066-915 0530 || 
As youngsters we greeted its arrival with glee. To us it was no different than a matinee in the Phoenix Cinema or the circus at the Brewery or Fair Field. It was a novelty, an occasion to look forward to and break the tedium of school work. The Christian Brother explained that the purpose of the mission was to rejuvenate and strengthen our faith. Such matters were well beyond our understanding, however, our curiosity was certainly aroused. We were instructed to attend the rosary each evening and the children’s sodality. This was a word which was totally new to us but it sounded important and we weren’t going to miss the gig for dear life.
On the first evening a number of stalls were set up outside the church bedecked with religious memorabilia. Children never miss an opportunity to spend their parents’ hard earned cash and I had a pocket full of coppers and half a crown which I borrowed from my grandmother’s purse (Goid gan peacha) as I eyed the desired objects.
There were statues galore such as The Crucifixion, The Blessed Virgin, The Holy Family and an assortment of saints to comprise a football team, including Saint Patrick, Saint Bridget, Saint Brendan, Saint Bernadette and Saint Colmcille. I was amazed at the interest which the people showed in the little figures, these icons were like modern day pop stars or professional footballers. Can you imagine Saint Messi, Saint Ronaldo or Saint Beckham!
We looked in awe at the statue of Saint Martin de Porres, complete with brush in hand and a dog, cat and mouse eating in peace from the same dish! How extraordinary we thought! A black saint and all the animals so contented. By the following evening he was sold out. Other popular choices were Saint Jude (Patron saint for hopeless cases) Saint Christopher (Patron saint for a safe journey) Saint Anthony (Patron saint of lost and stolen articles) and The Child of Prague (deemed to have influence over the weather and often left out in the garden the night before a wedding to ensure a fine day!) There is little doubt but our parents believed in the supernatural powers of these saints and prayed to them nightly.
Another stall contained scapulars, rosary beads of diverse colours and a large range of crucifixes from the minute to the large. There was a great selection of holy water fonts, holy water from Lourdes, miraculous medals, pictures of the Sacred Heart, Our Lord, The Last Supper, Pope John 23rd, The Blessed Virgin Mary, The Nativity, and enough holy candles to keep the town of Dingle lit up for a month. The final stall was stacked high with reading material in relation to the lives of the saints, mass books, prayer books, children’s bibles, adult bibles and many more in relation to the faith. My head was spinning and I finally bought two medals and a beautiful picture of Jesus and the apostles at the Sea of Galilee. I met my friend Gerry and I was raging when he displayed his purchase, a statue with his own name, Saint Gerard (whom I later found out was the patron saint of expectant mothers).
There was a carnival atmosphere and we attended the ceremonies without fail. We were now familiar with the vibes and gossip about the preachers of yore and how they imparted the fear of God among the community. We heard talk that the mission group contained a mild and soft hearted priest who was counterbalanced by one who issued threats of fire and brimstone! We were prepared especially for confession and the whole class was brought to church on a Friday morning for this special occasion. We were excited to be meeting the mission priests and to experience our first sermon and confession. Our Teagasc Criostaí had jumped right to the top of the queue and we were put through the ringer by our teacher in relation to the Ten Commandments, especially the fourth (Honour Thy Father and Thy Mother) and the seventh (Thou shalt not steal). Furthermore, we learned na paidreacha, especially the Ár n-Athair, Sé Do Bheatha Mhuire and act of contrition de ghlan Mheabhair until we knew them backwards. I was both excited and apprehensive as I entered the confession box. In ainm an athair agus an mhic agus an spriod naomh amen….Bless me father for I have sinned…. I used a bad word about my grandmother….I forgot to say my prayers before meals and didn’t obey my parents because I was playing football….” All was going fine and the missionary gave me penance of one Our Father and three Hail Marys! Then I began to recite my act of contrition, however, with all the commotion I got confused. I started again and again…. The priest became impatient and asked me my name. Alarm bells began to ring in my mind. Immediately, I knew that I would be reported to my teacher. This was no time for heroics, I gave him a false name. I had told a lie in the confession box. Yes a mortal sin. I had condemned myself to everlasting suffering in hell. My guardian angel must have been working overtime because the missionary forgot the specific name. The next day at school the brother enquired as to which boy didn’t know his act of contrition. He intimated that there would be serious consequences for the whole class if the culprit didn’t come forward. The pressure was on, but I kept my big gob shut and looked around the class at the other boys for signs of guilt. There was some shuffling of feet and heavy sighs but luck was on my side. The bell rang for am lón and my bacon was saved, but what about my appointment with the devil and hell!?
Worse was to follow after the first week of continuous rosaries, adorations and children’s sodality. Our interest began to wane and the dip stick measuring enthusiasm began to dip precariously low. While attending an evening service I was engaged in a good cogarmugger with Thomas Flahive (Holy Ground) and Maurice O’Connor (Bridge House). From the corner of my eye I noticed Br. Hannon craning his neck and squinting his eyes from the choir in our direction. I quietly drifted out to the edge of the seat, but too late! The damage was done. The following afternoon our identity had been revealed and we were duly summoned to Br. Hannon’s room. We felt the pangs of terror and didn’t speak.
It was payback time and an almighty trouncing awaited. I courteously opened the door and allowed my fellow miscreants to proceed inside. Impulsively, I gently closed the door behind them, swung around and made good my escape. Self-preservation has no shame or boundaries. I had seditiously survived, perhaps Charles Darwin would approve re; the survival of the fittest. Although, morally corrupt I had come through the debacle unscathed. However, deep down inside I knew that it was only a temporary reprieve. I was heading from the frying pan to the fire! Wrong! I was tumbling headlong from the pan to the furness. I had won the battle but ultimately would lose the war by a proverbial mile. I had now committed three mortal sins. Grand larceny from my grandmother’s purse, false witness in the confession box, and regretfully the denial and treachery of my friends. That night I had a horrid tromluí and began to recall the missioner’s sermon about Saint Peter denying Jesus three times before dawn. I thought I heard the cock crowing from Dick Mack’s farmyard and saw the helpless Peter being crucified upside-down. The dream began to gather pace and I was now been led up Goat Street with my cross on the way to Knockacairn. The natives began to jeer at me...”Thief…sinner…coward…” A greyhound rushed out of Johnny the Posts and snapped at my heels. Customers from McCarthy’s bar threw barmbracks and I barely escaped the clutches of the baying crowds at Mike Kennedy’s bar and boot shop. Finally, two beagles and a bugler rushed forth from John Lynch’s emporium, youths began throwing scratheens and Katie Buck Cat Griffin and Katie Kelly were waving their shawls and shouting “ Crucify him, crucify him, crucify him”. I awoke in a lather of sweat! Still alive, free and unpunished. Remarkably, when I returned to school on the following week the mission had left town. Br. Hannon had greater fish to chastise and I escaped through the meshes. My luck had held out but I was still deeply perturbed. During the previous month the brother had been ranting and raving about the power of the Holy Ghost. He had explained in vivid detail that he was everywhere. Furthermore, he knew everything and especially if we committed any sins! This caused great concern and mental fatigue. I was sure that that the Holy Ghost was going to shaft me. I was trapped. One of the lads confided in me that the Holy Ghost visited your room at night to check if you had said your night time prayers. I prayed hard to my guardian angel to protect me, not from sin but from the Holy Ghost. Next day I decided to visit my uncles (Foxy Johns) hardware shop to do some more borrowing. On this occasion it was a swanky new torch and batteries. As I lay in bed that night, I paid special attention for any eerie noise or perhaps shiny eyes in the dark! But alas, no. Fair play to my guardian angel he must have been working overtime. Morning came and I was still ahead of the game! Before the missioners departed Dingle, they paid a final visit to the school. In fairness they were full of praise for our enthusiasm and participation in the ceremonies and we were duly rewarded with no obair bhaile. However, they couldn’t leave without mentioning the power of the Holy Ghost and especially his ever presence everywhere. Oh my lord! This third part of god which I couldn’t understand was back on the agenda. I was as innocent as a tadpole about to be consumed by a king fisher! I was back on a war footing and my conscious was wrecking my head. For the next few evenings I changed into my pyjamas under the blankets in case you know who might see you know what! Eventually, my phobia of the Spriod Naomh abated and I relapsed into my sinful ways! Revenge is best served cold and eventually, I would get my comeuppance. Br. Lennon, Br. Harkin and Br. Bourke would tip the balance sheet in their favour and I repaid my dues in purgatory and in hell.
Time has slipped bye and the mission and missionaries of long ago and even the ones of my youth bare no resemblance to the present. Gone are the stalls, the packed sodalities and fire and brimstone sermons. The crimes of my youth have faded into oblivion, but the legacy of guilt still remains. I am now much older and perhaps a little wiser, but the mission of life still continues!
