Mary KennyAs Pope Francis moves to put Mother Mary Aikenhead on the road to sainthood, perhaps it’s a good moment to consider the vast contribution that Irishwomen have made to the world’s religious orders.
And I am indebted to Sr Mary Reynolds of the Mercy Order for reminding me that the Mercy sisters were historically the largest congregation of Irish nuns whose “spiritual empire” spread over five continents. The list of countries to which they brought education, health, pastoral and social care, from 1831 onwards, is a staggering 44.
Their founder, Catherine McAuley, was declared Venerable in 1990 by Pope John Paul II: and she must have been a woman of remarkable personality and drive.
She was born in Glasnevin in 1778 and she might also be regarded as a poster-girl for successful later adoption, for her parents died when she was young, and she was adopted as a teenager by a Mr and Mrs Callahan of Coolock House. Catherine converted both her parents to Catholicism, and when her adoptive father died in 1822, he left her his entire fortune – so the family relationships must have been warm and trustworthy.
With these funds, Catherine purchased a house in Dublin’s Lower Baggot Street – the site still stands – and in 1827 she provided a school there for poor children and a shelter for working women.
Branched out
She first entered the Presentation order, founded by Mary Aikenhead, and subsequently “branched out” into her own Mercy order. Her specific aim was “to educate poor little girls, to lodge and maintain poor young ladies who are in danger, that they may be provided for in a proper manner and to visit the sick poor.”
Women from every county in Ireland joined the Mercy order, and thousands travelled overseas to Africa, India, Central and South America, Europe, the Middle and Far East, the US, Britain, and many other locations. Their dedication must have been extraordinary.
We often hear of nuns who have failed to maintain the highest standards of kindness and care – movies like Philomena have put that message across relentlessly. And yes, these things have happened. But thousands of Irishwomen have been inspired by the ideals of women like Catherine McAuley and Mary Aikenhead and in consequence, dedicated their lives to the service of others.
Don’t use 1916 as excuse to open pubs
Christy Burke (pictured), the Lord Mayor of Dublin, says that despite his own struggle with alcoholism, he is in favour of opening the pubs on Good Friday, especially with the centenary of 1916 coming up next year.
Recovering alcoholics have no issue with pubs being open at any given time. They are generally tolerant of people who can enjoy a drink normally.
It’s possible that the Good Friday abstinence is something that related to an Ireland of the past, and is less meaningful today.
But if we’re talking about the spirit of 1916, be under no illusions that the men and women of the rising were ardent supporters of alcohol abstinence.
Sinn Féin’s first recruiting slogan was: “Ireland sober is Ireland free!”
Irish nationalists took the view that alcohol and drunkenness had degraded and corrupted the Irish character, and made a laughing-stock of the “drunken Irishman” stereotype. And most Irish towns had too many pubs.
If the pubs are to be opened for Good Friday, so be it. But don’t use the excuse of 1916 to do so.
The darker side of sexuality
The Victorians used to shield themselves from the more unpleasant aspects of life by calling such information “lowering”. It was ‘lowering’ to concentrate unduly on the most squalid crimes. Long before the era of those American self-help gurus who claim that “you are what you think”, 19th Century folk believed that your mind could be infected by too much focus on ‘low values’.
I found myself with a somewhat Victorian reaction to the tremendous media (and no doubt public) interest in the trial of Graham Dywer, last week convicted for the murder of Elaine O’Hara, “for his own sexual gratification”, as the reports put it.
The trial has been superbly well reported and every aspect of this case forensically analysed and deconstructed. And yet, I experienced that Victorian reflex: this information is all so ‘lowering’. I don’t really want to peruse any more details about a very dark saga, and a pitiful victim.
And if the Victorians thought that sexuality itself could sometimes have a dangerous and distorting element, do such events not bear out their suspicions?
Not for the first time, I reflect that we got it so wrong, back in the 1960s, when we thought sexual liberation was just about fun and games and throwing off old-style repression. Sexuality contains sweetness and light, but no light without a shadow – and no human instinct or power which cannot be perverted or misused.