nearer my god to thee

Evening at Newbridge parish church.
The mighty Heelers is sitting in a pew doing his best to look holier than thou.
In the pew ahead of him sits a 19 year old girl wearing a short dress. She has bare arms, swan like neck, and ye olde mane of dark hair tumbling etc etc.
She is beside her parents who look a bit weather beaten.
I am musing to himself: "Why did I sit here? I'll be thinking about her the whole time. It's my own fault."
Presently the girl's father addresses her mother in an inner city Dublin accent.
"Will ya look at dese chairs?" he hisses. "You could do yourself an injury on dese. Whoever's running dis place should be more careful. We could take a claim."
I found this statement to be immensely cheering.
My own lustful superludities notwithstanding, it restored my faith in human nature.
In the pew behind me an elderly nay ancient couple were installing themselves with leisurely dignity.
Another oldie shuffled down the aisle to speak with them.
She looked about ninety.
"Is it true you're celebrating your 62nd wedding anniversary tomorrow?" wondered the shuffler.
"On Monday," grunted the proud husband.
The shuffling oldie was effusive in her congratulations.
"You both look so young," she cooed.
At this I nearly fell out of my pew.
It was so wondrously splendid.
Mass began.
The Padre prayed.
He came to the sermon.
His sermon was about a new British report into the shooting of rioters in Derry in 1972, in an incident that became known as Bloody Sunday.
The Brits in the new report had ended up apologising to everyone.
The Padre waffled on happily about innocent people being slaughtered by soldiers.
I wanted to shout: "They weren't innocent. They were rioters."
The Padre waffled on about Blood Sunday having caused thirty years of violence in Northern Ireland.
I wanted to shout: "The IRA had been killing hundreds of people a year in the early seventies. After Bloody Sunday, violence levels actually fell."
The Padre waffled on about the injustices of British rule in Northern Ireland.
I wanted to shout: "Are you tee totally insane? I mean are you abolutely congentitally off the toilet bonkers in the nut? Are you a complete ephin sasquatch? Listen to me. My source in the IRA has confirmed to me that from the !970's the IRA was no longer just an ally of Soviet Russia's but actually a client organisation working for the KGB. Specifically my source has named Gerry Adams, Martin McGuinness and a southern Irish politician called Frank Ross now known as Proinsias De Rossa, who were key figures in the decision to accept orders from communist Russia. Do you know what? If the British army had not been attriting the IRA to destruction in Northern Ireland for thirty years, these people would have conquered all of Ireland and handed it over lock, stock and two smoking barrels to the Russians. You, me and everybody owe the British army an apology. We also owe the British army our thanks. And we also owe the British army our every freedom and our country."
Mass ended.
I stood up and strode to the altar to confront the Padre.
I looked into his eyes.
I took a deep breath.
"Father," I stated. "Two months ago you gave a sermon here about a man called Freddy Day whom you'd met in an old folks home in Australia. You said he'd spent his whole life living in a room above a garage in a rich man's house. You said that at the end of his life he was confined to a nursing home and that it was there you had seen him pray with other dying patients. You said that when Freddy Day prayed, his face lit up and that at that moment you understood what the story in the Bible about Jesus' transfiguration meant. Jesus went up the mountain and his glory became apparent upon him. He shone whiter than white. You said you understood the Bible account because you had seen the same thing happen with your own eyes to Freddy Day when he prayed. You said he was already in heaven as he prayed. That story really touched me Father. I wanted to say thank you."
I shook his hand.
And walked away.