Tribute to Fr John Buckley RIP

The following tribute was given to Fr John Buckley by his niece Marian Williamson, during his Requiem Mass on Saturday, 6 December at the Cathedral of St Mary and St Ann in Cork.

Good morning, everyone, and welcome. I would like to thank you all for being here today to join us in celebrating Father John's life in Christ.

Father John was born in Dominic Street in Cork on the 12th of May, 1939. He was eight weeks premature, weighing 1lb 6oz. On that day, his parents, Hannah and Jimmy, were told he was very ill and that he should be anointed without delay. His mother fed him and nourished him, and he began to thrive, growing into a fine young man.

His sisters, Margaret, Theresa, Julia, and my own mother, Bernadette, adored their brother John, and they all had a wonderful relationship with each other. He attended North Presentation School, just down the road from here, and the North Pres became a central part of his ministry whenever he returned to Cork. He was eternally grateful for the kindness that the Presentation Sisters gave to the family, particularly after their mother Hannah died when John was seven years old.

Later, he went on to the North Monastery Secondary School, and on completing his Leaving Cert, he entered the seminary of St Patrick's Missionaries, Kiltegan, in 1958. It was here that he found his true calling in life. And when I asked him several years back why he became a priest, he told me that it was because he wanted to save the world.

He had a unique ability to relate to young and old, and he always deflected the attention away from himself. He would ensure that every conversation would become about you. He listened to you because he was genuinely interested, and he guided you in the right direction when it was needed. In his company, you felt important. You felt special. But more than anything, you felt love.

He saw love as the foundation of all the virtues-embracing God's love and sharing it with others. If we faced any challenges, he always encouraged us to pray about it, to reflect on the situation, and then proceed to tell us in his own words to "get on with it."

Over the last few days, I have tried to come up with a word which sufficiently describes Father John, but it is impossible. It was a feeling that you had when you were in his company. I don't think I have ever met someone from whom the grace of God has flowed from so clearly and in abundance.

I received a phone call from Father Patsy Foley in Liverpool some days ago, and he said that Father John was the best friend he ever had. He spoke about the enormous impact Father John had on him, both as a person and a priest in his lifetime. Whether you met Father John for a few minutes or you knew him all of your life, he would leave a lasting impression on you like no one else. He certainly was a one-off with a magnetic personality.

One of the nurses caring for him in his final few days was a young girl called Caoimhe. On the night he died, she said to us, "Even if you weren't a Catholic before you entered his room, you wanted to be one by the time you left." This was a testament to the kindness reflecting the Christian values of love and compassion that he lived by.

He was also blessed with a wonderful sense of humour and fun. Some years back, when he was in the seminary, my father, Ted, thought that it might be funny to send him a Valentine's Day card. After morning prayers, all the students would go and collect their post in the hall. What lay waiting for Father John was a large, pink silk envelope with his name written on it. Some time later, he was called into the Novice Master's office and asked if there was anything he wanted to declare before taking his vows. Thankfully, he saw the funny side of it, and he forgave my dad for almost getting him thrown out of the seminary.

Our children were utterly spoiled by him. Whether it was a trip to Smyth's Toy Shop or simply asking them about what was going on in their lives. He was able to capture their attention with his great art of storytelling. I think some of us who were lucky enough to hear these tales when we were small still have nightmares about his fictional characters called "Loop the Loop," the "Headless Horseman," and the "Egg Monster."

My nephew James recalled a time from when he was a very young child-and as children can be quite honest-he asked Father John why he'd no hair at the top of his head. James was enthralled as Father John told him that some years ago, while lying on a beach in Africa, a tiger suddenly came out of the bushes, clawed all the hair off the top of his head, and left him bald.

Our lives were enriched by him. I am certain that there was a reason why he survived the day he was born, and his purpose was to fulfill God's mission and spread the essence of true Christianity throughout his whole life. I can see him clearly now in my mind: safe, peaceful, and wrapped in Jesus' embrace. A true child of God resting in perfect peace after such a graceful and faithful journey.

A special word of thanks to our cousin, Father Martin O'Farrell, whose own brother Tony passed away just a few days before Father John. Martin has been such a strength to us these last few days, and for that, I thank you most sincerely from all the family.

I will finish now with some lines from his own poem, which was called "From My Father's Shoulders," published in the Holly Bough in Christmas 1979. His dad, Jimmy, was his hero and a staunch St John's Ambulance volunteer. He often took young John Buckley "down the Park," as he called it, to watch the hurling and the football. Father John wrote these lines about the famous Cork hurler, Christy Ring, but today, especially, I feel they reflect his own true self.

"Yet these gifts were not his greatness;
In his humility it was.
For this Cú Chulainn had spirituality.
In this did he know the source of his greatness.
Not for him the banality of studio lights,
Not for him the profit of a quick sell.
Hurley in hand, boots in bag,
His was always the quiet exit."
His greatness was that he had the true perspective of all things.