Whenever I hear church bells carrying down the avenue in Seabury, Malahide, I stop and listen. There is something in them that halts me in my tracks. The echoing sound of bells breaking over the roofs of houses. The congregation tuned into something ancient.
In fact, I have the same reaction when The Angelus clamours over the airwaves, drenched in pathos and gravitas. I stop.
The bells knelling hits something deep in me, that I know has always been there. That I have grappled with my entire life. It perplexes me. As a kid, the sound of bells touched the still sad music of humanity that lurks somewhere inside. I have always loved them.
Even as a recalcitrant, disillusioned teenager, I would lean over and tune a Christian station into my radio. Listening as they told stories of faith and love. I’d lie back on my bed and let it all wash over me.
The innocence of the stories, wildly incongruent to my lived experience. But I knew I was longing for something. A deep yearning at the heart's core. An inexplicable desire to be connected to something bigger and more meaningful than myself.
Over the years, I have gone into churches, reverently kneeling and praying. Yes, that’s a beautiful cathedral, but I was there for something more than just the aesthetic architecture. In some way I think it connected me to my beautiful grandmother, who loved the Church and prayed every day.
She encouraged me to pray, and often we did together. I light a candle for her, and thank her for being a positive light in my life. The Church kept her going in times of great darkness, through the First World War and the Second and the brutal winter of 1947.
I have been a Church goer, on and off over the years. Any time I enter the sacred space, I am neat and proper in every way. Head bowed, always blessing with my right hand, and kneeling when I am supposed to.
Although there was one Christmas when I arrived a little early and buoyed by the spirt of old Saint Nicholas went up the front, and stayed standing long after the congregation had sat down.
Much to my horror, I looked around and saw the smiling faces of everyone in Douglas Church. And now as an adult, when I enter the holy space the lines of Philip Larkin rattle around my mind as the door thuds shut behind me.
The little books, prepared by God knows who, sprawlings of flowers, the smell of incense, and the unignorable silence, centuries brewed in the community. I think it is the silence I’m after. Or maybe it is the reflection that envelops me as I sit there in the silence. I’m not entirely sure.
There is something about all of that scene that is universal. I have been to many churches all over the world, and there is always that sense of peace, a deep stillness that floods me.
This time 20 years ago, I was living with my girlfriend in Providence, Rhode Island. There was a church down the road from our apartment. Some days, I’d find myself drifting down to it. Sitting at the back, the only white guy, while the gospel music filled the sacred air.
I found stillness in those moments. Like I belonged to something, I couldn’t comprehend. And when I came back to Ireland, I went to Mass again searching for that feeling. Only to be disappointed by the content of the sermon.
The messages of shame and sin, never sat right with me. I brought my children, and again the messaging turned me away.
I don’t want my children to feel they should be shameful for being a human being or that God or the creator or whoever that being is, feels you should supplicate yourself at the altar because of all your shameful sin.
I am a sinner. I’m not saying I’m not, but I want to be around the message that I am good too.
I want my children to understand that God is love. And loves all of us, not just some. They should be proud of who they are, while also endeavouring to be better. The recent comments by the Pope about hom*osexuality once again left me feeling further from the Church than ever.
In 2021 when the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith (CDF) declared that it is ‘impossible’ for God to ‘bless sin’ in relation to same sex marriage I wrote about it then and outlined how destructive those views are for some in our community.
The Church is facing a serious problem. The world has changed irrevocably from the days when it had hordes of followers. There are very few priests joining the order. All institutions have to change. The Church isn’t an exception.
I believe there is something fundamental at the core of humans that makes them search for something greater than themselves. I think we need it.
If the Church could modernise, and be a more hopeful and positive experience for all of the community, I think we would see a massive resurgence in faith and participation.
I know I have been searching for it my entire life. But in the words of Bono, I still ‘haven’t found what I’m looking for’.
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