Welcome, Fáilte - Diocese of Cloyne

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Welcome

Fáilte, Welcome

to the website for the Catholic Diocese of Cloyne, Ireland

Bishop William Crean

29 April 2026

Sunday 10th May 2026

Pilgrimage Programme:

2pm - Outdoor Stations of the Cross

2:30pm - Anointing of the Sick in Knock Basilica

3pm - Concelebrated Mass in Knock Basilica followed by Eucharistic Blessing and Outdoor Rosary (weather permitting)

Visit knockshrine for more information

Cloyne Diocesan Pilgrimage Poster 2026 002

Cloyne Diocesan Pilgrimage to Knock 2026

12 April 2026

Pastoral Areas - Diocese of Cloyne

Dear Parishioners,

I write to share with you, the people of the Diocese, the outline and fruits of conversations that have taken place in parishes and deaneries over the last year or so.

The process began with my invitation to a group of priests and people to serve as a Diocesan Review Group. The first aim was to get a realistic picture of the current situation by way of religious practice, the number of priests in ministry and the other groups that serve in our parishes. The second goal was to develop a more effective pastoral service to all the parishes in the event of some parishes not having a resident priest.

Our hope has been that our discussion and discernment would have the outcome of development of a new structure in the diocese that would ensure the pastoral care of all.

Map of Pastoral Areas - Diocese of Cloyne

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

04 February 2026

Cloyne Diocesan Pilgrimages 2026

The Annual Lourdes Mass - Friday 13th February 2026

Church of the Immaculate Conception, Kanturk, P51 TY36 at 7.30pm
Bishop William Crean will be the Chief Celebrant of the Mass

Cloyne Diocesan Pilgrimage to Knock - Sunday 10th May 2026

Parishes to make their own travel arrangements

Cloyne Diocesan Pilgrimage to Lourdes 29th May – 3rd June 2026

All bookings for the Cloyne Diocesan Pilgrimage to Lourdes should be made through Joe Walsh Tours by telephone 01-2410800, online at Joe Walsh Tours or by post to 89 Harcourt Street, Dublin 2, D02WY88. No booking is definite until a non-refundable deposit payment of €350 per person (plus insurance premium where applicable) has been receipted by Joe Walsh Tours. Early booking advisable.

Pilgrims who would like to travel with the Special Assisted Section should apply to: Cloyne Diocesan Pilgrimage to Lourdes, c/o Parish Secretary, 27/28 Bank Place, Mallow, Co. Cork. Tel: 022-20276. This special assisted/sick section is accommodated at the Accueil Notre Dame. Acceptance for travel with the special section for the sick is subject to approval of the Pilgrimage Medical Board. The closing date for receipt of application is 31 March 2026.

Cloyne Diocesan Pilgrimage to Lourdes 29th May - 3rd June 2026

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Latest Homily

26 Apr 2026 - 250th Celebration of the founding of the Presentation Congregation

Latest Articles

April 2026
- Cloyne Diocesan Pilgrimage to Knock 2026
- "See I'm doing a new thing" Is. 43:19
March 2026
- Fatima Pilgrimage 2026 - Carrigtwohill Parish
February 2026
- Cloyne Diocesan Pilgrimages 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

St Joseph the Worker

This homily was given to conclude a symposium held in Kaunas for the religious of Lithuania.
Matthew 13.54-58: Is this not the carpenter’s son?
The feast day of St Joseph the Worker was instituted by Pope Pius XII in 1955. The pope Read More

Coram Fratribus

Honest Books

For The Tablet’s Spring Festival five years ago, back in the days of Covid confinements, I was privileged to conduct a long conversation with Marilynne Robinson about her Gilead novels. The recording has long since vanished from the internet, but Read More

Coram Fratribus

4. Sunday of Easter

Acts 2.14-41: On the day of Pentecost Peter stepped forward.
1 Peter 20-25: He suffered but made not threats.
John 10.1-10: He calls each of his sheep by name.
Dear friends!
You receive the sacrament of confirmation on the Fourth Sunday of Easter. Read More

Coram Fratribus

A Future for Empathy?

This conversation with Annachiara Valle was published in Famiglia Cristiana on 18 April. It focuses on the publication of Illuminati da una gloria nascosta, which brings together the conferences of this year’s Lent retreat in the Vatican. You can find the Read More

Coram Fratribus

St Joseph the Worker This homily was given to conclude a symposium held in Kaunas for the religious of Lithuania.
Matthew 13.54-58: Is this not the carpenter’s son?
The feast day of St Joseph the Worker was instituted by Pope Pius XII in 1955. The pope had a supernatural intention: he wished to foster devotion to a great saint. He also had a social intention: the feast was an antiphonal response to Communist May Day celebrations. It would show that the cause of workers is not over against the Church, or estranged from the Church. The example of Joseph places the worker honourably, even sublimely, at the heart of the manifestation of the New Testament.
Since 1955 the feast has been instrumentalised in aid of many good causes and of some more dubious causes. It has been used as a means by which to politicise the Gospel. As we know, and see before our eyes these days, that is a slippery slope. This is not because the societal order, the polis we are part of, lies beyond God’s redemptive work or the Christian’s task. We’re called to sanctify society by the way we are and act in it; we are called to order the world in such a way that all may live worthily.
The problem is that we, when we turn faith into a project of welfare, easily forget what the whole thing is about. We think of ourselves as decisive agents — our outlook becomes horizontal and we end up, to speak in Biblical terms, ‘forgetting God’.
We cannot take Joseph hostage to this sort of enterprise. His life and sovereign silence are oriented vertically. When we honour Joseph as ‘worker’, it cannot just be about an effort to feel affirmed in the work we do ourselves.
In the Litany of St Joseph, Joseph is referred to as a ‘patriarch’. The patriarchs of the Old Testament were all shepherds. The wilderness, the broad plains were their element; so was the camp fire round which they sat and spoke of God’s faithfulness in their own lives and in the lives of their fathers.
The patriarch of the New Testament, by contrast, is a carpenter. His is an urban calling. It is in cities large and small that houses are built to last and to be furnished — for the Bible does not feature the romanticism of the little house on the prairie: it belongs to a different cultural setting.
Joseph represents the forming of fellowship, a society that has at last found its place of belonging and is no longer constantly on the move. Even as life is movement, our final call is a call to come home; and it is home the city stands for.
It is significant that Scripture lets human history set out, in Genesis, from a wonderful garden, but that the history ends, towards the last chapter of the Apocalypse, in a city.
Joseph, Protector of the Saviour, reminds us that our goal is within reach. He reminds us that we are called to flourish, and that our flourishing results, not so much from what we go around saying as from what we do to enable communion, service, security.
I would have loved to see an object or a piece of furniture made by Joseph, the carpenter. I do not doubt that his artisanship was beautiful. In his arms he carried the Origin of all loveliness. May we, as we honour Joseph whom we call our patriarch, likewise work beautifully in the city of God, which is our city, too.
We are called to found our city, our lives, our communities on the Lord’s peace, a peace not of this world. Let us make sure that peace infuses all our doings, from the most sublime to do the most everyday. Amen.

Coram Fratribus

Honest Books For The Tablet’s Spring Festival five years ago, back in the days of Covid confinements, I was privileged to conduct a long conversation with Marilynne Robinson about her Gilead novels. The recording has long since vanished from the internet, but recently a Canadian Benedictine was kind enough to transcribe it. I am happy to be able to share this exchange. It was, to me at least, not only very enjoyable but deeply instructive.
Brendan Walsh, Editor of The Tablet:
Wherever you are in the world, whatever time of day it is — welcome to the final event in what has been an unforgettable Tablet Spring Festival. I am joined by two remarkable guests who are going to be in conversation with each other: Father Erik Varden, the former Abbot of the only Cistercian Abbey in England, who is now the Bishop of Trondheim in Norway, and Marilynne Robinson, whose novels are among the great works of contemporary literature.
My name is Brendan Walsh and I am the editor of The Tablet, the International Catholic Weekly. We have had three days now — this is the last event — three days of astonishing events, conversations, discussions, films, music, laughter, and tears. It really has been wonderful for all of us. On Thursday night we saw an extraordinarily moving documentary film that took us inside and alongside the monks of the Cistercian community where Erik was Abbot. We met the monks, we ate with them, we talked with them, we prayed with them, and in some cases we saw them dying and being interred in the Abbey grounds.
I hope that in this festival we brought some of the best of The Tablet — its spirit, its values, its spirit of faithful curiosity — to you. Father Erik and Marilynne Robinson are two writers who each have a gift of making ordinary things numinous, of seeing the holiness in ordinary lives. Norwegian by birth, Father Erik was the son of a country vet.
He was a fellow of St John’s College, Cambridge, before entering Mount St Bernard Abbey in Leicestershire. Pope Francis appointed him to the see of Trondheim in 2019. Father Erik is the author of a book, The Shattering of Loneliness, which the Times Literary Supplement described as “a book of extraordinary importance.”
It is, with prophetic clarity, aware of the depravity, the weakness, and the glory of the human condition. I have to confess that there are some words of a piece that Father Erik wrote in The Tablet a couple of years ago which I cut out and stuck on my wall, and they are a reminder of what the editor of The Tablet should always have in mind about what The Tablet is trying to do: “In a world marked by indifference and cynicism, hopelessness and division, it is our task to stand for something different, to point towards the light that no darkness can overcome, to nurture goodwill, to enable a communion founded on trust, in peace, to bear witness that death has lost its sting, and that life is meaningful and beautiful and of inviolable dignity.”
Marilynne Robinson has written five highly acclaimed novels. Her first novel, Housekeeping, was published in 1981. It was recognised at once as an extraordinary piece of work, achievement. An early reviewer in the New York Times wrote that it was “as if in writing it she broke through the ordinary human condition with all its dissatisfactions and achieved a kind of transfiguration.”
It would be more than twenty years before Marilynne wrote her next novel, Gilead, published in 2004, and it was followed by three further novels: Home, Lila, and Jack. Each focuses, as we know and love these books, on the same group of characters, each one of them indelible in our memory, members of the households of two Presbyterian ministers in a midwestern AmErikan town. Earlier this afternoon, just a few hours ago, Francis Spufford, the English novelist, was talking about his recent work — a lovely novel he has written this year — and he spoke this afternoon about his admiration for Marilynne Robinson.
“She is so palpably marvellous, and her marvellousness is so palpably connected to her faith, that she has prised open a space in literature for people to be curious.” Marilynne, I am going to leave you in Father Erik’s confessional box. There might be time towards the end to have some questions.
If you have questions, there is a little box at the bottom of our screens that says “chat”, and if you key in a question there we will pass them on to Father Erik, who might be able to put them to Marilynne towards the end of the conversation. So, Father Erik, over to you.
Bishop Varden:
Thank you very much, Brendan, and thank you, Marilynne, for being present tonight. I have been looking forward to this conversation. At the same time, I have been dreading it a bit. Having lived with — and really having lived in — your books for the best part of fifteen years, having wept with them and laughed with them, I almost hesitate to talk about them. They have come to stand for something so intimate. That is partly why I want to set out from a scene in Lila where John Ames and Lila have gone to bed. It is a Saturday evening, and as Ames says, when you are in the clerical line of trade it seems always to be either Sunday, or Saturday evening.
So they are talking about this, that, and the other. Lila asks a question which impresses Ames, and he says, “I am going to keep you safe, and you are going to keep me honest.” I think that is wonderful, because your novels are so honest and draw honesty forth in the readers.
The setting for all your four books is a world marked by an excessively religious atmosphere: where men walk for miles in the middle of winter to clear a point of Hebrew grammar, where children are named for theological virtues, and where even bean salads have denominational specificities. So I wanted to ask you: was it part of your project, as it were, from the beginning to embody an honest articulation of faith — and so to preserve it from platitudinal certainties and preacherly vagueness?
Marilynne Robinson:
Well, I would be delighted to think that I had done that, or even approached it. The period I am writing about in those novels was the period most influenced by the abolitionist movement, and then the Civil War, and then Reconstruction. The abolitionist people were many of them clergy, and they were profoundly religious people — religious at saturation level, one might say. The irony, of course, is that this is not sustainable over the long term, or at least not in the forms that they would perhaps have wished to see it persist. It is an intensification of religious culture that I have seen, but even that is perhaps a carryover from an earlier kind of passion and selflessness and generosity of intention that could not keep its focus, that did not fully understand its implications in changing circumstances.
Bishop Varden:
There is a scene in Gilead that, when I first read it, moved me very much. It has become an important reference for me in my life as a monk, because I think it says a great deal about what it means to live the monastic and contemplative life, but also about what it means to be a human being. It is the scene when the young John Ames sets off with his father and they walk into Kansas, the two of them, in order to tend the grandfather’s grave. When they have done all this work and finally found the grave, the father prays a very long prayer over it, and young Ames — who is about twelve, I think — is a bit tired. He looks around and sees something extraordinary: the setting sun and the rising moon in perfect parallel, with the two of them, father and son, right in the middle. Knowing that his father is engaged in something profoundly important, he does not want to startle him out of his attention, so he performs a most beautiful gesture — he takes his father’s hand and kisses it. Then a bit later in the narrative, he describes to his own little son, to whom he is writing the letter that is Gilead, what had happened. If I may, I would like to cite that passage, because I would like to sound you out about it. John Ames says to his son:
“I can’t tell you how I felt walking along beside my father that night along that rutted road through that empty world, what a sweet strength I felt in him and in myself and all around us. I’m glad I didn’t understand, because I’ve rarely felt joy like that, and assurance. It was like one of those dreams where you’re filled with some extravagant feeling you might never have in life — it doesn’t matter what it is, even guilt or dread — and you learn from it what an amazing instrument you are, so to speak, what a power you have to experience beyond anything you might ever actually need.”
I find that so heart-rendingly beautiful that it still sends shivers down my spine. I love the fact that it is an evocation of a profound experience left unprettified. It states clearly that sometimes to live at that sort of depth, suffering is involved. It seems to me that awakening to that depth is what is going on at one level in your books. We see it in Lila, we see it in Jack, but we also see it in the old preachers. There is something about the spareness of life in your novels that sharpens this experience and provokes it. I wonder: accustomed as we are to untold comforts and distractions, do we now tend to miss out on this discovery? And is a major part of the modern malaise a kind of failure to acknowledge our spiritual depth and our spiritual perception?
Marilynne Robinson:
Well, I have to believe that people are simply capable of whatever profound question, or intuition, or whatever it is that we live with in the idea of God. And I think that we do everything to distract ourselves from it. I think distraction is secondary to some anxiety about the intuition — an intuition that is really a more profound part of experience for very many people. I was struck by the passage in the book you quote [in The Shattering of Loneliness] where the speaker sees people as an inchoate mass, a kind of protoplasm, and then suddenly begins to see them as human in a deeply meaningful way.
I think we have that tendency to see other people as less profound creatures than God made them, and that on the basis of what is really a superficial response to them we make generalisations about them. We even make important decisions about how to present religion to them, or whether there is any point in trying. I often teach the Bible to writers at the workshop — I have just finished touching on the Old Testament — and people are very interested, and very often almost shy about the fact that they grant great importance to these texts and traditions and have no approach to them, no familiarity with them.
I think that is the kind of longing that I believe you would be very sympathetic to, but it veils itself. We do not see it in people. It is rare that we have the opportunity to address the profound seriousness of the human situation as it is manifest in people who are opaque to us.
Writing about the American Midwest, I am writing about a part of the country that is, in a certain sense, blanked out — people passing through have no idea where they are, yet they generalise and feel there is no life there, no culture, and so on, even though very great cities are scattered throughout the Midwest. The thing that is always said about the Midwest is that it is very flat, which is exaggerated, but nevertheless true enough to inspire a number of poems. Sometimes the sun and the moon are on opposite horizons and equally visible. The great beauty of that is the kind of thing that people do not always notice, because they subscribe to the convention that this is a place that is flat and not beautiful.
Bishop Varden:
What you do so wonderfully is precisely to reveal those moments of beauty — both in nature and in people — drawing them out of their opaqueness and making them so present and so specific. To turn to one such specificity, I would like to hone in on Jack a bit. In Gilead, Jack appears to be — at least so he appeared to me when I first read it — an incidental character, someone we largely see through the anxious projections of John Ames, the narrator.
The next book, Home, reveals him in all his complexity, but even there he remains a stranger — even to the people who have known him all his life. Then in your most recent book he suddenly stands there before us, and in that book you enable us to know him, as far as we can, on his own terms. There are so many things that are striking about him there, not least his joyousness. A couple of times — I think once in Jack and once in Home — he is likened, jocularly, to Raskolnikov: once by himself and once by Glory when he refuses to eat his breakfast.
Personally, I could not quite see Jack going out to kill an old woman with an axe, but thinking in Dostoevskian terms, I can see something Karamazovian about him, something of the three brothers folded into one. One could quite see the elder Zosima prostrating himself before Jack for what he has to carry. This might be a daft question, but I wonder: is Jack an emblematic character representing something — a tendency, a personality, a weakness, or a strength — or is he ultimately a kind of everyman? I was touched and delighted by something Della says to him in a moment of confidence: “Jack, maybe you’re more like most people than you think.”
Marilynne Robinson:
Well, I think of Jack as someone who has taken on the fact, at least, of his being able to incur great guilt, and who corrects for that radically by trying to be truly harmless. At the same time, he feels as though he cannot really engage with people and still assume that he has kept his harmlessness intact. I think he is an extreme instance of a kind of human capacity for conscientiousness and self-scrutiny. He is almost a hunger artist in some sense: he has taken himself down to the bare nervous structures of potential guilt. And yet, for all of that, it is also true that he cannot be conventional. He is not in the drift of society, and things like scrupulousness about the truth have never had quite the same hold on him as they might on another person.
Bishop Varden:
And yet he is a very honest person, isn’t he?
Marilynne Robinson:
Yes, he is. Yes, he is.
Bishop Varden:
I mean, he is almost cruelly honest with himself.
Marilynne Robinson:
Yes, he is. And I am glad that you see joy in him, because I certainly intended that as well. He would not want to be someone else, frankly.
Bishop Varden:
No, exactly.
Marilynne Robinson:
But what can I say? I was going to say something, and you would have liked it, but now I have forgotten what it was.
Bishop Varden:
There is a scene in Jack where, as a young boy, he is in the kitchen with some caterpillars in a mayonnaise jar, thinking of pouring water into the jar to see whether the caterpillars breathe. Old Boughton observes this gravely and then says, “Well, these things do want to exist.” That clearly touches Jack somehow, and he asks later in life, “Maybe a chirp means I exist — and then, I exist, as if it could matter. But it must, since they all do it.” And then later on, when he is returning Della’s book of poetry, which he has kept for a very long time and which is in a somewhat parlous state, he discreetly writes his own address in it. In your book you say he put his address in the book as a sort of “I exist,” thinking that if she ever noticed it, it might also make her laugh.
I find that is something you convey so wonderfully — the thirst Jack has simply to live and to be noticed as living. Not simply to be forgiven, although he appreciates that, being a courteous man, but to be recognised as being alive.
Marilynne Robinson:
Yes. Well, you know, isn’t that mysterious? That is from my own experience. I never do violence to vermin, because I can tell they want to have life — the complexity of their response to a threat is just astonishing to me. It is part of my theological feeling that the world is much more saturated with intelligence and consciousness than we normally assume.
Jack and I have shared certain experiences, such as watching an insect walk across the ceiling, which must be like the Gobi Desert from the point of view of the insect — walking a straight line with no obvious intent, all by itself. And you think: how does this fit into insect life? What is it doing? Why can it do it? I do not want to imply a direct analogy between human beings and insects, but a lot of the mysteries do tend to overlap, I think.
Bishop Varden:
And they mirror one another, and perhaps they might even illuminate one another.
Marilynne Robinson:
Absolutely.
Bishop Varden:
I would like to take that theme of laughter further. I hope you won’t feel put out if I say that your books do make me laugh.
Marilynne Robinson:
Good. Good.
Bishop Varden:
There are scenes in them of such perfect comedy that they almost seem constructed as such — like the inebriated horse in the abolitionist settlement who has the misfortune of falling down through a dug tunnel. Or that rather elaborate baptism of kittens, when Ames remarks that the kittens have cause to be grateful that it was not his Baptist friend, who believes in complete immersion, who performed the ceremony. Or that omnipresent wry self-irony of which all the characters are capable, some indulging in it more than others. It brings an element of sheer delight to the reading.
But it strikes me that laughter in your books is also something very serious, and it is thematised as serious. Ames says — I think it is in Gilead — having watched two mechanics he knows from the local garage just engaged in banter on a road in town, that it is an amazing thing to watch people laugh, the way it sort of takes them over, “a kind of ecstasy.” And later on, when he has come to know Lila, and having made a little experiment with hair tonic, and then finds her to his astonishment waiting for him at the door of the church, wanting a word with him, he says, “At that point I began to suspect, as I have from time to time, that grace has a grand laughter in it.” Which I think is a wonderful insight.
But the third passage, which I think crowns the other two, is an insight of Jack’s when he has been rehearsing a poem by Thomas Traherne, trying to imagine the resurrection. He says: “Wings are fine, and a kind of luminosity would also be very nice, but to hear a familiar laugh would be an almost unbearable joy. A human joy exceeding anything seraphim could feel, since angels cannot know death.” Could you say something about this density of laughter?
Marilynne Robinson:
Well, it is an amazing thing. It is true that people — well, it is like singing, in a way, except it is spontaneous. It is just something that people do, unless events utterly forbid. And that is, in a sense, an assent. It is like giving the meaning of the wonderful, the comprehended, to something that has happened, or has been thought of, or has been said. It is like a kind of secondary reality.
I am not being very articulate, but you know — you do not just walk through the world; you are in conversation with the world. And sometimes the world does something that simply delights you in the way of provoking laughter. And in that sense, it is a deep engagement with what the world is, or what language is. I think I am intentional about making my books, which aspire to seriousness, but are also, I hope, humorous.
Bishop Varden:
Yes, and I think it is wonderful to have that theological affirmation of laughter. I think we are all a bit conditioned — not least those of us who live in monasteries — by the caricature of the monk in Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose, who is so frightened of laughter, so censorious about it, that he wants to eliminate anything that can provoke it. I loved — and I would love to have the reference to — something you quote Calvin as saying: that for God, each of us is an actor on a stage, and God is the audience. It is Ames quoting Calvin, and he says, “I do like Calvin’s image, because it suggests how God might actually enjoy us.” That is a luminous and very reassuring insight, even in our absurdity.
Marilynne Robinson:
Absolutely. Calvin calls human beings “the masterpiece of creation.” He speaks very often in terms that suggest an artist, or someone appraising a work of art. It is as if the arena of human freedom is this: that given circumstances, you can respond to them well. You can be uniquely artful, in a sense, with the idea of God as the appraising mind — so that the art is to be what God would wish you to be in that circumstance, with the suggestion that in some way it is you doing this, not just any human being.
Bishop Varden:
Yes. And what parent does not delight in their children’s laughter? And recognise that it is specific to that child.
Marilynne Robinson:
Yes.
Bishop Varden:
The question of an eternal specificity — the question of the soul, of an eternal soul — is one that haunts Jack in particular, though not only Jack. Strikingly, it is Glory, who seems so settled in the certainties of faith, who has the real quandary about what the soul is. She has this notion that Jack must know, because Jack so clearly has a soul. She is a bit embarrassed at first, and she thinks about it, but then she musters up the courage to ask Jack what he thinks the soul is. And Jack, with a bit of cynicism — perhaps even a trace of sarcasm — says: “On the basis of my vast learning and experience, I would say it is what you can’t get rid of. Insult, deprivation, outright violence. If I make my bed in Sheol, behold, thou art there—” and so on.
Elsewhere, he reflects on himself and says, “Daylight is purgatory. It is a terrible thing being a thing to be looked at. He had always thought so, even before he had his history written all over him.” And yet what happens in Jack — which chronologically anticipates the other three novels — is that he awakens to an experience of being seen that is not threatening, but life-giving. It is when Della sees him and sees a brightness, what Ames would call an incandescence. What strikes her, she says in Jack, is that he does not hide his brightness. So she says to him, wonderfully: “In your own way, you’re kind of pure” — which I think is the last thing Jack would expect to hear. What is that purity she sees?
Marilynne Robinson:
Well, I think partly it is just the degree to which he is undefended by himself. And then the other thing is that the whole framework for all these stories is the existence of enormously cruel and rigid social distinctions — made and enforced. Jack, by nature, is simply not coerced by them. It is not as if he were defying them; they are just not there for him. He does not imagine himself in a position of moral advantage over anyone. And so there is a sense in which, if you think of the world as tainting or corrupting, he is not corrupted — because the great cruelty, the great fraud that he is contemporary with, is not something he has any impulse to engage in.
Bishop Varden:
No. And that leaves him, in a sense, untouched.
Marilynne Robinson:
Exactly. Out of all the descendants of the original John Ames, he is the one who would probably have John Ames’s approval.
Bishop Varden:
Yes. The theme of homecoming is an important one, obviously. The second book is called Home, and there is a paradigm of the prodigal son that runs through the novels. The embodiment of it is Jack, but it seems to me that the theme of homecoming really haunts all the major characters, in that it stands for an emergence out of loneliness. I am touched by the fact that both Lila and Jack, in their separate secret lives, are people who go around at night looking in through other people’s windows just to see how people live, how they do it, and that both of them have been bruised by the experience of being outside. Lila says at one point, “When you’re scalded, touch hurts. It makes no difference if it’s kindly meant.”
But it moves me that even John Ames, who spent all his life in this blessed place, is one who knows homelessness. I was struck by the fact that at one point he cites the novel of Bernanos, The Diary of a Country Priest, in many ways another embodiment of homelessness. I love the fact that when he says to his son “I felt a lot of sympathy for the fellow,” Boughton — who is a bit dour, after all — says: “It was the drink!” But Ames remarks later on, “God lets us wander so we will know what it means to come home.” And he goes on to reflect on his own years of loneliness, which for the majority of his life seemed to him what his life simply was.
He says: “Now that I look back, it seems to me that in all that deep darkness, a miracle was preparing. So I am right to remember it as a blessed time, and myself as waiting in confidence, even if I had no idea what I was waiting for.” I am slightly wary of using the word “prophetic,” which is rather overused these days, but it does seem to me that that is a prophetic statement for the world right now, caught up in such a profound experience of exile, of not being at home.
Marilynne Robinson:
And of being too much at home, like John Ames.
Bishop Varden:
Yes, in the other sense.
Marilynne Robinson:
Yes. Well, I myself — I do not know what to anticipate at any point now. And I am not uncomfortable with that, because what it means, basically, is that I do assume it is in God’s hands, which does not, as we all know from Scripture, guarantee that we will not see hard times. It is just that if you understand time as being always equivalent to itself in some sense — so that you have a long life of loneliness, and a few last years of great happiness — how do you understand that? Is the time that approaches the period of happiness an instruction, a preparation? Or is it simply something that, if you put the two in a balance, you would have to say: my life was basically lonely until the last few years? That is a theological question, isn’t it? How you choose to value what might seem to be the opposite of itself — to accept silence and vacancy and so on — and whether you are also, during that time, accepting preparation, which I would say he was, yes.
Bishop Varden:
Yes. I suppose, living within that energy of hope, which obviously, as a man of faith, Ames is — he would know that the present is a preparation for something. But I also suppose that what comes to him is a kind of anticipation of beatitude, a joy that takes him entirely by surprise.
Marilynne Robinson:
Yes.
Bishop Varden:
On that note, the themes of salvation and loss are important. The theme of perdition is important. The theme of predestination is important. But what strikes me particularly is the theme of a kind of solidarity in the quest for salvation. John Ames at one point makes clear that it is not in his tradition to pray for the dead. But one rather suspects that he does anyway, perhaps behind closed doors.
The role of those who have gone before is decisive, both dramatically and structurally, throughout the work. I am struck again and again by the deep emphasis you place on compassion — and I mean that in the most literal sense: being involved in the pathos of another life, being entangled in other lives, each man not being an island but a stitch in a delicate embroidery, like the glorious one that Della made on Jack’s shirt, an embroidery that would be forever imperfect if a single stitch were extracted.
It is wonderful that Lila and Glory, who come at this question from about as different angles as one could, spell out what seems to be much the same sentiment and perhaps even the same existential conviction. When Glory, in a moment of profound worry for Jack, has an insight and says, “If I, or my father, or any Boughton has ever stirred the Lord’s compassion, then Jack will be all right, because perdition for him would be perdition for every one of us” — which is a most noble statement. Lila says something similar when she thinks of Doll, the woman who brought her up. She says that if Doll was going to be lost forever, Lila wanted to be right there with her, holding on to the skirt of her dress.
Later on, when she is safely established in Ames’s house and more literate in biblical thinking and biblical piety, she becomes a little more daring as she listens to Boughton’s great concern with China. And she says that she thought maybe, just by worrying about it, Boughton would sweep up China into an eternity that would surprise him out of all his wondering. “God is good, the old men say. Now that would be the proof.” So I wonder: is there, among these good Presbyterians, something of the whiff of the mystical doctrine of the communion of saints?
Marilynne Robinson:
Oh, well, you know, they also adhere to the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, and the resurrection of the body.
Bishop Varden:
But in terms of an active communion of intercession and carrying?
Marilynne Robinson:
Well, they would not say they intercede. But they would say that the love of a human person survives that person. And that there is nothing inappropriate about thinking very lovingly, and with concern, about anyone who has gone before. Also, I think a lot of the difficulty of Christianity as an emotional experience is that you do not know what to do with the great mass of humankind that does not satisfy the formula of salvation that you tend to be offered. What both my characters and I were thinking is that if you understand the grace of God as fully sufficient, then it seems more appropriate to the love of God — and more in keeping with the celebration of God — to let go of any exclusion from the idea of resurrection and immortality and so on.
Bishop Varden:
I love the way you present grace as not only being sufficient, but as being boundlessly attentive. At some point, Della says to Jack: “Anyone — any human being — and then that person’s actual life, everything they didn’t mean or couldn’t say or wished for or grieved over, that’s reality. So someone who would know the world that way — some spirit — seems kind of inevitable. Why should so much reality, most of it, count for nothing? That’s how it seems to me.” That seems to me a very reasonable position.
Then she goes on to say the most glorious thing: “I just think there has to be a Jesus to say beautiful about things no one else would ever see. The precious things should be looked to, whatever becomes of the rest of it.” You wonderfully show just how far that preciousness extends.
Marilynne Robinson:
That is a kind of appropriation of what Calvin says — that we perform our lives and God is the audience — that there is a Jesus to know how we think, to know how we pray, to know how we reconcile ourselves to difficulty. That is an analogy to what Calvin says.
Bishop Varden:
Well, I have now had the privilege of asking many of my own questions. There are some that have come in from listeners and viewers. There’s a question from Alan, who asks whether you always intended that there would be four novels in the series, and if there is any chance of a fifth?
Marilynne Robinson:
Well, I did not intend that. When I wrote Housekeeping, I refused to consider that I would write another book in the same setting or with the same characters, because I felt I had meant to solve certain problems with that book and I had to address those problems. And then I was silent for twenty-four years. So after I finished Gilead, I had that same initial reaction: that I could not use the characters again. But they were so alive in my mind that it seemed purely destructive not to let them have — first one novel, and then the series of four. I might very well write another novel. The longer I think about it, the likelier it becomes, frankly.
Bishop Varden:
That is a great reassurance. There is also a question from Christopher, who asks how you would relate your work to writers like Bernanos, Endo, and others who write what are often called “Catholic novels.”
Marilynne Robinson:
Well, I am embarrassed to admit that I have read very little contemporary literature, because I am interested in the Renaissance and theology and so on, and I read very far afield. I like it very much when people write from the point of view of a religious understanding of reality — to keep that music in the mind of the Western world, which does not do so much of that any more. There is nothing more natural to human beings than thinking religiously — it is the first thing they get around to, you know. And I think we are in the situation where we have retreated from the traditions that have allowed us to articulate things that are important for people to be able to articulate. I simply appreciate it whenever writing is done that carries forward this kind of thinking, which people are so inclined to do if they have any help at all.
Religion is always cultural in the sense that it is too large for anyone to arrive at alone. It is enriched enormously by every contribution anyone makes to it; it is a collective thing. And people who engage in it seriously are performing a great service for the rest of us.
Bishop Varden:
Since you say there may be more novels coming, there is one particular text I have been thinking of. It is John Ames preaching on the Spanish flu. He says in Gilead: “there was talk that the Germans had caused it with some sort of secret weapon, and I think people wanted to believe that because it saved them from reflecting on what other meaning it might have.” He says of his sermon — and this is a man who is normally very modest — a sermon which he never preached and in fact burnt: “It might have been the only sermon I would not mind answering for in the next world.” And that is coming from a man who reflects that he has written almost as much as St Augustine. He sums it up by saying, “I believe that plague was a great sign to us, and we refused to see it and take its meaning. And since then we have had wars continuously.” I just wonder: do you think there is any chance that a draft of that sermon might turn up somewhere, in an attic somewhere? It would be interesting to read.
Marilynne Robinson:
Well, you know — mutatis mutandis.
Bishop Varden:
It could have some very useful things to say to us right now.
Marilynne Robinson:
Yes. I am almost afraid to write any more about John Ames. There he is, preaching with the scoffer at his elbow.
Bishop Varden:
There is one other question which has come in. Ben asks: one reviewer says your novels show how God’s grace works in ordinariness, and you once said that American life is gripped now by a spasm of fear. How do you see grace at work in American politics today?
Marilynne Robinson:
There is a deficiency, insofar as human behaviour is gracious in response to grace. There is a deficiency. I am not in the habit of passing dire judgements, but I am really, really unimpressed with many people at the moment. I hope that God has not lost interest in us, because I can’t really believe how petty and ungenerous and fearful so much thinking is in certain parts and certain factions of the country right now. I have never seen anything like it. I think you have to go back before the Civil War to find a mentality of that kind, which is probably not coincidental.
Bishop Varden:
Well, thank you for confirming our hope that God has not lost interest in us. I am conscious that time is ticking. There is one final thing I would like to evoke, because obviously people talk about the Gilead novels — I do not know whether that is a term you approve of, given that the last one does not really take place in Gilead, but nevertheless it is a good umbrella term. Gilead is a biblical place and a biblical name with strong associations. There is that question in Jeremiah 8: “Is there a balm in Gilead?” And there is the wonderful spiritual that turns that question into an affirmation: “There is a balm in Gilead to make the wounded whole; there is a balm in Gilead to heal the sin-sick soul.”
At one point in the novel Gilead, John Ames says this — and this is a man who also goes out at night and looks at the stars: “In eternity this world will be Troy, I believe, and all that has passed here will be the epic of the universe, the ballad they sing in the streets, because I don’t imagine any reality putting this one in the shade entirely, and I think piety forbids me to try.”
I think that is a true insight. What you have done in these novels is to narrow our focus even more sharply and show us, in Gilead, allowing us to look patiently at the same scenery, the same buildings, the same interiors, the same people, the same relationships, the same challenges — just what an extraordinary depth there is in human existence, what beauty, and what there is to hope for. So from this particular reader, and I dare say from very many, thank you.
Marilynne Robinson:
Thank you. Very kind.
Brendan Walsh, Editor of The Tablet:
Thank you so much, Father Erik. I think you have really helped us to peel away a few more layers — there are so many layers to Marilynne’s work, but I think you have found some neglected corners of them to investigate. I have really, really enjoyed it. You have helped me reimagine the world that Marilynne creates in those novels, and not just about the novels, but in the whole conversation, I do feel enriched. So thank you so much, Erik, and Marilynne, thank you so much for joining us this evening and for being so generous with your time.
Marilynne Robinson:
It has been a great pleasure. Thank you for inviting me.
Della at one point embroiders one of Jack’s shirtsleeves white on white, almost invisibly, on the pretext of repairing a tear. The symbolism is rich. Photograph: Royal School of Needlework.

Coram Fratribus

Mater Dolorosa Each year the Catholic parish of Ålesund is privileged to borrow the lovely church Borgund for confirmations. Each year I am, at the altar, moved by this image of Mary. There’s not a bit of Giotto’s pathos or Michelangelo’s elegance in her. She stands at the foot of the cross composed and stern, ‘acquainted with grief’ like the Suffering Servant in Isaiah 53. We recognise her as a Norwegian west-coast fisherman’s wife who has spent her life close to the sea, confronted with forces that exceed human control. She could have walked straight into Jon Fosse’s Trilogy. That is precisely what is wonderful about her. Faith provides us with references transcending cultural boundaries. At the same time it lets us express our own culture, our own sensibility. It enables us to interpret known experience in a supernatural light, making us at once more realistic and more enlightened, in other words, more human.

Coram Fratribus

4. Sunday of Easter Acts 2.14-41: On the day of Pentecost Peter stepped forward.
1 Peter 20-25: He suffered but made not threats.
John 10.1-10: He calls each of his sheep by name.
Dear friends!
You receive the sacrament of confirmation on the Fourth Sunday of Easter. We call it Good Shepherd Sunday, for on this day we always read from the tenth chapter of John, which contains the parable of the Shepherd and the sheep.
I don’t know if you’ve ever thought what I remember thinking back when I, with a lot of resistance, if the truth be told, was confirmed. When there was talk of the Good Shepherd, or pious images of him were displayed, I groaned. The images irritated me. The Shepherd resembled an old-school hippie.
And was I supposed to count myself a sheep?
Anyone who’s had dealings with sheep knows they’re not especially reflective. Sheep move in flocks. Steer a few in a given direction, and the rest will follow. I, meanwhile, at fifteen, was determined to find my own way in life. I didn’t want to be pulled along in some woolly, smelly heap.
There was something suspicious, too, I thought, about the Shepherd. He made me think of the Pied Piper, the fellow who went about playing a flute prettily while the town’s rats, enchanted, followed him into a river, where they drowned. Is this Christianity, I wondered — the unthinking pursuit of a charismatic leader with no objections raised, no questions heard, only bleats?
Later, when I started reading the Bible and discovered what an exciting, thought-provoking book it is, I saw how wrong I’d been. The people of Israel were nomads. Sheep-farming was the foundation of their society and business. The shepherd became a symbol of political leadership. King David, the personification of a kingly ideal, is called Israel’s shepherd. It’s a title of honour. In the Bible, sheep aren’t just distracted balls of wool. They represent the nation’s citizens. They’re presented as intelligent. Psalm 23, which begins, ‘The Lord is my Shepherd’, speaks of the soul of sheep and of their yearning for righteousness.
In the Bible, a relationship of trust exists between shepherd and sheep. The sheep recognise the voice of the shepherd they trust. They refuse to follow other voices that merely imitate the good shepherd’s voice. The sheep seek security and thriving. They do not give in to threats.
It isn’t, then, a humiliation to be likened to a sheep!
On the contrary. The image suggests that we have exercised discernment, worked out where we want to go in life, have found a leader it is safe and sensible to follow. We have ears that hear, eyes that see.
You who are about to be confirmed were marked with the sign of the Good Shepherd in baptism, becoming part of his flock. That was a gift your parents gave you. Remember to thank them for it. Today you assume adult responsibility for this gift you received as children. You declare yourselves Christians. You say: ‘Yes, I recognise the Good Shepherd’s voice, and I will follow it.’
To be a Christian is not, as I have said, to drift passively along with a crowd or current. It is to listen critically to voices that surround us. We must consider both the message and tone of those voices. Which concord with that of the Good Shepherd? Which try to draw us away from him?
Much is at stake in the world right now, especially for you who are young. Even in Norway, where we’re used to living in stability and security, preparations are made for possible war. There’s a new edge to debate. Old prejudices find new expressions. People insult one another in public. There’s much talk of inclusion and solidarity, true, but what we see is that bridges are burnt and walls constructed as suspicion rises. Our country is becoming more violent.
I say this, not to cast shadows over what should be a bright day. I simply point out something you’re bound to have noticed already: Not all voices about us are good. Not all have honest purposes. There are ‘thieves and robbers’ set on leading you astray. That’s why you need to be able to think for yourselves. To think for yourselves, you need sure criteria and principles. That is what our Catholic faith gives you. It is a joy, and a source of encouragement, that you young people today confess and confirm your allegiance to that faith.
On Good Shepherd Sunday we pray for vocations. In a way that seems superfluous. All of you are called.
God, in whose image you are made, has a task for each of you. To find out what that task is, is part of youth’s terror and exhilaration. Savour the exhilaration and enjoy it! Take time, now and again, to ask: ‘What do I really want? What do I long for?’
Remember: the Good Shepherd’s voice doesn’t just speak from without. It is heard, too, in the heart’s deep desire. Learn to listen out for it there.
All of you are called to live good Christian lives built on truth and love of neighbour. When we talk about vocations, though, we also think specifically of the call to a consecrated life. I invite you to take that option seriously. Who knows if God isn’t calling some of you here to be priests or religious? It’s a good life — to that I can testify. The Church needs young women and men with guts to say a wholehearted ‘Yes!’ to the promises of Christ, ready to establish their life’s task within them as bearers of hope, joy and comfort into an often saddened, sometimes lugubrious world.
‘Christ’, we have heard Peter say, ‘left you an example, that you might follow in his footsteps.’ That’s what life is ultimately about. Remember that, and everything else will fall into place.
Amen.

Christian iconography daringly represents the Lord himself as a sheep, as here in the Ghent Altarpiece.

Coram Fratribus

A Future for Empathy? This conversation with Annachiara Valle was published in Famiglia Cristiana on 18 April. It focuses on the publication of Illuminati da una gloria nascosta, which brings together the conferences of this year’s Lent retreat in the Vatican. You can find the Italian text of the interview here. Below is an English translation.
Why did you focus the retreat on Psalm 90?
It was simply the first idea that occurred to me when I received the phone call from the Secretariat of State – an utter surprise – inviting me to give the retreat. Psalm 90 is a structural element in the liturgy of Lent. I know and love St Bernard’s reading of this text. So it made sense to make use of it.
The Psalm begins with the words: ‘My refuge and my strength, my God in whom I trust.’ Is this refuge a kind of resignation, or is it something else?
A Christian can never be resigned. A Christian is a person committed to the reality of a world the Lord is presently saving. We have our role to play in this great project, at once divine and human. It’s worth stressing that in the Latin version that St Bernard used, and on which I based my exposition, the term is not ‘refuge’ but rather ‘help’. The Psalm speaks of ‘living within the help of the Most High’, Qui habitat in adiutorio Altissimi. It suggests that we can make God’s help our habitat, and that that’s how we learn to live in this world in a specifically Christian way.
So to inhabit this world as a Cristian is not an experience of passivity?
Absolutely not.
But how can we go about this, especially where there’s war?
We must beware of counsels that are too general and banal. We need to be attentive to the enormous challenge of witnessing to the Gospel in situations of devastation and war. That is why I stress, in the book, the theme of peace. St Paul tells us that Christ is our peace. We are called to be bearers of that peace. As far as we can, we must, even in violent circumstances, resist the temptation to yield to bitterness, violence, aggression, and hate, remaining open to the possibility of reconciliation, of the transformation of situations of conflict. By our presence, by Christ’s presence in us, in so far as we are possessed of his peace, we can be instruments of his work even in terribly difficult conditions.
In your book you also speak of the instrumentalisation of God’s name for purposes of war. A relevant theme right now.
Absolutely. I state very clearly that it stands for a distortion. Resistance to any instrumentalisation of the vocabulary and symbols of faith represents a major challenge for today’s Christians.
Which are the risks involved?
The great risk is idolatry. In so far as we construct a God on the basis of our imagination, we use the terminology of faith to make a little god, a protector god, a tribal god who protects me and my interests. The Biblical revelation goes against this tendency, trying to make us see, precisely, that God is the God of all, an inconceivably great God who will not let himself be enclosed in our categories. All the struggles against idolatry in the Old and New Testament are directed against the tendency to reduce God to the mere patron of my ideas.
We see this idolatry at work today at the highest levels. We may think of Trump, but also of Netanyahu, who says that the extension of Israel’s borders means the coming of the Messiah. How to resist such misrepresentation?
By living out a Christian witness credibly, upholding the Biblical revelation of God incarnate in Christ Jesus without yielding to dangerous simplification.
Another important theme in the book is hope. How to hope in a world in crisis?
Hope is trust in things unseen. Hope is born when I ascertain that the present reality of a given situation, thing or person may not ultimately define the reality of this situation, thing or person. Hope is born of knowledge that there’s always a potential for growth and maturing, for conversion and even sanctification. I believe the basis of hope is a personal experience of the possibility of pardon – even the smallest experience of what grace might amount to, of what mercy is, and the utterly unmerited gift of God’s love. If I have, even in small ways, entertained such experience, I can with some authority convey the certainty that, well, if I can receive such illumination, then anyone can.
You develop, too, the notion of truth in a time marked by fake news and the manipulation of media. How can we come to discern the truth?
By facing the media with caution, intelligence and a critical sense. By nurturing our capacity for a healthy judgement of opinions and things. This is hard today, on account of the speed of the exchange of ideas. Precisely for this reason we need to be a little revolutionary – I’d say it should be our preferential option to resist acceleration. We need the courage to take a step back in order to get an overall view of given situations, given political and cultural phenomena. We need a clear, lucid, objective, well-founded view of reality as it is, without being seduced by illusions or others’ projections. For this we need time, and a certain slowness.
Can we ourselves be tempted to manipulate?
It’s a temptation everyone is exposed to. Given our digital resources and social media, any individual has ample means to project their own reality, personality, appearance, and blissful happiness. These projections do not necessarily correspond to what we are in fact. We need to be honest with ourselves and ask if we have the courage to be truthful. We can, indeed we must, begin modestly, in our circle of family and friends. We must practise the art of being truthful.
You go on to speak of freedom? How can freedom be understood?
As the Gospels present it to us, freedom ever unfolds in view of communion. Freedom is not a matter of stepping away from obligations. To be free is not about being disconnected. In a Christian optic, being free is a matter of speaking a lasting ‘Yes’ that involves accepting a task, a responsibility for the common good, for the good of others.
How can we transmit this value to the young?
Above all by living it out. It seems to me that young people are tired of rhetoric, tired of a multitude of words. They’re impressed, however, by the example of a faithful life, by people who remain faithful to an ideal, a relationship, a responsibility – by a couple that remains together, by a priest who fully lives out his consecration without compromise, with generosity. They are impressed by the example of religious who choose to stick to their commitment, to the ‘Yes’ pronounced once for all. The young are well aware of the grandeur and dignity implicit in saying a ‘Yes’ that is for life. In our contemporary climate, marked by much instability and much anxiety, there’s a search for fixed points of reference. The young ask: ‘What can I build my life on? Which are the values that last? Is there a foundation able to support my hopes and aspirations?’ If we, as individuals and communities within the Church, testify that, yes, such a foundation exists, then it can have massive impact.
Your book originates as a Lenten retreat. Why go back to it in retrospect?
St Benedict, in his Rule, says that the life of a monk or nun, or, for that matter, of any Christian desiring to live their faith coherently, should be a continuous Lent. He did not mean that their existence should be morose, terribly austere, marked by exaggerated mortification. Rather, he indicated a form of existence always oriented towards Christ’s victory over death. The mystery we consider during Lent in a concentrated way is no less the mystery of Christian life as such: Christ’s Paschal victory – his victory over sin, over all that which ties us to death, in order to carry us, rather, towards life in fullness, towards beatitude and eternal life.
How can we practise abstinence and fasting in a frenetic, consumerist world?
Look around! We’re surrounded by fasting cures, fitness centres, dieting campaigns. The secular, even atheist, imagination is more than open to offers of self-improvement: we want to look good; to be able still to wear outfits we bought last year; to be able to go to the beach without shame. These are, in a way, propositions inviting us to become better versions of what we are now. What the Christian faith offers is infinitely more interesting and joyful than simply the prospect of going to the beach with our head held high. To live Lent well is also a matter of slowing down. We realise that we can in fact get on perfectly well without rushing along, like everyone else, at a mad pace. That mad pace is not compulsory. In this area, too, we must uphold the freedom we have to find our own rhythm.
By slowing down, do we become better able to consider the world’s wounds?
Yes. And not only that. We need the honesty, humility, and realism to recognise, first of all, our own wounds. The first step is about not hiding them from ourselves. Then we can face the central Gospel question: ‘Do you want to be healed?’ We can ask ourselves: ‘Do I want to let God’s grace, through the Church, and through the people who surround me, enter my life for a purpose of healing, or am I attached to my wounds?’ If I look honestly at that which has wounded me, I am ready to start learning the art of compassion. Compassion is unsentimental. It is a dynamic that plays out relationally, equipping me to understand that which another person is living through without reducing everything to my own perspective. Compassion is a kind of empathy inviting me to see life as it manifests itself in the reality of someone else.
Have we lost this empathy?
I think we have, a bit. Let’s consider the way in which we look at migrants, the poor, the victims of war. At the same think I do think that compassion is an impulse deeply rooted in the human heart, even if it may be covered by layers of rocks and sand. We may have excavation work to do in order to rediscover that fount of living water that is the heart’s compassion.
How, though, can we manage to stay afloat confronted with so many images of pain from all over the world?
We are submerged by images, surrounded on all sides by evidence of pain. It is humanly impossible to invest oneself fully in each of these realities. It would kill us. A certain detachment is needed before this tsunami of information, of images of suffering. Yet it matters not to close our eyes, or our heart, to the suffering other, present in real, incarnate persons. We have to train ourselves to keep our eyes and hearts open and vulnerable in the encounters we have daily, not enclosing ourselves in an interior cell where we try to resist the wounds of the world and of the other.
Before so much pain, how can we not feel powerless?
We can look at ourselves, at the circumstances of our own lives and ask: ‘What can I do do here, now, in this situation that is providentially entrusted to me? What can I do for my wife, my husband, my children, my neighbour, the people I meet at the shop, in church, at the post office, in the cinema? What can I do for the beggar sitting before my front door?’ This is where the real work begins; this is where we can begin to transform society.
Society is transformed, too, by way of politics. What are the characteristics of the Christian politician?
Honesty, realism, truth. A Christian politician must not give in to hyper-rhetoric; he or she must have the courage to call things by their names. They also need a clear sense of the common good, and a sense of what society is. It seems to me that in the West, now, we’ve largely lost a sense of society; instead we isolate ourselves in little confraternities made up of people who share our sensibilities and convictions, people who have been formed the way we have. We need to get out of this kind of isolation. A politician should also be capable of compassion.
To whom is your book addressed?
To write a book is a bit like putting a letter into a sealed bottle, then chucking that bottle into the sea. You don’t know who will pick it up, if anyone. Ultimately, I’d say the book is addressed to all people of good will. It will establish its own trajectory. It will find its own ways to reach appropriate destinations. I’ll observe it from a distance with interest.
What fruit do you hope it might bear?
Above all the sweet fruit of hope, of courage to live well and fully without being overwhelmed by the pessimistic darkness powerfully clouding contemporary culture. I hope the book might, in a small way, nurture people’s resolve to follow the high ideals of freedom, truth, communion.
Communion, society, is born of principles, ideals, shared ideas. It is born no less of simply taking time to do simple things together, like collecting pebbles on a beach, rejoicing in the wonder of them. A scene from near Ålesund.

1st May - Feast day of St. Joseph the Worker
Hail, Guardian of the Redeemer,
Spouse of the Blessed Virgin Mary.
To you God entrusted his only Son;
in you Mary placed her trust;
with you Christ became man.
Blessed Joseph, to us too,
show yourself a Read More 3 Comments

Amen 🙏AmenAmen

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Posted: 13 hours ago

A MESSAGE FROM THE HOLY FATHER – NOW IN ENGLISH
Many people asked about the message from the Holy Father shared on Sunday.
We now have a translation of his words to Bishop Donal McKeown as he marks 25 years of episcopal Read More 1 Likes

Posted: 2 days ago

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Posted: 2 days ago

*MOTHER DAUGHTER RETREAT*
Join the Sisters of Mercy of Alma for a mother daughter day retreat on *Saturday 9th May 11am-4:30pm*
The day includes talks, the rosary, workshops, Holy Mass, and more
_*BOOKING ESSENTIAL*_
Phone: 083 440 5359
Email: bookings@shalomcentre.ie
Website: shalomretreatcentre.ie
Shalom Retreat Centre, Charleville

Posted: 2 days ago

Today is the Feast of St. Catherine of Siena who is one of the Patron Saints of Europe.
Born a twin and one of 25 children in her family, Catherine devoted her life to prayer and service of the poor. Read More 1 Comments

Amen.
Im also a twin❤️

14 Likes

Posted: 2 days ago

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"See I'm doing a new thing" Is. 43:19

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