Occasional thoughts of an Anglican Episcopal priest

Category: Friends (Page 5 of 7)

A Facebook Posting – May 2, 2012

I don’t know if this is real. I hope it is. I really hope it is. The accompanying picture and the following words were posted on Facebook recently.

A NYC Taxi driver wrote:

I arrived at the address and honked the horn. After waiting a few minutes I honked again. Since this was going to be my last ride of my shift I thought about just driving away, but instead I put the car in park and walked up to the door and knocked.. ‘Just a minute’, answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.

After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 90’s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940’s movie.

By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets.

There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.

‘Would you carry my bag out to the car?’ she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman.

She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.

She kept thanking me for my kindness. ‘It’s nothing’, I told her.. ‘I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother to be treated.’

‘Oh, you’re such a good boy, she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address and then asked, ‘Could you drive through downtown?’

‘It’s not the shortest way,’ I answered quickly..

‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I’m in no hurry. I’m on my way to a hospice.

I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. ‘I don’t have any family left,’ she continued in a soft voice..’The doctor says I don’t have very long.’ I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.

‘What route would you like me to take?’ I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator.

We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.

Sometimes she’d ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, ‘I’m tired.Let’s go now’.

We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico.

Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her.

I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

‘How much do I owe you?’ She asked, reaching into her purse.

‘Nothing,’ I said

‘You have to make a living,’ she answered.

‘There are other passengers,’ I responded.

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.

‘You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.

I didn’t pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that day ,I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don’t think that I have done anything more important in my life.

We’re conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments.

But great moments often catch us unaware – beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.

I Am Really Angry! Get Rush Limbaugh Off the Air!

OK – I’ve had a long day today – up at 5 a.m. to get ready to preside and preach at two church services. Arrange to make a hospital call (which turned out to be unnecessary). Nurse my knee (on which a meniscectomy and cartillage repair was performed last Wednesday). Set up the church dining room for a Lenten soup supper and study program, and then lead that program, and then oversee the tearing-down and cleaning-up afterward. It was a long, but rewarding day of parish ministry.

But then I read this blog by a mother whose daughter was bullied at school this last week – called a “slut” by classmates because she takes birth control – something that they got wind of because some adult on a band trip violated a confidence. I was a band parent – I was president of our children’s band parents boosters group. I know about permission slips and medication supervision and confidentiality. Having been a practicing attorney (and still a member of the Bar) and being a priest, I have a vested interest in confidentiality! So its violation bothers me … a lot.

AND THIS STORY JUST PISSES ME OFF! Maybe it’s just because I’m tired at the end of a long day … but I have a daughter, too. If this had happened to her, I’d have turned into a raving lunatic and sought out those who had humiliated her and probably done them harm. (Yeah, I know, clergy aren’t supposed to think or do such things … but I’m pretty sure I would have!) Some adult on the band trip has a lot to answer for, as do the bullies who abused this young lady and their parents … and mostly Rush Limbaugh and those who idolize his brand of insensitive bullshit! The Republican candidates and office holders who have failed to denounce his treatment of Sandra Fluke also bear responsibility. This just has to stop and a good place to start stopping it is to get that jackass removed from the airwaves!

Celebration of Ministries: A Sermon

Jennifer Spreng Leider recently became Rector of St. Paul’s Parish in Oregon, Ohio. At the Celebration of New Ministry (her “installation”) her recently-born son was also baptised. I was asked to preach the sermon. The readings (all taken from the NRSV) were Jeremiah 17:7-8, Ephesians 4:7,11-16, and John 3:1-8. In addition, the 23rd Psalm, King James Version, was recited. This is the sermon I preached.

“Blessed are those who trust in the Lord…. They shall be like a tree planted by water.” In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

It is a joy and an honor and a humbling experienced to be asked by Jennifer to once again preach at a milestone in her life, this celebration of “new ministry” which also just happens to be the baptism of her and Steve’s son Ian. Although the gospel is one of the baptismal selections, neither our lesson from the Hebrew Scriptures nor our epistle are from the usual options for either the new ministry or baptism. They are selections peculiar to Jennifer, so I shall particular attention to those.

The first is from the 17th chapter of the Prophet Jeremiah. Jeremiah 17 is one of those oddball chapters we find throughout the Bible in various books where good short statements of wisdom have been collected and just lumped together. The bit we heard (verses 7 and 8 ) was half of one of these bits of wisdom, half of a sort of compare-and-contrast statement given by God to the prophet. We heard the good half, the blessing half. To fully appreciate Jeremiah’s message though, we need to hear the whole thing including the curse pronounced in verses 5 and 6. I also think we need to hear it in a translation a little closer to the original Hebrew. I love the New Revised Standard Version of the Scriptures, but there are times when its laudable effort to be gender neutral and inclusive obscures the original meaning and this is one of them. Although the NRSV translation is in the spirit of the original text, it hides a point the prophet makes about the individual within community, a point that is lost in the NRSV’s plural rendering.

So here is Judaica Press’s translation The Complete Jewish Bible, with a couple emendations of my own:

Jer. 17:5-6 Thus says the Lord: Cursed is the warrior* who trusts in the merely human** and makes flesh his arm, and whose heart turns away from the Lord. He shall be like a lone bush in the plain, and will not see when good comes, and will dwell on parched land in the desert, on salt-sodden soil that is not habitable.

Jer. 17:7-8 Blessed is the warrior* who trusts in the Lord; the Lord shall be his trust. For he shall be like a tree transplanted*** by the water, by a rivulet where it spreads its roots: it will not see when heat comes, and its leaves shall be green. In the year of drought will not be anxious, neither shall it cease from bearing fruit.

* Heb. geber = warrior or strong man
** Heb. adam = man or human, humankind
*** Heb. shathal = transplanted

The first word whose translation I changed is geber. It really is unfortunate that most English translations use the word “man” for the Hebrew geber in this and other verses, confusing it with adam (human being), and that the NRSV completely loses it by using the plural pronoun “those”. We really need to know and appreciate when a biblical author choses to use the singular noun geber. Its root is the verb “to prevail”; a person described as geber is a mighty warrior, a person of great strength, someone who can be expected to prevail in times of difficulty. The writer of the book of Job used the word fifteen times to distinguish the character of the geber from ordinary human beings. The prophet Zechariah goes so far as to use the word to describe God. The lesson is clear: all men and women are adam; only a few are geber.

Jeremiah then makes a distinction between those warriors who try to prevail relying on merely human strength, and those who achieve victory through dependence on God. The former he says “shall be like a lone bush in the plain”, while the latter “shall be like a tree transplanted by the water.” The word here is shathal which is usually translated as “planted”, but actually has more the sense of “transplanted”, a sense of intentionality. These aren’t trees that just ended up near the stream because the wind blew their seeds there! These are trees intentionally transplanted with planning and purpose by the farmer who cares for them and expects to see them flourish and produce fruit, transplanted into a grove or an orchard which receives the blessing of water and nourishment. These trees have been purposefully planted, with and among others, “beside the still waters.”

Unlike those who depend only on human strength, who end up alone in a parched and barren salt-sodden desert, these gebarim, these people of spiritual strength who rely upon God, are placed by God into a community, into a place where they receive the sustenance required for growth and productivity. A few verses later, Jeremiah will clearly identify God as “the source of [these] living waters” (v. 13) that are always flowing and always fresh. The point of the prophet’s image of the tree, transplanted into the grove by the river, is not simply about blessing, it is about the individual within community: it is that the blessing of the righteous is not received in solitude — it is received in the context of community.

This is the same point St. Paul makes in that portion of his letter to the church in Ephesus that we heard read this evening:

[E]ach of us was given grace according to the measure of Christ’s gift. The gifts he gave were that some would be apostles, some prophets, some evangelists, some pastors and teachers, to equip the saints for the work of ministry, for building up the body of Christ, until all of us come to the unity of the faith and of the knowledge of the Son of God, to maturity, to the measure of the full stature of Christ. (Eph. 4: 7,11-13)

The gifts we receive are not ours alone; they are for the benefit of the community, for “all of us.” The blessings we receive are not received in solitude — they are received in the context of community “to equip [all of us] for the work of ministry,” which brings us the reason for this evening’s gathering — to celebrate new ministries, Jennifer’s as rector of this parish and, perhaps more importantly, Ian’s as a new member of the body of Christ — to celebrate the transplanting of these gebarim into this grove called St. Paul’s by the water of the River Maumee.

There are several members of St. Paul’s Parish of Medina here this evening and I assure you that I know well and good that they are not here because I am preaching; most of them had no idea I would be doing so. They are here because although it has been over two years since Jennifer was temporarily transplanted into our community, she is still important to and loved by our congregation. That so many of us have driven over 100 miles to be here is testament to her, to her gifts for ordained ministry, and to the fruits of her ministry among us. On behalf of these Medinans (and many others who could not be here but love Jennifer no less), I have some requests to make of the members of St. Paul’s, Oregon:

First of all, encourage Jennifer to focus on three priorities: preaching God’s word, celebrating God’s Sacraments, and spending time in prayer. There are many, many other things that a parish priest can and will do, but these three are central to any clergy person’s ministry. All of those other things can and, in many cases, should be done by others in your community. If Jennifer preaches the word to you clearly and fully, lovingly presides at God’s Table in an inviting and welcoming manner, and centers herself in daily conversation with God, then do not begrudge her if other things are occasionally passed over.
As part of that encouragement, give her time. If you do encourage her in this way, you must do this. Most people do not realize how much time it takes to write a sermon. Most of us have written a term paper somewhere along the way; preparing a sermon is like writing a new term paper each week. It can easily consume 10-15 hours per week. If you want Jennifer to preach well, you must give her this time to prepare. Similarly, you must give her time for liturgical planning and, most importantly, time for the important work of prayer.

Many people are willing to say their clergy should put in this kind of time, but the only way Jennifer can have this time is if other demands are relaxed. You must not expect her to make every pastoral visit, oversee every parish activity, make every administrative decision. Each member of the church is given grace according to the measure of Christ’s gift and each member must work properly promoting the body’s growth. We must reclaim the shared ministry of the whole people of God, and members of the parish must join with your rector in providing pastoral care to other members, in overseeing the activities of the congregation, and in administrative governance.

Jennifer, this obligation of the congregation means that you must answer it with a similar commitment. If you would be the geber described by Jeremiah, if you would be that transplanted, never-anxious, fruit-bearing tree, you must take the time your congregation gives you and focus on these three presbyteral priorities — preaching, sacramental celebration, and prayer — most especially on the third: spend time in conversation with God every day. The budget can wait — your treasurer can do that for you; making sure the church register is accurate can wait — perhaps your altar guild can handle that; someone else can make that pastoral visit … but no one else can listen to God for you. You must spend you own time in prayer.

Members of St. Paul’s, the second request I have is that you support her with your prayers. In his treatise The Power of the Pulpit: Thoughts Addressed to Christian Ministers and Those Who Hear Them, the early 19th Century American preacher Gardiner Spring wrote these words:

[H]ow unspeakably precious the thought to all who labor in this great work, whether in youthful, or riper years, that they are … habitually remembered in the prayers of the churches! Let the thought sink deep into the heart of every church, that their minister will be very much such a minister as their prayers may make him. If nothing short of Omnipotent grace can make a Christian, nothing less than this can make a faithful and successful minister of the Gospel!

We might express this thought differently today, but Gardiner’s point remains valid. Your prayers, even more than her own, are the wellspring from which flows the water of God’s grace on which Jennifer’s ministry as a priest so much depends. If you wish her ministry to bear good fruit, do not forget to pray for her, and let her know you are doing so!

Thirdly, good people of Oregon, respect her, listen to her, and most importantly love her (and Steve and Ian, too). The writer of the letter to the Hebrews admonished church members, “Obey your leaders and submit to them, for they are keeping watch over your souls and will give an account.” (Heb. 13:17a) Standing alone, that admonition seems more than a little bit authoritarian! But that’s only the first half of the admonition; it continues, “Let them do this with joy and not with sighing — for that would be harmful to you.” (Heb. 13:17b) Support Jennifer with your respect and your love, listen to her with an attentive ear, so that her ministry may be to her a source of joy. Be like the church of the Bereans described in the book of Acts who “welcomed the message [brought by Paul, Silas and Timothy] very eagerly.” The Bereans are described Luke, the author of Acts, as “noble minded” and “receptive.” Nothing gives a clergy person greater joy than working with noble minded folk who are receptive to the Word of God! And if this ministry bears the fruit of joy for her, it will bear the fruit of blessing for you.

So, Jennifer, I have a couple of additional admonitions for you … first, Grasshopper, right here and now, rid yourself of the notion that you are in charge or that the success of your pastorate is on your shoulders alone. You are not and it is not. God is in charge and God will nurture the fruit of success. You may be the priest, the rector of this congregation, but you are not its only minister, nor its only leader. You are to work with the vestry and program leaders who are your colleagues and co-leaders. Additionally, you must avail yourself of the fellowship of your clergy colleagues outside the parish — your mission-area clericus within our denomination, and your local ministerial alliance in ecumenical fellowship. Be open to constructive criticism and suggestions from within the congregation and from colleagues outside of it, and you will find your burden much lighter.

Second, settle it in your mind this instant that there are very few emergencies in the pastorate. Sure, there may be some things that need correction, but ask yourself, “Do these things need to be addressed right now this minute?” The answer is usually “No.” Remember Paul’s admonition to Timothy:

The Lord’s servant must not be quarrelsome but kindly to everyone, an apt teacher, patient, correcting opponents with gentleness. God may perhaps grant that they will repent and come to know the truth. (2 Tim. 2:24-25)

Lastly, Grasshopper … If you haven’t already, find both a mentor and a spiritual director. Become friends with both a fellow clergy person and a soul friend, lay or ordained, whose opinions and counsel you trust and value. Ask them to be your counselors and commit to them that you will listen carefully to what they say, even though you may not always do what they suggest — that decision is your own. But do spend time with them on a regular basis for prayer and feedback.
Well, I’ve rambled on a lot about Jennifer’s pastorate and I’ve yet to say a word about Ian’s baptism! So I shall wrap this up quickly with just a brief observation.

Jesus said to Nicodemus that one may not enter the kingdom of God without being born again and Nicodemus asked how this could be possible, “Can one enter a second time into the mother’s womb and be born?” This is such a wonderfully Jewish question!

The Talmud, the tractate called Niddah, teaches that before each of us is born, while we are still in our mother’s womb, “A lamp shines over our heads with which we learn the entire Torah and see from one end of the universe to the other.” The light is held by an angel, teaches us who we are, what is expected of us, what gifts God will give us, what our purpose and our mission is. In sum, we learn the entire blueprint of our lives. We are equipped with everything we need to be gebarim, ready to prevail through the spirit of God, ready to produce the fruits of ministry.

And then … just as we are about to be born, the angel presses a finger against our mouths and says, “Shhhh….” (that’s why this little dent in our upper lips). The angel’s finger pressed against on our mouths puts us into a state of spiritual amnesia; we forget everything we have learned. After we are born, when we try to learn God’s Will, when we try to discern our gifts and our ministry, it is difficult. It seems faintly familiar and it is good and sweet, but it is only with tremendous effort, within and with the help of the community of faith, that even the tiniest ray of light begins to penetrate our minds, to illuminate our spirits. We spend the rest of our lives, taught by our faith community, learning to remember a tiny portion of the way of God that we learned in the womb.

Baptism is our entry into the Christian community of faith; it is the church’s sacramental recognition that this young geber has been planted by God in this grove or orchard to bear fruit. Baptism is the fundamental sacrament of ministry; the water of baptism assures that this young tree, transplanted here by God, “shall not fear when heat comes, and [his] leaves shall stay green; in the year of drought [he will] not [be] anxious, and [he will] not cease to bear fruit.” In baptism tonight Ian will be initiated and incorporated into the body of Christ, as we all have been, graced with gifts which he, with this community’s aid, will discern — or perhaps he will remember from the teaching he received in his mother’s womb.

Jesus said, “No one can enter the reign of God without being born of water and Spirit.” Baptism is at the heart of this gospel and at the core of the church’s mission. Since the Apostolic Age, baptism by water and baptism of the Holy Spirit have been connected. Water is administered in the name of the triune God; the Holy Spirit is invoked by anointing with oil and with the laying on of hands in the presence of the congregation.

When we baptize Ian tonight we say what we understand about ourselves as individuals and as community: that we are not lone bushes in the salt-sodden desert; that he and his mother and all of us are gebarim, mighty trees transplanted into this orchard to bear fruit, to use our gifts for the building up of the Body of Christ.

Tonight we celebrate ministry — Jennifer’s as rector in this parish — but more fundamentally, Ian’s and all of our ministry as children of God and members of the church. As baptized people of God, we respond with praise and thanksgiving to the nourishing waters of baptism, praying that God’s will be done in Ian’s life and in ours so that we shall not from bearing fruit. Amen.

Christmas Sermon 2011: Frosty the Snowman and Jesus the Christ

As many of you know, I have a tradition of keeping my eye open, while doing my Christmas shopping, for some object to use as a physical illustration for this annual event, this sermon on the Nativity of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Over the years, these illustrative objects have included a pair of Christmas stockings, a Christmas banner with the greeting misspelled, and a stuffed frog wearing a Santa hat. Finding and using the annual “focus object” has become a source of great fun for me and I hope for the congregations who’ve been subjected to my preaching.

Frosty the Snowman Plush ToyOver the past ten days or so I have been required almost every day to visit one of our larger local grocery stores, one which has a center section devoted to seasonal merchandise. On each visit as I walked through that section, one item on a top shelf kept catching my attention, but each time I declined to buy it. Every day I would go away and wonder why I was attracted to that particular thing, and those contemplations made their way into my notes for this homily.

Finally, yesterday I went to the store and bought it – meet Frosty the Snowman.

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Sermon for Christ the King: Prepare yourself; gotta have a friend in Jesus!

(Sermon starts with a video of Norman Greenbaum’s Spirit in the Sky. The lyrics are reproduced here.)

When I die and they lay me to rest,
Gonna go to the place that’s the best.
When I lay me down to die,
Goin’ up to the spirit in the sky.
Goin’ up to the spirit in the sky;
That’s where I’m gonna go when I die.
When I die and they lay me to rest,
I’m gonna go to the place that’s the best.

Prepare yourself; you know it’s a must –
Gotta have a friend in Jesus,
So you know that when you die
He’s gonna recommend you
To the spirit in the sky.
Oh, recommend you
To the spirit in the sky;
That’s where you’re gonna go when you die.
When you die and they lay you to rest,
You’re gonna go to the place that’s the best.

Never been a sinner; I never sinned.
I got a friend in Jesus,
So you know that when I die|
He’s gonna set me up with
The spirit in the sky.
Oh, set me up with the spirit in the sky;
That’s where I’m gonna go when I die.
When I die and they lay me to rest,
I’m gonna go to the place that’s the best.
Go to the place that’s the best.

Isn’t that a great song? Written by a Jewish hippy folk-rocker in 1970…. A bit overly confident in the first verse, but that’s the way of some hymns, don’t you think? I mean “Praise my soul, the King of heaven” in which we claim to be “ransomed, healed, restored, [and] forgiven” betrays a pretty over-the-top confidence as well! The theology in the second verse is pretty good, although in the third it’s not so hot – so let’s take a look at that second verse because it really does have something to do with the Gospel lesson for this feast of Christ the King.

Prepare yourself; you know it’s a must –
Gotta have a friend in Jesus,
So you know that when you die
He’s gonna recommend you
To the spirit in the sky.

Today is the last Sunday of the Christian year, the last Sunday after the Feast of Pentecost, the last Sunday before the church year begins again on the First Sunday of Advent. We call it “The Feast of Christ the King” and in the lessons for the day we focus on Christ’s return, his Second Coming, to reign as king over all of creation. In this year “A” of the lectionary cycle, we are still in the same cycle of lessons that we began several weeks ago, Matthew’s description of the events of the first Holy Week. What we heard today takes place on Wednesday – Jesus has just told his disciples some parables about being prepared – the Parable of the Ten Bridesmaids – and about properly stewarding what he has given them – the Parable of the Talents. Now he tells them plainly what will happen at the end of time. This is not a parable! This is a straight-forward statement of what will happen:

When the Son of Man comes in his glory,
and all the angels with him,
then he will sit on the throne of his glory.
All the nations will be gathered before him,
and he will separate people one from another
as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats,
and he will put the sheep at his right hand
and the goats at the left. (Matthew 25:31-33)

There’s nothing parabolic about this. This is what will be – Jesus on his throne with the people gathered before him. To some he will say, “Step over here on my right and ‘inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.'” To others he will say, “Step to my left and ‘go away into eternal punishment.'”

“Prepare yourself; you know it’s a must – gotta have a friend in Jesus!” You do not want him to not be your friend, no way, no how! So how do we get to be Jesus’ friend?

Well, that’s laid out here in pretty straight-forward fashion, as well:

I was hungry and you gave me food,
I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink,
I was a stranger and you welcomed me,
I was naked and you gave me clothing,
I was sick and you took care of me,
I was in prison and you visited me.

In Matthew’s Gospel Jesus completes his teaching ministry voicing the same concerns with which he began it in the opening words of the Sermon on the Mount:

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled
Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.
Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

In Luke’s Gospel we are told that Jesus began his ministry by identifying himself as the one who would provide for the hungry and the thirsty, the meek and the mournful, the poor and the persecuted. He went to his hometown synagogue and read from the Prophet Isaiah:

The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,
because he has anointed me
to bring good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives
and recovery of sight to the blind,
to let the oppressed go free,
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.

And then told them, “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” He would be the bringer of blessing, but now, three years later ….

At the end of his teaching ministry he has handed the Good News over to his followers, like the master handing over the Talents to his slaves, to used and to be increased, and he says to them plainly, “It’s your show now! You provide the food and the drink; you provide the clothing and the shelter; you care for the sick and the prisoner; you welcome the outcast and the lost. Befriend the least of these and you befriend me.” In John’s Gospel, he makes this even clearer when he says, “You are my friends if you do what I command you. I do not call you servants any longer, because the servant does not know what the master is doing; but I have called you friends.”

“Prepare yourself; you know it’s a must – gotta have a friend in Jesus!”

You know, there are two things about this end-time description that intrigue me. The first is that Jesus doesn’t mention a single one of the things that good religious people always seem to think are important. For example, he doesn’t say to either the sheep or the goats anything about sex or gambling or drinking or church-going or Bible-verse memorizing or any of that …

The sheep are not rewarded for attending religious services, nor are the goats condemned for skipping them.

The sheep are not rewarded for being faithful to their spouses, nor are the goats condemned for adultery.

The sheep are not rewarded for giving to the religious establishment, nor are the goats condemned for their lack of charitable giving.

The sheep are not rewarded for staying away from the casinos, nor are the goats condemned for betting at the racetrack.

The sheep are not rewarded for preaching their religion on street corners or on people’s door steps or at their places of work, nor are the goats condemned for failing at evangelism.

The sheep are not rewarded for being teetotalers, nor are the goats condemned for drunkenness.

The sheep are not rewarded for studying their scriptures, nor are the goats not condemned for being biblically illiterate.

We might all agree that we would expect the righteous sheep to behave as described, and that it would be a lot better if the unrighteous goats didn’t … but Christ the King judging between them at the end of time doesn’t seem to be concerned with questions of religious observance and moral behavior. He’s concerned the harsh realities of hunger and thirst, poverty and homelessness, illness and persecution, and whether anybody has addressed them.

The second thing that is intriguing and noteworthy about the scene Jesus describes is the complete lack of self-awareness by both the righteous and the condemned. “Really?” the sheep ask, “When did we do that?” “You’re kidding?” the goats exclaim, “When did we fail to do that?”

And this is where we really have to be very careful that we are understanding of what Jesus is saying. He is not suggesting, in any way, shape, or form, that there is some sort of cosmic check-list that we have comply with. “OK. I worked at Free Farmers’ Market the past four weeks handing out fresh vegetables. Feed the hungry, check! I donated all my old clothing to the Good Will. Clothe the naked, check!” No! It doesn’t work that way.

The righteous don’t go before the King waving a check list: “Look, Jesus, look what we did!” Instead, they are surprised to learn that they did it. Because it’s not really about “doing” … it’s about “being”. It’s not about doing good deeds; it’s about simply being good. That’s why Jesus doesn’t have to mention sex or gambling or religious observance, because someone who would feed the hungry, clothe the naked, house the stranger, or care for the poor without thinking about it surely would lead a moral and religious life. They “walk the walk” whether they “talk the talk” or not.

In the letter of James we are admonished to “be doers of the word, and not merely hearers who deceive themselves.” James asks this important question: “What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if you say you have faith but do not have works? Can faith save you? If a brother or sister is naked and lacks daily food, and one of you says to them, ‘Go in peace; keep warm and eat your fill,’ and yet you do not supply their bodily needs, what is the good of that? So faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead. But someone will say, ‘You have faith and I have works.’ Show me your faith apart from your works, and I by my works will show you my faith.”

Jesus is well aware of the differences between people. He knows that how we live our lives shows more clearly the kind of person we are than anything we might say, any belief we might claim. So his criteria for separating people at the end of time are based on what we do during the course of our lives. Those who quietly get on with living the Good News – feeding those who were hungry, clothing those who were naked, visiting those who were sick or in prison – not because there’s some rule or check list, but simply because they have a need and we have the means to meet it – these are the people who will be taken to one side and told that, in fact, they had been doing those things for Jesus himself; by their works, they showed their faith – they had done what Jesus commanded; they had been Jesus’ friends. Those who do not do these things – not out of some evil intent, but simply because they are, perhaps, too self-centered to see the needs of others – will be told that when they failed to do those things, they were neglecting to do them for Jesus; by their lack of works they showed their faith was dead; they had not done what Jesus commanded; they had not been his friends.

“You are my friends [when] you do what I command you.”

To some the King will say, “Step over here on my right and ‘inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.'” To others he will say, “Step to my left and ‘go away into eternal punishment.'”

“Prepare yourself; you know it’s a must – gotta have a friend in Jesus!”

For the Requiem of Eileen Tough Harrington

Jesus, as we have just heard, said, “Anyone who hears my word and believes him who sent me has eternal life, and does not come under judgment, but has passed from death to life.” He did not, however, say that anyone who hears his word and believes in God would not die … and so we are here this morning to mourn our loss of Eileen Tough Harrington, to remember her life, and to celebrate her entry into the Presence of Almighty God. She has “passed from death to life,” larger life with the Saints in Light.

As many of you know, I often turn to the works of famous poets at times like these and one in particular is the early 19th Century writer Anna Lætitia Barbauld, the daughter and wife of Presbyterian ministers. Her poem A Thought On Death was published in 1821 in a magazine entitled The Christian Disciple. I was reminded of it when I reflected on Eileen’s long life:

When life as opening buds is sweet,
And golden hopes the fancy greet,
And Youth prepares his joys to meet,
Alas! how hard it is to die!

When just is seized some valued prize,
And duties press, and tender ties
Forbid the soul from earth to rise,
How awful then it is to die!

When, one by one, those ties are torn,
And friend from friend is snatched forlorn,
And man is left alone to mourn,
Ah then, how easy ’tis to die!

When faith is firm, and conscience clear,
And words of peace the spirit cheer,
And visioned glories half appear,
‘Tis joy, ’tis triumph then to die.

When trembling limbs refuse their weight,
And films, slow gathering, dim the sight,
And clouds obscure the mental light,
‘Tis nature’s precious boon to die.

In her time of youth, as a young girl of six years of age, Eileen emigrated from her native Aberdeen, Scotland, to the United States. As a young woman she “seized the valued prize” of a two-year college degree in business skills and became an executive secretary. “Dour Scot” though her heritage may have been, she did enjoy life – she and her brother Frederick became dancers and traveled the country entertaining others with their ballroom and tap dancing; she also loved to read and enjoyed word games and crossword puzzles. And, of course, her church membership was very important to her. A member of this parish for 27 years, she was the head of St. Paul’s Altar Guild in the 1980s.

She gave up the dancing when she married Richard Clay Harrington, but she continued throughout her life to enjoy reading and to be active in the church. Mother of two, Susan and Richard Jr., a grandmother and a greatgrandmother, Eileen like all mothers taught her children the lessons of life. A modern American poet, J.D. Deutschendorf, recently published a poem Lessons Mother Taught Us written last year when his mother died:

She planted dill for swallow-tails
and milkweed where monarchs would lay
their caterpillar offspring round
the grass green meadows of May.

The migrants returned then as always;
how quickly her crops were consumed!
but countless chrysalides dotted the dell
tucked inside their golden cocoons.

Then early one morning she beckoned
us watch the mystery unfold;
the metamorphosis almost complete
translucent shells gave up their gold.

Wet wings greeted the rising sun
and the warmth of a soft summer breeze,
soon butterflies coloured meadow and wood
floating gracefully throughout the trees.

She told us of unseen transcendings
as we watched the born-agains soar;
so certain were we then of heaven
as if we had been there before.

I don’t know if Eileen taught Susan and Richard about gardening and butterflies, but I do know that she taught her children, as all mothers do, about life.

I know that they know that we are all children of God; they know it because she knew it and I’m sure that with her Scots determination she made sure they learned her lessons.

That Scots determination (or perhaps some might call it stubbornness) is one of the things I first discovered about Eileen. From time to time, my wife Evelyn and I would have dinner with her together with her daughter Susan and son-in-law Paul. At some point during the evening, Eileen would simply decide that she’d had enough to eat and, apparently, enough of the company as well. “I’m ready to go,” she would say. And when Eileen was ready to go, everyone else had better be ready to go, too!

So last week, when Susan called me on Wednesday and said, “The nurses at Western Reserve have called and said Mom has decided to go,” I knew exactly what she meant. Eileen had finally come to that point when, as the poet Barbauld had put it, trembling limbs refused their weight and films had dimmed her the sight, when clouds obscured her mental light, and she was ready to go.

She was ready to pass through death to the life beyond, that that larger where, as our Prayer Book says, we shall see God and be reunited with those who have gone before. Eileen is now reunited with her beloved Richard, a Naval officer, and so I close with a final poem, one with a bit of a nautical theme, The Unknown Shore by Elizabeth Clark Hardy:

Sometime at Eve when the tide is low
I shall slip my moorings and sail away
With no response to a friendly hail
In the silent hush of the twilight pale
When the night stoops down to embrace the day
And the voices call in the water’s flow

Sometime at Eve When the water is low
I shall slip my moorings and sail away.
Through purple shadows
That darkly trail o’er the ebbing tide
And the Unknown Sea,
And a ripple of waters’ to tell the tale
Of a lonely voyager sailing away
To mystic isles
Where at anchor lay
The craft of those who had sailed before
O’er the Unknown Sea
To the Unknown Shore

A few who watched me sail away
Will miss my craft from the busy bay
Some friendly barques were anchored near
Some loving souls my heart held dear
In silent sorrow will drop a tear
But I shall have peacefully furled my sail
In mooring sheltered from the storm and gale
And greeted friends who had sailed before
O’er the Unknown Sea
To the Unknown Shore

It’s not really an “unknown shore”. It is, rather, our eternal home, God’s kingdom where there is no pain, no death, no sorrow, no crying, but the fullness of joy with those who have gone before, with all God’s saints. Today, we rejoice that Eileen has gone there before us.

May she rest in peace and rise in Glory! Amen.

So Much To Write About!

I have so much to write about! Since I brought you up to date on what Caitlin, Jeff, and I had done during their first three days, these are the things we have done:

On August 17, we visited the Irish National Stud, a government-owned horse breeding facility.

Caitlin and Jeff at the Tour of the National Stud

Caitlin and Jeff at the Tour of the National Stud

Next, we visited two gardens on the grounds of the Stud, St. Fiacre’s Garden and the Japanese Garden.

Caitliin & Jeff at the Japanese Garden

Caitliin & Jeff at the Japanese Garden

We tried to see St. Brigid’s Cathedral in Kildare, but it was closed when we got there. So we went on our way to Emo Court outside of Portlaoise. This is a manor house built in the 1790s and restored in the 1970s-1990s. For part of its life it was used as a Jesuit Seminary. Originally the demesne was 16,000 acres, but most of that was distributed to local farmers during land reforms. Now the house is surrounded by a nearly 300-acre public park.

Jeff and Caitlin at Emo Court

Jeff and Caitlin at Emo Court

The next day, August 18, we went to County Cork. First, we went into the city of Cork where Caitlin wanted to visit the cooperative Cork Print Makers. After a brief stop at St. Fin Barre’s Cathedral where I chatted briefly with the dean before he began a service of Morning Prayer. From there, we found our way to the print makers and then to the English Market where we enjoyed lunch in the cafe.

Caitlin and Jeff at Cork Print Makers Coop

Caitlin and Jeff at Cork Print Makers Coop

After Cork city, we went to Blarney and visited the castle. There were busloads of tourists and a wait of more than an hour standing in line to “kiss the Blarney Stone” so we skipped that. We walked the grounds, visiting the Poison Garden and the Fern Garden.

Caitlin and Jeff at Blarney Castle

Caitlin and Jeff at Blarney Castle

Our visit to the south of Ireland ended this day at the Jameson’s Distillery in Midleton. This picture shows us at the start of the tour. All three of us got to be “official whiskey tasters” at the end; the picture of that is in Caitlin’s camera.

The Three of Us at the Jameson's Distillery

The Three of Us at the Jameson's Distillery

I’ll end this post here and start another about our next few days when we concentrated on the middle and northern parts of the country.

Memories and Good-Byes

I received word yesterday that Earl, a long-time parishioner and good friend back home, had passed away. This was not a surprise; he had been diagnosed with lung cancer some months ago and we expected that he would die while I was on sabbatical. Still, it has filled the day with sadness. I think of his wife, his children, his grandchildren, all of whom I know, and I know that today is a hard one for them. No matter how prepared for a loved one’s death we believe we are, we aren’t. It’s that simple. Death is never easy.

My father died suddenly and unexpectedly when I was not quite six years old; we weren’t prepared. My mother and step-father both died after long and protracted illnesses; we weren’t prepared either time. My mother-in-law passed away after several years of decline into the living death that is Alzheimer’s Disease; even with that long and difficult course, we weren’t prepared. Through the years other friends and family members have died. Parishioners and parishioners’ loved ones have died and I have officiated at their burials and celebrated the Requiem Masses for the repose of their souls. The one thing all of these passings has taught me … no matter how prepared for a loved one’s death we believe we are, we aren’t.

The Irish live with death closer at hand than any other people I’ve encountered. Oh, for sure, there are places where the physical reality of death is nearer at the present; places where famine reigns, places like Somalia and in recent years Ethiopia and other north African countries from which we see the pictures of emaciated corpses and children with malnutrition-distorted bodies. The Irish lived through times like those 165 and more years ago; as the saying goes, they’ve been there, done that.

I’ve written earlier about the famine houses and how they are a living, daily memory of that time. I didn’t write in that entry that in addition to the abandoned homes, there are famine houses that were tombs. Starving families would simply close their door and huddle together in a corner of the house and die. There was no food; there was nothing else to do. (I’m told that there are recorded instances of cannibalism during the famine years. I’ve not read those records myself.) The Irish have been there, done that.

The famine houses are not the only reminders of mortality on this island. There are also the ruins of churches, of small parish churches, of missionary encampments, of great monasteries dating back to the first days of Christianity in Ireland. The names of some are well known: Ballentubber Abbey, a ruin now restored as a parish church and described in another post on this blog; Clonmacnoise in County Offaly which dates from the middle of the 5th Century; the Rock of Cashel, the remains of a 12th Century monastery on a site reputed to have been used by Patrick for the baptism of the kings of Ireland in the 5th Century; Glendalough founded in the Wicklow Mountains by St. Kevin in the 6th Century.

Others are not so well known; Teampall Mhic Ádhaimh (“Church of the Son of Adam”) is a local ruin here on An Cheathrú Rua. Local tradition has it that it was built by a Saint Smochan and archeological and architectural evidence points to a 15th Century construction date. This church is located near the water’s edge at Trá na Reilige (“Beach of the Burial Ground”) at Barr an Doire (“Oaktree Point”).

Teampall Mhac Ádhaimh (Church of the Son of Adam), An Cheathrú Rua

Teampall Mhac Ádhaimh (Church of the Son of Adam), An Cheathrú Rua

Teampall Mhac Ádhaimh (Church of the Son of Adam), An Cheathrú Rua

Teampall Mhac Ádhaimh (Church of the Son of Adam), An Cheathrú Rua

Another is Teampall Chaomháin (“St. Kevin’s Church”), the buried church on Inis Oírr, the smallest of the Aran Islands. These churches probably came into ruin as a result of “the Penal Years” when the practice of Roman Catholicism in Ireland was outlawed by the English. They came into ruin, but not disuse.

Teampall Chaomháin, Inis Oírr (photo from Ciara Grogan)

Teampall Chaomháin, Inis Oírr (photo from Ciara Grogan)

Teampall Chaomháin, Inis Oírr (photo from Ciara Grogan)

Teampall Chaomháin, Inis Oírr (photo from Ciara Grogan)

Like many local (and monastic) ruins throughout Ireland, these ruined churches were considered holy ground and so they became burial grounds.

Burial Ground at Teampall Chaomháin, Inis Oírr (photo from Ciara Grogan)

Burial Ground at Teampall Chaomháin, Inis Oírr (photo from Ciara Grogan)

Burial Ground at Teampall Chaomháin, Inis Oírr (photo from Ciara Grogan)

Burial Ground at Teampall Chaomháin, Inis Oírr (photo from Ciara Grogan)

Burial Ground at Teampall Mhac Ádhaimh, Barr an Doire, An Cheathrú Rua

Burial Ground at Teampall Mhac Ádhaimh, Barr an Doire, An Cheathrú Rua

Burial Ground at Teampall Mhac Ádhaimh, Barr an Doire, An Cheathrú Rua

Burial Ground at Teampall Mhac Ádhaimh, Barr an Doire, An Cheathrú Rua

I wandered through the graveyard at Barr an Doire and photographed some of the gravestones, many carved in beautiful Gaelic text. This one marks the grave of Bairbre Nic Donncha, who died April 20, 1960, her husband Peadar, who followed her two days later, and their son Peadar, who died a few days before Christmas in 1995. The blessing on the marker reads, Ar deis De go raibh anam – A chlann a thog, which means “May their souls be at the right hand of God, their family prays.”

Gravestone at Teampall Mhac Ádhaimh, Barr an Doire, An Cheathrú Rua

Gravestone at Teampall Mhac Ádhaimh, Barr an Doire, An Cheathrú Rua

The next stands over the tomb of Chóilín Phádraig Pheatsín, who died April 2, 1959, and his wife Nora, who joined him on March 1, 2002. The prayer reads Taispeáin dúinn, a Thiarna, do trócaire agus tabhair do shlánú (“Show us, Lord, your mercy and grant us your salvation”).

Gravestone at Teampall Mhac Ádhaimh, Barr an Doire, An Cheathrú Rua

Gravestone at Teampall Mhac Ádhaimh, Barr an Doire, An Cheathrú Rua

And finally this marker over the grave of Bhrid Leainde, who passed away at the young age of 32 in 1959 and was followed by her husband Máirtín, who died at the age of 85 in 1987. I really like the sentiment expressed on this gravestone: Ó bhás go críoch ní críoch ach athfhas i bPárrthas na ngrast go rabhaimíd (“From death to an end not an end but new growth, we go to the Paradise of grace”).

Gravestone at Teampall Mhac Ádhaimh, Barr an Doire, An Cheathrú Rua

Gravestone at Teampall Mhac Ádhaimh, Barr an Doire, An Cheathrú Rua

Though surrounded by reminders of the deaths of the famine years and by the ruins of churches and the graves they contain, I’m sure Bairbre’s and Peadar’s family, that Chóilín’s and Nora’s children, that Bhrid’s and Máirtín’s loved ones were not prepared for their deaths. No matter how prepared for a loved one’s death we believe we are, we aren’t. And yet we are sustained by faith, by the faith that assures us that death is not an end, but the beginning of new growth in a paradise of grace where, through the Lord’s mercy, we enjoy the fruits of salvation and sit at God’s right hand.

There is a poem by Máirtín Ó Direáin inscribed on a stone plaque dated August 2000 at Teampall Chaomháin on Inis Oírr. The plaque includes a verse of scripture (Is mise an t-aiséirí agus an bheatha – “I am the resurrection and the life”) and a prayer (Suaimhneas sioraí dar muintir a d’migh uainn – “Eternal peace to the people who have left us”). The poem is entitled Cuimhní Cinn (“Memories”). I’ve tried to find a translation, but failing that have translated it myself.

Stone Plaque at Teampall Chaomháin, Inis Oírr (photo from Ciara Grogan)

Teampall Chaomháin, Inis Oírr (photo from Ciara Grogan)

Their memory still lives in my mind:
A white jacket and a bright shirt,
a blue shirt and a green vest,
trousers and drawers of homespun;
our honored old men
traveling to Sunday morning Mass,
a long journey on foot
wakening in my youth my own thoughts:
our ground, our earth, still our blessing.

Their memory still lives in my mind:
Long red choir robes,
blue coats dyed with indigo,
neat knitting women
now in heavy shawls up from Galway
traveling to Mass in the same way;
and although they are going out of fashion
their memory still lives in my mind.
Certainly life will come to me from this land.

Earl’s memory lives in my mind – a tweed sport coat, a purple shirt, two canes, a bushy beard, and ready smile. We knew this was coming, but no matter how prepared for death we believe we are, we aren’t. Being in community, traveling together to Mass memories alive in everyone’s minds, helps us get through that unpreparedness. I’m sorry I can’t be there with our church community to say “Good bye”.

May he rest in peace and rise in glory.

Another Walk through the Connemara

Yesterday and today our student body toured the demesne of Ballynahinch Castle, wandered the narrow main street of Roundstone, and climbed a steep, rocky, boggy hill outside of Cashel in the company of Michael Gibbons, a native of Connemara who is one of Ireland’s leading field archaeologists, a writer, broadcaster, and mountaineer. He is a former director of local and national archaeological survey programs. In his talks about holy wells, ancient burial sites, and the history of the Gaelic lords, it was quite evident that he is very knowledgeable about Irish history especially the pilgrimage tradition in Ireland. I later learned that he spent three years excavating the summit of Croagh Padraig, climbing more than 2,500 feet to work every morning. He certainly moved skillfully and quickly up the hillside in Cashel!

Michael Gibbons, Irish Archeologist and Historian

Michael Gibbons, Irish Archeologist and Historian

Michael has supervised archeological work in such diverse places as the Negev Desert, Egyptian Sinai, and Southern Greece. He has lectured throughout Ireland, at Oxford and Cambridge, at the American National Geographic Society, and at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C. It was quite a privilege to spend an afternoon hillwalking with him. (Half of the students when on his tour on Monday and half today. I was in the second group.)

Our first stop was at Ballynahinch Castle, a place where Evelyn and I spent a couple of days on our first trip to Ireland in 2005. I was disappointed that today we didn’t actually go into the hotel (yesterday’s group apparently did), but simply roamed the demesne following a circular path around the castle itself.

Ballynahinch Castle Hotel

Ballynahinch Castle Hotel

A famous resident of Ballynahinch was Richard Martin, also known as “Humanity Dick”, founder of The Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (RSPCA). His ancestors took over the house in 1590. His father the present manor house in the early 1700’s as an inn, the same purpose it now serves as one of the finest hotels in Ireland.

The name Ballynahinch comes from the Irish Baile na hInse meaning “settlement of the island”, a reference to the small island fortress in the lake over which the castle looks. The estate comprises 450 acres of woodlands, gardens, lakes, and rivers, just a small portion of the more than 200,000 acres which the “The Ferocious O’Flahertys” ruled from this place. The lands of the O’Flaherty clan stretched to within fifteen miles of Galway City on the east and into County Mayo to the north-west. The clan leaders were the Gaelic Lords of Connaught and held castles at Ballynahinch, Aughanure, Doon, Moycullen, Bunowen, and Renvyle.

Crannog in Ballynahinch Lake

Crannog in Ballynahinch Lake

Perhaps the most famous O’Flaherty was Grace O’Malley from Mayo who married Donal O’Flaherty in 1546. Called the Pirate Queen of Connemara, she is well known for her meeting with Queen Elizabeth I in 1593. At the age of 63 years at the time, she was said to be an awesome and formidable lady. Although Irish was her native tongue, Grace conversed comfortably the English queen in Latin. An English court scribe described her this way: “In the wild grandeur of her mien erect and high before an English Queen she dauntless stood.”

On the grounds of the estate, Michael Gibbons showed us a holy well dedicated to St. Feithin (Festus), one of several which stretch in a fairly straight line from east to west across this part of Ireland. He explained the importance and history of holy wells in the folk religion of Irish people. What I found of interest is that holy wells were disliked by and the tradition actively discouraged by both Anglican evangelical missionaries and the French-trained Roman Catholic clergy who came to this area after English law again permitted Catholicism to be practiced; nonetheless, the tradition continued and even today one finds holy wells as places of reverence throughout this nation. The Roman church seems to have learned the lesson that this sort of folk religion cannot be obliterated and so has adopted many of these sites as places of pilgrimage. The holy well at Ballynahinch, however, is not one of them as it has dried up (according to legend it did so because it was insulted by a Protestant).

Tobar Feithín on the grounds of Ballynahinch Castle

Tobar Feithín on the grounds of Ballynahinch Castle

We also saw, from a distance, the island fortress or crannog from which the area gets its name and the remains of a 16th century cannon used by the O’Flaherty’s to defend their headquarters. (The term crannog refers to emplacements on small islands, often artificial ones; remains of them can be found in many of Ireland’s lakes. The name is derived from the old Irish crannóc from crann, tree. These islands in many cases were fortified and lived on by people as late as the 17th century.)

After hiking around Ballynahinch, we drove to Roundstone where we spent an hour having lunch. I’ve written about Roundstone in another post on this blog.

Our bus next took us about twenty minutes south of Roundstone to Cashel Hill (Cnoc an Cháisil) where we climbed about eight hundred yards up the hill from a roadside cottage to a megalithic tomb dating from the end of the Stone Age or beginning of the Bronze Age, about 4500 years ago. It is known locally as Altoir Ula (altoir means “altar” and ula refers a tomb or penitential station ); it is also said to have been a “Mass Rock”, a place used by outlaw Roman Catholic priests to celebrate Holy Communion when Roman Catholicism was illegal during what are called “the Penal times”.

Megalithic Tomb, Cashel Hill, Connemara, Co. na Gaillimhe, Éire

Megalithic Tomb, Cashel Hill, Connemara, Co. na Gaillimhe, Éire

Looking like a low hut built out of a few massive and irregular stone slabs, it is a wedge-shaped gallery grave. Its chamber narrows towards the rear or eastern end. The cap-stone forming its roof is about five feet square and sixteen inches thick, and rests on smaller slabs set edgeways in the ground to form the sides, which are the interior stones of double-sided walls. One of these outer slabs, five feet high, stands forward of the main chamber as a sort of portico at the front of the tomb. Originally the whole construction would have been covered by a cairn, traces of which can be seen around it. This is the only known megalithic tomb in the South Connemara area.

Megalithic Tomb, Cashel Hill, Connemara, Co. na Gaillimhe, Éire

Megalithic Tomb, Cashel Hill, Connemara, Co. na Gaillimhe, Éire

Megalithic Tomb, Cashel Hill, Connemara, Co. na Gaillimhe, Éire

Megalithic Tomb, Cashel Hill, Connemara, Co. na Gaillimhe, Éire

Megalithic Tomb, Cashel Hill, Connemara, Co. na Gaillimhe, Éire

Megalithic Tomb, Cashel Hill, Connemara, Co. na Gaillimhe, Éire

Megalithic Tomb, Cashel Hill, Connemara, Co. na Gaillimhe, Éire

Megalithic Tomb, Cashel Hill, Connemara, Co. na Gaillimhe, Éire

Megalithic Tomb, Cashel Hill, Connemara, Co. na Gaillimhe, Éire

Megalithic Tomb, Cashel Hill, Connemara, Co. na Gaillimhe, Éire

After the tomb, Michael showed us a nearby active bog and explained how bogs grow. He showed us how to walk through bog safely (don’t ever try to jump from place to place!) and demonstrated the buoyancy of a bog mat. One of our classmates, Mara B., stepped out onto the mat (at Michael’s invitation). It was fascinating the way the “ground” in the bog bounced as others walked across it. The mat on which Michael and then Mara stood moved dramatically! The bog water around the mat may have been as many as 18 feet deep; Michael probed with his 5-foot walking stick and met no resistance. The bog is much like quicksand and can suck a person under in just a few minutes.

Active bog area, Cashel Hill, Connemara, Co. na Gaillimhe, Éire

Active bog area, Cashel Hill, Connemara, Co. na Gaillimhe, Éire

Mara B., active bog area, Cashel Hill, Connemara, Co. na Gaillimhe, Éire

Mara B., active bog area, Cashel Hill, Connemara, Co. na Gaillimhe, Éire

A Drive Through the Bog

On a recent afternoon I had one of those introversive episodes when I needed to get away from everyone, from the teach lóistín (“boarding house”) where I am staying, away from housemates, host family, school, and so forth. So I told my bean an tí (“landlady”) that I wouldn’t be home for dinner, got in my rental vehicle (an Opel Astra), and drove away.

My first and only planned stop was at a famine house in the northern precincts of An Cheathrú Rua which I had seen from our school bus when returning from one of our “tours”. Unfortunately, I discovered that the property is fenced off by a vicious looking barbed wire fence, so the photos I had hoped to take, and did take, are all from a distance. I’d hoped to go inside it and take some interior shots, but alas ….

Famine House, An Cheathrú Rua

Famine House, An Cheathrú Rua

I then drove to what passes for a “main highway” in these parts; from an American perspective these are very narrow roads on which the Irish drive at unreasonably high speeds. I turned toward Leitir Moír, deciding on a moment’s notice that since I am familiar with the Irish folk song Peigín Leitir Móir (I can even sing part of it), I should be able to say that I’d been to the town. I have now been … it’s not much; it’s just a small Irish town with a “city center” consisting of a Roman Catholic church, a small park (and car park), a community activity center, and little grocery store. But the song is still catchy and fun – if you want to hear it, click here for a YouTube video of an Irish folk singing family singing it.

After Leitir Moír, I decided to go to Cloch na Ron (the Anglicized name of which is “Roundstone”, although the Irish actually means “rock of the seals”) and maybe have a bite to eat. That turned out to be a drive through “the bog” which is the area where locals “cut turf” to be used as fireplace fuel during the winter. I took some pictures of turf cutting along the way and enjoyed the views of the Twelve Bens which are the mountains of the Connemara. Lots of people go “hillwalking” among these mountains, a very popular holiday (vacation) activity for the Irish.

The Twelve Bens from Derryrush Road

The Twelve Bens from Derryrush Road

It is estimated that bogs cover about one-sixth of the available land in Ireland, which gets more of its fuel from peat than any country except Finland. In Ireland, many families have an inherited right to cut turf for domestic use which has been handed down for hundreds of years. This inheritable right is called turbary.

The Bog, Showing Family Turf Cutting or "Turbary" Areas

The Bog, Showing Family Turf Cutting or "Turbary" Areas

Here in the west of Ireland, the bog is technically a lowland blanket bog. These are unique in that they are formed in a rainfall-rich locale where the supply of minerals is kept up and the acidity down. The makeup of the bog material includes vegetation of many types.

According to tradition, turf is not cut until after St. Patrick’s Day after the March winds dry the boglands. Early May is generally the turf-cutting time in the West of Ireland, although it continues through the summer months and is still going on while I am here. My host family has gone out to the bog to cut turf, although I’ve been unable to go along because of classes a that the Acadamh. While driving the Derryrush Road from An Cheathrú Rua to Cloch na Ron, I witnessed an old man in rubber boots stacking footings and took the photos you see here. (In retrospect, I wish I’d pulled over – if I could have found a wide enough, dry enough spot to do so – and asked the old man about his activity … 20-20 hindsight!)

In some areas, before turf is cut the top layer of heather and roots is stripped; this can be done by the time consuming process of mowing the vegetation and then cutting back the top layer of soil, or by burning. Burning requires a permit, which is often difficult to obtain.

The Bog, Showing Turf Cutting "Ridge"

The Bog, Showing Turf Cutting "Ridge"

In this area, they don’t seem to strip the bog first. The top layer is fairly sparse here, so the turf is simply cut through the top surface. Generally, it takes one man a week of cutting to prepare a year’s worth of turf fuel.

Antique Slane (Modern Tools Have Steel Blades)

Antique Slane (Modern Tools Have Steel Blades)

Turf cutting is done with a sléan or slane, a long-handled turf spade with a shaped steel end. Slane styles vary from county to county. The direction of the cutting varies from place to place. In this area, turf is cut in a vertical direction; where the bog type is what is called a red raised bog, it is cut in a horizontal direction.

Dried Sods Ready to Burn in the Fire

Dried Sods Ready to Burn in the Fire

The depth of a single piece of cut turf is called a spit or a bar. A vertical turf bank is measured in numbers of bars to a depth of a slane (twelve to eighteen inches in this area.) A good bank might be six bars deep; I’m told that a day in the bog is difficult work and taxes the strength of even the fittest person. The bog is very wet and the trenches created as turf is cut fill almost immediately with water; cutters usually wear high gum or rubber boots. The lowest row of bars is the wettest, but they say that when dried they make the best fuel.

The cut turf is removed to open ground to dry. The soggy sods, as the brick shaped cuttings are called, are laid out on the ground to dry for a week. They are then stacked upright into a footing which continues the drying procedure.

A Field of Footings Next to the Trench or Ridge from which they were cut

A Field of Footings Next to the Trench or Ridge from which they were cut

Close-Up of Footing

Close-Up of Footing

Once the footed turf is somewhat dry, sods are piled into a rickle. When it is finally dry, the turf is carried home to be stacked against an east-facing wall or in a covered shed for protection from westerly winds.

A "Rickle" or Pile of Turf Ready to be Transported Home

A "Rickle" or Pile of Turf Ready to be Transported Home

In the past, turf cutting was only fuel available to many families living in the Connemara, where it is illegal to cut it other than by hand. Many families still use turf for homeheating, although today it can be purchased in compressed briquettes in supermarkets throughout Ireland. I’m told that turf burns cleaner than coal; it has a very a pleasant smell which, together with the smell of mown heather, has come to really be the scent of Ireland to me. There’s nothing quite so comfortable as sitting by a turf fire on cold, damp day with a mug of tea (or in my case, coffee) in hand. I’m told that scones cooked over a turf fire have an especially lovely flavor – I’ve not had (nor do I anticipate having) that experience, but I can imagine that it is true.

After my drive through the Bog along Derryrush Road, I connected with one of the small “highways” of Ireland and made it to Roundstone, which was a bit of a mess. It is a fishing village turned vacation resort. One very narrow street along the waterfront, several B&Bs and a few pubs/eateries. It was a “mess” because next Thursday is the running of the Tour de Bog, a bicycle road race that begins and ends in Roundstone and they were setting up signs, starting/ending line, viewer stands, etc. Some guy with a trailer was trying park it on the main street where there was patently no space to park it! So a long line of cars waited about fifteen minutes for the fruitless maneuvering to end.

I finally parked in the free public parking area and walked to a local pub – had a pint of Smithwick’s ale with the barkeep, a woman about my age who bemoaned the Irish economy and the fact that at 6 p.m. on a Friday evening she had absolutely no business. For the first twenty minutes or so, I was the only customer in the place, then a French family entered and since they had very little English and she had no French, I served as translator.

I finished my beer, bade my new friends farewell – “Adieu!” and “Bon nuit!” to the French family, “Slan!” and “Oíche mhaith!” to the Irish tavern owner – headed back to the car where I noticed that the music shop of Malachy Kearns, reputed to be the best bodhran (Irish drum) maker in Ireland, was open.

I bought a bodhran there in 2005 when Evelyn and I made our first trip to Ireland. We also bought a CD that I really, really liked, but which we gave to a friend (after making a bootleg copy for ourselves, a copy which has since disappeared). I thought I might find another copy but, alas, the stock at Malachy’s store has been replaced with Celtic Woman and a bunch of touristy “moods” CDs that you can find in any Celtic-Gaelic store in the USA. So I bought nothing.

I headed back to An Cheathrú Rua, covering the same roads in the reverse direction (I thought “Jack the GPS” might take me a different route, but no). I got back to town just in time for a really good lecture on “the function of music in the Irish tradition” by Breandán Ó Madagáin, an elderly professor from NUIG. Old he may be, but he has a great singing voice. He really knew his stuff. I had a chance to talk with him briefly about my project and he gave me a copy of an ethnomusicology article he had written which references and briefly discusses the hymnal I’m working on.

After the lecture, I headed for home and bed.

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