Life

Jake O'Kane: Even if faith's a struggle, knowing Padre Pio can get you a good night's sleep

Every year at this time I ask myself the same question: Do I really ‘believe’, or am I a ‘Christmas Christian’? While faith for some comes as naturally as breathing, it has always been a struggle for me

Jake O'Kane

Jake O'Kane

Jake is a comic, columnist and contrarian.

As a child, I remember the priest speaking Latin while celebrating the Mass, standing with his back to the congregation
As a child, I remember the priest speaking Latin while celebrating the Mass, standing with his back to the congregation

MAY I take this opportunity to wish you all a happy Christmas. As has become our family tradition, I’ll be attending Midnight Mass in the church where my son sings in the choir.

I don’t know about the rest of you but, every year at this time I ask myself the same question: Do I really ‘believe’, or am I a ‘Christmas Christian’? While faith for some comes as naturally as breathing, it has always been a struggle for me, although God knows I’ve accumulated enough praying hours in chapels over the years.

My first chapel was St Patrick's on Donegall Street in Belfast, where I was baptised and made both my First Communion and Confirmation. As a child, I remember the priest speaking Latin while celebrating the Mass, standing with his back to the congregation. For some reason, smell sparks my memory and in those days the odour of Mass was damp woollen coats and cheap perfume. Women covered their heads with a scarf and every man wore a suit and tie; it was a long, long, time ago.

My next chapel was situated in the heart of the Sperrin Mountains, in a little village called Moneyneany. I was living with my granny at the time and vividly remembered being woken at Christmas to be brought to chapel for Midnight Mass. Outside was a winter wonderland – two feet of newly fallen snow glistened as my uncle’s car headlights cut through the darkest night.

On entering the brightly lit chapel, we found the whole townland in attendance. Hard to believe today, the sexes at that time were separated – women sat on the left and men on the right, with children remaining with the women. Once again, smell features; the aroma of burning candles mixing with incense acting as a time machine.

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From the smallest of country chapels, and 40 years later I was standing in St Peter’s Basilica in Rome. I wasn’t impressed by the building, finding Michelangelo’s Pieta it’s only redeeming feature. Its scale is overwhelming, which was the intention of architect Donato Bramante, but I can think of no building less conducive to prayer.

Something happened on that trip to Rome involving a chapel for which I still retain a degree of remorse. No, I didn’t steal Saint Peter’s chains. Hopefully, this public confession will absolve me of residual guilt.

We’d booked a hotel near the Spanish Steps; a small, simple establishment which wasn’t going to break the bank. I’ve always resented paying big money for hotels; I mean, all you need is a bed.

We arrived late in desperate need of rest. It was immediately obvious it was a family-run establishment as the receptionist was a lady in her 70s. Reservation confirmed, we were directed back out the front door of the ‘hotel’. It’s never a good sign when your room isn’t in the actual building.

After a two-minute walk, we entered a two-story building, obviously used as an overflow from the main hotel. I sat on the bed, and the mattress collapsed almost to the ground, with my back injury, I knew if I’d slept in that bed, I’d need to be stretchered out the next morning.

It was then that I had my moment of cunning, born of necessity, I quickly add. While checking in, I’d noticed a large image of Padre Pio behind the reception desk. Without explaining my plan, I marched my wife back to the elderly receptionist. Casually, I inquired if she, by chance, knew where we could go to Mass.

Immediately, her professional demeanour disintegrated and, with enthusiasm, she drew a map of the closest chapel where Mass was beginning in 30 minutes, which she apologetically explained, would be in Italian. I brushed this off, saying Mass was Mass.

All the while, my wife looked on agog, worried I was having some sort of mental breakdown. Just as we were about to leave, and as if it was an afterthought, I asked if there was any chance we could change room as I had a back injury and needed a firm bed. The lady said to make sure to return to her after Mass.

And so, we spent three days in one of the best hotel rooms in Rome. And before you judge me too harshly, we did attend the Mass and despite my disingenuous motivation, that small chapel was one of the most beautiful I’ve ever visited.

The Lord certainly does work in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform.