Week ending August 27th 2013
It is the best part of five hundred years since William Shakespeare wrote in “As You Like It” of a child “with shining morning face, creeping like snail unwillingly to school” Not many children will “creep like snail” this week as they start school or return after the holidays. Most will be delivered by car or bus to the school gates, which is as it should be in times of danger from traffic or other threats to their safety. Shakespeare might even have to drop “unwillingly” from that quotation nowadays as children of this generation seem to enjoy school much more than older generations. The downside is of course bullying, cyber and otherwise, which seems more of a potential threat to a child nowadays than the cane or the leather were in days gone by,
I may have told you before of the school-day that lingered longest in my memory, when the excitement occurred on the way home rather than in the actual school. My sister Mary and myself were wandering home the two miles from Clogher National School to our home in Ballydavock. Junior and senior infants were let out at two rather than three o’clock, as is still the norm. We knew every inch of the road even then and there was an element of “same old, same old” as is said nowadays, to our meanderings. That was until we reached a neighbour’s house, where people had gathered for the killing of a pig. That should have been excitement enough for a five and a six year old, but the old man of the house had himself dropped dead during the commotion. Who needed Shakespeare now, never mind television at a time when radio had just made it to our part of the world? Real life right before us.
It took a few moments to take everything in, the pig stretched white on the horse-cart, the man motionless on the ground, his bare feet ready for the priest’s anointing. For some reason the death itself did not seem like such a big deal. We had seen grandmothers die on both sides of the family, and in the mind of a child that is what old people do. They die, sooner or later. Sad, but not the end of the world except for them, and anyway they are in heaven surrounded by all the cats and dogs that had died since we were born. Up on cloud nine having a good time. We did not even think of the hens which were regularly killed for Sunday dinner or the rabbits trapped for stew before the introduction of the dreaded myxomatosis. What about their poor souls? Anyway there was room for everything in heaven and God would sort it all out no bother.
As we got ready for bed that night a neighbour came to the door with a basin of blood for our mother to make puddings for the village. Again no big deal. You would expect that to leave children even more traumatised than the sight of a dead man earlier in the day, but as far as we were concerned it was just one of those things that happened. Life was full of surprises, things that ranged from Santa Claus to opening the regular parcels from America. It was perhaps forty years later while in one of those “Do you remember the day?” moods that we talked about it. Somewhere in our subconscious we had presumed the basin of blood had come from the man. The pig had been long forgotten.
I may have told you before of the school-day that lingered longest in my memory, when the excitement occurred on the way home rather than in the actual school. My sister Mary and myself were wandering home the two miles from Clogher National School to our home in Ballydavock. Junior and senior infants were let out at two rather than three o’clock, as is still the norm. We knew every inch of the road even then and there was an element of “same old, same old” as is said nowadays, to our meanderings. That was until we reached a neighbour’s house, where people had gathered for the killing of a pig. That should have been excitement enough for a five and a six year old, but the old man of the house had himself dropped dead during the commotion. Who needed Shakespeare now, never mind television at a time when radio had just made it to our part of the world? Real life right before us.
It took a few moments to take everything in, the pig stretched white on the horse-cart, the man motionless on the ground, his bare feet ready for the priest’s anointing. For some reason the death itself did not seem like such a big deal. We had seen grandmothers die on both sides of the family, and in the mind of a child that is what old people do. They die, sooner or later. Sad, but not the end of the world except for them, and anyway they are in heaven surrounded by all the cats and dogs that had died since we were born. Up on cloud nine having a good time. We did not even think of the hens which were regularly killed for Sunday dinner or the rabbits trapped for stew before the introduction of the dreaded myxomatosis. What about their poor souls? Anyway there was room for everything in heaven and God would sort it all out no bother.
As we got ready for bed that night a neighbour came to the door with a basin of blood for our mother to make puddings for the village. Again no big deal. You would expect that to leave children even more traumatised than the sight of a dead man earlier in the day, but as far as we were concerned it was just one of those things that happened. Life was full of surprises, things that ranged from Santa Claus to opening the regular parcels from America. It was perhaps forty years later while in one of those “Do you remember the day?” moods that we talked about it. Somewhere in our subconscious we had presumed the basin of blood had come from the man. The pig had been long forgotten.
Week ending August 20th 2013
“Sweating for Jesus” is a term I have not used or had reason to use for quite a few years. It refers to those days I say Mass in heavy vestments in the kind of summer temperatures we have had this year. I am virtually turned into a walking sauna on such occasions. I emerge afterwards dripping and smelling in the sacristy. I try to stand as far away as possible from people who have some business to attend to but who cannot help sniffing the polluted air as they wonder how many years it is since anybody was buried under the floor of the church. I try, usually unsuccessfully, to pretend that this is the odour of sanctity as the numbers visiting on such occasions trickle to a halt. The first winter’s frost seems to be their signal to return as the air is clean and crisp again and the vestments are back from the cleaners.
On busier days I wonder does the Pope ever have four, five or six Masses in a day. How about Cardinals or bishops? Are they aware of the workloads of their clergy? Perhaps we do not think enough of their workloads either. The more prestigious their positions, the lesser the sympathy we give them, I suppose. Priests can of course refuse to do what their parishioners wish, but from my point of view, I am happy to do what they want, within reason. Saying Mass is not a chore for me. It is an honour and a privilege. That is what my heart and my head say. The old legs do not always agree, as it is the standing that takes its toll. The bottom line is that it is good to have the health and the inclination to do it. The wonderful weather we enjoyed for much of this summer helped greatly, especially for outdoor ceremonies.
Sweating season seems to coincide with bat season, as flying black visitors invade the roof space of most of the churches I have worked in, at this time of the year. As a protected wildlife species there is not much that can be done about them except live with them and clean us whatever droppings come from on high. The bats usually only come out at night, although an occasional one flits through people’s airspace from time to time like an out of control holy spirit. Many people fear them crashing into their eyes or getting them caught in their hair. A consultant from the wildlife services eased people’s worries here in Carna last year by pointing out that bats tend to only appear in public while their young are born and growing up. They seem to go into hibernation for the rest of the time and are of no bother to anybody. Bat times will come again (not no more) but next year as well.
By the time these few words are published Leaving Cert results will have been published and young people and their parent’s thoughts will turn to points, colleges and courses of various kinds. It is everybody’s hope that by the time qualifications are achieved and trades apprenticed, the country will be back on its feet to the extent that work will be available and those who have emigrated returning. Those of us who have lived through a number of recessions feel that this one will have to end sometime – the sooner the better.
On busier days I wonder does the Pope ever have four, five or six Masses in a day. How about Cardinals or bishops? Are they aware of the workloads of their clergy? Perhaps we do not think enough of their workloads either. The more prestigious their positions, the lesser the sympathy we give them, I suppose. Priests can of course refuse to do what their parishioners wish, but from my point of view, I am happy to do what they want, within reason. Saying Mass is not a chore for me. It is an honour and a privilege. That is what my heart and my head say. The old legs do not always agree, as it is the standing that takes its toll. The bottom line is that it is good to have the health and the inclination to do it. The wonderful weather we enjoyed for much of this summer helped greatly, especially for outdoor ceremonies.
Sweating season seems to coincide with bat season, as flying black visitors invade the roof space of most of the churches I have worked in, at this time of the year. As a protected wildlife species there is not much that can be done about them except live with them and clean us whatever droppings come from on high. The bats usually only come out at night, although an occasional one flits through people’s airspace from time to time like an out of control holy spirit. Many people fear them crashing into their eyes or getting them caught in their hair. A consultant from the wildlife services eased people’s worries here in Carna last year by pointing out that bats tend to only appear in public while their young are born and growing up. They seem to go into hibernation for the rest of the time and are of no bother to anybody. Bat times will come again (not no more) but next year as well.
By the time these few words are published Leaving Cert results will have been published and young people and their parent’s thoughts will turn to points, colleges and courses of various kinds. It is everybody’s hope that by the time qualifications are achieved and trades apprenticed, the country will be back on its feet to the extent that work will be available and those who have emigrated returning. Those of us who have lived through a number of recessions feel that this one will have to end sometime – the sooner the better.
Week ending August 13th 2013
Sunday Mass was broadcast on Raidió na Gaeltachta from Carna on Reek Sunday so my audience included not just people from my own parish but Irish speakers throughout the country and throughout the world. I am particularly conscious on such occasions of those who unable to leave their beds or their homes. As I have often mentioned they are usually the people with most reason to complain but who never do so. They are at home with themselves and with their faith in ways that inspire the rest of us. I meet some of them on First Thursday or Friday holy communion calls, and those occasions can often be summed up as a mixture of wit and wisdom. One of the wittiest remarks I have heard recently was from a woman in her eighties whose husband had a respiratory ailment. I suggested that it might be hay-fever. “It is not,” she told me with some vehemence, “but fag fever. I’m trying to get him to give them up before he’s ninety.”
I drew attention at the Raidió Mass to the fact that Pope Francis was in Brazil that weekend and the local Archbishop, Michael Neary on Croagh Patrick. “There is nobody at home but ourselves,” I said, as if we were in a “cat’s away so the mice can play” situation. As it happened it was the Pope and the Archbishop that pushed out the boundaries before the day was out. Francis the First went on a solo run thirty five thousand feet above the Atlantic on his way home from South America. He gave an impromptu press conference to the journalists on the plane with him, in which he held out a hand of friendship to gay people. He did not go as far as many would like but it was much further than previous Popes have gone. I thought of the trouble Irish priests such as Brian D’Arcy or Tony Flannery had got into for expressing similar sentiments and wondered would the Pope be the next one to be silenced by sections of the Roman Curia.
Then I got to thinking that expressing liberal views so high up in the sky might be akin to making poteen in “no man’s land” between tides. You could get away with anything if you are in a legally questionable area. Observers of solo runs tell me that the Pope should have been tackled fairly or foully before he went on his run. Some Cardinal or other could have risked a yellow card, if not a red hat by taking down the Pope before he lost the run of himself as it might be seen through Vatican lenses. The danger is, Curial sources will tell you, that once the Pope has got off the leash, there will be no stopping him. Those so long alienated by hardline Papal statements might even start making their way back to the church. The Archbishop too was acknowledging our ancestors in faith who worshipped on what is now Croagh Patrick before Christian times, the druids and “pagans” we tended to put the boot into in days gone by.
Between feasts, festivals and gatherings we have many outdoor Masses and other ceremonies throughout the summer. My last one this month will be at Tobar Mhuire, a shrine of Our Lady beside a holy well named in her honour, about a mile from Carna village. It will take place on the evening of the feast of The Assumption, the fifteenth of August. For me it will bring back fond memories of the roadside Mass on the same feastday beside the site of Glenmask school a few miles from Tourmakesdy at a shrine called “Muire a’Ghleanna” “Mary of the Glens”.
I drew attention at the Raidió Mass to the fact that Pope Francis was in Brazil that weekend and the local Archbishop, Michael Neary on Croagh Patrick. “There is nobody at home but ourselves,” I said, as if we were in a “cat’s away so the mice can play” situation. As it happened it was the Pope and the Archbishop that pushed out the boundaries before the day was out. Francis the First went on a solo run thirty five thousand feet above the Atlantic on his way home from South America. He gave an impromptu press conference to the journalists on the plane with him, in which he held out a hand of friendship to gay people. He did not go as far as many would like but it was much further than previous Popes have gone. I thought of the trouble Irish priests such as Brian D’Arcy or Tony Flannery had got into for expressing similar sentiments and wondered would the Pope be the next one to be silenced by sections of the Roman Curia.
Then I got to thinking that expressing liberal views so high up in the sky might be akin to making poteen in “no man’s land” between tides. You could get away with anything if you are in a legally questionable area. Observers of solo runs tell me that the Pope should have been tackled fairly or foully before he went on his run. Some Cardinal or other could have risked a yellow card, if not a red hat by taking down the Pope before he lost the run of himself as it might be seen through Vatican lenses. The danger is, Curial sources will tell you, that once the Pope has got off the leash, there will be no stopping him. Those so long alienated by hardline Papal statements might even start making their way back to the church. The Archbishop too was acknowledging our ancestors in faith who worshipped on what is now Croagh Patrick before Christian times, the druids and “pagans” we tended to put the boot into in days gone by.
Between feasts, festivals and gatherings we have many outdoor Masses and other ceremonies throughout the summer. My last one this month will be at Tobar Mhuire, a shrine of Our Lady beside a holy well named in her honour, about a mile from Carna village. It will take place on the evening of the feast of The Assumption, the fifteenth of August. For me it will bring back fond memories of the roadside Mass on the same feastday beside the site of Glenmask school a few miles from Tourmakesdy at a shrine called “Muire a’Ghleanna” “Mary of the Glens”.
Week ending August 6th 2013
Few people nowadays would admit to having their clothes washed, dried or ironed in a Magdalen Laundry. As a young priest in the Aran Islands of Inis Oirr and Inis Meáin over forty years ago, I regularly sent altar cloths, albs and other church items to the Galway laundry, and they were returned beautifully washed and starched. I followed the pattern that was there before my time. You got the altar breads from the Poor Clares, the altar wine from O’Flynns which was later to become McSwiggans, and the laundry from ‘The Magdalen.’ It was years later when a play was performed in Galway depicting the reasons for and the conditions in the laundries that I realised what was involved. I hope that the redress scheme announced by the Government will be of benefit to Magdalen survivors in the last days of their lives.
I have met parishioners down through the years who spent time in Magdalen laundries, and there were actually some who were grateful to have been there. It was not that the work was not difficult or the life harsh, but they put it into the context of comparing it with the alternative. Life was tough everywhere at the time, they said, and they had chosen the drudgery of the laundry for a number of years over the alternative of going into service for families in Britain or the United States. I am not writing this to justify laundry life, but to see it from their point of view. Many others of course see it as a form of slavery. As for the nuns involved, they did what they were told to do, and many lived in conditions equal to the workers, but at least they had taken vows of poverty, chastity and obedience.
It is virtually impossible to compare the lives of one generation with that of another. Many who rightly condemn the harshness of life in the forties and fifties, sixties and seventies of the last century fail to notice that life is as difficult for many people and families now as it was then. Reports on Saint Patrick’s Institution for young offenders have shown it to be at least as harsh as any grim Institution such as Letterfrack or Daingean in days gone by. This will, thankfully, lead to its closure, but when? Reports from around the country about the workloads of social workers, or the difficulties of parents with children who have special needs and who are in great difficulty due to cutbacks and in many cases unemployment as well, remind us that for many live is as difficult now as in days gone by.
When the Magdalen Laundry customer lists are eventually published online they will make interesting reading. How many dapper young men about town in the sixties or seventies who were to make their lives in politics or the law will be seen to have had their shirts whitened in the laundries? How many of those who loudly condemned the practises of the past will have themselves benefited from them, as I did forty years ago? I have a funny feeling that the tentative tiptoeing around the Religious Orders at present has something to do with the possibility of laundry customer lists going online. It would be a different kind of a white-wash than most official reports.
I have met parishioners down through the years who spent time in Magdalen laundries, and there were actually some who were grateful to have been there. It was not that the work was not difficult or the life harsh, but they put it into the context of comparing it with the alternative. Life was tough everywhere at the time, they said, and they had chosen the drudgery of the laundry for a number of years over the alternative of going into service for families in Britain or the United States. I am not writing this to justify laundry life, but to see it from their point of view. Many others of course see it as a form of slavery. As for the nuns involved, they did what they were told to do, and many lived in conditions equal to the workers, but at least they had taken vows of poverty, chastity and obedience.
It is virtually impossible to compare the lives of one generation with that of another. Many who rightly condemn the harshness of life in the forties and fifties, sixties and seventies of the last century fail to notice that life is as difficult for many people and families now as it was then. Reports on Saint Patrick’s Institution for young offenders have shown it to be at least as harsh as any grim Institution such as Letterfrack or Daingean in days gone by. This will, thankfully, lead to its closure, but when? Reports from around the country about the workloads of social workers, or the difficulties of parents with children who have special needs and who are in great difficulty due to cutbacks and in many cases unemployment as well, remind us that for many live is as difficult now as in days gone by.
When the Magdalen Laundry customer lists are eventually published online they will make interesting reading. How many dapper young men about town in the sixties or seventies who were to make their lives in politics or the law will be seen to have had their shirts whitened in the laundries? How many of those who loudly condemned the practises of the past will have themselves benefited from them, as I did forty years ago? I have a funny feeling that the tentative tiptoeing around the Religious Orders at present has something to do with the possibility of laundry customer lists going online. It would be a different kind of a white-wash than most official reports.