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Abbot Columba McCann: I remember, thirty years ago, taking the train for about half an hour from Rome to the ancient, ruined port of Ostia Antiqua.  Silted up for centuries, much of the ancient buildings were by a curious twist of history preserved until, in the twentieth century, the marshland in which they were submerged was drained.  Among the ruins I spotted a plaque on the wall of a half ruined house.  It told the story of St Augustine, the man from Africa, and his last conversation with his mother as he prepared to return home.  She was facing into the journey towards her eternal home.  When the question of her burial came up, she basically said, ‘Bury my body wherever you like, it doesn’t matter.  But do remember me when offering Mass.’

Today we remember, at Mass, all our loved ones who have died and more again, all the faithful departed.

When someone close to us has died it is good to remember the different ways in which they gifted us.  We can remember, re-live, what we received.  We benefit all over again.  We can thank them and thank God.

There may have been some ways in which we were able to help them in return on their life’s journey.  When someone close to us has died it can help to give thanks to God for the ways in which we were able to give them a gift or two along the way.

There may have been ways in which they fell short in their dealings with us.  When someone close to us has died it is good to seek forgiveness for them:  forgiveness in my own heart (not always so easy) and God’s forgiveness, which is greater than we can imagine.

There may have been ways in which we ourselves fell short in our dealings with them.  When someone close to us has died it’s good to say sorry to them and sorry to God.

Remembering those who have died is a good thing.  Remembering them with God brings it further – remembering them while God holds our hand, so to speak. Then as we speak our story we can hand it over to the source of all life. Remembering them as we give thanks for gifts given and received, remembering them as we forgive and ask for forgiveness, all within God’s hands.

When we look at today’s gospel we see what happens when that kind of encounter happens.  There is the sad procession out of the town:  a widow and her neighbours heading out to bury her only son.  He was all she had, her last protector and insurance for the future.  But coming from the opposite direction is Jesus and his disciples.  And they meet.  Death meets life, and everything changes.

Remembering the dead can bring with it a bittersweet mixture of gratitude and sorrow, acceptance and regret.  But if we meet Christ in the process, everything there can become a bearer of life.

I have always liked – but for no morbid reason – the month of November, a month when the turning of the seasons mirrors the cycle of life and death. There is something about the days growing shorter and nature itself dying back into winter that connects in my being. For our Celtic forbears this was a liminal time, Samhain, when the veil between worlds became more transparent and the connectedness of both worlds became present. In all of this, nature herself calls us to remember those gone before us. The month is laced with ritual, beginning on All Hallows’ Eve, to the great interwoven feasts of All Saints on the 1^st November and All Souls on the 2^nd November, days of remembrance and remembering. These feasts, rooted in time and tradition, connect, celebrate and offer prayers for the departed as expressions of hope in the resurrection and eternal life.

The practice of commemorating the dead finds deep resonance in our Benedictine tradition. At the Abbey of Cluny in medieval France – one of the most influential monastic centres in Europe – the remembrance of the dead was woven into the very fabric of daily life. Founded in 910, Cluny became renowned for its spirituality, liturgy, learning, and architecture, but also for its spiritual concern for the souls of the departed. The Cluniac monks introduced the practice of offering regular Masses and prayers for the dead, formalising what would become the Feast of All Souls. This innovation spread throughout Christendom, shaping how generations of Christians would remember their ancestors and loved ones. This emphasis on remembrance was an act of profound faith in the communion of saints, a belief that we, the living, remain united with our dead in Christ through prayer and love. This in essence is what we remember during this month of November.

As in all parishes, this tradition finds quiet continuation here at the abbey in Glenstal. Woven through the monastic rhythm of prayer, reflection and work, is this thread of remembrance. Each day, at the conclusion of the various hours we pray ‘May the souls of the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace’. In particular, at Midday Prayer on Sunday, we commemorate all our deceased brethren, relatives, friends, and benefactors as we chant;

‘With your holy ones, O Christ,

give rest to all your servants in a place of peace,

where there is neither pain nor sorrow but joy in everlasting life. Alleluia!’

In addition, within the Abbey grounds lies the Monastic Cemetery and the adjacent Garden Cemetery, a tranquil resting place set in nature. Here, monks, friends and benefactors of the Abbey are laid to rest amid trees, stone, and silence. It is a place of serenity. The graves are simple and the landscape itself through the seasons seems to pray. Many have chosen to make the Garden Cemetery at Glenstal their final resting place and in so doing support financially the work of the monastery.

Rather than a place of desolation, the cemetery here becomes a witness to continuity; between life and death, between past and present, between earth and heaven. The autumnal dying light, the rustling leaves, and the scent of damp soil all seem to join in the liturgy of remembrance. In this setting, history breathes gently and memory is renewed through the quiet chant of the monks.

Thus, for a Christian, November’s commemoration is not nostalgia; it is an act of faith and love. To remember our dead, ‘those gone before us marked with the sign of faith’, is to affirm that life transcends mortality; that those gone before us remain part of us, part of our spiritual family, as one day will we for those left after us. Remembrance is a sacred bridge between them and us, between here and there, between time and eternity.

May their souls and the souls of all the faithful departed,

through the mercy of God rest in peace. Amen

Pádraig McIntyre OSB

Find out more about Glenstal’s Garden Cemetery here.

Fr. Jarek Kurek: I hope you still remember that last Sunday we were encouraged to pray continually, guided by Jesus’ powerful parable about the persistent woman who kept asking for justice from the unjust judge.

Those who follow us on the webcam in the early mornings could hear more about that need afterwards. St Augustine — the spiritual father of our Pope Leo — accompanied us in the readings, teaching us about the art of prayer in his Letter to Proba. At the beginning of that letter, he referred again to this burning need, quoting St Paul: “Pray without ceasing.”

How did Augustine elaborate on this? He suggested: “To spend much time in prayer is to knock with a persistent and holy fervour at the door of the One whom we beseech. This task is generally accomplished more through sighs than words, more through weeping than speech.” That already brings us close to the heart of today’s Gospel.

Still, all this may seem a distant reality — figures of the past, perhaps. So let me take you to more modern times, somewhere in Eastern Europe (and it is not Poland), to follow the moving story of a man who tried to understand what it means to “pray without ceasing.”

Here he is — a pilgrim, as he calls himself. On one hand, an unassuming, ordinary man; on the other, like that persistent woman. Yet, fair play to him — he is a true seeker.

He travels through his region, searching for wisdom about how to pray at all times, which, technically speaking, seems impossible. He visits one church after another; he meets this man and that. But all in vain — no one can meet his need, satisfy his spiritual longing, or answer his question.

Still, he remains persistent, and at last, after a year of searching, he meets an old monk. And with that monk, he finds his answers. The old man is able to put his soul at peace.

What does he hear from the monk? First, the monk connects him with the living tradition of the past, introducing him to a most illuminating book called Philokalia — a collection of the fruits of centuries of experience in prayer from the Greek-speaking Christian world. Within that spiritual context, the monk shows him that unceasing prayer is rooted in the poverty of one’s spirit. Doesn’t that sound like the humble tax collector from today’s Gospel — hidden at the back, not daring to raise his eyes?

But there is more. The old monk says: “Listen, and I will read [from Philokalia] how unceasing prayer is to be learned. Sit in silence and alone. Bend your head. Close your eyes. Breathe ever more quietly. With your imagination, look inside your heart. Carry your thought into your heart. As you breathe, say quietly with your lips or in your mind alone: ‘Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.’”

The tax collector, beating his breast, kept saying, “God, have mercy on me.” Jesus assures us that he went home justified — and, because of his humble prayer, he was exalted.The pilgrim  left the old monk transformed — a new chapter of his spiritual life had begun.

Why not follow them in unceasingly repeating: “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me”?

Br Timothy McGrath OSB passed away peacefully aged 79 on Saturday 18th October 2025. He is mourned by his community, his family and a wide circle of friends and colleagues.

He made profession of vows as a monk of Glenstal Abbey on 6th July 1973 and his work of service was rich and varied: novice master, teacher in our Abbey School, rugby coach and career guidance counsellor to senior students.

Facing up to significant illness over the last ten years with courage and a zest for life, Br Timothy left us suddenly, yet aware that his health was precarious. He was particularly saddened by the death of his brother Leo only three weeks before his own.

Eternal rest, grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. May he rest in peace.

Funeral arrangements: reposing at Glenstal Abbey from 3.30-5pm on Friday 24th October, followed by removal to the Abbey Church and celebration of the Office of the Dead. Funeral Mass at 11.30am on Saturday 25th October, followed by burial in the Abbey Cemetery.

The monastic community announces with sorrow the death of Br Timothy McGrath OSB, a monk of Glenstal Abbey since 1971.

May he rest in peace.

Fr. John O’Callaghan: If you had skin cancer and some Shaman told you to take a shower, seven times, to be cured, how would you respond? You might feel grossly insulted and forever refuse contact with that person. Well, according to our first reading, that is the kind of suggestion the commander of the Syrian army got from the Elisha, the prophet of Israel. Naaman was insulted but, strange thing is, the mighty man did accede to the suggestion when his servants tactfully explained that if he had been asked to do something difficult he would have made sure to achieve it. Instead he humbly obeyed an instruction from a foreign prophet. By so doing he opened an opportunity for the word of the prophet, the word of God, to prove true. He was cured and we’re told that he went on to recognise that it is the God of Israel who is the one and only true God. This story tells of a movement not only from sickness to health, but ultimately from ignorance and misconception of God to knowledge and genuine faith. One could call it education; after all that word’s Latin etymology, ‘ex duxere’, means ‘to lead out of’ ignorance to knowledge.

And this Old Testament scene is set before us to prepare us for today’s gospel. As usual Jesus fulfills the Old Testament and goes beyond it. We learn of ten lepers, like cancer patients, who, recognising their need, solicit Jesus for a cure, which he gives. They have enough faith to call him ‘Master’ and follow the law of Moses, and go to show themselves to the priests. However one of them, seeing himself healed also understands that in fact Jesus has been God’s agent, that the cure was ultimately the work of God; so he acknowledges and thanks God profusely at the feet of Jesus. To recognise Christ, to acknowledge God and to thank him, that is what we are shown today, as a model for us all. 

The first stage of faith is humility, accepting the reality that we are not self-sufficient, invulnerable and so superior that we don’t need other people. As St Paul reminds us ‘what have you that you have not received?’ Suffering can help us become humble. 

The next is that God has power in the world and he showed it in Jesus Christ and his multiple miracles. We recognise that after creation, God did not retire, he did not say ‘Now the machine can go on running in the way it’s been set up’. No, God remains the Creator and is able to intervene one way or another. He is active in the world today through his Holy Spirit. That is why we pray for his help. Anyone who does not recognise this has a different idea of God. 

Isaac Newton, a founder of modern science, wrote that ‘the wonderful arrangement and harmony of the universe can only have come into being through an omniscient and all-powerful Being’, adding: ‘that is, and remains, my most important finding’. Newton’s perception went deeper, behind the marvels of the universe to recognise the overarching reality of God. 

The great artists also write of this. Oscar Wilde, towards the end of his imprisonment in Reading Gaol, expressed it thus: ‘ I tremble with pleasure when I think that on my leaving prison the laburnum and the lilac will be blooming in the gardens…..there is not a single colour hidden away in the chalice of a flower to which my nature does not answer. ….behind all this beauty, there is a spirit hidden …. And it is with this spirit that I desire to come into harmony’.

One can sleep-walk through life; staying on the surface of things. But the person of faith remains open to the reality of God, humbly acknowledges  Him in Christ and is grateful for His gifts. That is what it is to be “e-ducated”.
Christ told the leper ‘Your faith has saved you’. Our faith in Christ must bring us the whole way so as ‘to receive what no eye has seen and no ear has heard, what the mind of man cannot visualise; all that God has prepared for those that love him’.

Fr. Lino Moreira: Jesus was surely very pleased with what was being asked of him: “Increase our faith” (Lk 17:5). Such a request showed that the apostles understood that faith is a gift, and that it didn’t lie within their power to make it grow. That is why Jesus compares faith to a seed. Whoever receives a seed has neither created it nor endowed it with the potential to sprout and grow – that is the work of God alone. And Jesus goes on to explain that even a small amount of faith has the power to achieve the unimaginable: “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you” (Lk 17:6).

When does anyone receive the gift of faith? Thomas Aquinas answers this question by saying: “The theological virtues [faith, hope and charity] are infused into the soul by the grace of God, and this infusion takes place primarily in Baptism (Summa Theologiae, Part III, Question 63, Article 1).” So, when we were baptised, God planted the seed of faith in our hearts. But faith, like any other seed, needs to be nurtured to grow – first the shoot, then the stalk, then the full grain.

The task of cultivating faith requires, first of all, constant and earnest prayer. We must make our own the plea once voiced by the apostles: “Increase our faith” (Lk 17:5). Indeed, at the conclusion of Morning Prayer, the Church makes this very petition every time she prays: “Increase in us, Lord, your gift of faith, so that the praise we offer you may ever yield its fruit from heaven” (Tuesday, Week IV). 

Yet simply uttering these or similar words is not enough unless they come from a humble heart. Therefore, Jesus speaks about humility in today’s gospel (cf. Lk 17:6-10). He typically illustrates his teaching with an example drawn from everyday life in his own time: a servant, he explains, after spending the day ploughing the field or tending the sheep, is told to prepare his master’s dinner and wait on him before attending to his own needs. The servant does all this without expecting any gratitude from his master, to whom he owes total availability and obedience.

In relation to God, we are in a similar situation. As God’s servants, we can never stand before him with a spirit of entitlement, as though he owed us something for whatever good works we believe we have performed in his name. God owes us nothing, but we owe him everything – for he is the source of all we have and all we are.

We live in a world that constantly urges us to seek rewards, claim our rights and demand recognition. But the gospel challenges such expectations and calls us to a radically different way of thinking. In speaking of our service to God, Jesus tells us that after we have done all that is commanded of us, we should say: “We are unworthy servants; we have only done what was our duty” (Lk 17:10). It is in this humility – this realisation that we can never fully repay the debt of love we owe to God – that faith begins to grow.

Paradoxically, we are called to serve God without seeking recompense, so that he may be generous to us. God wants to lavish his many gifts upon us, and above all, he wishes to dwell within us. As Jesus said: ‘If anyone loves me, he will keep my word, and my Father will love him, and we will come to him and make our home with him’ (Jn 14:23). This intimacy with the Father and the Son, through the work of the Holy Spirit, is not merely a promise for the future. It is a living reality in the present for those who faithfully seek to do God’s will without expecting anything in return.

Fr. Senan Furlong: In 1893, a young man destined to become a celebrated composer, heard a folk song that would leave a lasting impression on him. Something about its haunting melody captivated him and years later, he would compose five variations on its theme. The man was Ralph Vaughan Williams, and the folk song was Dives and Lazarus. In his later years, Vaughan Williams recalled that when he first encountered the song, he felt a deep sense of recognition: “Here is something, which I have known all my life, only I didn’t know it! …something entirely new, yet absolutely familiar.”

When we encounter the parables of Jesus, we often experience something similar but the other way around: absolutely familiar, yet entirely new. Today’s gospel parable, traditionally known as Dives and Lazarus, is no exception. It a story ever ancient and ever new, a vivid portrait of the divide between wealth and want. A rich man, traditionally called Dives (which mean “rich” in Latin), lives in luxury, dressed in fine clothes, dining lavishly, secured behind walls of privilege. But those walls do more than protect, they blind. They seal him off from the world’s pain and, over time, make him indifferent to it. Just beyond his gate lies Lazarus, a poor man, covered in sores, longing for scraps from the rich man’s table—someone the rich man must have spotted every day, and yet never truly saw.

Then both men die and the tables are turned. Lazarus is carried by angels to the bosom of Abraham, a place of comfort and eternal peace. The rich man, however, finds himself in a place of torment, pleading for relief, for even a drop of water. God turns the world upside down: 

He casts down the might from their thrones and lifts up the lowly; He fills the hungry with good things and sends the rich away empty. 

Today’s Gospel parable leaves us with many questions. But, let us listen for just five, like the five variations of that haunting folk melody, Dives and Lazarus.

The first: What’s in a name? In all of Jesus’ parables, only one character is ever given a name, and it is Lazarus. Not the sower, not the good Samaritan, not even the father of the prodigal son. Only Lazarus. His name means: God has helped. He is named; he is not forgotten by God. The rich man remains nameless, defined, not by who he is, but by what he has. In the end, he has become no one, because he built his identity on things that do not last. Today’s Gospel reminds us that our identity does not come from possessions, status or success but from the One who knows us by name. “I have called you by your name,” declares the Lord, “and you are mine.”

The second: Who is at my gate?
There are “Lazaruses” at our gates every day—people we see, yet choose not to see. The ones we walk past, avoid or quietly ignore. Lazarus might be a stranger or maybe a member of my own family or my own community; he may sit next to me in class. Sometimes Lazarus isn’t even someone else but rather a part of myself that is wounded, neglected, waiting to be healed. To ask, “Who is at my gate?” is to begin to open our eyes. And when we see, we may open our hearts too and begin to love.

The third: What creates the chasm?
The great chasm between Lazarus and the rich man in the next life was carved out, day by day, in this life, through countless small acts of indifference and neglect. The rich man is not condemned for being rich. He is condemned because he didn’t care. And that, Jesus warns, is the true danger: not so much cruelty, but complacency; not so much hatred, but indifference. When we build chasms, we cut ourselves off—not just from others, but from God.

The fourth: What is the good news? The good news is: it is not too late. The Gospel always leaves room for repentance, for return, for mercy. God’s heart is never closed, but the call is urgent. This parable is no mere story: it is a warning. We are responsible not only for what we do, but for what we fail to do. Every time we ignore the Lazarus at our gate, we add another brick to the wall between ourselves and the kingdom of God. And yet, even then, God can still break through.

The fifth: What must we do?
At the end of the parable, we are invited to identify not just with the rich man, but with his five brothers. The rich man pleads with Abraham to send someone to warn them. “They have Moses and the prophets,” Abraham replies, “let them listen to them.” We too have Moses and the prophets, the word of God. And more than that, we have the One who has risen from the dead. We already have all we need. So let us pray for the grace to fight the good fight, and learn to see—to recognise the Lazarus at our gate not as a burden or a problem to fix, but as a person: someone with a name and a story and a place in God’s heart. 

Ralph Vaughan Williams took a simple folk tune and transformed it into his lyrical Five Variants of Dives and Lazarus. May we take this parable, and let it transform us: to open our eyes, soften our hearts, and change the way we live. And when we do, we may discover that the one waiting on the other side of the gate is Christ himself.

Over the years many people have desired to join us in prayer by using the books which monks use in the monastic choir.

We’re delighted that a limited number have been now been printed to enable friends of the monastery to unite their prayers with ours, particularly when praying with us via the webcam.

A book for Vespers (Ferial and Memorials) and Compline is now available, with books for the other hours to be printed soon.

Write to guestmaster@glenstal.com to find out how to order your copy!