“In the name of the Father, the Son and the holy Spirit, Amen” Fr. McDyer’s large hands moved slowly, sloth-like, in the familiar pattern of the sign of the cross. He sat at the top of the room, dressed in traditional black. His eyes closed, long disconnected from those around him. “In ainm an Athar agus an Mhic agus an Spioraid Naoimh.” The forty minute period was spent teaching a class of uninterested seventeen year old teenagers how to bless themselves, over and over again. Fr. Mc Dyer was filling in for Fr. Sweeney for our only religion class of the week. Fr. Sweeney was off tending to his flock of sheep, literally.
It was 1979 and Ireland was gearing itself up for Pope John Paul II’s visit later in the year. The country was at fever pitch.

Fr. McDyer was renowned worldwide for his transformation of the parish of Glencolmcille. He was ordained in 1937, a time when Ireland had a surplus of young priests. He spent his first few years in London where he saw at first hand the loneliness of Irish emigrants. He decided he would play his part in the creation of social and economic opportunities that would give them the choice of staying at home. When he was assigned to Glencolmcille in 1951, he came to a dying community, haunted by the spectre of emigration.  Throughout the 1950’s he set about challenging the lack of good roads, electricity, piped water, jobs and lack of social activity in the parish.
I had served as an altar boy during his time in St. Columba’s church, Carrick. My mother had been in hospital for a number of weeks when Seamus McGinley convinced me it would boost her recovery to see her son serving on the altar. I was eleven and very doubtful, but Seamus could be very convincing. The job wasn’t hugely difficult. We were assigned different roles for each mass and kitted out in a hand me down cassock and surplice,

The spring loaded candles had to be lit. They were of metal construction, looking like a full candle from afar. Inside the wax candle slowly pushing upwards on a tightly wound spring.The cruets of wine and water were filled, and covered with linen.  The sound system, switched on just before the start of mass, would whistle until fine tuned. The role of carrying the paten during communion was allocated. In those days, the congregation came forward and kneeled at the altar rail. The priest then moved over and back delivering communion. We followed the priest and held the paten under the receivers chin in the fear that any of the host should be dropped. During benediction and funerals we got to carry the brass thurible. This would have slow burning charcoal, lit and ready for the application of incense.
I loved the whole sensual setting of Benediction, the candlelit church in the dim evening light, brass and gold trim glowing. The church smoke-filled with the sweet-smelling perfumed incense, burned slowly over charcoal tabs hidden inside the censer being swung with vigour by the priest.  Later, wrapped in the humeral veil, and in what resembled a victorious team captain, he held the monstrance in his hands and with it, made the sign of the cross. The backing soundtrack to all this was the singing of the beautiful “Tantum ergo”.

As a young apprentice, the first privilege you got was to ring the bell during the consecration. This involved precise timing. The brass triple hooded bell was to be lifted and shaken, in a twisting wrist motion, at the showing of both the eucharistic bread and the chalice. No problem you’d think but concentration is a skill not yet learned at eleven.. There were days when George Best was dribbling around the Arsenal backs before lobbing a high ball for me to head over Bob Wilson’s head and into goal. Sliding into the corner, shirt over head in celebration.
A nudge from Gary Breslin rudely brought me back to reality, no longer focused on the service and forgetting about the bell. To ring the bell late brought the wrath of the senior servers and glares from the elder lemons. For the rest of us, a fit of uncontrollable giggles usually ensued. Seamus kept a tight rein on all the novice clerks. On occasions when he was not ‘on stage’ himself, he was in the church gallery keeping a close eye.

Being an altar boy was not quite as pious as I had previously thought. We spent our time up to no good. This included everything from sipping the holy ‘Buckfast’ after the priest had left, to letting rip during mass to see if we could make the others lads laugh. On one occasion we even managed to set the sacristy of the church on fire although the less said about that the better.
There were various starring roles to be played as an altar boy,  weddings, funerals and visiting dignitaries. The task was still the same but the rewards were usually greater. One morning, my brother Ian and myself were called at short notice to serve at half eight mass . Fr. McDyer was accompanied by two bishops, one being Bishop Casey, then Bishop of Kerry, a man with similar strong views on emigration. The mass was quick and uneventful, attended by the regular small early morning congregation, but I do remember there being an accident on the road to Glen afterwards. Fr.McDyer, who travelled so much, was a notoriously fast driver. A few years earlier, he had run over my sister Margaret as she crossed the main street on the way to McGinley’s shop.

My most glorious performance on the altar happened one morning when Fr McDyer was on a sabbatical. His substitute from the holy bench, Fr McCauley, was a stocky, tight collared man, renowned locally for being a cranky ‘oul bugger’
The altar boys had gone through the usual ritual in preparation for Sunday mass. The sacramental tipple had been carefully measured out. The metal candles were brought back to life and the recently installed amplification system, with its long trailing microphone was placed centre stage on the temporary wooden altar.
Fr McCauley had played a blinder as stand-in although it was hard to tell by the reaction of the congregation, some of who had long nodded off. All was going well until the eucharistic prayer, when, as I returned to my place after carrying the water and wine to the altar, I had the misfortune of tripping on the microphone lead, snaked dangerously across the red carpet.
With an unholy clatter, the microphone shot off the altar, leaving Fr McCauley standing, arm spread, still praying.  A few near the front were woken by the silence.
For a brief second I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as I scrambled to pick the microphone off the ground and replace it in front of Fr McCauley, who strangely enough continued the prayer, from where I had laid him off, as if nothing had happened.
My lasting memory as I slinked back to my seat, is of catching “elder lemon” Francis Lawrence out of the side of my eye, still bowed in silent prayer, his head now shaking in disapproval.

When I was fourteen, I decided I no longer needed to confess my sins to an old man in a dark box. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been two weeks since my last concoction”. No need to confess another rehearsed insignificant sin. My mother had been on to me to go. I argued that I had no idea what the priest was saying largely due to it being mumbled at speed. The fact that it was in Latin didn’t help. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.” Fr.McDyer may have been able to bless himself in multiple languages but he may as well have been casting a spell, “Abracadabra, alakazam, three Hail Marys, for saying ‘Goddamn’ ”

Pope John Paul was due to visit Ireland in September of ‘79. Plans were afoot for a mass emigration of people to see his holiness at various locations around the country. Ireland in 1979 was a still a devout, predominantly Catholic country. There were many issues facing the church including a steep fall in religious vocations, the worrisome decline in Mass attendance among young adults, and a dramatic loss of moral credibility owing to its rigid stance on artificial contraception. The church’s hierarchy seen the Pope’s visit as a way of stemming this growing dissatisfaction.
The Pope had hoped to visit St Patrick’s Cathedral in Armagh but this had been canceled as his advisers feared he would be a target for loyalist paramilitaries. Just weeks before his visit Lord Mountbatten had been killed in an IRA bomb attack on his boat at Mullaghmore, while 18 soldiers were killed in two explosions near Warrenpoint, County Down.

In preparation for the visit, Fr. Sweeney had sought volunteers from our school to represent the diocese of Raphoe at a Youth mass in Galway. Fr. Sweeney was a new breed of priest. A bit rough around the edges who used language many would deem unacceptable. He was very much a man of the people. He was the only priest I’ve ever felt I could open up enough with to confess my doubts in the man above. He listened. He also seen the Pope’s visit as a way to bring us back. I was adamant I would not be travelling but he did manage to involve me in creating the pink silk armbands and emblazon them with ‘RAPHOE’ using the finest permanent maker.
One day in school, he put his arm around my shoulders and said out loud for the rest of my class to hear, “Ciaran, what would you do if someone told you to fuck off ? “ He held on, waiting to see how I’d react. “As cool as ice” he said. I loved him for that. I can’t fully explain why, but it made me feel more accepted and it meant more to me than forty minutes with the holy Trinity.

Nearly 3 million people came out to see Pope John II on his visit to Ireland in Sep 1979. One million gathered in the Phoenix Park alone, the largest gathering of Irish people in one place ever.
At a Youth Mass on Ballybrit Racecourse organised by Bishop Casey, the large crowd were led in song by Fr Michael Cleary. The Pope uttered “Young people of Ireland, I love you” to cheers from the large crowd, some even wearing my armbands.
The visit felt like a last ‘Hurrah’ for the church. Their influence on the ‘young people of Ireland’ was waning and about to be totally lost. It later transpired that both Cleary and Casey had led double lives having secretly fathered children. The inability of the church to deal with the moral outrage, while Gay Byrne demonised the mother of the child on prime time television, marked a turning point for many in catholic Ireland.
The shocking scandals to follow would rightly loosen its tight grip on Irish society. This church for old men would continue in the sign of the cross, eyes closed, in dark garb, alone at the top of the class.

It may seem contradictory, that after all I’ve written about the church, I’m now a devout atheist, with agnostic tendencies who still goes to mass each Sunday.

Religious belief is a personal matter for most but shouldn’t necessarily be confused with attending church. I still attend for many of the same reasons I liked benediction when I was younger. The music, the sense of peace and most of all the social and community aspect. When I look around the congregation, I don’t really care what others believe in, I’m just happy in the knowledge that we all seem to have arrived at the same place with many reasons for being there and with varying levels of belief to form what is most importantly, our community. And that, for me, is enough.