The Accidental Pope

by Ray Flynn

  Thunderous applause resounded as the group walked onto the stage and came fully into view. Minister Elisabeth Craddock, an ordained Episcopalian, recited the opening prayer and introduced all the religious leaders on the stage and the civic leaders in the audience. The “Our Father” hymn, (sacred equally to Protestants and Catholics,) was played and sung by the Dublin Philharmonic Orchestra and a choir from all the churches in the city.

  When Dr. Clark concluded a moving ecumenical message of peace to the audience, Pope Bill walked over to him and gave him a warm embrace, at which the huge crowd erupted into a ten-minute standing ovation. Observers and historians said they had never witnessed or even read of such a dramatic moment in the annals of Irish history. Press photographers and TV cameras captured the inspiring event in pictures destined to make Irish history—the pope with the head of the Anglican Church. More than a few had lumps in their throats and tears in their eyes.

  The pope concluded the ecumenical service with a message directed to the children of Ireland in this and the next generation. “May all the children in Ireland live in peace and justice all their lives, and may their children’s children know God’s harmony forever.”

  The pope also announced, “At this moment Vatican sculptors are carving in Italian marble a statue dedicated to all the children of Ireland and the harmony to surround them from now on. I will put this monument in the hands of the Lord Mayor of Dublin. All will be reminded of our pledge for peace and our prayer today for all the children of Ireland.”

  After this formal ceremony, which ran from noon to a little after one o’clock, the pope was escorted to the car with Bishop Clark. A family picnic and concert featuring the infinitely famous Irish rock group U2 was to follow in the festive Phoenix Park. The pope and the bishop drove to the Church of Ireland Cathedral and went inside together, the first time in history that a pope had set foot in this monument to Irish Protestantism.

  Soon after, when the pope and Dr. Clark reached the bishop’s residence, Mrs. Clark had a tea service prepared. The three sat down for a lunch of Irish salmon. Then Dr. Clark invited Bill to the bishop’s study. “Mind if I light up my pipe, Bill?”

  “Not at all, Wilson,” the pope replied.

  Puffing his pipe into life, the Anglican prelate smiled and held up three fingers parallel to the floor. “Would you like a taste of an aged single-malt Scotch?”

  Three fingers signified a solid two ounces at least. “Fine thought,” Bill agreed. The bishop poured from the bottle on the table into two crystal glasses three fingers neat of the well-aged Scotch whisky and handed one to Bill. Each man lifted the glass, nodded to the other, took the glass to his lips, and embarked on a long, satisfying swallow before reminiscing about the day’s event.

  The pope was escorted out of the bishop’s residence. His limousine had just arrived and Brian was waiting in the front seat. Brian opened the back door and let Bill in. “The kids are taken care of by their two Swiss guards. We’ll meet them in Belfast,” Brian announced as he reached for Dr. Clark’s hand. The two primates obviously had a cordial relationship.

  “Well, Wilson,” Brian said, “I arranged for you to have the distinction of escorting the first pope in history into your Anglican cathedral, the symbol of the Protestant Church of Ireland. I hope you didn’t give His Holiness any of that special Irish that you save for my visits?”

  “No, Brian, I gave His Holiness a touch of a rare liquor left over from some of the weddings of Henry VIII after he turned the country Protestant, remember? Your pope had banned the king’s divorce and Henry took over the Church, marrying and divorcing to his heart’s content.”

  “With odd head-choppings mixed in,” Brian added dryly, not to be bested in any sectarian game of wit.

  The smiling pope lifted himself into the car with a warm wave back to his newfound friend, Bishop Clark. “Come to Rome and I’ll return the favor, Wilson.”

  Outside Dublin City, driving past the ubiquitous crowds, the pope headed north to Belfast, stopping at Drogheda to visit and pray over the remains of the martyred saint Oliver Plunkett. It was a must stop and an opportunity to meet his other Irish friend from seminary days, Monsignor James O’Brien, and wave to the crowd on hand and greet them. Plunkett was a symbol of centuries of British oppression of Irish Catholics. Pope John Paul II had also stopped here while in Ireland in September 1979.

  Driving into Belfast, they couldn’t miss the symbols painted on the sides of buildings: graffiti picturing IRA guerrillas in black berets holding Uzi machine guns and the words IRELAND DIVIDED WILL NEVER BE AT PEACE. Close by, another wall with graffiti of the queen in her robes and the Union Jack behind her featured the words GOD SAVE THE QUEEN, UNIONISTS FOREVER. Some new graffiti could be seen on many other buildings. Much of it had been removed by city authorities, but YANKEE POPE GO HOME remained visible.

  They proceeded to the five-star Europa Hotel in downtown Belfast. It had recently undergone extensive renovation following violent bombings in the area. Many Unionist dignitaries had stayed there and conducted meetings and other functions in the main ballroom. People were gathered outside, mostly Catholic, waiting to glimpse the pope as his car turned up the driveway, which once had boasted heavy steel lifts because of all the car bombings and nearby terrorist activities.

  They checked in at seven P.M. Cardinal Comiskey knocked on the parlor door of the pope’s suite, and Bill asked him in.

  “You’re looking in fine fettle this evening, Bill. Do you remember how to throw darts?”

  Despite the long day the pope felt quite buoyed up and accepted with alacrity Cardinal Comiskey’s challenge to a game of darts. “I still can beat you, like I always did at the seminary and in that Portuguese place in Fall River. Remember?”

  “Well, a dollar and the first pint of Harp says you won’t beat me tonight.”

  “Oh?” Bill questioned. “Practicing when you should have been with your people in the pews, eh?”

  “The ones needing spiritual guidance most are out there where the dartboards hang,” Brian laughed. “We’ll go down to the pub where the shipyard shift will be gathered, about equally divided between Protestants and Catholics, and decide right there who the best thrower really is.”

  Even during the height of the troubles, the one place in all Belfast where workingmen and -women could go after work and have a “jar or two” without fearing the political tensions tearing the city apart was the Landsdown Road Pub. Both Catholics and Protestants from Victoria Hospital and Belfast Shipyard could relax there and nobody gave them any “political cow dung,” as Vinny McCormack (a Protestant human rights and union leader in Belfast) used to say. For most people, the answer to the troubles was fair employment and well-paying jobs.

  Brian felt that taking the pope quietly and unannounced to the Lands-down Road Pub to meet the workers with no fanfare, TV cameras, or political agenda would go a long way toward sending the right message to the entire nation.

  “Good,” Bill laughed. “I get it. Nobody will recognize me up here in Belfast. Just a poor parish priest I’ll be.”

  The limousine, at the pope’s direction, dropped them off around the corner from the pub. Even at a distance, they could hear the festive crowd laughing and singing. They walked through the double doors with frosted glass panels, and the interior was indeed filled with workmen from the shipyards three deep at the bar. Both clerics were wearing the uniform of the day: work clothes, including a baseball cap worn by Bill with LRP—Landsdown Road Pub—embroidered on it. The men nearest the door observed the entrance of the cardinal, a popular figure to all.

  “Your Eminence,” the cries went up. Men turned from the bar to see Comiskey enter. There was respectful applause and some cheers for the well-liked and respected cleric. At first his companion went unnoticed until a patron at the bar held up a page from the previous day’s newspaper. It pictured the pope handing a pint of Guinness to the cardinal at Regan’s Pub in Connemara.

  “Glory be to God, it�
�s the pope himself,” the bar customer cried out.

  A profound silence fell over the bar. Finally, the owner of the pub, John Stinson, shouted even louder, “It’s His Holiness. Well, sir, you’ve come to the right place. You’re probably dying for a good pint,” John loudly said to the pope, for all to hear. “Not that black mud they served you down south!” That broke the ice. The pub resounded in laughter and jubilation.

  There was a sudden outpouring of universal respect and reverence for a pope joining this mixed group of Catholic and Protestant workingmen and the -women at their own place. The crowd, cheering, rushed up to shake his hand. Ann Castle reached for her accordion and Danny Gill his tin whistle, and soon singing broke out in honor of such distinguished visitors and friends.

  Before the pub’s bartender could get the pope to pull a few pints, he and the cardinal walked over to one of the dartboards as the men made them a path through the throng. The pub resounded with cheering as the pope and cardinal squared off in a serious contest of darts. Photographers and a TV crew showed up from nowhere, and every dart that scored a double became a public event. The pope threw one into the triple ring and the cardinal was unable to match it as the score rose. Newspapers with pictures taken in the Galway pub had circulated throughout Ireland. Neighbors began surrounding the pub as word flashed through Belfast streets that the pope himself was inside. Catholics and Protestants vied to see and exchange a word with this “man’s man,” which was the way regular customer Dermot Doyne described him.

  While the dart game was in progress, a well-dressed, distinguished gentleman in his sixties, wearing an orange sash across his chest, came close to Bill Kelly and introduced himself. “Bill Martin. My friends call me ‘Digger.’ Head of the Orange Order up here. Welcome to Belfast, Mr. Kelly. I trust you will enjoy your visit. If our order can assist you in any way, please never hesitate to ask.”

  Even Brian did not realize what had just happened. The significance of Mr. Martin’s handshake would vibrate through the entire North. It was to have more impact on Catholic-Protestant relations than any treaty or accord.

  “If I may call you ‘Bill,’ would you like to join me, when you’re through playing your game, at the bar for a taste of heaven?” Mr. Martin invited. The crowd watched in amazement. Martin, who prided himself as an after-dinner storyteller, said to Pope Peter, “As I said, my name is Bill Martin and I’m in the funeral business—”

  But before he could finish his introduction to Bill Kelly he was interrupted by Tim Murphy, who finished the rest of the line by saying, “But my friends call me ‘Digger’ because I’m the last guy to let you down!” Martin never missed an opportunity to promote his funeral business and the line never failed to generate a good laugh, no matter how many times one heard it. The bar atmosphere was suddenly as friendly as anyone could ever remember.

  Bill Kelly went back to his dart game with Brian after a brief sojourn at the bar with Digger Martin. The TV cameras followed every shot as though this was the finale of the national championship tournament.

  Finally, Pope Peter won two out of three hard-fought dart games, and with much show, Cardinal Comiskey pulled out a pound coin and solemnly handed it to Bill.

  “Now I see why it takes so long for me to get a new bishop appointed. The pope is practicing darts in his den all day.”

  For luck, some of the men took out their personal darts and handed them to the pope to throw at the board. “Sure I’ll never lose a game again to a mick with this dart after the pope’s blessing it.” The crowd laughed and drank as the pope scored another triple ringer. Brian watched the pope closely. He was enjoying the evening immensely, but when he seemed to be tiring the cardinal insisted on taking him back to the Europa Hotel.

  They had hardly returned to their suite when Bill turned on the television, to find his celebrated dart game with the cardinal as big as life on all three stations. He laughed uproariously at the close-up of Brian paying off his wager as they each sipped a Harp.

  “Ah, Brian, it all makes me forget the avviso,” he murmured.

  * * *

  The next day, in Belfast’s downtown business area, the pope and the cardinal met again at the site of a concert scheduled for noon. The Belfast Children’s Choir had been founded by Cardinal Comiskey to bring children together to help heal the wounds of division and violence. Catholics and Protestants fondly regarded Brian because of his success in forming this bond through building schools and creating youth recreation programs.

  The children’s outdoor concert was held on what was once the scene of bombed-out buildings from the time of the worst of the troubles. The rubble had been cleared to build a park dedicated to peaceful communion among all children.

  Both the pope and the cardinal were surprised at the empathetic accolades of Belfast’s bisectarian populace upon seeing the TV and newspaper pictures of their dart game. As the crowds arrived at the park in Belfast, half the people were brandishing the morning newspapers featuring the pope aiming a dart. “Direct Hit on Heart of Belfast,” the papers proclaimed.

  * * *

  With the concert behind them an invigorated Cardinal Comiskey joined the pope’s venture across the North. Tim Shanahan, Brian, and the pope rode in the lead limousine, the children and two guards following in two vehicles and the Vatican observers bringing up the rear. At every village crowds turned out to wave to the pope, the limousine slowing down so the people could see him smiling and waving back.

  “It’s hard to imagine real trouble breaking out again,” Bill remarked to Brian. “People seem so in accord today.”

  “The real political fact of life is that in four hundred years, Bill, Catholics and Protestants have been unable to reconcile their differences. There is always an Ian Paisley trying to stir up trouble on the Unionist side and our hotheaded lads causing it on the Nationalist side.”

  Bill chuckled. “The Lady Lord Mayor pointed Paisley out to me standing on the edge of the crowd with a bullhorn and his own bully boys around him.”

  “It is a tribute to you, Bill, and the moderate Protestants that the Unionists kept their protests under wraps today,” Brian observed. “The best thing that happened in the park was when Mrs. Dawn Richarson, Lord Mayor of Belfast and the city’s leading Protestant woman, couldn’t bring herself to introduce the pope himself so she introduced the pope’s children.” Brian laughed. “Ah, that’s a clever Protestant woman. How gracefully she avoided personally introducing the pope, leaving his children to do those honors. It was a charming moment indeed! And, of course, the Protestant Lord Mayor pointed out to everyone at the gathering that Catholics were seeing the mystical power of a clerical celibacy challenged at the highest level for the first time in the Church’s history.” He chuckled dryly. “At least as far as they have been allowed to learn it.”

  Bill changed the subject. “The kids must be getting hungry.”

  “We’ll stop in Derry for supper.” Brian glanced at his watch. “Say, half an hour. Then push across to Donegal to stay the night.”

  * * *

  Ed and Kathy Kirby did not accompany the pope’s party beyond Dublin. Ed had apprised Bill of his all-too-controversial status in the North of Ireland. Even before he was first elected mayor of Chicago he had openly sided with the Catholic peace and justice movement. After his election, he had never hesitated to lend his prestige to Irish Nationalist causes. He had made his share of enemies, especially Ian Paisley of the extreme Unionist wing, who was Northern Ireland’s most virulent anti-Catholic demagogue.

  The U.S. Department of State was anxious to keep Kirby out of the North, and Ed knew he would harm the pope’s trip in Protestant Belfast by appearing close to the American pontiff. Irish-American groups in the U.S. were always suspected, not without cause, of giving material aid to the families of imprisoned members of the violent Irish Republican Army.

  Instead of the North, Ed and Kathy traveled south to County Cork to see their own families, the Collinses and Kirbys. They attended a
rollicking family reunion in Clonakilty and stayed overnight with Gerry Collins on his Buttlerstown farm. The following morning they visited cemeteries where many Kirby and Collins family members were buried, including the grave of the “big guy himself,” third cousin Michael Collins, the great Irish patriot who had been killed in nearby Bael Na Mblath.

  Kirby also touched the grave of one of his personal heroes, Terence MacSwiney, once Lord Mayor of Cork. His death in 1920 after a hunger strike in London’s Brixton Prison had drawn international attention. People like MacSwiney and Gandhi of India had inspired Kirby’s personal drive for social justice and commitment to civil and human rights.

  Ed and Kathy Kirby traveled in company with International Concern founder Father Aengus Finucume of the Holy Ghost Fathers in Dublin. Together Kirby and Finucume had visited the ravaged parts of east and central Africa with the previous pope and had worked together on world humanitarian issues. Stopping at a Kerry pub on their way to Mayo, where they would meet the pope, the two ordered a beer while Kathy went shopping.

  “I would have thought you’d be with the pope, but I’m happy to have this time with you,” the weathered old priest said.

  “That old son of a bitch Paisley, a throwback to Trevelyan and Cromwell, would have made the pope’s life impossible if I’d been along.”

  Aengus wanted to talk about human rights in various parts of the world and after a long swallow started in on the more depressing aspects of his findings. “Look, Ed, we don’t get involved in politics. Who the president, prime minister, or dictator is doesn’t matter to me. I only care how God’s children are treated, and it’s not very good from what I see.” Grumpily Father Aengus swallowed another long draft of bitter. “Your president and Congress are playing footsie with dictators in countries like China, Vietnam, Indonesia. Special trade deals and White House dinners with bums who are putting the screws to their people.” Fiercely he gulped another measure of the amber drink.