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Breton Humors
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 At the Beck of the Catholic Church |
It came down a cold, wet morning and it was a toss up between Camden Town market or a trip to Mass at the Quex Road, Kilburn, Catholic Church. Why it should suddenly come to this very finite choice I am not sure but the matter of getting back to Mass has been surfacing for a little while now.
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Mass for me has long being associated with being woken out of that deep childhood slumber and been pointed in the direction of St. Peters, Vincentian Church, Dublin, mostly it seems on freezing winter mornings with no cup of tea to ease the disruption. In a rather loose moment, I had joined the altar boys and after a brief tussle with Latin, not completely successfully, I had to appear for half seven Mass most mornings for the gratification of my parents and a sharp dawning that this way to heaven was practically a complete bore. The boy for the Mass after me did not appear on occasions and the Brother verger, called Chinny after a fairly prominent display of bone under his mouth, would lay in wait and grab you for another session of Latin mutterings and fluid movements around the altar. |
By the time that I got home I was foul with a loathing towards mankind especially that bit represented by Mass and The Catholic Church. As I grow older and was pushed out to Mass on Sundays and days of obligation you sat or stood in agony at the meanderings and tediousness of the presentations by various priests who if they were interpreting the word of God left some thing to be desired. You hoped it was the priest who was at fault; hard to imagine the creator being a bit slip shod and not too good on the contact scenario.
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Quex Road this morning was more earthy. It was nearly anorak aisle with mainly older Irish men who looked as if they had been attending for the past fifty years without a moment of doubt or challenge to the pulpit. They sat with their sticks to one side and their caps perched over radiators to dry out ready for the final blessing. They organised their offering bags and raced through the congregation with all the nimbleness of a Kerry corner forward and no vestibule was safe to hide in; they tackled close and challenged. A tramp or man of the road rested comfortably in the back seat of the church and slept soundly in perfect peace with God and his fellow worshipers throughout the whole presentation. |
There was a handful of people out in the porch representing the real hards, there under long sufferance or just dealing with their claustrophobia or last night's hangover. The old time priest would have moved them in but the modern church is learning some understanding and sympathy. I remember in Dublin long ago that my mate Tommy McGushin and myself had a question or two over some points of Church law or commandant. We spent our last coppers on a packet of cigarettes and proceeded down to Merchants Quay to see a Fr.Lucius McClean who used to have a column in one of the Dublin evening papers. Lucius was away so a substitute Fr. Jude O'Riordan appeared. Having listened, fairly impatiently, to the doubts of these questioning believers he dismissed us with the admonition and only solution of pray, my boys, pray. Searching or discussion was not allowed; you done what you were told and shut up. Or keep praying as the good friar said and offer it up.
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The four deadly sins of Irish Catholicism; an obsession with sexual morality, clerical authoritarianism, anti-intellectualism and the creation of a ghetto mentality will become less important as the faithful wise up. Indeed the Irish Church at the dawn of the 21st century looks remarkably similar to what it looked like at the at the dawn of the 19th century; a focus for a relaxed but nevertheless deep spirituality in which the broad culture is what matters, not the minutiae of devotional and behavioural rules. Not the kiss the crozier and close down your mind mentality so long prevalent. |
The choir tumbled into the last hymn in Quex Road:
Sweet heart of Jesus
We-e implore
Oh make us love thee
More and more
The pensioners at the back of the church began to chatter like sparrows on telephone wires. Sticks were assembled, wheel chairs disentangled, the last blessing was acknowledged and absorbed. The Kilburn High road was faced for another week. Whatever the workings of God there were bargains to be had in Sainsbury with prices reduced after the Christmas spree. God might have a bargain counter but he kind of keeps it under wraps. He could learn a bit from Sainsbury.
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