THAT'S MEN:Few portraits of the lives of the isolated clergy
I PAUSED at one of my chaotic bookshelves the other day when I spotted a frayed copy of the Irish writer Richard Power's book, The Hungry Grass. Power died in 1970, the year following the first publication of the now out-of-print novel, pivoting around the final days of a cantankerous priest, Fr Conroy, the sort of man even fellow priests found daunting.
Dipping into it I realised that this fine novel is one of the few portraits we have of the isolation of men who once wielded power in their parishes. When you grew up in Ireland during the heyday of the Catholic Church you associated diocesan priests with power – but many, I think, were lonely men.
Their power cut them off from a full engagement with the lives of the surrounding people. Adding to their isolation was the celibacy rule. The closest female company they had was a housekeeper. The parish kowtowed to them, so the chances of an unguarded, spontaneous, social relationship were remote.
When did the penny drop for young men on the way to becoming priests? Each, at some stage, announced to family that he was going to become a priest. At once he became their pride and joy. It used to be said that the twin status symbols of the rich Meath farmer were a priest in the parish and a bull in the yard.
There was no way out once you had made your intentions public – unless you were prepared to bring shame on yourself and your family. To drop out before ordination was to be a “spoiled priest”. To face that opprobrium must have been an almost impossible prospect – though some did. Most who were training as priests saw the day of ordination, I am sure, as the best of their lives, but others must have gone through the ceremony with heavy hearts.
Perhaps I am being unjustifiably bleak about all this. There was a camaraderie among priests themselves (and this is certainly evident from Power’s book), and there were weddings and funerals to go to. It was considered alright by the parish for the priest to go horse racing or to play for the GAA. Some priests became powerhouses of innovation, promoting co-ops, building schools and so on.
But in many cases, loneliness must have insinuated itself into their hearts. And what was it like to have to sit in the confessional, listening to the sins and worries of the parish, observing a flow of activity in which they could not participate except, in some cases, secretly?
Did they have too much power? Of course. Did some abuse that power? Of course. Still, you have to have some respect for what these men put themselves through for the sake of a church which demanded immense sacrifices of them.
You can get Richard Power’s novel on the internet. If you read it, you will gain an insight into a class of men who are dying out in front of our eyes.
Last week, I wrote about research which suggests that engaging in enjoyable activities might help people to get out of a bad depression. I pointed out that people who are depressed are likely to resist any attempts to involve them in fun activities and so need friends to drag them along.
Noel, a civil servant who has suffered from severe depression for years, agrees.
“I have found over the years that the only successful therapy for me has been sport, the good and enjoyable company of my friends and, more importantly, the enjoyment I have gotten from involving myself in social activities with those friends,” he comments.
“I have taken pills and tried talking therapies. The pills work for a while but there is a heavy chemical burden on the body involved, and talking therapies, despite all of the positive press they get, do not necessarily work for everyone. In my own case the perseverance of one good friend in particular has helped me to survive.”
Padraig OMorain (pomorain@ireland.com) is a counsellor accredited by the Irish Association for Counselling and Psychotherapy. His book, Light Mind – Mindfulness for Daily Living, is published by Veritas. His monthly mindfulness newsletter is available free on request