In our final school year, each week a priest pitched the benefits of his order.
A friend wrote my name down, obviously hilarious, for The Legionnaires of Christ.
Days later the priest was in our house supping tea. My mother was coy, unsure; my father delighted at his new status. Embarrassed, cornered, I agreed to a weekend retreat.
Strangely, I enjoyed it, the events stimulating. I agreed to another weekend and over time got caught up in it: plain chant that I still love, incense, Latin, ritual.
Regular postcards addressed “Dear Maurice in Christ” came from priests, friendly and engaging. A seminarian a year older, named Kevin Farrell from Dublin, left a special impression with his postcards.
That summer of 1967 I’d other interests – politically active, demos against Vietnam and Apartheid, studies, and I fell for the lovely Lily Tapley. I told the vocation priest, who laughed, explained that celibacy means celibacy. And that was that.
The very same Kevin Farrell, now Cardinal Farrell was recently the Camerlengo, regent of the Vatican between Popes. Ralph Fiennes plays him in the movie, Conclave.
However, it’s Habemus Papa, and it isn’t Kevin. If he’d become Pope, I could’ve invited him to Swindon. My old pal, Kevin. Imagine!
Looking back, those days set strong values. I often reflect on what might have been, the road less travelled:
It is the time before Matins
The time when the wind dies down
And birds take a deep breath.
A man, grey-hared now,
Opens his Latin breviary
And slows to the pace of his history.
His movements are well-rehearsed,
Sanctuary slow as if the time
From start to finish is well-ordained,
The pages and pauses,
The turning of leaf and step,
The sigh and the deep breath.
I watch him, his reverence.
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