Week ending 28th September 2010 www.tourmakeady.com
I was not one of the three hundred priests present in Portlaoise recently at a meeting of the new Association of Irish Priests. This was no reflection on those present or the new Association. I admire their gumption and their energy, and am pleased to see West of Ireland clergy featuring prominently. If there is membership to be had or a fee to be paid, I will gladly support their aims, but personally I have gone past meetings and groupings. I will not be attending the Diocesan gathering in Westport in the near future either. I gave up on that a decade ago, even though I can see that it does some people good. Not me. I never felt that my voice was heard or that I belonged in any way. I have found that the best way to have a voice heard is to write tt down, and let people agree or disagree with it.
My dread in this regard is of clericalism, of being sucked too deeply into the clerical caste, culture and mindset, the worst excesses of which are being blamed for the culture which led to clerical sex abuse of children being perpretrated, going unnoticed or being ignored, and covered up. I think it necessary for priests to live outside the clerical box, think outside the clerical box, and have interests outside their main occupation and preoccupations. This does not or should not preclude meeting fellow priests and sharing concerns or positive ideas, but in my own case I feel that it is a small stand I need to take, to live as far outside the clerical box as is possible while remaining a priest.
A slight fear I would have for the new Association is that it could become an elitist clericalism, despite the best efforts of those involved. The list of names published in ‘The Furrow’ after their initial meeting suggests all the usual suspects, the brightest and the best, the movers and shakers in various orders and dioceses. Great theologians, thinkers and workers, but hardly representative. I say that as someone who only represents myself. In almost forty years as a priest I have never been elected to the Senate of priests of the Archdiocese of Tuam, despite an electorate of about ten for each agegroup or Deanery. I have not wept at this ommision, just consoled myself with this proof that I am not a clerical insider.
The new Association does not want to be representative as such, seeing a previous body, NCPI (National Council of Priests of Ireland) as having been largely toothless, despite the fact that its members were loosely elected from various dioceses. The published aims of the Association are all general and well-meaning, like the policies of a new political party, but could as easily be part of a statement from the present Roman Catholic Hierarchy. Nothing radical there. They could be the new PD’s (Priestly Diehards – seeing that they do not want to be democrats) Despite such minor reservations I wish them well. The proof of the pudding will be in the eating, or the indigestion they give to those they challenge..
My dread in this regard is of clericalism, of being sucked too deeply into the clerical caste, culture and mindset, the worst excesses of which are being blamed for the culture which led to clerical sex abuse of children being perpretrated, going unnoticed or being ignored, and covered up. I think it necessary for priests to live outside the clerical box, think outside the clerical box, and have interests outside their main occupation and preoccupations. This does not or should not preclude meeting fellow priests and sharing concerns or positive ideas, but in my own case I feel that it is a small stand I need to take, to live as far outside the clerical box as is possible while remaining a priest.
A slight fear I would have for the new Association is that it could become an elitist clericalism, despite the best efforts of those involved. The list of names published in ‘The Furrow’ after their initial meeting suggests all the usual suspects, the brightest and the best, the movers and shakers in various orders and dioceses. Great theologians, thinkers and workers, but hardly representative. I say that as someone who only represents myself. In almost forty years as a priest I have never been elected to the Senate of priests of the Archdiocese of Tuam, despite an electorate of about ten for each agegroup or Deanery. I have not wept at this ommision, just consoled myself with this proof that I am not a clerical insider.
The new Association does not want to be representative as such, seeing a previous body, NCPI (National Council of Priests of Ireland) as having been largely toothless, despite the fact that its members were loosely elected from various dioceses. The published aims of the Association are all general and well-meaning, like the policies of a new political party, but could as easily be part of a statement from the present Roman Catholic Hierarchy. Nothing radical there. They could be the new PD’s (Priestly Diehards – seeing that they do not want to be democrats) Despite such minor reservations I wish them well. The proof of the pudding will be in the eating, or the indigestion they give to those they challenge..
Week ending 21st September 2010 www.tourmakeady.com
The seawater lapped at the perimiter wall of Cárna church in which I was saying Mass, during a recent high tide. Six hours later the Bay looked like it had taken a deep breath. Instead of water all that could be seen was yellow-brown seaweed and scattered rocks.. I remembered saying Mass onetime on Carraroe’s coral strand at the beginning of a regatta. I stood with my back to the sea, the congregation gathered on the sloping strand, shaped like a small amphitheatre, in front of me. The tide rose slowly behind me, the best recipe I have seen yet for a fast Mass.
The tide was much in my thoughts and conversation in recent weeks as I sat with families by the bedsides of loved ones approaching death. The biggest difference I find between this and previous parishes is the presence of a fifty bed nursing home. I have had more sick calls since arriving here a couple of months ago than in a full year previously. The Nursing Home gives wonderful service to a community about fifty miles from Galway hospitals. People can grow old and die with dignity within easy reach of their families. As most patients are native Irish speakers, the presence of staff who can communicate easily with them is very important.
Sitting for hours daily by death-beds has helped me to get to know a number of families, as stories were told and memories shared. Thoughts turned from time to time to the tides and the influence they have on our lives, unknown to many of us. I had heard in previous coastal parishes that a person was most likely to slip away from this life as the tide turned. This has to do with the magnetism of the moon, which affects us as well of course when we are not anywhere near the sea. I have seen its power demonstrated again in recent weeks.
The high tides helped me too to prepare for a bit of organic gardening next year, as a bountiful amount of fresh seaweed washed ashore. Due to my age, mine will be a minimalist garden, mainly for herbs and some of my favourite vegetables. There were four sixfoot doors from old presses in my shed which I have nailed together to make a compost box to contain lawn cuttings, potato and vegetable peelings, leftover food, etc, all layered with bagfuls of seaweed straight from the shore. As well as saving on bin charges it should all have nicely rotted down by March/April.
My other new project is apple trees. I had intended to set some in Tourmakeady, but took the easy way out by sharing some of the produce of my former Parish Priest’s Deasún Ó Grógáin’s trees behind Partry church. Others, aware of my fondness for the fruit, gave me bags of apples as well, so I gorged myself on them from August to Christmas each year. I have decided to become the apple of my own eye this year by planting seven trees, a good Biblical number, so far. They should be there long after me. One of my predecessors, Fr. John Philbin, is still remembered for his collection of clocks. I am well on my way to becoming ‘the apple priest.’.
The tide was much in my thoughts and conversation in recent weeks as I sat with families by the bedsides of loved ones approaching death. The biggest difference I find between this and previous parishes is the presence of a fifty bed nursing home. I have had more sick calls since arriving here a couple of months ago than in a full year previously. The Nursing Home gives wonderful service to a community about fifty miles from Galway hospitals. People can grow old and die with dignity within easy reach of their families. As most patients are native Irish speakers, the presence of staff who can communicate easily with them is very important.
Sitting for hours daily by death-beds has helped me to get to know a number of families, as stories were told and memories shared. Thoughts turned from time to time to the tides and the influence they have on our lives, unknown to many of us. I had heard in previous coastal parishes that a person was most likely to slip away from this life as the tide turned. This has to do with the magnetism of the moon, which affects us as well of course when we are not anywhere near the sea. I have seen its power demonstrated again in recent weeks.
The high tides helped me too to prepare for a bit of organic gardening next year, as a bountiful amount of fresh seaweed washed ashore. Due to my age, mine will be a minimalist garden, mainly for herbs and some of my favourite vegetables. There were four sixfoot doors from old presses in my shed which I have nailed together to make a compost box to contain lawn cuttings, potato and vegetable peelings, leftover food, etc, all layered with bagfuls of seaweed straight from the shore. As well as saving on bin charges it should all have nicely rotted down by March/April.
My other new project is apple trees. I had intended to set some in Tourmakeady, but took the easy way out by sharing some of the produce of my former Parish Priest’s Deasún Ó Grógáin’s trees behind Partry church. Others, aware of my fondness for the fruit, gave me bags of apples as well, so I gorged myself on them from August to Christmas each year. I have decided to become the apple of my own eye this year by planting seven trees, a good Biblical number, so far. They should be there long after me. One of my predecessors, Fr. John Philbin, is still remembered for his collection of clocks. I am well on my way to becoming ‘the apple priest.’.
Week ending 14th September 2010 www.tourmakeady.com
A stranger scowls from my mirror these mornings. ‘Who do you think you are?’ I ask myself, or ‘Is this me?’ Galway barbers have proven themselves more scissors-happy and clippers-happy than their Mayo counterparts. My beard of thirty-five years has virtually disappeared. The remains of my moustache has me looking like a clone of Adolph Hitler – without the shout. I think of Winston Churchill’s less than gallant riposte to Lady Astor when she said: ‘You’re drunk, Winston.’ He replied: ‘You’re ugly, but I will be sober in the morning.’ I tell my barefaced mirror image: ‘You’re ugly, but you will grow again.’
I allowed my facial hair to grow in 1975 when I moved from the Aran Island of Inis Oirr to An Cheathrú Rua (Carraroe) It had been said at the time that Archbishop Joseph Cunnane of Tuam did not approve of his priests wearing beards, but then one of his brothers, a priest, arrived home from the missions with a beard, so what could he say to any of us? I have, of course made my fortune on razor blades, or the lack of them, in the meantime, and will continue to do so, unless free blades are introduced in the budget to accompany free travel, for which I will qualify next year if I last that long.
I think fondly of Mrs Dilly Gibbons, one of the great characters of my previous parish of Tourmakeady who once asked me, tongue in cheek: ‘When are you going to cut off that ould meigeall? (goat’s beard) I pointed out some of the pictures and statues, Saint Joseph, Padre Pio, the Lord himself, as I answered her question with my own: ‘Did you ever see a saint without a beard? Quick as a flash she pointed to the statues of Saint Teresa of the child Jesus, and Our Lady, before asking: ‘Are you telling me that those are not saints?’ They say that women always have the last word. Dilly was much closer herself to being a saint herself than I ever was, beard or not.
If I was an ostrich I could bury my head in the sand and wait for my hair to grow. That is not to say that there is a scarcity of sand here in Carna. Some of the beaches must have a square mile of sand when the tide is out. I suppose I could bring up a bucket of it to hide my head, but it is probably more sensible to bury my pride and go barefaced into the world. By Christmas I should be looking a little more like Santa Claus. It wouldn’t be the first time I was compared to him. A mother in a shop in Ballinrobe a few years ago asked her child: ‘Who is that?’ Instead of the not unusual ‘Holy God’ she replied ‘Santa.’
Christmas, which seemed so far away in a relatively good summer, suddenly seems to be just around the corner with ‘back to school,’ the darker evenings, leaves changing colour and beginning to fall. But we shouldn’t rush it. Everything in its own time. The autumn, the colours of the fall are there to be appreciated and savoured first. The long nights, the fireside, the courses and night-classes so many people engage in at this time of year. I have often thought that New Year should really be celebrated in September, as it gets lost in the aftermath of Christmas. There is a great energy about this month and the ones that follow. We should make the best of it
I allowed my facial hair to grow in 1975 when I moved from the Aran Island of Inis Oirr to An Cheathrú Rua (Carraroe) It had been said at the time that Archbishop Joseph Cunnane of Tuam did not approve of his priests wearing beards, but then one of his brothers, a priest, arrived home from the missions with a beard, so what could he say to any of us? I have, of course made my fortune on razor blades, or the lack of them, in the meantime, and will continue to do so, unless free blades are introduced in the budget to accompany free travel, for which I will qualify next year if I last that long.
I think fondly of Mrs Dilly Gibbons, one of the great characters of my previous parish of Tourmakeady who once asked me, tongue in cheek: ‘When are you going to cut off that ould meigeall? (goat’s beard) I pointed out some of the pictures and statues, Saint Joseph, Padre Pio, the Lord himself, as I answered her question with my own: ‘Did you ever see a saint without a beard? Quick as a flash she pointed to the statues of Saint Teresa of the child Jesus, and Our Lady, before asking: ‘Are you telling me that those are not saints?’ They say that women always have the last word. Dilly was much closer herself to being a saint herself than I ever was, beard or not.
If I was an ostrich I could bury my head in the sand and wait for my hair to grow. That is not to say that there is a scarcity of sand here in Carna. Some of the beaches must have a square mile of sand when the tide is out. I suppose I could bring up a bucket of it to hide my head, but it is probably more sensible to bury my pride and go barefaced into the world. By Christmas I should be looking a little more like Santa Claus. It wouldn’t be the first time I was compared to him. A mother in a shop in Ballinrobe a few years ago asked her child: ‘Who is that?’ Instead of the not unusual ‘Holy God’ she replied ‘Santa.’
Christmas, which seemed so far away in a relatively good summer, suddenly seems to be just around the corner with ‘back to school,’ the darker evenings, leaves changing colour and beginning to fall. But we shouldn’t rush it. Everything in its own time. The autumn, the colours of the fall are there to be appreciated and savoured first. The long nights, the fireside, the courses and night-classes so many people engage in at this time of year. I have often thought that New Year should really be celebrated in September, as it gets lost in the aftermath of Christmas. There is a great energy about this month and the ones that follow. We should make the best of it
Tribute to Mick Lally - 7th September 2010 www.tourmakeady.com
The untimely death of Mick Lally robbed Ireland of a great actor who might have been expected to work into his eighties in the manner of David Kelly or Niall Tóibín. It also robbed his closest family of a husband, father, son and brother. Their loss is of course the greatest, but the sense of grief felt throughout the country showed how much he was loved and admired by people of all walks of life. It was not just for his famous portrayal of Miley in Glenroe, but for the parts he played in many other programmes, as well as in Druid productions and in plays that toured Ireland, England, Europe, Australia and other parts of the world.
There was a strong drama tradition in Tourmakeady, with various schools in the area winning all Ireland Irish language competitions as far back as the thirties of the last century. Drama festivals probably reached their peak around 1960 when President Éamon De Valera graced the local hall with his presence. He had a particular affection for the area, as it was there he met his wife, Sinéad Flanagan when both were studying Irish at Coláiste Chonnacht. It was on that stage, in plays produced by Trianlár school principal, Seosamh Ó Maolrúnaigh, that Mick Lally first discovered his talents as an actor.
As he climbed the stairs behind the stage in the newly renovated hall eight weeks ago to launch a book I had put together on the history and folklore of the area (Tuar Mhic Éadaigh: Stair agus Seanchas) Mick Lally quoted the very first lines he had spoken there as a young actor more than half a century ago. He knew where he had come from and the influences which had made him what he was as an actor. Looking back now he probably should not have been there from a health point of view, but as they say in the acting trade, the show had to go on, and he spoke with great authority in Irish on the history and folklore of the place that had shaped him.
What impressed me most was the work he had put into his presentation, which was thankfully taped and broadcast by Radió na Gaeltachta, as it may have been his last public appearance. The teacher that he was before becoming an actor could be clearly seen in the many passages he had underlined that he drew attention to, and embellished by stories of his own. As author of the book it was a great honour to me that he was there to launch it, on the invitation of the Hall and Coiste Pobail committees as well as the publishers, Cló Iar-Chonnachta.
I was well aware of Mick’s views on religion, but he did not let that intrude on his presentation that evening. The person he praised most was Tourmakeady Parish Priest of the 1850’s and 60’s, Father Pat Lavelle, still greatly revered for the part he played at a time of evictions and hunger. We do not have to agree with somebody on every aspect of life to admire them or recognise their talents and importance. In recent times we seem to have become too black and white, too for or against with little room for what is in-between. Mick Lally’s or anybody else’s atheism or agnosticism never bothered me, and I’m sure it doesn’t bother God. We were created free. Live and let live.
There was a strong drama tradition in Tourmakeady, with various schools in the area winning all Ireland Irish language competitions as far back as the thirties of the last century. Drama festivals probably reached their peak around 1960 when President Éamon De Valera graced the local hall with his presence. He had a particular affection for the area, as it was there he met his wife, Sinéad Flanagan when both were studying Irish at Coláiste Chonnacht. It was on that stage, in plays produced by Trianlár school principal, Seosamh Ó Maolrúnaigh, that Mick Lally first discovered his talents as an actor.
As he climbed the stairs behind the stage in the newly renovated hall eight weeks ago to launch a book I had put together on the history and folklore of the area (Tuar Mhic Éadaigh: Stair agus Seanchas) Mick Lally quoted the very first lines he had spoken there as a young actor more than half a century ago. He knew where he had come from and the influences which had made him what he was as an actor. Looking back now he probably should not have been there from a health point of view, but as they say in the acting trade, the show had to go on, and he spoke with great authority in Irish on the history and folklore of the place that had shaped him.
What impressed me most was the work he had put into his presentation, which was thankfully taped and broadcast by Radió na Gaeltachta, as it may have been his last public appearance. The teacher that he was before becoming an actor could be clearly seen in the many passages he had underlined that he drew attention to, and embellished by stories of his own. As author of the book it was a great honour to me that he was there to launch it, on the invitation of the Hall and Coiste Pobail committees as well as the publishers, Cló Iar-Chonnachta.
I was well aware of Mick’s views on religion, but he did not let that intrude on his presentation that evening. The person he praised most was Tourmakeady Parish Priest of the 1850’s and 60’s, Father Pat Lavelle, still greatly revered for the part he played at a time of evictions and hunger. We do not have to agree with somebody on every aspect of life to admire them or recognise their talents and importance. In recent times we seem to have become too black and white, too for or against with little room for what is in-between. Mick Lally’s or anybody else’s atheism or agnosticism never bothered me, and I’m sure it doesn’t bother God. We were created free. Live and let live.