life of God?
Some people think any talk of death is morbid, but it above all a recognition of one of the more obvious and important facts of life. Death has had a hundred per cent success rate down through the centuries, and there is no sign of that changing anytime soon.. We can postpone it but we can’t avoid it. Money, fame, religious belief or the lack of it, are no protections against death. It has to be faced at some stage or other. We don’t need to get obsessive about it or hung up on it, just be prepared to face up to it. Most of us would like to postpone death for another while, but the older we get, the surer we are that we have to face it sooner rather than later.
One of the advantages of Halloween is that it gives us a chance to cock a snoot at death as darkness descends and nights grow longer. For the past few days and weeks people have had the chance to poke fun at the greatest darkness of them all, to say that we are not scared. Well, not too scared. We are prepared to deal with it when it comes our way. Children enjoying the festival of course don’t know or don’t need to know the centuries of history behind Halloween. Basically it seems to be a recognition that death is a natural part of life. Just as the leaves fall, so will we, but growth and renewal will come again.
Moving from parish to parish I see subtle differences in the way in which death is dealt with. Conamara has never taken to covering over the grave until the mourners have gone, and filling it in later. Everyone waits for the harsh reality of watching the grave being closed. The fact that most graves are in deep sand and people are not listening to stones rattle on the coffin probably makes this a little easier. There are those who say that the grieving process is helped by watching the tough reality of seeing the grave being filled, but every community to its own way.
The one exception Christians see to death’s hundred percent success rate is the man hung out to die on a Friday cross about two thousand years ago, whom we claim to have defied and defeated death. We make the outrageous claim that Jesus turned death on iis head, and made eternal life possible. We don’t know the details of that new life, but we have such trust in Jesus that we take his word for it. It is an exciting prospect, a life so different from this one that we don’t have the imagination to begin to grasp what it’s all about. This present life continues to surprise those who have experienced it for any length of time, especially its technological achievements which most of us could not have imagined twenty or thirty years ago. If those developments continue to pleasantly surprise us, how can we expect to imagine the eternal life of God?