Week ending February 26th 2013
It’s a pity that “kicking the can down the road” is not an Olympic sport, or the Republic of Ireland would have another gold medal to put beside the one won by Katie Taylor the 2012 Games. I refer to the success of our Government in re-negotiating the Promissory note sword of Damocles that hung above all of our heads. If I joke about it, is a whistling past the graveyard kind of joke told to avoid the ghost of Anglo Irish past. I applaud the hard bargaining engaged in especially by Finance Minister, Michael Noonan as well as by Taoiseach Enda Kenny and Tánaiste Éamonn Gilmore. Any day that the Monetary Powers that be blink in an International poker game has to be a good one for the State involved.
The downside, I suppose, is that I will be 107 years old by the time the last euro, or whatever it is called then, will be repaid. The three political amigos I mentioned above will be a combined 300 years old. The babies I baptise in the next few weeks may well be grandfathers and grandmothers at the time. If there are as many changes in the next forty as in the last forty years, those post-promissory note children will live in a very different world. I find it relatively easy to look back forty years rather than thirty or twenty to remember what life was like at a certain period of Irish history. I was a young priest then, living on the Aran Islands. The sea, the language, the traditional dress of the people was new and exciting, which means I can recall those times very well.
Ireland’s entry into Europe, the Common Market as we called it then, was not seen as a welcome move on the island of Inis Oirr on which I lived, as people sensed that Ireland’s fishing industry would lose out. We were one of three places in Ireland to vote ‘NO.’ As the island voting took place a few days earlier than the rest of the country then as well as now, people used to say that that Inis Oirr was a republic for three days. There was no electricity on the island at the time. There were three phones, a pier that was not deep enough for the Galway ferry, the ‘Naomh Éanna.’ There was no airstrip, and I remember two American girls being stranded for a couple of weeks. They used to wonder aloud was it the only place in the world that could happen at the time.
I have no doubt but that the Common Market, the EEC, or EU among its many manifestations helped Inis Oirr and many other places in the provision of a better infrastructure. It helped too in the long slow peace process in Northern Ireland, not least in showing that onetime enemies can work together. They don’t have to love one another to do business. Forty years ago was one of the bloodiest times in our history, so in many ways we are far better off now than then, despite the recession. If a monetary time-bomb that will be deflated year by year is all we have to worry about, then there are better times ahead. As for “kicking the can down the road,” why not arrange a competition like the ‘poc fada’ hurling contest held annually in the Cooley Mountains. The ‘cantín ciceáil,’ (kicking the can) competition could attract politicians from all over the world and be another ‘Gathering,’
The downside, I suppose, is that I will be 107 years old by the time the last euro, or whatever it is called then, will be repaid. The three political amigos I mentioned above will be a combined 300 years old. The babies I baptise in the next few weeks may well be grandfathers and grandmothers at the time. If there are as many changes in the next forty as in the last forty years, those post-promissory note children will live in a very different world. I find it relatively easy to look back forty years rather than thirty or twenty to remember what life was like at a certain period of Irish history. I was a young priest then, living on the Aran Islands. The sea, the language, the traditional dress of the people was new and exciting, which means I can recall those times very well.
Ireland’s entry into Europe, the Common Market as we called it then, was not seen as a welcome move on the island of Inis Oirr on which I lived, as people sensed that Ireland’s fishing industry would lose out. We were one of three places in Ireland to vote ‘NO.’ As the island voting took place a few days earlier than the rest of the country then as well as now, people used to say that that Inis Oirr was a republic for three days. There was no electricity on the island at the time. There were three phones, a pier that was not deep enough for the Galway ferry, the ‘Naomh Éanna.’ There was no airstrip, and I remember two American girls being stranded for a couple of weeks. They used to wonder aloud was it the only place in the world that could happen at the time.
I have no doubt but that the Common Market, the EEC, or EU among its many manifestations helped Inis Oirr and many other places in the provision of a better infrastructure. It helped too in the long slow peace process in Northern Ireland, not least in showing that onetime enemies can work together. They don’t have to love one another to do business. Forty years ago was one of the bloodiest times in our history, so in many ways we are far better off now than then, despite the recession. If a monetary time-bomb that will be deflated year by year is all we have to worry about, then there are better times ahead. As for “kicking the can down the road,” why not arrange a competition like the ‘poc fada’ hurling contest held annually in the Cooley Mountains. The ‘cantín ciceáil,’ (kicking the can) competition could attract politicians from all over the world and be another ‘Gathering,’
Week ending February 19th 2013
I was unable to attend the funeral Mass of Archbishop Joseph Cassidy in Tuam.on a recent Saturday. I had a christening at 2pm, Mass in the local Nursing Home at 4.30, Saturday evening Masses in Carna at 6pm and Cill Chiaráin at 7. The return journey to Tuam would take about four hours, allowing for traffic in Galway. It is becoming increasingly difficult for priests at the periphery of the Archdiocese to even get a day off or go anywhere as there is nobody within a reasonable distance to provide cover. This needs to be addressed or there will be resignations, if not burnout or death. I have missed funerals of an uncle, a first cousin and a classmate and friend in recent times, which makes coming to terms with people’s deaths more difficult.
I showed polite resistance to the arrival of Joseph Cassidy from being Bishop of Clonfert to Archbishop of Tuam. Not to him specifically, as he had not been named at the time, but to a bishop from outside the Archdiocese being parachuted in on top of us. The priests of the diocese had been consulted and three chosen, one a clear favourite. I wrote in the Irish language paper “Anois” that if anyone other than one of those three was foisted on us, I would not formally welcome him from the day of his appointment to the day of his installation. I would then shake his hand and make him welcome, protest and point made. Interestingly enough there was no priest from outside any diocese appointed for some years afterwards, though it has become common practice again.
The first time Archbishop Cassidy rang me, he announced himself: “This is Joe.” “Joe who?” I had not been used to Archbishops being on first name terms. I wrote fairly recently of how he has gently disarmed a seemingly hostile German film crew at the doors of Inis Meáin church twenty five years ago. I wrote: “They had nor reckoned with the great communicator.” A week or two later an obviously weak and ill Archbishop Cassidy rang to thank me for what I had written. He had been having a bad day, he said, but that had raised his heart. I am not sure was it on that or another visit to the islands that he admired the thatched pub as we went past, before saying, tongue firmly in cheek: “And I suppose you have never got to see the inside of it.”
“Joe Cassidy” has been named by Tánaiste Éamon Gilmore, who attended his funeral despite a busy schedule, as one of the people who influenced him most in his life, in his time as a teacher of English in St Joseph’s College, Garbally, Ballinasloe. He influenced many as teacher, playwright, priest, preacher, bishop and most of all as just a kind man. I remember a time when he was supposed to address the priests of the diocese at the end of a retreat in Knock. “There isn’t much point in addressing the birds when they are on the wire,” he announced, letting us go, knowing that our thoughts were already back on our parishes. He himself has now flown from the wire of this life. May he share the joys of eternal life. Ar dheis Dé go raibh sé.
I showed polite resistance to the arrival of Joseph Cassidy from being Bishop of Clonfert to Archbishop of Tuam. Not to him specifically, as he had not been named at the time, but to a bishop from outside the Archdiocese being parachuted in on top of us. The priests of the diocese had been consulted and three chosen, one a clear favourite. I wrote in the Irish language paper “Anois” that if anyone other than one of those three was foisted on us, I would not formally welcome him from the day of his appointment to the day of his installation. I would then shake his hand and make him welcome, protest and point made. Interestingly enough there was no priest from outside any diocese appointed for some years afterwards, though it has become common practice again.
The first time Archbishop Cassidy rang me, he announced himself: “This is Joe.” “Joe who?” I had not been used to Archbishops being on first name terms. I wrote fairly recently of how he has gently disarmed a seemingly hostile German film crew at the doors of Inis Meáin church twenty five years ago. I wrote: “They had nor reckoned with the great communicator.” A week or two later an obviously weak and ill Archbishop Cassidy rang to thank me for what I had written. He had been having a bad day, he said, but that had raised his heart. I am not sure was it on that or another visit to the islands that he admired the thatched pub as we went past, before saying, tongue firmly in cheek: “And I suppose you have never got to see the inside of it.”
“Joe Cassidy” has been named by Tánaiste Éamon Gilmore, who attended his funeral despite a busy schedule, as one of the people who influenced him most in his life, in his time as a teacher of English in St Joseph’s College, Garbally, Ballinasloe. He influenced many as teacher, playwright, priest, preacher, bishop and most of all as just a kind man. I remember a time when he was supposed to address the priests of the diocese at the end of a retreat in Knock. “There isn’t much point in addressing the birds when they are on the wire,” he announced, letting us go, knowing that our thoughts were already back on our parishes. He himself has now flown from the wire of this life. May he share the joys of eternal life. Ar dheis Dé go raibh sé.
Week ending February 12th 2013
The name of the Biblical prophet, Nehemiah does not exactly leap off the page, even for religious maniacs like myself, but he wangled his way into my affections on a recent Sunday when instructing people to go out and enjoy themselves, to “eat the fat and drink the sweet wine, and send a portion to the one who has nothing prepared ready. For this day is sacred to Our Lord. Do not be sad. The joy of the Lord is your stronghold.” No spoilsport this prophet, he is a suitable patron for Shrove Tuesday, the day before Lent, better known in many places as Mardi Gras, or in others as Carnival Day, the day for a final fling before Lent begins.
Pancake Tuesday is a long way from the carnival in Rio, but it is one of our last remnants of what was once a strong tradition of pre-Lenten enjoyment, because of course Lent was a lot more scary in terms of cutbacks and belt tightening then than it is now. I remember the days when church fasting rules laid down: “One small meal and two collations.” As a youngster growing up at the time of this State’s second Coalition Government between 1954 and 1957, I found it hard to get my little brain around how the name of the government had found its way into Lenten regulations. Collation was explained to me later as a light breakfast or tea, preferably not containing an egg.
A glance back fifty or sixty years through the Marriage Register in any parish shows that Shrove Tuesday was a big day for weddings, as ‘eating the fat and drinking sweet wine,’ not to speak of frothy Guinness or lethal poitín would be frowned on big time during Lent. There is a tradition in many faiths that fasting is preceded or followed by a bit of a party. We hear quite often of Ramadan these days and how Muslims celebrate afterwards. I have often drawn attention to how many of our feasts, festivals or occasions for enjoyment have their roots in religious celebrations. The experience of officially Godless societies during the heyday of communism in Europe suggest that enjoyment was sadly lacking for many people during those times, and that in itself probably hastened their downfall.
Lent itself has not gone away, you know. It has taken on a different form. People decide themselves on what they will or will not do for Lent, rather than being dictated to. Despite that, it is surprising how many people actually start some programme of spiritual or physical rehabilitation, or both, for Lent. Coming as early as it does this year, Lent fits into the after Christmas operation transformation, as many of us have, perhaps unknown to ourselves, followed the advice of Nehemiah in eating the fat and drinking the sweet wine. Then too, there is the Trócaire tradition which is there for about forty years now, and which has taught us that giving is more important than giving up. We can of course do both and enjoy ourselves even more afterwards as we “eat the fat and drink the sweet wine” of celebration of Christ’s resurrection.
Pancake Tuesday is a long way from the carnival in Rio, but it is one of our last remnants of what was once a strong tradition of pre-Lenten enjoyment, because of course Lent was a lot more scary in terms of cutbacks and belt tightening then than it is now. I remember the days when church fasting rules laid down: “One small meal and two collations.” As a youngster growing up at the time of this State’s second Coalition Government between 1954 and 1957, I found it hard to get my little brain around how the name of the government had found its way into Lenten regulations. Collation was explained to me later as a light breakfast or tea, preferably not containing an egg.
A glance back fifty or sixty years through the Marriage Register in any parish shows that Shrove Tuesday was a big day for weddings, as ‘eating the fat and drinking sweet wine,’ not to speak of frothy Guinness or lethal poitín would be frowned on big time during Lent. There is a tradition in many faiths that fasting is preceded or followed by a bit of a party. We hear quite often of Ramadan these days and how Muslims celebrate afterwards. I have often drawn attention to how many of our feasts, festivals or occasions for enjoyment have their roots in religious celebrations. The experience of officially Godless societies during the heyday of communism in Europe suggest that enjoyment was sadly lacking for many people during those times, and that in itself probably hastened their downfall.
Lent itself has not gone away, you know. It has taken on a different form. People decide themselves on what they will or will not do for Lent, rather than being dictated to. Despite that, it is surprising how many people actually start some programme of spiritual or physical rehabilitation, or both, for Lent. Coming as early as it does this year, Lent fits into the after Christmas operation transformation, as many of us have, perhaps unknown to ourselves, followed the advice of Nehemiah in eating the fat and drinking the sweet wine. Then too, there is the Trócaire tradition which is there for about forty years now, and which has taught us that giving is more important than giving up. We can of course do both and enjoy ourselves even more afterwards as we “eat the fat and drink the sweet wine” of celebration of Christ’s resurrection.
Week ending February 5th 2013
Recent reports that Redemptorist priest, Father Tony Flannery has been threatened with excommunication by Vatican officials begger belief. Why he and a number of other religious order priests have become targets of a Roman witch-hunt is hard to understand. I have no doubt that I have written articles for this column in the past seventeen years that questioned aspects of Catholic Church teaching as strongly as Fathers Tony Flannery or Brian D’Arcy have done, but thankfully I have been immune to Vatican criticism, Could it be that the ‘Connaught’ is not perused in the inner sanctums of the eternal city? I do not seek to be censored or excommunicated for that matter, but the key to the present metaphorical burning at the stake seems to be membership of religious orders. Perhaps their superiors have less autonomy than diocesan bishops and officials feel freer to target them.
One of the theories doing the rounds with respect to Father Tony Flannery is that he had something to do with Taoiseach Enda Kenny’s strong speech in Dáil Éireann in the wake of the publication of The Cloyne Report. Because Tony’s brother Frank was a longtime adviser to Fine Gael, people have jumped to the conclusion that he either wrote the speech or had played an advisory role in its preparation. This is to insult the Taoiseach with the suggestion that he was not himself capable of formulating his speech, which I praised in those columns at the time as something that needed to be said. There is an equally insulting theory at the moment that the gloves of the Catholic bishops are off with regard to abortion legislation in order to have a go at the Government for the Taoiseach’s speech and the closing of the Irish Embassy to the Vatican. While I do not agree with the Catholic Bishops’ judgment on the matter, I do think it genuine.
I spent a week in the company of Father Tony Flannery about ten years ago while he was part of a Redemptorist team who gave a Mission in Tourmakeady and Partry. The only fault I had with him was that he got me up too early in the morning for an early Mass and other ceremonies. I wrote at the time that I had not seen the dawn for twenty years or more before that. By the end of the week I was enjoying it even though it probably meant that I had to snatch a nap in the afternoon. It would be difficult to meet a more decent, kind and gentle person than the Tony Flannery I shared a house with that week..To suggest that he is some kind of a threat to the church because he tells the truth as he sees it, and criticises what he sees wrong in much the same way as Jesus found fault with the leaders of his own religion, is just ridiculous.
What amazes many Roman Catholic believers is that some of the finest priests the church has produced are under suspicion and threat for pointing out glaring faults in the organisation, faults which are unecessarily alienating its membership. Would that the same scrutiny was in place when children were being abused and the results covered up. In fairness to the present leadership this problem has been tackled and there is a much safer system in place. It is high time that our bishops told the Roman witch-hunters to back off and allow some of the best priests in the country to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ.
One of the theories doing the rounds with respect to Father Tony Flannery is that he had something to do with Taoiseach Enda Kenny’s strong speech in Dáil Éireann in the wake of the publication of The Cloyne Report. Because Tony’s brother Frank was a longtime adviser to Fine Gael, people have jumped to the conclusion that he either wrote the speech or had played an advisory role in its preparation. This is to insult the Taoiseach with the suggestion that he was not himself capable of formulating his speech, which I praised in those columns at the time as something that needed to be said. There is an equally insulting theory at the moment that the gloves of the Catholic bishops are off with regard to abortion legislation in order to have a go at the Government for the Taoiseach’s speech and the closing of the Irish Embassy to the Vatican. While I do not agree with the Catholic Bishops’ judgment on the matter, I do think it genuine.
I spent a week in the company of Father Tony Flannery about ten years ago while he was part of a Redemptorist team who gave a Mission in Tourmakeady and Partry. The only fault I had with him was that he got me up too early in the morning for an early Mass and other ceremonies. I wrote at the time that I had not seen the dawn for twenty years or more before that. By the end of the week I was enjoying it even though it probably meant that I had to snatch a nap in the afternoon. It would be difficult to meet a more decent, kind and gentle person than the Tony Flannery I shared a house with that week..To suggest that he is some kind of a threat to the church because he tells the truth as he sees it, and criticises what he sees wrong in much the same way as Jesus found fault with the leaders of his own religion, is just ridiculous.
What amazes many Roman Catholic believers is that some of the finest priests the church has produced are under suspicion and threat for pointing out glaring faults in the organisation, faults which are unecessarily alienating its membership. Would that the same scrutiny was in place when children were being abused and the results covered up. In fairness to the present leadership this problem has been tackled and there is a much safer system in place. It is high time that our bishops told the Roman witch-hunters to back off and allow some of the best priests in the country to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ.