I'm just writing for myself, tonight. As I used to do at the very beginning of this road. So, pay no heed. Just typing some words without much thought - curious to observe what spits out. On a phone, and not on my notebook - which is my usual writing routine.
The sky outside is black and clear and bejeweled with diamonds. I'm lying on my couch - aging - and wondering about matters great and small. Alongside me is my semi-faithful Jack Russell, Coco, who is aging too. She's fifteen and I've noticed recently it takes her a few attempts to jump up onto the couch beside me now. Not as sprightly as even a year ago. Similiar to myself, I suppose. As it now takes me a couple of shots to creak down off the same settee. She seems more peaceful than I, tonight, though.
On Good Friday, I drove to Galway to take a knee and offer up some prayers to the other world. I got way-laid and made a detour to meet someone for a coffee. So, I arrived at maybe 3:30pm instead of earlier and walked slap bang into the middle of the Good Friday service. It had not been my intention to attend the service but merely to say a decade of the Rosary and light some candles. But, what's meant for you won't pass you by, as they say.
As I took my position on a pew at the back of the cathedral I noticed the Bishop of Galway was in attendance. A reminder that Good Friday is a bit like an All-Ireland final Sunday for the Catholic Church. The crucification of Jesus was playing out on the altar. Perfect timing, I thought to myself.
Within a few minutes the crucification reading was at an end and the main celebrant of the Good Friday service moved to the pulpit to deliver his sermon. On the same weekend the clocks move forward into summer-time, the priest insisted on setting the clock to our darkest winter. Back a couple of years to the Covid era and tuning his congregation into vaccinations. Vaccinations and immunonisations to be precise.
An analogy began to emerge comparing how a vaccine operated - injecting live virus to stimulate an immune response - to then equating this process, I believe, to how the blood of Christ might be considered to work in the bodies of the faithful.
I can't say for certain, though.
Because I had an immediate physical reaction to the words coming out of his mouth. Quite literally, I spontaneously jumped out of my seat and left the packed cathedral. As fast as my shoe leather could carry me. The episode hit home a point to me.
Hard.
The pillars of our society, whether church or state, never properly apologise for their wrongdoings or coercions. Ever. Never do they fully atone for their promoted sins. If they atone at all, that is. Instead, they seem to covertly advertise them. Whether it be the covid era of the state, or the child abuse era of the church. These twin towers will never recover while they're permitted to get away with skipping the confessional box so often. So, there can never be full restoration or faith in their structures. Only future abuses are likely. Probable even.
Emboldened they'll vaccinate the blood of Jesus, straight from the preacher's podium , to whitewash their sins. If that is the course of action required. I'm not sure how many masses are in my future with sermons kicking off like this one. A rage I thought had died quite awhile ago still burns a little inside me, I guess. The embers not quite white-hot but smoldering nonetheless.
Thoughts of this episode generates enough energy to lift me off the couch. I move outside to smoke another cigarette and think. White, puffy clouds now move low across the sky. Non-chalantly and without a care in the world. Another glimpse of the beauty in the natural world.
Where is the spirit of myself supposed to be consistently regenerated, I ponder. These men of the cloth are too often inconsistent and unbrave and getting in the way. Not bad men, per se, but what kind are they exactly?
I don’t know the answer to these questions above. I'm not even certain I understand the questions I need to explore half the time. But, there was a truth in my reaction to that sermon and one which I can't seem to ignore. Indeed, I incressingly feel it’s dangerous to my spirit to ignore it. Ultimately, that’s the fucking problem isn't it?
Hmmmm.
Anyway, a few hours after my cathedral escape, I drove ninety minutes to a lake high up in the connemara hills. My fourth appearance at this spot in the seven days. Searching for something. On the way, I listened to some music and conjured up a short protection prayer for myself. Then, recited it a few times in my head until I was happy with the results and certain I would remember it in future. An uncertain man stepping through uncertain times.
On the edge of the lake I asked for guidance and offered what little I had within me in return. A prayer to the lapping waters, mountains and stars. I felt a little of his presence and truth blowing through the wind and watering my eyes.
A light sparked. So, I turned and muttered. Cursed and barked.
Saddled with hope I drove away.
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Nice piece, share your sentiments. That moment must have been very jarring. Stay dangerous.
I go to a wonderful Benedictine priory called Silverstream, never have to listen to any of that bs there thankfully. The pope is trying to put a stop to their ways of course. Fear no doubt. Great words Gerry, pity more people don’t kick back against the propaganda, so many deaths and injuries like mine because of lies and liars like the current pope