Week ending November 26th 2013
I didn’t shed any tear when the clergy golf season came to an end. We will have a break from the in-your-face e-mails telling us how some colleagues are enjoying themselves while others struggle to have a day off or a holiday. One colleague is now helping me in this matter, but there are others less lucky. This two-tier priesthood needs to be tackled as a matter of urgency. Many of those who have cover from within their parish or from surrounding parishes do not see that there is a problem. There is, particularly in coastal areas, where priest’s houses are far apart and there is nobody to call on from either side because of mountains or the sea. There is the additional matter of diocesan borders, as every second half-parish along the Conamara coast is part of a different diocese. There are apparently ongoing discussions between the Archdiocese of Tuam and the diocese of Galway on this matter, while there is not a problem at local level other than distance between priest’s residence. It is a practical area in which the Association of Catholic Priests could get involved, as well as in more high-falutin theological matters.
‘One for the price of three’ seems to be the special offer parishioners see as being available to Roman Catholics in terms of clergy nowadays, with most of us covering parishes in which three or more priests ministered as recently as twenty years ago. In fact priests have been on the same relatively modest salaries for a number of years despite the extra workload. I am not complaining about that, just stating a fact, as many people seem to have the impression that we have whatever comes in the priestly collections to spend on ourselves. Surplus income is divided to help priests in less populated areas to come up to the basic salary. This contrasts with previous experience in which certain parishes were viewed with some envy by clergy living on a pittance at the time. That ‘two-tier priesthood’ was done away with by the equalisation of basic salaries. The present two-tier system with regard to time off and holidays needs to be dealt with now to prevent burnout, strokes or worse.
Pope Francis is becoming involved in worldwide consultations with Catholics before the next Synod of Bishops on many issues. At the moment he does not seem open to the acceptance of women priests, but he may be open to persuasion if people tell him how things are rather than what they think he might want to hear. I have often written that I don’t want us to have women clergy just because we are running short of men for the job. We need them because of right, for the sake of equality, an issue which has been one of the defining qualities of the past century in almost every walk of life. If you agree, please tell that to the Pope. If your views are not heard or heeded at local level, write to him directly. He has already called people who have written to him on personal issues. Tell it like it is, as you see it, with regard to gay people, with regard to the option of clergy to marry, with regard to second relationships. Pope Francis may or may not agree, but he seems to want to listen. And learn.
‘One for the price of three’ seems to be the special offer parishioners see as being available to Roman Catholics in terms of clergy nowadays, with most of us covering parishes in which three or more priests ministered as recently as twenty years ago. In fact priests have been on the same relatively modest salaries for a number of years despite the extra workload. I am not complaining about that, just stating a fact, as many people seem to have the impression that we have whatever comes in the priestly collections to spend on ourselves. Surplus income is divided to help priests in less populated areas to come up to the basic salary. This contrasts with previous experience in which certain parishes were viewed with some envy by clergy living on a pittance at the time. That ‘two-tier priesthood’ was done away with by the equalisation of basic salaries. The present two-tier system with regard to time off and holidays needs to be dealt with now to prevent burnout, strokes or worse.
Pope Francis is becoming involved in worldwide consultations with Catholics before the next Synod of Bishops on many issues. At the moment he does not seem open to the acceptance of women priests, but he may be open to persuasion if people tell him how things are rather than what they think he might want to hear. I have often written that I don’t want us to have women clergy just because we are running short of men for the job. We need them because of right, for the sake of equality, an issue which has been one of the defining qualities of the past century in almost every walk of life. If you agree, please tell that to the Pope. If your views are not heard or heeded at local level, write to him directly. He has already called people who have written to him on personal issues. Tell it like it is, as you see it, with regard to gay people, with regard to the option of clergy to marry, with regard to second relationships. Pope Francis may or may not agree, but he seems to want to listen. And learn.
Week ending November 19th 2013
Among the things that have impressed me most in a couple of score years in the priesthood is the respect people have for their dead. November brings out the best in people in this regard. Despite the early nightfall, the comfort of the fire, the soaps and the sport, people still come out night after night to remember their loved ones, to honour them and pray for them. The church concept of ‘communion of saints’ means that people consider 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 present 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. If those developments continue to pleasantly surprise us, 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 present 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. If those developments continue to pleasantly surprise us, how can we expect to imagine the eternal life of God?
Week ending November 12th 2013
I had occasion to visit Berkeley Road Carmelite church near Dublin’s Mater Hospital last month. It reminded me of continental European churches I have seen, full of shrines to patron saints, with burning candles glowing in front of each shrine. A quiet haven in a busy city on an October afternoon. A place for meditation, prayer or just letting God hang out, available but under no pressure. I had earlier sat in the hospital oratory, a place of warmth and prayer too, but it lacked the lived-in-ness of the one hundred and twenty year old Carmelite church across the street. Perhaps more tears have been shed before the hospital altar, but there is a particular atmosphere in a church that has lived for more than a century among the joys and sorrows of a community, tears of happiness and sadness mingled with years of breathing petition and thanksgiving.
As I wandered from one shrine to another I came across a familiar name on a brass plaque on the wall, a Conamara priest who had served in that church for many years, but who had also served with me on the Aran Islands, An tAthair Cillín Ó Curraoin. I had first met him at the funeral of a Ballydavock neighbour, Tom Cuffe, the husband of my grandaunt, Annie Skeffington. Their son Paddy, better known by his religious name, Father Bernard, is a Carmelite priest in Loughrea, still serving the Lord in his nineties. Father Cillín too had lived until he was about ninety, and even at that age did a memorable interview with Máirtín Tom Sheáinín on TG4’s “Cómhrá.” As I wandered around Berkeley Road church I could imagine his powerful voice echoing around the columns of that building, with no need for a microphone. At eighty he had gone to serve in the island of Inis Oirr when I was in neighbouring Inis Meáin. Although I was more than thirty years younger I found it hard to keep up with him as we walked around the islands.
Fr Cillín was a hearty individual, equally at home in English as in the Irish in which he was reared near Spiddal. He was full of stories from the various areas he had worked throughout his long life. He comes to my mind most of all when I remember one of our most dangerous experiences when flying with Aer Arann on one of their sturdy ten seater “Islander” planes. It happened on the day Archbishop Michael Neary was being installed in Tuam in succession to Dr Joseph Cassidy who died earlier this year. As priests of the diocese we had been invited to the ceremony along with our Parish Priest, Fr Tommie Mannion, later to serve in Louisburg and Claremorris before his untimely death a couple of years ago.
It was a stormy squally day as we prepared to fly to the mainland after our usual Sunday Masses. Cillín was picked up first in Inis Oirr. As the plane approached Inis Meáin I could see the effects of the wind as its wingtips swayed in the air, one side and then the other virtually touching the airstrip before it straightened out to land. I was ushered in beside Cillín with a few people from the island in front of and behind us. We took off then for Inis Mór and as we crossed Gregory’s Sound between the islands I could see how wild and windswept the sea was. Tension eased as we appeared to be making a perfect landing. Suddenly a wing dipped. The pilot decided to abort the landing and we seemed to be climbing vertically for a few minutes. When the plane straightened out we were out beyond those cliffs later made famous by cliff-diving exploits, the sea beneath us boiling like a crazy kettle. As we approached the airstrip for the second time, Cillín asked me: “Is any bishop worth this? What could I do but stand by my classmate of now fifty-four years, in St Jarlath’s College, Tuam, and St Patrick’s College, Maynooth: “Of course he is worth it.”
As I wandered from one shrine to another I came across a familiar name on a brass plaque on the wall, a Conamara priest who had served in that church for many years, but who had also served with me on the Aran Islands, An tAthair Cillín Ó Curraoin. I had first met him at the funeral of a Ballydavock neighbour, Tom Cuffe, the husband of my grandaunt, Annie Skeffington. Their son Paddy, better known by his religious name, Father Bernard, is a Carmelite priest in Loughrea, still serving the Lord in his nineties. Father Cillín too had lived until he was about ninety, and even at that age did a memorable interview with Máirtín Tom Sheáinín on TG4’s “Cómhrá.” As I wandered around Berkeley Road church I could imagine his powerful voice echoing around the columns of that building, with no need for a microphone. At eighty he had gone to serve in the island of Inis Oirr when I was in neighbouring Inis Meáin. Although I was more than thirty years younger I found it hard to keep up with him as we walked around the islands.
Fr Cillín was a hearty individual, equally at home in English as in the Irish in which he was reared near Spiddal. He was full of stories from the various areas he had worked throughout his long life. He comes to my mind most of all when I remember one of our most dangerous experiences when flying with Aer Arann on one of their sturdy ten seater “Islander” planes. It happened on the day Archbishop Michael Neary was being installed in Tuam in succession to Dr Joseph Cassidy who died earlier this year. As priests of the diocese we had been invited to the ceremony along with our Parish Priest, Fr Tommie Mannion, later to serve in Louisburg and Claremorris before his untimely death a couple of years ago.
It was a stormy squally day as we prepared to fly to the mainland after our usual Sunday Masses. Cillín was picked up first in Inis Oirr. As the plane approached Inis Meáin I could see the effects of the wind as its wingtips swayed in the air, one side and then the other virtually touching the airstrip before it straightened out to land. I was ushered in beside Cillín with a few people from the island in front of and behind us. We took off then for Inis Mór and as we crossed Gregory’s Sound between the islands I could see how wild and windswept the sea was. Tension eased as we appeared to be making a perfect landing. Suddenly a wing dipped. The pilot decided to abort the landing and we seemed to be climbing vertically for a few minutes. When the plane straightened out we were out beyond those cliffs later made famous by cliff-diving exploits, the sea beneath us boiling like a crazy kettle. As we approached the airstrip for the second time, Cillín asked me: “Is any bishop worth this? What could I do but stand by my classmate of now fifty-four years, in St Jarlath’s College, Tuam, and St Patrick’s College, Maynooth: “Of course he is worth it.”
Week ending November 5th 2013
I don’t usually get mobbed by my fans on a Sunday morning, but one day recently I was virtually surrounded by my Canadian fan-club, all two of them, as I emerged from Mass in Cill Chiaráin church. They were part of a group of Gaeilgeóirí from that country who had come to Ireland to attend Oireachtas na Gaeilge. They were on a tour of Conamara before going on to Tourmakeady, other Mayo Gaeltachtaí, and then to Donegal. When they told me they had read some of my Irish language books I had visions of them sitting in snow covered log cabins with a rifle across their knees to ward off bears while reading to themselves in Gaelic. In practice they are probably city slickers, but I probably read too many books about the adventures of Canadian mounted police along the artic circle in my youth. It is now their turn to read about the highlands and islands of Ireland in our native language.
I did not have much time to talk to them as my next Mass was in Carna seven miles away less than half an hour later. It always amazes me how many people throughout the world have an interest in a minority language like Irish. In many cases it is a way of getting back to their family roots, but many who have no connection at all with Ireland also learn it. Programmes on TG4 in recent years from European cities have had contributions from Irish people who are working or have settled abroad, but also included academics mainly who have studied the language. This interest has been there for well over a hundred years. I remember hearing of a Danish scholar who wrote down the stories of an old man in the Aran Islands phonetically. More than a century later these were discovered in a library and could be read back in the same blas in which they were written in the late nineteenth century.
I had very little Irish myself when I sailed out on the Naomh Éanna forty-two years ago next week to be curate on the Aran Islands of Inis Meáin and Inis Oirr. Even though I had been born and reared less than sixty miles away it was like entering a new world. The language was different. The sea was something I was not used to. Men wore distinctive homespun clothes, different from one island to the next. Women wore red petticoats and beautifully woven shawls. Inis Oirr women wore Paisley shawls when going to Mass. Most people wore rawhide shoes called pampooties. There was no electricity, but thanks to Castlebar man Micheál Ó Móráin’s time as Minister for the Gaeltacht, people had fairly good quality gas lighting, cookers and even gas fridges. The canvas currach crossing between the islands for Sunday morning Mass was certainly an adventure for a landlubber from Mayo.
The language itself was the most difficult part. It is not that I did not have school and college Irish, but the speed at which the language came at me was the main problem. If the words were laid out in front of me I would understand almost every one, but in conversation there seemed to be no space between the words. People consoled me by telling me they had the same problems with English. More than forty years later I am still grateful to the people of the islands for their patience. People did not laugh at me or say I sounded stupid. They put the correct versions back into my mouth in a slow methodical way as part of their answers. My advice to anyone trying to learn a language is not to try and do too much. Try and learn a word or a phrase every day and learn it well. The day may eventually come when your Canadian fan-club will turn up to pay their respects.
I did not have much time to talk to them as my next Mass was in Carna seven miles away less than half an hour later. It always amazes me how many people throughout the world have an interest in a minority language like Irish. In many cases it is a way of getting back to their family roots, but many who have no connection at all with Ireland also learn it. Programmes on TG4 in recent years from European cities have had contributions from Irish people who are working or have settled abroad, but also included academics mainly who have studied the language. This interest has been there for well over a hundred years. I remember hearing of a Danish scholar who wrote down the stories of an old man in the Aran Islands phonetically. More than a century later these were discovered in a library and could be read back in the same blas in which they were written in the late nineteenth century.
I had very little Irish myself when I sailed out on the Naomh Éanna forty-two years ago next week to be curate on the Aran Islands of Inis Meáin and Inis Oirr. Even though I had been born and reared less than sixty miles away it was like entering a new world. The language was different. The sea was something I was not used to. Men wore distinctive homespun clothes, different from one island to the next. Women wore red petticoats and beautifully woven shawls. Inis Oirr women wore Paisley shawls when going to Mass. Most people wore rawhide shoes called pampooties. There was no electricity, but thanks to Castlebar man Micheál Ó Móráin’s time as Minister for the Gaeltacht, people had fairly good quality gas lighting, cookers and even gas fridges. The canvas currach crossing between the islands for Sunday morning Mass was certainly an adventure for a landlubber from Mayo.
The language itself was the most difficult part. It is not that I did not have school and college Irish, but the speed at which the language came at me was the main problem. If the words were laid out in front of me I would understand almost every one, but in conversation there seemed to be no space between the words. People consoled me by telling me they had the same problems with English. More than forty years later I am still grateful to the people of the islands for their patience. People did not laugh at me or say I sounded stupid. They put the correct versions back into my mouth in a slow methodical way as part of their answers. My advice to anyone trying to learn a language is not to try and do too much. Try and learn a word or a phrase every day and learn it well. The day may eventually come when your Canadian fan-club will turn up to pay their respects.
