Naples: Lost (and Found) in Translation

Each morning of my pilgrimage this summer, I have asked the Lord to please help me to get lost. And, amazingly, each day my prayer has been answered. My little jaunt about Napoli was no exception. At first, I was a bit apprehensive about wandering around the city by myself. Friends and fellow travelers—especially those who had never been here-- warned me: watch out for the thieves—especially the pickpockets. They are everywhere. Everywhere! Such negative encouragement made me all the more determined to see Naples on my own terms, try to avoid the crooks as best as I could, and manage to have an enjoyable time. Actually, I was able to do all three.


My first stop was a little church with an enormous name: Real Basilica Pontifica de Santiago de los Espanoles (the Royal Pontifical Basilica of St. James of Spain), built 1450-1547. I asked the sexton for help finding the Franciscan friars (no map, no contacts, no website, no nothing, mind you) and he graciously pointed me in the direction of the Monasterio di Santa Chiara: “It’s somewhere over there, but I’m not exactly sure. Go to the corner and turn right where that white building is,” he told me. “And then after that, just ask people along the way and they’ll help you out..” So, I did as I was told and lo’ and behold!—people pointed out the way and, eventually, I found the place. But first, I made a stop at the Church of the Gesu Nuovo—a vast and commanding Baroque confection close by my destination. Even on a weekday morning, a steady flow of visitors--pilgrims, people attending Mass, and tourists like myself steamed through. It was beautiful, but a tad overwhelming for my taste.


When I saw austere façade of Santa Chiara across the piazza, I was immediately relieved. The present basilica-style structure replaces a much older church destroyed in bombing raids during World War II. But, no matter, inside and out, this “new old” worship space really reflects in aesthetic terms the spiritual values of Franciscan simplicity and humility. The huge gashes of graffiti that, quite literally, are climbing the walls of the church—yield to the simple beauty and calming relief of this urban sanctuary’s interior.


The basilica stands next to the monastery of the Poor Clares, but there were no sisters or friars about the place. In fact, when I made some initial inquiries, nobody appeared to know where the friars lived. At the tourist office immediately adjacent to the church (!), the clerk diligently googled ‘frati minori’ for me and jotted down an address several Metro stops away that I just knew could not be right. “I’m not exactly sure where it is, but once you get out of the subway, just ask anyone. They’ll be happy to point out the friary for you.” Where had I heard that one before?


At the museum behind S. Chiara, the folks at the front desk sent me back to the church, whereupon the attendant in charge started to quiz me: Who are you? Where are you from? Why do you want to talk with the Franciscans? She then suggested I return to the Museum office for further instructions. When I told her that I had just come from there and had the feeling I was being sent around in circles, she shrugged:“Va’ bene!” and walked away. Welcome to Napoli!


I was ready to call it a day--faggettaboudit! as they say in Brooklyn– when a little voice told me to give it just one more try. Back to the Museum once more I trotted, only this time I actually spied a real live friar in his habit on the grounds— turns out he was an older missionary back home on vacation from Taiwan. After taking my card, he shook my hand, told me he hoped I would enjoy myself, and walked on. Then a second younger friar appeared in the doorway with some visitors of his own in tow. He nodded my way, smiled, and off they all went into the bowels of the house.


So, I went to the Museum all by myself. And had a truly wonderful time. Its treasures include a marvelous collection of majolica ceramic ware, numerous medieval antiquities—including some magnificent reliquaries, vestments, sacred vessels, and other artifacts saved from the old church. A side door leads to an impressive excavation site-- a Roman bath dating from the 2nd century AD. The Museum’s main entrance leads onto an exquisitely landscaped cloister garden in which are positioned still more elegant examples of vibrant majolica ware.


Satisfied with my museum-ing venture, I slumped onto a bench in the courtyard to sip some water, catch a breeze and admire the gardens—only to encounter a third friar ambling down the corridor. “Pace e bene, Fratello!” I smiled and waved-- both weary from the heat and amused by all of the rigamarole of trying to meet some confreres. He smiled back and then he, too, walked on into the friary. I said to myself: Well, even if I haven’t met the friars, at least I can say that I’ve seen them.” But a few minutes later, this same young friar came out to ask me: “Excuse me, are you by any chance the Franciscan visiting from California? “ Bingo! “ Please, Brother, we would really love it if you would in and have pranza/ lunch with us,” he insisted.


I was escorted into a large hall with about fifteen friars—including all of the ones I had seen previously-- seated at tables placed in a horseshoe arrangement, enjoying a hearty meal of fish, pasta, vegetables, salad and fruit. I was warmly welcomed by the friar in charge (the guardian was away for the day) and invited to dig in. As I sat down, I had the most wonderful feeling. I was home. It didn’t matter to me whether I was in Italy or California—I was with my brothers. I felt truly grateful and content. Friars are-- well—friars. We are pretty much the same cast of characters everywhere: the young and the passionate; the gentle and the gruff; the serene and deeply humble; the overworked and the not overworked.


Shy smiles and welcoming nods around the table. I tried to communicate in Spanish and they tried to understand in Italian. Good-natured shrugs alternating with sudden flashes of linguistic eureka. The gist: the friars were preparing for a three-day provincial celebration—priestly ordinations-- in Sorrento. This particular fraternity houses 16 men, including several in studies at a branch of the main Franciscan university, the Antonium, in Rome. The province, I was told, gets about 4-5 vocations a year. Excellent for these times. I told them a bit about myself, my work in California. They knew about Beato/ Blessed Junipero Serra, and a little about the California missions. “Everything in California is named after a saint, isn’t it? San this and Santa that. Everything!” I nodded in agreement, but don’t tell anyone in Bakersfield that.


As the brothers gathered the dishes, I offered to help with the clean up but was waved away hospitably. So I thanked the brothers, took my leave, and spent a few more hours watching, wondering, and wandering on my own but not alone. That you, God, for getting me lost. And found.

Mission Accomplish(ing) in Bergen, Norway

Along the dock, not far from the old Hanseatic heart of Bergen, Norway’s harbor front, I was hailed by a young man passing out leaflets. “Come to our mission! We have coffee and free Internet access!” Now usually, in a situation like this, I would just smile, take the flyer, and keep walking (often in the opposite direction). Besides, I’m not a coffee drinker. But I admit-- there was something about the “free Internet access” that got my attention. So, I followed his directions along the road, through the pedestrian tunnel, up the hillside to the white house with balloons and a wonderful blooming lilac bush in front. Here I am: Bergen Seaman’s Mission: The Harbourlight…. And here I go. Inside, I found a large open room—probably once the sanctuary of this small, former church building—with long tables and chairs filled with mostly Filipino and Indonesian crew members from the various cruise and container ships texting, googling, and skyping away. I was warmly greeted by one of the volunteers-- Roeli Elbers—a gracious older woman from Holland. “Just find a place and help yourself to the wi-fi connection,” she told me. “There’ll be coffee and cookies downstairs in just a few minutes if you’d like to hang around.” As we chatted a bit, Roeli told me that she had just finished working at a similar seaman’s mission in Seward, Alaska—a post she had held for nearly six years. “I love the work. We give these men and women a safe home ashore—a place where they can gather, contact their families, and have a snack without spending money or getting into trouble. People come in from everywhere. Yesterday I counted 137 visitors. All by word of mouth.” The inviting twin flavors of freshly brewed coffee and newly baked pepparkakor (ginger cookies) wafted up the stairs from the kitchen below. I sank into one of the free chairs and buried myself in my own Internet business—checking and answering email from friends and family in the States. After a while, I wandered downstairs to see what was happening. At the foot of the staircase, a small group of young men were gathered in a circle offering prayers for family, for work, for a safe trip home. It ended as quickly, quietly and spontaneously as it began. “Hey, it’s you! You really came. I didn’t think you would show up here.” The voice was calling to me and belonged to Andy, the young man who handed me the leaflet dockside. “I didn’t think I’d show up, either” I told him. “But I’m glad I did.” I am glad that I showed up. Bergen’s Skolten passenger terminal welcomes about 250 (!) cruise ships every summer season. And each ship has an average of 800-1000 crew members, most of whom are on contracts averaging 10 months each for service onboard. Some companies provide regular chaplaincy services. The Catholic community, for example, is served by the Apostleship of the Sea, which provides volunteer priests serving both guests and crew members on many ships. Other liners will provide time and space for worship and Bible study organized by crew themselves. Some will even provide a mosque onboard for Muslim workers. A few employers will permit church members to come onboard to meet with crew, but that effort is made difficult because of time and security concerns. The Harbourlight folks will visit when permitted, but more often will provide free, rainy day shuttle service to their site. (Believe me, there are plenty of rainy days in Bergen!). Founded in 2010 Bergen’s Harbourlight is a nondenominational volunteer effort organized in cooperation with the Seaman’s Christian Friend Society (SCFS) in the UK and supported by donations. Bibles, booklets, CDs, etc. are available, but the primary focus I observed at The Harbourlight is on open-ended and low-key hospitality. It provides a space for human contact and connection and the ever-important “small talk” that enables people to connect through a faith community. This expression of church outreach—low key, drop in, and open-handed—appears to be quite appropriate to the needs of the people it is meant to serve. The real follow up, of course, will depend upon the kinds of support opportunities available to crew personnel back onboard. But at least in Bergen, The Harbourlight’s door is open, the coffee is fresh, and the welcome, sincere. Contact: www.havenlicht.zending.nu//

A Pilgrim's Progress in Catalonia: Monserrat & La Sagrada Familia

While relatively few diehards are willing to trek the entire length of Spain’s “camino” towards Santiago Compostella, thousands others don’t mind at all braving the searing summer heat to queue up for a chance to see the Monserrat abbey’s Black Madonna, or to enter Antonio Gaudi’s celebrated basilica of the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona. I know because I was one of those thousands. For two days in succession, water bottle in hand, I braved the elements in order to access each of these shrines. I did not leave either venue disappointed. “There are about 80 Benedictine monks living in the abbey, “ Yolanda, our tour guide informed us as we zigzagged up Monserrat’s precarious approach: “And about 37 nuns in the convent nearby. Mostly old, a few young ones, but hardly any one in between those ages. That’s the way it goes…. I would tell you more, but you are tired and besides you won’t remember what I say.” No! Tell us more! Lots more! After our brief introduction to what must be one of Catholicism’s most beautiful—and most commercialized—pilgrimage sites, our group disbursed for the generous ninety minutes allotted to us to look around. Most folks headed towards the diverse attractions: the funicular railroad, the museum, galleries, shops and restaurants that litter the grounds. Some of us, though, entered through the doorways of what was originally a 16th century church (looted and destroyed by Napoleon’s troops in 1811 and reclaimed after 1858) to pay a visit to Catalonia’s patron saint and image, the Black Madonna (circa XIIc). In contrast to all of the enterprising hucksterism going on outside its doors, the darkened sanctuary, partially lit by suspended votive candles donated by parishes throughout the region, truly inspires prayer, peace, and awe. While all the flash photography focused on the Madonna, perched in an alcove high above the main altar, the exquisite, contemporary Eucharistic chapel draws one easily into a more contemplative spirit. The face, hands, and feet of Christ are etched into the limestone armature—as if pressed into wet sand-- while scratched slits indicate His wounds. This is completely contemporary image of the Lord— benignant, knowing, and simply loving—in the midst of His suffering. I decided to take a chance and stand in line to see the Black Madonna myself. Several hundred people queued up quietly and patiently as we inched along through a series of side chapels leading to the interior staircase towards the Virgin. St. Peter, St. Ignatius of Loyola (he paid a visit here which left him deeply affected in his own spiritual journey), St. Martin of Tours, St. Benedict (a very young Benedict) and so on. And at each chapel, a pilgrim’s prayer: “Lord Jesus Christ. What have I done for You? What am I doing now for You? What do You want me to do for You?” I looked around me. There were no guards or attendants; just signs requesting silence (oh, and some surveillance cameras, too. Welcome to our century). And the pilgrims--t-shirts, shorts, sandals, water bottles and digital cameras in hand—were amazingly quiet, respectful, and expectant. I thought to myself: this cannot be just about tourism. There is here real and honest seeking. People have come to this place—people who would seldom, if ever, darken the door of a church, any church—who are looking for something. God, I really hope they find it. I really do. I went to the statue, too, to offer a prayer, touch the extended hand and orb, and then pass on. She sat— solemnly stoic and silent—her Son in her lap just as she as done for more than a millennium. It takes centuries of prayers, tears, and longing that render a place holy. The next day, I ventured forth into Barcelona—bustling, thriving, energetic, daring—and even a bit eccentric. A true world city, no doubt about it. But I had one destination in mind— the towering basilica of the Sagrada Familia (Holy Family) inspired by Antonio Gaudi (1858-1926) and due to be completed—possibly—by 2020. This is a creation of the inventive and mystic of the art history courses, to be sure. But “in person” it is sooo much more. So very much more. One encounters in Gaudi’s vision—inside and out—a soaring, majestic, and above all, sincere benediction. A blessing that, amazingly enough, has very much to do with us, with our own time. In the midst of everything, in spite of everything else we seem to be encountering in our fast and frenetic world, it offers respite, hope, and a mostly unconsidered option—the expression of genuine faith in God. The lines snaked around the block—like people waiting for tickets to a rock concert. No one was in a hurry; this would take—what, a half-hour, forty-five minutes? Big deal. The church was a really big deal. Really worth waiting for. Upon entering, one has absolutely no choice. One must look up. And up and up and up. Into and through an organically spiraling universe fashioned of stone, concrete, and glass— that, without asking permission—takes one into a realm of life and light and beauty and awe. Quite literally, per omnia saecula saeculorum (in the world of worlds). Wow. The nave is huge—it is estimated to be able to hold up to 13, 000 people—and a humming honeycomb of activity that appears entirely appropriate to this truly sacred space. Tourists mill, stroll, preen in front of their own and each other’s digital cameras. Workers in their while helmets descent the narrow, partially exposed staircases for their lunch hour. Taped choir and organ music flows. The open doors bring surprising and delightful breezes into this surprisingly light and even breezy cavern. It was worth the wait for me. It would have been worth waiting several hours to enter into this space. One man’s vision, dream—and prayer—present such hope, beauty, and possibility for his beloved Barcelona—and his beloved world. And each viewer becomes an unwitting participant: I want this! I want to be part of this real and true creation. In both these sacred (but not necessarily or totally sane) places, pilgrimage offers the genuine satisfaction of authentic destination. One leaves each environment somehow changed and charged. Charged with the flash of true light and possibility. That somehow—God knows how—the heavy cynicism and ennui—the satiated slumber of a drugged culture—can be pierced and overcome. For something, Someone, so much better, so much more. Just one small afterthought to all of this: In neither place was there any real, live, living representation by church people. At Montserrat, I heard folks asking: Where are the monks? Can we meet them? Where do they live? What are they like?..... At the Sagrada Familia, young attendants and guides in red and black were available to help the public. But not a single priest, brother, or sister…. Where were they? Did they go away for the day? Couldn’t, wouldn’t they consider just being present somehow to meet and greet so many expectant people? After all, people don’t welcome and evangelize themselves, do they? Hello there! Anybody home?//

No Hassle in Hessle

All Saints (Anglican) Church not only stands in the center of this pleasant East Yorkshire village, a short drive from the port city of Hull,-- it quite literally defines the town. Listed in the Doomsday Book, All Saints has served the faithful for more than a millennium—and continues to do so to this day. Its impressive stone spire notwithstanding, it is a rather simple structure, outside and in. In the course of its long reign, it has retained its integrity in spite of a number of major renovations over the ages, including a significant enlargement of the worship space in the nineteenth century as well as liturgically-motivated alterations in the twentieth. Simply, austere, yet also welcoming (embroidered cushion/ kneelers add a touch of warmth to the nave)—it serves contemporary worshipers as well as it did their ancestors. A contemporary, handpainted San Damiano cross hangs over the sanctuary, so friends of St. Francis should felt quite at home. The day I was visiting, the vicar, Father Tim Boynes and his wife, Georginai, showed my friend Tom and me around the place. I noticed there was a small group of about a dozen people arranging chairs in a wide circle in the area before the main altar and asked if we might join them. “Oh, that’s our Wednesday morning Open Door prayer group,” he told me. “They’re doing Celtic prayer.” Great. We walked around, introduced ourselves to the folks present— a nice mixture of young and older people alike, and even a little girl dancing about quite happy and content, her dad nearby. And so we prayed. The entire session was organized and led by lay members of the parish. The leader, Anne Robinson, gave an excellent Scripture reflection, and the rest of the group entered enthusiastically into the spirit of song and intercession— voicing candidly and easily the needs of their families and friends and of the world. By the end of a half-hour, the service concluded—short and sweet—and we all moved next door to the parish hall for fellowship-- steamy cups of coffee and tea and slices of cake. There we were joined by still more folks from the parish and town who happened to drop in. It was all very quite, simple, down to earth and solid. Normal. No big deal. Very low key. But in another way, it seemed to me a very big deal indeed. There was a sense here of a solid, engaged, and vibrant faith community, united in worship, fellowship, and service without making a big deal out of it. Parishioners, I was told, were involved in a great many service projects throughout the community at large. Sunday liturgies can bring up to 150 people; Wednesday mornings were a way for several of them to reconnect during the week. A great deal of recent media attention has been focused on the struggles within the Anglican Communion internationally. But in this totally ordinary and quite unpretentious village parish at least, the Spirit appears to be quite alive and well. After more than a thousand years (!) , All Saints continues to serve its people as an active, faith-filled community in witness to the Gospel in very simple and down to earth ways. There’s no big hassle in Hessle.

June 13: Feast of St. Anthony of Padua… and Lisbon!

In medieval times, it was not uncommon to designate a saint by the place where they were born into eternal life, rather than their actual birthplace. Hence, Saint Anthony (1195-1235) , who died in his adopted city of Padua, will be forever connected with that place in the minds and hearts of devotees. Except for the people of Portugal, that is. They understand that, despite the residence of the major part of his relics in Italy, Anthony was, is, and will forever remain their hometown boy made good: Anthony of Lisbon! In honor of their saint, the people of Lisbon have constructed a relatively small, but no less imposing Baroque sanctuary in honor of St. Anthony, placed within close proximity to the city’s (XIIc) cathedral. Adjacent to the sanctuary is a recently opened museum and exhibition space. An imposing contemporary cast statue of St. Anthony is placed in front of the entrance, but the real treasures of the shrine lie within its basement. Several narrow flights down into the crypt, one approaches the tiny and cramped chapel marking the birthplace of this remarkable saint. The actual relics on display are few, but that is of scant importance to the throngs of pilgrims, many of them older women from Portugal, Spain, and Italy, who throng by the busload to the site to pray for the saint’s intercession. The sanctuary is currently maintained by a trio of Portuguese friars who live in a small convent located in an upper story above the actual church. I spoke with one of the friars, Fray Albertin, who welcomed me warmly to the site. We chatted a bit about the situation of the Franciscan order in Portugal today. It certainly appeared to be very much like that in North America: willing friars, burdensome commitments, shrinking numbers, aging confreres, and few vocations. Still, places like this sanctuary of St. Anthony, continue to thrive. Secular Franciscans operate the gift shop and other lay volunteers assist visiting pilgrims. The friars on hand make themselves available to show hospitality and offer a listening heart. St. Anthony of Lisbon is famously known for his ability to help one in finding lost articles: “Tony, Tony, look around. Something’s lost and must be found.” Unfortunately, he has not yet protected visitors from the swarms of professional pickpockets who lie in wait at the tram stop in front of the shrine. The gentleman with whom I was visiting had his wallet snatched within seconds. That said, in regard to his shrine in Lisbon, he has certainly been doing his job, however. In the sanctuary of St. Anthony of Lisbon, the ‘lost’ among us continue to ‘find’ welcome, hospitality, and help in his hometown.

Down by the Bayeux (Tapestry, that is)

Our group arrived in Bayeaux from Cherbourg early on a Sunday morning. The town’s celebrated tapestry museum hadn’t opened yet, so, in the meantime, we headed for the cathedral just a few blocks away. Bayeux is a graced and fortunate community. Remarkably, it is architecturally intact, little changed from its ancient foundations. Relatively remote, it has never held any strategic importance militarily. So both the town and its cathedral have been spared the kind of devastation experienced in other parts of Normandy throughout history, the most recent manifestation of which was the D-Day invasion of World War II. Upon entering the church, one immediately experiences a sense of surprise and delight. Contrary to expectations, this Gothic interior, at least, is warm and inviting, bathed in light instead of ominous shadows one might otherwise anticipate from such a medieval structure. Its pillared columns really do soar heavenward. The effect is astonishing: majestic, jubilant, justly proud. While meandering around the sanctuary on my own (and quietly snapping a few forbidden photos in the process), I noticed the cathedral’s rector, who was dashing about simultaneously welcoming people and trying to organize the liturgy. His sacristan just shrugged, sighed, and grinned: “He is always like that. Always.” When I introduced myself to him and mentioned to him that I was a priest visiting from the United States, Fr. Lauren Berthoult immediately invited me to concelebrate the Mass with him. “When does it start?” “Right now!” Oh. Thereupon, I was immediately shown into the sacristy to find an alb big enough to cover my jeans and t-shirt and long enough to hide my Adidas sneakers—and voila! Let the Mass begin. It was Pentecost Sunday so the place was packed—even after the tour groups (including my own) had been shooed away from the sanctuary for the time of worship. I sat behind the high altar a bit dazed, looking in amazement over the sizeable crowd and thinking to myself: “Is this supposed to be post-Christian Europe where the pews are empty and the faith is just fading away?” The liturgy was wonderful: the people were engaged and responsive; the small, but well-trained choir of eight voices led the congregational singing with confidence. Father Lauren preached, greeting the assembly in French, English, and German and speaking movingly about the power of the Spirit in our midst this Pentecost. The parish was particularly grateful, he said, for the children receiving their First Holy Communion, for the group of young people confirmed in just the past week, and for the young man to be ordained a transitional deacon in the coming week. Oh, and for the three families (presented at the end of Mass) as well, who had brought their children for baptism that day. From the line of people edging up to greet their pastor at the end of Mass, it was easy to see that he is a popular and well-loved leader. I asked an American woman who was living in the area if this had been a typical Sunday liturgy. Yes, she told me, but not only that. Apart from the liturgy, the people in the parish were really active and involved in multiple outreach efforts: to the poor, to young people and students, and to other faith communities. As I turned from her, I recognized our local escort, a gentleman of French Muslim of Tunisian background. Not only had he come back to claim his errant charge, but he had actually stayed for the entire service. “I love the Mass,” he told me. “I feel the presence of the Divine there. My wife is a Catholic and so we take our children to church and also teach them to observe the customs of their Islamic heritage as well. We trust that they will sort things out for themselves as they get older.” The group had a free period, so I slipped into the Tapestry Museum to view the millennium-old embroidered depiction of the Battle of Hastings (1066). And I am so glad that I did. The cloth is in remarkable condition, having miraculously escaped the depredations of both the French Revolution and Nazi occupation. The colors are vibrant and the narrative, engaging. A frieze depicting resilience and vitality—a vitality which continues unabated in the contemporary faith of the people of Bayeux.//

Welcome to Corpus Christi, Scotland

Well, not literally, that is. But we are all called as a Christian people are called to be the ‘corpus Christi’—the Body of Christ in our world, aren’t we? So, people can be the ‘Corpus Christi” in Scotland as well as they can in good ol’ Texas. So, welcome to the town of Lerwick in the Shetland Islands. Population: 10,000. The northernmost urban settlement in Britain—in fact Norway is a lot closer than the next city (Aberdeen), about 12 hours by boat to the south. As soon as I landed here yesterday (um, please don’t ask how I got here.), I took out my IPhone camera and started chasing for steeples. It’s always a good way for me to orient myself in new and strange places. And besides, I really am a bit of a church mouse at heart. After passing through some slender, concrete-lined alleyways and climbing lots and lots of stairs, I finally reached the top of the town. Here were the Methodists. Over there the Presbyterians. And that large church in the middle? Not a church at all, but a civic building. Oh, and on the side, the narrow roof topped with a tiny stone cross must be, well, I’ll be darned, sure it is—the Catholic church in town. I approached the still freshly painted- bright red-- front door of St. Margaret’s (as in, St. Magaret, patroness of Scotland). Locked. No matter, took a few pictures of the grounds. But just as I was passing the parish house, I spotted someone: “Hello, are you a priest by any chance? Really? Great! So am I.” Within minutes, I welcomed to tea by the pastor, Father Anil Gonsalves—native of Goa, India, five years’ ordained, and resident of Lerwick for two years. We ended up touring the church and taking a long, leisurely walk around town for the next hour. As we looked around and I stopped unannounced every so often to take some tourist photos, Fr. Anil told me about his life and ministry here in this remote settlement: Catholics are only a very small minority—not more than 250 people in total—on the island. But the parish is vibrant, with lots of young families and kids. Last year St. Margaret’s celebrated its centenary. Old bills got paid off (deep sigh of relief), the women’s group stitched a handsome antependium for the main altar, and a generous donor provided some strikingly contemporary stained glass windows. (On closer examination, I spotted—yes, depictions of oil rigs and platforms sharing space with traditional pastoral scenes. This is the petroleum-blessed North Sea, after all). Fr. Anil was enthusiastic and impassioned about his parish. People were really beginning to get more involved. Church attendance has been growing; good participation at parish events. Increasing ecumenical cooperation (last year’s joint Christmas carol program brought to St. Margaret’s townspeople who had never been in a Catholic church before). There are plans and dreams for animating the youth, and even a possible trip to Rio for World Youth Day in 2013. Parishioners Bernadette and Mary Rutherford are going to a remote village in Uganda for a month of volunteer ministry and collecting children’s things to distribute. Of course, the town has its real problems as well: isolation, underemployment, a daunting climate (a sweltering 48 degrees this bright June day) all tend to breed anxiety and depression. In their wake, drugs and alcohol have also made their way to this hauntingly beautiful edge of the world as well. Lerwick, Shetland (Scotland) is also a far ways away from Fr. Anil’s hometown in Goa. And from clergy colleagues as well. But he keeps busy and balanced with sports (tennis, badmitton, squash), daily hikes, and (his own) home-cooked meals to which different parish families are invited on a weekly basis. Contact and support among confreres takes the form of prayer and support meetings every six weeks at different venues in the diocese. And then there’s the annual to touch base with family and friends. St. Margaret’s in Lerwick may be small and geographically remote, but it is as alive and vibrant as any urban parish I’ve ever experienced. Here, in the cold and sober North, there is a warm and welcoming family of faith—with a future full of hope. Website: stmargaretshetland.uk Email: stmargaretsshetland@btinternet.com