Studies: An Irish Quarterly Review, Winter 2022, Vol 111, No 444

Editor

Dermot Roantree

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John Looby SJ (Chair); Stephen Collins; Kevin Hargaden; Peadar Kirby; Gerry O’Hanlon SJ; Dermot Roantree (Editor); Cecilia West; Tony White.

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An Irish Quarterly Review

Studies

SUBSCRIPTIONS

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Alan Bradley

Peter Byrne & Co. Brennan Insurances Clongowes Wood College and Community Teresa Cooney Anne Dunne

Michael and Cecily Farrell Michael Gill Peter and Kate McGonigal

Patrons

John and Patricia Monaghan

John B. Morgan NUI Galway Margaret V. O’Connell Vincent O’Doherty James O’Driscoll Carmel and William O’Grady James F. O’Higgins Conleth Pendred Liz and Dick Reeves

Cover photo: Quin Abbey, Co. Clare. Photo by Dermot Roantree (2022)

Contents

Changing Catholic Culture

Editorial 330 Articles

Illuminating Dark Times: The Surprising Relevance of Catholic Social Teaching Anna Rowlands 339

‘Going Deep, Going Forth, Going Together’, Part II: Seeking Meaning in a Transformed World Brendan Leahy 352

A Human Being Fully Alive Pádraig Ó Tuama 369

Taking Back Control: The Role of the EU John O’Hagan 378

Sovereignty and the National Interest Erik Jones 392

An Irish Dante, Part II: A Dantean Afterlife Daragh O’Connell 401

‘The Queen She Came to Call on Us’ Dermot McCarthy 412

Partition: Are There Two Nations on the Island of Ireland, and Could They Be Fused into One? John Bruton 418

Writing History with Female Religious Communities: Medieval and Modern Hagiography Máirín MacCarron 427

Three Parables from Luke: The Vision of Peter Steele SJ Gerald O’Collins 434

Abbé Edgeworth de Firmont: Confessor to the King John Hedigan 441

Book Reviews

Crawford Gribben, The Rise and Fall of Christian Ireland

Kevin Hargaden 454

John Mulqueen, ‘An Alien Ideology’: Cold War Perceptions of the Irish Republican Left Oliver Rafferty 457

Studies – Index 2022 460

In his conversation with the editors of Jesuit journals in Europe last May (see Studies, autumn 2022), Pope Francis recalled the acute hostility of some conservative Catholics towards the Second Vatican Council during its aftermath, even among the Jesuits themselves. Some Jesuits tried to derail the efforts of Pedro Arrupe, superior general from 1965 to 1984, to take the Council to heart and see the promotion of justice as ‘an absolute requirement’ of the service of faith, and to reframe the Society’s mission accordingly. Francis remembered one Jesuit ranting bitterly against Arrupe and his general assistant, Jean-Yves Calvez, saying, ‘The happiest day of my life will be when I see them hanging from the gallows in St Peter’s Square’.

Why was Pope Francis making so much of this? Because, he said, ‘the non-acceptance of the Council’ has once again become a critical problem for the Church. ‘Restorationism has come to gag the Council’, he remarked, the ‘restorers’ being traditionalists, many of whom see their partial or total rejection of Vatican II and their deep dislike of Francis as emblems of their fidelity to a Church that will not and cannot change. According to their understanding, it is not only the formal teachings of the Church that are unchangeable, but also an array of longstanding perspectives, judgements, and practices which, taken together, constitute a normative Catholic stance, and – despite the best efforts of rogue popes and bishops – the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.

What is on show here is what Bernard Lonergan characterised as a ‘classicist worldview’. It stresses the fixed identity of human nature rather than its contingent elements. Its method is to move from the eternal and the universal to the temporal and the specific. For traditionalists with this worldview, human history is mostly a sorry tale of departure from an original ideal, of deviation from the straight path of the past; it began with a fall, and the temporal order (literally, the ‘secular’) has borne the mark of Adam ever since. It is for the Church then to defend the unchangeable against the constant pressure to change, a pressure which, since the Reformation at least, could be expected to come from outside. And what is needed for this defence is strong centralised government and a magisterial culture of censure and condemnation.

Vatican II, according to this narrative, changed everything. It was when the Church decided to negotiate with the enemy rather than continue to fight

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the good fight against it. A new view of things in the Church began to take shape at the Council, but this was nothing but a masquerade, traditionalists believe, a veil of churchy language draped over a body of secular pieties. What the Council did, they say, is little more than appropriate the values of the eighteenth-century Enlightenment and the revolutionary era which followed – appropriate, that is, the very tenets it had railed against for over 150 years: liberté, égalité, fraternité, and the other ‘simple and incontestable principles’ of the French Declaration of Human Rights. How could these have been false then but true now? Truth, if it is truth at all, is unchanging. But at Vatican II, so this narrative goes, the secularising modernists won, and the Church, as St Paul said of his fellow-worker Demas, fell in love with the present world. The Council fathers sought the approval of the secular culture around them, so no surprise if the new spirit they introduced bore the mark of the immanentist ideologies that emerged from the age of reason – liberalism, Marxism, positivism, relativism, and the like.

There is, however, another way to read the history of the modern Church. It corresponds in good part to the worldview which Lonergan posed as classicism’s opposite. He called it ‘historical consciousness’ or ‘historical mindedness’. It means recognising that apart from immutable human nature there is also variable human historicity, and what this brings to our endeavours is a need for ‘changing forms, structures, methods’. According to this understanding, existence in history is not an incidental aspect of our nature – or indeed of the life of the Church. It is constitutive. And our historical situatedness, with all the limitations it sets on our capacity to apprehend eternal truths, presents us with a sense of tradition as culturally and linguistically mediated, and as always in need of interrogation in the light of new realities. Truth, of course, is not relative, but our apprehension of it most certainly is.

Lonergan’s distinction between classicism and historical mindedness should not be applied too rigidly, but it does hold a definite heuristic value. It helps to identify where the fault line lies in the Church these days – the line that distinguishes those who are perturbed to a greater or lesser extent by rumours of change in the Church from those who are not. It should be noted, though, that these worldviews are not, in the first place, drawn from theology, whatever their exponents might claim. They are standpoints that are fixed by a set of undergirding principles and presuppositions which themselves need to be examined and justified. There is work to be done here by Catholics of

both stripes if they are ever to find themselves on the same page: each needs to pay respectful attention to the other’s examination and justification of their own standpoint. This is where fruitful disputation may take place.

If traditionalists are to take serious issue with the judgements or changes introduced by the Council or the Pope, it is imperative that they give close attention to the principles and presuppositions which underlie them. It has happened many times in the history of the Church that the received understanding of a doctrine has shown itself to be inadequate to the task of making sense of emerging concrete circumstances. At such times the Church must revisit the doctrine in the light of the foundational truths of revelation. There have been dramatic shifts in the Church’s understanding of, for example, the necessity of the Church for salvation, the nature of sin, pardon and penance, the relationship between Christ and his Church and the Eucharist, the fate of unbaptized infants, freedom of conscience and religion, and so on, precisely because new political, intellectual or pastoral situations required a re-think about the meaning or consequences of more ‘determinative’ doctrines – doctrines such as the universal salvific will, God’s infinite justice and mercy, or the dignity of the human person. This, you could say, is traditionally how the Church has understood tradition – not as, in the phrase of Yves Congar, ‘the mechanical transmission of a passive deposit’ but as the dynamic reception of revelation by living subjects who live in history, a history that responds to the questions of time. Present-day traditionalism, by contrast, is a novelty.

One determinative doctrine of the Church in particular helped to set the programme of reform and renewal in the Council. It is the doctrine of the imago Dei, the revelation that every person bears the stamp of God’s image and has the infinite dignity that goes with that. Also, that human personhood is essentially relational, given that the God in whose image we are made is in fact a dynamic community of persons – a Trinity. Our selfhood is therefore constitutively implicated in the lives of other selves. We exist to be in solidarity with them. What this insight gave the Council, to put it in hermeneutical terms, was a horizon of assumptions and values which shaped its concrete insights and judgements about the world. A new worldview, precisely.

The opening pages of Henri de Lubac’s magisterial book Catholicism (first published in 1938) effectively prefigures all of this. Drawing heavily on the Fathers of the Church, de Lubac emphasizes that the supernatural dignity

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of baptized Christians rests on the natural dignity of all of humankind. Also, that the unity of the Church supposes a prior unity of the whole human race. You can’t have one without the other. And both rest on the doctrine, which first appears in Genesis and is never far from the pages of either Scripture or the early Fathers, that all persons were made ‘in the one image of the one God’ and that ‘the divine image does not differ from one individual to another’.

This is immensely consequential. In a sense, all the main doctrines of the Council concerning the Church itself can be traced back to the equal dignity of its baptized members, and all the main doctrines concerning the Church in the world can be traced back to the equal natural dignity of all people. Hence, the ecclesiology of the constitution of the Church, Lumen Gentium, begins with the unity of all members in the body of Christ and the participation of each one of them in Christ’s three-fold office of priest, prophet, and king. Only after this affirmation can differentiations of office or vocation be made. Much follows from this: the doctrine of the common priesthood of the faithful; the need for the active participation of the laity in the liturgy; the recognition of the lay state as a vocation; the emphasis on authority in the Church as service; the role of collegiality; the nuancing of the distinction between the teaching and the learning Church; the role of the sensus fidei (the instinct of faith of every believer), and so on. And so too with the Council’s teachings concerning the world at large. They reflect the Church’s conviction of the natural dignity of every human being and the unity of the human race. Gaudium et Spes, the constitution on the Church in the modern world, is the stand-out document in this regard. It sees the imago Dei as the basis for the unity of all humankind as a ‘single people’, and as the basis of human dignity, equality and freedom. Again, much follows from this: the importance of the human stewardship of creation; the need for justice in the socio-economic world; the fundamental value of dialogue; and the primacy of the common good. The other council documents add to this litany. Restoring unity among Christians, establishing fellowship with people of all religions, sharing in the concerns of the whole world, respecting the inviolability of conscience – all of these values are couched in the background understanding of every person as a bearer of God’s image. Through these documents, the Council confirmed the tradition of Catholic social teaching and clearly established that it is an integral constituent of Church doctrine. ‘The love of God,’ says Gaudium et Spes,

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‘cannot be separated from love of neighbor’.

But for many traditionalists – and this is one reason why they seek to ‘gag the Council’ – the social teaching of the Church is merely peripheral to the Gospel. The real Catholic business is the life of the sacraments, of piety, and of a certain understanding of doctrinal orthodoxy. Justice, solidarity, and human freedom come a distant second and are as likely as not to be the concerns of those who are more on the side of the world than on that of God. Pope Francis categorically disagrees. ‘Everything is interconnected’, he wrote in Laudato Si’, and it has been a mainstay of his teaching throughout his pontificate. He resolutely defends the affirmative, integral vision that Vatican II advanced.

Of course, this vision of the Council did indeed mark a decisive break from the negative ecclesiology that dominated during the previous centuries – the supposition that the Church of its nature is contra mundum, pitched in enmity against the world beyond its bounds, and committed to hierarchy and strong authority against the democratizing principle that prevailed elsewhere. But that darker vision of the Church and the world was for the greater part merely a product of post-Reformation polemics and later of the Catholic Counter-Enlightenment. In many respects it was a departure from the ancient theological anthropology that the Council retrieved, one that saw as foundational the fraternity and solidarity of the whole human race. And it is the Council’s vision that has enabled the Church of recent decades to make what Jürgen Habermas has called the ‘semantic potential’ of its discourse available to the public sphere beyond its confines. There are considerable grounds for hope here.

Vatican II took place within the living memory of two horrendous world wars. It sought to renew the Church’s understanding of its own nature and mission so that it could offer light to a dark world – so that it could ‘bring the light of Christ’ to people everywhere, Christ who is the lumen gentium, the ‘light of nations’. These are dark times too. The mission stays the same. ***

For theological reflections to shed a light that offers hope in the darkness, they must disclose the intimate connectedness of the life of God and the life of God’s creation. The first set of essays in this issue do so. They bring their reflections into close and dynamic contact with diverse dimensions of life –with the social order in Anna Rowlands’ essay on Catholic Social Teaching;

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with the signs of the times in Brendan Leahy’s essay on the Irish Catholic Church; and with lived human experience in Pádraig Ó Tuama’s personal narrative about growing up Catholic in Ireland.

Nothing is peripheral. No aspect of life – neither historical realities nor the social gospel, care of our common home, personal experience, or any other aspect of what Pope Francis calls ‘integral ecology’ – can be remote from the business of establishing the conditions of faith. As Johann Baptist Metz asserts in the course of mapping out the parameters of what he calls a practical fundamental theology, ‘The Christian idea of God is in itself a practical idea’. One does not first think about God and then consider what implications belief might have. ‘God simply cannot be thought’, Metz writes, ‘without this idea irritating and disrupting the immediate interests of the one who is trying to think it.’ Put otherwise: The very moment we think of God we are subject to the challenge of seeing all creation as God sees it, which must mean loving it, wanting it to flourish, and wanting it to be ruled by love and justice.

The modern Catholic Social Teaching (CST) tradition, which first takes shape in Pope Leo XIII’s Rerum Novarum (1891), is a fruit of such an insight. The starting point for Leo was the imago Dei, and that same fundamental orientation is apparent in the many magisterial documents concerning CST since. ‘What difference does it make to our building of communities, states or social orders,’ these texts ask in effect, ‘that the whole enterprise lies at the heart of the human relationship with God – not merely as a second-order operation, an afterthought, or a practical application of the more important vita contemplativa, but as a living out of Christian love, which is the law of the Gospel?’

In her essay ‘Illuminating Dark Times: The Surprising Relevance of Catholic Social Teaching’, Anna Rowlands confronts the pressing question of how the Christian understanding of communion may constitute a distinctive call to be what she calls ‘the extension of the enfleshment of Christ in the world, without end’. She acknowledges that the ‘common good’ is not a specifically Christian idea, and she recognizes Hannah Arendt’s criticisms of the notion of ‘communion’ in relation to public life, especially as it can be weaponized for exclusionary purposes; yet she argues a case for embracing ‘communion’ and for advancing an understanding of the ‘common good’ in accordance with the rich tradition of CST. In the first instance, she says, we are ‘not doers but receivers of the common good. Only then do we become

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co-creators and participants within an active process in history’.

In ‘“Going Deep, Going Forth, Going Together”, Part II’, Bishop Brendan Leahy follows up on the first part of his essay, which was published in the last issue, summer 2022. In Part I he addressed the impact of Vatican II on the Church in Ireland and expressed cautious optimism that the fruits of the Council, especially through the development of synodality, can succeed in setting the Church on a healthier footing. In Part II, ‘Seeking Meaning in a Transformed World’, he continues to find grounds for hope that the Church in Ireland can learn to ‘go deep’ on the spiritual, cultural and social fronts, but this can only happen if serious critical attention is paid to the signs of the times. Ireland has been transformed beyond recognition in recent decades. A dominant form of Catholicism has been ‘dethroned’; the Catholic consensus has been dissipated; autonomy, self-determination, and freedom of thought and expression are ‘the operative keys’ in people’s lives; and the ‘national trauma’ of clerical sexual abuse has disclosed multiple deficiencies in the structure and culture of Ireland’s Catholic past. A brighter future is possible for the Church, but only by shedding its ‘self-referentiality’ and recognizing that ‘To be synodal, at all levels, is the vocation of the Church.’

Central to the process of synodality is encouraging open and courageous speech and creating spaces in which that speech may be heard. As Metz puts it, the personal narratives of the children of God ‘are not peripheral to the enterprise of theology but the very thing itself’. Stories of conversion and of exodus, he says, are not ‘dramatic window-dressing for a preformulated “pure” theology’; they belong, rather, to the fundamental way theology operates. There are strains of both conversion and exodus in Pádraig Ó Tuama’s affecting narrative about growing up in a narrow and often nasty Catholic culture in Ireland and having to negotiate a damaged and damaging world as he grew into the knowledge that he was gay. The conversion element involves surprising moments of illumination and finding God in unexpected places.

***

The other contributions to this issue of Studies cover a wide range of disparate topics. Two essays, John O’Hagan’s ‘Taking Back Control: The Role of the EU’ and Erik Jones’s ‘Sovereignty and the National Interest’ continue the discussion begun in the summer 2022 issue with contributions

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from Michael Sanfey’s workshop on sovereignty in the European University Institute, Florence, on 17 March. O’Hagan identifies some problematic aspects of pooled decision-making in the European Union. Matters such as these need to be addressed, he concludes, but what is most needed is a deeper understanding of the structure and purpose of the EU. By now, its rationale and legitimacy should be beyond all doubt. Jones considers some current threats to the liberal democratic tradition, especially from national populism. Both democrats and populists, he argues, must acknowledge that the world’s needs cannot be effectively met when governments hold too narrow a notion of the national interest.

In Part II of his essay on Dante and Ireland, ‘A Dantean Afterlife’ (Part I was published in the summer issue of Studies), Daragh O’Connell follows up his earlier account of the possible influence of medieval Irish representations of the afterlife on Dante’s Commedia. Now, in Part II, he examines the flipside of this relationship of influence. Dante’s work is a presence in the work of many of Ireland’s modern writers – in Yeats, Joyce, and Beckett, to be sure, but most especially in Seamus Heaney. Dante provided these writers with a rich set of images and tropes which became, in their hands, ‘imaginative keys to unlock much that is valuable for us today’.

In ‘“The Queen She Came to Call on Us”’, Dermot McCarthy recounts the story behind Queen Elizabeth’s visit to Ireland in 2011, from his point of view as secretary general to the Irish government and secretary general of the Department of the Taoiseach. He recalls the behind-the-scene negotiations and the logistical complications, but mostly he remembers the warm welcome that was extended to the Queen and her own graciousness.

Máirín MacCarron spent a year working on a biographical project about Magdalen Taylor (1832–1900), the foundress of a women’s congregation in England, the Poor Servants of the Mother of God. In ‘Writing History with Female Religious Communities: Medieval and Modern Hagiography’. As a medieval historian, she wonders if the present-day experience of helping to prepare the life of someone with a reputation for sanctity might cast any light on the earlier hagiographic tradition. In both cases, she observes, there is a ‘community of believers’ behind the project that have a bearing on how the work is conducted and who should not be forgotten.

Renowned Australian Jesuit Gerald O’Collins has penned an essay for this issue of Studies on an aspect of the poetic work of his fellow-Australian Jesuit Peter Steele, now deceased. In ‘Three Parables from Luke: The Vision

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of Peter Steele SJ’, O’Collins conducts a close reading of three short poems by Steele on the gospel parables of the Good Samaritan, the Prodigal Son, and the Rich Man and Lazarus. The readings act as a kind of lectio divina.

In the final essay of this issue, John Hedigan tells the fascinating story of Henry Edgeworth, cousin of author Maria Edgeworth of Edgeworthstown, Co. Longford, who became a Catholic priest and lived most of his priestly life in France. In ‘Abbé Edgeworth de Firmont: Confessor to the King’, Hedigan relates how the Abbé ministered to King Louis XVI as the latter awaited execution by guillotine in January 1793. The Abbé’s remarkable bravery and devotion both during those last days of the king and in the aftermath are recounted. He died in 1807.

Illuminating Dark Times: The Surprising Relevance of Catholic Social Teaching

Anna Rowlands

This article is the text of the inaugural Annual Lecture of the Jesuit Centre for Faith and Justice, Dublin, delivered on 24 March 2022 at the JCFJ premises in Upper Gardiner Street, Dublin 1.

In 1968 the social philosopher and sometime critic of Christianity Hannah Arendt published a book in homage to Bertolt Brecht’s poem, ‘To Posterity’, which begins with the following stanza:

Indeed I live in the dark times!

A guileless word is an absurdity. A smooth forehead betokens

A hard heart. He who laughs

Has not yet heard

The terrible tidings.

Arendt titled her book Men in Dark Times. Each chapter is devoted to an individual she judged to have lived a life of substance, a life that, in its humanity, illuminated the darkness.

Resisting the darkness

Three things are striking about Arendt’s book. The first is her claim that each generation lives through dark times and the challenge is less to argue about whose times are darkest than it is to find a way to name and resist the darkness. Claiming our freedom to begin again in the mess of things, and to do so with others, honouring human dignity in its plurality, lay at the heart of this resistance and this illumination for her. The second striking thing is Arendt’s trenchant insistence that the thing that offers most genuine illumination is not concepts or cleverness – the perfect analysis that nails it (although so much of Arendt’s work was precisely about the conditions for thinking well) – but rather lives that are able to take into themselves

the very condition of the world and, in all their flickering uncertainty, to walk a pathway through the darkness and draw others into the light. These wayfarers are for her the deepest bearers of hope in the darkness. The third striking thing about the book is her unlikely decision to dedicate a chapter to Pope John XXIII. Unlikely because Arendt was no fan of the papacy, nor of Catholic social thought. Yet in John XXIII she found a man with a capacity to attend to the world and its wounds deeply, to humanise. She titles the chapter wryly, ‘Angelo Giuseppe Roncalli: A Christian on the Chair of St Peter’.

I am drawn towards these three elements of Arendt’s book in turn for three reasons of my own. Firstly, because of Arendt’s stubborn insistence that in dark times, as she says, we have a right to demand illumination. Frankly, that just resonates. Secondly, because I think Arendt is right that what brings us hope is the witness of living well (which, of course, in case it needs to be spelled out, does not mean living perfectly, innocently, or blamelessly). Arendt cautions scepticism of those who present themselves to us as ‘representatives of an era’, ‘mouthpieces of the zeitgeist’, and instead suggests that we gain more hope, more sanity, more courage from the lives of those who allow themselves to be troubled by their times and to find ways to make the times their own, struggling towards solidarity in whatever small way they can. Arendt thought that what remains truly challenging for us is to look at the world as it really is and to find ways to love it. Thirdly, I am interested in the ways that Arendt was drawn to some of the great figures of the Christian tradition – chiefly St Augustine – but also issued warnings to Christians about the failures and limitations of our tradition, both conceptual failings and historical-institutional ones.

In this vein, Arendt argued that the draw of the Christian tradition towards ideas of the common good was at once noble and, at the same time, often either naive or downright dangerous. It was naive when it simply proposed to the world a logic of love or of self-sacrifice, extended from the household to the Church to the world; it was dangerous when it turned notions of the common good into narrow theories of race, ethnicity, natural order and power, used for dark causes. In the messy and frankly terrifying world we currently live in, both are sobering challenges and helpful prompts to any Church response or Christian vision fit for this generation.

Finally – for now – we should note how Arendt makes her own constructive response to the darkness of the times. She calls for us to learn again how to become a properly public or civic people. A thing becomes public, she

Rowlands

argues, not because it is an entity or a group with status or institutional power or wealth, but because it becomes an action in the world that is capable of forging between different people a common world. It becomes public –moving from the realm of the domestic or the individual – because it opens up a pathway or space for dignity, justice and freedom between people. In this way, Pope John XXIII was for her a public figure not by dint of his high office but because of the manner of his living in relation to others. For Arendt, a public is a relational entity rather than simply a set of fixed institutions. Institutions matter, of course, but, if they are to be of lasting civic virtue, they must be contexts where persons are enabled to appear to themselves and to others in meaningful ways. They become spaces of mutual appearance, where, as Arendt puts it, we are not the same, but it becomes possible that ‘I see what you see, hear what you hear’. These relationships are not necessarily ones of mutual agreement but of recognition, and they form the basis for the possibility of common judgements. The common good for Arendt therefore becomes about our ability to create a life in which we are able to hold both things – that is, material goods – and persons in common. Freedom for the sake of reciprocal living.

Communion and the common good

In my time this evening I want to suggest a responsible Christian reply to Arendt, one that takes seriously her vision of a public life that enables freedom through the pursuit of justice and dignity, one focused on the question of lives lived well, one that refuses a culture of invisibility, and one that thinks of the public square less as fixed institutions – important as they are – and more as spaces in which we are able to show up to one another, to be seen and to be heard, with regard to both our common needs and our common loves and desires. But I will speak from within the Catholic Social Teaching (CST) tradition also to push back a little against Arendt: to suggest a response for what makes loving the world a vocation for the Christian, albeit not an easy one, and why, despite Arendt’s rejection of a language of communion as the basis for public reciprocal living, I think we desperately need this language, which is core to the CST tradition.

Now is a good moment to be revisiting this tradition, for a variety of reasons. Firstly, the basic principles of the CST tradition have been notably resurgent in global politics for at least a decade, evident in appeals in different contexts to notions of human dignity, the common good, care for creation,

Anna

Illuminating Dark Times: The Surprising Relevance of Catholic Social Teaching

a fairer distribution of wealth and material goods, a need for the dispersal of power and a greater solidarity. In the last decade the idea of the common good alone has re-emerged in social movements spanning the whole political spectrum, from radical left, to centre, to right. For green movements it has been a way to think about a common life and a common habitation on an imperilled earth; for antiracist movements, dedicated to Black dignity and a different kind of racial future, it is a way of speaking of a common humanity beyond racial divides; for left-wing populists it has been a way of thinking about a grassroots struggle towards a more equal future, operating as a language that sees politics as formed through a collective sense of struggle. In this latter case, the common good implies thinking about ‘the people’ constituted as ‘demos’. For right-of-centre social movements it has been a way of thinking about conserving family, culture and religion, and has tended to be a way of thinking about the people constituted more as ‘ethnos’, or ‘familias’. In contrast to both, Pope Francis has invoked the idea of ‘the people’, in his own bridging Catholic social teaching language, as something closer to ‘oikos’ (household) and ‘kin’ (those related to us, or adjacent to us).

There is, of course, as Arendt warned, a darker appeal to this language afoot too. This is not just an interestingly plural space that we might study. Authoritarian populists have seen their own projects mirrored in the common good tradition, appealing to ideas of a single common good of language, territory, religion or culture as providing grounds for resistance to the perceived weakness or even outright nihilistic danger they see in liberalism, especially social liberalism. The Christian common good tradition is seen as a counter-culture to a failed model of Western liberalism and plurality – even today as the grounds for a holy war. A range of political leaders have seen an opportunity to cloak themselves in a version of Christian common good language in order to pursue a politics of legacy-building and claim a spiritual mandate for their politics of cultural insularity and human exclusion. As global politics has seen a turn to the questions of culture and identity, the powerful language of the common good is right at the heart of that contested and increasingly bloody terrain.

There is good reason to think that Putin’s action in Ukraine fits some of this framework. Putin purports to believe he has a divine mandate for a politics of ethnic identity and legacy. Backed by the Patriarch of Moscow, the project is the construction of a single combined Russian people across the terrain of Ukraine, Belarus and Russia, marked by a single spiritual destiny

Anna Rowlands

and committed to order, hierarchy, and a centralised military, spiritual, and political autocracy. A crucial part of the task of this single, united holy people of the Rus is to hold back Western liberalism and chart a model of fused state-church power. Whether held genuinely or not, Putin’s project and legitimation is distinctively and overtly political-theological, and it needs to be understood, tackled and rejected on these same grounds.

Two traditions of Catholic Social Thought

We know well that such a contested Christian tradition – even at its extreme ends – is not new. Historian James Chappel notes the important difference between two traditions of CST running through the twentieth century. He labels the first ‘fraternal’ and the second ‘paternal’. The fraternal model advocates for a largely egalitarian, localised, plural, relational model of CST; the paternal model by contrast stresses the importance for human growth of order, hierarchy, structure, family, social unity. Chappel gives the striking example of two moments that show these two strands in contrast in the mid-twentieth century. The first is the Black Catholic Senegalese poet and politician Leopold Senghor writing in Esprit journal in the late 1940s. Senghor argued that whilst Germany had been defeated, fascism and even Nazism had not. The fascist spirit, he wrote, lived on, and its threat would continue to be felt wherever high capitalism was married to strident nationalistic and militaristic narratives of empire and nation-state. He called for a constant Catholic vigilance and social action to challenge this fascism in the name of Christ wherever it would arise in history again – and he said it would. The second contrasting example is that of German Catholic politician Heinrich von Brentano addressing a stadium with around 60,000 Christians present, also in the late 1940s. He argued that the true threat to the Christian social spirit lay in communism. Resistance to communism, he said, came through building strong national cultures married to strong militaristic cultures. Chappel argues that these two traditions represent two constant and dominant forms of Christian and Catholic modernism – i.e., both are a product of the interaction between Catholicism and the modern world – and they remain rival traditions. Other than in brief moments, for example, in the founding of Christian Democrat political parties in Europe after the Second World War, there has been little convergence between the two models.

Crucially, Chappel notes, the paternal and fraternal movements are as much about what they are against as what they are for, defined by who they

consider their friends to be and who their enemies. Fraternal modernism was above all else anti-fascist and anti-nationalist; paternal modernism was anticommunist. In our own times that gap seems once again to have widened. Perhaps now the paternal Christian modernism of both East and West is most clearly defined by its opposition not to communism but to social liberalism, while fraternal modernism is defined by its opposition to social hierarchies, especially those of nationalism, racism and material consumerism.

With regard, then, to the relevance of CST to our times, I want to set it within this wider context. We should be cognisant of it, that is, but I suggest that it is not the final or only word – that we are not left in the present moment with only the choice between secular liberalism and a renewed cultural Christianity of the authoritarian right. We can start our thinking again in difficult times in the light of a different thread of thinking, one with long roots – one that, for me, loosely belongs in that fraternal strand but at times has things to understand and learn from the other strand too. It is a tradition that resists social domination of every kind and focuses on a Christian vocation to form participatory and genuinely co-created social bodies, guided by a vision of human dignity, the just distribution of the earth’s goods, and the common good.

Features of the common good

I want now to outline three main facets of this long tradition. The first is that of the common good defined in ‘realist’ terms; the second is the idea that the common good is rooted in the practices of mercy and in the beatitudes; and the third is that it offers a structural as well as a personal task for reflecting on injustice and the call to communion.

So, firstly, what do I mean by a ‘realist’ conception of the common good? What I mean is that the common good is, for a Christian, first and foremost not a concept or an idea, nor simply a future horizon, but a present and abiding reality. First of all, it is something not ‘us’, but it is the basis of ‘us’ – it is, quite simply, the life of God. For the Christian, God is goodness and is the common basis of all that is good and all that draws us into and towards the good. The goodness of God is a present reality sustaining every moment of our lives. The good is therefore relationship itself; it is a historical force, the very possibility of history itself. The common good is a life we are created to be drawn into, freely, and given as gift. It is also therefore an invitation to a life of reciprocal responsibility and, necessarily, a life of judgement. Part

Illuminating Dark Times: The Surprising Relevance of Catholic Social Teaching

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of what we share as common is a responsibility to struggle in history, as a community, against all that frustrates that good being a felt reality equally for all. So, in the first instance it means we are called to recognise ourselves as already placed within history and time in relation to a creator, and already graced within a dynamic reality of the good. The goods news is that this good is free from our manipulation and untainted by our failure. It renews daily as a personal and communal call to us towards response and participation. Seen in this way, we are first of all not doers but receivers of the common good, and then co-creators and participants within an active process in history. We are witnesses to that good, and in a suffering world we are those called to lament, to rage and to struggle for the victory of that life. That’s where the Christian common good story begins. In this sense, we are less interested in the zeitgeist – the disembodied spirit of the age – than in the embodied signs of the times, where the first sign of the times is the reality of Christ already at work and calling us to participation.

Beginning this way has several advantages for sustaining hope in dark times:

Firstly, the common good isn’t grounded in our actions alone, or lost entirely when we fail, even if we fail for a whole generation. And both politically and ecclesially we have failed in critical ways in this generation. Also, it means that we are not alone – we are grounded in what holds open the future in the grimness of the present. We can be hopeful without needing to be optimistic.

Secondly, this way of thinking suggests that we begin our common good thinking by training our attention carefully on our contexts. If we assume that no age is without the presence of the Holy Spirit, no context abandoned by God, then there will be at work already signs and seeds of the good, that discerned together we might choose to add to, learn from, become part of. If the Spirit works to reconcile all things towards their end in God, and works with where there is openness to the call towards the good, then we should not so much expect one systematic manifestation of the common good or pathway to it, but more likely we should expect to see many irruptions and expressions of the good, almost perhaps anarchically, for those with eyes to see and ears to hear.

And thirdly, if the last point attunes us to the positive presence of the Spirit in our context, the next is the same point but made in negative relief: Our task is not just to discern where goodness seems to be at work around us, but

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Illuminating Dark Times: The Surprising Relevance of Catholic Social Teaching

also to work out where it seems most deprived of presence, most frustrated. Where we can see the common good is not, as it were. Our Christian task is to place ourselves along the faultlines of society, where we see that social conditions most need to be transformed, where the good seems least present as a felt reality in people’s lives. Given the rise in poverty, insecure housing, insecure immigration status, incarceration, mental health challenges, social isolation and loneliness, this is a multifaceted task. As Pope Francis has made clear, the periphery of our communities takes many forms.

Building the life of the common good

The second hallmark of this long tradition of common good thought takes us back, however, into the world of the early centuries of the Church’s life. The common good is not, by origin, a Christian idea. It was an idea alive and well in the classical world; it is used in Greek and Roman thought. When early Christian thinkers continued to use this language of the classical world, they Christianised it. But they didn’t give it a quick Christian gloss; rather they reshaped it deeply around the teachings and the life of Jesus. Scriptural references can be found in the writings of St Paul: for him, the common good is found in the whole life of the community of the Church, with each part of the body working according to its gifts and skills, its calling and charism. They are also found in the writings of the early Church Fathers. Fascinatingly (if you’re a slightly dull theologian!), the Church Fathers made a strong appeal to Matthew 25 as the common good text. If you are a Christian and you want to pursue the true good of all and build society towards its true and lasting ends, then the scriptures are very helpful and very concrete. Matthew 25 teaches us that we build the life of the common good through basic bodily practices of care for those you share space with, encounter in your life – it means feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, visiting the prisoner, comforting the sufferer and mourner, hosting the stranger, and so forth. The best citizens are those who know how to mourn, weep, and rejoice, and to do so for themselves and in accompaniment of others. These have been key themes in Pope Francis’s social teaching, read in personal and institutional terms.

Equally emphasised in early Church documents is a duty to ensure that the goods of the earth are distributed to all, justly. As Psalm 24 has it, ‘the earth is the Lord’s and all that is in it’. We do not possess the goods of creation, we are sharers in its goodness, with that benefit intended for all. This is a helpful

dimension of Christian common good thinking because it stresses a basic material reality, that we all face common needs. For shelter, for food, for peace, for care and so forth. It also stresses that our relationship to creation is fundamentally non-possessive. Our needs are equal and our right to benefit from a creation we do not possess but receive as gift is equal. The early Church Fathers talk about the wealth of the world as intended to run through a community like freshly flowing water in a river, not to gather in corners like a stagnant pond. What is interesting about this common good teaching of the early Church is that it is utterly practical, sees our human needs as spiritual, moral and material, and integrally so. Such teaching sees no contradiction between basic Christian living and what is truly good for society.

This includes prayer. Prayer as a common good practice is, as Simone Weil in the twentieth century would make clear, part of our training in how we learn to pay attention to the world –not a distraction from it – how we learn to train our focus on our contexts. It is also part of how the Church remains in unity – a key part of the common good being, challengingly, an undivided Church. All of these practices of prayer and care are how we come to place ourselves in the world, to find ways to love the world as it really is – not by our own power but through the capacity to enter into a terrifying or banal reality and find the sign and presence of Christ ahead of us, and thus in being deeply placed, to put our roots down into deep channels of grace. In doing so we gradually learn in a constantly cacophonous and distracted world what deserves our attention and what does not.

In theory there is no contradiction between these multiple Christian common good practices and the needs of community. In practice, however, living out a vision shaped by Matthew 25 and the beatitudes has set every generation of Christians on a conflict course with state authorities. In our own contexts the questions of care of prisoners and those subject to coercive state power, our duty to strangers, care of the socially and physically vulnerable and ageing, and addressing hunger are exactly on our Western public policy frontlines. Christian common good thinking shaped around our commitment to Matthew 25 spotlights these.

The common good in the social encyclicals

A third thematic of the long tradition of thinking about the common good is concerned with the structural and institutional. This is where the modern social encyclical tradition is important. In Caritas in Veritate, Pope Benedict

Anna Rowlands

wrote that the common good is a good that is sought not for its own sake but for the people who belong to the social community and can only really pursue their good within it. … To take a stand for the common good is on the one hand to be solicitous for, and on the other hand to avail oneself of, that complex of institutions that give structure to the life of a society, juridically, civilly, politically and culturally, making it a polis, or city. This is the institutional path – we might also call it the political path – of charity.

Pope Francis distilled that definition further in Laudato Si’, adding at the end – in case of any doubt – that the right ordering of groups and institutions includes a commitment to social peace, stability, and security, and that none of that is realisable without a particular concern for distributive justice. No true peace or order without justice, to echo the social movements. Francis has simplified aspects of this teaching into a three-fold mantra: what CST asks for is the things that make life dignified in practice, enable common needs to be met, and social belonging to be fostered: land, lodging, labour.

These thoughts about just structuring of institutions are not separate from the personal and relational commitments of the common good visions contained in Matthew 25, the Beatitudes, and the Pauline texts. In fact, they suggest that institutions are reformed through a relational revolution – one that measures the moral performance of institutions and organisations in terms of their capacity to serve genuine common needs and build towards genuine common goods. The data for this comes from deep relational listening and engagement as well as from wider forms of social analysis. How do our social institutions foster trust, solidarity, dignity, struggle towards justice, fair access to material goods, and genuine participation in power and governance? How do we name the various structural and mindset challenges that block, frustrate or limit such visions of the good? How are our institutions part of the solution when we challenge enduring forms of power, violence, force, dispossession, need, manufactured vulnerability, and hopelessness – all expressions of the lack, suppression and refusal of the common good in our midst?

The long tradition, then, doesn’t just – although it does – concern personal practices. It is also about building civic virtue. It is a tradition that attempts to train our gaze on the social whole, the life and health of the social body. That’s what Augustine’s City of God does. In turn the birth of the modern encyclical

Illuminating Dark Times: The Surprising Relevance of Catholic Social Teaching

tradition was as much about opposing particular philosophies of human nature and social value as it was about proposing principles and practices. In response to Stanley Hauerwas’ famous quip that the Church does not have a social ethic, it is a social ethic, the CST tradition says, ‘Well, actually, it both is and has, insofar as it lives its own life as witness partly through training our gaze on the world’. Despite wider and well-documented failures of the Church, CST refuses to baptise liberalism – liberalism’s doctrine of the individual sits ill at ease with the scriptural tradition. CST also refuses to grant fascism its forcibly claimed turf – fascism’s politics of domination and absolute thinking have to be resisted. And CST refuses communism in its pure form – too much collective identity, not enough personalism, too much faith in social conflict. In Pope Francis’s time, CST has refused closed forms of populism too – insular cultures built on friend–enemy distinctions that exclude and isolate. Such cultures, the Pope says, tend towards narcissism and tend to ossify and ultimately decay. Each system risks confusing political vice for political virtue.

This has left CST with a tricky legacy in other areas, however, because it has failed to deal with its own gaps and lacunae around its own assumptions about hierarchies of human nature and social organisation. Gender, race and sexuality are areas CST badly needs to think about again. It lacks a critical self-reflexivity and sometimes a humility about where and who it should be learning from, and this leaves it potentially unbalanced in achieving its own laudable goals, in achieving and living out its own task and calling. What, as Church, we ask of society and its institutions we must also be committed to doing in our own institutional structures.

The common good and reciprocal living: a postscript

The Canadian Catholic philosopher Charles Taylor wrote the following about the vision of reciprocal living, life in communion, that the best of Catholic social thought embodies:

Communion has to integrate persons in their true identities, as bodily beings who establish their identities in their histories, in which contingency has a place. In this way, the central concept which makes sense of the whole is communion, or love, defining both the nature of God and our relations to [God].

This idea that just living involves an openness to contingency and interruption in the face of reality has been a critical theme for Pope Francis’s

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Illuminating Dark Times: The Surprising Relevance of Catholic Social Teaching

own brand of contemplative realism. We do not live by reason, analytical analysis, or strategy alone, but by a faith that embraces reason within a wider landscape of the unplanned and unreasonable realities of human living. As the Sermon on the Mount makes clear, even when it does not seem reasonable we are called to be fools for the Gospel in making a personal commitment to be peacemakers, mourners, comforters, defenders of the downtrodden.

In Fratelli Tutti, Pope Francis makes the heart of his encyclical an interpretation of the Good Samaritan in the tradition of Martin Luther King Jnr and Ivan Illich – emphasising a capacity to be so moved by the world that we are willing to be displaced from our strategies and plans by the fact or event that confronts us as an urgent reality. In response to the spiritually anxious question that starts the Good Samaritan passage, ‘Who is my neighbour?’ – that is, am I really responsible for others – Jesus answers us, beyond anxiety and fear, your neighbour is all whom you encounter that you have opportunity to become neighbour to. This means that there is no fixed limit, no closed circle, no final border or boundary to a community. Sometimes mere events dictate who we shall become neighbour to, in ways we could never have expected or predicted. In this way, the Church is called to be the extension of the enfleshment of Christ in the world, without end. As Charles Taylor hints, the best of CST calls us back to a politics of hope that begins in place and time, in contingent events, and to our capacity to respond to a grace already at work, however faintly or mysteriously. If this sounds a bit mushy and sentimental it is worth remembering that in fact much of our modern way of living over several hundred years pulls us up from rootedness in time and place, from landscape and contingency. As Willie James Jennings argues, we have been encouraged in a logic of flying solo – above land, time, flesh, place – detached. The logic of Pope Francis’s Good Samaritan is one of attachment and graced interruption, of communion formed in reciprocal living.

To return to where we began, Hannah Arendt wrote in Men in Dark Times, ‘Even in the darkest of times we have the right to expect some illumination, and … such illumination may come less from theories and concepts than from the uncertain, flickering, and often weak light that some men and women, in their lives and works, will kindle under almost all circumstances and shed over the time span that was given them on earth.’

Pope Francis has talked about being brave enough to name the fact that striving for this vision of a properly reciprocal time- and place-based vision

of the common good will mean being willing to face suffering. This is partly because it means to confront the history of force and deeply embedded forms of social violence. Simone Weil, writing in the mid-twentieth century, touches on the same challenging theme; she argues that only those who can look the history of force and violence in the face and know how not to respect it can speak of the love and justice of the Gospel. Only then do we really get to the deepest places of human freedom.

Alas, we Who wished to lay the foundations of kindness Could not ourselves be kind. (Brecht, ‘To Posterity’)

For us Christ is our kind, and in his image and imitation we find our own kindness.

Dr Anna Rowlands is professor of Catholic Social Thought & Practice at the Department of Theology and Religion, Durham University. Her most recent book is Towards a Politics of Communion: Catholic Social Teaching in Dark Times (London: Bloomsbury, 2021).

References

Hannah Arendt, Men in Dark Times (1968).

St Augustine, City of God.

Pope Benedict XVI, Caritas in Veritate (2009).

Bertolt Brecht, ‘To Those Born After’ (1939) from H.R. Hayes (trans.), Selected Poems by Bertolt Brecht (New York: Harper Collins, 1971).

James Chappel, Catholic Modern: The Challenge of Totalitarianism and the Remaking of the Church (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 2018).

Pope Francis, Fratelli Tutti (2020).

Pope Francis, Laudato Si’ (2015).

Willie James Jennings, The Christian Imagination: Theology and the Origins of Race (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2010)

Charles Taylor, A Secular Age (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 2007).

Simone Weil, ‘The Iliad, or The Poem of Force’ (1945).

Simone Weil, Gravity and Grace (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1952).

Anna Rowlands

Deep, Going Forth, Going Together’, Part II: Seeking Meaning in a Transformed World

Brendan Leahy

In the first part of this article,1 I looked at the reception of the Second Vatican Council’s teachings, indicating briefly how Pope Francis’s papacy is marking a phase in that reception. I want now to offer a reflection on how three of the social and cultural developments in Ireland of the past decades, when read in the light of Vatican II as reflected in Pope Francis’s teaching and actions, indicate directions for our deeper reception of the Council in Ireland. In what follows, I acknowledge that my focus is mainly the Republic of Ireland. The Church in Northern Ireland experiences similar developments but with inevitable contextual differences. I also recognise that what I am presenting are broad-brush strokes.

The immanent framework of our social imaginary Ireland has undergone an amazing transformation in the past sixty years. A first general comment to make is that there has been a huge change in what the Canadian philosopher Charles Taylor calls the ‘social imaginary’. He uses this term to refer to how a society understands itself and gives expression to its identity in terms of outlook, institutions and values, customs and laws. In the Western world people today live in what he calls an ‘immanent frame’ focused on a being-in-the-world, crafting webs of meaning and seeking fulfilment with little or any regular reference to the Transcendent. Human flourishing is viewed as something constructed in terms of ‘this world’. Human autonomy and self-determination, freedom of thought and expression are the operative keys in people’s daily lives.

Ireland is very much located within the Western world and significantly influenced by two major influencers of culture: the USA and the UK. Michelle Dillon speaks of a ‘compressed secularism’ that has developed here

‘Going

Brendan Leahy

in course of rapid social change.2 In an interview in 2002, John McGahern commented, ‘Ireland is a peculiar society in the sense that it was a nineteenthcentury society up to about 1970 and then it almost bypassed the twentieth century’.3 So much of what was previously accepted as ‘Catholic Ireland’ with a clearly transcendent, theo-directed framework has experienced a rapid disintegration. Louise Fuller writes that a model of Catholicism in Ireland that gained prominence in the historical-political conditions of the nineteenth century, has simply become no longer suitable to our times.4 A certain Catholicism has been ‘dethroned’.5 It is said of younger people who make up an increasing proportion of voters that ‘their hashtags dismantle what remains of the Irish Catholic consensus’.6

Catholics need, as Charles Taylor puts it, to ‘find our voice within the achievements of modernity’.7 This was precisely a major aim of the Second Vatican Council. In his encyclical Evangelii Gaudium, Pope Francis has relaunched many elements of the Council’s vision. Faced with modern sociocultural developments, we need to be careful, he reminds us, not to succumb to a pessimistic ‘negative view’ of secular trends. 8 In his July 2022 trip to Canada, he affirmed: ‘If we yield to the negative view and judge matters superficially, we risk sending the wrong message, as though the criticism of secularization masks on our part the nostalgia for a sacralized world, a bygone society in which the Church and her ministers had greater power and social relevance. And this is a mistaken way of seeing things.’9 Quoting both Saint Pope Paul VI and Charles Taylor, he further commented that ‘what is in crisis is not the faith, but some of the forms and ways in which we present it’, prompting pastoral conversion and engendering new forms of Church life.10

The whole of Pope Francis’s encyclical, Evangelii Gaudium can be viewed as a road map that speaks to us in Ireland today on how the vision of the Second Vatican Council can be further received in our times.11 There is much in it yet to be unpacked as helpful to reading our contemporary context.

Let’s look: Three features of Irish society

There are many features of contemporary Ireland worth exploring. I have chosen to reflect on three developments that are as among the most significant features of our time: the adherence to the paradigm of progress and prosperity; the promotion of tolerance, reconciliation and inclusion; the revelation of abuse as a dark part of the Church’s story.12

‘Going Deep, Going Forth, Going Together’, Part II: Seeking Meaning in a Transformed World

Progress and prosperity:

A major feature of change in Ireland came in the 1960s with ‘a new optimism about the Irish economy’, where ‘modest economic growth even became a matter of national pride’.13 From the Ken Whitaker-inspired Programme for Economic Expansion to Ireland’s entrance in 1973 into the European Economic Community, an optimistic banner of ‘progress’ increasingly took centre stage not just in terms of economics but more in general as a cultural outlook.

A new confidence in progress in the economic sphere soon partnered with the notion that ‘traditional practices’ are dying out and need to die out. In 1966, for instance, the first American-style shopping mall in Ireland opened. Fintan O’Toole records how the then recently resigned Taoiseach, Seán Lemass, noted that the 1966 celebrations of the 1916 Rising had marked the ending of a chapter in our history. New developments were in the air. Traditional practices were dying out and were being replaced by more up-todate skills and techniques of business management.14 This sense of traditional practices needing to be replaced to make room for progress spread beyond the sphere of economics. We now take it for granted that we are ‘a new Ireland’. A mind-set has gained prominence that we are a people of progress, a people of new horizons.

No one can deny the benefits of economic and technological progress as well as increased prosperity in Ireland. However, apart from issues to do with the morality of what was dubbed, ‘leprechaun economics’, progress has not benefitted all.15 Tom Healy, author and former NERI director, has commented on the inequalities in our society. Such inequalities have a negative impact on health, education, social cohesion and positive civic engagement.16 In a consumer society that has failed to deliver sustainability, equity or life satisfaction, there are many new pressures in terms of commercialisation, time spent with one’s family or with the community at large.

Along with material wealth, there is a greater indifference to things of the spirit. Faith is portrayed as old fashioned. David McWilliams comments, ‘The more tolerant we become, the richer we become – Faith is a backwardlooking concept.’17 Yet, today we hear many cries for help emerging in the area of mental health and from people suffering addictions and many forms of poverty. Progress and prosperity, measured in financial terms alone, are not sufficient. Healy notes that the goods such as love, care and solidarity that enable people to realise their well-being ‘cannot be bought, sold or

Brendan Leahy

appropriated as forms of economic wealth’.18

It is true that there still exist in Ireland the ‘cross-pressures’ (Taylor’s phrase) of various new spiritual options. Novelists and poets, musicians and artists offer ciphers of the transcendence. But, in an increasingly practical ‘exclusive (of God) humanism’, people often become bunkered (what Taylor calls ‘buffered’) in a hope-blinkered ‘this world only’ and ‘today’. The ‘immanentisation of the eschaton’, as it is called, denies ultimate horizon beyond this world. And when society sees progress and prosperity in terms of building a kingdom of its own making alone, it ‘dis-enchants’.

Tolerance, reconciliation and inclusion: Another major socio-cultural development in Ireland has been the focus on toleration and inclusion. In part, these themes emerged in response to sectarian conflict and religious divisions calling out for reconciliation. The Troubles have shaped us more deeply than we possibly fully realise. Increasingly, for the sake of peace and reconciliation, Catholics have been invited to challenge themselves and be open to change in terms of beliefs and convictions in order to tackle sectarianism, prejudice and division. Writing in 2003, Victor Griffin, then Dean of St Patrick’s Cathedral in Dublin, wrote of the damage inflicted by religious intolerance in Ireland. He quoted Jonathan Swift who once wrote that in Ireland, there’s ‘enough religion to make us hate, but not enough to make us love’.19

Referring to the historian A. T .Q. Stewart, Crawford Gribben has written that while the religious violence of the troubles was not just a clash of cultures but a culture in itself, moving beyond violence requires ‘a cultural revolution’, one that threatens the very existence of a Christian Ireland. A cultural revolution has indeed been taking place in various forms. As Mary Kenny and others have indicated, the Troubles resulted increasingly in the promotion of tolerance. This has been positive in itself even if, in all of this, a certain relegation of religion to the private sphere began to take place.20

Responding to the Second Vatican Council’s Declaration on Religious Liberty, which emphasised freedom, tolerance and pluralism, in 1972 article 44.1 of the 1937 Constitution that referred to the ‘special position’ of the Roman Catholic Church was deleted following a referendum. Reflecting the Council’s document on ecumenism, Unitatis Redintegratio, the Catholic Church entered the ecumenical movement with a strong commitment to the Inter-Church Meeting established in 1973.

‘Going Deep, Going Forth, Going Together’, Part II: Seeking Meaning in a Transformed World

Apart from the Troubles and the cultural revolution that it has perhaps imperceptibly unleashed on the whole island, other factors were involved in the emergence of the popular promotion of toleration and inclusion in Irish society. Already in a 1950 address launching the Furrow magazine, Archbishop D’Alton of Armagh commented that with the rise of cinema and radio, Ireland was no longer living in comparative isolation. The island people was rapidly being brought into contact with new cultural horizons. With Irish national television established in 1962, a new communications media brought contested issues and discussions into people’s kitchens and sitting rooms. A new zeitgeist of openness emerged with a greater recognition of the complexity of people’s lives. Free education introduced in 1967 contributed greatly to a broadening of horizons. From the 1990s onwards, immigration would increase with non-native born Irish heading now well over 15% of the population (and this is already apparent in church attendance). All of this has impacted on Irish culture in terms of a deeper awareness of the dignity of the ‘other’, the ‘stranger’, the ‘foreigner’, the ‘one who is different’. The recent ‘Synthesis of the Consultation in Ireland for the Diocesan Stage of the Universal Synod 2021–2023’ expressed this clearly.21

The revelation of abuse as a dark part of the Church’s story: From 1992 onwards, the Catholic Church in Ireland has faced very strong headwinds in the form of scandals of many types, from the sins and crimes of clergy to destructive institutional abuses. The Ferns Report, The Dublin Report, the Cloyne Report. The Ryan Report, the McAleese Report, the Mother and Baby Homes Report among others have left no doubt about extremely serious and shocking personal, moral and systematic failures. In his speech on the occasion of the visit of Pope Francis to Ireland, the Taoiseach, Leo Varadkar, referred to the ‘dark aspects of the Catholic Church’s history’. There can be no doubt that people’s ‘religious sense’ has been deeply wounded. Our religious sense goes to the depths of who we are as human beings and touches the very core of our dignity as children of God. It is central to our perception of the Transcendent.

In 2009, the Church of Ireland Bishop Paul Colton described Ireland as in the midst of a ‘national trauma’ following the Ryan Report Commission with its horrible reports of abuse at many levels of children in residential institutions run by Catholic religious congregations. Both before and since there has been much anger, exhaustion, and bewilderment coupled with the

challenge of how to process and communicate with one another around what has gone on.

In his 2010 letter to the Catholics of Ireland, Pope Benedict commented how failures in child protection and the horrors that had resulted ‘have obscured the light of the Gospel to a degree that not even centuries of persecution succeeded in doing’.22 Already in 2002, the Nobel Prize winner Seamus Heaney wrote, ‘I think the dwindling of faith and, secondly the clerical scandals have bewildered things ... we still are running on an unconscious that is informed by religious values, but I think my youngsters’ youngsters won’t have that. I think the needles are wobbling.’23

It has been said that the clerical abuse scandals ‘demonstrated, above all else, a catastrophic and systematic failure of the faculty for empathy’.24 But many issues have come to the fore: issues around accountability and transparency, communication, a culture of deference and Church–state relations. As the Synod Synthesis mentioned above, puts it, ‘The submissions relate and link this abuse to so many other areas – understanding of sexuality and of power; the absence of women in decision making roles; transparency and accountability in governance; clericalism’. Like a lightning rod, the abuse issues have also brought to the surface a need to come to terms with our wounded post-colonial, post-famine history and a recognition that Catholicism was both glory and abyss, honour and humiliation. Derek Scally speaks of the dramatic nature of the revelations regarding abuse as a car crash, ‘Clearing the car crash in our collective minds, a pile-up of pride and shame that has left many of us silent, struggling to deal with a conflicting narrative we simply cannot process.’25

Let’s discern: Reading the signs

In his apostolic letter on holiness, itself a major if often forgotten theme of the Council, Pope Francis wrote of discernment as an essential feature of holiness needed not just as an individual exercise but as a trait of the Church as a community: We are free, with the freedom of Christ. Still, [Christ] asks us to examine what is within us – our desires, anxieties, fears and questions – and what takes place all around us – ‘the signs of the times’ – and thus to recognize the paths that lead to complete freedom. ‘Test everything; hold fast to what is good’ (1 Thess 5:21). (Gaudete et Exsultate, n. 168) In this spirit, I want now to explore a few theological perspectives

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‘Going Deep, Going Forth, Going Together’, Part II: Seeking Meaning in a Transformed World

regarding some of the phenomena mentioned above.

Progress and the God who is among us: The Second Vatican Council wanted to instil a new awareness in Catholics that we too are for progress and prosperity. It recognised the autonomy of earthly affairs. But it also underlined that autonomy does not imply the eclipse of God. For ‘without the Creator the creature would disappear’ as the Church’s document on the Church in the Modern World, Gaudium et Spes, n. 36, puts it. Along with our sisters and brothers of the human family, Catholics strive to build up our world, but they do so knowing they are contributing to the building of the kingdom of God that will find its ultimate form at the end of time. They recognise that human efforts alone are not sufficient, but must be exercised as expressions of ‘co-creation’ and ‘co-redemption’ with God: … the expectation of a new earth must not weaken but rather stimulate our concern for cultivating this one. For here grows the body of a new human family, a body which even now is able to give some kind of foreshadowing of the new age. Hence, while earthly progress must be carefully distinguished from the growth of Christ’s kingdom, to the extent that the former can contribute to the better ordering of human society, it is of vital concern to the Kingdom of God (Gaudium et Spes, n. 38).

The Council wanted to clarify how the Christian message is not to be interpreted primarily in individual terms nor seen as parallel to, or floating above, human interactions and socio-cultural evolution. We work together with God, knowing the closeness of God who wants to journey among us. Recognising the need for a new socio-cultural openness to the transcendent in the face of the challenges of a technological era, the philosopher Heidegger wrote that in our technological age it is ‘by thinking and poetizing we prepare a readiness for the appearance of the god’.26 With the Second Vatican Council, the Catholic Church wanted to re-present the face of the God who is among us. In the Constitution on Divine Revelation, Dei Verbum, we read of a God who, in Jesus Christ, is self-communicating, history-bound, communityfocused, relationship- and friendship-determined.

In the context of the paradigm of progress and prosperity, the Church in Ireland is called to offer a renewed kerygmatic proclamation of Jesus Christ, the ‘humanised God’, as Pope Benedict put it. In what way? While Jesus Christ is certainly communicated in the sacraments, especially the Eucharist,

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and works through ordained ministry and charism, and is found in the ‘least’, there is also a presence of Christ that speaks to today’s modern world, focused so much on relationships: ‘For where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them’ (Mt 18:20). Christ is the key to human history and is at the centre of Catholic faith, but today we are to recognise how we are saved in Christ not only as individuals but also in our relationships.

Relationships as a locus of God’s presence is one that needs greater attention in this era of our collective faith journey. Perhaps something of what Nietzsche described happened in Ireland – faith became dogma, then transformed into morality and ultimately ended up self-dissolving. To reignite faith, we need to nurture and promote at all levels of Church life the living encounter with Christ where ‘two or more’ pilgrims and seekers, discover Jesus the Way journeying among them through their love for one another. Pope Francis comments: We need to return to Galilee. There is our encounter with the Risen Jesus: … This calls for a pastoral creativity capable of reaching people where they are living – not waiting for them to come – finding opportunities for listening, dialogue and encounter. We need to return to the simplicity and enthusiasm of the Acts of the Apostles …27

And in the encounter with the Risen Jesus we discover the social implications of the vision proposed in the Acts of the Apostles: ‘Now the whole group of those who believed were of one heart and soul, and no one claimed private ownership of any possessions, but everything they owned was held in common’ (Acts 4:32). The communion of goods, sharing, a culture of giving were the first fruits of the Pentecost gift of the Spirit.

Toleration, inclusion and a Trinitarian spirituality of encounter and communion: The Second Vatican Council, in its Constitution on the Church, Lumen Gentium, highlighted the image of Church as ‘People of God’ (mentioned 184 times in the documents of the Council). Central to this image was the dynamic notion of ‘communion’ (koinonia). In the Irish language, the church building is called ‘the house of the People’ (Teach an Phobail). Pope Francis strongly underlines our need to rediscover the theology of the People of God promoted by the Second Vatican Council. It speaks of a Church not closed in on itself but rather outward looking in universal outreach. The esteem with which values of toleration, inclusion and reconciliation are held in Ireland

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‘Going Deep, Going Forth, Going Together’, Part II: Seeking Meaning in a Transformed World

today reminds the Christian community of its own inner identity – that it is to be a school of humanity, where all learn to love one another as brothers and sisters, ready to work together for the common good, putting ourselves as the service of all. Quoting Bernard Lonergan, Pope Francis says, ‘The love that God gives us overflows into love ... It is a love that prompts the Good Samaritan to stop and take care of the traveller attacked by thieves. It is a love that has no borders, that seeks the kingdom of God ... and this kingdom is universal’.28 The Church is called to embody this love without borders, in order to realize the dream that God has for humanity: for us to be brothers and sisters all. Let us ask ourselves: how are we doing when it comes to practical fraternity between us? ... And how about our relationships with those who are not ‘one of our own’, with those who do not believe, with those who have different traditions and customs? This is the way: to build relationships of fraternity with everyone … with every sister and brother we meet, because the presence of God is reflected in each of their faces.29

In the vision of the Second Vatican Council, the Church is rooted in the mystery of the Trinity. Echoing this, in his encyclical Laudato Si’, Pope Francis reminds us, ‘Everything is interconnected, and this invites us to develop a spirituality of that global solidarity which flows from the mystery of the Trinity’.30 This global solidarity both prompts us to convert in our own way of living, but it also provides us with parameters to call out injustices in terms of social justice, respect for life and care for the environment. Pope Francis promotes initiatives such as the Francis Economy, the Educational Global Compact and the Laudato Si’ Action Platform.

The Irish tradition, as we see for instance in St Patrick’s Breastplate, emphasised the God who is community, the Triune God. Today we are challenged to recognise that we are not only to know the doctrine of the Trinity but to ‘live the Trinity’ in Christ among us. It is a question of what has been called a ‘Trinitisation’ of relationships, and this relates not just to relations between individuals but also to how ecclesial institutions, groups and initiatives actively inter-relate to one another.

In encouraging going forth in outreach and solidarity, inclusion and tolerance, Pope Francis recognises that truth, while not relative, is relational. Jesus Christ is Truth in Person. Francis quotes Pope Benedict XVI, who pointed out that ‘truth, in fact, is logos which creates dia-logos, and hence communication and communion’.31 Without any change of the truth of the

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Gospel (Jesus Christ the Truth), there is always a need for adaptation to the nature and character of every culture.

Abuse and the crucified and abandoned Christ: The range of the phenomena of abuse coming to light in our society is shocking. It is clear that looking ahead to the future, ‘no effort must be spared to create a culture able to prevent such situations from happening’.32 But going deeper, the wound of abuse and the scandals that emerged from disclosures of the dark sides of our Church story, need to be interpreted within a renewed contemplation of the figure of the crucified risen Christ. We also have to deal with the horrible fact of the evil that has happened and is happening.

Johannes Metz speaks of the memory of the passion of Christ that heals us as we awaken to painful memories of our collective history. The dark and deep valleys of our cultural landscape are painful to dwell in. Who can really reach the depths of the personal and communitarian anguish, perplexity, doubt, guilt and woundedness that marks all of us to some degree? The Second Vatican Council suggested an avenue of reflection along the lines of the memory of the passion when it reminded us that it is precisely from the dying Christ that the Church arose.33 The paschal core of the Christian faith, celebrated in liturgy, shines a light in our darkness. In the Constitution on the Church, Lumen Gentium, n. 8, we read how,

Just as Christ carried out the work of redemption in poverty and persecution, so the Church is called to follow the same route ... Christ Jesus, ‘though He was by nature God … emptied Himself, taking the nature of a slave’, and ‘being rich, became poor’ for our sakes. Thus, the Church, although it needs human resources to carry out its mission, is not set up to seek earthly glory, but to proclaim, even by its own example, humility and self-sacrifice … In the poor and afflicted [the Church] sees the image of its poor and suffering Founder.34

In what the German theologian, Eugene Biser might call the ‘landscape of the cry’, visible and audible now in Ireland in new ways, there is a need to look anew to the Jesus Crucified and Forsaken, the ‘god of our time’ as Chiara Lubich called him. With him, not simply as an object of devotion, we can enter the painful memory and recognition of betrayal, duplicity, abandonment, division, turmoil and despair. It is in him and through him that we can begin to look out for the seeds of the Resurrection.35

In the crucified Christ, the theme of merciful love becomes centre stage.

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‘Going Deep, Going Forth, Going Together’, Part II: Seeking Meaning in a Transformed World

The Second Vatican Council has been called a ‘the Council of Mercy’.36 For Pope Francis, ‘mercy cannot become a mere parenthesis in the life of the Church; it constitutes her very existence’.37 The Catholic Church in Ireland is being invited to discover mercy at the heart of her identity.

Now is the time to unleash the creativity of mercy, to bring about new undertakings, the fruit of grace. The Church today needs to tell of those ‘many other signs’ that Jesus worked, which ‘are not written’ (Jn 20:30), so that they too may be an eloquent expression of the fruitfulness of the love of Christ and of the community that draws its life from him. Two thousand years have passed, yet works of mercy continue to make God’s goodness visible.38

Significantly, Pope Francis began the Mass in the Phoenix Park during his visit for the World Meeting of Families invoking mercy and forgiveness: ‘we ask forgiveness for the times that, as a Church, we did not show the survivors of whatever kind of abuse the compassion and the seeking of justice and truth through concrete actions’. The Church itself in its community life is to be the place where the memory of the passion unleashes, in the power of the Spirit, relationships of mercy. It is by being rooted humbly in the mystery of Crucified and Forsaken Christ, that in our relationships with one another we allow healing and reconciliation to take place:

The Church is the house where we ‘conciliate’ anew, where we meet to start over and to grow together. It is the place where we stop thinking as individuals and acknowledge that we are brothers and sisters of one another. Where we look one another in the eye, accept the other’s history and culture, and allow the mystique of togetherness, so pleasing to the Holy Spirit, to foster the healing of wounded memories.39

Let’s act: Directions

In this section, I want to propose some directions that emerge from what we’ve considered up to this point. They are points rooted in the teachings of the Second Vatican Council as underlined anew in Pope Francis’s teaching and actions.

Rediscovering God’s project of unity:

In what in many ways is the Magna Charta statement of the Council, we get the following definition of Church: ‘The Church is in Christ like a sacrament or as a sign and instrument both of a very closely knit union with God and of the unity of the whole human race.’40 The Church has a message, a project, a

Brendan Leahy

mandate – to promote social friendship, fraternity, unity. In Gaudium et Spes, n. 24, we read of how Jesus’ prayer ‘may they all be one’ indicates that the unity of humankind is to mirror the unity of the Trinity.

God’s project of unity (not uniformity!), as proposed by the Second Vatican Council, is a horizon that can guide us. While grateful for all the Church’s ministries and sacraments, institutions and agencies, works of mercy and justice, parishes and religious congregations, our groups, associations and movements, each of which is important in its specific focus, nevertheless, in our day, the Spirit is pushing us to focus on what overall we exist for – to be at the service of the human family becoming ever more family, united in fraternal love, social friendship and bonds of unity, ultimately finding fulfilment in God who, at the end of time will be ‘all in all’. Pope Francis’s encyclical on fraternity and social friendship, Fratelli Tutti, expresses this conviction.41

Focus on the initial proclamation: In a preface to a recently published book, Pope Francis notes how the Council was directed towards witnessing and presenting in new words the event of the death and resurrection of Jesus and his presence among us.42 In an address in Canada, Pope Francis spoke of the need to focus on the main aspects of the kerygma:

In the spiritual deserts of our time, created by secularism and indifference, we need to return to the initial proclamation … We cannot presume to communicate the joy of faith by presenting secondary aspects to those who have not yet embraced the Lord in their lives, or by simply repeating certain practices or replicating older forms of pastoral work … 43

Pope Benedict had already acknowledged the classical means of evangelisation no longer produce the fruits they once did. Today we need forms of Church life that help people experience Christianity as an ‘event’, the event of God’s revelation to us in Jesus Christ reaching us today.

The way of synodality: Gerry O’Hanlon speaks of Pope Francis’s ‘quiet revolution’ not least in terms of his promotion of an awakening to the fact that the Catholic Church is synodal.44 Synodality is paving the way for a renewed encounter with the God who journeys with us and among us. Pope Francis’s underlining of synodality calls to mind Pope John Paul’s words twenty years previously, on

‘Going Deep, Going Forth, Going Together’, Part II: Seeking Meaning in a Transformed World

entering a new millennium: ‘To make the Church the home and the school of communion: that is the great challenge facing us in the millennium which is now beginning … Before making practical plans, we need to promote a spirituality of communion …Let us have no illusions: unless we follow this spiritual path, external structures of communion will serve very little purpose.’45 Perhaps the nuance of emphasis in Pope Francis is that he encourages us to throw wide open the doors of our heart and our ecclesial life in a mysticism/spirituality of encounter not just with those of the household of faith but with all who pass us by. We are all seekers together for a meaning in a world in rapid transformation. In Canada Pope Francis affirmed: This is the way: not to decide for others, not to pigeonhole everyone within our preconceived categories, but to place ourselves before the crucified Lord and before our brothers and sisters, in order to learn how to walk together. That is what the Church is, and should always be – the place where reality is always superior to ideas. That is what the Church is, and always should be – not a set of ideas and precepts to drill into people; the Church is a welcoming home for everyone!46 No one could have imagined during the Council the degree to which the Catholic Church would begin to move out of its self-sufficiency or what Pope Francis calls ‘self-referentiality’ to encounter others. We see it powerfully in Pope Francis’s own outreach to migrants, to those who find themselves in complex family situations, to the homeless, and to LGBT+ persons. The Pope promotes a greater recognition of the primacy of conscience and freedom in each person’s life’s journey.47 Synodality is not about parliamentary debates or ecclesiastical tactics. To be synodal, at all levels, is the vocation of the Church.

Valuing charisms as ‘co-essential’: When Pope John XXIII announced the Council, he referred to a ‘new Pentecost’. One of the debates during the Second Vatican Council was around the role of charisms in the Church. Some considered charisms as no longer needed as they were only for the early times of the Church. The Council, however, was clear that the Holy Spirit ‘both equips and directs’ the Church ‘with hierarchical and charismatic gifts’.48 And in the past sixty years there have been many ‘charismatic’ initiatives in the forms of new groups, movements and associations.

There is a need for a greater new recognition of the role charism plays in

Brendan Leahy

the Church. Pope Francis echoes Pope John Paul when he says that hierarchy and charism are ‘co-essential’ in the Church. By inspiring charisms, the Spirit is constantly at work shaping new forms of Church life. In its letter on charisms the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith reminds us that, ‘in the essential work of new evangelization, it is now more than ever necessary to recognize and value the numerous charisms capable of reawakening and nourishing the life of faith of the People of God’. 49

In recent times, movements and new associations have come under scrutiny because of limits, sins and failures in governance.50 Interventions on the part of the Pope and the Dicastery of the Laity, the Family and Life seek to strengthen these communities as a clear sign of vitality in the Church. Pope Francis sees popular movements and ecclesial communities based on charisms as signs of hope. Echoing Pope Benedict, he believes they are ‘creative minorities’ capable of re-igniting the joy of the Gospel in people’s lives. In Ireland, this is a theme yet to be fully recognised, discerned and celebrated.

Creative fidelity to Tradition:

There is a rich doctrinal treasure-trove in Ireland’s Christian heritage. There needs to be a new encounter with it. Certainly, as Pope Francis often comments, we have to value the contribution of popular religiosity. But in reviewing our notion of Tradition (not to be confused, as Yves Congar so clearly explained, simply with ‘traditions’),51 we learn from the Second Vatican Council, especially in its document on Divine Revelation, Dei Verbum, that the deep river of Tradition has come down to us through the centuries in a way that is dynamic and developmental. Pope Francis quotes Gustav Mahler, ‘Tradition is not the worship of ashes, but the preservation of fire’. Attentive to the voice of the Spirit speaking through circumstances, and discerned in the sensus fidelium, we are called to be creatively faithful to Tradition. And that also means, courageously letting go of ‘Church’s customs, ways of doing things, times and schedules, language and structures’ in order to suitably channel what has come to us from Tradition for the evangelization of today’s world. 52

Conclusion

In an ever-reforming Church, the new wine of the Christ event requires new wineskins in each new era of the Church’s journey. The Gospel faith given once and for all (Jude 1:3), the faith needing to be guarded (1 Tim 6:20),

‘Going Deep, Going Forth, Going Together’, Part II: Seeking Meaning in a Transformed World

is always becoming inculturated in new ways as it interacts with society and culture. In this article, I’ve offered some reflections on how that might be happening in Ireland in the light of the Second Vatican Council and the pontificate of Pope Francis.

Vincent Twomey has written that, ‘the challenge facing the Church is precisely… to convince people of its bona fides by responding to their deepest spiritual longings and intellectual searching’.53 At the national Synodal Assembly in Athlone on 18 June 2022, one of the participants shared a simple incident that occurred as he had made his way that morning to the assembly. With his car broken down, a local mechanic was kindly driving him to the event. The mechanic, himself not a regular church attender, asked what the assembly would be about. To the participant’s acknowledgment of the mechanic’s comment that it would probably be about ‘hot button’ issues, the mechanic offered a word of advice: all that is fine and good, but remember to go deep. The event of the Second Vatican Council is still with us, still offering us depths, spiritual, cultural and social, yet to be received.

Dr Brendan Leahy is bishop of Limerick and former professor of Systematic Theology at St Patrick’s College, Maynooth. He is also deputy chair of the Steering Committee of the National Synodal Pathway, as well as co-editor with Dermot Lane of Vatican II: Facing the 21st Century (Dublin: Veritas, 2006) and author of Let’s Remember, Let’s Review, Let’s Renew (Dublin: Veritas, 2015).

(Endnotes)

1 ‘“Going Deep, Going Forth, Going Together” – Part I: The Catholic Church in Ireland, Vatican II and Pope Francis’, Studies 111 (2022), 267–276.

2 Michele Dillon, ‘Secularization, Generational Changes, and Ireland’s Post-Secular Opportunity’ in David Carroll Cochron and John C. Waldmeir (eds), The Catholic Church in Ireland Today (Lanham, Maryland: Lexington Books, 2015), pp. 45–64.

3 Robert McCrum, ‘The whole world in a community’, The Guardian, 6 January 2002.

4 Louise Fuller, ‘Revisiting the faith of our fathers … and reimagining its relevance in the context of the twenty-first-century Ireland’, in Eamon Maher and Eugene of Brien (eds), Tracing the Cultural Legacy of Irish Catholicism (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2017), pp. 38–50, here p. 44.

5 See David Carroll Cochran, ‘Dethroning Irish Catholicism: Church, State and Modernity in contemporary Ireland’, Tracing the Cultural Legacy, pp. 53–69.

6 Crawford Gribben, The Rise and Fall of Christian Ireland (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2021).

7 See James Haft (ed.), Charles Taylor, A Catholic Modernity? (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999).

8 He quotes Pope John XIII’s opening speech at the Council. See Evangelii Gaudium, n. 84.

9 Pope Francis, ‘Apostolic Journey of his Holiness Pope Francis to Canada: Vespers with Bishops, Priests, Deacons, Consecrated Persons, Seminarians and Pastoral Workers in the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Québec; Homily of His Holiness’ (multimedia), 28 July 2022, https://www.vatican.va/ content/francesco/en/homilies/2022/documents/20220728-omelia-vespri-quebec.html

10 Quoting Paul VI,’s Apostolic Exhortation, Evangelii Nuntiandi (1975) and Charles Taylor, A Secular

Age (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 2007), p. 437.

11 See Massimo Faggioli, ‘Evangelii Gaudium as an Act of Reception of Vatican II’, in Gerard Mannion (ed.), Pope Francis and the Future of Catholicism: Evangelii Gaudium and the Papal Agenda (Cambridge University Press, 2017), p. 38.

12 Apart from publications referred to later in this article, see Mary Kenny, The Way We Were: Catholic Ireland since 1922 (Dublin: Columba Books, 2022) and Goodbye to Catholic Ireland (Dublin: New Island Books, 2003); Brian Lucey et al (eds), Recalling the Celtic Tiger (Oxford: Peter Lang, 2019); Helen Goode, Hannah McGee & Ciarán O’Boyle, Time to Listen: Confronting Child Sexual Abuse by Catholic Clergy in Ireland (Dublin: Liffey Press, 2003); Fionola Kennedy, Cottage to Crèche (Dublin: Institute of Public Administration, 2001); Tom Inglis, Moral Monopoly: The Rise and Fall of the Catholic Church in Modern Ireland (Dublin: UCD, 1998).

13 Mary E. Daly, The Slow Failure: Population Decline and Independent Ireland, 1920–1973 (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2006), p. 222.

14 Fintan O’Toole, We Don’t Know Ourselves: A Personal History of Ireland since 1958 (London: Apollo Book, 2021), 149, citing the Irish Independent, 2 December 1966.

15 See ESRI, Bust to Boom: The Irish Experience of Growth and Inequality (2000) and Best of Times? The Social Impact of the Celtic Tiger (2007). See also the Working Notes produced regularly by the Jesuit Centre for Faith and Justice.

16 Tom Healy, An Ireland Worth Working For: Towards A New Democratic Programme (Dublin: New Island Books, 2019).

17 See David McWilliams, Renaissance Nation, quoted by Mary Kenny in The Way We Were, p. 183.

18 Ibid.

19 See Victor Griffin, Enough Religion to Make Us Hate: Reflections on Religion and Politics (Dublin: Columba Press, 2003).

20 Kenny, Goodbye to Catholic Ireland.

21 The document can be found on Synod.ie, https://synod.ie/synthesis-of-the-consultation-in-irelandfor-the-diocesan-stage-of-the-universal-synod-2021-2023-2/.

22 Pastoral Letter of Pope Benedict to the Catholics of Ireland, 19 March 2010, n. 4.

23 In interview in the Irish Independent Weekend, 16 November 2002, 9.

24 Michael Cronin, ‘Faith, Hope and Clarity? A new church for the unhoused’ in Tracing the Cultural Legacy of Irish Catholicism, pp. 163–175, here, p. 167.

25 Derek Scally, The Best Catholics in the World (London: Penguin Books, 2020), p. 300.

26 Martin Heidegger, ‘Only a God can Save Us’, The Spiegel Interview (1966) quoted by Philipp W Rosemann in ‘How Did we Get Here? Reflections towards a Philosophy of the Present’ Studies (2021/Autumn), 279–291; here, 290.

27 Pope Francis, ‘Apostolic Journey to Canada, Homily of His Holiness’.

28 Bernard Lonergan, ‘The Future of Christianity’, in A Second Collection (London: Darton, Longman and Todd, 1974), p. 154

29 Pope Francis, ‘Apostolic Journey to Canada, Homily of His Holiness’.

30 Pope Francis, Laudato Si’ (Vatican: The Holy See, 2015), n. 240.

31 Pope Benedict XVI, Caritas in Veritate, n. 4. Quoted in Pope Francis, Veritatis Gaudium (Vatican: The Holy See, 2018), n. 4.

32 Pope Francis, Letter to the People of God, 20 August 2018.

33 See the Second Vatican Council Constitution on the Sacred Liturgy, Sacrosanctum Concilium, n. 7.

34 Pope Paul VI, Lumen Gentium (Vatican: The Holy See, 1964), n. 8.

35 Pope Francis, Evangelii Gaudium (Vatican: The Holy See, 2014), n.

36 See for instance, Piero Coda, Il Concilio della Misericordia (Rome: Città Nuova, 2015).

37 Pope Francis’ Apostolic Letter, Misericordia et Misera (Vatican: The Holy See, 2016), n. 1.

38 Pope Francis, Misericordia et Misera, n. 18.

39 Pope Francis, ‘Apostolic Journey of His Holiness Pope Francis to Canada: Meeting with Indigenous Peoples and Members of the Parish Community of Sacred Heart, Address of His Holiness’ (multimedia), 25 July 2022, https://www.vatican.va/content/francesco/en/speeches/2022/july/ documents/20220725-incontroedmonton-canada.html

40 Lumen Gentium, n. 1.

41 See Brendan Leahy, ‘Inter-religious Dialogue today’, Doctrine & Life 71 (2021/5), 22–33.

42 Marco Roncalli e Ettore Malnati, Giovanni XXIII. Il Vaticano II un concilio per il mondo (Bolis, 2022).

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43 Pope Francis, ‘Apostolic Journey to Canada, Homily of his Holiness’.

44 Gerry O’Hanlon, The Quiet Revolution of Pope Francis: A Synodal Catholic Church in Ireland? (Dublin: Messenger Publications, 2018). See also Austin Ivereigh, The Great Reformer (London: Allen and Unwin, 2015).

45 Pope John Paul II, Novo Millennio Ineunte (Vatican: The Holy See, 2000), n. 43.

46 Pope Francis, ‘Apostolic Journey to Canada, Address of His Holiness’.

47 See for instance Pope Francis, Amoris Laetitia (Vatican: The Holy See, 2016).

48 Lumen Gentium, n. 4.

49 Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, ‘Letter “Iuvenescit Ecclesia” to the Bishops of the Catholic Church regarding the Relationship between Hierarchical and Charismatic Gifts in the Life and the Mission of the Church’ (Vatican: The Holy See, 2016).

50 See, Dicastery for the Laity, the Family and Life, ‘Decree of the Dicastery of the Laity, the Family and Life “Associations of the Faithful” regulating the exercise of government in international associations of the faithful, private and public, and in other bodies with legal personality subject to direct supervision by the same Dicastery’ (Vatican: The Holy See, 2021), https://press.vatican.va/ content/salastampa/en/bollettino/pubblico/2021/06/11/210611a.html. See Pope Francis, ‘Address of His Holiness Pope Francis to the Participants in the Meeting of Moderators of Lay Associations, Ecclesial Movements and New Communities’ (multimedia), https://www.vatican.va/content/ francesco/en/speeches/2021/september/documents/20210916-associazioni-fedeli.html.

51 See Thomas Guarino, ‘Pope Francis looks to Vincent of Lérins’ in First Things (24 October 2013) https://www.firstthings.com/web-exclusives/2013/09/pope-francis-looks-to-st-vincent-of-lerins (accessed August 14). (Commonitorium primum, 23: PL 50, 668).

52 Pope Francis, Evangelii Gaudium, n. 27.

53 Vincent Twomey, ‘Contemporary Irish Catholicism: A Time of Hope!’, in Tracing the Cultural Legacy, pp. 89–102, p. 99.

A Human Being Fully Alive

Pádraig Ó Tuama

Growing up we said a decade of the rosary in Irish every night. Me, my six siblings, my parents. Each of us, kneeling into a chair, turned away from whatever was in the centre of the room. ‘Sé do bheatha a Mhuire’, we’d recite. The nightly prayer time started after my parents joined a charismatic Catholic prayer group, around the time I was eight or nine. They made lovely new friends. Top of the Pops was suddenly banned because the American mother-group of charismatic Catholics didn’t approve of popular music. It was the smell of sex that was objectionable in pop music, as other music was sexless.

This was the time of Glenroe on Sunday night television. A soap opera set in rural Wicklow: farmers, a local pub, a family with notions, scandal, routine. Scandal rocked Ireland when Michelle, one of the characters in the show, became pregnant outside of wedlock. The series received national attention for its depiction of immorality. When the episode was aired (the father was an uppity lawyer with notions), I knew I was supposed to ask the question about how such a thing could happen. But I was almost eleven, so I already knew. (Alex Noonan brought a book into school; we were scandalised; Mrs Sheehan said ‘it’s about time’.) But I wasn’t supposed to know. ‘How did Michelle from Glenroe get pregnant if she wasn’t married?’ I asked. ‘Don’t be asking dirty questions’, the answer came – my parents seemed to speak in literary unison. It was perfect. The necessary roles were performed, each actor did what they needed to, and all the gods were satisfied. I thought my parents were fools; they thought I was a filthy hallion; everyone blamed RTÉ; the Church was spared; Ireland’s purity was restored; God was happy in his kingdom.

Sex and power

When I began to realise I was gay a year or two later (though I knew I was a faggot before I knew what a faggot was), there were other dirty questions to

ask, but I never asked them. There were secrets to learn to keep. There were things I had to learn to hold until everything exploded.

The soul has moments of escapeWhen bursting all the doors -

She dances like a Bomb, abroad, And swings opon the Hours,

When I read that from Emily Dickinson, I felt like I’d made another confirmation, and she was the bishop, resting her hand on my cheek, saying yes, ushering in a wild spirit that was already in me.

Why am I remembering? For nostalgia, of course, but not the sweet kind. ‘Nostalgia’ comes from ‘nóstos’ – homecoming – and ‘álgos’ – pain, grief distress. There’s a distress in remembering that old house of the imagination, everyone frightened of someone else: the gay boy frightened of the world and his parents; the parents frightened of the priest or the neighbours; the priest frightened of the parishioners and the bishop; the bishop frightened of whomever the bishop was frightened of; and on and on and on until you got to God in whom all fear resided. Or maybe hell came after. I was never sure.

Ireland has changed. Sometimes it seems like the Catholic Ireland I grew up in ate the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge and left the garden, not bothering to lock the gate behind. There are new vistas outside of Eden. They’re far from ideal. But the lie that death lay beyond the borders of God is one that even God didn’t believe.

In my twenties I went to confession a fair bit. Once, I told a priest that I was struggling with my sexuality, and that I was gay. ‘Have you had sex?’ he asked. ‘No’, I said. ‘You must be very holy’, he said. I remember thinking that if that’s what holiness was then I was growing less interested in it by the day. Another time, in another moment of distress, I went to confession with a different priest – a Jesuit in a foreign city. We spoke in the sacristy. When it came time for absolution he told me to kneel on the wooden floor, and he stood with his crotch thrust in my face. I remember the shiny gray fabric of his trousers. He was aroused. I felt sick. What was this diabolical pantomime? I wondered what he thought holiness was. During that decade I spent enough time with priests to know that plenty of them were as interested and curious and – some of them at least – immature about sex as I was. I saw most of them as kind men caught in a system that willfully misrepresented sexuality. But this foreign Jesuit just liked power, I could smell it from him. I left without absolution.

Pádraig Ó Tuama

Another time, another confession (notice the theme), I told a priest my old secret. My god, I was so isolated. The priest was young, probably in his early thirties, a funny man. I’d gotten to know him well. Sometimes, you could often see that he’d barely made it out of bed in time for weekday mass: hair disheveled, a crease still on his face from his bedsheets. When I told him my gay confession, he asked me if I’d ever been in love. I was aghast. No, I said, of course not. He said I would be, at some time in the future, and that when that happened, I’d have to change the way I think of God.

I don’t believe that people can tell the future. But he told me something true.

A few years ago, I was giving a paper at a conference in Dublin. The organisers put me up in a hotel, which happened to be nearby where I’d made that confession to that young priest. I didn’t sleep well, too many memories in that part of Drumcondra. I woke at 4am the next morning and opened the Irish Times app on my phone. The young priest was in the paper, twenty-five years later now. He’d died. Tony Coote. He’d gone on to become a muchloved chaplain at UCD and then had developed Motor Neurone Disease and had campaigned for awareness and funds by doing Malin to Mizen treks in his wheelchair. He’d thrived in life until he died. How right he was that I’d fall in love. How right he was that God needed to change. There are people who are priests because they’ve done the studies, and people who priest because they priest. He was both. I still have the Paul Durcan poetry book he lent me. Mine now, I suppose. I treasure it and often trace my finger over his name in the front flap.

Images of God

In school, I despised Patrick Kavanagh. When we learnt ‘O Stony Grey Soil’ in English class, I said to the teacher that if Kavanagh hated Monaghan so much why did he have to write miserable poems about it. I had a lot to learn from Kavanagh. We learnt ‘Having Confessed’ too: We must not touch the immortal material We must not daydream to-morrow’s judgment–God must be allowed to surprise us.

Of course, ‘God’ is just a word, not a character. God is not a something or even a thing. My life changed when I read Ignatius of Loyola. ‘The Glory of God is a human being fully alive’, he reminds us, borrowing from Irenaeus of Lyons. If this is the case, then the event we should look at is the human

A Human Being Fully Alive

being fully alive, and there – if we have eyes to see – we might see that which we call God. This morning I was on a Zoom call with an old friend. His twenty-year-old son came into the room to say hallo. This young fella has known sorrow – like us all – and here he was, beaming with his own glory. He’d been writing poems lately, he said, and reading them back to himself, and feeling like someone understood. I held back tears as I heard him. Later I texted him a link to Walt Whitman’s ‘Song of Myself’. Maybe sometime over a few pints I’ll introduce him to Meister Eckhart, ‘The eye with which I see God is the eye with which God sees me’. God as the word for the locus point from which we notice and which notices us.

In my early twenties I bought Nuala O’Faolain’s memoir Are You Somebody? in a secondhand shop. It had been out a few years, and while I wasn’t an Irish Times reader, I felt compelled by what I knew of her voice. I’d seen her interviewed a few times, and on the Open University programmes I’d watch when I couldn’t sleep. I liked her humility, I liked her clarity, I loved her artistry with words. I liked the freedom she had to speak about religion. She spoke of an Ireland that was emerging, where people could speak about their relationship with religious authority without fear of repercussion. In his book about Jesus of Nazareth, Pope Benedict wrote that prophesy isn’t soothsaying but rather a revealing of the potential in the present. Nuala O’Faolain was that for me – and, I know, for many – speaking about a freedom that we needed, but couldn’t see. My god, such freedom isn’t free. She knew that.

New rituals for new times Which Mass are you going to was the question in our house every weekend. In many households these days, it may be something like, ‘When are you going to the gym?’ or ‘What time’s your Zoom session?’ or ‘Don’t forget to buy the baby’s nappies on your way back from therapy; the next size up. Milk too. And biscuits, the neighbour’s calling in. God as if we didn’t have enough to do.’ For me, I don’t lament that fewer people go to Mass. I don’t go – I haven’t been able to drag myself there since Benedict became pope; I’d read most of what he’d written by the time the white smoke smoked, and was aghast that he’d been chosen. I like much of what Francis says, but the dye was cast. Anyway, I’m too ashamed of the many closeted gay men in senior Church positions who make space for themselves but not others. So I have no lament for the particular bookmark of weekly Mass being

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replaced by other things. The point is that it’s been replaced. The question is whether the replacement is sufficient. A parish mission was a big point for our parish in Cork when I was growing up. Now I think it’s probably a gang of friends going camping at Electric Picnic. Festivals are high holy seasons, complete with rituals, disappointments, anticipations, surprises, repetitions, modifications. They’ve got their own sacraments too: little places where something tangible points to what’s beyond the tangible. I’ve got friends who go to the same place for holidays every year with another family. That’s their retreat. ‘What’s happened since last year?’ they always ask each other. The trees and mountains and water hear their confessions. Each other too.

In the question of ‘Do you believe in God?’ the most important word for me is ‘you’. Who is speaking? Whom are they addressing? Is the exchange between them of sufficient dignity to allow whatever life that’s flourishing to be beheld in its glory? If not, then the question feels like a trap, a sectarian shibboleth, a waste of time, an exercise in catechetics or apologetics designed to satisfy some overseer whose hermeneutics have been found wanting.

A few years ago I heard a story – from a senior cleric – that when nearlyordained priests in Maynooth were being coached on how to interact with ‘The Laity’ one of them told his clerical colleagues that he felt the need to inform the laity that, after his ordination, he’d be ontologically different from them. Let the mighty be cast from their thrones. ‘Enough of this princery’, Pope Francis is reputed to have said when someone came towards him with an ermine-lined cloak after he was chosen as pope. If there are fewer masses in chapels, but they’re still used as community centres, places where twelvestep groups meet, places for yoga, skills exchange, music, sport, dance, or gathering in times of grief, then they’re doing what they’ve always been doing, but telling the truth about it a little more. If God wanted humanity’s ontology in the incarnation, then the pursuit of a different one through religion is an idol. Such desecration of human experience is mostly melted down these days. What remains, if we’re lucky, is good theology that says that whatever God is might be found in the space between people. That thing that happens when we breathe – when we ruach – in safe company. People pray every day. It’s a beautiful and intimate thing. ‘And some deep prayers were shaped like sonnets’, Kavanagh says. Shaped like text messages too.

Paul Durcan’s poem ‘10.30am Mass, 16 June 1985’ has a lively priest bustle onto the altar. The text for the day had been from the Prophet Ezekiel, but Paul Durcan isn’t impressed:

A Human Being Fully Alive

It’s a long way from a tin of steak-and-kidney pie for Sunday lunch in a Dublin bedsit to cedar trees in Israel he says. What he’s asking for is not a readers-digest version of liturgy, sacrament, or scripture. What he’s asking for is something that’s sufficient. When Jesus of Nazareth, fresh back from meeting the tempter in the wilderness, expounded on the reading in the synagogue, the people were so incensed that they took him to throw him off a cliff. Give us that: from priest or people. Stamp feet. Shout. Plead. Say hell no. That’ll show that we care about what we care about. The texts of the Bible make Game of Thrones look like a poorly written children’s story, yet the texts of the Bible are often presented with little literary admiration. We don’t need new-fangled narratives, we need eyes to read what the Bible’s art knows: how complicated life is, and the project of ‘God’ in community has always been an attempt to describe what it means to move from surviving to thriving. The text is magnificent; the question for me is whether our reading and witness and leadership and vulnerability is. Anyway, back to Durcan. Later, in his ‘10.30am Mass’ poem, the priest –because it’s Father’s Day – asks all the fathers in the chapel that day to stand up. They’re awkward, the dads. Reluctant.

It was as if all the fathers in the church had been caught out in the profanity of their sanctity in the bodily nakedness of their fatherhood, in the carnal deed of their fathering.

When they do rise, men who don’t want a fuss made of them, the priest leads the congregation in applause … until the entire church was ablaze with clapping hands –wives vying with daughters, sons with sons clapping clapping clapping clapping clapping while I stood there in a trance, tears streaming down my cheeks: Jesus!

Knowing you are worthy of attention

Ireland’s religious life is changing, but – thank whatever God is – a kind of religion is happening every day: in parties people arrange for someone’s retirement, a card sent at a month’s mind, in a text message out of the blue saying I’m thinking of you, I know what day it is, in groups where people

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tell the truth and feel all the relief of it, in therapy rooms, in doctor’s offices, in nurses’ stations, in clubs, in busses, in shoreline walks. To know you are worthy of attention, that you matter. This is at the heart of what good religion does. Roger Robinson writes a poem about a nurse who took a dying baby’s incubator into her office so she could feed him. ‘[N]o baby must dead wid a hungry belly’ she said, and held the baby’s fed body to her breast humming a pop tune: ‘Happy’ by Pharrell Williams.

When I was learning Aquinas’ five logical proofs of God – motion, causation, contingency, decree, teleology, and for good luck, ontology – I was most moved by his closing words. He’d highlight a proof, point to it, and speak of it as ‘that which we call God’. I loved that phrase, because it asked me to notice what’s observable and tangible in the world around me. It is, in a real sense, a call to be present to contemporary time, to be present to what French speakers call the siècle – the century; a word that’s given us ‘secular’. Ireland’s turning away from the Church is not synonymous with Ireland rejecting the spiritual life, rather it’s synonymous with declaring that broader Church powers haven’t paid enough attention to everyday life. In place of that, we’ve sought out better priests, ones among the people who offer language, or silence, or ritual that speaks the truth in little rafts that keep us all afloat. These are not centrally organised, but there’s nothing new in that. True religion has mostly thrived at its margins anyway. These rituals happen in festivals around the country, in small celebrations, in kindness among neighbours, in an invitation to a meal, in people turning up for a funeral, in remembering an anniversary, in giving a small gift. Priesting’s a verb, not a noun. It’s happening everywhere. I look and see and weep. Plenty of parishes around the country have had people running them who’ve been magnificent at this for decades. Centuries. Our old parish priest in Carrigaline was a shouty man who petrified me, a Cork hurling coach who told me (and the other future homosexuals of Cork) to feck off to the corner of the field while he taught the sporty lads how to puck and pass. But he’d never abandon a family after a bereavement. He’s stay all night; quiet in the corner, drinking tea. He’d call back the next week too, and the next. I was doing some work in a prison a few years ago and saw two women, both nuns, sitting in the room where some storytelling was happening. They’d each been chaplains for thirty years. Repositories of the incarnation, they are, ‘barrow[ing] dung wherever life pours ordinary plenty’.

A Human Being Fully Alive

Religion changes, religion remains the same There are terrible mistakes made in the absence and fading of formal religion. Someone has set up a confession app. It used to be a phone line where the messages were erased every day, but now you can do it from your own handheld device (assurances of confidentiality are given but probably untested). I see humanist celebrants searching for words that can hold a community together when conducting a tragic funeral. Ecologists seek words for repentance in their calls for wide-scale change, and campaigners about housing and cost-of-living crises call for the mighty houses of idolatry to be razed to the ground, or words to that effect. The human condition of greed, pain, inescapable tragedy, escapable ones too, has not changed, and while the word ‘sin’ has been a torture, it’s not without intelligence. Religion used to provide a certain kind of containing poetry for a population. What’s changing is who’s trusted to make the poetry for the people. If the formal Church structures are no longer afforded that role, it’s because they failed too many times. Nobody was looking for perfect, just kind, and dependable. Magnificent though many local witnesses to religion were, the structures within which they operated ground too loud for the exceptions to be substantive in the larger picture. Whatever God is – if God is – is not erased by the changes of Irish society. What is being replaced is definition, role, automatic authority. Nobody needs to come back to the Church, to the faith. If faith is anything it’s waiting for attention in life, and all around me I see people trying out ways to pay attention. Some of them are nuns or priests or monks; some aren’t. Some work within the halls of God; some don’t. Some know the old words and prayers for what ails us; some write new ones. What moves me is that they’re all looking for signs, and when they see one, they honour it, rather than ask for its credentials. Ireland’s doing what Ireland’s always done: changing, and with it, our language for what matters, what’s honoured, what’s needed is changing too. Is this an improvement? Looking at the worst of what was, it’d be hard to imagine it as a decline. Still though, it’s important to ask: do we see it as an improvement? We’ll see.

Pádraig Ó Tuama is a poet and a theologian who has extensive experience working in conflict mediation, especially as leader of the Corrymeela Community, an organisation devoted to reconciliation and peace-building, from 2014–2019. His most recent publication is Poetry

Pádraig Ó Tuama

Unbound: 50 Poems to Open Your World (Edinburgh: Canongate Books, 2022), an anthology of poems with a commentary on each one. Feed the Beast, a collection of his own poetry, is forthcoming from Broken Sleep Books at the end of 2022.

References

Emily Dickinson, ‘The Soul has Bandaged Moments’ (360), from Ralph W. Franklin (ed.), The Poems of Emily Dickinson, Variorum Edition (Cambridge, MA: Bellknap Press of Harvard University, 1951).

Paul Durcan, A Snail In My Prime (London: Harvill Press, 1999).

Patrick Kavanagh: ‘O Stony Grey Soil’; ‘Having Confessed’; ‘Lough Derg’; and ‘Advent’, all from Patrick Kavanagh: The Complete Poems, (Peter Kavanagh Press, The Goldsmith Press, 1972).

Pope Benedict XVI, Jesus of Nazareth (Catholic Truth Society, 2011).

Nuala O’Faolain, Are You Somebody (Dublin: New Island Books, 1996).

Roger Robinson, A Portable Paradise (Leeds: Peepal Tree Press, 2019).

Taking Back Control: The Role of the EU1

John O’Hagan

It was noted by the German philosopher Jürgen Habermas (b. 1929) that there are some issues whose influence permeates national boundaries and give rise to problems which individual states, or even limited coalitions of states, are no longer able to influence, let alone control (see Habermas, 2012). Habermas was writing shortly after the global financial crisis of the late 2000s. Since then, of course, we have had the climate crisis issue, the Covid-19 pandemic, and the war in Ukraine.

The only way according to this view to exercise control of problems that do not recognise national boundaries is to pool decision-making with other sovereign2 countries, thereby protecting the interest of the citizens of the participating states. The corollary of this is that withdrawing participation in any such coalition of states is in fact ceding control of the problems, thereby worsening the well-being of the individuals of that member state.

This paper has three objectives. First, to review the case in principle for binding international agreements to protect the interests of nation states and their citizens. Second, to address the critical issue of for which areas of activity should decision-making be shared and binding. On this there is considerable and understandable differences of opinion as the EU progresses further into the twenty-first century. Third, to discuss how decision-making might best operate in relation to such international agreements, again a subject of varying and legitimately differing views. In pursuit of these objectives, the paper is, for cohesiveness, divided into nine subsections.

1. The case for pooled decision-making at national and international levels

Immanuel Kant (1724–1804) never used the term ‘spill-over effect’ used by economists, but in fact this is what he was implicitly referring to in his writings over two centuries ago. He held that the state, given these implicit spill-over effects, is not an impediment to freedom but is how freedom is

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secured.

State action that is a hindrance to freedom can, when properly directed, support and maintain freedom if the state action is aimed at hindering actions which themselves would hinder the freedom of others. He argued further that Given a subject’s action that would limit the freedom of another subject, the state may hinder the first subject to defend the second by ‘hindering a hindrance to freedom’. Such state coercion is compatible with the maximal freedom demanded in the principle of right because it does not reduce freedom but instead provides the necessary background conditions needed to secure freedom. (Stanford Encyclopaedia of Philosophy, online)

It has been clear for a long time that by co-operating individuals enhance not diminish their freedom of action and hence control of their destiny. Let us take one of the simplest examples of all: a stop sign or traffic light on our roads. As individuals we cannot drive as we wish, regulation free, without endangering the lives of others, and vice versa. As such we pool decision-making to avoid what economists call ‘spill-over effects’, namely the consequences for the individual of other people’s actions and likewise the consequences of the individual’s actions for other people.

In these circumstances we do not cede individual freedom of action, as Kant states, because without this pooling of decision-making, we would not be able in the first place to risk driving on the roads, and hence the counterfactual to not pooling decision-making is in fact an almost total loss of individual freedom compared to what results from such sharing of common rules.

And so it is with nations too.3 Our standard of living would plummet if we could not trade with other nations and import, for example, vital materials such as medical equipment, gas/oil, food, and steel, among countless examples. We cannot stop the wind blowing harmful particles or radioactive waste across the Irish sea; we cannot counteract the fact that rogue states, criminals, illegal immigrants, and terrorists do not respect national boundaries and hence that their activity is international in nature; we cannot prevent the adverse consequences of the actions of others generating global warming. In the past, far less globalised world, the simple example of a river passing through several countries was the textbook case study of this. What is the point for example of the Netherlands having very strict conditions about

Taking Back Control: The Role of the EU

polluting the Rhine if Germany and other countries further upstream do not impose similar conditions?

Which areas of policy in general benefit states from pooled decisionmaking is open to huge debate. The same applies though at an individual level; that is, to what extent individual decision-making should be pooled for the greater freedom of all is open to debate in all societies. For example, should people be free to build whatever they want on their own land? Should they be allowed to smoke freely, especially in a public setting? Should vaccination for certain contagious diseases be compulsory? Should people be free to burn whatever they like in their homes and gardens? Should they or the state provide protection against theft and attack? The list is almost endless.

The central point being made here is that the issue of which policy areas should be decided at state as opposed to at EU level is simply an extension of the individual-versus-state debate conducted in this regard in every single country.

2. Pooled decision-making: the single market

The Treaty of Rome set out an extensive list of areas to which pooled decisionmaking might eventually have to apply, most notably in the areas of trade, services, capital movements, and eventually full economic union. Economic integration was to be the first phase of any future integration, but ‘ever closer union’ was the objective, subject of course to democratic consent. The benefits of trade between nations have been known for thousands of years. And the need for regulated trade to exploit the huge benefits from trade has been recognised for many centuries, therefore long before the formation of the EU.

Bear in mind also that in 1952, prior to the formation of the EU, under the European Coal and Steel Community, the coal and steel industries in six countries, especially those of France and Germany, were merged to ensure a key objective of the EU, namely the avoidance of any further military conflict between member states. This was an extraordinarily important move towards pooled decision-making. It did not, however, protect member states against attack from non-member states. That role was left largely to NATO.

Free trade between member states also necessitates a common trade policy with the rest of the world. Thus, from an early stage, common tariffs, decided collectively, had to be put in place. Logically, a single market in

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goods necessitated also common trade agreements with the rest of the world, to protect the single market in goods across member states and to add considerably increased bargaining power when negotiating collectively.

Over the following decades there were steady moves to complete the Single Market also in services, capital, macroeconomic coordination and eventually, if possible, banking, and fiscal union. All of this is based to some extent on the parallel of the US and, as such, was designed to make the EU a powerful integrated trading block to compete with the US and China. That process is still ongoing, delayed as we will see by cumbersome EU decisionmaking procedures imposed by member states.

There was also agreement early on to continue at an EU level the supports for agriculture that had existed already at national level. Two of the main objectives for this were to ensure adequate food supply and – interestingly in the light of recent events – security of supply into the future. A policy to integrate and assist regions of the EU was also agreed and put in place to support the Single Market concept, but much more important to ensure that all regions benefitted from improved economic circumstances. If this was not the case, it could feed into an anti-EU agenda. These two policy areas in fact use up a huge proportion of the EU budget to this day.

Most countries and regions, though, do not benefit significantly from these policies but do gain very substantially through the Single Market and its major economic benefits and potential. Many economic studies, time and again, have shown the major gains in living standards of free trade, and ever more so of a fully integrated single market, with standardised regulations and rules.

3. Need for rules, a ‘referee’ and an EU court

If we want to participate in the international ‘game’ of free trade, we must have common rules of engagement. Imagine, for example, the chaos of two football teams adopting different rules regarding off-side, permissible tackles, use of the hand, and/or number of players allowed. Common rules are obviously needed here, as they also are regarding the transfer of players, pitch size and markings, stadium safety, choice of referee, shirt colours and markings, and so on. The football association members of the European Football Association (UEFA) in this instance pool decision-making and the resolution of disputes with others; the alternative is no international football at all.

Back Control: The Role of the EU

Free trade likewise could not take place without agreed ‘rules of the game’ and without an independent referee and arbitration process. In the case of the EU this involves thousands of legal documents to regulate all aspects of trade across all goods and services, with the European Court of Justice being the ultimate arbiter of disputes involving the EU legal system. The same applies in every individual member state, including Ireland; thousands of legal documents governing trade, education, health, safety, and other issues, overseen by the courts. Without these legal rules and oversight there would be chaos in each member state.

Hence, pooled government decision-making can very often be greatly superior in terms of benefits to all compared to individual state decisionmaking. The crucial question of course is, when is this the case? What we know is that the greater the interdependency between nations the more this will apply. We will return to this topic in a later section.

4. Other areas where pooled decision making applies

There has been limited integration in terms of labour market regulations at a European level, and indeed in the areas of the environment, health, energy, and security. These areas, of course, have very much entered the framework for discussion in the last few years in terms of the benefits of collective decision-making. Global warming does not recognise national boundaries, nor do viruses leading to pandemics. The consequences of relying on nonfriendly countries for energy, water and food, and other vital materials is now better understood than just a year ago, and action is required at a European level in all areas where this applies.

There is as a result a clear realisation that acting collectively can make every country more effective in dealing with global warming, vaccine purchase and testing, energy supply in terms of economies of scale and security of that supply. There is now finally a realisation that security does not relate only to defence but also to water, food and energy supply, other essential raw materials, and cyber space. It also comes into play regarding ownership of vital infrastructure in each country.

To what areas might collective decision-making apply? Some general principles govern this matter in the EU. There is the so-called subsidiarity principle, which holds that policy making should apply as close to the people as possible. The burden of proof, therefore, is on those who argue that some decisions would benefit all the more by being made collectively. Where

Taking

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collective decision-making applies, the second principle of proportionality arises, namely that interventions at an EU level should be as minimal as possible to achieve the desired objective.

As a result, so-called ‘competences’ have developed over time, where it has been agreed that decision-making is made exclusively at a local level (e.g., policing, social welfare, education, and most of health policy), or at a central level (e.g., all aspects of competition policy and foreign policy) and ‘shared’ (e.g., R&D, energy, agriculture, certain public health measures and so on).4 The exact divide lines though are often unclear – maybe intended to be so.5

Issues around the allocation of these competences will absorb much time in the coming years for the EU, as it has done in recent years in a rapidly changing external environment. One thing which can be said with some certainty is that the division of competences between the national and EU level has been and will continue to be in a state of flux. In recent years, some aspects of health policy and energy policy, it was recognised, were best conducted at EU level.

This debate is not in any way confined to the EU, as similar multiple controversies arise in federal states as well as in unitary states like the UK and Japan. There is ongoing controversy, especially in the US, on the balance between federal and state policy, not just in the economic sphere but also in relation to social and moral issues.

5. Decision-making structures

Where in the EU there is agreement by all member states on the areas where collective decisions will be made there are agreed rules for such decisionmaking. There are two decision-making bodies, and the agreement of both is required for adoption into law. The first is the European Parliament, a body with directly elected representatives from each member state, where a simple majority of the votes cast is required. The second is the Council of Ministers, with a representative of each member state having voting rights. In this case, approval requires so-called ‘qualified majority approval’: at least fifty-five per cent of all states must approve, and states in approval must represent at least sixty-five per cent of the EU population. Using the first criterion, Ireland carries the same weight as Germany, namely it counts as one of the fifty-five per cent of countries required for a qualified majority, no more and no less than Germany does. Germany, though, with a much bigger population, would

Taking Back Control: The Role of the EU

naturally have greater impact in relation to the second decision rule. These are much more strict rules than apply in many national parliaments. For example, in the case of the UK, a simple majority of directly elected MPs, who often represent less than forty per cent of the UK population, must approve, plus a simple majority in the House of Lords, the members of which are all unelected. Therefore, it can be irksome when some there talk about an undemocratic EU.

This partly arises from the misconception among many that the unelected EU Commission makes the decisions. The Commission though is not a party to any final policy decisions, although it has an important informational role in the process. The Commission oversees the workings of a large secretariat, the same as the civil service in any member state. However, in member states the civil service reports directly to government ministers. There are, however, no EU ministers to report to, just the twenty-seven member states’s individual ministers in each area. The Commission then is the necessary conduit between the secretariat and the twenty-seven member states, but their role is purely administrative and advisory.

It does, however, have two important functions different to those of a normal civil service. The first is that it has been given the role of sustaining the European project and moving towards the objectives set out in the Treaty of Rome. It also has the right to make proposals. Again, which other body would do this, apart from it being done jointly, maybe, with the European Parliament? It certainly cannot be left to any individual country, such as for example France or Germany.

The Commission is also very often the public face of the EU, communicating policy decisions made by member states collectively. Again, who else could do this except the Commission, as it could not be any individual member state? Besides, the nominated president of the Commission is now elected by a majority in the Parliament. Individual commissioners are nominated by each national government, and the full Commission must also be approved by the Parliament before it can take up its role. The Parliament can in fact censure the Commission and ultimately dismiss it. Almost all commissioners were formerly politicians in their home countries.

Still, many people see the need to enhance the role of the European Parliament further, giving it not only the right of initiative but also a more prominent role in the projection of the public face of the EU. This would be especially so if the member states were to agree to widen the competences to

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which collective decision-making should apply. The role of the Parliament has changed, albeit slowly, over the decades, each change giving it more say in EU policy making. However, Parliament elections are still largely decided on national and not EU issues. There is also a low turnout at some elections.

These issues, though, are not confined to the EU, as similar debates arise in other democracies, such as the US and other federal systems, and indeed in local elections in unitary states. Besides, several proposals to strengthen European democracy, such as transnational party lists and developing additional channels for European citizens to make their voices heard, are currently under active consideration.

6. Unanimity rule and veto power

There is one other crucial matter. On some key policy issues, decisions require unanimity; in other words, every country, no matter how small, has veto power. One of these issues might be a change in the allocation of competence discussed earlier. Other issues have come to the forefront in the last year in four key areas in particular: taxation policy, the admission of new member states, foreign policy, and enforcement of the rule of law in member states. Thus, in recent months, Hungary for example was able to block military/ defence aspects of policy in relation to the Ukraine War, breaches of EU law in another member state, and taxation policy. Ireland also used this power to almost jettison the Lisbon Treaty. Imagine if Rhode Island or any small state had the power to block foreign policy in the US?

The qualified majority voting rules are restrictive enough for quick decision-making, but the veto power is by far the biggest obstacle to decisionmaking in the future. Some countries may not want to remove the veto power in certain areas, and this is fine once it is recognised that it can be a major barrier to policy-making in key areas which affect all member states.

The veto power also impinges on so many crucial areas for EU coherence in 2022 and into the future. First is the issue of enlargement and particularly the possible future inclusion of Ukraine and Moldova in the EU. Any single member state can block the eventual accession of both or either. Knowing this will in fact make member states who in principle support expansion reluctant to do so if the veto power is extended to even more countries. Second, is the issue of the war in Ukraine. Any single member state can block defence decisions regarding policy in this regard, no matter how many other member states approve. Third, is policy towards China and indeed any other non-

Taking Back Control: The Role of the EU

member state of the EU. Fourth, the veto power can block necessary sanctions against member states who are in breach of EU principles, as happened when Hungary blocked sanctions being imposed on Poland.

The issue of the veto power will have to be resolved, therefore, if the effectiveness of the EU is not to be greatly hindered in moving forward in relation to the great issues of tomorrow. But removing the veto power in some areas, or indeed making any changes to the majority voting rules, will require Treaty change and hence approval by every member state. Herein lie more problems.

7. Treaty change approval in Ireland

In some countries what is needed for approval of treaty change is the support of the national parliament. In other countries – Belgium for example – the approval of regional parliaments is also required. In a few countries approval through a national referendum is required, Ireland being a case in point.

This issue was considered at some depth in Pringle (see Supreme Court, 2012, and O’Hagan, 2013). The judgements by Clarke and O’Donnell are of particular interest, although they are minority judgements. Neither author, it seems, is in any doubt that the Irish government has the power to ratify international treaties, including those at an EU level, without recourse to a referendum. O’Donnell makes an important point, which arises in relation to Article 6 of the Constitution, namely: why is it that the power of the people is invoked so much in relation to EU treaties but not to other areas of vital national interest, as discussed earlier?

As a matter of history, Irish governments have expended very considerable sums indeed in, for example, the education and health sectors, pursuant to departmental circulars, and without even the benefit of legislation still less the approval of the people in referenda. In more recent times, governments have made decisions involving both the expenditure and borrowing of enormous sums of money. In none of these cases has it been suggested that the approval of the people in a referendum is required. Under the Constitution, governments are expected, and required, to make decisions which on occasion may be momentous, including indeed the declaration of war, albeit in that case with the agreement of Dáil Éireann. (O’Donnell, D. p. 21)

Indeed, O’Donnell argues that if a narrow interpretation of Article 6 applied then we would end up with a wholly plebiscitary and not a

John O’Hagan

representative democracy. In a representative democracy the powers vested in the government do derive from the people but through elections where every person has an equal right to vote. Nowhere can he see that Article 6 must be interpreted as this power having to derive from a direct plebiscite. That, it appears to him, applies only in the case of a change to the text of the Constitution.6

This is an important discussion which, to the best of my knowledge, has not been revisited and which may have huge relevance in the years to come as major decisions at an EU level, almost certainly necessitating treaty change, are considered.

8. Future of Europe

There has been much discussion on the future of Europe in the last two years or so. A Conference on the Future of Europe was proposed by the European Commission and the European Parliament at the end of 2019, with the aim of looking at the medium- to long-term future of the EU and what reforms should be made to its policies and institutions.7 Extensive meetings and consultations were held across Europe, including in Ireland, and based in fact partly on the experience of citizens’s assemblies developed here.

Most of the final report, launched in 2022, dealt with extensive improvements and adjustments to existing programmes. Covid-19 and the war in Ukraine, however, have led to the need for much bigger thinking, in terms of four main areas: security, not just in relation to defence, but also concerning food, energy, and cyberattacks; the enforcement of the rule of law and democratic principles in all existing member states; enlargement; and decision-making procedures.8 In the context of such huge policy issues, Brexit is almost a ‘side-show’ for continental Europe in 2022 but not of course for Ireland.

So great and pressing are these issues that whole new structures are being proposed, involving major treaty change.9 These proposed changes refer not only to the EU but also to the involvement of non-member states of the EU, as at present for example with Schengen. One such proposal is to have agreements with member states whose applications for membership have been accepted, but whose membership could take a decade or more.10 Also, enhanced EU defence security had become a major issue, with what seemed until recently like an irrelevant NATO and with declining US interest and involvement, but the war in Ukraine has changed the dynamic dramatically

Taking Back Control: The Role of the EU

in this regard.

9. Concluding remarks

Given such major proposed changes being discussed, it is important that these issues are considered in the context of a full knowledge of why the EU exists and a full understanding of its institutional structures and decisionmaking processes. Too many discussions about the EU have taken place in the past in the context of a deep misunderstanding, by some who should have known better, of the EU in this regard.

It is a myth to think that any sovereign nation, no matter how large, can survive without cooperation and hence pooling of decision-making, regulations and enforcement in key areas of policy. You take back control by entering into these agreements, not by abandoning them. And all such agreements must have an extensive body of laws, regulations, and enforcement procedures. You can pursue such a policy with the EU or through multiple other international co-operative arrangements. But no matter which route taken, you must pool decision-making and arbitration processes. The myth that you could join such arrangements and you alone set the rules may have applied in colonial times but certainly not today.11

To which areas pooled decision-making should apply, however, is open to argument and competing views. This applies also of course in federal systems like in the US or Germany or Belgium – or indeed in centralised countries such as Japan and the UK. Besides, any moves to allocate more policy areas for decision at an EU level must go through detailed and lengthy democratic checks, as seen earlier, often requiring unanimity and hence approval by all member states.

Another myth relates to the so-called democratic deficit in the EU. Those who repeat it often show total ignorance of the extensive democratic checks in place, as discussed earlier. There is a democratic deficit, relative to some ideal, in practice in every country. The EU may in fact be one of the more democratic systems in the world, and of course further evolution and improvement will take place over time.

In the case of Ireland, many of the major proposed changes underway will have to be ratified by the state. The key issue here is whether this needs to be done via a referendum or through the democratically elected parliament. As seen earlier, some Supreme Court judges have already argued that the government can call voluntary referenda from time to time, not just in

John O’Hagan

relation to EU treaties but also in relation to other major economic decisions. Such referenda, however, should not be mandatory except where there is an unambiguous conflict with the constitution.

An issue which would require perhaps even greater change is: should member states be allowed to secede, without needing the approval of other member states? Imagine the situation in the US if any state, such as Texas for example, could secede from the union. The issue of a member state leaving the EU keeps recurring, thereby undermining its purpose and stability. Criticise its operation in terms of its democratic accountability, fairness, and operation, but this is best done without the ‘threat’ of one or more countries leaving without the approval of other member states.12

To abandon the EU or to hinder its progress because some feel it has serious flaws would be as delusional as abandoning democracy because it has deficiencies. All systems have defects, and the challenge, as with democracies, is not to abandon them for some even more flawed system but to make good these deficiencies as well as possible.13

In other words, while the policy coverage and operation of the EU are indeed legitimate areas for future discussion and disagreement, its existence, in terms of rationale and legitimacy, should by now be immutable.

John O’Hagan is Professor Emeritus of Economics, Trinity College Dublin. He has written extensively on economic policy making, both in Ireland and in Europe.

References

Conference on Future of Europe, Report on the Final Outcome, https://www.europarl.europa.eu/resources/library/ media/20220509RES29121/20220509RES29121.pdf

European Movement Ireland, ‘Just the Chats’ (podcast), https://www. europeanmovement.ie/just-the-chats-em-irelands-podcast-series/.

Jürgen Habermas, The Crisis of the European Union: A Response (Cambridge: Polity, 2012).

Brigid Laffan, ‘Europe in the World: The Emergence of Collective Power Europe’, 7th Annual T. M. C. Asser Lecture, 6 April 2022, https://www.asser. nl/about-the-asser-institute/news/annual-lecture-europe-in-the-world-theemergence-of-collective-power-europe-by-prof-brigid-laffan/.

Brigid Laffan, ‘The 2nd Annual John Hume “European Spirit of Peace” Lecture’, Institute of International and European Affairs, 6 July 2022, https://

Taking Back Control: The Role of the EU

www.youtube.com/watch?v=2hq5hk6iO78&ab_channel=IIEA.

Ronan McCrea, ‘Democratic Backsliding and the Unravelling of the EU Legal Order’, Studies (Summer), 168–177.

John O’Hagan, Sharing Economic Sovereignty: Beneficial or Not and Who Decides?, IIEA Governance Paper No. 2, May 2013, 1–12.

Jacqueline De Romilly, ‘Isocrates and Europe’, Greece and Rome, Vol. 39, No.1, April 1992, 2–13.

Stanford Encyclopaedia of Philosophy at: http://plato.stanford.edu/entries/kantsocial-political/#FreBasSta.

Supreme Court, Thomas Pringle v The Government of Ireland, Ireland and the Attorney General, 19 October 2012.

(Endnotes)

1 The European Union (EU) grew out of the European Economic Community (EEC), later European Community (EC), and was so named in 1993. The term EU will be used throughout this paper.

2 We use the word sovereign here to indicate an independent state the government of which alone can decide the destiny of that country, including whether to enter into international agreements, such as joining the EU, or not. By deciding to join the EU and pool decision making and policies, each country is exercising that sovereignty. The term is not used elsewhere in this article, as the arguments here are not questioning the sovereignty of any member state but asking when the exercise of that sovereignty to pool decision making and policies is of benefit or not, to the citizens of that member state. The paper then is about the ability to control a country’s destiny. To repeat, the power of the Irish government alone to determine the future for the country is not being questioned, but how this is best achieved.

3 Much further back, Isocrates (436–338 BC) addressed the same issue but with a rather different objective, namely his dominant political idea to form a confederation of Greek city states to wage war on Persia. To bring about the ‘concord’ for such a union he noted that ‘concord doesn’t only suppose that one doesn’t encroach on the others’ freedom, but that one accepts a number of restrictions for a general advantage’ (see Romilly, 10).

4 See: https://europa.eu/citizens-initiative/how-it-works/faq/faq-eu-competences-andcommission-powers_en.

5 The theory of ‘fiscal federalism’, developed in the US, provides the theoretical arguments for and against centralised decision making in unions such as in the US and the EU.

6 It is not insignificant that Donal O’Donnell has been Chief Justice of Ireland since October 2021.

7 See the European Movement web site for much very useful information in relation to the Conference.

8 See Laffan’s Asser lecture and Hume lecture for a more detailed and informative discussion of these future issues. The focus of the first of these was threefold. First, to explores the response of the EU and the community of democracies to Putin’s war. Second, to analyses the impact on global politics and Great Power competition and three, to assesses the consequences of the War for the dynamic of European integration and the nature of the EU.

9 See for example Laurenz Gehrke, ‘Scholz pitches major EU enlargement — with reform’, PoliticoEU, 29 August 2022, https://www.politico.eu/article/scholz-eu-enlargement-reform-praguecharles-university/ The German Chancellor envisaged that the EU might in time consist of 30-36 member states and if so that the unanimity rule would have to be revisited.

10 On Europe Day last 9 May, President Macron launched discussions on a European Political Community. The proposal entails establishing a European political grouping, beyond the European Union, which may constitute a first step towards membership or, according to a country’s preference, an alternative to it. See Charles Grant, ‘Macron is serious about the European Political Community’, Centre for European Reform, 1 August 2022. The focus would be on security and wider political issues. In her ‘State of the Union Address’, in September 2022, Ursula von der Leyen, EU Commission President, also touched on these wide-ranging long-term issues. See https://www. politico.eu/article/ursula-von-der-leyen-state-of-the-eu-speech-charts-soteu-2022/

11 Philip Stephens, ‘After Brexit the Tories still cannot escape EU red tape’, Financial Times, 2 August 2022, argues that ‘Tory Eurosceptics have still not grasped that Britain cannot simply play the international game by its own rules’ and that in fact Britain is since leaving the EU a rule taker, in its largest market by far, and not a joint rule maker when as a member of the EU.

12 It is interesting to observe that since the Covid crisis and the War in Ukraine, many highly Eurosceptic parties in Europe have come out strongly in favour of remaining in the EU, but still seeking major change as is, of course, the right of any political party in the EU. See for example, Amy Kazmin, ‘Italy’s right wing alliance pledges solidarity with EU and NATO’, Financial Times, 11 August 2022.

13 Two related issues. First, should there be a mechanism included in any future Treaty change to eject a member state, in extreme circumstances, from the Union. Second, should stronger measures be facilitated, if necessary, by Treaty change, to penalise a member state ‘backsliding’ on commitments made, especially at the time of membership (see McCrea for an interesting discussion on this).

Sovereignty and the National Interest

Erik Jones

Much of the world today is torn between national populists and liberal democrats. The national populists put the nation first; the liberal democrats argue for something closer to multicultural multilateralism. In doing so, they offer distinct visions of how sovereignty and the national interest interact. For national populists, sovereignty is an expression of the national interest; whoever wields sovereign authority should ensure that the national interest is served. For liberal democrats, sovereignty is the responsibility to determine what is in the nation’s best interests and then to reconcile competing claims and distribute scarce resources accordingly. The two groups also offer contrasting views of world order. The national populists focus on self-help and mutual respect. The liberal democrats emphasise integration, cooperation, and solidarity.

Viewed side-by-side, the two worldviews present irreconcilable differences in the constitution of political authority and the structure of international relations. Hence it is tempting to argue that the interaction between national populists and liberal democrats should be limited, particularly when national populism threatens to descend into authoritarianism. But there is a narrow path along which interaction between national populists and liberal democrats can be beneficial, when national populists promise to reconnect members of society who have lost representation within liberal democratic politics. Reconnecting those who fall away from politics is essential to the stability of liberal democracy over the longer term. Indeed, the same point applies for populists from all parts of the political spectrum, and not just the nationalist right that is so prominent in Europe, Turkey, Brazil, India, and the United States today.

The question is whether and how populists can effectively represent their constituents while at the same time adapting to liberal democratic norms for reconciling competing interests. That question has not received much attention in the scholarly literature.1 We know a lot more about the origins

and nature of populism, and about how populism can lead to authoritarianism by undermining democratic norms and institutions, than we know about how populists become something closer to mainstream liberal democrats. Research on populists in power is still in its infancy.2

The key to striking a beneficial relationship between national populists and liberal democrats lies in reinforcing the formal and informal institutions that underpin the liberal democratic connection between sovereignty and the national interest. The ‘rule of law’ debate in Europe and the United States is about protecting those institutions that frame the exercise of sovereignty and ensure that the national interest is defined within the context of liberal democratic politics. So long as those institutions are resilient, national populists will have little choice but to learn how to exercise sovereignty to identify the interests of the nation, rather than bending sovereignty to the service of a national interest they take as given.

A study in contrast

This relationship between sovereignty and the national interest seems abstract when presented at the start of an essay, but it comes across concretely when laid out in political speeches. Consider the contrast between Donald Trump and Barack Obama. When Donald Trump gave his first address to the General Assembly of the United Nations in September 2017, his message was simple. True patriots everywhere should invest their sovereignty – a word he used twenty-one times during the speech – in the pursuit of the national interest. As Trump explained, ‘if we do not invest ourselves, our hearts, and our minds in our nations, if we will not build strong families, safe communities, and healthy societies for ourselves, no one can do it for us’. His only qualification to this notion of self-help is that ‘in fulfilling our obligations to our own nations, we also realize that it’s in everyone’s interest to seek a future where all nations can be sovereign, prosperous, and secure’.3 Trump left open the question how those sovereign nations should reconcile competing claims with one another.

Trump’s UN speech was different from any given by a United States president to the General Assembly. When Barack Obama spoke at the United Nations the year before, he never mentioned the term sovereignty. There is no question for Obama that the governments represented in the General Assembly are sovereign; the only question is how they will use the authority they have. Self-help is not a viable option, and neither is isolationism. Obama

Erik Jones

and the National Interest

insisted that ‘a nation ringed by walls would only imprison itself’. For Obama, the principal themes were integration, solidarity, and cooperation. He made it clear to the General Assembly that, ‘we can only realize the promise of this institution’s founding – to replace the ravages of war with cooperation – if powerful nations like my own accept constraints’.4 And where the United States accepts the necessity for self-restraint in the pursuit of common interests, other governments should as well.

The contrast between these speeches reflects the different ways the two presidents view the exercise of political authority. Trump believes in the ‘unitary executive’, which derives from the first sentence of Article II of the Constitution of the United States: ‘The executive Power shall be vested in a President of the United States of America.’ According to this theory, there are few if any institutional checks on presidential power.5 The President is beholden only to his supporters within the electorate, and he acts as their sovereign. Obama believes in checks and balances and, as he said repeatedly during his two terms in office, he was president of all Americans, not just those who supported him. This belief did not stop Obama from extending the executive power through presidential decisions when he could not pass legislation in Congress, but he remained committed to an inclusive understanding of the national interest.6

Trump and Obama also believed in different visions of America’s role in the world. Trump saw American leadership as ‘proudly putting America first’.7 By implication, Trump reserves his ability as president to determine what America needs as well. For Obama, the notion of American leadership is very different. As he explained to the American people at the start of the Libyan intervention in 2011, ‘American leadership is not simply a matter of going it alone and bearing all of the burden ourselves. Real leadership creates the conditions and coalitions for others to step up as well’. This is necessary, as Obama makes clear, because ‘the course of history poses challenges that threaten our common humanity and our common security’.8 The national interest, for Obama, is a collective endeavour. And while Obama later expressed regret over U.S. involvement in Libya, he did not change his views on the essential character of American leadership.

The essence of populism

This contrast in worldviews between national populism and liberal democracy derives from the essence of populism, meaning those characteristics that

Sovereignty

populists share across the political spectrum. The most important of these is the effort to fight for ‘the true people’ against the ‘corrupt elite’.9 Populists like Donald Trump claim to represent those people who cannot find a voice in liberal democracy, and they promise to re-imagine the national interest in a way that puts those unrepresented voices at the forefront. This claim to represent the true people against the corrupt elite has four implications. Populist politicians must identify who belongs in the ‘true people’ and who does not. They must communicate with those true people in ways that are distinct from the way elites communicate and do not go through traditional gateways – media, parties, trade unions, etc. – that elites are likely to manage. They must provide an explanation for who are the elites, why they are corrupt, and what can be done to fix that corruption. And they must offer a vision of the ‘good society’ where the true people can be in control. These implications explain why populists take the national interest as given. They need some structural feature – like race, class, faith, or gender – to distinguish the true people. That structural feature needs to be tied to the explanation for why those people have fallen out of liberal democracy and what were the consequences. This is a story with little nuance, steeped in identity politics. It is also a story that they must package in simple terms, because without the benefit of traditional media, parties, unions, and all the rest, they need to communicate that story directly to the widest possible audience.

Such direct communication works most effectively in one direction, from the populist to the public. Meanwhile, the broad accusation of elite corruption restricts any effort by the people to feed back into the process through intermediates, because anyone who has access to institutional power is likely also to attract suspicion. As a result, the vision of a good society lacks clear trade-offs or winners and losers among the ‘true people’ the populist claims to represent. Elites will lose power, but the true people only stand to win. As Trump liked to say, his people would win so much they would become tired of winning. This does not mean populists lack policy platforms, or an articulated view of what needs to be done once they get into government. What it means is that the platforms they promote tend to lack clear priorities. The national interest is a complete package with little space for compromise among competing claims within the nation itself.

Liberal democrats face few of these constraints. Their political parties have constituencies, which tend to organise around structural cleavages,

Erik Jones

Sovereignty

and the National Interest

but party leaders are free to court votes from the margins by making targeted promises. Liberal democratic politicians can also rely on strong intermediaries to communicate relatively complex, subtle messages. And they can use those same intermediaries to provide feedback on how well the messages are working and where points of tension are likely to emerge. This process of intermediation works through constant compromise; it also tends to establish relatively clear priorities when trade-offs become necessary. All that is required is someone to make authoritative decisions.

This liberal democratic arrangement is far from perfect. The word ‘relatively’ does a lot of work in that previous paragraph. Not all constituencies find equal representation or attract equal attention. Not all interests can be accommodated. Some intermediates are more effective that others both in communicating and in feeding back into the system. Not all compromises are just, not all trade-offs are equitable, and not all priorities are addressed. Not every political leader is equally effective or impartial in making authoritative decisions. Populists take advantage of such failings by identifying those communities most persistently left out.

Threats to liberal democracy

Populists are not the only threat to liberal democracy. Liberal democrats create their own problems by losing contact with the electorate, embracing wealthy and powerful special interests, abusing power when in office, and undermining the legitimacy of their own constitutional arrangements. If this were not the case, then it would be hard to understand how populists – who are always available and looking for opportunities to challenge the authority of political elites – could ever make any headway. When liberal democratic politics is inclusive, it is also resilient. The exercise of sovereign authority to shape the national interest works in liberal democracy so long as elected representatives remain connected to those competing interests in society that need to be reconciled. When those elected representatives lose touch with the electorate – when they find themselves ‘ruling the void’, as Peter Mair described it —liberal democracy becomes more fragile and prone to instability.10 This point is worth underscoring because the greatest threat to liberal democracy comes from the failings of the liberal democrats themselves.

The threat to liberal democracy from liberal democrats has been around as long as liberal democracy, which is why early political theorists like Gaetano

Mosca and Vilfredo Pareto placed such a strong emphasis on the need for a circulation of elites.11 Their concern was that any group of elites that remains too long in power would inevitably fail to represent increasing elements of society. They had good reason to worry. Mosca and Pareto were writing at the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth century, when populism emerged in various guises on all parts of the political spectrum to challenge the hegemony of traditional liberal elites and the very limited notion of democracy they represented. In that sense, populism is part of the ‘pathology of representative politics’.12

That transformation of liberal democracy was neither an easy nor even an obvious process. Many liberal democracies collapsed into more authoritarian forms of government along the way, and not just in Europe. The explanation lies in the top-down and inflexible nature of populist political mobilisation. The challenge for populists when they get into power is that it is almost impossible to avoid making compromises. Therefore, they face a choice between losing support or escaping from accountability. The temptation to escape accountability is extreme, which is why political scientists like William H. Riker have been quick to equate populists with autocrats.13 In this telling of democratic weakness, the threat populist pose is that they will use the strength they garner by rallying underrepresented parts of the liberal democratic electorate – and discontent with existing elites – to seize power and then change constitutional arrangements in ways that will ensure they retain their authority.

This descent to authoritarianism is not inevitable, however. Somehow in the crucible of successive world wars, many populist movements of protest in western Europe and the United States evolved into (or took control over) mass political parties and so reconstituted the political mainstream. The narrow pathway involves a reconciliation of populist movements with liberal democratic norms. This pathway is narrow because it requires that the leaders of those movements hold onto their supporters while also learning to use sovereign authority to intermediate competing interests and claims on resources. In turn they need to learn new, more subtle, modes of communication with a broader, more inclusive electorate. They also need to establish feedback mechanisms that make it easier to adjust their messages and to adapt to new or emerging interests and claims.

The process of adapting from populist political movement to mainstream political party is likely to be more challenging on the nationalist right, than

Erik Jones

on other parts of the political spectrum. Radical right-wing parties tend to have a nativist, exclusive understanding of the ‘true people’ they represent.14 As a result, they tend to be more deeply invested in a monolithic narrative about both the nation and the national interest. Such narratives tend to be inflexible because they rest on the assumption that the nation can be selfsufficient. Indeed, any concession to the outside world is an affront to the national interest and so constitutes a sign of weakness. By implication, a strong sovereign is one that refuses to make concessions — and a refusal to make concessions is an essential sign of strength.

Implications for world order

The populist movements on the nationalist right may find it more difficult to evolve into something that looks and acts like a political party of the mainstream, but they must be encouraged to do so once in office. That is why the debate over the rule of law in Europe is so important. So long as rightwing nationalist parties remain accountable to the electorate, they will have to develop the institutions and attitudes required to intermediate competing interests and to identify political priorities. In turn, that process will break open any monolithic conception of the national interest to reveal something more fragmented and nuanced. Sovereign authority will have to engage in compromise in order to shape the national interest rather than taking it as given. Populist political leaders will start to look more like liberal democratic elites in that sense.

The success of this development hangs delicately on the resilience of those checks and balances required to ensure political accountability. It also hangs on the relative strength of those intermediaries like a free press, trade unions, churches, non-profit organisations, and other elements in civil society that are able to feed back into the political process both to reinforce checks and balances and to lend weight to voices that remain underrepresented. Without these supports, the temptation for populists to try and escape accountability by re-engineering political institutions in a more authoritarian direction is too great — particularly on the nationalist right.

The challenge for liberal democrats is to explain why they have such a strong interest in helping to preserve checks and balances or strong civil society institutions in other countries. Populists of all kinds will insist that any such efforts represent an illegitimate interference in domestic politics and a violation of national sovereignty. Even liberal democrats in those

Sovereignty and the National Interest

countries that are the focus for international attention would have to agree. When French European Affairs Minister Laurence Boone said in an interview that her government would be monitoring Italy’s new right-wing coalition closely, she drew a sharp rebuke from Sergio Mattarella as president of the Italian Republic. Italians know how to bathe themselves, Mattarella insisted. Italy’s presumptive new right-wing prime minister, Giorgia Meloni, went further to insist that the French government repudiate Boone’s statement and apologise.

The interest of liberal democrats is not to make Italy a better Italy, and neither is it to violate Italian sovereignty. It is to ensure that any Italian government is able to make compromises in determining what lies in the national interest. Strong liberal democratic institutions make such compromising behaviour more likely insofar as they reshape national sovereignty away from the protection of a fixed national interest and toward something that looks and works more like interest intermediation. Moreover, what is true for Italy is also true for other European countries. European integration only works as a process so long as the member states are able to compromise.

Europe is not alone in that requirement. The international system created at the end of the Second World War is similarly dependent upon a theory of governance within which sovereign authority shapes the national interest through intermediation and compromise. That system has grown increasingly unwieldy over time. That is why successive U.S. presidents have delivered the same message of self-restraint to the United Nations General Assembly. It is also why Trump’s message — which he repeated annually — was so discordant. Much of the world may be divided between national populists and liberal democrats, but it is united in the need to face common challenges too large for any one government or group to address. If those governments are to cooperate, they cannot start from an inflexible notion of the national interest. They must use their sovereign authority to define that interest in finding collective solutions.

Professor Erik Jones is director of the Robert Schuman Centre for Advanced Studies at the European University Institute in Florence, Italy. He is the author of several books on politics and political economy, and his commentary has appeared in the Financial Times, the New York Times, Foreign Affairs, and other major newspapers and magazines across Europe and North America.

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Sovereignty and the National Interest

(Endnotes)

1 Erik Jones, ‘Populism in Europe: What scholarship tells us’, in Survival 61:4 (2019) 7–30.

2 See, for example, the special issue of Government & Opposition on the ‘Three faces of populism in power’, https://www.cambridge.org/core/journals/government-and-opposition issue/293C984CB10231F7788AD5AA1DC035BF.

3 The full text of Donald Trump’s speech to the General Assembly of the United Nations on 19 September 2017 can be found here: https://www.politico.com/story/2017/09/19/trump-unspeech-2017 full-text-transcript-242879.

4 The full text of Barack Obama’s speech to the General Assembly of the United Nations on 20 September 2016 can be found here: https://obamawhitehouse.archives.gov/the-press-office/2016/09/20/address president-obama-71st-session-united-nations-general-assembly.

5 See, Stephen Skowronek, John A. Dearborn, and Desmond King, Phantoms of a Beleaguered Republic: The Deep State and the Unitary Executive (New York: Oxford University Press, 2021).

6 Barack Obama, A Promised Land (New York: Crown, 2020).

7 This citation is taken from Trump’s last speech to the UN General Assembly, on 22 September 2020, https://it.usembassy.gov/remarks-by-president-trump-to-the-75th-session-of-the-united-nationsgeneral-assembly-september-22-2020/.

8 Obama’s remarks to the American people on Libya were delivered on 28 March 2011 and can be found here: https://obamawhitehouse.archives.gov/the-press-office/2011/03/28/remarkspresident-address- nation-libya.

9 The scholarly literature has many definitions of populism; this characteristic is a common element in most of them, although the points of emphasis are often different. See Jones, ‘Populism in Europe’.

10 Peter Mair, Ruling the Void: The Hollowing of Western Democracy (London: Verso, 2013).

11 See, for example, Gaetano Mosca, The Ruling Class (Elementi di Scienza Politica), trans. by Hannah D. Kahn, ed. by Arthur Livingston (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1939).

12 Paul Taggart, ‘Populism and the pathologies of representative politics,’ in Yves Mény and Yves, Surel (eds) Democracies and the Populist Challenge (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2022) pp. 62–80.

13 See William H. Riker, Liberalism against Populism (Long Grove, Illinois: Waveland Press, Inc., 1982).

14 Cas Mudde, Populist Radical Right Parties in Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007).

An Irish Dante, Part II: A Dantean Afterlife

Daragh O’Connell

In Part I of this essay on an ‘Irish Dante’, I noted that Ireland’s unique relationship with the Florentine poet begins with the possibility that medieval Irish vision literature may have influenced the Commedia profoundly. Literary representations of the afterlife, especially in the narratives of the knights Owein and Tnugdalus and in the voyage narrative of St Brendan, find echoes in Dante’s work. In Part II, I want to examine instances from modern Irish literature in which the stream of influence flows in the other direction. Just as Dante himself drew on earlier medieval vision narratives in order to bring forth a monumental and original composition, so too we find a translational and creative engagement with Dante’s legacy in the leading literary figures of twentieth-century Ireland.

It is not commonly commented on, but the first actual translation into the English language of the entire Commedia was done by an Irishman –Henry Boyd – in 1802. Boyd was educated at Trinity College Dublin and died at Ballintemple, near Newry, in 1832. He issued his translation of Inferno alongside a specimen translation of Ludovico Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso in 1785. Then, in 1802, he issued three volumes of an English verse translation of the whole Divina Commedia, with preliminary essays, notes, and illustrations, which was dedicated to Viscount Charleville, whose chaplain the author is described as being in the title-page.1 In the dedication Boyd states that the terrors of the Irish rebellion had driven him from the post of danger at Lord Charleville’s side to seek safe asylum in a ‘remote angle of the province’ – not the only time that Ireland’s troubled history has played a part in how Dante has been subsumed into Irish culture.

It was not until the twentieth century that Dante was translated into the Irish language, this time by the indomitable Monsignor Pádraig De Brún in 1963. De Brún’s translation was, to a certain degree, part of a wider project to make the European canon available in Irish and to allow the Irish language to partake more fully in that canon.2 The Irish poet Críostóir Ó Floinn also

translated into Irish the opening cantos of each canticle of the Commedia 3 However, it is with the Irish writers in the English language that the importance of Dante comes to the fore most forcibly. I will only mention a few names, but there are many more. What needs to be stated at the outset is that these are our most important writers, and each one, with varying degrees of engagement, turns to Dante and inscribes him into their poetics.

A Dantean presence in Yeats

Though perhaps less evident than in other writers, there is an indication of a Dantean presence in William Butler Yeats’s work, especially in his dialogue poem ‘Ego Dominus Tuus’. Although Yeats refers to Dante several times in his early prose writings, it is not until 1915 with the writing of this poem that he begins to show a serious interest. The words of the title, taken from the third chapter of Dante’s Vita Nuova, are spoken by Amore – a ‘segnore di pauroso aspetto’ (Lord of Terrible Aspect) – who has appeared to Dante in a vision and who will henceforth dominate Dante through Beatrice. According to Yeats’s poem, the ‘segnore’ of the vision is an embodiment of Dante’s ‘anti-self’ and represents that supremely chaste love that Dante’s work will celebrate. It is not at all clear what role Dante is performing in this vague poem: the dialogical form, with its exchanges between ‘Hic’ and ‘Ille’ makes it uncertain what exactly Dante is being opposed to when Hic begins:

And yet

The chief imagination of Christendom, Dante Alighieri, so utterly found himself

That he has made that hollow face of his More plain to the mind’s eye than any face But that of Christ.

Ille wonders whether it was ‘himself’ Dante found, before Being mocked by Guido for his lecherous life, Derided and deriding, driven out

To climb the stair and eat the bitter bread, He found the unpersuadable justice, he found The most exalted lady loved by a man.4

Hic contrasts with this the existence of men who are ‘lovers of life’, that ‘look for happiness / And sing when they have found it’. If Yeats’s Dante does not fit very squarely into any of the more familiar characterisations, it is striking nevertheless that the poet does know Dante well. He draws on the

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Convivio in a number of places in his prose, and the references to ‘that’ stair and ‘that’ bread shows a ready familiarity with the Dante of exile and the famous Paradiso XVII passage in which Dante’s impending exile is foretold to him by his ancestor Cacciaguida: Tu proverai sì come sa di sale Lo pane altrui, e com’è duro calle Lo scendere e ’l salir per l’altrui scale. – Paradiso, XVII, 58–60 [You shall come to know how salt is the taste of another’s bread, and how hard the path to descend and mount by another man’s stairs.]

James Joyce: ‘quashed quotatoes’

Nowhere, however, is the relationship between Dante and Ireland more striking than in Joyce and Beckett. Joyce and Dante are, as the former states in Finnegans Wake, a ‘daintical pair of accomplasses’.5 For Joyce the Florentine poet is, quite memorably, the ‘Divine comic Denti Alligator’.6 In fact, he once observed: I love Dante almost as much as I love the Bible. He is my spiritual nourishment. The rest is ballast. I don’t like Italian literature because in the degenerated mentality of Italian writers only these four basic themes predominate: begging orphans and hungry people (when will Italians stop being hungry?), battlefields, animals and patriotism.7 Joyce’s procedures of literary allusion, what he calls ‘quashed quotatoes’ (183:30) in Finnegans Wake, 8 evoke that shared idea of directly implicating poets, epic, philosophical, and lyric in the introspective process of his own making – a procedure he learns from Dante; such enrolment declares an impassioned prodigality of the self, a pulse of creativity so vehement that it requires the representation of an echo, its mirroring in others comparably creative, kinetic even. Dante is a presence in A Portrait, in Dubliners, in Ulysses, and also in Finnegans Wake. One example should suffice to demonstrate this elective affinity. It is the first, wonderful simile from the Commedia, Inferno I in which Dante-pilgrim thinks fleetingly that he has escaped danger. It is, in fact, a short-lived reprieve. E come quei che con lena affannata, uscito fuor del pelago a la riva, si volge a l’acqua perigliosa e guata, così l’animo mio, ch’ancor fuggiva,

Irish Dante, Part II: A Dantean Afterlife

si volse a retro a rimirar lo passo che non lasciò già mai persona viva.

– Inferno, I, 22–27.

[And as he who with labouring breath has escaped from the deep to the shore turns to look back on the dangerous waters, so my mind which was still fleeing turned back to gaze upon the pass that never left anyone else alive.]

Under Joyce’s hand, in the ‘Aeolus’ chapter of Ulysses he refashions the Dantean into something very different: He turned his face over a shoulder, rere regardant. Moving through the air high spars of a threemaster, ger sails brailed up on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a silent ship.9

Beckett: integration but a clash of visions

The Commedia is a storehouse of language, motif, and arresting image, a beguiling presence in what George Steiner has called the ‘shadow-theatre of encounters’, and this is especially true of Samuel Beckett’s rapport with Dante, which arguably is even more intense than Joyce’s.10 Dante is both an intertextual presence at various turns, as well as an inspiration for character and setting. We need only think of Beckett’s Belacqua, a character he recasts in the early prose of More Pricks than Kicks and Dream of Fair to Middling Women, or the purgatorial mindscapes of Waiting for Godot, or indeed Endgame to get a sense of Dante’s presence. Beckett carried a copy of Dante everywhere he went.

What is undoubtedly true of these giants of European modernism, Joyce and Beckett, is that both studied at university what we today call Modern Languages, Italian in particular, and therefore they read Dante assiduously in the original. They did not hide under the yoke of English literature but rather went searching for contesting canons in different vernaculars and embraced a linguistic plurality at once subversive and protean. Dante is integrated, through words and images, in the fabric of Beckett’s creations but, while both are poets and visionaries, their visions are worlds apart. As with Joyce, one example should suffice to demonstrate this presence: namely, one of Beckett’s most famous plays, Endgame. Consider the image of the ashbins and all its Dantean ramifications. When Endgame was first performed in 1958 some viewers were deeply offended by the ‘binning’ of Nell and Nagg, who may be Hamm’s parents. The bins have lids; these are occasionally lifted and finally firmly closed. These are ashbins, not refuse bins, and strongly evoke

An

Daragh O’Connell

the tombs of the heretics first seen by Dante in the sixth circle of hell. He sees ‘sepulchri’ (sepulchres) and adds that ‘tra gli avelli fiamme erano sparte’ (Inferno, IX. 118; ‘for among the tombs flames were scattered’). Dante’s flames burn intensely but do not consume; in Beckett we presume that the ash in the bins is the result of fire, and his ashbins have sand also, which in turn recalls the burning sand of hell’s seventh circle where the violent against God and nature are damned.

Of the burning tombs Dante comments that ‘Tutti li lor coperchi eran sospesi’ (Inferno, IX, 121; ‘Their covers were all raised up), but the implication, at the end of canto X, is that after the final judgement the lids will be placed on the tombs as the number of dannati (damned) in each one will be complete. Farinata stresses that the ability of the damned to know the future will cease as ‘del futuro fia chiusa la porta’ (Inferno, X. 108: ‘when the door of the future will be closed’); there will be no future in eternity. It may be worth adding, for anyone unfamiliar with Dante, that the medieval author never doubted the immortality of the soul. This is not a view shared by Beckett. Nagg and Nell in their bins, popping up periodically to speak (as Farinata and Cavalcante have done), but ultimately bottled, strongly recall images of Inferno VI and X. Indeed, Nagg as the father to be ‘bottled’ is strongly reminiscent of the sad figure of Cavalcante in Inferno X, seeking his son in vain. Nagg’s son Hamm may ‘exist’, but he is lost through hatred:

HAMM: Bottle him!

Clov pushes NAGG back into the bin, closes the lid.

[…] HAMM: Have you bottled him?

CLOV: Yes.

HAMM: Sit on him!

[…] HAMM: Have you bottled her?

CLOV: Yes.

HAMM: Are they both bottled?

CLOV: Yes.

HAMM: Screw down the lids.11

Seamus Heaney’s Dantean itinerary

In more recent times, modern Irish poets too have looked to Dante in interesting and new ways. Heaney’s work is perhaps the most dramatic in its

An Irish Dante, Part II: A Dantean Afterlife

Dantean appropriations for he, like Dante before him, establishes affinities, influences, relationships and dependencies with poets equally comparable, all in the process of the poem’s creative becoming.12 In this reading, Dante is a mediating figure for Heaney, a structuring presence whose otherworldly concerns, be they poetic, spectral, imperial or historical, furnish Heaney with the tools to make good his poetic concerns. He will follow the example of Dante’s dead poetry for a revitalization of poetic encounters and presences. Of interest here also are the remnants of poetic expression – linguistic footprints, liable to disappearance, traces of which are dimly visible when looked at anew. These texts haunt us for the memory they contain, but also for the foregrounding of spectrality, the encountering with ghosts, poet ghosts in the case of Dante. Heaney’s turn to Dante in the late 1970s is actually suggestive of the pointed words of Hugh in Brian Friel’s Translations (1980): HUGH: Wordsworth?... no. I’m afraid we’re not familiar with your literature, Lieutenant. We feel closer to the warm Mediterranean. We tend to overlook your island. (Translations, II.1)13

This passage celebrates the liberating and salutary confrontation of Irish with European culture and gives a foretaste of Heaney’s Dantean itinerary. This confrontation is both ideological and poetic, something that invokes the vernacularity of Irish literature in English and the celebration of the local. Curiously, to understand Heaney and Dante we need first to apprehend Heaney’s understanding of James Joyce and Dante. As he stated in an interview with Carla de Petris: It is the Joycean example, a way into free space, to dodge instead of allowing the English tradition – imperial politically – imposing culturally – to marginalize the Irish poet. The strategy that Joyce viewed was to marginalize the Anglo-Saxon Protestant tradition by going to the Mediterranean, by going to Greece. […] but for me it was not a tactic. It had to do with the psychic imprint of the Catholic faith. In Ireland we grew up as rural Catholics with little shrines at the crossroad, but deep down we realized that the whole official culture had no place for them. Then I read Dante and I found in a great work of literature that that little shrine in a corner has a cosmic amplification.14

We can isolate two ways in which Dante assumes a decisive – haunting even – role in Heaneyan poetics: firstly, through ‘translation’, which is the greatest homage one poet can give to another; secondly, through an open appropriation of Dantean thematics, or what I call ‘dead poetry’ – the private

Daragh O’Connell

and the public; ghosts, friends, relatives, or even literary masters. We think, for example, of Heaney’s figurations of William Carleton, Patrick Kavanagh and James Joyce in Station Island.

Firstly, we need briefly to touch upon the enduring translational presence of Dante in Modern Irish poetry. It is a presence Heaney himself inaugurates in his 1979 collection Field Work with ‘Ugolino’, which corresponds to the end of Inferno XXXII and the first half of Inferno XXXIII. Modern Irish poets have been particularly drawn to Dante, and have, to varying degrees, translated parts of Dante’s Commedia, from whole canticles to episodes from individual cantos.15 Heaney’s Dante renderings are perhaps the best known, but many others have followed in his wake. In fact, Heaney’s ‘Ugolino’ is later accompanied by two other Irish poets who deliberately chose their respective sections of Dante’s Inferno to make good their affinity with Dante, and also their poetic fraternity with Heaney: Matthew Sweeney’s wonderfully irreverent ‘In the Ice’ is a re-imagining of Inferno XXXII (16–139) from the collection A Smell of Fish (2000);16 and Bernard O’Donoghue’s ‘Fra Alberigo’s Bad Fruit’, which takes up from where Heaney’s ‘Ugolino’ left off, is a chilling version of the final section of Inferno XXXIII (91–157).17 Ciaran Carson’s 2002 rendering of the entirety of Inferno is straight out of Belfast.18 In the introduction he writes:

The deeper I got into the Inferno, the more I walked. Hunting for a rhyme, trying to construe a turn of phrase, I’d leave the desk and take to the road, lines ravelling and unravelling in my mind. Usually, I’d head for the old Belfast Waterworks, […] on one of Belfast’s sectarian fault lines.19

Carson conjures up various images from the Troubles, including the ever-present British army helicopters hovering overhead, and likens one to Geryon, Dante’s beast symbolising fraud who will carry him down into the Malebolge. He reminds us in the introduction that many translations seemed to forget that Dante wrote in the vernacular. Carson’s technique is the Hiberno-English ballad, and it seems that as a model it allows for some extravagant alliteration, and other features, taking in both formal discourse and the language of the street. As he states, ‘As I walked the streets of Belfast, I wanted to get something of that music’ (p. xxi). Equally, there is the Belfastborn Philip Terry’s 2014 Dante’s Inferno in which the poet brilliantly shifts the action from twelfth-century Italy to the present day and relocates it to the modern ‘walled city’ of the University of Essex.20 Dante’s Phlegethon becomes the river Colne; his popes are replaced by vice-chancellors and

An Irish Dante, Part II: A Dantean Afterlife

education ministers; the warring Guelfs and Ghibellines are re-imagined as the sectarian loyalists and republicans of Northern Ireland. Meanwhile, Terry’s Virgil is transformed into the American poet Ted Berrigan, onetime visiting professor at Essex and a poet who had himself imagined the underworld.

Dante first emerges in Heaney in 1979, in Field Work. The poem ‘The Strand at Lough Beg’ begins with a quotation of a tercet from the first canto of Purgatorio (100–103), in which Virgil washes Dante’s face before they can begin their ascent. The poem is a powerful elegy for his murdered cousin, Colum McCartney. The poem’s epigraph and its final images of loss, mourning and poetic reparation are borrowed from Dorothy Sayers’ translation of Purgatorio. The collection is bookended by Dante, with Heaney’s acoustically thrilling rendering of the Ugolino and Archbishop Ruggieri episode in the pit of Hell, in which one traitor literally gnaws at the brain matter of his treacherous enemy, while both are physically frozen in the dead ice of Lake Cocytus. Ugolino lifts his head momentarily from his gruesome repast to relate the most humane story of filial love in the most inhuman of all zones of hell. As Osip Mandelstam once memorably stated, ‘It is unthinkable to read the cantos of Dante without directing them toward contemporaneity. […] They are missiles for capturing the future. They demand commentary in the futurum.’21 The future that Heaney breathes into these two characters is all the viciousness of the Northern Ireland conflict: tribal loyalties, sectarian hatreds, hungers enforced and willed.

Different Dantean modes

Station Island of 1984 marks a decisive turning point in Heaney in which he first seriously began writing dead poetry and engaged with the descent into the underworld, invoking the method of katabasis and its literary implications. In the title of the poem of that collection he related how spirits of dead priests, dead friends, victims of the Troubles and finally James Joyce, appeared from the pilgrimage site of St Patrick’s Purgatory on Station Island to inform and rebuke him. Heaney implicitly presents himself in relation to Dante or Aeneas, in a type of Dantean prophetic mode: a poet who would absorb and transform voices from his own history and from the literary past. But this apparent self-aggrandizement is counter-balanced by a gnawing recurrent guilt. His cousin Colum McCartney from the previous collection appears to him here like a Dantean shade and upbraids him for his literary

Daragh O’Connell

pretentions and lack of political engagement: You confused evasion and artistic tact. The Protestant who shot me through the head I accuse directly, but indirectly, you who now atone perhaps upon this bed for the way you whitewashed ugliness and drew the lovely blinds of the Purgatorio and saccharined my death with morning dew. Station Island, Section VIII22

But, as Bernard O’Donoghue has memorably stated, Heaney was always a ‘generous venerator of his literary predecessors and guides’.23 It is worthwhile considering what Heaney himself had to say about Dante in his essay ‘Envies and Identifications’.24 Beyond the celebration of the local intensity of the Florentine’s poem, Heaney uses the opportunity to take T.S. Eliot’s reading of Dante to task and instead suggests another, more lyrically and phonically subversive reading – that of Mandelstam. Heaney questions Eliot’s over-emphasis on Dante’s Latinate universality, or we could put it another way: Dante’s cool classicism, because ostensibly the vernacular of Dante’s age gains more by being the product of universal Latin, whereas Racine and Shakespeare had to express themselves in local languages. As Heaney puts it, this ‘hankering for a purely delineated realm of wisdom and beauty sometimes asks literature to climb the stair of transcendence and give us images free from the rag-and-bone shop reek of time and place’.25 Heaney is at pains to stress Dante’s vernacularity in opposition to Eliot’s Latinate Dante, which is seen as a clean lexical exercise. The charge Heaney puts at Eliot’s door is that of recreating Dante in his own image, to use Heaney’s telling phrase, as an heir to ‘Virgilian gravitas’ – Eliot could not understand or even admit into his thinking the untamed, parochial Dante of vernacular expressionism, stripped of the robes of commentary, who transmits a fever of excitement in the actual phonetic reality of the work.26 The Dante that Heaney privileges is Mandelstam’s one, a Dante who is a ‘voluble Shakespearean figure, a woodcutter singing at his work in the dark wood of the larynx’.27

To conclude: it does indeed seem appropriate to speak of an ‘Irish Dante’, in the light of what we have covered in this two-part essay. Firstly, medieval Irish authors provide Dante with a roadmap to the Other World, and then Dante reciprocates by gifting modern Irish writers with a rich set of images and tropes – imaginative keys to unlock much that is valuable for us today.

An Irish Dante, Part II: A Dantean Afterlife

Dr Daragh O’Connell is head of the Department of Italian in the School of Languages, Literatures and Cultures, at University College Cork.

He is also director of the Centre for Dante Studies in Ireland (CDSI) at UCC. Part I of this essay appeared in the Summer 2022 issue of Studies.

(Endnotes)

1 Dante Alighieri, The Divina Commedia of Dante Alighieri: consisting of the Inferno, Purgatorio and Paradiso, trans. by Rev. Henry Boyd (London: T Cadell Jun. and W. Davies, 1802).

2 Dante Aligheri, Coiméide Dhiaga Dante, An Monsignor Pádraig de Brún d’aistrigh (Baile Átha Cliath: Mac an Ghoill, 1963).

3 Críostóir Ó Floinn, Trí Gheata na Síoraíochta (Foilseachaín Ábhair Spioradálta, 1988).

4 W. B. Yeats, Poems, ed. by A. Norman Jeffares (Dublin: Gill and Macmillan, 1989), pp. 264–265.

5 James Joyce, Finnegans Wake (London: Penguin, 1992), p. 295.

6 Ibid., p. 440.

7 Attributed to Joyce by Alessandro Francini Bruni in his ‘Joyce Stripped Naked in the Piazza’, in Portraits of the Artist in Exile: Recollections of James Joyce by Europeans, ed. by Willard Potts (Dublin: Wolfhound Press, 1979), pp. 7–38 (p. 29).

8 Joyce, Finnegans Wake, p. 183.

9 James Joyce, Ulysses (London: The Bodley Head, 1960), p. 64. For other studies on Dante’s presence in Joyce see Mary T. Reynolds, Joyce and Dante: The Shaping Imagination (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1981); Lucia Boldrini, Joyce, Dante and the Poetics of Literary Relations (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001); James Robinson, Joyce’s Dante: Exile, Memory and Community (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016).

10 George Steiner, Grammars of Creation (London: Faber & Faber, 2001), p. 73.

11 Samuel Beckett, The Complete Dramatic Works (London: Faber & Faber, 1986), pp. 95

12 Seamus Heaney, ‘Translator’s Note’, in Aeneid Book VI (London: Faber & Faber, 2016), pp. vii–ix.

13 Brian Friel, Plays 1 (London: Faber and Faber, 1996), p. 417.

14 This interview was first published in Italian: Carla de Petris, ‘La pausa per la riflessione: Incontro con Seamus Heaney’, Linea d’ombra, 42 (October 1989), 69–73. The quoted passage was translated for the essay by Carla de Petris, ‘Heaney and Dante’ in Critical Essays on Seamus Heaney, ed. by Robert F. Garratt (New York: G. K. Hall & Co., 1995), pp. 161–171 (p. 161).

15 David Wallace writes that the ‘claiming of Dante as poetic mentor and ancestor has obvious advantages for Irish poets writing in English. Irish Catholicism brings them (for better or worse) closer to the urban, national, and universalizing culture of Dante than any American or English poet can imagine’, in ‘Dante in English’, p. 253. This, I think, is partly true, but it also has to do with the question of vernacularity.

16 Matthew Sweeney, A Smell of Fish (London: Cape Poetry, 2000), pp. 45–47.

17 Bernard O’Donoghue, Outliving (London: Chatto & Windus, 2003), pp. 49–51. O’Donoghue’s engagement with Dante extends back to at least 1995 and the collection Gunpowder (Chatto & Windus) which has two poems with decidedly Dantean titles: ‘Nel Mezzo del Cammin’ and ‘Ebbe?’ (inspired by Inferno X). After Outliving, O’Donoghue returned to Dante in his 2011 collection Farmers Cross (London: Faber and Faber) with the poem ‘Casella’, drawn from Purgatorio, II, 61 81, p. 50. In 2016 he also translated a sizeable portion of Purgatorio VI, with a poem titled ‘The Mantuans’ in the collection The Seasons of Cullen Church (London: Faber and Faber, 2016), p. 47. In 2021 O’Donoghue worked on and contributed full translations of Purgatorio, II, VI and VII in After Dante: Poets in Purgatory. Translations by Contemporary Poets, ed. by Nick Havely with Bernard O’Donoghue (Todmorden: Arc Publications, 2021).

18 Ciaran Carson, The Inferno of Dante Alighieri (London-New York: Granta, 2002).

19 Ciaran Carson, ‘Introduction’, The Inferno of Dante Alighieri, pp. xi–xxi (p. xi).

20 Philip Terry, Dante’s Inferno (Manchester: Carcanet, 2014). Terry has also finished translating Purgatorio and will publish it later in the year. Both Terry and O’Donoghue recently participated alongside the American poet Mary Jo Bang in a Dante Dialogue organised by the Centre for Dante Studies in Ireland, in which they discussed the enduring influence of Dante on poets and the appeal

Studies • volume 111 • number 444

Daragh O’Connell

of the translational-poetic exercise. See ‘Translating Dante’ with Jacob Blakesley, Cormac Ó Cuilleanáin, Mary Jo Bang, Bernard O’Donoghue and Philip Terry, mediated by Valentina Mele (29 October, 2021): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BHYaIRSUGAU.

21 Osip Mandelstam, ‘Conversation about Dante’, in The Collected Critical Prose and Letters, edited by Jane Gary Harris and translated by Jane Gary Harris and Constance Link (London: Harvill, 1991), pp. 397–451 (p. 420).

22 Seamus Heaney, ‘Station Island’, in Opened Ground: Poems 1966–1996 (London: Faber and Faber, 1998) p. 261.

23 Bernard O’Donoghue, ‘Aeneid Book VI: Seamus Heaney’s miraculous return from literary afterlife’, in The Irish Times, 27/02/2016.

24 Seamus Heaney, ‘Envies and Identifications: Dante and the Modern Poet’ was first published in the Irish University Review, 15 (1985). All quotations are from its reprinting in Seamus Heaney, Finders Keepers: Selected Prose 1971–2001 (London: Faber and Faber, 2002), pp. 168–179.

25 Envies and Identifications’, p. 170.

26 ‘Envies and Identifications’, p. 175.

27 ‘Envies and Identifications’, p. 179.

‘The Queen She Came to Call on Us’

Dermot McCarthy

The rituals of state visits rarely excite much interest beyond the narrow range of those obliged to participate. Their set format is designed to standardise expressions of esteem between the host country and that of the visiting dignitary.

The state visit of Queen Elizabeth in 2011 burst the constraints of routine formality. As the first state visit by a British monarch, every detail was invested with a significance, which was reflected in the careful preparations.

The problematic nature of relations between Britain and Ireland had for decades ruled out the very idea of a state visit. The changed nature of that relationship – not least as a result of shared interests and perspectives within the European Union – was crystalised in the terms of the Good Friday Agreement of 1998. By then, dealings between London and Dublin were conducted with ease and in an atmosphere of trust, reflecting shared vital interests.

A royal visit is broached When I became secretary general to the Irish government in January 2000, I continued the regular contact with my London counterpart, the cabinet secretary, which had been established by my predecessors. Participation in networks of those holding similar roles in London, Dublin, Edinburgh, Cardiff and Belfast, and in the OECD member states that operate within the Whitehall tradition, reinforced friendships and cooperation. I became aware from these conversations, and from regular discussions with a succession of British ambassadors in Dublin, that the Queen strongly desired to undertake a state visit to Ireland. These officials were not merely expressing the official view of the British government; they conveyed a sense of personal duty to advance the wishes of the sovereign to whose service they were, in effect, sworn. This was a far cry from the respectful but distant relationship with the president under our constitutional system.

Dermot McCarthy

By the early 2000s it was clear that an exchange of state visits would take place – at the right time. President Robinson had, after all, visited the Queen in Buckingham Palace in 1993 and again during an official visit to Britain in 1996, when state courtesies were extended. President McAleese held a series of meetings and events with the Queen and other members of the Royal Family and strongly supported advancing formal ties through a state visit. The position of the Irish government was that a visit would take place at a time when its success was assured, reflecting a normalisation of relations already established, rather than in prospect. Circumstances in Northern Ireland were key to this assessment. For a long time, issues relating to security and the administration of justice in Northern Ireland constituted unfinished business and an obstacle to an incoming state visit.

There were concerns also about the safety and security of the Queen during a visit. It was clear that most people would extend to her a warm welcome; however, a minority of unknown size could make a visit memorable for the wrong reasons. I recall discussing these issues on one occasion with then Taoiseach Bertie Ahern who asked if the Garden of Remembrance might feature in such a visit. I assured him that it formed part of the programme for the first day of all state visits in the template produced by the Department of Foreign Affairs, complete with wreath laying and ‘inclination of the head’. He felt such an event would have a major impact on public opinion, as indeed proved to be the case.

By 2010, the public position of London and Dublin was that bilateral discussions were taking place about a visit that would happen at an appropriate time. This line was due to be repeated in a communique after a scheduled meeting in London between Taoiseach Brian Cowen and Prime Minister David Cameron in June 2010. However, this line was wearing thin and both heads of state were anxious to move things along. Besides, there was no doubt that a successful visit would boost morale in Ireland at a difficult time, while generating positive international attention. I was convinced that our system could ensure a safe and successful visit. In discussion shortly before the Taoiseach’s departure for London it was agreed that we would propose a change in the joint position, to confirm that preparations would now commence for a visit in 2011. I rang my London counterpart, Sir Gus (now Lord) O’Donnell, to alert him to the proposed change in stance. He rang off to brief the Prime Minister and the Palace. The communique after the meeting clearly signaled that a visit was on, though with dates and details

to be settled.

Preparations and precautions

It was established relatively quickly that there was a window in the royal calendar for a visit in May 2011. Many of the formal elements of a state visit are fixed, but a programme also reflects the interests of the visitor and the sensitivities of the hosts, not least, in our case, the desire that significant events should take place outside Dublin. Officials from across government began to work on the arrangements, while detailed garda and military planning began. Discussions with British counterparts soon followed, with preparations led on the British side by Edward Young, then deputy and subsequently private secretary to the Queen, supported by colleagues from the British embassy in Dublin. The cordial and accommodating spirit within which advance visits and discussions with protocol teams from the Departments of the Taoiseach and Foreign Affairs took place enabled plans to take shape relatively quickly.

The Queen’s desire that the visit should be an exercise in friendship as well as statecraft was reflected in the unstuffy character of the discussions. In this respect, there were echoes of the visit of Prince Charles to Dublin in 1995. I recall his visit to St Andrew’s Resource Centre in Pearse Street where he was charmed to be greeted by senior citizens from the parish without any hint of deference. It was the first time that royal ears had heard the greeting, ‘How are ya, son’! (On that occasion Guinness produced from a local pub was sipped delicately, unlike the lonely pint surveyed wistfully by the Duke of Edinburgh during a visit to the Guinness Storehouse.)

The otherwise smooth preparations for a visit were complicated by political and economic events. By the end of 2010 it was clear that a change of government in Dublin was very likely, against a backdrop of the economic crisis emblemised by the arrival of the Troika. Our British colleagues were alarmed that such dramatic changes could easily derail the emerging visit arrangements. They nervously accepted assurances that the briefing of the leader of the opposition had made it clear that support for the planned visit would not be at risk from any change of government. Contact between Taoiseach Brian Cowan and Deputy Enda Kenny enabled the new administration to give rapid approval to the visit details.

What could not been anticipated was the change in the context for the visit. Enda Kenny was elected by Dáil Éireann on 9 March, a date which had been set for the convening of the new Dail so that the newly-elected

Dermot McCarthy

taoiseach would be able to undertake the important annual visit to Washington for St Patrick’s Day. I visited Cashel on that St Patrick’s Day to review the suitability of the Rock of Cashel for inclusion in the Queen’s programme, as was strongly supported by many colleagues. Having visited the Rock (and viewed an extremely enjoyable St Patrick’s Day Parade in the town) I took a call from my colleague, Martin Fraser, who was accompanying the Taoiseach in Washington, to share the good news that President Obama had proposed to visit Dublin on Monday, 22 May, three days after the Queen was due to depart. While visits from the heads of state of our two most significant international partners were a cause for celebration, their close proximity could be seen as too much of a good thing. However, the official system upped the pace of our preparations to ensure that both visits, while very different in style and content, would be equally successful. Distinct planning teams took charge of the arrangements for each visit, within an overall framework approved by the government.

So it was that arrangements for the Queen’s visit were finalised, with a combination of standard and bespoke elements, including the delicately choreographed visit to Croke Park. The historic nature of the visit was underlined by news that the British Prime Minister, David Cameron and the cabinet secretary would accompany the Queen to Dublin. Coincidentally, a visit by Gus O’Donnell and key permanent secretaries of UK government departments to meet their Dublin counterparts had been arranged for 10/11 May as part of a recently agreed programme of bilateral cooperation. It was agreed that the visiting party would stay in Farmleigh House, just a week before the Queen and her party were due to stay there. This provided a useful dry run for the Farmleigh and security teams. The success of that visit boosted confidence on both sides for the success of the Queen’s visit.

A warm welcome

As the visit began at Casement Aerodrome on the morning of 17 May the sun shone and the Queen smiled. The concerns for security during the visit were well founded, but the intelligence and security arrangements proved effective and there was little public sign of any possible disruption. The laying of the wreath at the Garden of Remembrance was as imbued with significance as it was executed with a radical simplicity. Similarly, the visit to Croke Park spoke eloquently of mutual respect between two traditions, which the visit was intended to symbolise. The warmth of the welcome extended to the

Queen grew as the visit proceeded and was particularly evident during her visits to Trinity College and to Cork, and in the warmth of the applause of the audience in the convention centre when the Queen appeared on stage to greet the performers after a special programme of words and music.

A key moment in the visit was the state dinner held in Dublin Castle, addressed by the President and the Queen. The broad approach to be taken during this and other formal moments had been discussed during the preparations. On the morning of the dinner, the British ambassador came in to show me on a personal basis the text of the Queen’s speech, which he was also sharing with the secretary general to the president. The text was broadly as delivered that evening but there were a couple of sentences which seemed to me could strike a jarring note, however unintended. I suggested that they be deleted. My colleague in the Áras had the same reaction, and the suggested amendments were made. On a lighter note, we heard during the afternoon that the household staff in Farmleigh House had been helping the Queen to practice her ‘cúpla focal’, assuring her that variations in dialects and accents meant that she could be confident that however she pronounced the words, her Gaeilge would be warmly received. And so it proved.

The success of the state dinner was overshadowed by news of the death of Garrett Fitzgerald, the former taoiseach who had devoted so much of his public life to the pursuit of better relations on the island of Ireland and between Britain and Ireland. There was a poignancy to his death during a visit of which he heartily approved. His death meant there would be a state funeral that, logistically, could only happen between the departure of the Queen and the arrival of President Obama. With the cooperation of Archbishop Diarmuid Martin, who permitted a funeral Mass to be celebrated on a Sunday when this is not normally permitted in Dublin, all of the ceremonial elements were carried out in tribute to a distinguished statesman and public servant.

On her last afternoon in Dublin, the Queen received individually a number of people who had been centrally involved in the planning of her visit. During a short conversation the Queen asked me, with great earnestness and palpable concern, whether I felt the visit would make a difference. It was a question she repeated when I met her again at a reception she gave in Buckingham Palace for those who had been involved in what had clearly been one of her most successful and important overseas visits. I assured her that it had made a difference, underscoring the transition from past enmity and suspicion to a new era of cooperation and trust. The confidence I expressed might now be

Dermot McCarthy

judged to have been somewhat optimistic.

By the time the Queen’s aircraft departed from Cork the focus of the government machinery was on the state funeral and the arrival of President Obama. There was time, however, to relish the success of the visit, which reflected careful preparation and the personal determination and focus of the Queen herself. The success of those days contributed to public morale and to confidence in the administrative system. Those were the considerations which had been foremost in my own approach to planning the visit. However, as I stood in the receiving line outside the Áras, while the national anthems were played, the twenty-one gun salute was given and the Aer Corps aircraft flew overhead, I experienced an emotional sense of the significance of a moment that could not have been anticipated by family members in earlier generations who, like so many families, had taken opposite sides in the key events leading to the foundation of the state.

The formalities of government and diplomacy are often cumbersome and dry. The Queen’s visit demonstrated that in the service of wise and sensitive political leadership, they can produce joyful outcomes, foster better human relations, and create memories that endure.

Dermot McCarthy served as secretary general to the government of Ireland and secretary general of the Department of the Taoiseach from 2000 to 2011. In 2016 he was ordained a permanent deacon for the Archdiocese of Dublin.

Partition: Are There Two Nations on the Island of Ireland, and Could They Be Fused into One?1

John Bruton

There are increasingly loud calls to prepare for a border poll, one outcome of which might be the unification of Ireland, the end of partition, and the end of UK sovereignty over Northern Ireland. These calls rely on the provision in the Belfast Agreement of 1998 that says that, if the British secretary of state is of the opinion that a majority in Northern Ireland would support unification with the rest of Ireland, he or she shall hold a poll in Northern Ireland to allow the electorate there to make that choice.

Apparently, this clause in the Agreement was not the subject of close scrutiny in the final days of the negotiation in 1998. The focus in that week was on North/South institutions, decommissioning of weapons, and prisoner releases. As a result of this lack of scrutiny, the Agreement provides little guidance as to how, and on what criteria, the secretary of state might make such a momentous decision. Nor is the role of the Irish government, who would have to absorb Northern Ireland, given much attention in the Agreement. The secretary of state is not even required to consult the Irish government. The Irish government would have to decide what special arrangements, if any, they might make to ensure that both communities in Northern Ireland, especially the one that is currently in favour of union with Britain, is made to feel at home in a united Ireland.

Nor does the Agreement set out how the public finance and tax implications of such a move would be dealt with. Northern Ireland currently receives a net subvention from London, which, if voters opted for a United Ireland, would thereafter either have to come from Dublin, or be rendered unnecessary by spending reductions on NI services. Incidentally, while a large majority (67%) in the Republic told opinion pollsters in 2021 that they would vote for a united Ireland, only 41% said they would be prepared to pay higher taxes to accommodate it, and even fewer would be willing to change the national flag

Bruton

or the national anthem to accommodate the British identity of the unionist population. Of course, answers to hypothetical poll questions about remote future possibilities are not reliable.

The Good Friday Agreement requires whichever government is sovereign over NI to exercise its powers ‘with rigorous impartiality’ and to ensure ‘just and equal treatment’ for the ‘identities, ethos and aspirations of both communities’ in NI. The declaration of support that introduces the Agreement also refers to the continuing and ‘equally legitimate’ political aspirations of the communities in Northern Ireland.

‘Aspirations’ is a key word here. Also key are the words ‘equally legitimate’. By definition, unionists and nationalists have different aspirations. One aspires to a united Ireland, the other aspires to continued union with Britain. These aspirations contradict one another. But do the detailed arrangement in the Agreement treat them as ‘equally legitimate’, as seems to be required by the underlying principle on which the Agreement is based? The provision in the Belfast Agreement for border polls seems, in an important sense, actually to contradict the ‘parity of esteem’ between ‘aspirations’ that is the underlying motive force of the Agreement.

This is because it provides for a one-way street to Irish unity, with no possibility of a reversal of that decision. While there could be several border polls in which the option of a United Ireland is offered and rejected, once that option is chosen, that would be it. There would be no further referenda. The decision in favour on a united Ireland would be final. In that sense there is no parity between the aspirations.

I am surprised this anomaly has not got more attention in unionist circles. If a majority in Northern Ireland voted for a united Ireland in a border poll, there would probably still be a significant minority in Northern Ireland who would continue to aspire to rejoin the United Kingdom. That aspiration is treated less favourably in the Agreement than is the aspiration of nationalists for a united Ireland. One aspiration, once achieved, is irreversible. The other aspiration (remaining in the UK) is reversible, however, no matter how many border polls confirming it have taken place.

Making it difficult to resolve the Protocol issue

This underlying asymmetry on the border poll issue contributes to a sense of insecurity in the unionist community and thereby inhibits reconciliation at ground level between the communities. Because it posits a stark binary

John

Partition: Are There Two Nations on the Island of Ireland, and Could They Be Fused into One?

choice, and because it is to be decided by simple majority, not cross community consent, the border poll question is polarising. The more often it is highlighted, the more people in Northern Ireland are reminded of what divides them rather than what unites them. The constant publicity about the possibility of a border poll may play well in certain sections of opinion in both parts of Ireland, but it is unsettling. It heightens the tension around the Northern Ireland Protocol, which Ulster unionists wrongly see as a stepping stone to a united Ireland.

Calling for a united Ireland is seen as patriotic and popular in the Republic, even though repeating such calls may actually be a barrier to practical reconciliation between the communities in Northern Ireland. Under the border poll provisions of the Agreement, a united Ireland could come about by a majority of a mere 51% to 49%. Once it has happened it would be irreversible, at least under the terms of the Agreement. Furthermore, this simple majoritarianism seems to me to run counter to something the then Taoiseach, Albert Reynolds, said in the 1993 Downing Street Declaration. He said, ‘Stability and wellbeing will not be found under any political system which is refused allegiance or rejected by a significant minority of those governed by it.’

If a united Ireland is carried by 51/49, in the present state of intercommunity relations in Northern Ireland, there would likely be a significant minority in Northern Ireland who would refuse allegiance to the decision. This is a risk that needs to be faced up to. This losing minority would be geographically concentrated in parts of the province where they might constitute a local majority. Experience suggest that policing such areas could become difficult for the united Ireland government.

The framers of the border poll provisions of the Belfast Agreement do not seem to me to have taken sufficient account of Albert Reynolds’s wise words in the Downing Street Declaration. He saw further than they did. I always thought the Belfast Agreement flowed from the Downing Street Declaration, but an important part of the latter seems to have been lost along the way.

The historical and philosophical origins of partition

The border poll provisions of the Belfast Agreement are an attempt to resolve the dispute over the partition of Ireland which has gone on for more than a century. Partition was never anything more than a second-best solution to the problem of divided allegiances on the island of Ireland. Those who are

Bruton

interested in the issue of partition, border polls, and reconciliation between the tradition in Ireland should read Charles Townshend’s book, The Partition: Ireland divided, 1885 to 1925 (London: Allen Lane, Penguin, 2021). This book shows that the partition of Ireland grew out of genuine political difficulties and out of a sincere conflict of allegiances between nationalists and unionists. These are differences that have been mitigated only slightly and continue to exist today.

Townshend traces the history and origins of the idea of dividing Ireland into two: a bigger portion, which actively wanted home rule and freedom from British domination; and a smaller portion, in north-east Ulster, where a geographically concentrated population wanted continued British rule and rejected rule from Dublin.

Up to 1800, Ireland had had a parliament of its own, sitting in Dublin. But Catholics, the majority population of the island, could not sit in the Irish parliament, and the franchise was confined to the very wealthy. Under the Act of Union of 1800, the Irish and British parliaments were merged, Ireland having 100 seats and the rest of the now United Kingdom approximately 500 seats. Catholics were eventually allowed to sit in the Union parliament in 1829, but the franchise continued to be restricted on property grounds. Irish MPs in Westminster continued to be a relatively powerless minority and were rarely influential ministers in UK governments. The British, or Union, state never truly integrated Ireland into a political unit with England, Scotland, and Wales. It is questionable whether it ever had the capacity or willingness to do so.

Ireland continued to be administered by a local administration in Dublin that took its orders from London governments and in which Catholic Irish MPs rarely had any say. It was a form of colonial administration, similar to the one in India. This failure to integrate Ireland into the Union with England, Scotland and Wales was partly due to the fact that these nations were Protestant in religion, whereas Ireland, outside of north-east Ulster, was predominantly Catholic. The disastrous potato famine of 1845 to 1850, which cost millions of lives in Ireland and to which the laissez faire economic policies of the Liberal government in London were a totally inadequate response, added to the sense of alienation.

From 1840 onwards there was agitation in Ireland either to repeal the Union and restore the Irish parliament or at least to grant Ireland home rule and a home rule parliament in Dublin with limited powers (excluding foreign

John

Partition: Are There Two Nations on the Island of Ireland, and Could They Be Fused into One?

affairs, defence and customs). Both of these proposals envisaged Ireland having a single parliament for the whole island, without any exclusion of north-east Ulster. From early on, opponents of home rule argued that allowing a Dublin parliament to govern the four or six counties in north-east Ulster, where a majority Protestant population did not want to be ruled by a Dublin parliament, would be unfair or unworkable. ‘Unionists’ in north-east Ulster did not want to find themselves being continually outvoted in a Dublin parliament, in the same way as Irish Catholic MPs had become used to being continuously outvoted in the Union parliament in London.

The first attempt to grant home rule to Ireland was put forward by William Gladstone in 1886. Nationalism was a popular doctrine in the nineteenth century, and John Bright, the British Radical and Liberal statesman, opposed Gladstone’s home rule proposal for all Ireland on the ground that there were two nationalities on the island. He said, ‘Ulster may be deemed a nationality differing from the rest of Ireland as much as Wales differs from England’.

Charles Stewart Parnell recognised there was a problem here. ‘It is undoubtedly true’, he said, ‘that until the prejudices of the [Protestant and unionist] majority are conciliated … Ireland can never enjoy full freedom, can never be united’. He was not, however in a position to put forward a solution to the dilemma that he acknowledged existed. In a sense that dilemma remains unaddressed to this day.

A third attempt to introduce home rule was made in 1912 by a Liberal government led by Herbert Asquith. Responding to Asquith’s bill, one of his Liberal backbencher MPs, Thomas Agar Robartes, said that Ulster unionists and Irish nationalists were two different nations with ‘different sentiments, character, history and religion’ and that it would be impossible to fuse these two ‘incongruous elements’ together. He proposed an amendment to the Home Rule Bill that would have allowed certain Ulster counties to opt out of home rule and continue to be ruled directly from London. A similar argument was made by the Conservative leader, Arthur Balfour, who also opposed home rule for the whole island of Ireland. He remarked that the unionists of north-east Ulster and the population of the rest of Ireland had ‘two [different] sets of aspirations, two sets of ideals and two sets of historic memories’. It is hard to say that Balfour was wrong. Shared ideals and shared historic memories are what shape and sustain nations in difficult times.

Irish nationalists supporting home rule rejected these arguments. John Redmond described the notion that there were two nations on the

John Bruton

island of Ireland as ‘revolting and hateful’. But neither he nor most Irish nationalists devoted enough thought or imagination to devising ways in which the incongruous elements of Ulster unionists on the one hand and Irish nationalists on the other might be fused together in a single nation. In fairness to Redmond, it must be said that his support for recruitment to the British Army in 1914 and 1915 was a form of indirect response to unionist sensibilities. He wanted to show that nationalists and unionists had some aspirations and allegiances in common.

That said, the overwhelming majority of nationalists believed that no part of Ireland had a right to opt out. Ireland was a geographic unit, an island, so, ipso facto, it should be one nation. This put physical geography ahead of human geography. The territorial concept overrode the diversity of shared memories and allegiances among the people. It was a very deterministic approach – a characteristic of nationalistic thinking in other parts of the world in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

The only Irish nationalist who took Ulster unionist concerns seriously was the Vice President of Sinn Fein, Father Michael O’Flanagan, who admitted that ‘in the last analysis, the test of nationality is the wish of the people’. He admitted that the Ulster unionists ‘had never transferred their love and allegiance to Ireland’ and said that Irish nationalists ‘claim the right to decide what is to be our nation, but refuse them (Ulster unionists) the same right’. I am not sure how much influence Father O’Flanagan had on subsequent Sinn Fein policy, although he continued to be active in the party. He seems to have been an eccentric individualist. He opposed the Treaty of 1921.

Going back a bit in time, many nationalists did not take Ulster unionist objections to home rule seriously at all. They thought it was bluff, even when Ulster unionists, opposed to home rule, armed themselves and set up a provisional government to resist Dublin rule. The working assumption of Irish nationalists in 1914 seems to have been that the Liberal government in London would coerce all of Ulster into accepting home rule. With hindsight, this seems quite unrealistic. The morality of such a course does not seem to have been explored by nationalist thinkers. In more recent times, republicans have advanced the false notion that if only the Brits would leave, all would come together harmoniously in Ulster.

Nationalists argued that the resistance in Ulster to home rule was being fanned by elements of the British Conservative Party for domestic purposes. There was truth in this, but it was not determinative, in my opinion.

Partition: Are There Two Nations on the Island of Ireland, and Could They Be Fused into One?

The assumptions underlying Irish nationalism

Irish nationalism also adopted a rhetoric that did not include Ulster unionist aspirations. For example, the language of the Irish, Gaelic, was to be the national language of Ireland, and while some Ulster unionists would have been able to speak Irish they would not have seen it as part of a nationbuilding project that belonged to them.

One nationalist writer, D. P. Moran, said the ‘foundation of the Irish is the Gael’, which excluded Ulster unionists (who are not of Gaelic stock) explicitly. Symbols like the monarchy, which meant (and continue to mean) a lot to unionists, were explicitly rejected by Irish republicans. Indeed, establishing an Irish Republic and thus getting rid of the monarchy seemed to be more important than avoiding partition. For example, Eamon de Valera, speaking in the Dail in 1921 during the truce and before the treaty negotiations commenced, said that if the Irish Republic was recognised, he would be in favour of ‘giving each county the power to vote itself out of the Republic’. In such a scenario, it is probable that, at the time (1921), Antrim, Down, Armagh and Derry would have voted to exclude themselves.

Back in September 1914, home rule for all Ireland was passed into law, but with a reservation that its implementation would be postponed until the World War, which had started a month earlier, was over. The issue of excluding parts of north-east Ulster from home rule was left open, to be dealt with in possible amending legislation. As a result of the 1916 rebellion and developments in British politics, home rule, as enacted in 1914 for all Ireland, was superseded – in 1920, for the six counties of north-east Ulster, by a local parliament with similar powers to those that an all-Ireland parliament would have had under the original home rule plan, and – in 1921, for the remaining 26 counties, by the Anglo-Irish Treaty of that year whereby the rest of Ireland became a Free State with its own army and freedom to set its own foreign and defence policy (‘dominion status’).

These arrangements have survived for the past 100 years. The Free State, now Republic, has made good use of its independence, especially since it joined the EU. Northern Ireland has had a more difficult time because of a combination of bigotry, insecurity, discrimination, and terrorism.

Reconciliation within Northern Ireland must be the priority

In looking objectively and clinically at the possibility of a border poll, people

John Bruton

on both sides of the Irish border should ask themselves some difficult questions. They should ask themselves honestly if the ideals, historic memories, and allegiances of Northern unionists can realistically be reconciled with the ideals, historic memories, and allegiances of Irish nationalists in present circumstances. The gap remains wide.

Can these disparate elements be fused into a new civic patriotism, an identity that all can share? If people do not believe that is possible, a united Ireland will not work, and it should not be supported by voters in border polls. Of course, sentiments can change. New shared memories can be forged. Allegiances can be changed or modified. But this requires profound change. The priority now should be reconciliation within Northern Ireland.

We should not forget that all parties to the Belfast Agreement committed themselves in the second paragraph of the ‘Declaration of Support’ for the Agreement to work to achieve ‘reconciliation, tolerance and mutual trust’. It is arguable that the political parties in Northern Ireland have done little to fulfil this commitment they gave in 1998. Indeed, the parallel consent procedures of the Agreement, which require parties to designate themselves as ‘nationalist’, ‘unionist’ or ‘other’, and which give the first two categories primacy over those in the ‘other’ category, is undemocratic and has inhibited reconciliation and promoted rigidity of thought. It ignores the growth of middle ground opinion and the views of people for whom the constitutional question is not their primary concern.

The work of reconciliation must be done, in the first place, by the people of Northern Ireland themselves, but with the active support of the Dublin and London governments. It should be seen as an end in itself and not as a preparation for either a united Ireland or continuance of the Union. This can be brought about by shared achievements of which all can be proud, which then become part of a new shared historic memory, gradually to replace the divisive memories of the past. Shared ideals must be forged by negotiation at every level among the people of Northern Ireland. Unionists must begin to imagine themselves into the minds of nationalists, and nationalists into the minds of unionists. Each must come to understand the other’s version of history. Also, for example, the Catholic Church should consider whether separate Catholic schools promote integration in practice. There may be better ways to pass on the faith.

Such shifts in attitude would require a conscious and structured effort of the imagination within every age group among the people of Northern

Partition: Are There Two Nations on the Island of Ireland, and Could They Be Fused into One?

Ireland. The Belfast Agreement should be amended to give primacy to the politics of reconciliation over the politics of two incompatible blocs. Instead of being boosters for one side or the other in the constitutional debate, artists, actors, poets and writers in Northern Ireland should lend their talents to this very demanding exercise of the imagination.

Unless a border poll has been preceded by profound reconciliation and mutual trust between the people of Northern Ireland it will not deliver stability, no matter which way it goes.

John Bruton is a former Irish politician who served as leader of Fine Gael from 1990 to 2001 and as taoiseach from 1994 to 1997.

1 An earlier version of this article appeared in the electronic edition of the Irish Times on Friday 14 October 2022.

Writing History with Female Religious Communities: Medieval and Modern Hagiography1

Máirín MacCarron

The importance of hagiographies for the study of early medieval history cannot be overstated. These texts are used to illuminate contemporary social, religious, and political practices, and to understand the intellectual environment of hagiographers. However, an over-emphasis on the hagiographer’s agenda, though crucial for understanding a work’s historical context, sometimes introduces too great a separation between their endeavour as an individual and the role of their protagonist’s community in preserving and curating their own history. This disparity can be particularly pronounced for female religious figures, as the earliest surviving sources concerning their lives often came from outside their monasteries and were written by men. In early medieval Ireland, the most famous female saint, Bridget of Kildare, is venerated in three early lives, all believed to be written by men.2 During the same period in Britain, most of our information about religious women is preserved in the Venerable Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People, which was written at his monastery of Wearmouth and Jarrow.3 The double monasteries of Whitby and Coldingham, both ruled by abbesses and both featured in Bede’s History, between them produced one surviving text, the Earliest Life of Gregory the Great, written by an unidentified member of the Whitby community around AD 700, which tells us little about life at Whitby and does not mention Hild (d. 680), the monastery’s most famous abbess.4 The community of Barking recorded their early history, but this has only survived in excerpts preserved by Bede. And Bede is also the earliest surviving source for the community at Ely.5 The former Frankish queen, Radegund, who founded the monastery of Holy Cross at Poitiers, is an exception as her life was recorded by one of her sisters, Baudonivia, and this work has survived to the present day. However, the more celebrated account of Radegund’s life is that by the acclaimed poet, Venantius Fortunatus, which

was commissioned by the community.6

The limited supply of first-hand information from female religious communities stands in sharp contrast to contemporary male institutions, such as, for example, Armagh, Iona, Lindisfarne, and Wearmouth and Jarrow, about which we know much because sources produced in and for these houses have survived.7 However, the nature of the surviving evidence should not lead us to overlook the role that women may have played in creating and preserving their own histories. I have spent many years studying hagiographies from early medieval Ireland and Britain, including examining the role and presentation of women in these texts, and my understanding of the genre of hagiography and the writing of history by members of a community was transformed by a year spent working for a modern religious congregation, the Poor Servants of the Mother of God. I worked on a biographical project about their foundress, Magdalen Taylor (1832–1900), as part of her canonisation cause. The following offers some reflections on my experience observing hagiography in action as a female religious community explored their own history.

Focusing on charism and history

The Poor Servants of the Mother of God were established in 1869 to address the diverse needs of the poor in Victorian London. Their foundress believed such needs were not being met by existing religious orders and ultimately decided to establish her own congregation to be active in society. Magdalen Taylor, born as Frances Margaret Taylor in Stoke Rochford, Lincolnshire, and in religion Mary Magdalen of the Sacred Heart, was the daughter of an Anglican minister and converted to Catholicism after working as a nurse in the Crimea from 1854–55. All her biographers agree that from an early age she was committed to helping others and her later vocation and subsequent foundation of a new religious congregation are presented as logical developments for a woman of her interests and abilities.8 The Poor Servants’ distinctive charism inspired by Taylor’s religious faith is their commitment to working with, rather than for, the poor. From the start, Taylor recognised the potential of teaching skills such as sewing to the poorest and most vulnerable, thereby enabling them to overcome inequality and poverty while also providing care for the neglected.9 Her commitment to working with the poor met with hostility from those who believed such efforts were futile; however, despite opposition, her foundation was by any measure a resounding success,

Máirín MacCarron

and at the time of her death, in June 1900, she had established houses of Poor Servants in Britain, Ireland, France and Italy.

The Order’s pragmatism means their contribution to society has always varied depending on the need in a locality: sometimes, they were seamstresses or ran laundries and taught these skills to the women with whom they worked; in other areas they set up homes to get girls off the streets; and at other times they established schools, hospitals and nursing homes. Their varied ministry was inspired by Ignatian spirituality, which had a profound influence on Taylor, to the extent that she often established new houses close to Jesuit foundations to ensure her communities had recourse to appropriate spiritual support. Within the congregation their values also held true as, unlike many religious foundations in the nineteenth century, the Poor Servants did not have an institutional hierarchy based on the dowries brought by girls on entry.10 All women were welcome and class distinctions such as full (i.e. choir) and lay sisters did not exist; their early records include accounts of many women who did not have dowries receiving an unexpectedly warm welcome on arrival and ascending to positions of leadership due to their abilities and despite their humble origins.

The community’s work of caring for those around them continues, now with many lay staff working alongside the sisters, but in recent decades they have also turned their attention to their own humble origins. This interest in the past was inspired by the decrees of the Second Vatican Council, which encouraged religious communities to engage with their history and focus on the charism of their founders. For the Poor Servants, like many others, this has led to the development of a Cause for the Canonisation of Magdalen Taylor. The Cause officially opened in 1982, and the Positio super vita, virtutibus et fama sanctitatis (Position on the life, virtues and fame of sanctity) was submitted to the Vatican’s Congregation for the Causes of Saints thirty years later, in 2012. A Positio contains a documented biography of the candidate, witness statements from the Tribunals of Inquiry that investigated their actions, and evidence that they led a virtuous life ‘to a heroic degree’. Taken together it equates with what medievalists will recognise as a hagiography, it affirms the candidate’s virtues and closeness to God. The case for Taylor’s sanctity presented in the Positio was accepted by the Vatican, and she was officially declared Venerable by Pope Francis in 2014. At present her community are working to promote the Cause in the hope that Taylor will be beatified and ultimately canonised by the Catholic Church.11

History with Female Religious Communities: Medieval and Modern Hagiography

Devotion to the foundress

I first encountered the Poor Servants in 2011 when I was appointed to work with the Sisters in bringing the Positio to completion. My role was primarily as editor of the text, and I checked references, collated and transcribed primary sources, and supported the Sisters as required. The most remarkable aspect of working with them as an outsider was witnessing their on-going devotion to their foundress. She remains an inspirational example for her community and to this day is affectionately known as ‘Mother Magdalen’, following the practice of her earliest Sisters who called her ‘Mother’ during her lifetime.12 This is coupled with a sense of her living presence amongst them and their willingness to ask her for help when faced with difficult decisions. This living relationship speaks to the strength of the connections between communities and their founders and is often an unacknowledged element of religious life. There are many descriptions of devotion to an abbess, or abbot, in medieval sources, which historians tend to see as rhetorical. For example, many historians studying Bede’s History argue that his composition techniques overrode all else.13 In his account of Hild, abbess of Whitby mentioned above, he recorded that she was ‘mother’ to all who knew her and, when she died, two members of her community who were especially close to her were miraculously made aware of her death.14 Bede undeniably had an agenda in writing his History, but this may not have precluded him from recording the reality of devotion to Hild at Whitby and the preservation of her memory by her community. I observed personal devotion to Taylor daily as the Poor Servants carried out their work of service to others and can attest to its importance for her canonisation cause. Indeed, their desire to preserve her legacy and ensure that her message of service endures in the institutions bearing her name has also led to the organisation of voluntary charism workshops for their lay staff that focus on Taylor’s commitment to serving others in the hope that they will be similarly inspired.

The living devotion to Taylor is connected to the community’s faith that she is a saint. They are not undergoing the time-intensive and laborious process of a canonisation cause to determine if she might be a saint; they are engaged in this work because they believe in her sanctity and hope that the Church’s canonisation procedure will formally confirm it. The belief that Taylor was a saint was expressed immediately on her death by contemporaries from other religious orders along with members of her own community. One of her Sisters, Mary Campion, compiled a biography of her life in 1906/7 that was

Writing

Máirín MacCarron

only available within the congregation and other biographies have followed from within and outside the Order.15 In 1959, the Poor Servants received permission from the Home Office of the United Kingdom to exhume Taylor’s remains from Mortlake Cemetery and reinter them in a vault of the chapel in their mother house at Roehampton in London; soon afterwards a prayer was written for the beatification of Magdalen Taylor. All of this was long before the establishment of a formal canonisation cause.

The spontaneous and un-orchestrated belief in the sanctity of the deceased is an essential element in the modern canonisation process and termed ‘fame of sanctity’. For a Cause to be successful ‘fame of sanctity’ must extend outside the religious congregation, and this is also the case for Taylor who enjoys extraordinary devotion amongst the laity. She has a long-standing reputation for assisting those in need and, in keeping with her practicality in life, she is especially renowned for assisting with challenges like finding houses and jobs. Such interventions are regarded as favours in the modern Church and, though not treated as miracles for the purposes of beatification and canonisation, they represent evidence of fame of sanctity. Many of those who believe they have benefitted from Taylor’s intercession have written to the Sisters who keep a record of these favours, of which there are hundreds. The on-going interest in Taylor and widespread enlisting of her support for spiritual and temporal affairs over many years was a crucial factor in the Order’s decision to petition for the formal opening of her Cause in 1982, more than eight decades after her death. Once permission to proceed with the Cause was granted, the community began actively promoting Taylor and encouraging people to ask for her intercession.

The role of faith and devotion in hagiography

The opportunity to witness and participate in the process of a community writing their own history and learning about their foundress was a novel and fascinating challenge. I gained insights into the relationships between religious communities and their founders and a new understanding of the impulse to canonise. The primary motivation for the Cause of Magdalen Taylor was the congregation’s desire to spread the word about her life and works, and the Cause is inspired by their devotion to her and their belief that her message of service is of value today. In studying medieval hagiography, the place of devotion and faith is rarely considered in modern historiography; indeed, scholarly discussion of this genre often takes an

Writing History with Female Religious Communities: Medieval and Modern Hagiography

overtly instrumentalist approach to the creation of these works, arguing that they were written for narrow promotional rather than devotional purposes.16 However, the reality is that most medieval hagiographies were written by members of the protagonist’s community or by those close to them, and may therefore be somewhat reliable witnesses to that community’s faith and devotion. Most medieval writers were closer in time to their subject than the Poor Servants are to Taylor today, yet the devotion of the Poor Servants is undeniably a major factor in the process of her Cause.

I began by observing that writing the history of their institutions is not something that we associate with early medieval female religious communities, and we have few surviving accounts in their own words. However, when considering how female religious are presented in our sources, we should bear in mind that their communities were very likely active participants in the process of remembering. Whether the writer is an internal or external witness, male or female, behind every hagiographical topos, there is a community of believers, often including the hagiographer, informing the work. We should not suspend our scholarly objectivity in analysing hagiography, but nor should we neglect the people behind the sources. I worked with a community of female religious who are devoted to their ‘Mother Magdalen’ and their collective actions over many decades informed the Positio that was presented to the Vatican over a century after her death. They are engaged in this process due to their devotion and faith in their founder; in this regard, I suspect this modern community may have much in common with their medieval forbears.17

Dr Máirín MacCarron is lecturer in Digital Humanities at University College Cork. She won the Irish Historical Research Prize 2021 for her book Bede and Time: Computus, Theology and History in the Early Medieval World (Routledge: London and New York, 2020).

(Endnotes)

1 This article is dedicated to the Sisters of the Poor Servants of the Mother of God.

2 Cogitosus, Vita II Sanctae Brigitae, ed. by J. Bollandus and G. Henschenius (Paris: Acta Sanctorum, 1658); Vita Prima Sanctae Brigitae, ed. by J. Bollandus and G. Henschenius (Paris: Acta Sanctorum, 1658); and Bethu Brigte, ed. by Donnchadh Ó hAodha (Dublin: Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, 1978).

3 See Bede, Historia ecclesiastica gentis anglorum, in Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People, ed. by Bertram Colgrave and R.A.B. Mynors (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1969) [hereafter HE].

4 See Bede HE 4:23–24 for Whitby; HE 4:25 for Coldingham. The Earliest Life of Gregory the Great, by an anonymous monk of Whitby, ed. by Bertram Colgrave (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1968). As Whitby was a double-monastery, this may be the work of a woman but arguments

Máirín MacCarron

on this basis are inconclusive, see e.g. Andrew Breeze, ‘Did a woman write the Whitby Life of St Gregory?’, Northern History, 49 (2012), 345–50.

5 Bede, HE 4: 6–10, Barking; HE 4:18–20, Ely.

6 De Vita Sanctae Radegundis Libri duo, in Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Scriptores rerum Merovingicarum, vol. 2, ed. by Bruno Krusch (Hannover: Hahn, 1888), pp. 358–95.

7 For Armagh: Muirchú, Vita Patricii and Tíreachán, Collectaneum, in The Patrician Texts in the Book of Armagh, ed. by Ludwig Bieler (Dublin: Dublin Institute for Advanced Studies, 1979). Iona: Adomnán, Vita Columbae, in Adomnán’s Life of Columba, ed. by A.O. Anderson and M.O. Anderson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, rev. edn, 1991). Lindisfarne: the anonymous Vita Cuthberti and Bede’s Vita Cuthberti (commissioned by the Lindisfarne community), in Two Lives of Saint Cuthbert, ed. by Bertram Colgrave (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1940), and Bede’s accounts of Lindisfarne in HE 3:5 and 26, and HE 4:27–32. Wearmouth and Jarrow: Bede, Historia Abbatum, and the anonymous Vita Ceolfridi, in Abbots of Wearmouth and Jarrow, ed. by Chris Grocock and I.N. Wood (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2013).

8 The primary biography of Magdalen Taylor is F.C. Devas, Mother Magdalen Taylor: Foundress of the Poor Servants of the Mother of God (London: Burns, Oates and Washbourne, 1927). See also the internal publication by Mary Campion Troughton, Life of Mother Foundress, Magdalen Taylor, 1906/7 and repr. 1969 (Archives of the Poor Servants of the Mother of God, Brentford, London); Ruth Gilpin Wells, A Woman of her times and ours: Mary Magdalen Taylor SMG (Charlotte NC: Laney-Smith, Inc, 1988); and Eithne Leonard, Frances Taylor (London: Catholic Truth Society, 2009).

9 See Ruth Harris, Lourdes: Body and Spirit in the Secular Age (New York: Viking, 1999) for discussion of care-giving as a distinctive part of ‘feminized Catholicism’ in this period.

10 On such hierarchies, see Caitriona Clear, Nuns in Nineteenth-century Ireland (Dublin: Gill and Macmillan, 1987), pp. 91–99.

11 The best introduction to the modern canonisation process is Kenneth Woodward, Making Saints: How the Catholic Church Determines Who becomes a saint, Who doesn’t, and Why (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1996).

12 E.g. Mother as we knew her: recollections of Sisters who knew Mother Magdalen personally, 1871–1900 (Archives of the Poor Servants of the Mother of God, Brentford, London).

13 See e.g. D.K. Fry, ‘The Art of Bede: Edwin’s Council,’ in Saints, Scholars and Heroes, ed. by Margot H. King and Wesley M. Stevens, 2 vols (Collegeville MN: Hill Monastic Manuscript Library, 1979), I, pp. 191–207; Vicky Gunn, Bede’s Historiae: Genre, Rhetoric and the construction of Anglo-Saxon Church history (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2009); Julia Barrow, ‘How Coifi pierced Christ’s side: a re-examination of Bede’s Ecclesiastical History, II, chapter 13’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History, 62 (2011), 693–706.

14 HE 4:23. For modern discussions of Bede’s presentation of Hild, see Stephanie Hollis, Anglo-Saxon Women and the Church: sharing a common fate (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 1992), pp. 248–58; and Gunn, Bede’s Historiae, pp. 153–55 and 177–78. For a very different approach, see Sandra Prado, Sílvio R. Dahmen, Ana Bazzan, Máirín MacCarron and Julia Hillner, ‘Gendered Networks and Communicability in Medieval Historical Narratives’, Advances in Complex Systems 23.3 (2020) doi: 10.1142/S021952592050006X

15 See note 8 above. Mary Campion’s biography was re-published by the Order in 1969 and copies sent to their houses around the world.

16 James Palmer, in his engaging and worthwhile introduction to hagiography, presents ‘a (nonexhaustive) handlist’ of sixteen reasons that people might have written hagiographies, which does not include devotion: Early Medieval Hagiography (Leeds: Arc Humanities Press, 2018), p. 36. Cf. much discussion of the early cult of Saint Patrick orchestrated by Armagh: Liam De Paor, ‘The Aggrandizement of Armagh’, Historical Studies, 8 (1971), 95–110; Richard Sharpe, ‘St Patrick and the See of Armagh’, Cambridge Medieval Celtic Studies, 4 (1982), 33–59; Charles Doherty, ‘The Cult of St Patrick and the politics of Armagh in the seventh century,’ in Ireland and Northern France, AD 600–850, ed. by Jean-Michel Picard (Dublin: Four Courts Press, 1991), pp. 53–94.

17 I am grateful to many colleagues and friends for discussing this article with me.

Three Parables from Luke: The Vision of Peter Steele SJ

Gerald O’Collins

Three parables from St Luke’s Gospel provide themes for sonnets composed by Australian Jesuit, the late Peter Steele (1939–2012) and are quoted here with permission: ‘Man on Donkey’ (Lk 10:25–37), ‘Prodigal’ (15:11–32), and ‘Lazarus at the Gate’ (16:19–31). In none of the three cases does the poet attempt to translate into verse the entire parable. His sonnets regularly take up only sections of the parables.

Beaten, still breathing, as awkward as a dog, He swags across the donkey, unaware Of who’s beside them, footsore in the slog Uphill for shelter and a kind of care.

Under the bloody bandages, some oil Soothes where wine has washed away the dirt To leave him clean and mortal. Alien soil, Continuing fear, is mingling hope with hurt.

Downslope, the priest is hustling on his way, Clean as a whistle, and the levite too, Who thought that pausing meant the devil to pay, And all the hours awarded them too few.

By the plodding beast, wordless and out of time, The stranger braces once more for the climb.

Going beyond the text

Peter Steele preserves many details from Jesus’ parable of the Good Samaritan. But he goes beyond the text in three ways. First, he identifies the Samaritan’s ‘plodding beast’ as a ‘donkey’. This specification opens the way for the title of the (rhyming) sonnet, ‘Man on Donkey’. It takes the memory

Gerald O’Collins

back to John Simpson, an English-born member of the Australian Army Medical Corps. In 1915 he used a donkey to carry many wounded soldiers to the safety of a beach hospital when the allied forces landed at Gallipoli on the Hellespont. After a month of heroic rescue work, he was killed by a sniper. He was known and is remembered as ‘the man with the donkey’. Luke writes more vaguely of a ‘ktēnos’ (animal used for riding or for carrying burdens).

Second, much of the sonnet is engaged with the wounded traveler’s feelings (which mingle ‘hope with hurt’—a neat alliteration) and the excuses the priest and levite make for ‘hustling’ on their way.

Third, Luke does not say whether the inn in which the wounded traveler found ‘shelter and a kind of care’ was down or up the slope from where the brigands left him. Steele places the inn ‘uphill’. The Samaritan ‘stranger’ ‘braces once more for the climb’.

Whether the poet consciously intended this (more likely) or not, the climb uphill by someone already made ‘footsore in the slog’ alludes to Jesus climbing the hill of Calvary. Early Christian tradition interpreted the parable as Jesus himself stopping to care for wounded human beings. Unlike the Samaritan he died for his act of love.

A few ancient writers understood the atonement effected by Christ as paying a price to the devil, who enjoyed certain rights over sinful human beings. ‘Man on Donkey’ credits the priest and levite with ‘hustling’ on their way, because they ‘thought that pausing meant the devil to pay’—a deft hint at a theory to which St Anselm of Canterbury put an end.

By avoiding possible contamination, the priest and levite aimed to remain as ‘clean as a whistle’. They took a calculating view of their ministry in the Temple and ‘thought the hours awarded them too few’. They did not want to lose time (and money ‘to pay’) by crossing the road to the wounded man. Awards governed their view of the world. All of this is added to Jesus’ parable, which says nothing about their motivation.

The parable does, however, explain what prompted the Good Samaritan to intervene: ‘his heart went out to him [the wounded traveler]’ (Lk 10:33). Steele leaves it to his readers to recall that motivation.

Likewise, the poet does not include the arrival at the wayside inn, the overnight stay, the Samaritan paying the bill, and his instructions to the innkeeper. The poet concentrates on the wounded man being transported to ‘shelter and a kind of care’. Steele knows that readers will fill out for themselves the full story.

Present participles pervade ‘Man on Donkey’. The wounded traveler is ‘still breathing’ on ‘alien soil’ (being away from his home), ‘confirming fear’ but ‘mingling hope with hurt’. The priest has disappeared down the road, ‘hustling on his way’. So has the levite. They ‘thought that pausing meant the devil to pay’. The donkey itself kept ‘plodding’ along, ‘wordless and out of time’. The participles lend a breathless sense to the sonnet.

Or is it the Good Samaritan, ‘the stranger’ who is ‘wordless and out of time’? He toils ‘beside’ the donkey and its wounded burden who ‘swags across’ the beast. He has become ‘footsore in the slog’ ‘uphill’, but he ‘braces once more for the climb’. Inevitably that climb brings to mind Christ slogging uphill to his death on Calvary.

A father who yearns

We pass to the second poem by Peter Steele, ‘Prodigal’. Sick of his father and his brother’s claim, He lit out for the country, walking tall As though impossible to halt or tame: Others, he knew, were riding for a fall.

Out there he sluiced the money every way, Good as his word, but only for a while: Pigs at their pods became his only stay, Experts in how to slobber and defile.

Back home his father, now a yearner, saw The white nights through and fed the calf a treat, Paced at the gate until his feet were raw, Kept sandals, robe and ring beside his seat,

Hoping, the boy returned, by some wild chance The brooding heir would join them in the dance.

Like the parable which inspires it, the poem does not explicitly mention love as either noun or verb, but the story cannot be understood without thinking of the father’s love for his two sons. The poem implies love by calling the father ‘a yearner’, who longs for the homecoming of his younger son, spends sleepless nights, and paces ‘at the gate until his feet were raw’. He also hopes

Three Parables from Luke: The Vision of Peter Steele SJ

Gerald O’Collins

that his ‘brooding’ older son, whom Steele describes as putting in a sickening ‘claim’ for the property – or is it a selfish claim to be the one object of his father’s attention? – would be changed and ‘join them in the dance’ of loving reconciliation.

Steele drastically shortens this longest parable to come from Jesus. He strips away the opening words of the younger son to his father (Lk 15:12), the boy’s soliloquy when penniless (because he had ‘sluiced’ away his money and was caught by a severe famine, 15:17–19), the exchange with his father when he returns home (15:20–24), the words between a servant and the elder son (15:25–27), and the closing conversation between that son and the father (15:28–32).

Steele also omits the subordinate role of the servants or workers on the father’s estate. This shortening leaves intact the heart of the story. It pictures the father as yearning for the return of his younger son and ‘hoping’ that the older son, ‘the brooding heir’, would ‘by some wild chance’ ‘join them in the dance’. Like Jesus, Steele leaves open-ended the next move from the older brother.

To reduce the number of the dramatis personae, the poet has the father ‘feeding the calf a treat’ as he longs for his son’s return and keeps ‘beside his seat’ ‘sandals, robe and ring’. No servants or slaves bring these when the boy comes home. When that happens, the father could not run a long way to meet him (Lk 15:22). ‘His feet were raw’, because during long ‘white nights’ he had ‘paced at the gate’.

Various devices hold together the poem, not least its form as a rhyming sonnet. Two places locate the action—‘out there’ when the boy ‘lit out for the country’ and ‘back home’ where the father yearned for his return.

Alliteration (‘pigs at their pods’) enhances the sonnet, as does the earthy description of them as ‘expert in how to slobber and defile’. Ironically, it was ‘others’ that the prodigal son thought ‘were riding for a fall’. But it was ‘only for a while’ that he could be as ‘good as his word when ‘he sluiced the money every way’.

The

rich man and Lazarus

We come to a third sonnet by Peter Steele, ‘Lazarus at the Gate’.

A stub of cabbage and a heel of bread

Would keep him on the wrong side of the grave

A few more shadowy days and nights. Instead,

By staircase, marble sphinx and architrave, A couple of menials haul the brimming trays, A couple of guests are hobbling in their haste Towards the villa where in purple laze His consort and the arbiter of taste.

Down from the barbered trees, by now unable To fend away the licking dogs, your man Can’t bear to think again of the garnished table–Of wine and olive, pear and ortolan. Bring me, he prays, to the banquet of the dead, And feed these others as I have been fed.

The Rich Man and Lazarus is the only parable from Jesus which gives a name to one protagonist. Otherwise, the figures who enter the parables are simply called a man who fell into the hands of brigands (Lk 10:30), a priest (Lk 10:31), a woman who lost a drachma (Lk 15:8), or a man who had two sons (Lk 15:11). Steele follows Luke’s text by inserting the name of ‘Lazarus’, at least in the title of this rhyming sonnet (‘Lazarus at the Gate’) but not in the second stanza, where he is simply called ‘your man’. To be distinguished from ‘Lazarus in the Tomb’, the brother of Martha and Mary (Jn 11:1–44), the Lazarus of the parable is to be found among the prints left by Giovanni Domenico Tiepolo (1727–1804).

Features of this print, kept in the Musée des Beaux-Arts et d’Archéologie in Besançon (France), turn up in the poem. On the right of a central staircase, a couple of guests climb to the feast; above them rise ‘barbered trees’ and below them servants carry up trays of food. Two dogs lick the ulcerated legs of Lazarus. He is pictured at the bottom of the staircase; above come the ‘marble sphinx and architrave’. The whole composition belongs more to Tiepolo’s Venice and nearby cities than to ancient Galilee where Jesus preached his parables.

The first stanza of Steele’s poem centres on the rich man and guests who join him for the daily feast. This seemingly limited group involves only ‘a couple of guests’, the rich owner of a villa, and his ‘consort’, who seems to be also ‘the arbiter’ of his ‘taste’. Unlike Jesus’ parable which describes the wealthy man himself as being ‘dressed in purple and fine linen’ (Lk 16:19), Steele writes of the rich man’s ‘consort’ lazily waiting ‘in purple’ for the

Three Parables from Luke: The Vision of Peter Steele SJ

guests. The parable will go on to allude to the rich man’s ‘five brothers’ who live apparently in the same house (Lk 16:27–28) but never mentions guests as such, let alone a couple of aged and disabled ones ‘hobbling in their haste’ (alliteration) to arrive at the dinner table.

The second stanza recalls what ‘menials haul’ on ‘the brimming trays’, when they bring ‘wine and olive, pear and ortolan’ to ‘the garnished table’. Ortolans are small birds that fly north each year from Africa across western Europe to breed in Finland and adjacent countries. Caught in nets and fattened for the table, over the centuries they have been eaten by gourmets in a decadent and disgusting fashion.

While feasting continues daily within the rich man’s home, Lazarus can scrounge only some scraps, ‘a stub of cabbage and a heel of bread’. These leftovers keep the poor man alive, to endure ‘a few more shadowy days and nights’, ‘on the wrong side of the grave’, and away from ‘the banquet of the dead’ for which he ‘prays’.

In the parable of Jesus, when Lazarus dies, he is taken by angels to be ‘comforted’ (16:25) in ‘the bosom’ of (or ‘at the side’ of) Abraham (Luke 16:22). Lazarus enjoys a choice position at the final, heavenly banquet.

Thus the parable of the rich man and Lazarus brings in angels and, above all, Abraham as protagonists. Abraham has a notable speaking role through his dialogue in the afterlife with the rich man. It makes up more than half the story (Lk 16:22–31), and is, in fact, the longest dialogue we meet in any of Jesus’ parables. Steele ends his rhyming sonnet, however, before the death of Lazarus, and does not set in verse what Abraham and the rich man say to each other in the other world.

The rich man dresses in expensive clothing (‘purple and fine linen’). The parable describes the body of Lazarus as being ‘covered with sores’ that dogs come to lick. Steele thinks of the poor man being weakened to the point of being ‘unable to fend away his licking dogs’. But Jesus may have intended us to think that no one comes to do anything for Lazarus except some dogs. Where human beings fail in their duty of loving concern, the animals do what they can. By licking the sores, they give the poor man some relief,

The parable of Jesus does not include any prayer, thoughts, or words that come from Lazarus, either in this world or in the next. Steele ends his sonnet by crediting the poor man who has suffered such awful neglect with a prayer of ‘reversal’. May God ‘feed these others [who have failed to provide me with food] as I have been fed’. In fact, the parable announces a different fate

Three Parables from Luke: The Vision of Peter Steele SJ

for the rich man; he will be burned by fire and endure excruciating thirst. It is not the fate that Lazarus prays to overtake the rich man and his guests (‘these others’).

While the gospel text inspired Steele, Tiepolo’s sketch of Lazarus proved a further source in the creation of this poem. The parables of the Good Samaritan and the Prodigal Son were also taken up by major artists, but they did not affect what Steele wrote.

All the poems cited in this essay may be found in Peter Steele SJ, Raining Angels (Melbourne: Newman College, 2022), edited by Sean Burke (ISBN: 9780645359008)

Gerald O’Collins SJ is a renowned theologian whose many published works cover such subjects as fundamental theology, Christology, and ecumenism. Among his recent publications are The Beauty of Jesus Christ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2020); Illuminating the New Testament (Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press, 2022); and Letters from the Pandemic (Cleveland, AU: Connor Court Publishing, 2022).

Abbé Edgeworth de Firmont: Confessor to the King

John Hedigan

On the 21 January 1793, as he faced the guillotine, Louis XVI, King of France, was attended by an Irish-born priest, Henry Edgeworth, known in France as Abbé Edgeworth de Firmont. Writing of the grim events of that day, René de Chateaubriand wrote bitterly, ‘a foreigner sustained the Monarch at his last hour – it seemed as if there were not a single Frenchman left who was loyal to his sovereign’. There was, however, somewhat more to the story than that.

Henry Essex Edgeworth was born in St John’s Rectory in Edgeworthstown, County Longford, Ireland in 1745. The house is in use still as a small Edgeworth Museum. My brother and I visited it on an open day in August 2019. We stood in the surprisingly large nursery at the top of the house where Henry presumably lived during the few years he remained in the rectory. He was one of four children of the Church of Ireland minister Robert Edgeworth, who was the third of that family to hold the position. They were a distinguished Protestant family of English origin who had come to Ireland in 1582. They had excelled in the law, the military and in religion. Thus, it was a momentous scandal to his wider family, friends, and fellow clerics when, in 1749, Robert Edgeworth announced his intention to convert to Catholicism and to forsake his position as rector. He was obliged to take his wife and family of four away from Edgeworthstown and Ireland. He removed to Toulouse in France and there remained for the rest of his life.

Early life and reputation

Henry was educated in the Jesuit College in the city and lived there until 1769. One of the friends he made there was Francis Moylan who later became Bishop of Cork. Much of what we know of Henry’s later career comes from his extensive correspondence with Bishop Moylan which continued for the rest of his life. In that year Henry’s father, Robert, died and Henry moved to Paris where he studied for the priesthood. Upon his ordination he lived at the residence of Les Missions Étrangères in the Rue Du Bac. It was

probably at this time that he adopted the addition of de Firmont to his name. His cousin Maria said this was because the French could not pronounce the name Edgeworth. Firmont was the French version of Firmount, which was the name of an estate in Ireland that the family owned, and which they depended upon for their financial support. Over the following twenty years Henry devoted himself to a ministry of the poor.

Henry Edgeworth appears to have possessed a very striking presence. He was by all accounts a tall, handsome man of remarkable serenity and dignity who evinced only admiration in all those he encountered. His fame over these years, ministering to the poor, spread far beyond Paris. He was offered a bishopric by the Irish hierarchy. His friend Bishop Moylan entreated him to accept and return to his native land. On this matter, he took the advice of friends and colleagues in France, all of whom entreated him not to leave his ministry in Paris. He refused the offer and remained in France.

The Abbé’s reputation grew such that, on the recommendation of the Archbishop of Paris, he was chosen by the King’s sister, Elizabeth of France, as her confessor. He entered into that position on St Patrick’s Day 1791.In that role he was a frequent visitor to the Tuileries Palace, and this led to the extraordinary part that he subsequently played in the history of France and of her revolution. He later expressed his amazement that, at the height of the anti-clericalism sweeping Paris, he passed through to the Palace dressed in his clerical garb almost on a daily basis and was never assaulted, insulted or blocked in any way.

A king’s request

A full account of the heroic part he played in those chaotic days in French history is provided for us by the Abbé Edgeworth’s own memoir of the last hours of King Louis’ life, written after his almost miraculous escape from France and published by his cousin Sneyd Edgeworth in 1815. He commences his account just after the conviction of the King by the National Convention but before sentence of death had been decreed. M. de Malesherbes, one of the leading members of the King’s defence team, asked to meet the Abbé. At this meeting, he delivered a personal request to the Abbé from the King that, should he be sentenced to death, he would attend him at his last moments. The Abbé considered the request to be a moral command that he could not refuse and asked M. de Malesherbes to convey to the King that whether he lived or died he would be his friend to the end. He was asked to stay in

John Hedigan

Paris and not leave his house. Several days passed and his hope grew that such a service would not be required of him. He was quite sure that, were he required, it would also be his last day, as there was little doubt he would pay with his life for such a service to the King. He made his will and set his affairs in order. At four o’clock in the afternoon of the 20 January, a stranger came to the door of the house where the Abbé lived in hiding with his mother and sister. His own home had already been attacked by agents of the revolution. The man delivered a message from The Executive Council requesting him to immediately attend them in the Tuileries Palace, which was then their meeting place. The King and his family had been transferred the previous summer to the Temple Prison. He left a message for his mother that he had to attend a dying person and would not return until the morning. His sister, when she heard, knew immediately that it was the King he would attend. She resigned herself to her brother’s death.

The Abbé Edgeworth went immediately with the emissary to attend upon the council. As he entered the room where the council met, all arose. Consternation was on their faces. The Minister for Justice addressed him, ‘Are you the Citizen Edgeworth de Firmont?’ He replied that he was. ‘Louis Capet having expressed to us his desire to have you near him at his last moments, we have sent for you to know whether you consent to the service he requires of you.’ The Abbé confirmed his assent at which the Minister instructed him to accompany him immediately to the Temple Prison. Upon requesting whether he could dress in his clerical garb, he was immediately rebuffed although, he recalled, not unkindly.

The journey passed in gloomy silence because although the Minister attempted some conversation, the Abbé was afraid to say anything that might cause his fatal mission to be aborted. They arrived at an almost apocalyptic scene. Drunken guards of fearsome demeanour at times blocked their way. They were thoroughly searched, including the minister. It was, recalled the Abbé, a scene horrible beyond description. Finally, they arrived in a hall where the Commissaries of the Commune were gathered. They had the custody of the King. After further delay and further searches, they were finally led up a narrow winding staircase to the King’s quarters, past further drunken guards shouting loudly to each other, until they arrived into the presence of the King. The Minister of Justice read out the decree of death fixed for the following morning. The King was calm. According to the Abbé, he seemed the only calm person present. When he saw the priest, the King ushered all out of the

room and closed the door himself.

Over the following hours, priest and King conversed deeply and intimately. Much of what transpired, the Abbé did not reveal. What he did describe was a scene of great sadness but resignation on the part of the King and a determination to meet his end with dignity. He witnessed at some slight remove the heartrending farewells the King was allowed with his wife and children.

During the course of the evening, the Abbé resolved to celebrate a Mass for the doomed King. The King told him that the guards would never allow it. The Abbé persisted, however, and the King finally consented to allow him to go ahead and see what could be achieved. The Abbé expressed to a guard a desire to be conducted to the Hall of the Council where he made his request. The Commissaries were entirely taken aback and greatly disconcerted. They made many excuses as to why this could not happen. The Abbé however persisted. How could they find a priest at that hour, they demanded, and how could they obtain all that was necessary to celebrate a mass in the King’s chamber. ‘The priest is already found,’ said the Abbé. ‘I am he.’ ‘The nearest church will supply all that is required’, he added.

Thus, Abbé Edgeworth de Firmont laid his head upon the block. Revolutionaries all over France were hunting and killing priests at that time. They raised many further arguments, but the priest persisted. Finally, they were reduced to silence. ‘My demand is just, and it would be against your own principles to refuse me’, concluded the Abbé. The Commissaries decided to consult their full number as some were absent. A quarter of an hour passed. The President of the Commissaries came back and addressed the Abbé. ‘Citizen minister of religion, the Council has taken into consideration the request that you have made in the name of Louis Capet; since they deem his request conformable to the law which declares that all forms of worship are free, they consent to it.’ There were, he added, two conditions; the request must be reduced to writing and signed by the Abbé, and the religious ceremony must be concluded by seven o’clock in the morning at the latest. The Abbé put the request in writing and left it on the table. He returned to the King who was surprised but delighted. It was then past ten o’clock and the priest remained talking and praying with the King till the night was far advanced. Eventually the King was prevailed upon to sleep. He rose early and the priest attended him for an hour in his chamber. Then the Abbé entered the King’s apartment and there he found an altar completely and properly prepared. The

Abbé Edgeworth de Firmont: Confessor to the King

John Hedigan

Commissaries had executed to the letter everything required of them and even more than they had been asked. Priest and King then celebrated Mass together.

To the guillotine

At eight o’clock the King, accompanied by a large guard of soldiers, departed the Temple. To the surprise of King and priest, the Abbé was allowed to accompany him in the carriage sitting beside each other and facing two guards who apparently had orders to kill the King if there was to be a rescue attempt. The journey was at snail’s pace through streets crowded with the military to forestall any rescue attempt. It is said that the order of the day in Paris was that anyone who jeered the King would be flogged and anyone who cheered him would be shot. As the sad, slow journey continued, the King read from the priest’s breviary.

At last, just after ten o’clock, they arrived at Place de la Revolution, today the Place de la Concorde. A vast crowd was gathered there contained by apparently endless massed ranks of soldiers. The King alighted from the carriage and insisted on removing his scarf and jacket himself. The executioners proffered a rope to tie his hands. At this the King shrank back in horror. ‘Do what you have been ordered, but you shall never bind me’, he said. The Abbé recalled that this was probably the most terrible moment of that dreadful morning. The King stared in desperation at him. His only friend present. It seemed the men would lay hands upon the King, which to the Abbé was unthinkable. They explained to the Abbé that it was necessary to bind the King’s hands to prevent their interfering with the falling blade. A terrible impasse seemed inevitable. The King continued to look desperately at the priest for guidance. And then the Abbé spoke, ‘Sire, in this final outrage, I see only the last trace of resemblance between your Majesty and the God who is about to reward you.’ This brilliant piece of emotional intelligence gave the poor doomed King to see himself as Christ bound and led to the slaughter. The King raised his eyes to heaven and said, ‘Surely nothing less than His example should make me submit to such a degradation. Do what you will. I will drink from this chalice even to the dregs.’ His hands were then bound, though not with rope. The chief executioner, thinking the King’s objection was to a rope, took off his own scarf and bound the King’s hands with it.

King and confessor, arm in arm, climbed the steps of the scaffold. As he reached it, the King stepped firmly forward and addressed the crowd

Edgeworth de Firmont: Confessor to the King

in a strong and resonant voice, ‘I die innocent of all the crimes laid to my charge; I pardon those who have occasioned my death; and I pray to God, that the blood you are now going to shed may never be visited on France.’ He would have continued but the drums were ordered to be beaten to drown out anything further he might say. He was then bundled quickly under the guillotine. As the blade descended, the Abbé Edgeworth de Firmont fell to his knees upon the scaffold – his final words to the dying King, ‘Fils de Saint Louis, Montez au Ciel’ – ‘Son of Saint Louis, Ascend to Heaven.’

The priest fully expected that he himself would be swiftly bundled under the guillotine, and he awaited a hand on his shoulder. None however came. After a momentary stunned silence, as the chief executioner circled the scaffold holding aloft the king’s bloody head, splashing the priest with his blood, the crowd erupted in cries of ‘Vive la Révolution!’. Many of those close by surged up onto the scaffold where they dipped scarves and handkerchiefs in the royal blood. Some sought for gory souvenirs. Others apparently because they still considered such blood to have miraculous power. The famous Sheares brothers, later to be executed in Ireland for their part in the 1798 rebellion, were present and took away a bloody handkerchief. They showed it to a young Daniel O’Connell on board ship returning to Ireland from school in Douai. He recalled the occasion and said that he was revolted by the sight. As the crowd surged around him, the Abbé, dressed as he was in civilian clothes, slipped down the steps of the scaffold. He recalled in his memoir that he looked for the nearest point where the military were holding back the crowd. He walked steadily across the vast space between the scaffold and that point. He felt all eyes were upon him, but he kept walking until he reached the first rank of soldiers. To his surprise, first the front rank and then successive ranks parted to allow him through. In moments he was lost in the crowd. He went straightaway to the house of M. Malesherbes and delivered a personal message to him from the King. The lawyer urged him to quit France as quickly as possible as the revolutionaries would surely hunt him down. That evening, following this advice, the Abbé left the city and travelled to a friend’s chateau just outside Paris. There he remained in hiding for three months.

Escape from France

Thus began more than three years of extraordinary adventures and hardship as he moved to many different parts of France, frequently avoiding capture

Abbé

John Hedigan

by the skin of his teeth. He refused to leave the country, however, while Princess Elizabeth remained alive, as he had a close personal bond with her as her confessor but also as her friend. He communicated secretly with her in prison in Paris. He had also been named vicar general of the Diocese of Paris at the request of the Archbishop who had fled. He felt a duty to Parisian Catholics in this regard, although it was impossible to render them any real service. Eventually he ended up hiding in a small dismal hut, as he described it, in Bayeaux. It was only when he heard of the execution of Elizabeth in May 1794 that he felt free to leave France. It was not, however, until August 1796 that he was able to escape. He travelled with a small group of friends on a fishing smack to the English-ruled island of St Marcouf just off Normandy. From there they travelled to Portsmouth on an English brig and on to London. Abbé Edgeworth became an instant celebrity. However, characteristically, he shunned the limelight as much as he could. He travelled to Edinburgh where he delivered to the Comte D’Artois, a private message from his sister, Princess Elizabeth. This message was the last will and wishes of the Princess that she had secretly entrusted to him years before. He had dutifully memorised the details and solemnly promised to deliver them to her brother. He regarded this as his last service to her.

The Abbé Edgeworth returned to London where he lived in Berkeley Street. He continued to be a celebrity and was invited everywhere. He refused most invitations and lived as quietly as possible, with just a few close friends. One of the first to express a desire to meet him was the Prime Minister, William Pitt. They had a long interview. The Prime Minister was fascinated by the priest’s extraordinary story. He was offered a pension for life but declined on the grounds that the British government was already expending enough money on caring for the many French émigrés. He renewed a friendship with Edmund Burke, who had early forecast that the French Revolution would end up in terrible violence. The two of them had several meetings, probably in Burke’s country house where he lived in retirement. He would die the following year. It was at this time that the Abbé wrote his memoir of the King’s final hours. He did this at the request of Louis XVIII who had written to him when he heard of his escape from France. The original of his memoir is lost but a copy had been made and is held by the British Library. The Abbé also recounted his story to the historian Bertrand de Moleville who was a great friend of his and was in England at the time. He wrote it down and the Abbé corrected it. The two narratives are apparently all but identical thus

Edgeworth de Firmont: Confessor to the King

confirming the accuracy of the priest’s memory.

Over the years the Abbé had corresponded with his brother Ussher, who had spent most of his life in Ireland, and with many other Irish friends, including Bishop Moylan of Cork. He was constantly urged to return to the land of his birth. He had however, until now, not done so. Now he accepted and started making plans to visit. He was offered the presidency of Maynooth College but declined it. His visit to Ireland would be just a visit. It seems he expected, like a great many of the emigres, that a return to France could occur very soon. Events however intervened and all his plans were suddenly changed completely. He was awaiting only good weather to depart for Ireland when an emissary from France arrived in London with letters of great importance for Louis XVIII, who was then at his court in exile in Blankenburg in Brunswick. The intended trusted person who was to carry them on to Louis had departed, and so the Abbé was asked to do so. He was apparently the only one available whose loyalty to the King was unimpeachable. He agreed to make the journey, expecting it to be only a short break before his return to Ireland. He set off hurriedly without even saying goodbye to his friends in London. He had to borrow a hundred pounds to meet the expense of his journey. He would never return to England, Ireland or even France.

He reached Blankenburg in February 1797 to find the tiny court of Louis XVIII accommodated in three rooms on the first floor of a brewer’s house in the middle of the town. Their position was a perilous one. Although the Duke of Brunswick was very favourable to the King, surrounding Prussian princes were not. All the while the victories of the French Republic were being racked up around Europe. The future looked bleak indeed for the Bourbons and their dwindling number of supporters. They would not be staying long in this provincial town. Small though it might be, the court observed all the strict etiquette of the court that once had ruled at Versailles. Proper procedure had to be followed in the Abbé’s introduction to the King. When he met him, however, as with so many others, the priest mesmerised the King. He learned for the first time all the details of his brother’s last hours. He listened, as the priest recounted all he remembered, with tears streaming down his face.

Back in the service of a Bourbon king

The Abbé had expected to stay for only a few days. The King, however, clearly had other ideas. He prevailed upon the priest to stay for Lent. Easter passed and then May. The King simply could not bring himself to allow him

Abbé

John Hedigan

to leave. He seemed to feel the spiritual and intellectual company of the priest to be essential. He delighted in his wit, intelligence and quiet refinement. Finally, the Abbé’s fate was sealed. The King asked him to be his chaplain and almoner and to remain with him. The King stated that he would not command him but invited him to stay. Writing to a friend the Abbé said, ‘The die is cast. The King wishes me to stay with him and never to separate till death … So now our fates are united, for I shall never desert my post. And if I can be of service to my isolated, ill-starred prince, I shall think myself overpaid for the overthrow of my air-built plans, which I once imagined I should see realized.’

The moment the court feared came in January 1798. A demand came from Paris to the Duke of Brunswick to expel the Bourbon court. Fortunately for the King, the Tsar of Russia, Paul I, was a friend, and he immediately offered him refuge in Mitau (modern Jelgava in Latvia), where he placed a fine palace at his disposal. The journey was a terrible one. They were thirty days on the road in intense cold. The Abbé thought it a veritable nightmare. He did not like long journeys and detested the cold. They finally arrived and discovered that the Tsar had provided not only a beautiful palace but had even collected together some of the King’s old bodyguard to receive him. The King was delighted with his new quarters, which was described as a miniature Versailles. (The palace still stands, although it was totally gutted inside in Soviet times.) The townspeople welcomed the French court warmly and royally. The court would remain in Mitau for the next three years.

The King’s nephew and heir apparent was the Duc d’Angouleme. He was with the court in Mitau. It was the King’s fondest wish that his heir would marry Marie Therese Charlotte, the sole survivor of his late brother’s family. He had spent years trying to arrange this and finally succeeded. He prevailed upon her to come to Mitau and in June of that year she arrived to a highly emotional reunion with her uncle. The Abbé was the first person the King introduced to Marie Therese. She already knew all about him having heard from her uncle all the details of his service to her father. He had never met her before, but he had heard her voice as she wailed piteously that dreadful night in the Temple prison when she had to be dragged away from her beloved father on the eve of his execution. They became the closest of companions, and she appears to have filled the space left in the priest’s heart of her aunt the Princess Elizabeth. She became his devoted friend. The wedding took place on the 10 June with the Mass celebrated by the Abbé and the blessing pronounced by

Abbé Edgeworth de Firmont: Confessor to the King

Cardinal Montmorency. The marriage certificate was witnessed by the King. It records one of the other witnesses as ‘Henri Essex Edgeworth de Firmont’. Writing later, Chateaubriand stated, ‘Here in a foreign land and amid foreign religions was performed a marriage, one of whose witnesses was the foreign priest who attended Louis XVI on the scaffold. A foreign senate received the certificate of celebration.’ The marriage certificate had been sent immediately to Tsar Paul and was deposited in the archives of the Russian senate.

In the spring of 1800, although relations with the Tsar were occasionally difficult, he conferred on the King the Order of St Lazare. In return, Louis conferred on him the French Order of the Holy Spirit. The King chose the Abbé to travel to St Petersburg and do the formal conferring on his behalf. His reception was extraordinary. He wrote to his brother that he was received with every honour. The Tsar was so impressed by the priest that upon being presented by him with the insignia he had brought, he fell to his knees before the Abbé and asked for his blessing. The two men talked for a long time. The Abbé recalled the Tsar saying, ‘You are a very interesting person to me since you recall to me that moment when you stood so courageously on the scaffold. I will thank Louis XVIII for having chosen you to bring the Order I wanted. It is the souvenir of an unhappy friend.’ The Tsar presented him with his own portrait set in diamonds and later settled on him a yearly pension of five hundred roubles.

Across Europe, however, Napoleon’s spectacular victories and his stratospheric rise to power began to evoke either fear or admiration in the Tsar. Relations between him and his royal guest became more and more strained. The French piled on pressure and by the end of the year the Tsar ordered Louis to leave his kingdom. Their departure on the 22 January was chaotic. The King was almost penniless. He had to sell everything that he possessed, including all the furniture in the palace, in order to provide for the journey ahead. It was mid-winter in the country frequently described by the Abbé as ‘this land of ice’. The little party did not know where they were going as they set off through driving snow. They only knew they had to leave Russia. They headed south for Poland. The Abbé accompanied the King in his carriage. On their first night on the road, they stayed with a local nobleman in his chateau. On their second they found themselves in a rowdy, dirty inn full of drunken peasants.

Their third day turned into a nightmare. They started out in a snowstorm that gradually increased in fury. The King’s coachman was blinded by the

Hedigan

snow and unable to control his frightened horses. The coach carrying the enormous bulk of the King bogged down and all had to alight from it. The King at the best of times found walking very difficult. He was very heavy and suffered from gout. They waded through the deepening snow as the blizzard raged around them. The King was supported on one side by his niece and on the other by the Abbé. This extraordinary scene was later the subject of several paintings. The King’s niece, previously known as ‘The Orphan of the Temple’, became the French Antigone. Eventually they reached an inn. Day after day this terrible journey continued until finally they departed the Tsar’s domain and reached East Prussia. There they were informed by the King of Prussia that a palace had been placed at the King’s disposal in Warsaw, and on the 6 March they arrived there. They would remain there for the next three years. By the Summer of 1804 however, shifting political alliances decreed that they would have to move again. Tsar Paul had been assassinated in 1801 and succeeded by his son Alexander. He had changed policy toward France, fearing that Napoleon was a threat to the whole of Europe. He now invited King Louis to return to Mitau. They returned to a very different palace. Unoccupied for three years and emptied of all its furniture it was, the King thought, more like a hospital than a palace.

A hospital it indeed turned out to be. War was drawing ever closer to Mitau and bands of wounded Russian soldiers came struggling through the town. The King’s niece determined to turn the greater part of the palace into a hospital. Russian hospitals were notoriously bad, so her makeshift hospital was a relief to many of these poor strays. In spring 1807 some wounded French prisoners began to arrive and were taken in by the hospital. There were twenty-three, and all were suffering from different prison diseases. The Abbé insisted on ministering to them and did so day and night until he caught whatever fever it was that they had.

Death and funeral

On Sunday the 17 May he admitted that he was feeling very unwell. The following morning after celebrating his daily seven o’clock mass, he collapsed. By Wednesday his symptoms had greatly worsened. He was feverish and confused. The entire palace was concerned and flocked to his room. The King’s niece insisted, despite all warnings, to nurse him herself. ‘I shall never forsake my more than friend,’ she said, ‘the unalterable, disinterested friend of my family, who has left kindred and his country and all for us – all for us!

John

Abbé Edgeworth de Firmont: Confessor to the King

Nothing shall withhold my personal attendance on the Abbé Edgeworth. I ask no one to accompany me.’ The Duchesse d’Angouleme continued to nurse the priest until she received his dying breath on Friday, 22 May, repaying in the fullest measure the priest’s dutiful attendance he had given to her beloved father at the hour of his terrible death.

The King and the entire court were stricken by this terrible news. The Abbé had shown in so many ways his selfless devotion to all. The court, it was said, was ‘one continual scene of wailing, sorrow and complaint’. The Abbé Edgeworth de Firmont was buried in the Catholic cemetery of Mitau the following Monday. His funeral was followed by the Duc and Duchesse d’Angouleme, the nobility, clergy and other members of the court and by many others in Mitau amongst whom he had ministered. The King wrote his epitaph himself.

Here lies

The very Reverend Henry Essex Edgeworth of Firmont

A priest of the Holy Church of God Vicar-General of the Diocese of Paris etc Who

Pursuing the steps of our Redeemer Was an eye to the blind

A staff to the lame

A Father to the poor And a consoler of the afflicted When Louis XVI Was given up to death

By his impious and rebellious Subjects He

Supported the resolute Martyr

In his last struggle And pointed out to him The opening Heavens Snatched from the hands of the Regicides By the wonderful protection of God He

John Hedigan

Voluntarily attached himself to Louis XVIII

When he signified his wish for his services To whom and to whose royal Family And faithful Household He proved himself for the space of ten years An example of Virtue And an assuager of misfortune Driven from Kingdom to Kingdom

By the calamity of the times He went about doing good Ever like to Him Who possessed his sole devotion At length full of good works He died The 22nd Day of May In the Year of Our Lord 1807 Aged 62 May he rest in peace

Mr Justice John Hedigan is a retired Irish judge who has served on the Court of Appeal, High Court, and the European Court of Human Rights. He is the current chair of the Irish Banking Culture Board (IBCB), and he served as chair of the National Archives Advisory Council (NAAC) from 2017 to 2022. Mr Justice John Hedigan is an alumnus of Belvedere College SJ.

Bibliographical note:

The main source of information on the priestly life of Abbé Edgeworth de Firmont and his relations with the French royals is the Abbé’s own account, in C. Sneyd Edgeworth, Memoirs of the Abbé Edgeworth; containing his narrative of the last hours of Louis XVI (London, 1815). See also Violette Montagu, The Abbé Edgeworth and his Friends (London: H. Jenkins Ltd., 1913), and M.V. Woodgate, The Abbé Edgeworth (1745–1807) (New York, Toronto: Longmans, Green and Co., 1946). For a more recent scholarly view of the last days of Louis XVI, see John Hardman, The Life of Louis XVI (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2016).

Book Reviews

Crawford Gribben, The Rise and Fall of Christian Ireland (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2021), 352 pages.

‘The dominance of Christianity in Ireland was never complete and has never been uncontested’ (p. 2). So begins Crawford Gribben’s superb account of the history of the Irish Church. Over the course of five immensely readable chapters, Gribben takes the reader across 1600 years and demonstrates that the rise of the Church was never as stratospheric as is popularly held, both within and without the Church, and he offers solid ground to place its precipitous fall in context. This is an excellent book, which will be of value to those interested in history, Christianity, or Irish culture.

In the opening chapter, Gribben tells a story familiar in rough outline to many – the conversion of Ireland in the fifth century – but with much finer detail than many of us have to hand. Patrick and Palladius, the two main figures in that early stage of conversion, are explored at length. In his introduction and then continuing in this chapter, Gribben elegantly outruns popular theories about the pre-Christian religion of the Celts. What we do know for certain is limited, but this evidence does not match the widely accepted narrative that Christianity came with a persecuting zeal against the pagan beliefs that were prevalent on the island. The conversion process advanced by assimilation rather than annihilation. ‘Christians co-opted traditional legends’, ‘sanctified festivals’ and even turned some Celtic deities ‘into saints’ (pp. 35–36). He also disposes of the idea that can be found in some contemporary spirituality traditions that the Irish Church understood itself as an alternative to the centralised Roman orthodoxy. In the seventh century, Columbanus could write, to Pope Boniface, that the Irish Church were disciples of Peter and Paul who ‘accept nothing outside the evangelical and apostolic teaching’ (p. 56). The mission appeared complete: ‘Christianity had converted the Irish’ suggests Gribben, ‘But Christianity might also have created the Irish’ (p. 56).

In chapter two, Gribben charts how a religious insurgency matured into the most stable institution on the island. A noteworthy strength of the book is how Gribben demonstrates that while Ireland is definitionally peripheral from the European continent, it was never isolated (p. 16). In one fascinating aside he mentions how the partial skeleton of a barbary ape was discovered

at the Emain Macha site in Armagh, dating from a century before Christ (p. 24). If nothing else, this suggests that Irish people were embedded within a wider consciousness long before they joined the European Economic Area and became poster-children for economic globalization! That outwardlooking stance was embraced by the Irish missionaries who moved from their local monastic strongholds into Britain and then deep into the continent. The arrival of Scandinavian pirates we now know as Vikings drew ‘Ireland into extensive international networks’ and, in time, ‘together in the structures of a common faith’ (p.69). Through Gregorian reform, the arrival of the Normans, the rise of the mendicant orders and the tumult that followed the partial solidification of English rule in Ireland, the Church stayed strong. As Churches across Europe were about to become engines of acrimony with the Reformation, in Ireland it ‘existed as a genuinely incorporating body’ for the different communities that shared the island (pp. 86–87).

The book is about the rise and fall of Christian Ireland, not Catholic Ireland. And chapter three is a fascinating account of how we came to have our three historic Christian identities: Protestant and Dissenter along with Catholic. More is said about why the Reformation never truly took hold in Ireland, but Gribben’s suggestion that a key factor was the commitment of the ‘Old English families in the Pale’ to stay faithful to Rome is compelling (p. 91). A striking insight in this chapter – at least to this reviewer who is a leader in a Presbyterian congregation marked by its busyness – is how dreadfully lax the early Irish Protestants were. ‘The small number of committedly Protestant clergy were sometimes left with nothing to do’ (p. 99). As haphazard and inconsistent as the Protestant reformation was in Ireland, with the backing of the British state it nevertheless became a permanent fixture in the Irish cultural landscape.

Gribben’s penultimate chapter is entitled ‘Revivals’ and it deals with the renewals that were found in Protestant evangelical fervour and the Catholic devotional revolution. In many ways this is the most valuable section of the book because it is the period which is least well known in proportion to how directly relevant it is for the state of the Irish Churches today. Gribben brings great clarity to the contested question of the penal laws, outlining for the reader the different ways they applied to Presbyterians and Catholics and the uneven nature of their application. By the end of this chapter, Gribben’s account has gone as far as the year 1900, and he manages to explain how the different ecclesial traditions on the island remained closely entwined

even as they rhetorically distanced themselves from each other: ‘For all their differences, evangelical minister and ultramontanist priests had created strong religious communities by exploiting fears of the other’ (p. 162).

The final chapter considers the fight for independence and the aftermath, as partition set in motion two conservative states established in part in reaction to each other, supported by their respective institutional Churches. The government in Dublin ‘offered the church an extraordinary opportunity’ to shape society (p. 182). Northern Ireland, for its part, was a ‘jurisdiction that took religion seriously without ever making it central to the workings of government or to the shaping of law’ (p. 188). But the systemic bias towards Protestantism that marked the drawing of the border was unavoidable, and Gribben draws out how the start of the Troubles was and was not religious in origin.

Gribben is unflinching in his examination of the last generation and the complete collapse – not just a fall – that has followed the Church abuse scandals. The era that appeared to be the pinnacle of the Church’s dominance was simultaneously the depths of the Church’s decrepitude. There is a moral as well as intellectual responsibility to not scan over such conversations simply because we think we know that history well.

Two epigraphs begin the book. Gribben quotes Yeats’ line from ‘Easter, 1916’, ‘Too long a sacrifice / Can make a stone of the heart’ and Ezekiel 36:26, ‘And I will give you a new heart, and a new spirit I will put within you. And I will remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh.’ These two lines serve as the antiphonal background to the book – a recognition that the pursuit of a Christian Ireland was always in part a sub-Christian project and a declaration that even after desperate failures, the faithful can begin again. It is in the concluding afterword that Gribben reveals his theological acumen, citing Jacques Ellul and Stanley Hauerwas to tentatively propose a path forward. ‘What has passed as Christian Ireland is dead. But its critics cannot relax any more than believers out to despair’ (p. 219), he suggests. A ‘second chance’ (p. 220) may lie beyond the delusions of dominance.

Kevin Hargaden is Director and Social Theologian at the Jesuit Centre for Faith and Justice. He is author of Theological Ethics in a Neoliberal Age: Confronting the Christian Problem with Wealth (Eugene, Oregon: Cascade Books, 2018).

John Mulqueen, ‘An Alien Ideology’: Cold War Perceptions of the Irish Republican Left (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2022), 275 pages.

This paperback version of a work which first appeared in 2019 will make available to a wider audience a remarkable book about Ireland’s position in the Cold War. Its role was determined largely by the Troubles, which began in 1969, and the Soviet Union’s exploitation for propaganda purposes of Britain’s at times calamitous mishandling of the Northern problem. The role of communism in Ireland, the alien ideology of the title, and in particular communist influence in the Civil Rights movement and the Official IRA (OIRA) has been addressed by other scholars, but Mulqueen is the first historian to look at the issue in a sustained systematic fashion.

In the process he has consulted an impressive range of primary sources on both sides of the Atlantic, including the Dublin archives of Archbishop John Charles McQuaid. The work of McQuaid’s anti-communist ‘vigilance committee’ is well known. McQuaid also acted to retard the political career of the independent TD Jack Murphy, who was elected to the Dáil in 1957 with communist electioneering help. McQuaid not only had a file on him, but in 1958 persuaded him to resign his seat.

The 1940s and 1950s in Ireland, and indeed in the USA, witnessed anticommunist hysteria in the context of the Cold War and the Korean War. In May 1949, 150,000 people demonstrated in Dublin to protest against the imprisonment of Cardinal Józef Mindszenty by Hungary’s communist government. At that stage the IRA had jettisoned a World War II-era flirtation with Nazism and some of its members were moving in a decidedly leftwing direction. This was already apparent with the setting up of the Irish Workers League (IWL) in 1948. The IWL not only attracted the attention of the Communist Party of Great Britain and the communist-inspired Connolly Association but a number of former IRA internees joined the new movement as well.

Fear of communism caused the government in Dublin to not only monitor the IWL but also to concern itself with the circulation of the IWL’s newspaper, which by 1953 sold some 3000 copies per month. Another anxiety for the Dublin government was the growth of such organizations as the Irish Peace Campaign and the Irish Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament. These were linked to the world-wide peace movement, which the American’s believed, rightly, was coordinated by Moscow.

Although rejected by the majority of the organisation, some of the leading lights of the IRA, such as Cathal Goulding, tried to move republicans in a socialist direction. This was linked to other developments. The Communist party of Northern Ireland, which had enormous influence in Trades Unions, finally repudiated Unionism and joined with its southern counterpart in 1970 to form the Irish Communist Party. At its first conference in Belfast there were five representatives from the Russian Embassy in London present. The Royal Ulster Constabulary was already convinced by 1966 that there were links between the IRA and international communism.

The foundation of the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association in 1967 gave opportunities for both the IRA and Irish Communists to exercise control of a popular protest movement. Its first chairman, Noel Harris, was a communist as was one of its most articulate committee members, Betty Sinclair. By the time the IRA split along communist and traditional republican lines Moscow was already indirectly supplying arms to the organization.

British and Irish governments in the 1970s tended to see the OIRA as the greatest threat to the stability of Irish politics north and south of the border. One OIRA officer told the New York Times in 1972 that the organisation’s long-term goals were the same as those of the Soviet Union, and that the heroes of Ireland’s revolutionaries were Marx, Lenin and Castro. The real danger was that if the northern conflict spilled over into the south, Irish democracy would be at an end and an ‘Irish Cuba’ would emerge. Such was the fear about the Soviets that British and American officials even objected to the establishment of diplomatic relations between Dublin and Moscow in 1974.

By then the OIRA had declared a ceasefire and moved decisively in the direction of politics, firstly in the shape of Sinn Fein the Workers’ Party (adapting the title ‘Workers’ Party Republican Clubs’ which they used in the North) and later as simply The Workers’ Party. They had a distinct hard-left agenda and punched well above their electoral strength, thanks in part to their infiltration of RTÉ. Eoghan Harris was the leading light in this regard.

Not everyone in the OIRA was sold on the new strategy, and this gave rise to a split and the birth of the Irish National Liberation Army (INLA) and the Irish Republication Socialist Party (IRSP), and great tension between these various groups. The Workers’ Party was supported financially by Russia and North Korea, but a request in 1986 to Moscow for £1 million was firmly rejected. Meanwhile the Eastern Block continued to provide the Provisional

Book Reviews Winter 2022–2023

IRA (PIRA) with weapons and training. This caused much annoyance for the Workers Party, which had in any case refused to support the Hunger Strikes and urged the USSR to follow Margert Thatcher’s policy on the issue.

The move from terrorism to respectable politics had been completed by the time six of the Workers’ Party seven TD’s resigned from the group in 1992. They joined with the Irish Labour Party, eventually giving that party two of its leaders. So far as the Soviets were concerned their main focus had for some time been on the PIRA, which was increasingly adopting noncommunist socialist rhetoric.

This is a fascinating book, easy to read, and the production values are of a high order. The index could perhaps have been more comprehensive. Some attention might have been given to Stalin’s support for the IRA in the later 1920s and early 1930s, the Church’s condemnation of what it saw as growing communist influence in the 1930s, and the emergence of Saor Éire in 1931. None of this detracts from what is by any standard an excellent work.

Oliver Rafferty SJ is professor of Modern Irish and Ecclesiastical History at Boston College. He specializes in nineteenth- and twentiethcentury British and Irish history, especially the relationship between Church and state, and has written seven books.

Vol. 111 – Nos 441–444

Studies – An Irish Quarterly Review

Articles

John Bruton

Partition: Are There Two Nations on the Island of Ireland, and Could They Be Fused into One? .................................................................. 418

Con J. Casey

The Case for Theology in the University 37

Paul Corcoran

Political Theology: Three Trials – Antigone, Socrates, Jesus ........... 185

Gráinne Doherty Women’s Prophetic Voice for the Church ......................................... 258

Giovanni Giordini

Sovereignty and Strife ....................................................................... 157

Kevin Hargaden

Home Truths: Irish Neoliberalism’s Eclipse of Irish Catholicism..... 225

John Hedigan

Abbé Edgeworth de Firmont: Confessor to the King 441

Martin Henry

Some Reflections on Maynooth’s 225th Anniversary ......................... 44

Linda Hogan

Doing the Truth: The Life and Religious Vision of Enda McDonagh 26

Studies • volume 111 • number 444 460

Erik Jones

Sovereignty and the National Interest 392

Michael Kirwan

Surviving the Secular: Faith, Grief, Parody ...................................... 239

Brendan Leahy

‘Going Deep, Going Forth, Going Together’Part I: The Catholic Church in Ireland, Vatican II, and Pope Francis 267

‘Going deep, Going Forth, Going Together’, Part II: Seeking Meaning in a Transformed World ........................................ 352

John Littleton

The Changed Reality of Being a Catholic Priest in Today’s Ireland 249

Máirín MacCarron

Writing History with Female Relgious Communities: Medieval and Modern Hagiography .................................................. 427

Eamon Maher

Julien Green (1900–1998): Exploring the Intersection of Religion and Literature 52

Dermot McCarthy

‘The Queen She Came to Call on us’ ................................................ 412

Ronan McCrea

Democratic Backsliding and the Unravelling of the EU Legal Order 168

Gerald O’Collins

Three Parables from Luke: The Vision of Peter Steele SJ ................ 434

Studies • volume 111 • number 444 461

Daragh O’Connell

An Irish Dante, Part I: Possible Precursors to the Commedia 125

An Irish Dante, Part II: A Dantean Afterlife ...................................... 401

Cormac Ó Gráda

Behold a Pale Horse: Horrors and Heritages of Famine ................... 134

Gerry O’Hanlon

The Future of the Catholic Church in Ireland: Synodality and the Wounds of Abuse ............................................................................... 277

John O’Hagan

Patrick Reel: A Life in Paint .............................................................. 148

Taking Back Control: The Role of the EU ........................................ 378

Emmaus O’Herlihy

Dynamic of Encounter: The Samaritan Woman at the Well .............. 295

Kieran O’Mahony

Christianity for Grown-Ups ............................................................... 286

Pádraig Ó Tuama

A Human Being Fully Alive 369

Jessie Rogers

Synodality: Some Scriptural Perspectives on Communio, Peripheries and the Sensus Fidei ......................................................... 13

Anna Rowlands

Illuminating Dark Times: The Surprising Revelance of Catholic Social Teaching 339

Michael Sanfey

Sovereignty and Culture .................................................................... 178

Susan Meld Shell

Sovereignty and Its Limits: Some Kantian Lessons 162

Antonio Spadaro

Pope Francis in Conversation with European Editors of Jesuit Journals

................................................................................................ 30

Anthony White

The Irish General Election of June 1922 140

Barry Whelan

Hitler Looks West: An Irish Diplomat’s Unwitting Role in the Plan to Alter Irish Neutrality

..................................................... 62

Book Reviews

Brian Arkins

Towards a Credo 208 (William Adamson)

Cornelius J. Casey & Fáinche Ryan (eds.)

The Church in Pluralist Society: Social and Political Roles .............. 96 (Patrick Hannon)

Crawford Gribben

The Rise and Fall of Christian Ireland 454 (Kevin Hargaden)

Miriam Haughton, Mary McAuliffe and Emilie Pine (eds)

Legacies of the Magdalen Laundries: Commemoration, Gender, and the Postcolonial Carceral State

................................... 196 (Eamon Maher)

Studies • volume 111 • number 444

Peadar Kirby

Karl Polanyi and the Contemporary Political Crisis: Transforming Market Society in the Era of Climate Change 91 (Kevin Hargaden)

Patrick Masterson

In Reasonable Hope: Philosophical Reflections on Ultimate Meaning

........................................................................ 103 (Fiachra Long)

Philip McDonagh, Kishan Manocha, John Neary, Lucia Vasquez Mendoza

On the Significance of Religion for Global Diplomacy

....................... 83 (John Swift)

Susan McKay

Northern Protestants: On Shifting Ground 203 (Kevin Hargaden)

John Mulqueen

‘An Alien Ideology’: Cold War Perceptions of the Irish Republican Left ........................................................................ 457 (Oliver Rafferty)

Gary Murphy

Haughey

............................................................................................ 200 (Stephen Collins)

Tom O’Donoghue and Judith Harford

Piety and Privilege: Catholic Secondary Schooling in Ireland and the Theocratic State, 1922–1967 .............................. 310 (Brian Fleming)

Terence O’Reilly

The Spiritual Exercises of Saint Ignatius of Loyola: Contexts, Sources, Reception ............................................................ 100 (Timothy W. O’Brien SJ)

David G.

Schultenover SJ

Jesuit Superior General Luis Martín Garcia and his Memorias: ‘Showing Up’ 74 (Oliver Rafferty SJ)

Brian Titley

Into Silence and Servitude: How American Girls Became Nuns 1945–1965 .................................................................. 106 (Áilín Doyle)

John Walsh

One Hundred Years of Irish Language Policy, 1922–2022 .............. 310 (Peadar Kirby)

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