Ireland Is Full of Priests

As soon as we touched down in Shannon I thought I glimpsed several priests hovering about the terminal, and I was right. A stout monsignor took my passport, another examined my luggage (though both wore official caps and badges in addition to their smocks).

What’s this? I wondered, some kind of cooperative venture between church and state? But I was more surprised when I started out with my luggage.

Take your bags, sir?” another priest accosted me, and whisked them away from the examiner' s table before I could object.

Following him through the door with difficulty--he had quite a lead-­I spied him relaying my bags quickly to another father, who threw them into his taxi, slapped his hands together, and whisked open the door for my entry.

“This way, please,” he smiled, a burly father even bigger than the monsignor examiner, I thought it best to simply cooperate. One thing that puzzled me was that when I tried to tip the priestly porter, he immediately shunned it, backed away, and seemed rather offended. It’s not money then? I asked myself. Then what in heaven’s name is it, this masquerade? I had read of the strong role the priesthood played in the lives of the Irish, but no mention was made of this kind of infiltration into the daily trades. Ah well, I considered, I’ll ask in Limerick.

We lurched pell-mell for the city as I enjoyed my baptism into left-lane driving, till suddenly a huge haywagon bore down on us and we veered by just to the left. The rickety, overloaded wagon and shag horses were terrible enough, but I was even more struck by ~ brief look at the driver, garbed in a priestly smock and a straw hat! We passed a road crew working in a wide ditch to our side of the road. They were bent with their shovels and picks, and, somewhat to my relief, I noted that they wore heavy woolen waistcoats and flat caps. But as we passed, one looked up absently and turned to watch us go by. I spied under his parted front the ubiquitous priestly collar, and couldn’t doubt the others were brothers of the same order.

But perhaps that’s it! I considered. This is all some kind of social gospel order of the priesthood, perhaps working without pay, maybe filling in for some severe labor shortage, though I can’t say I was very satisfied with my hypothesis.

Buildings of the town began to line the road, which soon became the main street. Now it was unquestionable; everyone on the sidewalks wherever one turned was a priest--everyone! Oh, some wore other habits as well, in keeping with their particular trades or stations, but I was by now totally baffled.

We pulled up to my hotel--I hadn’t said a word to the burly driver the entire trip--and he hastily placed my luggage on the walk. I was about to say something about the whole business, when suddenly two urchins, dressed, of all things, in monks’ habit, dashed from the doorway and snatched my suitcases, scurrying up into the hotel again before I could invent a suitable protest

My driver chuckled, “Heh-heh, they're quick, they are.”

“Yes, indeed,” I laughed. “Now, how much is my fare?”

“Oh no, no, please not,” he objected.

“No fare?” I confirmed, but simply could not stand the mystery any longer. “I beg your pardon,” I said, “but I’ve seen no one since touching down except--well--priests, nuns, and others of your faith.”

“Yes, of course,” the driver looked puzzled.

“Well, that is, where are the others, the laity, the parishioners?” I was afraid of sounding offensive.

“There are few damned here,” my man scowled. His manner intimidated further discussion.

“Oh, yes, of course,” I stammered, and traipsed in after my luggage, past a lobby fountain with a sign: “Help the poor of Ireland,” in which scattered coins lay against a lighted greenish glass bottom, and approached the main desk where I was not surprised to find another father tending business.

“Good morning,” he beamed. “Will you be staying long?”

His lesser size restored my courage and I plunged right to the heart of the matter. “Father, what’s going on around here? Why is everyone I see in some holy order?”

I watched a nun hurry by with a tray of tea for someone in an adjoining sitting room, wearing a white apron and small lace headpiece.

“You mean you don’t know our traditions?”

“Certainly not.”

“Oh dear, are you not among the saved?” he quivered.

“Well, I’m a Methodist, from America, if that’s what you mean,” I semi-apologized.

“My goodness!” the priestly manager flew into a frenzy, flinging his hands here and there, scurrying to and fro behind the desk, grabbing his cheeks and gasping. “Sister, Sister, get the Bishop here right away!” he cried.

A wiry old mitered head soon materialized before me. “You’re not one of us, my son?” he rasped.
“No,” I held firm.

“I see,” he worried. “How very unfortunate. I’m sorry that I must beg you to leave at once.”

“Leave? But I only just arrived,” I objected.

“No, it would not be proper--you see how things are,” he insisted. “There will be another plane leaving Shannon in--let’s see--in about a half-hour. That should give you just the right time to get there. Brother Flanagan, would you please have this man’s things brought to the door and summon a car right away.”

“But, your Grace,” I pleaded. “I simply don’t understand any of this. Why must everyone here be in the church in some official way?”

“Official way? No, my son--God’s way,” the old mitred head corrected with a smile and a wave of his ringed finger.

“But must every Irishman work for the church? every man, woman, and child——?”

“No one works for the church, my son,” he corrected again with a condescending smile. “All are the holy church.”

My flight rose as predicted, and my relief was indescribable to see a stewardess with no ecclesiastical garb whatever ask the passengers for their luncheon selection, shortly to be served.

When she reached me I saw my opportunity. “Miss?” I nearly whis­pered, though I saw no reason for subdued voice since among the other passengers I found not one hint of churchhood.

She listened politely, regarded me for a time, then simply laughed,

“Yes, Ireland is simply full of priests——everyone comments on it. Now, would you like sandwiches or a meal?”

As she took my order I thought I saw a small silver chain glint from under her uniform collar--a finely wrought, delicate one of the kind used to depend a crucifix.