OF YOU MY HEART HAS SPOKEN

No speech No word No sound Is found To scream out My displacement In this World The cultural Religious  Personal Estrangement An Eastertide Gethsemane A lostness of soul An intense black cloud Hovering over This sunny afternoon And You would not Allow even a brief respite In the Cloister For which You my Lord Have bid me crave Be brave You say Be stretched Beyond all boundaries Content with the colour Of the moment A simple child At play

Witness. The word appears a few times in the first reading for Easter Sunday. Here in Hastings, we had the annual ecumenical Procession of Witness – the Way of the Cross – which made its way from St. Clement’s church, up High Street, into our own St. Mary Star of the Sea and then on to All Saints. To be a witness is not simply something we see with our eyes, not only something we give testimony to in our words, but it is most of all something we experience, a reality into which our entire being is immersed, so that we somehow become the reality that we witness. I have mixed feelings about the Procession of Witness. It is always good to walk with Deacon Duncan, to see familiar faces in the crowd and this year to walk for the first time with Father Mat and his family. And I have great admiration for all those who give themselves so generously to the process. But the thing itself embarrasses me and is much too loud for my liking yet, in spite of my dislike, I find myself drawn into

  Reflection recorded for St. Richard's Catholic College, Bexhill

  A kind parishioner brought me to visit an elderly lady whom I hadn’t seen for a few years. She was the essence of elegance in the past and retains it now in the present. And in her solitude she lives a strong interior life. I brought her Holy Communion which was a delight for her. She was like the Greeks in the Gospel who said, “we would like to see Jesus!” (John 12) And see Him she does in this Holy Communion, as we all do, with the eyes of faith, the eyes of her soul. Observing her in that sacred moment was inspiring, moving. Having received her dear Lord, she joined her hands, closed her eyes, looking for all the world like the Blessed Virgin Mary. Then she seemed to move deep down into her interior where something special was taking place and, when she eventually opened her eyes she said, “I heard the sound of Angels singing.” Beautiful. It seems to me that Jesus in the Eucharist touched that place in her heart where God had written His Law, His Word. That sacred writing

Uproot from the soil Of my heart Lord This tree That bears no fruit Deep-rooted Stubborn Taking up Such precious space The bark that holds all My legitimate grievances Be burned in the fire Of Divine Love Purifying furnace Uproot from the soil Of my heart Lord This tree This egocentric self And leave behind A gaping hole That it may become A chalice for Your own Sacred outpouring Wellspring of Mercy Garden of Your Law Fertile field of Word Deepest interior Knowing

"... with Christ I hang upon the cross,  and yet I am alive; or rather, not I; it is Christ that lives in me." (Galatians 2:19-20 Knox Bible) Hands joined in prayer Reverent Protective It was You Not I Who approached Putting me on my feet As if in invitation to dance You took my hands In each of yours Slowly opening Parting them full stretched Fingertip to fingertip Face to face Body to body Lips to lips Adoration With You I hang Upon the Cross Crucified to You And You to me (2010) From the Pallottine Chapel, Ngong Road, Nairobi 

I sit beside the grief Of your leap-year Leave-taking Short of words Hoping still that presence Has some meaning Like the bright smile Of your welcome Warmth of your voice The fullness of your greeting As you strode across the Green The unexpected hug Of our last meeting Ceannt Avenue will never Be the same again And the seagulls know it Squawking in the squall That tosses them around The heavy-laden sky All poise useless When the hailstones Tumble down  Upon the mourners  At your grave (2008)

Sometimes  I catch myself In a fit Of affectation Uttering High sounding   Inflated Empty-headed words With the pretence Of wisdom in them O Lord forgive The misuse Of the gift Of Your Word

Who am I? That I should open The door Of the Tabernacle Take You In my hands Place You On the altar Expose You To the gaze Of hungry souls Who am I That I should utter Hollow words Of adoration Praise Gratitude When nothing On this earth Could ever express The Majesty The Mystery Who am I That You should choose To anoint me To be totally Yours And stand in Your place At Your altar To utter the sacred Words of Consecration And somehow bring Your presence to life Your Passion Your Rising Salvation For Your People O Lord of Mercy I am not worthy

On Wednesday I was given the book ‘American Mother’ by Colm McCann and Diane Foley and the following morning I heard an announcement that Diane Foley would be interviewed on BBC 4 Womans Hour, so I figured in the ways of Divine Providence, that I was meant to pay attention. Diane tells the story of the kidnapping and execution of her son James between 2012 and 2014. Now that I’m paying attention I remember well the image of James kneeling in the desert wearing an orange jumpsuit, the horror of his execution, the manner of it. Brutal. Inhumane. Savage.  It made me very angry at the time and someone said to me then in response to my anger that I would have to share heaven with the men who did this dreadful thing. I don’t believe that heaven is so easily attained. That one could commit such an act and then simply gain heaven. Different if there is a change of heart on their part. Different if there is repentance. But this is not the point here. It’s early days in the book but from wha

When I was a boy, we went to school by bus and, more often than not, I was late, running frantically down Parnell Avenue, desperate not to miss it, fear rising in my throat. I sometimes missed it and would have to walk the two miles and, being very late, I would be punished. Punished with more than words. Nowadays there is no bus for me to catch but still I am running in my head, trying to catch up with responsibilities that have overtaken me, obligations that I cannot keep pace with, so that I am missing deadlines and, far to often, forgetting to do what should have been done. The fear that was in me as a child rises in me every day. As certain as the dawn. Emails, letters, questions to be answered, banks to be dealt with, phone messages not dealt with. And the Church piles on us so many demands that I find overwhelming. Documents. Renovation. Reform. A year for this and a year for that. There’s no let-up and I realize that I can no longer sustain this. There are people who can do

A hoarse groan Echoes in the cave That you have become Death has been mining Digging out the rich Mineral of your life Haunting your emptiness Breaking our closeness Apart Not knowing what Your eyes are trying To say Their pleading And the fear That you want me To leave before it’s time.

May tongues of fire Descend once more And set aflame The cloak of politeness Enwrapping our time The veil of political correctness Entrapping Truth The bland niceness Silencing fury This worldly tolerance That turns away And passes by When God Is left for dead Along the road Beaten With unwanted children Who will never have the right To speak His name The innocent  Citizens of this earth Whose voices  Go unheard May tongues of fire fall The storms of heaven descend To shake away our apathy And transform us into fire

Strangers who became friends in the Desert Love the stranger, for you were strangers…” ( Deuteronomy 10) This phrase has been in my prayer for the past few days and it connects well with the Gospel of the Good Samaritan which has been chosen as the theme for Christian Unity week 2024. And I have the honour of preaching on this theme at St. Clement's Church of England here in the Old Town. It is a first for me - preaching in a church that is not Roman Catholic. I'm very grateful to Father Mat for inviting me. Love the stranger, for you were strangers…”  Both parts of the phrase are important, though we tend to focus on the first. The obligation to love the other which we all take seriously. St. Catherine of Siena had a mystical experience in which she was taken up to Heaven where she experienced the fullness of life and joy in the presence of God. After a while Jesus told her "It's time for you to go back." And when she protested He said, "I need you to go

  Dawn broke beautifully over a white-frosted Mervue, the sun shivering through naked trees. Fog rising further out in the fields, diffusing a soft light. Evelyn drove me to Shannon for my return trip to Hastings. After two weeks away I know it’s time to get back and, however much I fantasize about retirement, I know it wouldn’t suit me at all. Not yet! Mary Moore’s funeral kept me home a few days longer – five days! It was an honour to be the priest celebrating her requiem. Her death has startled us her contemporaries. And it brought us together. It made us think. Especially since she is the second of our generation in Mervue to die within the space a of week. It has, of course, also awakened the feeling of loss in relation to our Maura. Her death almost twenty-five years ago. Mary was seventy-one years old, as Maura would be if she were here now. They were school mates; friends and I was part of that friendship especially in our teens when I spent many happy times in Coynes hou

I followed my Love In hidden places With burning desire To be His silent guest My head upon His breast I followed my Love By country streams And island shores To breathless mountain peaks To hear His Spirit speak I followed my Love To His sanctuary where I found myself in prayer And longed for Him To keep me there