St Bernard of Clairvaux Notebook
Bernard is a beautiful name (think of St Bernard of Clairvaux, patron of beekeepers and Gibraltar and all that). But I am not called after him. Bernard is also a surname in these parts, and my mother was born Maeve Bernard – hence my Christian name.
My mother had a grand-uncle who was a priest in Cork diocese, Denis Bernard by name. According to our diocese’s website, he trained for priesthood in Salamanca and Thurles before being ordained in 1874 (imagine the trek to Spain in the days before Ryanair – or even planes).
Parishes
After a few curacies in west Cork parishes, he was appointed PP to the parish where I serve in 1905, and served there 30 years until he died in his 92nd year. Imagine that, he was 91 years of age and still the parish priest! His headstone is one of the highest in the churchyard, so even though he was dead years before I was born, I literally serve in his shadow. The only other place I see his work is in the parish registers, which he kept faithfully (though not legibly) till he drew his last breath: no delegation in those days.
Some of the older people carried memories of the old man, ‘Daddy Bernard’ as he was affectionately known. Little of his homilies remains, apart from a very vivid Christmas sermon about the bleakness of the stable, and an annual reminder to farmers saving the hay not to neglect the priest’s horse.
At the end of his life, his nephew Jack Bernard was his curate for seven years. The parochial house was divided between them. The older man had the top of the house, complete with an external door and a flight of stairs that I imagine he rarely descended. The curate shared the lower level with the housekeeper, with smaller windows and lower-ceilinged rooms, as befitted his junior station.
Protective
I imagine it must have been tough on the young man, watched over like a hawk by the protective uncle, living on very little, as curates subsisted in those days and not empowered to do much in the parish, since the elder man retained all the reins of power. Jack Bernard, the curate, my granduncle, is remembered in parishes where he served being ‘mad about the dogs’ (training and racing greyhounds); I can’t help but think he may have picked up the hobby here, as a break from excessive familial supervision.
If ever there was an argument for retirement from the office of parish priest, the above situation confirms it. Of course, in those days, the older man didn’t consider retirement a ministerial possibility, because he presumably saw it as his duty to serve until he could serve no more, due to being dead. And his young curate could not protest, because curates had few rights, and certainly no voice. How much more the younger man could have learned if he were put in charge, with a wise uncle to advise, gently: not all change is bad.
Bread of Life nourishes us until we receive again
Unlike 99% of priests in Ireland, I do not include the ‘Act of Spiritual Communion’ in online Masses, though those who tune in may well say one. I believe that once we receive the Bread of Life, it nourishes us till we receive again; it has no ‘BEST BEFORE’ date, but keeps on working in us. Like millions around the world who are lucky to receive once a year, we can experience Christ present when His Word is read and listened to, when God’s praises are sung and when we gather even when apart: Christ never deserts us.
Dining one day with an unbeliever
A lovely card made its way to me lately. I had sent birthday greetings to a priest in another diocese celebrating a milestone birthday. I had remarked on the good impression he had made on a friend with whom I was dining one day, an unbeliever. His reply: “I’m glad I made a good impression on your infidel friend. Your dining with outsiders does not surprise me. You are somewhat a maverick… I like mavericks.”
I have been smiling since the card arrived. It may help to explain why I can annoy non-mavericks. Please forgive, please smile with me…