Q&A

After nearly seven months on the Emerald Isle, working and living in what was once one of the most volatile and violent places on Earth, there is a recurring question that keeps popping up from back home: ‘Why is so much animosity still present in Northern Ireland? With as far as they’ve come, why is there still so much hatred?’ Good question. I’ve posed this to some people who I’ve gotten to know here; some of the women and the men who I work with on a daily basis, who grew up here, who lived through the Troubles and who are now trying to live on the other side of it. Unfortunately, they don’t know either. It all goes back to 1640 when the whole Plantation began. (If you haven’t read ‘History Lesson,’ or if it’s been a while, pause now to go back and get the nutshell history of Northern Ireland from the 1640’s to the present.)

As far as I can see, and as far as a lot of people are concerned, it’s more a habit than anything else. Catholics hate Protestants. It’s just how it is. But the odd thing is I haven’t seen this attitude played out except in a select few instances. (So select, in fact, I can count them on one hand with fingers left over.) I work with two men in the Men’s Group at WAVE, Gary and Ciran. Gary grew up in the Shankill (read: Protestant) and Ciran grew up in the Falls (read: Catholic.) Even today people from these bordering neighborhoods in West Belfast don’t mix, or mix rarely but only in neutral territory, but Gary and Ciran are nearly inseparable. By their own admission they probably grew up throwing rocks and bottles at each other and setting fire to each other’s houses. But they’ve managed to gain a sense that there has to be something bigger than all this fighting; there has to be something else than carrying around hatred for your whole life. They’ve managed to find the human in each other and it’s a pretty cool thing.

St. Patrick’s Day has just passed, and yes, it was quite an experience. Apart from the fact that we (the other YAVs and I) were able to celebrate St. Paddy’s in Ireland (the island of Ireland, not the country) was pretty cool. But it was also quite an experience to see how much of a cross-community event it was. Typically, St. Pat’s is seen as a ‘Catholic holiday’ while the 12^th of July is seen as a ‘Protestant holiday.’ (That gets us into marching season and bonfires, which we’ll cover when we get there. But back to March 17.) There was a parade from City Hall with floats and bands and performers and all the usual parade paraphernalia. There was green everywhere—of course—and lots of flags. The Irish Tri-Color was flown, worn, paraded, painted and displayed by nearly everyone. But even St. George’s Cross, the flag most associated with Ulster and Protestantism, was displayed and used in the parade. There was nothing but a jovial atmosphere, a celebratory time, people enjoying being off work and out of school. It was also a gorgeous day with clear sunny skies. Even at the pubs later that day and into the evening it was upbeat, pleasant and like any other holiday. (For pictures, click the link at left for the web album 'Pipes, Pints and Patrick'.) Prior to the holiday I kept getting warnings from people to stay out of certain places—mostly around the university area—since riots and fights were expected. My thought was, ‘Does this have more to do with St. Patrick’s Day in a religiously and politically unstable environment or the fact that large numbers of college students living in one of the most densely populated areas in the UK have an excuse to drink mass quantities of alcohol?’ Having been a recent college student, I’m gonna say the latter. (Not to say that politics and religion didn’t play any role at all, but as far as I know, there were no major riots or fights this year.)

Many of the youth that I work with go to integrated schools and have Catholic friends (and Muslim friends and agnostic friends and gypsy friends…) and they don’t see the big deal either. Now, they’re not necessarily going to go running through the opposing neighborhood at night waving a Union Jack, but at least they know and admit that there are real people, kids just like themselves, on the other side of that peace wall. That’s a big step forward.

So why all the animosity still? It doesn’t appear that anyone knows. Why have more miles of peace wall gone up in the last 12 years since the ‘Good Friday’ Agreement than in the 30 years before it? I can’t tell you. But is there hope? Yes. And is there love? Yes. Eventually, I’m sure we won’t need the answers to these questions anymore, because no one will have a reason to ask them.

Ash Wednesday

Yeah, I realize Ash Wednesday was a while ago, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still write about it. So here goes…

I asked my friend and co-worker, Hedley, at the WAVE Centre if our church—he happens to attend Fortwilliam and Macrory, too, with his wife and two lovely and rambunctious boys—offered the imposition of ashes on Ash Wednesday. After blinking several times while staring at me as though I had asked him if there were piranhas in the Lagan River, he finally just said simply, ‘Uh…no. That would be a…uh…Catholic thing. And the Church of Ireland.’ Right. It occurred to me that Ash Wednesday was actually the only day back home that you could tell who the Catholic kids were. They always showed up late for class with dirt on their foreheads. I wondered how much more noticed the ‘dirt’ would be in mixed North Belfast, especially since I had to go to work at the WAVE House that same afternoon and religion is generally left at the door. Nonetheless, I decided to find an Ash Wednesday service to attend.

FMPC has a covenant relationship with the parish ‘next door,’ Holy Family. Holy Family Catholic Church is only a short walk from my house, so after some sleuthing at the Newington Day Centre (the pensioner’s day centre I work at on Tuesdays which happens to be a Catholic organization in Holy Family’s parish) I was headed to the service at 9.15am on Ash Wednesday morning.

At this point in the story you need to know that apart from knowing a few Catholics in high school I knew very little about services in a Catholic church. The closest thing to a Catholic service I had been to was high-church Episcopal services in college. So here I was in a foreign city in a foreign country going to a very foreign church service in a place where the answers to such questions as ‘Where do you go to church?’ used to (and sometimes still do) get you shot. Brilliant.

I took a seat in the back—because that’s what you do when you’re a) a foreigner and b) a Presbyterian—and knew I was immediately singled out as being non-Catholic for not genuflecting. Oh well. I was the only one who seemed to really notice or care. A chime was sounded at the start of the service (hmmm…interesting…that’s how we start services at home in my PC(USA) congregation) the priest processed in with an elder, took his place at the pulpit and said, ‘The LORD be with you!’ The Pavlovian response was instantaneous: ‘And also with you!’ Wow! Something I actually knew. How exciting. There were some prayers offered—I stood when everyone else stood, I knelt when everyone else knelt—and then the Scripture was read. A woman came forward, read the Scripture and finished with, ‘The Word of the LORD.’ Again I found myself drooling words like one of Pavlov’s dogs; ‘Thanks be to God.’ This was incredible! So many familiar things were going on. The imposition of ashes was offered, and I went forward with everyone else to get a little ‘head hug’ from the priest. He made the sign of the cross on my forehead and commissioned me with the words, ‘Turn from sin and go with the Gospel.’

Once we all returned to our seats, the Eucharist began. Now, let me just say for myself that I did know enough to not take Holy Communion in the Catholic Church, although I must admit that if I had been in a place where I was assured that no one knew me I probably would have. The priest began with some readings and blessings that I had never heard before, but then sure enough said, ‘The LORD be with you!’

Congregation: ‘And also with you.’

Priest: ‘Lift up your hearts!’

Congregation: ‘We lift them up to the LORD!’

Priest: ‘Give thanks to the LORD!’

Congregation: ‘It is right to give our thanks and praise!’

A few phrases later he began into, ‘…let us join in with the angels saying,’ and we all joined in, ‘Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the LORD! Hosanna in the highest!’

At this point I was nearly on the floor in shock. This liturgy could have been straight out of my bulletin back home. I’d been saying it for years, I had it memorized and here I was reciting it with complete strangers. How amazing.

Once the elements had been served (by intinction, by the way, also something very familiar) there was one last part of the service to be celebrated. The priest stood with his arms out as though embracing the whole congregation. ‘The peace of Christ be with you all. Greet one another with a sign of peace.’ I passed peace with complete strangers. People I had never met before. A Protestant among Catholics. A stranger in a strange land.

The irony was not lost on me. I was raised in a Protestant church, I work in a Protestant church, and I have volunteered a year of my life to helping the Protestant church reconcile with itself and others. I was in a foreign city in a foreign country going to a very foreign church service. In a land of peace walls topped with barbed wire and broken glass built for keeping Protestants and Catholics apart long enough to stop killing each other, I found solace, familiarity and tradition deep within the other side. Perhaps we’re not so different after all.