A Very Good Friday

We had the privilege on this Good Friday to participate in several worship services.  A gentleman from our church, Bruce (who also happens to be a real-life knight!) and his wife, Janet, took us first to a Catholic monastery, The Clonard Monastery, for its Good Friday prayer service.  Words escape me for an adequate description of the beauty of that building.  Its 101 year old majesty set the backdrop for humble worship within its walls on this holy day.  The monastery is run by a progressive order of priests known as the Redemptorist Fathers.  They believe in inter-denominational unity, and thus invited Bruce, a Presbyterian, to read some of the scripture.  After the service, we chatted with one of the priests who came to Belfast from Cork, Republic of Ireland, in 1990.  He said at that time, in the thick of The Troubles, he had to learn which pubs were Protestant and which were Catholic.  He expounded that his Republic of Ireland accent alone would have resulted in a black eye had he gone into a Protestant bar some 23 years ago.  Thankfully, though, times have changed, as was evidenced in our next worship service.  We went with Bruce and Janet to Ormeau Park, not too far from our house.  When we arrived, people from seven different churches and different Christian denominations had gathered just inside the park walls to mark the beginning of an ecumenical Good Friday service.  We all huddled against the wind as Protestant pastors and Catholic priests passed around a megaphone and read from the Gospel.  After that, one of the Catholic priests led the procession with a black cross out of the park, down the street, and into a Presbyterian church to conclude with the remaining Gospel readings and praise hymns.  Watching a group of peaceful Protestants and Catholics marching together under the banner of simply “Christian” in a city with such a violent religious history nearly moved me to tears.  As much as religion can be a divisive force, thank God it can also create unity on monumental days such as Good Friday.  The capstone of the day came at our own church with a moving evening tenenbrae service.  Exiting the church in the silent darkness of the Irish night set an appropriately somber tone for the remainder of Good Friday evening, allowing for us to anticipate the gloriousness of Easter.  

St. Patrick

I’ve always wondered what a St. Patrick’s Day parade in Ireland would be like.  Well, I found out: very short, with hints of India dusted throughout.  As we arrived at City Hall (where the parade began), we claimed our spot on the curb and waited for the festivities to commence.  We knew the time was nearing as the armed police officers started pushing people back to make way for the floats.  All of a sudden, there he was, the man of the hour, St. Patrick himself!  We waved our souvenir shamrock flags and snapped the camera.  The next part of the parade had a slightly Hindu bend, with participants dressed up in Bollywood-esque costumes and colorful performers on stilts.  We then watched a primary school parade by, with a capstone of authentic Irish bagpipers pumping their bagged musical notes into the crowd.  And then it was done.  We were astonished by the 15 minute brevity of a parade that passed us by, with nary a step dancer in sight.  However, upon entering St. George’s Market, we found the Irish dance troupe for which we were searching.  It was lovely watching their legs fly while the arms and upper body remained at attention.  The dancers even treated us to part of the opening of Riverdance.  Although the parade was brief and the dancers had to be sought out, the overarching theme on March 17 in Belfast was celebrating a green island in the North Atlantic.  There were no Unionists or Republicans dotting the edges of the parade route, rather a joint Gaelic people proud of its heritage.  What a powerful legacy of a 5^th century bishop.

Police getting the crowd ready for the parade

St. Patrick, with a snake on his staff!

Stilt walker

I'd like to see this bike in the Tour de Fat!

Parade variety

Your guess is as good as mine...

Brazilian Samba

Start of the bagpipes, with cute kids leading the procession

Bagpipes

More bagpiping/druming

Dave with his souvenir shamrock flags

Irish step dancers

More Irish step dancers

Mr. Inspector, I Presume

A few weeks after we moved in to our home, we received a yellow packet in the post (their word for mail) informing us that we would soon be subject to an inspection by a representative of city council.  There was no contact information, only an attached form signed by our property agent.  Feeling mildly confused, Dave contacted him, and he informed us of a local ordinance in Northern Ireland pertaining to the inspection of homes to prevent the inhabitants from dwelling in squalor.  An appointment date was set up, and Mr. Inspector arrived.  He started taking measurements of the thickness of walls, noting the double-glazed windows, and noting that we needed to get a lock for our oil tank to protect it from gypsies who would siphon it out.    After my American accent gave me away, I also quickly found out about his love affair with the U.S.  He started chatting like a 15 year old girl about how much he loves The U.S. of A.  Apparently his sister lives in L.A., and he has visited a handful of the states.  However, since I had a native Belfast citizen in my midst, I changed the conversation and started picking his brain about Belfast’s history.  I decided that it would be interesting to hear it straight and unedited from a local.  He told me that he grew up in the heat of The Troubles in a Protestant housing estate, what we in the U.S. would know as the projects.  Further explanation informed me that growing up in a poor Protestant working class neighborhood during this historical period created a normalcy of throwing anything within reach at Catholics or police.  He went on to explain that it wasn’t until he was older and watched some of the riots in which he had been involved covered on television that he realized how much the news media was spinning the truth, which therefore led him to rethink his former actions.  It was interesting when he revealed that calling oneself Protestant or Catholic is just as much a political statement as it is a religious one.  For example, Protestants vote for Protestants and Catholics vote for Catholics, just as in the U.S. most Democrats vote for Democrats and most Republicans vote for Republicans.  An interesting twist where Belfast's voting system did not work recently was when the Union Jack flag was voted down off of city hall.  What was not reported in The States about that decision was the backstory: the majority of Protestants had started to grow impatient and unimpressed with their Protestant representatives for whom they had voted; thus, in the most recent election, a ground swell of Protestants broke rank and voted in a Catholic majority.  The Catholics, who do not like the Union Jack flag, voted within the city council to lower the flag.  In his opinion, Mr. Inspector said, Northern Ireland is a democracy and if people want the Union Jack flag raised back up, they should vote the Protestant majority back in during the next election instead of protesting each Saturday in front of city hall and adding to Belfast’s black eye of sectarian clashes.  Later that day after he left (with a clean note of inspection), and as Dave and I went to get a lock in order to gypsy-proof our oil tank, I commented on how no matter where one lives in the world, there is always some sort of political drama unfolding.  In the U.S., one might think of the current sequestration; in Northern Ireland, a tri-colored flag is causing unrest.  It reminded me that wherever one travels in the world, people are people with problems to work through and victories to celebrate.  Those two things can at least be agreed upon by all political and religious parties.

Belfast Fog

For most of my life, I remember hearing about the iconic London Fog.  Although I have never experienced the London Fog firsthand, I would imagine that the Belfast Fog would share rank with the London Fog.  When I opened the front door in the pre-dawn glow of the Belfast Fog, it gave the sensation of being in a smoke-filled kitchen.  Mother Nature had put on her magician’s hat and pulled tight the curtain of fog to create a disappearing act for anything at more than a 10 yard distance.  Hazy silhouettes gradually morphed into humans as we approached them on our morning walk.  Both Dave and I even developed drops of fog-sponsored dew resting on our hair strands, framing our face this wistful morning.  On a typical morning, we would have had the privileged view of two of Ireland’s famed hills looking down either direction of our street.  On this morning, however, both had hidden themselves in the mist, with gray haze replacing their perches.  I have truly never witnessed a fog such as the one we experienced on this morning.  There have been moments in the U.S. where I would describe a fog cloud as “pea soup”; this fog, however, would need a more apt description such as an “Irish wool sweater” covering the land.  The eeriness of it all, not having knowledge of what lay before us in the fog, was an experience not soon to be forgotten.  Conversely, the excitement of the unknown, the adventure as it were, was reflective of our journey here thus far.  We had to go slower at points, ensuring that crosswalks were clear of cars and paths absent of puddles, but we made it  through the foggy walk just as we are making it through the unexpected journey in our opportunity this year in Belfast.