The law of the Lord is perfect,
it revives
the soul.
The rule of
the Lord is to be trusted,
it gives wisdom to the simple.
The precepts
of the Lord are right,
they gladden
the heart.
The command
of the Lord is clear,
it gives light to the eyes.
Psalm 19:7 - 8
My parents loved me. They were fair. The
rules by which so many people co-existed in one household were built on love
and trust. None of us was perfect and if the music had to be faced, there was
nothing to fear. Even after being disciplined, there was no place for doubting
being loved, needed, cared for or being part of a family.
The Ten Commandments or Decalogue found in
the Books of Exodus and Deuteronomy are indeed at the core of the Law of Moses
although there are a total 613 mitzvot or commandments to be found in the First
or Old Testament. The Catholic Church has its own canon law that comprises 1752
laws.
Laws arise from lived experience, based on
common wisdom. It is possible to view the Decalogue as rules for survival as a
community. Some commentators suggest that the Decalogue was constructed to
ensure the integrity of the Hebrew people – written and edited by a variety of
communities between 922 and 622 BC, others surmise that the Decalogue owes its
origins to the Hittites (an ancient middle eastern people) or even to the
Egyptians. Biblical tradition acknowledges Moses himself as the author of the
Pentateuch (the first five books of the scriptures), and, of course, the
personal recipient of the Decalogue on Mt Sinai.
At the risk of being over simplistic, my
parents brought the rules for good life, good conduct and good relationships
from their families. They adapted and changed these rules through
experimentation, success and failure. They may never have articulated them as a
code, but they lived them and offered them as gifts to their children. In turn
Toni and I brought to our family the sum of what our families gave to us, and
so it continues. We too have no written code, for what we have passed on to our
children is both oral and experiential.
The Law of Christ is also the sum of what
Jesus offered to his disciples. Again, not a list of rules, but a way of life.
Lived exceptionally we understand that a new age is inaugurated (the kingdom of
God). We do not need any number of laws or commandments to live the Law of
Christ. What we need is a life whose foundation is built upon love and trust,
and above all, faith. And this will indeed give light to the eyes.
Peter
Douglas
The uncertain future of
Catholic Ireland
by James T Keane
The College Chapel at St. Patrick’s
College of Maynooth has 454 carved oak stalls for seminarians and priests. They
run in serried ranks down the length of its nave, making it the largest choir
chapel in the world. The church itself is a masterpiece of Gothic Revival, and
the ceiling of the church offers a kind of visual catechism, taking worshippers
through salvation history by means of painted images.
Since St. Patrick’s
College’s founding in 1795 in County Kildare as the national seminary for the
Catholic Church in Ireland, it has trained over 11,000 priests—not just for
Ireland, but for the global church. The seminary also inspired two major
missionary societies, the first directed to China and the latter to Africa.
Many American Catholics may also remember that the parish priest of their
childhood was from Ireland; that man was likely trained in Maynooth.
When construction
on the College Chapel began in 1875, Maynooth was the largest seminary in all
of Christendom. It is no accident that the media portrayal in the United States
(and many other countries) of a Catholic priest is of an Irish man with a thick
brogue. In 1899, 82 priests “for Ireland, America, and Australia” were ordained
at Maynooth.
In the fall of
2017, a new class of first-year seminarians arrived at Maynooth to begin their
training for the priesthood.
There were six men.
In total, there are
36 seminarians living at Maynooth this year (another 25 are assigned to
Maynooth but live elsewhere). The decline in priestly vocations in Ireland is
paralleled by similarly stark decreases in numbers for men’s and women’s
religious orders. “The decline in vocations is not even the biggest problem we
face,” said Stanislaus Kennedy, R.S.C., known throughout Ireland as Sister
Stan, a social justice advocate and founder of the charity Focus Ireland, now
the largest voluntary organization in the country. “The biggest problem is the
decline in participation by the laity, especially by the young people.” Recent
surveys confirm this, showing steep declines throughout the Republic of Ireland
in religious practice and reception of the sacraments.
More than 90 percent
of Irish Catholics reported attending Mass at least weekly in the early 1970s;
recent surveys put that percentage at between 30 and 35 percent in recent
years. In the Archdiocese of Dublin, it is less than 20 percent, and some urban
parishes report weekly attendance as less than 2 percent of the Catholic
population. As many as one in ten Irish now identify as “nones,” claiming no
religious affiliation.
The numbers augur
an uncertain future for the Catholic Church in Ireland, long a place where
Catholicism seemed sure of deep roots and high adherence to practice and
tradition. Will Ireland follow the same trajectory as Quebec, an overwhelmingly
Catholic culture that almost completely rejected the church in two generations
to become one of the most secular societies on earth? Or will it resemble the
Catholic Church in the United States, where a community diminished by sex abuse
scandals and a decades-long vocations crisis still bleeds numbers but seems
vital enough to survive? Or will there be some unanticipated future for the
famous “land of saints and scholars”?
How and Why?
There is no single
cause for what ails the Irish Catholic church, but without question a primary
source of anger and disillusionment is the crisis caused by sexual abuse of
young people by members of the Catholic clergy and religious, which was doubly
painful in Ireland because of the all-encompassing authority of the Catholic
Church over Irish society throughout the 20th century. The pervasiveness of
clericalism in Irish Catholic culture contributed to a culture of noblesse
oblige among the clergy, and civil authorities were far more likely to defer to
bishops and the superiors of religious orders when deciding whether to pursue
cases of misconduct. Reports of other kinds of physical abuse in Irish schools,
orphanages, “Magdalene laundries” and other church institutions have been
legion in the Irish media in recent years. Coverups and transfers of repeat
abusers was easier in a society that reflexively trusted religious
institutions. That trust has been badly damaged, if not destroyed. “The priests
thought they were more powerful than the police,” one man in a pub in Galway
told me, “and they were right.”
This
disillusionment is not felt only among laypeople, either. I conducted a group
interview with the Rev. Michael Mullaney, who is the president of St. Patrick’s
College at Maynooth, and the Rev. Michael Collins and the Rev. Tomas Surlis,
both directors of formation at the seminary. They noted that the seemingly
endless revelations about sexual and physical abuse in the church had deeply
affected priests and seminarians too, not to mention potential vocations.
“There’s a sense of
bereavement among the clergy as well [as among laypeople], and a sense of fear
around intimacy,” commented Father Surlis. “There was a tactile nature to the
ministry of the priests and the religious orders, to their interaction with the
people, and that is not so much the case anymore.”
“That has affected
our work with young people,” Father Mullaney agreed. “That trust and that
connection was broken. It’s very hard with that air of suspicion present…. We
have to rebuild that trust, and that’s going to take a lot of time.”
A second reason for
Ireland’s changing church profile is perhaps counterintuitive when one considers
the first. The Ireland of today is an extraordinarily open society,
economically and culturally. An English-speaking, well-educated population was
poised to benefit from globalization and the technology boom of the 1990s and
early 2000s. Ireland also benefited handsomely from joining the European Union
(and then suffered deeply from E.U.-mandated austerity measures after the 2008
economic collapse). Full membership in the European Union brought
infrastructure improvements, access to new markets and immigration—the last an
awkward reality for a largely homogenous population unaccustomed to diversity
of creed, culture or ethnicity.
The economic
successes of Ireland after full integration into the European Union and the
acceleration of globalization were due to two things, commented the Very Rev.
Diarmuid Martin, archbishop of Dublin, in an interview in Dublin in November.
“We had a very well-educated workforce, and we had an open economy. We were
ready for it. But with the open economy comes cultural openness…. That’s a
positive thing, but it means we have to realize that the dominant forces in
Irish culture come from outside Ireland in many ways.”
Rapid urbanization
has also changed Irish society. The Republic’s population will soon pass five
million (still far below an estimated eight million in 1848, immediately before
the Famine), but fully 50 percent of that population lives in the vicinity of
Dublin. Other studies have noted that fewer than 10 percent of the Irish
workforce is involved in agriculture. The church is grappling with how to
evangelize a changed society even while that society is rapidly being
transformed before its eyes. The Taoiseach (prime minister) of Ireland, Leo
Varadkar, recently called for a referendum in May that could make abortion
legal, a prospect that would have been unthinkable just 10 years ago. Mr.
Varadkar is also the first child of an immigrant (his father was born in
Mumbai) and the first openly gay man to be elected Taoiseach.
Traditional roles
for women have also changed dramatically outside the church, but not inside.
“There’s no doubt that generations of women feel that they haven’t been
included in areas of responsibility in the church, not necessarily just the
priesthood,” Archbishop Martin said. “Grandmothers feel this way, mothers feel
this way, but their daughters feel in a much stronger way that [the church]
isn’t necessarily a place where they belong. You can’t deny it.”
Archbishop Martin
was blunt in pointing out another source of malaise: the Irish church’s
unwillingness in the past to engage in significant evangelization efforts or
faith formation on its own soil. For generations, he said, the church relied on
Irish society, particularly the schools, to be the primary vehicle for faith
formation and transmission. Since catechism in schools was almost universal and
many were run by religious orders, few parishes invested resources in adult
faith formation. The identification of the Republic of Ireland with a
persecuted Catholic Church, the ubiquity and hegemony of church institutions,
and cultural taboos against lax religious practice all contributed to keeping
the pews full.
“An atheist could
learn the catechism by heart and regurgitate it all the time, and never move
towards faith,” Archbishop Martin said. “We learned all the rules and the
norms, and it was presumed that the basic elements of faith were there…. People
felt that there was really very little need to evangelize, that being born into
Irish society made you a Catholic.”
Some more
traditional voices in the Irish church have laid much of the blame for the
decline in vocations and church practice on exactly that loss of traditional
religious strictures since the Second Vatican Council, but the formation staff
at Maynooth thought otherwise. “If we hadn’t had Vatican II, the decline would
have been worse. The disconnect with the world would have been more glaring,”
said Father Collins. “At least Vatican II has equipped the church in some way
to negotiate the huge social changes we could not have predicted.”
“The key and core
insight of the Second Vatican Council is the ecclesiology of communion,” added
Father Surlis, “this idea that we are together, disciples on the road. It’s
almost as if the Spirit is forcing that upon us, at one level. Yes, the decline
of vocations into the priesthood and religious life is worrying, but it’s
leading to the emergence of a healthier, more balanced church in this country.”
Culture and
Contradiction
The outward signs
of a deeply Catholic nation are still visible everywhere in Ireland. The post
office in one town outside Dublin, for example, advertises in its window,
“Signed Mass cards sold here.” In the middle of Dublin, a huge Nativity scene
in late November advertised “Dublin City Council lighting up the city at
Christmas.” Passengers still routinely make the sign of the cross when their
train or bus passes a church. Shrines and crosses are everywhere, alongside
highways as much as along the narrow country lanes, and not all are in ruin.
“Culture tends to
be consistent, and in my experience there is nearly always a return to the
roots of culture,” commented Mary Kenny, an Irish journalist and a founding
member of the Irish Women’s Liberation Movement as well as author of Goodbye
to Catholic Ireland, in an email interview last December. “What has been
will be.... I think the deposit of Irish spirituality will remain, and I’m
often surprised by how well-attended Mass can be in Ireland. Recently, on Nov.
1 [the Feast of All Saints], I caught a Mass at Clarendon Street [in Dublin].
Standing room only!”
This attachment to
a cultural faith is often expressed alongside a dismissal of the church in ways
that can appear openly contradictory. One taxicab driver assured me that he
would never darken the door of a church again, so angry was he at the sex abuse
scandals and at a culture where clerics held unlimited authority over society.
And yet he expressed open affection for the priest who buried his father; and
when I pointed out that a St. Padre Pio prayer card graced his windshield, he
answered, “Well, of course. He’s my patron saint.”
That same man also
objected strongly to recent educational policies that exempt non-Catholic
immigrants to Ireland from Catholic religious instruction, because “you can’t
be Irish if you don’t learn our faith.”
That combination—a
rejection of the institutional church alongside open affection for individual
pastoral figures, including parish priests and Ireland’s large number of women
religious—was repeated numerous times over eight days of conversations. Again
and again I heard some variation of “the church is such a part of Irish life”
stated by people who then noted matter-of-factly that they had long since
stopped attending Mass.
A Numbers Game—or
Not
“From one
perspective, something is dying,” said Father Collins. “But from another
perspective, you can see that we are in a liminal space: Something new is
emerging. There’s something very vibrant happening. That sounds almost like a
contradiction, but I think it is the reality.”
As positive factors
among disappointing numbers, Father Collins and his fellow priests at Maynooth
pointed to the endurance and even growth of other sources of Christian
nourishment in Ireland, including pilgrimages, public novenas and frequent
visits to nontraditional worship sites, such as the Marian shrine at Knock or
the many healing wells and legendary “thin places” of Ireland. The philosopher
Charles Taylor has called this style of religious practice “the culture of
festivity” in his book A Secular Age, noting that a population of
mobile Christians, less tied to familial dwelling places or multigenerational
traditions, is more open to “religious experiences” than to regular practice.
Ms. Kenny agreed with Mr. Taylor’s thesis, noting that despite widespread
secularism and consumerism, pilgrimages like the one to Santiago de Compostela
in Spain are more and more popular, and “cathedrals are attracting terrific
crowds all over Europe. God works in mysterious ways.”
In this sense, the
Irish church can also rely on a pre-Christian Celtic spirituality whose subtle
(and sometimes obvious) influence is everywhere in Ireland. Lough Derg, an
ancient Celtic religious center that became a Catholic pilgrimage site, grows
more popular with every passing year. The same is true of Croagh Patrick, the
“Holy Mountain” that is dedicated to St. Patrick but whose religious
significance stretches back five millennia.
Similarly, both
Archbishop Martin in Dublin and the formation team at Maynooth mentioned the
coming World Meeting of Families in Dublin, from Aug. 21 to 26, as a highly
anticipated event that should draw huge and enthusiastic crowds. Pope Francis
is expected to preside at the closing Mass, making him only the second pope in
history to visit Ireland. The first papal visit, by John Paul II in 1979, drew
more than 2.5 million people to various public Masses and ceremonies—almost
half the population of the island.
At the End of the
World
Directly west from
Dublin by 150 miles, but a world away in almost every other respect, Inishmaan
is one of the Aran Islands, three rocky outposts that sit at the entrance to
Galway Bay. They are a geographic extension of “The Burren,” a huge limestone
formation that forms much of the topography of nearby County Clare. Though the
unforgiving climate and scarce resources of the islands made them little more
than bird estuaries for much of known history, evidence of monasteries and
abbeys from the fourth century can be found on all three, including the
purported homes of St. Colmcille, St. Abigail (St. Gobnait in Irish) and St.
Enda. The Aran Islands are a reminder that Christianity did not spread
organically or in any kind of territorial sequence. There were Christian monks
in the Aran Islands before Augustine wrote his Confessions; there
were monasteries on Inishmaan three centuries before Britain was converted to
Christianity.
The islands became
more heavily populated in the 17th century, covered by farms cultivated by
rural Irish peasants driven from their lands during Oliver Cromwell’s genocidal
persecutions of Catholics. “They can go to hell,” Cromwell is reputed to have
said of Ireland’s Catholics while driving them west, “or they can go to
Connaught.” Some scholars estimate half of Ireland’s 1.5 million people died in
the violence or the ensuing famines. The British also used the Aran Islands to
imprison captured Catholic priests before they were sold into indentured
servitude in the West Indies.
The islands have
almost no natural soil, and the process by which settlers coaxed life out of
the hard ground seems born of a superhuman stubbornness. Carting sand and
seaweed up the hills and cliffs, farmers cleared land by stacking loose rock in
dry-stone walls and then spreading the sand-seaweed mixture directly atop the
limestone surface, finally applying a thin layer of topsoil. From this soil
could be coaxed a meager crop of potatoes and other vegetables, as well as
grass for grazing cattle and sheep. Fishing also provided nutrition, though
frequent storms and treacherous wave patterns made this a perilous endeavor.
Many a gravestone or memorial marker on the islands bluntly reads “Drowned.”
Even today, the
islands are remarkable for their isolation and stark, wild beauty. They are
also among the few remaining places in Ireland where all the residents speak
Irish fluently. On a walk to the top of Inishmaan at the end of November, I
became convinced there was a woman keening nearby in the ruins of a monastery.
No; it was the frigid Atlantic wind screaming through the chinks of the
island’s endless dry-stone walls. Enda and Abigail, I thought, were of sterner
stuff than we; so too the modern-day residents; so too the thousands of priests
who listened to that banshee scream as they awaited a prison ship and a life of
forced labor. For anyone with an interest in the history and dynamism of
Christianity, these islands are a source of fascination.
But today, the
Irish clergy shortage means that the three islands share among them one priest.
The residents of Inishmaan have Mass in winter on every other Sunday.
Revised
Expectations
What is the future
for Catholic Ireland? Some of the institutional responses to a diminished
church will be familiar to Americans: parish clustering, increased reliance on
professionally trained lay ministers, greater stress on evangelization beyond
the catechism taught in the schools. “We need to do a lot more catechesis and
youth ministry,” said Father Mullaney, “as well as reaching out to people who
have been disaffected or alienated because of the [sexual abuse] scandals.” Lay
salaries—in parishes and in schools—will need to be funded, either publicly or
privately, to a greater degree than those of priests and religious in the past.
“I have heard
priests and bishops say that we will be a smaller church, but that we will have
a stronger identity,” commented Sister Kennedy. “But I don’t think that’s the
way to go—that kind of church will be one that is removed from the life of many
of the people. What we need instead is a total renewal, a transformation of the
way we imagine ourselves.
“We need to bring
laypeople into every part of the church,” Sister Kennedy continued. “The
pastoral part, the sacramental part, the administrative part. It is not enough
simply to encourage people to be eucharistic ministers or to serve on the
parish finance committee. Real renewal will [require] laypeople participating
in every aspect of the church.
“In the Irish
church, laypeople are the ‘outsiders.’ Until laypeople are seen as an integral
part of the church and participate fully in it, the church will continue to
decline and become a small congregation with little influence,” she said. “If
laypeople participate fully as ‘people of God’ as ‘Gaudium et Spes’ proposes,
with preferential support for the poor, the priesthood and the rest will take
care of itself. And the church, while separated from the state, will have its
own place and a clear role: bringer of good news to the whole of society.”
The “sacramental
famine” brought on by clergy shortages may prove even more painful for Ireland
than for the United States, as the Irish church has not experienced the huge
numbers of vocations to the permanent diaconate that the U.S. church enjoyed in
the decades following the Second Vatican Council. And another vocation crisis
is no less pressing, even if coverage of it is more muted: an unprecedented
decline in the number of women religious in Ireland. These women are some of
the most beloved public figures in Irish culture.
Archbishop Martin
predicts that the church will seem diminished in many ways but will always be a
vital part of Irish life. “We need a church that is relevant more than it is
dominant,” he said, and that can sometimes mean looking beyond numbers to
larger questions. “There are parishes that have never been as vibrant in the
past as they are today, even though numbers may be smaller,” he noted. “But it
is a worry that most of those vibrant parishes are middle class. And you have
to ask yourself: Why is that? The middle class tends to be the most comfortable
and most conformist grouping in society. And the believing community can’t just
be a conformist grouping. It must somehow or other be shaking people out of
conformity.
“The Irish church
has to change gear. And has to notice that the gear has changed.”
Brave New World
Archbishop Martin
also cautioned against equating the reality of Irish life with the cultural
perceptions of what he called “the Auld Sod brigade,” Irish-American
descendants of emigrants whose sentimental memories (real or not) of Ireland
are not always or often shared by the nation’s residents. The world of potato
farms improbably coaxed out of rocky soil, or of Gothic Revival chapels full of
sturdy peasants on the path to the priesthood, has more life in those
sentimental memories than in reality. The church may never again look as it did
in Maynooth 100 years ago, but the history of places like the Aran Islands
suggest it will persist in some vital way. An unexpected personal discovery
during my visit suggested that the future of Irish Catholicism, whatever it may
be, is tied up with the future of an Ireland that is now far different from
what many Americans imagine.
A sister of mine
lives with her Irish-born husband and children outside Dublin. I stayed with
them for several days during my reporting for this essay. Her eldest son is at
Belvedere, the Jesuit prep school in Dublin (its most famous alumnus: James
Joyce); her youngest son attends an “Educate Together” school, where catechism
is taught after school rather than as part of the curriculum. Both her
daughters attend a Catholic school with over 1,000 students. In some ways,
exactly what I had expected.
But at one point I
heard her on the phone with two of our other siblings discussing future travel
plans. A visit from the United States had been complicated because her eldest
son had a water polo tournament in Malta, and her eldest daughter had a field
trip that same week to Norway. It was a shock to me, and would be that to the
“Auld Sod brigade” as well.
The Irish are Europeans now.
This article appears in the 5 March 2018 issue
of America.
