Irish Church-Prayers

As I sat in one of the back pews of Kilkenny’s Black Abbey, a woman entered through the paneled front doors to approach the shrines of the saints. Her earrings were glimmering little crosses, her dark hair was ruffled, and she wheezed quietly as she finished her prayers and moved along to light her candles. That wheezing scored the visits of two others: an older man who knelt and prayed and rose slowly, and a middle-aged woman in workout gear underneath her jacket. All three came to light candles and clasp their hands, and their heads were downcast before the carved ceilings and luminous stained glass. Unlike me, and unlike the three Spanish travelers who clustered in the back row. We took in the majestic sight as the parishioners bowed over and over.

But I did pray; I’ve made a point to pray in every cathedral and church I visit. Looming stone architecture, Gothic but cheerful with the horizon blazing in from outside, is a novelty to see the first hundred times, but the purpose of the buildings is never lost on me. After a circular walk through the shrines and flickering candles, I find a pew midway from the front and sit as silently as I can. My backpack goes at my side, and my hands come together across my thighs as I lean forward. In the silence I let my head hang loose, and my eyes close all on their own. And from here I pray for the Catholic church.

To be clear, I am not a Catholic. Jesus is Lord, and all the denomination emphasis only seems to stray from that fact. My father was raised a casual Catholic, but he and my mother determined we children wouldn’t be once they found their faith. Until I had come to sit in Irish cathedrals and churches, I had rarely prayed for the Church (capital-C “Church,” the institution located in the Vatican). The Catholic firestorm of covered-up sexual abuse had made me reluctant. In many ways, it still does.

On the morning I arrived in Ireland, the pope flew into the same airport my mother and I had left only an hour or two before. Outside, the first protestor was already waiting in the center of a roundabout. His sign read “Arrest the Pope.” He wouldn’t be alone by the end of the day. Most of the Dubliners who mentioned the papal visit were ambivalent, conflicted but remaining at a firm distance. Outrage at hypocrisy was like a scent wafting up from their words. In its extended history on the island, Catholicism has done a number on the Irish. The institution called to give care and comfort has too often given trauma and secrecy instead. Ireland is still coming to terms with these betrayals. So why do I pray for the Church?

It’s the redemption. However far off the Church may be, all things are redeemable in Christ. Certainly I could quote Scripture to back myself up on this one, though, to anyone disillusioned with Christian teachings—and there are many—that doesn’t cut it. But God’s words on the page don’t operate alone, as if they were two-dimensional and constrained by the covers. They leap free onto what can be seen. And I can see the truth in the beauty of these churches. To hear only the faint winds outside shouldn’t be possible in such a large space, but the air is filled with a reverent silence like descending snow. Dozens of candles flicker solemnly beneath it. Arrayed scenes of Jesus and His followers are immortalized in the stained-glass overhead. At the touch of the Irish sun, the floor and the pillars are smattered with God’s palette of vibrant, projected colors. These are the beauties which, to me, can only be divinely-inspired. Through God the Church of centuries past was able to construct these hallowed wonders. Through God the Church was able to provide vital spiritual education. As it still can today, the Church has borne godly witness to a world badly in need of it. God’s legacy, plainly evident in the stones erected so long ago, is not yet extinguished. It’s too beautiful to be put out.

In St. John the Evangelist, the first church I spotted from the train station, I sat to pray as a small choir rehearsed in the upstairs balcony behind me. The resonant voices began first, joined by an organ. When these two combined and unfurled to fill the church, my prayers were choked off, first in the throat, then entirely as my lips twisted closed. I teared up and cried in that pew. Even now I’m not entirely sure why. Humility, or grace, or inadequacy, all things I feel in a church setting. They greeted me gently in St. John, St. Canice’s, the Black Abbey, and St. Mary’s. Around me, their singular ambience felt just like the feet of God as I knelt down.

Reforms of the Catholic church are due. If only they wouldn’t come from vengeance. I pray they would come from justice, from hearts longing for the good which God used the Church to do. In the darkness behind my eyes, head lowered under the vaulted ceilings of these testaments, I try to pray earnestly. God, heal the children, adolescents, and young men who have been grievously abused. Steady the faith of the parishioners who seek you. Guide the honorable clergy who still serve you faithfully. Let the leadership of the Church submit to Your justice, that Your people may heal. Amen.