We have Mass in Kilmovee this evening (Friday 15th) to celebrate the many people who minister in the community. The idea has floated for a while but comes to fruition this evening. In trying to get an idea of numbers and certainly not having them all, over 15o people are involved in various ministries in the parish – Eucharistic Ministers, Ministers of the Word, choirs, counters, collectors, various committees and community bodies, sacristans, Altar Society and more. It was encouraging to arrive at that number and is undoubtedly a source of consolation. I am glad we have this chance to say thanks and, after Mass, we will gather for a little food and time together in the Community Centre.
In trying to find a few words to share, I thought of a piece I wrote for the Parish Magazine a few years ago and am thinking of using it again tonight. Thought I might share it here too …
Gathered to celebrate – people in Ministry in the Parish of Kilmovee
There was, in poetry, a time
I thought things had to rhyme.
That was, in poetry, the only way
at least that’s what I used to say!
But of that today I’m not so sure
could it be I’m more mature?
As a student in St Nathy’s College, I never fully understood poems that didn’t rhyme. More than that, I disliked them and the “poets” who wrote them seemingly unaware that poems should have a rhyming pattern!
So is that I’m more mature?
Like you, of that, I’m not so sure
From whence then came the clue
Some don’t rhyme and some just do
The answer I suppose lies in life … as a boy, a student in Maynooth, a newly ordained priest I knew there were questions but I thought answers were easily found. Things had an order about them – a sort of pattern like the rhyming poem.
The rhyme continued. Most people went to Mass. Churches were relatively full most of the time. Prayers were said and it seemed so important to keep the Parish together. I enjoyed those early days.
“The Lord be with you”, I would say
“And also with you” as one they’d pray
Great to see you; and so it was
Together then we’d stand and pause
Sins confessed, Sacred Story shared
His Body and Blood for all, nothing spared.
First baptism, first wedding – such joyful occasions, shared easily with people oozing joy and happiness owned the day. I don’t remember the First Confession I heard and often think that tells its own reassuring story of the sacredness of that Sacrament. Lines drawn in the sand, and no need to re-live or re-visit – that’s the way it’s meant to be, people move on renewed and refreshed having been forgiven through the gentleness of the Sacrament. First Communion Days and Confirmation in the parish all combined to enrich the rhyme.
He died in a tragic accident. His wife and children were devastated and the community drew to a halt. I went to the hospital for the removal and an elderly woman told me afterwards how sorry she felt for me in my short-sleeved shirt. I could as easily have been a boy in short trousers. Words were scarce and the rhyme was gone … it’s hard to speak in rhyme or think in rhyme when people’s hearts are broken. There were others like that; sudden deaths, car accidents, cancer and sickness, loss of Faith, decline in practice, indifference, hostility, scandals, doubts, anger, negative press, decline of vocations …. and still, through it all, the whispered refrain “I the Lord of sea and sky, I have heard my people cry. I, who made the stars of night, I will make their darkness bright …… Whom shall I send?”
The rhyme was in decline but the poem was still needed. I looked for signs, listened for voices, sought direction – wondered! Somehow, thanks be to God, the heart of the poem remained intact, enriched even by some of life’s questions and held sacred in the lives of many good people who cradled the faith, caressed the verse and, in time, helped me realise:
poems don’t have to rhyme but
they should speak
to a soul in need of Grace
a wound in need of healing
a heart in need of mending
a darkness in need of light
a thought in need
of sharing
And that’s what I want to say. Despite the difficulties and the sadness, the changes and the uncertainties, the Poem must go on. We must find time to share thoughts and place with one another, to bring people to that point where the Word is heard even if not fully grasped and prayers are prayed even in uncertainty.
Rhyming or not, what we are living is poetry.
Lines repeated
Earlier today I shared these words at Mass in St Agnes’ Cathedral. I’d first written them a few years ago for our parish magazine and updated them recently for an article in The Messenger Magazine. After Mass a number of people told me they liked the lines so thought I’d include them here again. They’re intended as a reflection on the years since Ordination – thirty years ago now – in 1987.
There was, in poetry, a time
I thought things had to rhyme.
That was, in poetry, the only way
at least that’s what I used to say!
But of that today I’m not so sure
could it be I’m more mature?
As a student in St Nathy’s College, I never fully understood poems that didn’t rhyme. More than that, I disliked them and the “poets” who wrote them seemingly unaware that poems should have a rhyming pattern!
So is that I’m more mature?
Like you, of that, I’m not so sure
From whence then came the clue
Some don’t rhyme and some just do
The answer I suppose lies in life … as a boy, a student in Maynooth, a newly ordained priest I knew there were questions but I thought answers were easily found. Things had an order about them – a sort of pattern like the rhyming poem.
The rhyme continued. Most people went to Mass. Churches were relatively full most of the time. Prayers were said and it seemed so important to keep the Parish together. I enjoyed those early days.
“The Lord be with you”, I would say
“And also with you” as one they’d pray
Great to see you; and so it was
Together then we’d stand and pause
Sins confessed, Sacred Story shared
His Body and Blood for all, nothing spared.
First baptism, first wedding – such joyful occasions, shared easily with people oozing joy and happiness owned the day. I don’t remember the First Confession I heard and often think that tells its own reassuring story of the sacredness of that Sacrament. Lines drawn in the sand, and no need to re-live or re-visit – that’s the way it’s meant to be, people move on renewed and refreshed having been forgiven through the gentleness of the Sacrament. First Communion Days and Confirmation in the parish all combined to enrich the rhyme.
He died in a tragic accident. His wife and children were devastated and the community drew to a halt. I went to the hospital for the removal and an elderly woman told me afterwards how sorry she felt for me in my short-sleeved shirt. I could as easily have been a boy in short trousers. Words were scarce and the rhyme was gone … it’s hard to speak in rhyme or think in rhyme when people’s hearts are broken. There were others like that; sudden deaths, car accidents, cancer and sickness, loss of Faith, decline in practice, indifference, hostility, scandals, doubts, anger, negative press, decline of vocations …. and still, through it all, the whispered refrain “I the Lord of sea and sky, I have heard my people cry. I, who made the stars of night, I will make their darkness bright …… Whom shall I send?”
The rhyme was in decline but the poem was still needed. I looked for signs, listened for voices, sought direction – wondered! Somehow, thanks be to God, the heart of the poem remained intact, enriched even by some of life’s questions and held sacred in the lives of many good people who cradled the faith, caressed the verse and, in time, helped me realise:
poems don’t have to rhyme but
they should speak
to a soul in need of Grace
a wound in need of healing
a heart in need of mending
a darkness in need of light
a thought in need
of sharing
And that’s what I want to say. Despite the difficulties and the sadness, the changes and the uncertainties, the Poem must go on. We must find time to share thoughts and place with one another, to bring people to that point where the Word is heard even if not fully grasped and prayers are prayed even in uncertainty.
Rhyming or not, what we are living is poetry.
Old Friends tell an old story
I was down in the “Thatch Cottage” at Kilmovee Community Centre a while ago. Some of my old friends from St Aiden’s N.S., Monasteraden were there filming their most recent “movie” for FÍS. They have become so good at this over the years. I look forward to seeing the new production in due course. I was reminded of the film they made last year – it centred on “GRACE”, the story of Joseph Mary Plunkett’s marriage on the day of his execution to Grace Gilford. I just watched it now and thought I’d share. Well done to all involved.
For more of the work done in St Aiden’s Click here
Lyric and tune
During the week I had a call from someone asking if I’d record the words of the poem put together in memory of the Crew of Rescue 116. I discovered that the piece had been picked up by the Connaught Telegraph and that may well have been the reason I was contacted. It was good to think the words had gone a little further than my little bit of cyberspace and I truly hope they are some help and, if nothing else, an assurance to the families of all involved that they are not forgotten and that the lives and loss of their loved ones have impacted heavily upon us. I sent the recording to the lady and believe she may use it on an upcoming Radio Tribute to the Crew. I asked my friend, Fr James McDonagh, if he’d record a solo version of “The Waves of Kilkee” (he has a fine version with his family and friends on a “Rose In The Heather” CD) and James kindly agreed. I include his tune now with the words and hope they have a place here again. (James was the friend I was speaking with the night I heard Rescue 116 pass overhead)
We remember in prayer Dara and Mark who have been returned to their families and continue to hold in the depths of our hearts a prayer for the finding of Paul and Ciarán that they may be returned to their families to allow space and time for grieving and healing. May God’s blessing be upon all those continuing to search for them and may there be a successful outcome to that search.
On Monday last I heard your sound
you in sky and me on ground,
on the phone, chatting with a friend
wondered where your journey’s end?
Someone somewhere was in need
prayed you’d reach them with due speed
and from the sky you’d hover low
to help the stricken ones below
The sound was loud as you crossed Mayo
I prayed God’s blessing as you’d go
a fleeting wish that you’d be blest
and to ones troubled you’d bring rest
An hour later I went to bed
your journey then had left my head
a few hours later the story broke
as to a new day I awoke
Helicopter missing near Black Sod;
Could it be them? I asked my God
is that the one that passed last night
to ease another’s troubled plight?
And yes it was or so it seems
in a world shattered by broken dreams
In lives laid down, you gave your all
in answer to another’s call
Your photos now before our gaze
friends and family offer tear-filled praise
and the loss they feel is ours too
for as a nation we mourn you
How could you as crew have known
the destiny to which you’d flown
but know this now and for evermore
your memories in our hearts we store
To Dara, Paul, Ciarán and Mark
who flew that night into the dark
know this day, you gave your best
in God’s hands we leave the rest.
Scaffolding
I was sad to hear of the death of Bishop Eddie Daly, R.I.P. He’s one of those people that always seems to have been there in my lifetime. How many times we’ve seen the image of him, hunched with white waving handkerchief in hand, seeking to lead people to safety in the midst of a blood-stained Derry Sunday on January 30th 1972. I was nine years old then but remember that image and moment. Pure horror and a man seeking to make a difference in the midst of it all.
Some ten years later I recall trying to annoy one of my Derry classmates who (rightly) saw Eddie as hero. I asked would he like to see my impersonation of him and when he said yes, I took a hankie from my pocket and waved it in the air. He was not impressed! It’s a powerful moment, cherished in the memory of all who saw it and, for many, a shared memory that is all too real. My “impersonation” was at a very superficial level and served little by way of justice and depth, to the respect I had and have for Bishop Daly.
Scaffolding in place around works at St Agnes’ Cathedral, Rockville Centre
I was reminded today of Seamus Heaney’s poem “Scaffolding” and it strikes me that Bishop Daly and many others like him have sought to protect and maintain a sense of place and church in our midst. For years, as priest and bishop, he lived where he loved, served his own people and knew their ways. He was inspirational. He became “scaffolding” allowing people maintain and indeed overcome the “walls” of Derry that they might become places of meeting rather than division, peace instead of conflict and hope instead of despair. Maurice Harron’s famous sculpture on the outskirts of the city shows two men reaching out to one another from the walls of their tradition. The hands almost touch and I believe that Eddie Daly in the scaffolding he provided allowed for that touch to finally become real.
“Hands across the divide” by Maurice Harron
May he rest in peace. Amen
___________________
SCAFFOLDING
Masons, when they start upon a building,
Are careful to test out the scaffolding;
Make sure that planks won’t slip at busy points,
Secure all ladders, tighten bolted joints.
And yet all this comes down when the job’s done
Showing off walls of sure and solid stone.
So if, my dear, there sometimes seems to be
Old bridges breaking between you and me
Never fear. We may let the scaffolds fall
Confident that we have built our wall.
