Week ending January 29th 2013
Once again the words of Mayo’s best-known poet will ring true on the first day of next month, Saint Bridget’s Day, Lá Fhéil Bríd, the first of February, the traditional first day of spring: It will be two tears on that day since then Taoiseach Brian Cowen completed his valedictory address to Dáil Éireann with the words of Raiftearaí:“Anois teacht an Earraigh, beidh an lá ag dul chun síneadh agua tar éis na Féile Bríde ardóidh mé mo sheol (Now with the coming of Spring, the days will be lengthening, and after Saint Bridget’s Day I will raise my sail”) The then Leader of the Opposition, Enda Kenny completed the quotation for him and before very long it was he who was “i lár Chontae Mhaigh Eo (in the middle of County Mayo”) as Taoiseach. I hope that Brian Cowen has taken to writing his memoirs. Napoleon used to talk of Generals needing luck. In many ways Taoiseach Cowen was the unluckiest of Generals, swept away in the tidal wave of anger that followed the meltdown of the celtic tiger. If his time had come earlier he might have fulfilled undoubted potential. His ‘inside story’ would be most interesting.
Apart from the longer evenings and the sprouting shoots of new life I like Saint Bridget’s Day in particular for the revival in popularity of the Saint’s cross. It is not that it ever came close to disappearing, but its value seems to be recognised much more from year to year. Beautifully simple in its various designs, it was a religious symbol made from some of the most available materials, straw, rushes or hazel. It did not cost anything which was a most important consideration in earlier times of hardship and penal laws. Hard times have returned for many families, to the extent that there is hardly a cent to spare, but the materials for the Saint Bridget’s cross are still readily available. I hope they bring many blessings to those who make them and put them up in their homes.
Another blessing available in churches this week is the blessing of candles on Candlemas Day, the second of February. How quickly the forty days since Christmas have flown by. This fortieth day was the one on which Jesus was brought to the Temple according to Jewish custom to be presented to the Lord. It is called Presentation Day for that reason, as well as Candlemas. It was the day on which Mary was told that things were not going to be easy for her son, that a sword would pierce her soul too. Traditionally it has been the day on which candles used in churches are blessed as well as candles lit in homes at times of danger, death or wakes. In almost any shop you enter at this time of year you can see such long wax candles for sale, but there is no hard and fast rule that only wax candles can be blest on the day.
I have worn my ‘going to Blaises’ joke thin over the years, but that is what I and many others will be doing on February 3rd, the feast of Saint Blaise, the saint associated with the blessing of throats. This has become one of the most popular ceremonies of the year in many churches. In times of flu and various other illnesses this blessing is appreciated. It is one of the nearest things we have to the traditional healing method of the laying on of hands. I am not suggesting that you should ignore doctor’s orders and forget the flu vaccine or other medicines. The medicines and the blessings do not contradict but complement each other, as well as building up the self confidence needed to face what is left of winter. The first days of February are great times for such blessings. All of them are free, available and there for the taking.
Apart from the longer evenings and the sprouting shoots of new life I like Saint Bridget’s Day in particular for the revival in popularity of the Saint’s cross. It is not that it ever came close to disappearing, but its value seems to be recognised much more from year to year. Beautifully simple in its various designs, it was a religious symbol made from some of the most available materials, straw, rushes or hazel. It did not cost anything which was a most important consideration in earlier times of hardship and penal laws. Hard times have returned for many families, to the extent that there is hardly a cent to spare, but the materials for the Saint Bridget’s cross are still readily available. I hope they bring many blessings to those who make them and put them up in their homes.
Another blessing available in churches this week is the blessing of candles on Candlemas Day, the second of February. How quickly the forty days since Christmas have flown by. This fortieth day was the one on which Jesus was brought to the Temple according to Jewish custom to be presented to the Lord. It is called Presentation Day for that reason, as well as Candlemas. It was the day on which Mary was told that things were not going to be easy for her son, that a sword would pierce her soul too. Traditionally it has been the day on which candles used in churches are blessed as well as candles lit in homes at times of danger, death or wakes. In almost any shop you enter at this time of year you can see such long wax candles for sale, but there is no hard and fast rule that only wax candles can be blest on the day.
I have worn my ‘going to Blaises’ joke thin over the years, but that is what I and many others will be doing on February 3rd, the feast of Saint Blaise, the saint associated with the blessing of throats. This has become one of the most popular ceremonies of the year in many churches. In times of flu and various other illnesses this blessing is appreciated. It is one of the nearest things we have to the traditional healing method of the laying on of hands. I am not suggesting that you should ignore doctor’s orders and forget the flu vaccine or other medicines. The medicines and the blessings do not contradict but complement each other, as well as building up the self confidence needed to face what is left of winter. The first days of February are great times for such blessings. All of them are free, available and there for the taking.
Week ending January 22nd 2013
On certain days I praise the Lord and the Archbishop and anyone else who had a hand in sending me to live by the sea. One such day came recently after a long muggy foggy spell of weather when it was difficult to see much further than your nose, or at least the length of a few cars. This made driving difficult, particularly at twilight, a time I am often on the road between one side of the parish and the other, Carna to Cill Chiaráin and back again. The first fine day that came gave me an inkling of the lengthening of the evening and the promise of much easier driving time with beautiful views to enjoy along the way in a matter of weeks.
Earlier that day a walk by the beach brought back smells of fresh seaweed that first became part of my life more than forty years ago on the islands out across Galway Bay. My dog, Mocca frolicked in the waves and chased seasticks into the tide as if it were a summer’s day. Her almost thirteen years are catching up with her. She has slowed down when it comes to walking, but revels in the sea, whether foggy, rainy or fine. She does seem to have a built-in sense of danger as she has more sense than to face into waves that are big and possibly dangerous. The downside is that she moves from one chair to another in the sitting-room when we return home, while still wet, leaving and old man with no place to sit down and play couch potato in front of the television.
I ask Mocca from time to time does she miss the walks around Tourmakeady, particularly the one in the wood in which she frolicked for the first ten years of her life. She tries to answer but I still have not learned bark-language after all these years. I assume that she is happy enough as long as she gets out somewhere for a while of the day. Even a dog can get too much television. It used to be said by the political enemies of American President Ford that he could not think and chew gum at the same time. I am a bit like that. I find it hard to write with a radio or television switched on in the background, which means that the dog tends to be starved of news, at least until nine o’clock at night when she is often too tired to concentrate. But then, perhaps she does not need to listen, as we are often assured that ‘the dogs in the street’ know this, that or the other, apparently without anyone telling them.
I get most of my own news on the journeys I mentioned earlier as I travel around the parish in the earlier evening listening to Mary Wilson’s ‘Drivetime’ programme on RTE radio. I tend to fit in the Radio na Gaeltachta’s local news and death notices around lunchtime and tune in from time to time to Midwest Radio for a bit of nostalgia for my Mayo roots. Fairly detailed reports on Drivetime of the three days hearings by the Dáil Éireann Health Committee were very impressive and gave a serious, constructive and informative account of the various options open to our legislators with regard to the abortion issue. The rancour and agression of former years was absent for the most part, with various views across the spectrum treated with respect. As a number of people suggested in their submissions, it is time to trust the medical profession in matters of life and death, as well as the collective wisdom of our elected politicians.
Earlier that day a walk by the beach brought back smells of fresh seaweed that first became part of my life more than forty years ago on the islands out across Galway Bay. My dog, Mocca frolicked in the waves and chased seasticks into the tide as if it were a summer’s day. Her almost thirteen years are catching up with her. She has slowed down when it comes to walking, but revels in the sea, whether foggy, rainy or fine. She does seem to have a built-in sense of danger as she has more sense than to face into waves that are big and possibly dangerous. The downside is that she moves from one chair to another in the sitting-room when we return home, while still wet, leaving and old man with no place to sit down and play couch potato in front of the television.
I ask Mocca from time to time does she miss the walks around Tourmakeady, particularly the one in the wood in which she frolicked for the first ten years of her life. She tries to answer but I still have not learned bark-language after all these years. I assume that she is happy enough as long as she gets out somewhere for a while of the day. Even a dog can get too much television. It used to be said by the political enemies of American President Ford that he could not think and chew gum at the same time. I am a bit like that. I find it hard to write with a radio or television switched on in the background, which means that the dog tends to be starved of news, at least until nine o’clock at night when she is often too tired to concentrate. But then, perhaps she does not need to listen, as we are often assured that ‘the dogs in the street’ know this, that or the other, apparently without anyone telling them.
I get most of my own news on the journeys I mentioned earlier as I travel around the parish in the earlier evening listening to Mary Wilson’s ‘Drivetime’ programme on RTE radio. I tend to fit in the Radio na Gaeltachta’s local news and death notices around lunchtime and tune in from time to time to Midwest Radio for a bit of nostalgia for my Mayo roots. Fairly detailed reports on Drivetime of the three days hearings by the Dáil Éireann Health Committee were very impressive and gave a serious, constructive and informative account of the various options open to our legislators with regard to the abortion issue. The rancour and agression of former years was absent for the most part, with various views across the spectrum treated with respect. As a number of people suggested in their submissions, it is time to trust the medical profession in matters of life and death, as well as the collective wisdom of our elected politicians.
Week ending January 15th 2013
The fiftieth anniversary of the start of Vatican Two, the first Roman Catholic church council since 1870 is being marked at present. After half a century the jury could be said to be still out on its effects. We are often told that the mills of God grind slowly, but we know from experience that they eventually grind out results, none more so than in what we call ecumenism. Almost fifty years ago I decided to never let the Octave of Prayer for Christian Unity go by without mentioning it in article or sermon, or both. It was not that I was ever in any area of sectarian or religious conflict, but history had made me aware of the divisiveness caused. I remember the sea-change that came about in inter-church relations in the early sixties by what seemed like a subtle change in attitude by Pope John XX111. I know now that this process called the ecumenical movement had been going on for a long time at that stage but it was not really noticed until a Pope more or less told us we didn’t have to hate Protestants any more.
This came as a great relief to many people. They could not understand why they were not permitted to enter a Protestant church for the funeral of a neighbour they held in great respect. Here was a Pope saying we should look more at what we have in common than what separates us. The same Pope’s attitude had probably been shaped somewhat by the time he, as Cardinal Roncalli, had spent in Instanbul or Constantinoble as a diplomat, a place which was a melting-pot of many different religions, Orthodox, Muslim, Catholic, Protestant and Jew, all of whom worshipped the same God in different ways and see Abraham as their father in faith.
I have often mentioned that I did not really understand the word ‘process’ until the peace process started in Northern Ireland. I knew what the word meant, but had never really teased out its implications. I know now that it is basically a slow burner, something that bubbles away at the back of the stove of life, virtually ignored until we wake up one day and realise that subtle changes have taken place in an age-old problem. I had that kind of realisation this New Year’s Day as I prayed for peace in the traditional way. I thought of the many New Year’s Days we had all prayed for peace in Northern Ireland while basically thinking that our prayer didn’t have a hope in hell. Murder and mayhem seemed to go on and on. Thankfully it was not hell we were praying to. The process bubbled away for many years, two steps forward and one step backward or vice-versa. Suddenly we realise that all the efforts of politicians on all sides, North and South, Ireland, Britain, the United States and Europe have come to fruition. The process is still slow and painful in many ways, as the present flags controversy has reminded us, but to a great extent our hopes and prayers for peace have been answered.
The ecumenical movement, the inter-church movement is a similar process, a slow burner. I mentioned one Pope whose attitude virtually changed a world view. When history is written it will be seen that Pope John Paul 11 and Pope Benedict XVI did more than most to defuse anti-Muslim sentiment after the nine/eleven bombings tended to tar all followers of the prophet Mahomed with the same brush. We knew from our own experience that neither all Catholics or all Protestants, nor many of either tradition were terrorists during our own troubles, and that most Muslims wanted nothing to do with terrorism either. Popes reaching out the hand of friendship helped to get that attitude across to the world. Thank God for slow burners, for peace and ecumenical processes that eventually grind out results,.
This came as a great relief to many people. They could not understand why they were not permitted to enter a Protestant church for the funeral of a neighbour they held in great respect. Here was a Pope saying we should look more at what we have in common than what separates us. The same Pope’s attitude had probably been shaped somewhat by the time he, as Cardinal Roncalli, had spent in Instanbul or Constantinoble as a diplomat, a place which was a melting-pot of many different religions, Orthodox, Muslim, Catholic, Protestant and Jew, all of whom worshipped the same God in different ways and see Abraham as their father in faith.
I have often mentioned that I did not really understand the word ‘process’ until the peace process started in Northern Ireland. I knew what the word meant, but had never really teased out its implications. I know now that it is basically a slow burner, something that bubbles away at the back of the stove of life, virtually ignored until we wake up one day and realise that subtle changes have taken place in an age-old problem. I had that kind of realisation this New Year’s Day as I prayed for peace in the traditional way. I thought of the many New Year’s Days we had all prayed for peace in Northern Ireland while basically thinking that our prayer didn’t have a hope in hell. Murder and mayhem seemed to go on and on. Thankfully it was not hell we were praying to. The process bubbled away for many years, two steps forward and one step backward or vice-versa. Suddenly we realise that all the efforts of politicians on all sides, North and South, Ireland, Britain, the United States and Europe have come to fruition. The process is still slow and painful in many ways, as the present flags controversy has reminded us, but to a great extent our hopes and prayers for peace have been answered.
The ecumenical movement, the inter-church movement is a similar process, a slow burner. I mentioned one Pope whose attitude virtually changed a world view. When history is written it will be seen that Pope John Paul 11 and Pope Benedict XVI did more than most to defuse anti-Muslim sentiment after the nine/eleven bombings tended to tar all followers of the prophet Mahomed with the same brush. We knew from our own experience that neither all Catholics or all Protestants, nor many of either tradition were terrorists during our own troubles, and that most Muslims wanted nothing to do with terrorism either. Popes reaching out the hand of friendship helped to get that attitude across to the world. Thank God for slow burners, for peace and ecumenical processes that eventually grind out results,.
Week ending January 8th 2013
I have recently come to the conclusion that the person who knows the priests of Ireland best is not the Pope, a Cardinal, an Archbishop, a Bishop, a Monsignor, an Archdeacon a Canon, or any other class of clergyperson. Neither is he a Roman Catholic. Mr. Singh is a Punjabi Hindu, and there is every chance that the shirt your local clergyperson is wearing was bought from him, not to speak of every other piece of clothing on his person, from socks to underwear. Mr Singh travels the length and breath of Ireland selling such items. While there are a number of shops throughout the country that specialise in the same, there is a lot to be said to having your clothes and other accoutrements delivered directly to your door. Mr Singh saw a gap in the market quite a few years ago and decided to fill it. Fair play to an enterprising man.
It is the best part of forty years since I first saw Mr. Singh, then wearing the Sihk turban, as he came ashore from a currach on the beach in Inis Oirr, the smallest of The Aran Islands. The ferry from Galway, The Naomh Éanna was too big to dock at the then small island piers, so the final hundred metres or so of the journey had to be completed by currach. Mr Singh’s two big brown leather suitcases were carried ashore by local men. He borrowed or hired a donkey, ran a rope between the handles of the suitcases and hung them across the donkey’s back in the manner of a pair of creels. He then set out to travel from house to house to sell his wares. He was not specialising in the clerical market at the time, but his visits to island houses probably meant that people there did not have to travel out to the
mainland as often for clothes shopping.
When Mr Singh sits down for a cup of tea, the conversation with me is mostly about priests I knew as students in the sixties and where they are now. He is as good as The Tuam Diocesan Directory and the national catholic Directory rolled into one. People talk nowadays of someone “being ahead of the game.” Mr. Singh seems to have foreknowledge of clerical appointments, or at least he hears them as soon as they hit the local radio stations or provincial newspapers. One part of me wonders could he be one of the mythical “consultors” who advise bishops on changes, and whose identities often seem to be closely guarded secrets. How much do they think they know or actually know about their fellow priests about whose appointments thev advise? Not as much as Mr. Singh, I warrant.
Mr. Singh’s story would be worth telling in a gentle television or radio documentary. He is part of hidden Ireland that goes about its business virtually unknown to the world. An excellent English speaker, Punjabi is his first language, which he tells me he speaks at home. When he first visited the islands and Gaeltacht areas of the west of Ireland, there were many people with little enough knowledge of English, so conversation must have been interesting. Selling clothes is a visual business, so words are not very necessary. Mr Singh made his living and got on with it. May he continue to prosper.
It is the best part of forty years since I first saw Mr. Singh, then wearing the Sihk turban, as he came ashore from a currach on the beach in Inis Oirr, the smallest of The Aran Islands. The ferry from Galway, The Naomh Éanna was too big to dock at the then small island piers, so the final hundred metres or so of the journey had to be completed by currach. Mr Singh’s two big brown leather suitcases were carried ashore by local men. He borrowed or hired a donkey, ran a rope between the handles of the suitcases and hung them across the donkey’s back in the manner of a pair of creels. He then set out to travel from house to house to sell his wares. He was not specialising in the clerical market at the time, but his visits to island houses probably meant that people there did not have to travel out to the
mainland as often for clothes shopping.
When Mr Singh sits down for a cup of tea, the conversation with me is mostly about priests I knew as students in the sixties and where they are now. He is as good as The Tuam Diocesan Directory and the national catholic Directory rolled into one. People talk nowadays of someone “being ahead of the game.” Mr. Singh seems to have foreknowledge of clerical appointments, or at least he hears them as soon as they hit the local radio stations or provincial newspapers. One part of me wonders could he be one of the mythical “consultors” who advise bishops on changes, and whose identities often seem to be closely guarded secrets. How much do they think they know or actually know about their fellow priests about whose appointments thev advise? Not as much as Mr. Singh, I warrant.
Mr. Singh’s story would be worth telling in a gentle television or radio documentary. He is part of hidden Ireland that goes about its business virtually unknown to the world. An excellent English speaker, Punjabi is his first language, which he tells me he speaks at home. When he first visited the islands and Gaeltacht areas of the west of Ireland, there were many people with little enough knowledge of English, so conversation must have been interesting. Selling clothes is a visual business, so words are not very necessary. Mr Singh made his living and got on with it. May he continue to prosper.
