Wednesday, 25 March 2026
ROBERT JOHN KENNEDY: The Shepherd of the Salt and Soil (In Memoriam: Bi...
The Shepherd of the Salt and Soil (In Memoriam: Bishop Jerome Dhas Varuvel, SDB - by Rev. Robert John Kennedy)
The Shepherd of the Salt and Soil
by Rev. Robert John Kennedy)
The miter rests. The silver crosier stands
Against the granite of a nascent wall;
The Master Builder leaves to higher lands,
Beyond the reach of any earthly call.
From Loyola’s gates, I watch the evening star
Hang low o’er Kanyakumari’s surging foam,
And trace the path of him who traveled far
To lead a wandering, coastal people home.
He was the Son of Bosco—marked by joy,
The "Preventive" heart that shielded every lad,
Who saw the hidden saint in every boy
In the green silences of Thalavadi.
He knew that grace, like any Roman verse,
Needs structure first to let the spirit sing;
He took a young diocese, as if to nurse
A fledgling bird and teach its soul to wing.
No ivory tower held his quiet mind,
Though Latin rolled like thunder from his tongue;
His was a wisdom of a different kind—
Of nets cast wide and parish hymns well-sung.
And when the "Liturgy of Silence" came,
When Parkinson’s became his heavy cross,
He whispered still the One Essential Name,
Turning to gold the leaden weight of loss.
The "Fiat" spoken at the dawn of light,
The Shepherd’s scent upon his weary fleece;
He walked through shadows, looking for the height,
And found at last the Annunciation’s peace.
Sleep now, Jerome, where salt and incense meet,
Beside the waves that murmur on the shore;
Lay down your sandals at the Master’s feet—
The Architect has passed the Final Door.
ROBERT JOHN KENNEDY: The Miter and the Mentor (A Personal Eulogy for My...
The Miter and the Mentor (A Personal Eulogy for My Father in Christ, Bishop Jerome Dhas - Rev. Robert John Kennedy)
But you, my Bishop, taught me how to bleed
For a fledgling flock in the watch-fires of the night.
I came to you with a scholar’s restless mind,
With Horace and with Hopkins on my tongue;
But in your Salesian heart, I came to find
The sturdier prose to which a priest is hung.
You were the architect of us, your sons.
And when the long, slow, silent shadow falls,
The race is finished, and the course is run.
I watched the tremor take the steady hand
That once had laid the chrism on my brow;
I saw the silence sweep across the land,
A Master-work complete, and silent now.
From the Citadel down to the southern shore;
The scent of incense lingers in the air,
But your gentle footstep sounds upon the floor
No more. Yet in every verse I write,
And every broken bread I hold on high,
I see your face—a beacon in the night,
A shepherd’s star against a Tamil sky.
Let the bells ring out
The Annunciation of your final peace.
Beyond the reach of tremor, pain, or doubt,
The Shepherd rests; the labors find release.
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