OF YOU MY HEART HAS SPOKEN

  During the Sahara Desert retreat six years ago, we walked for about seven hours every day for a week. There were three breaks during the course of a day and the toughest part was in the afternoon when the heat was at it's height and we were feeling pretty tired.  One afternoon we came upon a well out in the middle of nowhere. A well with a pump from which we drank of its abundance, soaking our cheich's (Moraccan headscarf) in it. My scarf was a middle-eastern kufiya, given me by Chris, a parishioner who had served in the Iraq war.  I remember placing my saturated, dripping kufiya on my head. The cool wetness of it. The sheer relief of it, until it dried out all too quickly. But in the moment it was pure bliss, not only physically, but it seemed that through the physical touch of water God was reaching into the weariness and deepest thirst of my soul. Reaching in, speaking to my inner reality, ministering to it and somehow releasing me. So, I feel for Jesus in the Gospel...

  The loveliness of Spring peeping though the grey wetness of a long dark Winter. Light is brighter, lengthier and life is pushing itself upwards from the cold earth. Branches bulging with buds that signify hope, new possibilities. Our souls too are looking upwards, our hearts more open to the immense love that God is constantly expressing, often in a language, in gestures that we do not quite understand. Or believe. This is my Son, the Beloved, He says of Jesus. You are my Beloved Son, He has said directly to Him. And what Jesus experiences is also meant for each one of us, without exception. You are my Beloved daughter. You are my Beloved son. To understand what God the Father is actually feeling we need only look at our own experiences of loving. What a mother and father feel for their child is what God feels for you, only His feeling of love is infinitely more intense than ours, if you can imagine anything more intense. Not being a biological father, I have nonetheless ...

  On Friday, my sister Evelyn and I flew to Birmingham for the funeral of our cousin Sharon. It was an emotional, blessed and even a joyful day of family coming together on one of those rare occasions; the awareness within us that, though we hardly ever meet, we are strongly connected by blood with a genuine love shared among us.  It was a long day that found us at the airport for the return flight that was delayed by about an hour. Delays are normal and fine enough but it’s what the airline does with the delay. And it wasn’t Ryanair just in case people might wrongly put the blame there.  It’s what they do. They pretend that they are boarding us. We scan our boarding pass barcode; they check our passports and move us on. Things might not be as bad as we thought. But they were. And somewhat worse. We were all crowded on to the stairs and kept standing there for over half an hour, with the door to the tarmac firmly locked, presumably because the plane was not actually r...

  “You called my youth, sidestepping me away to exile of the heart…”  - words I wrote to You my Lord more than thirty years ago when I felt my separation so keenly.  A deep and all-pervading ache. Not remembering that I was actually born with that ache, an emptiness deep inside that would never let me go no matter how much I tried.  And I have been trying hard to give solace to that ache, to fill the emptiness with what is not You. Rain mesmerises.  Rain on a dark November evening pecking at my face, battering my hood.  Rain on the seafront.  Deserted seafront, releasing what is deserted in me.  Thoughts and feelings that are comfortably restrained, kept in check – now, almost unbeknownst to me, begin to stir like skittish horses, taking on a pace of their own.  I had thought never to revisit this again. The thought of loss.  My failure that somehow led to that loss.  The feeling that goes with it.  And the shock of how it happ...

In preparation for Lent, the question I am asking myself is, "what would Jesus do, what would He have me do?" And St. Paul in Philippians chapter 2 tells us to have the mind of Christ in us, to think like Him and St. Vincent Pallotti tells to act as Jesus would in each moment, in every situation. So, this is the basic goal. February 18th is Ash Wednesday. Fifth anniversary of the death of my friend Father John O’Brien. Birthday of my friend Father John Fitzpatrick who died last August. A significant day for a new chapter in my life. The sabbatical has come to an end. I will be based in Pallotti House, Dundrum and helping out in Shankill for the time being, until a more permanent path opens up. And I am happy with the transience of this period, not in a hurry for permanence. This offers me some kind of balance between my desire for a solitary, contemplative life, and my desire to be engaged in parish life at some level. An engagement without the burden of responsibility, an en...

  "Give me a blade of grass" he said, "and I'm in heaven." And gesturing towards the abundance of grass in Ballyloughan, the variety of nature surrounding us, he continued in admiration, "we have all of this!" What a holy and good attitude to life. We had never met before, though I knew his parents and we are from Mervue. He recognised me from facebook and just wanted to say hello. It was one of those blessed and uplifting encounters and, like me, I suspect he is drawn to solitude. It is easier to be alone than to be with people, the obligations that arise from simply being with another. It is easier and yet it is harder. Harder, because we in solitude we can become our own burden and so, it is essential to get out of ourselves, out into nature, out into encounters with other people who save us from ourselves. And also, because we have something to offer to the other, whether we realize it or not. How to marry the two. The solitude that is deeply...

I have praised The wonder of God's creatures With little thought For the design of crows Until now In this wild Seashore sanctuary The thrill frill Of outstretched wings Flapping elegance Like Joni On the cover Of Hejira Skating on ice Beautiful blackness Rising upon the uprush Of wind My soul in their ascent Uplifted to the highest heavens

 

This is shelter from the Winter rain, oasis in the spiritual desert of the time in which we live, refuge from ourselves and each other. During this brief hour of our day, we look straight ahead. We are a communion of every age and generation, blend of race and colour, a procession of the beautiful moving forward in the direction of Jesus. Everything else is put aside for now. Why would we not avail of this time of respite that clears the soul, the mind, and the heart. Why would we not avail of it and give rest to our busied burdened bodies. The Cathedral is full this Sunday morning, Feast of the Baptism of Jesus, and we are filled again with hope, peace, love, and joy. Outside is America, as U2 sang in ‘Bullet The Blue Sky,’ the America that we have loved, admired, and imitated. The America that was a kind of mother and father and protector of the world order. America now fills us with fear, anxiety, anger and, above all, a profound sadness. We talk of little else and if we talk of...

  "Let the one who is without sin be the first to cast a stone." I am the woman Discovered undercover Caught in the act Exhumed from hiding Beneath skin and flesh The secret desirings Of heart and mind I am the boy Who took refuge there A place of escape And safe solace My habitual habitation I am every one Who exists on the outside The other side of right And there is nothing That will not be revealed In the end And this is my end The law abiding strong Throng my orthodox accuser With only one solution The right of righteousness I am petrified Panic stricken stood bowed Barely able to breathe What will the first Struck stone feel like? What part of me Will bleed and break Before I am all blood broken Bone splintered? I gasp for air For life But God is God The One who alone is Good Stands upright Sees all that I am - ALL - Absorbs me into Himself Bends down So that my bending Now has no more shame in it And the Law  That once was carved In stone He now inscribes  In soil ...