Stations for the Masses

"He'd bless this house and give us all a sermon."

 -unknown

Driving along the twisting, narrow, lane, I see a line of cars parked tightly into the hedgerow.  My husband, who is driving, stops in the middle of the lane. My two children and I know the routine, so we step out of the car into the soft, misty rain, and wait for him to park. He pulls the car up as close to the ditch (Irish for hedgerow) as possible, and I hear the all too familiar
scratching of the briers against the side of the car. An effect that is like someone scratching their fingernails down a chalk board, but it doesn't phase me any more.  There isn't a car in Kerry which doesn't have lines of brier scratches etched along it's passenger side.

We walk up the lane towards a farmhouse, which looks as though it has had a fresh coat of paint. The wrought iron gate, beacon red against the white washed wall, is open and welcoming to all who enter.  The neighbours from the parish who are gathered near the front door are engaged in conversations about the weather and farming, quietly greet us with a nod of the head as we approach. The Stations Mass is about to begin and everyone makes their way into the house. The kitchen, being the heart of the home, is where the mass will take place, and everything is set up there as it is in church. Folding chairs are set up in two rows and I sit down next to my brother-in-law, who is dressed smartly in his Sunday best.  Mary Keane, who is hosting today's Stations, gives me a quick "hello" and tells me that it's grand the weather is "soft".  Mary Keane looks frazzled.  She has no doubt been cleaning every corner of her house in preparation in having the house blessed.

Father Mahony arrives in, and the kitchen falls silent as those who are seated rise for mass to start.  

"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit." Begins the priest.

All in the room bless themselves, and then there is a quiet pause as Fr. Mahony looks around the kitchen.  Most of his life has been spent in his vocation, and as time moved forward, Father Mahony did not.  He was by the book (literally) and still believed that everyone should be creating large families and the mammys should stay at home with all their offspring.  These values were always being preached by a man who never once had to pay a mortgage, buy groceries, or send a child to University. 

His face etched in a stern expression, Fr. Mahony slaps his hand down on the alter, and everyone jumps.  "Ian Paisley, and his gang of Presbyterians in the North..." He spits, every word being enunciated with strong emphasis on the words, PAISLEY, GANG, and PRESBYTERIANS   I feel my face flush, and as I look up, I see Mary Keane, who was standing over next to the Stanley range, looking completely mortified as a few eyes cast in my direction.  (By the way, did I mention that I'm a Presbyterian?)  My brother-in-law, who is sitting next to me, is shaking in silent laughter, and I throw my hand up to my mouth to stifle a giggle as Fr. Mahony rants and raves about the Orange Men marching around in the North.

The stations mass being celebrated in a family home has been a tradition in rural Ireland since the 18th century, when Penal Law created oppression in the Catholic church and Catholics were forced to hold mass in secret.  The tradition still continues to this day.  This was not my first time attending a Stations Mass, and in my past experience, the sermons have always been about the home, the family, and the neighbours, and though I am not a Catholic, I have always found them inspiring and spiritual. I was finding this mass a little disturbing to say the least, but I was thanking God for my good sense of humour, which was showing me the funny side of this.

Mass was said, Holy Communion given, then sandwiches and tea were served. When the priest had his fill of tea and butterfly buns, he bid goodbye and left. The hot whiskey soon appeared there after, and, in true Irish fashion, no one mentioned a word about the sermon.

Catherine Hughes Teahan