Dom Francis McKenna
Fr Francis McKenna died on 13th October 2009. Here is Abbot Paul's funeral homily. He quotes St Hildegardof Bingen: his voice soared up to heaven “like a feather on the breath of God.”
The readings we have just heard were those chosen by Fr Francis for his father’s Requiem which he himself celebrated and at which he preached just seven months ago. They reflect the profound Christian faith father and son shared in the mystery of God’s love and in the power of the redeeming sacrifice of Christ to bring the joy of salvation to all those who put themselves in God’s hands. “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall have mercy shown them.” Who would have imagined in March that we would be celebrating Francis’ own Requiem today, such is the mystery of God’s love and mercy?
A Requiem Mass recognises the reality of human sinfulness, for nothing is hidden from God, and the need for forgiveness and redemption, while at the same time proclaiming our faith in the resurrection of Jesus. Thus we acknowledge that through Christ’s Incarnation God’s free gift of forgiveness and reconciliation is lavished on those who, with humility, ask for mercy and eternal life. Central to Francis’ life was his uncompromising belief in a merciful and loving God, a joyful and fun-loving God, a God who desires nothing but the salvation and happiness of his children. Even at times of sorrow or bereavement, anxiety or ill health, his faith remained fixed on God, his sense of humour undiminished and his ability to help and encourage others unaltered. He lived to the full the words of that wonderful prayer attributed to St Francis:
“ where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, joy.”
Francis was born at Carluke, Lanarkshire, on 13th August 1949, to Rosina and Hugh McKenna, Ina and Hughie as they were affectionately known. Now Hughie had been hoping for a girl, who was going to be called Clare, but when he looked at the calendar for 13th and saw Pontian and Hipolytus, he decided wisely that the baby had better be called Francis. He was born into a traditional Catholic family living in a close-knit Catholic community, his first school being St Athanasius’ Primary, from where he went on to St Mary’s Secondary at Lanark.
His parents wanted Francis to be a musical boy, so there were violin and piano lessons from an early age. However, it was in singing that he would find and give so much joy. He and his cousin Celia would go to concerts given by the Scottish National Orchestra at which the Chorus often sang. One night the audience were invited to audition for the Chorus: Celia and Francis auditioned and both got in. As you all know Francis had beautiful tenor voice. This year he sang the Exultet at our Easter Vigil, something we will never forget. To quote St Hildegard, his voice soared up to heaven “like a feather on the breath of God”.
His vocation to the priesthood was encouraged by the curate at St Athanasius, Fr Richard Rogers, and so, after taking Highers (the Scottish equivalent of A levels), he entered St Peter’s College, Cardross, at that time seminary for the Archdiocese of Glasgow. His studies here were cut short after the tragic death from cancer of his sister Maria Therese at the age of eleven. Ina was distraught and inconsolable, so quite typical of Francis who always put other people’s needs first, he left seminary to spend more time at home with his mother.
In many ways this was providential because he got involved with the Handicapped Children’s Pilgrimage Trust, accompanying countless children to Lourdes thereafter. On the advice of his beloved Auntie Maggie, he went in for nursing and became an SRN. In this capacity he worked at Law Hospital. It was only in 1974 that his mind turned once more towards the priesthood and, after a conversation with Dom Anselm Richardson, uncle of our Abbot Robert and a monk of Fort Augustus, to the Benedictine life. I remember picking up the phone, just by chance, when he rang Belmont for the first time to enquire about the possibility of coming here. Little did he and I imagine then that one day I would celebrate his Requiem. Yet you can see the hand of God when you look at his life with the eyes of faith.
Francis was clothed as a novice, together with Fr Antony, by Abbot Jerome on 28th September 1974, Fr Luke being their Novice Master. God sends us fellow novices to test our vocation, so Antony and Francis had many a colourful argument as they went through their monastic and priestly formation together. Just ten days ago, in jest, Francis showed Antony the scar on his leg, the result of a tiff in the sacristy when Antony had thrown a brass candelabra at him. Their First Profession took place on St Michael’s Day 1975 and their Solemn Profession three years later. After studies at Allen Hall, they were ordained to the Sacred Priesthood by Archbishop John Murphy on the feast of St Benedict 1980, the year that celebrated the 1500th anniversary of the birth of St Benedict.
I am wearing his ordination vestment today, an elegant statement of unusual nonconformity. He hated black and purple funerals because he considered funerals to be occasions of hope and rejoicing rather than of despondency and sadness. Ina had died in 1977, so it was in heaven that she celebrated both his Solemn Profession and Priestly Ordination. One of the most beautiful memories of Francis is that of him blessing his father in the Lady Chapel just after his ordination. There was a very strong bond between father and son, a bond that saw them united in life as now in death.
Francis did further studies in catechetics at Dundalk in Ireland where he gained a Diploma in Education. He taught Divinity in the school and was Assistant House Master to Fr Simon in Vaughan and then, from 1981 to 1992, House Master of Cantilupe in succession to Abbot Alan. It has to be said that Francis was not really cut out to be a teacher, although for six years he proved to be an excellent choir master and took the school choir on a memorable tour of Italy. He was a highly cultured man with an extensive and passionate interest in theatre, dance, literature and art as well as in music, but he was too free a spirit and far too disorganised to be a teacher and a house master. He had a dash of highland madness about him, a delightful and playful eccentricity. He was loved by the boys and had the knack of making life happy and worth living for all around him, except, of course, for those trying to keep things organised and on an even keel. He could drink too much at times, which made life even more complicated, though in drink as in food and clothes and everything else, it was quality rather than quantity that mattered.
He was an excellent cook with a touch of genius, an art he learned from Ina and Maggie, though his hot favourites were ethnic rather than cordon bleu: marmite and buttered kippers. His love for smart, colourful clothes he inherited from Ina and Hughie. We could open a shop with what he has left behind, but just in case you had your eye on those red suede shoes, they are in the coffin. How else could he appear before St Peter?
In 1992 he was appointed curate to Fr Stephen at St David’s, Swansea, where he worked as both University and Prison Chaplain until appointed Parish Priest of Belmont in 1998, but before the year was out, he was reappointed to St David’s as Parish Priest. Here he remained until Holy Week 2006. He was popular with parishioners and visitors and was particularly good with children. He preached well and was meticulous about the Liturgy and liturgical music. He built up the Parish Council and encouraged lay people to become fully involved and responsible. He never treated adults like children; he treated everyone as equals. He set up the much appreciated days of recollection as well as parish pilgrimages to Lourdes, Fatima, Rome and the Holy Land. He was faithful to the spirit of the Second Vatican Council, while not breaking with tradition. He looked forwards rather than backwards. He was kind and understanding towards those who did not share his point of view. In fact, Francis was all kindness and compassion. He sought the higher gifts St Paul wrote about to the Corinthians. Bishop Mullins described him as “a respected and much loved priest in the city and in the diocese.”
So it came as a great shock and the cause of much sorrow to the parishioners of St David’s when Francis left the parish after fourteen years of faithful and exemplary service, years of happiness and pastoral fulfilment. The last three and a half years of his life were difficult for him and for all who knew and loved him. Yet, as his abbot, I can truthfully say that I never heard a word of criticism or complaint from him. Without changing character or losing his sense of humour, he showed himself to be a real monk, humble, obedient and patient, prayerful and grateful for every blessing. His trust in God and reliance on prayer grew stronger, as did his love for his brethren, family and friends, especially his father, now in the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s.
The Community at Stanbrook, where he lived for most of this time, grew to love and appreciate his presence among them. He was always ready to help, above all in the garden and with the fruit picking. Abbess Andrea writes, “He was a joy to have around and he was always upbeat especially when he least felt like it. We know we have a special friend in heaven. ” A priest, one of many, says, “He may have been a troubled soul, but he was a true and loyal friend, someone who could put things back into their proper focus. And in spite of all that happened, I never heard a bitter word from him.” He was a good listener, wise and sympathetic at the same time. He also had a very strong sense of justice.
Finally he spent about nine months on and off in Peru at the Monastery of the Incarnation. At first everything went well and both he and the small community were enthusiastic about the possibility of his remaining there once the good Lord took Hughie to himself. But this was not to be. During his last visit things began to go wrong. The cancer that was to take him from us so quickly, though undiagnosed at that stage, made regular monastic life quite impossible for him. He was unwell most of the time. At the beginning of February he returned to the UK and spent precious time with his father, who passed to his reward on St Joseph’s Day. Francis stayed in Scotland to sort things out and only on his return did he mention what looked like tumours in the neck and in the groin. Cancer of the lungs was diagnosed as the root cause and soon Francis was going to Cheltenham for frequent radio and chemotherapy. He stayed in Oxfordshire with his cousin Kate, who became both carer and chauffer. However the treatment had little or no effect. He was losing weight at a dramatic rate and eating hardly anything. It was as though he was being nourished by the Blessed Sacrament alone.
In September he went to the South of France to join Bishop Mark for a few weeks’ holiday, which he really enjoyed. Yet on his return he was very weak and his breathing painful; in fact, he looked like death. He was beginning to get confused and his hearing was impaired. Nevertheless, that very afternoon Br Bernard, our infirmarian, bumped into Francis in Tesco’s. He had got out of bed, taken a monastery car and driven down to Hereford. When it comes to retail therapy, there’s no putting a good monk down. Even when he could hardly walk and had to use a wheelchair, he negotiated the lift, many doors and a narrow staircase to visit his dear friend, Miss Margaret O’Connor. No effort was ever too much for Francis. He had a very special care for others. That last week in hospital, when it was quite obvious that the end was approaching fast, he never once complained or felt sorry for himself. That Scottish wit was as sharp as ever. He made an enormous effort to make visitors welcome, even when it was obvious that he just wanted to sleep and be left alone. He prayed as much as he could: his rosary was his constant companion. But he longed to come home, and back to Belmont he came, where he passed to his reward just two and a half days later on 13th October. There can be no doubt that he died a holy death, in the odour of sanctity. The goal and purpose of his monastic life had been achieved.
None of us is born a saint and holiness has precious little to do with natural goodness. It is in suffering and weakness that God crafts his saints. We are his work, the work of his grace and loving kindness. God, who alone knows why, never calls the obvious candidates to the monastic life. A monastic vocation is an act of faith on God’s part. “You might not be cut out for this, but it is what I want you to do. I trust you and put my faith in you, now trust me and put your faith in me. This is your way to heaven.” Francis joyfully obeyed that call, making the words of St Paul his own, “The truth will set you free.” Let us pray today that each one of us will be as faithful, honest and trusting as Francis was, that the truth may set us free to love God and our neighbour unconditionally. No matter how difficult or painful the journey, may we too complete it in the joy of the Holy Spirit ever trusting in God our Father, and may Christ Jesus bring us all together to the joy and peace of his heavenly Kingdom. Amen.
