Week ending 30th December www.tourmakeady.com
“Another letter for Ann Rooney.” In my mind’s eye and ear I can still see and hear Jim McEvoy reading out the names and addresses of the letters that had arrived for the students of St. Patrick’s College, Maynooth, all of forty three years ago. He was about four years senior to me, so that may explain why he had first go at the letters. ‘Ann Rooney’ was no relation to Manchester United’s Wayne. It was James McEvoy’s witty take on ‘An Rúnaí’ (The Secretary) as some of the letters were addressed to various College societies, and in particular Irish speaking ones like Cuallacht Cholmcille, a literary and cultural group.
I had not set eyes on James McEvoy since his ordination for the Diocese of Down and Connor in 1968 until I saw his photograph and read his obituary in a recent Saturday’s ‘Irish Times.’ I had come across some of his philosophical and theological writings in ‘The Furrow’ from time to time over the years, and was somewhat shocked by his relatively untimely death. It is the death of our contemporaries which reminds us most of our mortality. James would have been about two years older than Father Oliver Hughes, Parish Priest of Corofin in Co. Galway, a priest of this Archdiocese of Tuam who died recently. There was a time when reaching our sixties would have seemed like a great achievement, but when we have reached that far we would like another while on this earth, preferably without recession, but we have no choice in that.
James McEvoy obviously had a good and fulfilled life, with Professorships in Louvain, Maynooth and Queen’s University, Belfast. On retirement from University work in 2004 he assisted in the formation of seminarians in St. Malachy’s College, Belfast until the time of his death. I also remember with some fondness his brother Augustine, or Gus who was a year senior to him in Maynooth. He is credited with having the first ‘home-grown’ radio in that college at a time when both radios and newspapers were banned. A man of scientific gifts, Gus had designed a crystal radio which looked more like a bomb than the conventional transistor radios of the time, but it worked. It had the additional advantage that a College Dean finding it would have difficulty proving that it was actually a radio. In pre-Troubles Maynooth, a bomb would have probably seemed less dangerous to student morality as far as the authorities were concerned, than a radio or a newspaper.
While we regret the passing of contemporaries, the real sadness at the present time is at the tragic deaths particularly of children, in Cork and Limerick, as well as other deaths nearer home. It will be a sad Christmas for many, But we hang our hopes on the one without whom there would be no Christmas. Jesus never tried to pretend that pain, sorrow and suffering were not part of the human condition. He did not tell us to looking for the cross, but when it came, to try and face and carry it as best we can. Christmas is not all about joy and peace, though that is a big part of it. The shadow of the cross fell across the first Christmas too when King Herod killed ‘the holy innocents,’ all male children under two, while trying to take out a possible rival to his kingdom in the person of the baby Jesus. Jesus did not come to deny suffering and death but to try and transform those human conditions and give them a meaning..
I had not set eyes on James McEvoy since his ordination for the Diocese of Down and Connor in 1968 until I saw his photograph and read his obituary in a recent Saturday’s ‘Irish Times.’ I had come across some of his philosophical and theological writings in ‘The Furrow’ from time to time over the years, and was somewhat shocked by his relatively untimely death. It is the death of our contemporaries which reminds us most of our mortality. James would have been about two years older than Father Oliver Hughes, Parish Priest of Corofin in Co. Galway, a priest of this Archdiocese of Tuam who died recently. There was a time when reaching our sixties would have seemed like a great achievement, but when we have reached that far we would like another while on this earth, preferably without recession, but we have no choice in that.
James McEvoy obviously had a good and fulfilled life, with Professorships in Louvain, Maynooth and Queen’s University, Belfast. On retirement from University work in 2004 he assisted in the formation of seminarians in St. Malachy’s College, Belfast until the time of his death. I also remember with some fondness his brother Augustine, or Gus who was a year senior to him in Maynooth. He is credited with having the first ‘home-grown’ radio in that college at a time when both radios and newspapers were banned. A man of scientific gifts, Gus had designed a crystal radio which looked more like a bomb than the conventional transistor radios of the time, but it worked. It had the additional advantage that a College Dean finding it would have difficulty proving that it was actually a radio. In pre-Troubles Maynooth, a bomb would have probably seemed less dangerous to student morality as far as the authorities were concerned, than a radio or a newspaper.
While we regret the passing of contemporaries, the real sadness at the present time is at the tragic deaths particularly of children, in Cork and Limerick, as well as other deaths nearer home. It will be a sad Christmas for many, But we hang our hopes on the one without whom there would be no Christmas. Jesus never tried to pretend that pain, sorrow and suffering were not part of the human condition. He did not tell us to looking for the cross, but when it came, to try and face and carry it as best we can. Christmas is not all about joy and peace, though that is a big part of it. The shadow of the cross fell across the first Christmas too when King Herod killed ‘the holy innocents,’ all male children under two, while trying to take out a possible rival to his kingdom in the person of the baby Jesus. Jesus did not come to deny suffering and death but to try and transform those human conditions and give them a meaning..
Week ending 23rd November www.tourmakeady.com
Purple is the colour I and other clergy will be wearing in church most of the time between now and Christmas. It is not that we have suddenly been bitten by the style-bug, or have watched too much of RTÉ’s ‘Off The Rails.’ We belong to an older and more enduring fashion, the purple vestments of Lent and Advent. The Advent season begins next weekend, a sure sign that we are within four weeks of Christmas. It is a kind of mini-Lent, a time to reflect on how things are between God and ourselves,as well as between us and our neighbour as we approach the feast of the birth of our Saviour, who gave us those two love commandments.
There was a time in which I might have complained about the commercial side of Christmas starting too early, even though I have not noticed that this has happened in recent weeks. Maybe it is that I have not been in a position to visit Galway or other shopping towns. I suppose I miss the easy access I had to Ballinrobe, Castlebar and Westport while in the middle of that particular shopping triangle during the time I was based in Tourmakeady for the past fifteen Christmasses. Here in Cárna we are well provided for as regards food, drink, fuel for the fire, petrol, etc by local shops, and it may be just as well that we do not have the distractions of the big stores from which to buy all the things we don’t need.
The depth of the recession has led me welcome any commercialism attached to Christmas that is likely to put as much money as possible into pockets that need it. While many people like to observe the Sabbath, whether that is on Friday, Saturday or Sunday according to a person’s religion, I think the priority in recessionary times is for people to feed themselves and their families. Jesus himself got into trouble with the authorities of his own religion for breaking the Sabbath in order to do good, to heal people in his case. The flexibility that comes from observing the spirit rather than the letter of the law was one of the astute lessons taught us by the man the baby Jesus was to become.
I have heard of a priest who went into a bog to beat a man who was footing turf on a Sunday, forty or so years ago. Another made himself famous by doing the same in a hayfield. ‘Unnecessary servile work on Sundays’ was a phrase many of us learned from our catechisms as part of the commandment to ‘keep holy the Sabbath Day.’ The zealot beating somebody in field or bog hardly added to the holiness of the Sabbath. It was the kind of over-enthusiasm for the letter of the law that Jesus condemned again and again in the Scribes and Pharisees. Like the Civil Servant who acts as if the State money under his/her own control has to be doled out as sparingly as possible, the person with the same attitude to religious commandments also betrays the spirit of the law.
Jesus preached and practised a fairly relaxed form of religion, as I understand it from the Gospels. It was not as if he was without principle, as shown by his willingness to die for what, or because of what he believed in. He did not make big issues of little things, make mountains from molehills. During Advent it might be worth our while to learn more of the non-fundamentalist Jesus who believed in the spirit rather than the letter of the law. Let our own little lullaby to baby Jesus as Christmas recognise all of that relaxed attitude to law and life.
There was a time in which I might have complained about the commercial side of Christmas starting too early, even though I have not noticed that this has happened in recent weeks. Maybe it is that I have not been in a position to visit Galway or other shopping towns. I suppose I miss the easy access I had to Ballinrobe, Castlebar and Westport while in the middle of that particular shopping triangle during the time I was based in Tourmakeady for the past fifteen Christmasses. Here in Cárna we are well provided for as regards food, drink, fuel for the fire, petrol, etc by local shops, and it may be just as well that we do not have the distractions of the big stores from which to buy all the things we don’t need.
The depth of the recession has led me welcome any commercialism attached to Christmas that is likely to put as much money as possible into pockets that need it. While many people like to observe the Sabbath, whether that is on Friday, Saturday or Sunday according to a person’s religion, I think the priority in recessionary times is for people to feed themselves and their families. Jesus himself got into trouble with the authorities of his own religion for breaking the Sabbath in order to do good, to heal people in his case. The flexibility that comes from observing the spirit rather than the letter of the law was one of the astute lessons taught us by the man the baby Jesus was to become.
I have heard of a priest who went into a bog to beat a man who was footing turf on a Sunday, forty or so years ago. Another made himself famous by doing the same in a hayfield. ‘Unnecessary servile work on Sundays’ was a phrase many of us learned from our catechisms as part of the commandment to ‘keep holy the Sabbath Day.’ The zealot beating somebody in field or bog hardly added to the holiness of the Sabbath. It was the kind of over-enthusiasm for the letter of the law that Jesus condemned again and again in the Scribes and Pharisees. Like the Civil Servant who acts as if the State money under his/her own control has to be doled out as sparingly as possible, the person with the same attitude to religious commandments also betrays the spirit of the law.
Jesus preached and practised a fairly relaxed form of religion, as I understand it from the Gospels. It was not as if he was without principle, as shown by his willingness to die for what, or because of what he believed in. He did not make big issues of little things, make mountains from molehills. During Advent it might be worth our while to learn more of the non-fundamentalist Jesus who believed in the spirit rather than the letter of the law. Let our own little lullaby to baby Jesus as Christmas recognise all of that relaxed attitude to law and life.
Week ending 16th November 2010 www.tourmakeady.com
I wish to assure my reader, or readers that there is absolutely no truth in the rumour that EU Economics Commissioner, Olli Rehn is a distant relative of a certain Olli Cromwell who has failed to endear himself to the citizens of this country for well over three hundred years. Poor Olli had better watch out, though, as he is likely to be accused of becoming the Rehn-ie applied to ease our economic indigestion. When the Budget cuts hit, much of the opprobrium will inevitebly be heaped on Olli. ‘He is the one who told us to slash and burn,’ we will be informed. ‘Otherwise we were going down the economic sewer-pipe. It was Olli or the IMF, the devil you know or the deep blue sea that you don’t.’
If Olli is successful, of course, it will be another story. If the Celtic Tiger comes back from the dead, Olli will become one of our own, as popular as Big Jack and Italian Trap put together. He will become ‘Olli the Wran.’ His effigy will be carried from house to house on St. Stephen’s Day, as children collect loose cents to help pay off the national debt. As you may know by now, wren-money, confirmation-money, Brídeóg money or any other contributions made to children will be slashed along with the children’s allowance. Slash and burn will not just be the order of the day, but the order of the next four years.
We must never forget that the wren, or in this case the Rehn, is the king of the birds, so don’t be surprised to find Olli flying even closer to the sun in coming years. I’m ready to put my last euro with Paddy Power on Olli becoming next President of the European Commission. It may turn out to be an astute move on our part to have hitched our wanderely wagon to his juggernaut of a bandwagon in economic, fiscal and political terms. When Olli is king of Europe, we will be able to tug our forelocks and say: ‘Good on you, Olli. Fair Play to Olli the Wran who gave us the bitter Rehn-ie which saved us from going down the tubes.’
I can envisage Olli going the way of the Normans and English of old, becoming more Irish than the Irish themselves. He could by deed poll become Olibhéar Ó Dreóilín (Oliver Wren.) Taoiseach Brian Cowan could do a Garrett Fitzgerald (as in the case of the late James Dooge) and appoint Olli to the Senate, while we still have a Senate. From there he could become a Minister or even Taoiseach. Instead of Europe swallowing us, as so many people fear, we could swallow Europe in the person of Olli. As a Finn we could surely find him some Irish ancestors, such as the great Finn McCool. What could be cooler than that?
We mock, of course, as it is the only alternative is to cry. The only consolation we have is that many of us have lived through economic depressions in the past, though none of them was on the same scale as this one because of the recklessness of the Banks. Turkeys must be laughing all the way to the proverbial this year, as no one will be able to afford them for Christmas dinner. Instead we will have to opt for a much smaller bird, the Rehn..
If Olli is successful, of course, it will be another story. If the Celtic Tiger comes back from the dead, Olli will become one of our own, as popular as Big Jack and Italian Trap put together. He will become ‘Olli the Wran.’ His effigy will be carried from house to house on St. Stephen’s Day, as children collect loose cents to help pay off the national debt. As you may know by now, wren-money, confirmation-money, Brídeóg money or any other contributions made to children will be slashed along with the children’s allowance. Slash and burn will not just be the order of the day, but the order of the next four years.
We must never forget that the wren, or in this case the Rehn, is the king of the birds, so don’t be surprised to find Olli flying even closer to the sun in coming years. I’m ready to put my last euro with Paddy Power on Olli becoming next President of the European Commission. It may turn out to be an astute move on our part to have hitched our wanderely wagon to his juggernaut of a bandwagon in economic, fiscal and political terms. When Olli is king of Europe, we will be able to tug our forelocks and say: ‘Good on you, Olli. Fair Play to Olli the Wran who gave us the bitter Rehn-ie which saved us from going down the tubes.’
I can envisage Olli going the way of the Normans and English of old, becoming more Irish than the Irish themselves. He could by deed poll become Olibhéar Ó Dreóilín (Oliver Wren.) Taoiseach Brian Cowan could do a Garrett Fitzgerald (as in the case of the late James Dooge) and appoint Olli to the Senate, while we still have a Senate. From there he could become a Minister or even Taoiseach. Instead of Europe swallowing us, as so many people fear, we could swallow Europe in the person of Olli. As a Finn we could surely find him some Irish ancestors, such as the great Finn McCool. What could be cooler than that?
We mock, of course, as it is the only alternative is to cry. The only consolation we have is that many of us have lived through economic depressions in the past, though none of them was on the same scale as this one because of the recklessness of the Banks. Turkeys must be laughing all the way to the proverbial this year, as no one will be able to afford them for Christmas dinner. Instead we will have to opt for a much smaller bird, the Rehn..
Week ending 9th November 2010 www.tourmakeady.com
The second week in November has a certain resonance for me for the past thirtynine years, because this is the week I sailed out in the Naomh Éanna for the first time as curate in the Aran Islands of Inis Oirr and Inis Meáin. It was a life-changing experience, a move from mainland to island life, from English to Irish language, from driving from one place to another on the mainland, to the sometimes hair-raising experience of crossing a couple of miles of dangerous sea by currach between Sunday Masses.
There was an element of culture shock about the move. I found it difficult to believe that such a place existed about sixty miles from where I was born and reared. Many of the island women wore coloured shawls and large red petticoats. Men wore homespun trousers and waistcoats as well as pampooties, a kind of slipper/sandal made from rawhide, with the animal hair still attached. It was not unusual to see a man wade into seawater above his knees while launching a currach, without a seeming care in the world about pneumonia.
The most difficult aspect of the change was the language. Currachs and boats were easily adapted to by comparison. Saying Mass was relatively easy as I had the book in front of me and enough school Irish to get on with it, whatever about the pronunciation. Conversation, communication was the problem, as everyone seemed to speak so fast. If the words were written down they might be recognised, but were just a blur when put together. But people were patient. They assured me that they often found English just as difficult when they visited Galway.
My efforts at pidgin Irish were often returned to me in the correct order, so it was up to me to pick it up and try and get it right. The slow slog of trying to get one word or sentence right every day paid off eventually. Apart from those who are linguistic wizards it is surely the best way to try and learn a language. It is a method I am trying to use now in my new parish of Cárna, not with regard to language, but in trying to get to know people. It is no use trying to cram in everyone and everything, or you won’t remember anything.
I have two Saturday evening Masses now and only one on Sunday, at 11.30 am. I don’t know what to do with myself on a Sunday morning until Masstime. I usually find myself walking the dog on one of the beautiful sandy beaches, or down a bog road with a magnificent view of the Twelve Bens. As I look out at the Atlantic ocean I remember those hectic mornings travelling by currach between the islands. My enduring image of the waves is seeing them coming towards us like rows of two-storey houses.
I am still amazed by the skill and courage of the men on the oars. A deft flick by all three men together would take us out of trouble, but the danger was very real. People risked their lives so that their communities could worship. It was as corageous as previous generations risking their lives around Mass-rocks in penal times. My abiding image of the currach on its ‘missionary;’ journey was of the shoe of Christ walking on the water.
There was an element of culture shock about the move. I found it difficult to believe that such a place existed about sixty miles from where I was born and reared. Many of the island women wore coloured shawls and large red petticoats. Men wore homespun trousers and waistcoats as well as pampooties, a kind of slipper/sandal made from rawhide, with the animal hair still attached. It was not unusual to see a man wade into seawater above his knees while launching a currach, without a seeming care in the world about pneumonia.
The most difficult aspect of the change was the language. Currachs and boats were easily adapted to by comparison. Saying Mass was relatively easy as I had the book in front of me and enough school Irish to get on with it, whatever about the pronunciation. Conversation, communication was the problem, as everyone seemed to speak so fast. If the words were written down they might be recognised, but were just a blur when put together. But people were patient. They assured me that they often found English just as difficult when they visited Galway.
My efforts at pidgin Irish were often returned to me in the correct order, so it was up to me to pick it up and try and get it right. The slow slog of trying to get one word or sentence right every day paid off eventually. Apart from those who are linguistic wizards it is surely the best way to try and learn a language. It is a method I am trying to use now in my new parish of Cárna, not with regard to language, but in trying to get to know people. It is no use trying to cram in everyone and everything, or you won’t remember anything.
I have two Saturday evening Masses now and only one on Sunday, at 11.30 am. I don’t know what to do with myself on a Sunday morning until Masstime. I usually find myself walking the dog on one of the beautiful sandy beaches, or down a bog road with a magnificent view of the Twelve Bens. As I look out at the Atlantic ocean I remember those hectic mornings travelling by currach between the islands. My enduring image of the waves is seeing them coming towards us like rows of two-storey houses.
I am still amazed by the skill and courage of the men on the oars. A deft flick by all three men together would take us out of trouble, but the danger was very real. People risked their lives so that their communities could worship. It was as corageous as previous generations risking their lives around Mass-rocks in penal times. My abiding image of the currach on its ‘missionary;’ journey was of the shoe of Christ walking on the water.
Week ending 2nd November 2010 www.tourmakeady.com
The ‘Day Of The Dead’ sounds ominous and scary, but that is what the second of November is called in many languages, including Irish – ’Lá na Mairbh.’. All Souls Day is a bit milder, but whatever we call the day, the meaning is much the same for Christians. 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 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. 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 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. How can we expect to imagine the eternal life of God?