Welcome, Fáilte - Diocese of Cloyne

Light a Candle at St Colman's from 1 Dec 2024

Light a candle at St Colman's

Welcome

Fáilte, Welcome

to the website for the Catholic Diocese of Cloyne, Ireland

Bishop William Crean

03 March 2026

Carrigtwohill Parish Pilgrimage to Fatima 7th - 14th September 2026

Spiritual Director: Fr. Patrick Winkle

Direct return flights from Cork to Faro, with Bus to and from Fatima included
Full Board - breakfast, lunch and dinner each day
7 nights Hotel Steyler
Limited number of places
€1045 (single supplement extra) - limited single rooms, insurance is also extra
20kg baggage included with Aer Lingus flight.
Guided tours and full spiritual programme

Please make enquires to Fr. Patrick Winkle 021-4882439 or Joe Walsh Tours 021-2427190 or 01-2410800
Or book direct online with Joe Walsh Tours

2026 CARRIGTWOHILL PATRICK WINKLE 07 SEP CORK FARO Fatima Pilgrimage 2026

02 March 2026

Walking in the Bible for Lent - Carrigtwohill Parish

Gentle reflections with questions welcome
8pm – 9.15pm

As a Parish we wish to explore the Bible during Lent, looking at the readings for the Easter Vigil as a way of guiding the exploration. Interested in walking through the Bible with others: Bible for curious and faithful. Discovery the wonder of the Scripture. Tues 3rd March, Tues 10th March, Wednesday 18th March and Tuesday 24th March

All are Welcome

Venue - Parish Sacristy

TAIZE PRAYER
Friday evenings at 7pm in St. Mary's Church, Carrigtwohill

Walking in the Bible for Lent - Carrigtwohill Parish

16 February 2026

Baptised and Sent - Lenten programme in Macroom

This Lent, parishes, schools and groups across Ireland are invited to journey together through a set of reflective resources inspired by Baptised and Sent which is the preparatory document for the 2025 National Pre-Synodal Assembly in Kilkenny

Grounded in the conviction that baptism is the foundation of our identity, dignity and mission, these resources help us return to the heart of Christian life: being reborn in Christ and sent out by the Spirit in service of the Gospel

You are warmly invited to join with us each Monday evening during lent in St. Colman’s Church Parish Centre, Macroom from 7pm to 8pm

Each weeks’ Lectio Divina, offers us an opportunity to reflect on the upcoming Sunday Gospel, which is prayerfully linked to key insights from Baptised and Sent.

Facilitated by Bill Kelly

St Colman's Macroom

10 February 2026

Camp Creideamh, Catholic Faith Camps for teenagers, boys and girls, will take place again in Knockadoon (East Cork) over the dates 7th – 13th June. For those who are Post-Primary school age.

Activities will include catechesis, prayer, sports, hillwalking, kayaking, swimming, music, arts and crafts and other activities.

For bookings go to the website Camp Creideamh

For more information please call Fr. Eamon Roche on 086 9972539

Camp Creideamh - Knockadoon

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Latest Homily

17 March 2026 - St. Patrick's Day

Latest Articles

March 2026
- Fatima Pilgrimage 2026 - Carrigtwohill Parish
- Lent 2026 - Carrigtwohill Parish
February 2026
October 2025
- Bishop Crean meets Pope Leo
September 2025
- "Behold I'm doing a new thing" says the Lord (Isaiah 43)
February 2025
- Recent picture of St. Colman's Cathedral, Cobh. Co. Cork
October 2024
- Light a Candle at St. Colman's Cathedral

Coram Fratribus

5 søndag i fasten A

Esesk 37.12-14: Se, mitt folk, jeg åpner gravene deres.
Rom 8.8-11: Dere lever ikke naturens liv, men Åndens.
Joh 11.1-45: Gjennom den skal guddomsglansen skinne.
‘Se, mitt folk’, forkynte Herren ved Esekiel, ‘jeg åpner gravene deres’. Vi som leser teksten med kristne briller, Read More

Coram Fratribus

On Cracks

A conversation with Ewa Skrabacz published in W drodze. You can find it here in PDF. Below is an English version.
What is the sound of loneliness and what is its colour?
Good question. I’d say the colour of loneliness is grey and Read More

Coram Fratribus

Facing Fear

Speech given to open the spring plenary assembly of the Nordic Bishops’ Conference in Stykkishólmur.
To prepare myself for our meeting here at Stykkishólmur, I have been dipping into a travel book — not one of the recent ones that seem Read More

Coram Fratribus

5 søndag i fasten A Esesk 37.12-14: Se, mitt folk, jeg åpner gravene deres.
Rom 8.8-11: Dere lever ikke naturens liv, men Åndens.
Joh 11.1-45: Gjennom den skal guddomsglansen skinne.
‘Se, mitt folk’, forkynte Herren ved Esekiel, ‘jeg åpner gravene deres’. Vi som leser teksten med kristne briller, og så nært innpå påskens høytid, fylles med ydmyk ærefrykt. Tenk at en anelse om Kristi frelsesverk levde i Israels bevissthet for 2,500 år siden! Tenk hvor konsekvent Guds frelsesplan virker! Tenk at vi ser rake linjer i frelsens ufeilbarlige virkeliggjøring! Perspektivet er sant. Troen lar oss, nettopp, se bakover med ny innsikt. Det vi vet nå, i lys av Kristi åpenbaring og nådige kraft, gir mening til ting som fant sted for lenge siden.
Det gjelder for våre egne liv. Jo eldre vi blir, jo klarere kan vi betrakte tilværelsen og si, tilbakeskuende, ‘Ah, så det var derfor ditt eller datt skjedde, det var derfor jeg fikk, eller ikke fikk, det jeg ønsket meg akkurat da’. Vår livshistorie formes gradvis til en helhet, selv om vi underveis opplever den som smertefullt fragmentert.
Det samme gjelder for hele menneskeslektens historie. Også den har et opphav og et mål. Også den vil en gang fremstå helhetlig. Det kan virke usannsynlig nå. Verden synes kaotisk. Men vårt utsyn er for begrenset. Vi er oppslukt av mikroprosesser. For å få oversikt, må vi se verden slik Gud ser den. Tenk bare: Solen, som Gud skapte på den første dag, er anslagsvis fire og en halv milliard år gammel; men for Gud er den ung, slik den virker ung, ung og blyg, også på oss i en mars-soloppgang her nord. Hva er da de stakkede to og et halvt årtusen som skiller oss fra gode, gamle Esekiel?
Men vi skal óg høre profetens budskap slik det lød i hans samtid. Husk at tanken om åpnede graver og de dødes oppstandelse ikke av seg selv er sødmefull. I uminnelige tider, og ulike tros-sammenhenger, har man ønsket de døde hvile.
Døden står for en avslutning som kaller på respekt. Å fremkalle de døde, er farlig. Dét lærer vi av Orfeus-myten i gresk tradisjon, når en mann vil hente sin elskede, Eurydike, opp av dødsriket. I Det gamle Testamente er det regnet for stor synd å mane frem de døde (3 Mos 20). Det kan få fatale følger, som når Saul byr troll-kvinnen i En-Dor mane frem Samuel (1 Sam 28). Noen og enhver kan ha fått seg en støkk ved dumme selskapsleker som fikler med spiritisme. Å overskride grensen mellom liv og død, er mer enn vi kan hanskes med på egen hånd.
Er det slik at historien har en form, og hvert element i den har sin plass, er det ingen god nyhet hvis et menneske dukker opp utover sin besøkelsestid, om så i fantasien. Filmer som handler om tidsreisende, har sjelden en lykkelig slutt. Og det er vel knapt et håp om jordisk salighet som får folk, nå, til å la seg dypfryse i tro på at vitenskap en vakker dag vil gjøre slike fremskritt at de, opptint, kan leve ubegrenset; det er snarere intens frykt for døden som driver mennesker til sånt.
Det bibelske håp om oppstandelse dreier seg da heller ikke om forlenget jordisk eksistens. Vårt håp, vår forventning, er at vil vil oppstå til nytt liv i Gud.
Paulus skiller mellom naturens og Åndens liv i oss. Naturen står for det forgjengelige, fysiske vesen som har klar begrensning — det giktiske i oss. Ånden står for dét i oss som ikke kan dø, som inngir oss lengsel etter evighet. Et frø av evighet lever i vår natur, skapt i Guds bilde; men frøet må vannes av Guds nåde øset utover oss i Kristus. For evig liv, det er liv i ham, ved ham, og med ham.
Lasarus’ oppvekkelse bekrefter ikke leddet i trosbekjennelsen: ‘Jeg tror på de dødes oppstandelse’. Lasarus trer ut av graven med samme kropp han hadde før, ikke kledd i et evighetslegeme. Den fysiske død må han gjennomgå på nytt. Det han har fått, er videre liv. Jesus kurerer ham for døden forstått som sykdom, slik profeten Elias i sin tid oppvekket enkens sønn borte i Sarepta (1 Kong 17).
Hendelsen ved graven i Betania åpenbarer Jesus som lege for vår slekt. På samme tid er den profetisk. Jesus vil, ved måten han forholder seg på, lære oss noe som er vesentlig. Derfor gikk han ikke sporenstreks avsted da Maria og Marta sendte ham bud; derfor forsikret han disiplene: ‘Denne sykdommen ender ikke med døden, men med å fremme Guds ære’. Lasarus’ oppvekkelse viser at Jesus, Herre over sabbaten, Herre over onde ånder, Herre over urenhet og sykdom, også er Herre over døden. Når han roper, ‘Lasarus, kom ut!’, besverger han døden utenfra slik han, kort tid etterpå, vil besverge den innenfra ved å gå inn i døden selv.
I cisterciensisk bruk, minnes vi Marta, Maria og Lasarus som hospites Domini, ‘Herrens vertskap’, på en festdag som ved Guds forsyn faller på dagen for vår olsok, 29. juli. De tre søsknene var Herrens venner. Hos dem fant han hvile, omsorg, et godt måltid. I deres fortrolige krets viser han kraften som til påske vil ødelegge dødens herredømme og la Kristi hellige oppstandelse fremstå som solen i et nytt univers som aldri vil, aldri kan, forgå. Måtte vi leve som Jesu trofaste venner. Måtte han ødelegge dét i oss som hører døden til og gjøre oss rede til liv.
Photograph of the sun from the website of NASA.
* * *
Påskens mysterium, det vet vi, er mysteriet som definerer livet til hver og en av oss. Det blir særlig åpenbart i dem som forbereder seg til dåp og som til Påske vil innlemmes sakramentalt i Kristi død og oppstandelse. De minner oss om nåden vi alle, som døpte, har fått motta, for at vi kan ta den på nytt alvor. Så ber jeg dem som er utvalgt til dåp om å komme frem for å motta den siste eksorsismen før dåpen— en ritus som gjenlyder med Kristi kall til Lasarus: ‘Vend døden ryggen! Kom frem til livet, lyset! Legg dødens bånd bort!’
Biskopen ber:
Gud, det evige livs Far,
du som ikke er de dødes, men de levendes Gud,
du sendte din Sønn for å vitne om livet.
Utfri oss fra dødens herredømme
og før oss til oppstandelsen.
Fri disse dine utvalgte fra dødens makt
slik at de kan motta det nye liv fra den oppstandne Kristus
og bli vitner om ham.
Ved Kristus, vår Herre.
Biskopen legger hendene på hodet til katekumenene og ber:
Herre Jesus, du som vekket Lasarus opp fra de døde
som tegn på at du var kommet
for at menneskene skulle ha liv i overflod,
fri dem som søker livet i dine sakramenter, fra døden,
løs dem fra ondskapens lenker
og gi dem tro, håp og kjærlighet
ved din levende Ånd,
så de kan få del i din oppstandelses herlighet.
Du som lever og råder fra evighet til evighet.

Coram Fratribus

Heimur í orðum A windstorm like nothing I’ve ever seen kept the whole Nordic Bishops’ Conference stranded in Reykjavik today. Walking diagonally through town at midday, I had at one point to hold on to a fence not to be blown over. I warmed up at the exhibition World in Words at the Edda Museum. I’d read about it in the New York Times, which called the show ‘mesmerisingly immersive’. I agree. It is exhilarating. After an hour and a half I had not only learned a lot; I felt I’d been somewhere else, in a different world. At a time when digital media often cause concern, it is grand to see them used sensibly and well. State-of-the-art equipment provides privileged access to a distant past. That past comes very close when we hear, for example, how Arinbjorn consoles Egill Skalla-Grímsson on the death of his brother: ‘Even though you have suffered a great loss with your brother’s death, the manly thing to do is bear it well. One man lives after another’s death. What poetry have you been composing? Let me hear some.’

Coram Fratribus

Custody In the liturgy there is one term that more than any other characterises St Joseph: he is referred to as custos — Custos Redemptoris, Custos Verbi, etc. In today’s collect we thank God for entrusting the beginning of our salvation precisely to Joseph’s custodia. It’s not such an easy term to render. The English word ‘custody’ makes us think of a prison sentence; a ‘custodian’ is not at first sight a liberating presence. In Latin, custos is derived from the same root as scutum, which means ‘a shield’. A shield exists to defend a man from enemy attack. It must be light enough to be easily manoeuvrable; it must be strong enough to withstand sharp arrows. Here’s an image that may help us understand St Joseph better.
From a homily for the feast of St Joseph.

Coram Fratribus

On Cracks A conversation with Ewa Skrabacz published in W drodze. You can find it here in PDF. Below is an English version.
What is the sound of loneliness and what is its colour?
Good question. I’d say the colour of loneliness is grey and its sound is indefinable — just a resonance, an echo coming from another place.
I was thinking about shades, semitones – there can be different tones of loneliness, different intensities.
A useful feature of English is its varied vocabulary in this respect. You can speak about solitude, which does not have a negative meaning. Solitude is a choice; it can be uplifting. You can speak about aloneness, more neutral, neither good nor bad. It carries no difficult emotional charge. Then there’s loneliness, which has a distinctly negative connotation and is associated with isolation, abandonment. While one can long for solitude, one cannot truly yearn for loneliness. Much can probably be learnt about the English from their subtle differentiation in the vocabulary of loneliness!
Using the richness of the English language, I would like to clarify that we are going to talk about that difficult variety – loneliness. We do not choose it, we do not wish for it. It is an unwanted guest in our lives. Can it still be useful and constructive?
Good can come from everything. Such an attitude is, of course, related to a specific Christian view of reality. Scripture shows that even from death, sin, or betrayal, good things can come. I think about people who have spent time in forced isolation. When someone is in such isolation, they experience forced loneliness. This was the case of Brian Keenan, who in his book An Evil Cradling tells the story of his kidnapping and forced isolation in the 90s. He talks about the suffering of loneliness. At the same time he found that it carved out new depths within him. In retrospect, he sees that the experience was enriching. This enrichment, however, comes not from loneliness itself, but from the proper way — the wise, skilful way — of coping with it. Loneliness can also be destructive and can even lead to madness. This is why totalitarian regimes always have eager recourse to it and like to use it.
So suffering caused by loneliness does not in itself make us better or ennoble us, but we can derive meaning from it?
Yes, we can derive meaning from such experience.
Can we do it ourselves? I am wondering how it is possible. The title of your book Shattering of Loneliness, may suggest a more forceful approach?
Several friends had long discussions about which word would be best in the Polish translation. The image that accompanied me while creating the English title was of a glass dome, the kind you use to cover cheese. I imagined a man standing under such a dome. At some point, for some reason – whether due to some kind of tension within the glass structure itself, or due to an accurate blow with a stone – cracks appear on the dome. And later, these cracks, these glass wounds, spread, extending across the entire surface. At first, the shape of the dome is maintained, but the necessary internal strength is no longer there. As a result, suddenly the whole thing falls apart. One can breathe at last. This is the image of shattering of loneliness.
Does it mean that a person trapped in loneliness should actively work to escape it? It is said that in a crisis, it is better not to make any decisions, that it is not a good time for action.
I think the most important thing in this context is to acknowledge loneliness. Often we are reluctant to admit – both to ourselves and even more so to others – that we are lonely. This resistance is related to the fact that we perceive loneliness as a failure. It is particularly difficult in times when success in life is perversely measured by the number of virtual friendships. People spend time taking photos of everything – what they eat, the beautiful things they buy or want to buy – and in this way put much effort into creating an image of themselves as constantly enterprising, always connected to others. In this way the pain of loneliness is suppressed and hidden under images of apparent closeness. I think it is important to develop and hone skills — emotional, intellectual, communicational skills — that let us sit in a chair and say, ‘I am lonely’. Then it becomes clear that what we perceived as failure can actually be liberating. For when I acknowledge my loneliness, I can also ask myself, ‘Why am I lonely? What can I do to overcome this loneliness?’ In this way, I assume initiative, I have a chance to regain agency.
So we take the initiative, throw something at the dome and break it? Could honesty with ourselves be such a stone?
Yes, the first and decisive step is to cast the stone of honesty, as we have already talked about. Then we can find stones of agency and take positive action.
To face the truth about one’s own loneliness requires courage and maturity. At the same time, loneliness forces us to be courageous, and this leads us to maturity.
The question is: Am I able to use the word ‘I’ within my glass dome? Can I say, ‘I am here. This is my loneliness. This is my suffering, and I can face it.’ Or do I still claim that others brought me to this state, that others are to blame, that ‘they’ did this to me. Until I say the word ‘I’, I will not be able to move forward. The glass dome will remain intact.
Self-awareness is therefore important. But is awareness of the other equally important? We have evoked a virtual reality in which the drama of loneliness unfolds in successive acts: we reach for ChatGPT, with which we enter into relationships (sic!). True liberation from loneliness involves an encounter, it must relate to a person. No substitute will suffice – we need a human being.
This is very important. This is what my book Chastity: Reconciliation of the Senses is about. I consciously structured the narrative so that the last chapter would be about seeing. It is crucial to look, to see clearly. The opposite of chastity may be loneliness, separation from others. Although loneliness can be painful, it can also be pacifying and provide a sense of security. I may complain about my loneliness, but at least I am left undisturbed in it; no one is a threat to me. But when I meet another person, when I go out to meet the other, I also meet his or her gaze – I see someone and that person sees me! Then there is risk: I am visible, uncovered, I can be exposed. Loneliness protects me from such exposure. In that sense, it can seem comfortable, even desirable.
This is the paradox of our times: we desperately want to be seen and yet we hide behind a version of ourselves we have created.
And we want to see others; we want to peek into their lives through their windows.
We look inquisitively, fragmentarily, not wanting to really see the other person’s face.
Yes, we have created a culture of voyeurism.
At the same time, there is a cruel type of loneliness — we create the illusion of closeness and familiarity, but in reality, we isolate ourselves even further.
I would say it is the saddest kind of loneliness. And yet, we hold the key that allows us to escape it. The stones that can shatter the glass dome are in our hands.
We observe various struggles with loneliness; we share many experiences. What is your personal experience? What sort of loneliness has there been in the life of Erik Varden, a Trappist, then a bishop.
Like many others, I went through a period during my adolescence when I felt very lonely. People sometimes speak with irony or even contempt about Weltschmerz, the pain of existence experienced during adolescence. It always leaves me a little peeved. For this is a real dimension of teenage experience: the feeling that the pain of the world, the pain of existence, is somehow massed within me, within my body. Of course, it is not strictly speaking true. Nevertheless, this adolescent experience is real and demands recognition and respect.
The pain of existence, which is a developmental experience.
Yes, but there is always a risk of getting stuck in such a state. It can become a trap.
Adolescent Erik didn’t get stuck?
Well, I was very lucky because I had friends, I read books, listened to music. I could find echoes of what I was experiencing. Thanks to that, I was no longer alone.
At what stage of this experience did faith appear?
I was about fifteen years old. Until that moment, I assumed that the Christian faith was just a collection of superficial, stupid answers to unreal questions. Then I began to discover that, in fact, this is not the case at all, that the Christian tradition provides deep, insightful, beautiful answers to fundamental questions. It occurred to me that within these answers, the Church gives us the courage to ask new questions which, without the experience of tradition, continuity, and community, might seem too difficult or too painful.
And these questions, these answers led you to the Trappist Order?
Yes, I found great authenticity in monastic life. Every moment of the day, whether you are singing in church or milking cows on the farm, can be a search for truth. This attracted me. In the monastery, I discovered an extraordinary intellectual and spiritual heritage and I loved it. I was glad to be part of creation a community with good, faithful, kind brethren.
A community of faith. Faith itself is a relationship. One might provocatively ask, can a believer be lonely?
I think such a question is justified, and the answer is ‘no’. However, a person of faith can still feel lonely. Loneliness is a subjective feeling. It is worth noting that feelings of loneliness can be a useful warning sign. When this sense appears, the familiar feeling that I am lonely, it tells me that I am withdrawing into myself, entering again into the glass dome, hiding under it as if I were cheese.
This image of cheese under the glass dome will stay with me.
To complete the image, imagine the smell!
A strong and evocative addition! Isolation protects against contact, but not against corruption or decay. Loneliness, therefore, is a warning sign. Properly interpreted, it leads to conversion.
The experience of helplessness can work this way. I can throw stones at a glass dome and cry, ‘Lord, have mercy on me!’
Humility, humiliation that leads to God.
Absolutely. And I expand on the theme when writing about loneliness. Humility is related to humus. Humus is the soil, the ground, the ground level. So, it is about being at ground level. I must face the collapse of my pride, the collapse of my illusion that I can rise on my own. There is a chance I will discover what grace and mercy mean. I have a chance to discover what salvation is.
When we talk about a believer who cannot be alone, I recall a story of a certain man. Being in a difficult situation, he said he felt like a stray dog. And then he heard the words that stayed with him forever and saved him in many situations: ‘No, you are created and redeemed by the Lord.’ Man is always the Lord’s.
This is true. What is important is that he decides to admit this, to see it, to accept it. And let’s remember that God is a dangerous reality.
‘It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God…’
Yes, this God whom I call upon as Comforter and Helper may turn out to be a God who makes as well demands. Maybe I do not want these demands! That is why I prefer to keep Him at a distance. Just as we spoke about forming relationships with real people, not virtual reality, we speak now about an encounter with the living, true God.
And we can create our own ‘Lord God,’ mould him from our imaginations. Life with such a god can be much easier, although ultimately tragic, because false.
And I will find no great comfort in a god I created for myself. The Israelites discovered this after they spent some time dancing around the golden calf. Sooner or later, the experience of worshipping our idols teaches us the same thing.
This risk is inevitable – escaping loneliness means entertaining an authentic encounter with the true God and reaching out to a true man. Can one prepare for this?
We mentioned earlier the challenge of admitting loneliness. We move forward towards the next stage: preparations for the encounter. I must ask myself: Am I ready for the encounter? Or do I prefer a chatbot I can programme to support me, encourage me and assure me everything is fine? Perhaps at some level it is more comfortable to stay with this thing than to risk a friendship with someone who might come and say, ‘You can’t go on like this!’ My preparation will begin with the question: Do I really want my loneliness to be shattered? This reminds us of the question Jesus asks in the Gospel, ‘Do you want to be healed?’ We could describe this stage as an internal, subjective preparation. There is a further preparation that is realised ‘outwardly’. In this sense it is objective. It is about engaging, about entering the reality of other people. It can be performed in a safe way by, say, reading books, engaging with poetry, or watching films. These are simple exercises in compassion, in developing empathy, or simply in showing interest for another person. But it is necessary to meet real people who stand before us, to see them, talk to them. I do not mean that we must immediately start to talk about deep issues. It can be just a look in the eye, a smile, a simple way of saying, ‘I am here and you are here. That’s good.’
I think of the poem Loneliness by Rainer Maria Rilke. I would like to quote in its entirety:
Die Einsamkeit ist wie ein Regen.
Sie steigt vom Meer den Abenden entgegen;
von Ebenen, die fern sind und entlegen,
geht sie zum Himmel, der sie immer hat.
Und erst vom Himmel fällt sie auf die Stadt.
Regnet hernieder in den Zwitterstunden,
wenn sich nach Morgen wenden alle Gassen
und wenn die Leiber, welche nichts gefunden,
enttäuscht und traurig von einander lassen;
und wenn die Menschen, die einander hassen,
in einem Bett zusammen schlafen müssen:
dann geht die Einsamkeit mit den Flüssen…
***
Being apart and lonely is like rain.
It climbs toward evening from the ocean plains;
from flat places, rolling and remote, it climbs
to heaven, which is its old abode.
And only when leaving heaven drops upon the city.
It rains down on us in those twittering
hours when the streets turn their faces to the dawn,
and when two bodies who have found nothing,
dissapointed and depressed, roll over;
and when two people who despise each other
have to sleep together in one bed –
that is when loneliness receives the rivers…
There is a closeness that feels like an abyss of emptiness – a person is physically close and still very distant. Loneliness ‘drops upon the city’, ‘it rains down on us’, and ‘receives the rivers’. Is this an inevitable human experience?
When I was at school, I had a good history teacher. When we wrote essays, he never allowed us to use the word ‘inevitable’. If you did, the word was crossed out or underlined in red. He instilled in all of us that nothing is inevitable. I think this is true in the context of history, but also regarding human experience. Therefore, I’d hesitate to say that everyone ‘must’ go through the experience of loneliness. At the same time, based on years of empirical observation, I’d say that most people do go through it. However, the experience of loneliness can become a place out of which community is born, closeness is built. Even when two people — as in Rilke’s poem, ‘who despise each other, must sleep together’ — experience loneliness in the space of a shared bed, this doesn’t have to be the ultimate situation. We are created to build relationships; we are programmed for it.
We do not so much have relationships; we are relationships. How can we not be in relationship with others, with God?
We can be isolated from others. But it is impossible to flourish while we are cut off from the others. In my book on chastity, I recall the story of a monk who had a vision of hell: it is a place where people are chained back-to-back. They can never get rid of each other, yet never see one another. The Norwegian sculptor Gustav Vigeland captured this state in his monumental relief Hell, which is a vision of loneliness, not as physical separation, but as a state of being among others without any true connection.
But there is an escape from the hell of loneliness – Jesus Christ. The mystery of the incarnation is God’s radical response to human confusion, to our loneliness.
Logically, the story of what it is to be human begins at a different point: man was made to live in communion, in the fundamental complementary of ‘me’ and ‘you’. This communion is symbolised in the image of man and woman, incomplete without each other. Loneliness comes later. It is a consequence and wound of sin. The Biblical account indicates that the dissatisfaction Adam felt before Eve was created was not strictly speaking loneliness, for it was marked by anticipation. He asks, ‘Where is my companion?’ Only when sin enters the picture is he separated from God, and from others. He hides, isolates himself. Emmanuel, ‘God with us’, speaks to this lost man as ‘God with me‘, within my loneliness.
Wherever the wound of sin appears, God pours out the grace of his closeness. In my thoughts I return to the image of the dome, the broken glass. The blessed crack from which it all begins.
And as someone once said: ‘Blessed are the cracked, for they shall let the light in.’
Translated by Daria and Oskar Styczynscy.

Coram Fratribus

Facing Fear Speech given to open the spring plenary assembly of the Nordic Bishops’ Conference in Stykkishólmur.
To prepare myself for our meeting here at Stykkishólmur, I have been dipping into a travel book — not one of the recent ones that seem to speak only of adventure trails and spas, as if Iceland were thought up by God Almighty as a leisure park, but a book written 90 years ago, in 1936, when the poets W.H. Auden and Louis MacNeice spent three months here.
The trip was an adventure to them, too; but an adventure into a natural and human reality they regarded with reverence. Iceland came across as wild in 1936, a place where life was hard but people were hospitable.
No one had thought of a Chai latte back then. One cooked to survive, not to generate gastronomic ‘experience’. The food impressed Auden, who notes, for example, how to get on with the dried fish he found served everywhere. It should, he says, ‘be shredded with the fingers and eaten with butter. It varies in toughness. The tougher kind tastes like toe-nails, and the softer kind like the skin off the soles of one’s feet.’
Auden and MacNeice were both born in 1907. They were 29 years old, joyful and strong, full of sparkle and wit, enthralled by the grandiose nature of this country and by its society, so different from the England and Ireland they came from. Still thirty years later, Auden was pleased to register that ‘modernity does not seem to have changed the character of [Icelanders]. They are still the only really classless society I have ever encountered, and they have not — not yet — become vulgar.’
Yet there was fear in the air. ‘Though writing in a “holiday” spirit’, though they were having the holiday of their lives, the poets were conscious, writes Auden retrospectively, ‘of a threatening horizon to their picnic — worldwide unemployment, Hitler growing every day more powerful and a world-war more inevitable. Indeed the prologue to that war, the Spanish Civil War, broke out while we were there.’
I thought of those words while reading the paper on the plane yesterday.
Pundits disagree on whether the Third World War has already begun. Since 2022 we have, in the Nordic countries, followed with pain and anxiety the grinding continuity of Russia’s war of aggression in Ukraine. Russia is our neighbour, too. Our countries are rearming. We are watching our boundaries to the East and to the West.
Greenland was, not long ago, at the centre of the world’s attention as the president of the United States insisted, in less and less diplomatic terms, on his private notion that the territory should really be his.
Gaza is in ruins as a result of the war provoked by the gruesome Hamas attacks on Israel in 2023.
No one knows what the long-term effect of regime change in Venezuela will be, notably what effect it will have on Cuba.
The Israeli-US war on Iran was advertised as the swift cutting of a gordian knot that would produce stability. The US Department of War, which used to be called Department of Defence, announced the operation under the name ‘Epic Fury’, presenting it as ‘laser focused’. That phrase summons up the reassuring image of sophisticated surgery by which a steady surgeon’s hand, assisted by wonderful gadgetry, removes a cancerous growth without damaging healthy tissue, enabling the patient to return home that same day. Furies, though, are now unleashed in the Strait of Hormuz, in the Persian Gulf, in Lebanon, and elsewhere.
Who sows the wind reaps the whirlwind (Hosea 8.7). Fury calls fury forth.
Anyone who thought they were out on a picnic stands corrected. A threatening horizon surrounds us on all sides. Conflicts like those mentioned — and God knows they are not the only ones — coincide with environmental change, the unpredictable rise of AI, and weird virtual addictions. We are left feeling under threat not only on the human and political, but also on the natural and digital level.
This state of affairs is found by many to be overwhelming. Mental health needs are growing exponentially, notably among the young. Many say they simply do not know, now, where existence is pointed. That confusion can seem too much to bear.
Meanwhile, voices of more or less self-proclaimed prophetic authority loudly profess that they know exactly where the world is going, and that there is no getting away from it. A couple of weeks ago, Alexander Dugin, whose influence on the president of Russia has often been remarked on, publicly envisaged the onset of an end-time battle, the war of all wars that will, he thinks, probably bring an end to history. Dugin’s discourse is a mixture of political analysis and apocalyptic symbolism drawn from Scripture. Dugin speaks of a ‘sacred mission’ to ‘stop the civilisation of Baal’. The victory he looks towards has little to do with the prospect of an evangelical reign of justice and peace in love, however; in fact, it is itself marked by the Baalist characteristics of a god who devours his children.
What a setting in which to be a bishop these days!
The task entrusted to us is grave. At the same time it is beautiful. The world is caught up in a maelstrom of violence, fear, duplicity, and sheer madness. Yet over this chaos the Spirit hovers, not menacingly, but benignly. The Spirit, of course, is the Spirit of justice and truth. The Spirit will have no truck with injustice and untruth. Where worldly tendencies marked by sin pull what is whole apart, the Spirit unites. The Spirit unites by setting right boundaries, not by compromise.
Our political and cultural climate is marked by fierce polarisation and by an increasingly aggressive, belligerent tone, even among those who call themselves believers. But the Church must follow a different path; she must show that such a path is humanly possible, for it is her task to let God’s peace become flesh. We cannot be content just to stand around and tell people to be nice to one another. We must show what a renewed humanity looks like. Only such renewal can save us from the constant acceleration of confrontations.
I know it can seem bombastic to begin our conference, a modest gathering, on such a note. I am no political analyst. I am no theoretician of culture. I simply want to share with you a deep conviction: this is a decisive and fearful time for Europe and for the world. Into this time we must speak Christ’s peace, a peace not like that which the world gives piecemeal.
Christ’s peace is no transaction, no pragmatic ‘deal’. It is the fruit of an all-encompassing sacrifice brought in love, accomplished once for all on Calvary, and renewed every day on our altars. What we must do above all, now, is to let that sacrifice work, to teach the faithful by word and example what it means to live in the spirit of that sacrifice, in the confidence that God, through his holy Church, is still working out the salvation of mankind. God saves us from evil. He also saves us from ourselves.
This is a time in which to draw a line between what matters and what does not; this is no time for vanity, trifles, or silly little squabbles.
Today the Church celebrates St Patrick, a Romano-British soldier abducted by Irish pirates in the early fifth century. Time in slavery made him reflect on the sense of existence. Released, returned to Britain, he became a Christian. He did not, though, turn his back on the land in which he had been unfree. No, that land occupied his thoughts. It attracted his love. He went back to Ireland and worked, first as a priest, then as a bishop, in unspectacular ways, the way any priestly or episcopal life is made up chiefly of ordinary things.
This one man’s givenness, though, left its mark on a nation. So deep is that mark that even secular, repaganised Ireland sees itself reflected in the glory of St Patrick and that, wherever the Irish have worked or settled, from New York to Lagos, Patrick is held in highest honour. Not all of us are called to be a St Patrick; but his example speaks to us all. Like him we can carry light into darkness. We can refuse to be crippled by the threats of those who would frighten us. We can put our whole trust in Christ’s power to save. If the shepherd is fearless, the chances are, the flock will be, too. St Patrick sang, in the prayer known as his Breastplate:
I bind to myself to-day,
The Power of God to guide me,
The Might of God to uphold me,
The Wisdom of God to teach me,
The Eye of God to watch over me,
The Ear of God to hear me,
The Word of God to give me speech,
The Hand of God to protect me,
The Way of God to prevent me,
The Shield of God to shelter me,
The Host of God to defend me,
Against the snares of demons,
Against the temptations of vices,
Against the [lusts] of nature,
Against every man who meditates injury to me,
Whether far or near,
With few or with many.
It is possible to live in this way. If a sufficient number of people do, they can actually transform society. The Church, a little flock, can reveal itself, then, the seed of a new humanity. A threatening horizon can turn into a sunrise full of sweet hope.
That’s what we’re about, surely.
Everything else must be seen in this light.
+fr Erik Varden OCSO
President of the Nordic Bishops’ Conference
View from Stykkishólmur.

A date for your calendar……a great family day out . Spread and share this wonderful event on April12th ,the Sunday after Easter.
#Family fun day #StSenansschoolcloghroe #DivineMercySunday #peace #SaintsOfToday #truth #confession #love #DivineMercy

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