The Abject Missioner, Confirmation and the Need for Resolve

By Ted Crowley

That night, donkey's years ago, in a tiny village in the Wicklow mountains, the missioner, behind the bar, pulled one of the best pints of Guinness I've ever tasted. Otherwise, the pub was deserted, apart from my friend and I and its chastened publican; on a bar stool wedged against the door, to keep the regulars out.

The missioner, just down off the pulpit, had ended the parish mission with a final, devastating, cannonade of hellfire and brimstone. So shocked, awed, chased and chastised was the congregation, including the publican, that they'd renounced the devil, with all his works and pomps, before taking the unprecedented and more difficult step of renouncing the demon drink, itself. Evidently, the missioner's final struggle with drink had left him starved for a pint.

I knew, at a glance, that he was my kind of preacher, a man of scorching faith, who'd send sparks flying off church walls and who'd cauterize the black marks from the souls of the assembled congregation; the sort of poor lean man who's sent by God, from God, to cleanse the Sodoms and the Gomorras of this sinful world; including, if such exist, the dens of iniquity and the sinners of Co. Wicklow.

Somehow, he reminded me of St. Paul: hard, lean, frail, utterly dedicated, kind and human; taking a little wine, or Guinness, for his stomach's sake.

He also reminded me of Fr. Mapple, in Moby Dick, verbally chastising sailors with, "... In this world, shipmates, sin that pays its way can travel freely, and without a passport; whereas Virtue, if a pauper, is stopped at all frontiers..." And, this he preached before working-up a full head of steam.

With 13 grandchildren and their christenings, First Holy Communions and Confirmations, I'm working my way through 39 rites of passage. Today, it was a Confirmation in Greystones.

We sang and we responded from a booklet set-out like the script for a play:-

"All Stand:

All Sing: Alleluia...

Cantor: Come Holy Spirit...

All Sing: Alleluia...

GOSPEL

Bishop: The Lord be with you.

All: And also with you.

Bishop: A reading from the Holy Gospel...

All: Glory to you Lord..."

And so it went, on and on, for 19 pages.

Only once did it awaken me sufficient to turn up an ear, to hear:

"I see his blood upon the rose
and in the stars the glory of his eyes.
His body gleams amid eternal snows.
His tears fall from the skies..."

And there I was, throughout, stinking of mothballs in the old suit, like a newly shorn sheep, a stranger to the lambs, talking politely to the other newly shorn sheep, a phoney, out of my working trousers, out of close contact with the youngsters, when they're themselves and I'm myself, shouting and nagging, "Ah! for feck's sake Conor (or Stephen or Alan), what did I tell you? - hold the square in your other hand! - measure twice, cut once! - put away that bleddy Mr. Freeze! - mind your fingers on the saw! - oh bleddy hell!, do ye know what? - it's backwards ye're going! - give it to me! before we're covered in your watery blood."

But, today, it wasn't a bit like that. Neither the missioner, St. Paul, nor Fr. Mapple were there, to lay it into the youngsters, so that they'd never forget their Confirmation day and the pledges they'd taken by rote, in a group, like sipping lukewarm watery milk and water.

As sure as I'm bitching like this, within a year or two, if not already, it won't be milk and water they'll be tempted to take. Instead, it'll be their first alcoholic drink or shot of drugs, and the furthest thing from their minds is likely to be their Confirmation day; its lukewarm ceremonies and the pledges they took, without appreciating what they said, because they hardly said anything, as individuals; they just mumbled along with the crowd, too young to know any better.

It won't be safe for them, from here on in, to mumble along with the crowd. They'll need to know, in no uncertain terms. They'll need tons of individuality and resolve. I hope they'll remember their crotchety auld Grandad and what he so roughly preached, if they forget the words of the mild-mannered and gentle bishop.

There were no visions after the sermon, just counting their takings, cameras, tea and biscuits.