Week ending 27th October 2015
Coming up to Halloween the thoughts of many people in various cultures around the world turn to what is known as the month of the dead. Many great South American novels are based around the theme. Among the things that have impressed me in my forty-four 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 and the range of choices on television, 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.
For the first time in my life I will be praying for a sibling, my sister Mary, which makes this coming November a completely new experience. 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. In the next few days people will 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 down through the years, I see 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. I’m sure it will be worth waiting for.
For the first time in my life I will be praying for a sibling, my sister Mary, which makes this coming November a completely new experience. 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. In the next few days people will 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 down through the years, I see 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. I’m sure it will be worth waiting for.
Week ending 20th October 2015
If the old adage: “Life begins at forty,” is true, then I will be celebrating my thirtieth birthday early enough in the new year. I wrote something similar before my sixtieth birthday and a couple of enterprising parishioners worked out the date, but I don’t need reminding this time. I don’t really believe myself that I am that old. There is a mistake somewhere. I was very young when I was born so I was wrongly registered, maybe. Still I wonder when I see the gnarled hands that protrude from the sleeves of my shirt or jacket: “Where did that old skin, those old hands come from?” I ask and I have to nod in agreement when I glance in the mirror. Time or tide do not wait. I am like the old horse rounding the last bend in Ballinrobe or Ballybrit racecourse. The finishing line is in sight, but I could stumble and fall even before that. The end is nigh, but here’s hoping it’s not night.
Those hands could once take a concrete block each to pass to a bricklayer on piece-work. It certainly was not peace-work, as I was ran off my feet, but still managed to get my tasks done. Someone from the island of Inis Oirr reminded me recently of the day I carried a hundred-weight bag of coal the length of the island beach and up a height to the school as if it was a coat slung over my shoulder. It went down in island legend apparently even though I did not give it a second thought at the time. The school needed a fire and the Naomh Éanna had been delayed for a week with bad weather. I am reminded too of a time I could wield a shovel like a spoon in one hand when throwing sand or soil on a coffin as part of a funeral ceremony. It never occurred to me which hand or hands I used, but some of those who watched took note and later asked me jokingly was I showing off.
We tend to take the strength of youth for granted, and it takes time to adapt to the fact that there are many tasks we could do when younger that we are incapable of doing any more. We learn a few tricks along the way to get past the need to exercise brute force when changing a wheel or doing a job in the garden. Experience garnered down through the years makes it easier to deal with situations that are traumatic or tragic. It is not that we have learned the answers, but that maybe there is no adequate answer at this time. It is enough to be there in so far as one can. Then, as I mentioned in a recent article, I see Pope Francis who is nearly ten years older than me, and who would normally be retired from any other job, going about his work with joy and excitement and I feel inspired again.
If I live as long again as I have lived here in Carna since 2010 I will have reached retirement age, so it is time to start thinking of what to do then. I came close enough to resigning from the parish recently when an English only Teacher’s guide for the new religious education programme was presented to teachers in National Schools.
I will be forty-four years in the Gaeltacht on the 11th of November next and I thought this was the last straw. The comment of a young teacher changed my attitude somewhat when she suggested that a book in ‘official’ Irish would itself be unreadable for herself or Gaeltacht children. I reserve judgment for the moment, but retirement might be sooner rather than later.
Those hands could once take a concrete block each to pass to a bricklayer on piece-work. It certainly was not peace-work, as I was ran off my feet, but still managed to get my tasks done. Someone from the island of Inis Oirr reminded me recently of the day I carried a hundred-weight bag of coal the length of the island beach and up a height to the school as if it was a coat slung over my shoulder. It went down in island legend apparently even though I did not give it a second thought at the time. The school needed a fire and the Naomh Éanna had been delayed for a week with bad weather. I am reminded too of a time I could wield a shovel like a spoon in one hand when throwing sand or soil on a coffin as part of a funeral ceremony. It never occurred to me which hand or hands I used, but some of those who watched took note and later asked me jokingly was I showing off.
We tend to take the strength of youth for granted, and it takes time to adapt to the fact that there are many tasks we could do when younger that we are incapable of doing any more. We learn a few tricks along the way to get past the need to exercise brute force when changing a wheel or doing a job in the garden. Experience garnered down through the years makes it easier to deal with situations that are traumatic or tragic. It is not that we have learned the answers, but that maybe there is no adequate answer at this time. It is enough to be there in so far as one can. Then, as I mentioned in a recent article, I see Pope Francis who is nearly ten years older than me, and who would normally be retired from any other job, going about his work with joy and excitement and I feel inspired again.
If I live as long again as I have lived here in Carna since 2010 I will have reached retirement age, so it is time to start thinking of what to do then. I came close enough to resigning from the parish recently when an English only Teacher’s guide for the new religious education programme was presented to teachers in National Schools.
I will be forty-four years in the Gaeltacht on the 11th of November next and I thought this was the last straw. The comment of a young teacher changed my attitude somewhat when she suggested that a book in ‘official’ Irish would itself be unreadable for herself or Gaeltacht children. I reserve judgment for the moment, but retirement might be sooner rather than later.
Week ending 13th October 2015
I had my annual holidays at the time Pope Francis was in Cuba and The United States of America. I had felt that I had needed a holiday because of my own petty exertions until I saw this man who is almost ten years older than me sweeping around in great good humour as well as making very significant speeches about climate change, poverty and the plight of refugees. Here was a (South) American speaking the languages of his own continent to his own people, and they, or at least many of them, were listening. What amazed me most was the wall to wall, or flat-screen to flat-screen coverage of the Papal visits on every channel available in a range of languages from Greek to German, Dutch to Portuguese, Spanish to English on the major news channels of the world. There I was, far from home, cheering on the man in the white soutane as if he was after scoring ten tries in the Rugby World Cup.
My favourite viewing was that of the Pope sitting down with the ageing revolutionary, Fidel Castro, like two pensioners reminiscing on their long lives. Fidel was on a grainy black and white screen the first time I saw a television in the late fifties of the last century. One of my aunts, Annie (Staunton) Duignan was married in Longford, and they had a TV in their Tally-ho bar. The BBC signal reached about that far across Ireland a few years before the introduction of RTÉ, and the picture was poor. Fidel, however was unmistakeable and he still looks much the same. To think then that the young revolutionary should some day sit down with not just one, but two Popes (Benedict XVI a few years ago as well) would seem to be beyond the bounds of possibility at the time. Francis might not agree with some people’s views, but he is prepared to sit and talk with anyone.
As the son of emigrant Italian parents, Pope Francis is in a better position than most world leaders to comment on emigration and the refugee crisis. In a sense he has a foot in both camps, the European and the South American. Argentina saw much political turmoil in his youth and middle age. Some would criticise him for not taking a stronger stance during the dictatorship of the army generals, but he would not have been of much use to anyone if he had been imprisoned, killed or ‘disappeared’ like so many of his contemporaries. To some extent it reminds me of certain stances Jesus of Nazareth refused to take in the full knowledge that he would have been martyred even earlier if he did. We sometimes think of Popes as people who had a fairly privileged upbringing, but the last three Popes, John Paul 11, Benedict and now Francis saw war and persecution at first hand and were relatively lucky to survive.
I have long thought that attitude is one of the most important traits in religion as well as in other aspects of life. People are seen for what and whom they are, and are accepted for that despite their occasional mistakes. Pope Francis’ openness on most questions may have more to do with his personality than with his beliefs, if such aspects of a person’s life can be separated, but it leads to great acceptance among people of various religions or of none. The thunderous applause he received at the United Nations from people of more than a hundred countries, and probably as many religions was spontaneous and from hearts, but it was the pictures from his meeting with Fidel that said most about attitude – on both sides.
My favourite viewing was that of the Pope sitting down with the ageing revolutionary, Fidel Castro, like two pensioners reminiscing on their long lives. Fidel was on a grainy black and white screen the first time I saw a television in the late fifties of the last century. One of my aunts, Annie (Staunton) Duignan was married in Longford, and they had a TV in their Tally-ho bar. The BBC signal reached about that far across Ireland a few years before the introduction of RTÉ, and the picture was poor. Fidel, however was unmistakeable and he still looks much the same. To think then that the young revolutionary should some day sit down with not just one, but two Popes (Benedict XVI a few years ago as well) would seem to be beyond the bounds of possibility at the time. Francis might not agree with some people’s views, but he is prepared to sit and talk with anyone.
As the son of emigrant Italian parents, Pope Francis is in a better position than most world leaders to comment on emigration and the refugee crisis. In a sense he has a foot in both camps, the European and the South American. Argentina saw much political turmoil in his youth and middle age. Some would criticise him for not taking a stronger stance during the dictatorship of the army generals, but he would not have been of much use to anyone if he had been imprisoned, killed or ‘disappeared’ like so many of his contemporaries. To some extent it reminds me of certain stances Jesus of Nazareth refused to take in the full knowledge that he would have been martyred even earlier if he did. We sometimes think of Popes as people who had a fairly privileged upbringing, but the last three Popes, John Paul 11, Benedict and now Francis saw war and persecution at first hand and were relatively lucky to survive.
I have long thought that attitude is one of the most important traits in religion as well as in other aspects of life. People are seen for what and whom they are, and are accepted for that despite their occasional mistakes. Pope Francis’ openness on most questions may have more to do with his personality than with his beliefs, if such aspects of a person’s life can be separated, but it leads to great acceptance among people of various religions or of none. The thunderous applause he received at the United Nations from people of more than a hundred countries, and probably as many religions was spontaneous and from hearts, but it was the pictures from his meeting with Fidel that said most about attitude – on both sides.
Week ending 6th October 2015
There is a certain type of Autumn day that people of my age and ilk would think of as potato picking weather. Clear skies, a touch of frost in the morning and at nightfall, crisp air, a low sun, a red-gold harvest moon carrying the day slightly into the night, the satisfaction of a good day’s work done, of potatoes pitted to carry us through the winter and provide seed in spring. Such thoughts and memories tend to belong more to the middle of the last century than to fifteen years into this one, though I have noted far more potato stalks in fields and gardens this year than for many years previously.
This is a welcome development, a combination perhaps of recessionary times and ecological awareness, not to speak of the satisfaction that is derived from eating what you have grown yourself. In this time of age and grandparent awareness, the idea of passing on the skills of the past to children of the present is a very useful one. People who may have considered that they had few skills in fact have many of the skills of living that may well be needed much more in the future than they have been for the past fifty years. It is no weight on any child to learn to plant a seed and reap a harvest. In fact it is probably one of the most basic of life-skills..
It is good to see schools getting in on this concept too, of planting a small garden in or near the school grounds and watching things grow, whether flower or food, or both. The old socialist idea of ‘bread and roses’ is a good one. People might manage to live on bread alone, but the idea of having both bread and beauty adds much more to life. I see roses still grow around doors of the ruins of old cottages, a reminder that those who came before us, who literally did not have two pennies to rub together, still had time for beauty by their thresholds.
Some of these harvest thoughts were sparked by the taste of a good turnip. As often happens when preparing a meal, I had half of it chewed before the rest of it made its way into the saucepan. The difference in taste of a turnip smashed open from one that is sliced has amazed me since schooldays smashing of a turnip or two on the road. No turnip ever tasted better than the forbidden fruit (or veg) taken from Bodkin’s field in Fortlawn on the way home from Clogher school. I wouldn’t really have considered it stealing, as there were so many turnips in the field anyway.
I certainly have no memory of telling in confession that I was involved in stealing turnips, as then Belcarra curate, Fr. Tommy Gibbons would probably have delivered himself of a memorable reply. He was a man I greatly admired, so different from the picture of the fifties’ priest portrayed in media and much of literature. I quoted him recently when Carna church was full of the voices of little children, some crying, some laughing, some shouting. As parents became restless that their little ones were upsetting the rest of the congregation I made the point that this did not affect me at all. Children and their parents were most welcome in the house of God no matter how much noise they make. I told of the comment made by the priest in the church in which I first went to Mass (Belcarra) He, Fr Gibbons said that the cry or the shout or the laugh of a child was the best prayer said there that day. How right he was.
This is a welcome development, a combination perhaps of recessionary times and ecological awareness, not to speak of the satisfaction that is derived from eating what you have grown yourself. In this time of age and grandparent awareness, the idea of passing on the skills of the past to children of the present is a very useful one. People who may have considered that they had few skills in fact have many of the skills of living that may well be needed much more in the future than they have been for the past fifty years. It is no weight on any child to learn to plant a seed and reap a harvest. In fact it is probably one of the most basic of life-skills..
It is good to see schools getting in on this concept too, of planting a small garden in or near the school grounds and watching things grow, whether flower or food, or both. The old socialist idea of ‘bread and roses’ is a good one. People might manage to live on bread alone, but the idea of having both bread and beauty adds much more to life. I see roses still grow around doors of the ruins of old cottages, a reminder that those who came before us, who literally did not have two pennies to rub together, still had time for beauty by their thresholds.
Some of these harvest thoughts were sparked by the taste of a good turnip. As often happens when preparing a meal, I had half of it chewed before the rest of it made its way into the saucepan. The difference in taste of a turnip smashed open from one that is sliced has amazed me since schooldays smashing of a turnip or two on the road. No turnip ever tasted better than the forbidden fruit (or veg) taken from Bodkin’s field in Fortlawn on the way home from Clogher school. I wouldn’t really have considered it stealing, as there were so many turnips in the field anyway.
I certainly have no memory of telling in confession that I was involved in stealing turnips, as then Belcarra curate, Fr. Tommy Gibbons would probably have delivered himself of a memorable reply. He was a man I greatly admired, so different from the picture of the fifties’ priest portrayed in media and much of literature. I quoted him recently when Carna church was full of the voices of little children, some crying, some laughing, some shouting. As parents became restless that their little ones were upsetting the rest of the congregation I made the point that this did not affect me at all. Children and their parents were most welcome in the house of God no matter how much noise they make. I told of the comment made by the priest in the church in which I first went to Mass (Belcarra) He, Fr Gibbons said that the cry or the shout or the laugh of a child was the best prayer said there that day. How right he was.