Last Summer, I had the opportunity to travel to Dublin, Ireland on a work trip. I decided to extend my stay by a few days and do some solo exploring. A major draw was my (naive?) expectation that there would be a significant Catholic influence if I sought it out. Of course, I was met with a more modernized version of my Romantic notion of Catholic Ireland. Where I expected to find religious token shops on every corner, I encountered pubs. Great pubs, though. I laugh now as I recall my high hopes — not the hopes of the average 20-something temporary Dubliner, to say the least.
While in a cab on my way to visit St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the driver and I started talking about religion. He pointed out that most Catholic families have seen tremendous decline in later generations. Much of this, he explained, took a severe turn after the scandals with priests in the Church were exposed on a broader scale.
Another encounter with the more dormant Catholic culture brought me to the Central Catholic Library, a beautiful — and hidden — gem in the middle of the city. As I made my way up the stairs, a bright red door and a very old man who was just leaving greeted me. “Are you looking for the pub?” he asked. I explained I was, in fact, trying to find the Catholic library. His shock at this statement still brings a smile to my face. While at the library, I spent time with the caretaker and the manager, learning about the space and its history. Interestingly, the library was founded by a Jesuit priest the same year that Ireland became a republic. The manager shared this with what appeared to be a favorite catch-phrase; “The Central Catholic Library is truly as old as Ireland herself!” For a few hours, I wrote letters, explored the expansive collection, and soaked in the old book smell and the peace offered from a rainy, busy city outside the door. I was the only one there those 2-3 hours, apart from a brief visit from a middle-aged man.
Although my “Catholic” tour felt a bit lonely much of my trip, something unexpected and beautiful took place towards the end of my stay. I briefly connected with a young man who works in the tech startup community at a function that followed one of the events my team had put together. We began talking about what I would like to see during my last days in Dublin. I told him about my interest in Irish authors and a desire to get out of the city as well. He offered up a visit to Glendalough — the countryside monastic community established by St. Kevin, as well as the James Joyce tower where the opening scenes of Ulysses were set. So it quickly followed that I had a tour guide. The next morning, we met early for coffee and set out for the countryside. The whole way, my guide offered me extensive history of what we were seeing, even reciting pieces from Ulysses while we stopped at the tower.
“Come up, Kinch. Come up, you fearful Jesuit!” He bellowed, much to my surprise (and delight), from the top of the tower, while we looked out over a cold, misty coast.
While on our way to Glendalough, my guide and I talked of many things, and he could sense my excitement to see the monastery remains from a religious perspective. He was mildly surprised by this, and then affirmed the notion that Catholicism was fairly stagnant in the area, particularly among younger people. It’s safe to say that I had started to feel like the only Catholic in Dublin. But I did not feel serious remorse; it just “was” and it would be silly to feel truly shocked.
But here’s the most beautiful part of my entire trip:
While I stopped in the gift shop at Glendalough to pick up souvenirs for family and speak with the owner, my guide slipped out — I presumed he was waiting near the car because I was taking too long. To my surprise, I discovered that he was in the dimly lit, small chapel attached to the shop. He was the only person inside. I waited, not wanting to interrupt, and he emerged peacefully after a few minutes. “I just prayed for the first time in a very, very long time,” he said. “You inspired me.” He went on to describe his estranged relationship with his father, who had done his fair share to damage the family over the years. His resentment towards his father had, it seemed, prevented him from spiritual freedom and peace. But on that particular morning at Glendalough, he was compelled not only to pray, but to light a candle in the chapel for his father.
Thinking of this moment puts things into perspective for me. I often fight so hard to understand and “be” Christian, to seek out the opportunities and spiritual moments I believe I need. But the most beautiful moments, the most genuine ones, are often at unexpected and even messy times — and certainly through other people (always messy). I learned an important lesson that day about influence: it is not mine to give. Simply being who I am, flaws and gifts all at once, I can be a guide of sorts for others. The slightest action or statement, given not from a place of advice but from a mere state of being myself, can create a turning point in someone else’s life. This influence is entirely God’s influence moving through me, as it does through each person. Just “being” is enough sometimes, though this does not remove responsibility. If anything, our level of responsibility should be seen as all the more heavy — for in simply existing as we choose to exist, we are shaping those around us and either hurting or helping them along the way.
Just recently, many months after my Dublin trip, I caught up briefly with my Glendalough guide. I told him that it was a really neat experience for me when he went into the chapel to pray. “I realised that I had stopped praying – not out of apathy but because of the stuff that was blowing up around me,” he said. “If we give up our faith, we ain’t got nothing so thanks so much for helping me to recognise that! Our day out was a great catalyst to remind me that there is a much greater good out there!”
Following this exchange, just this morning, he dropped me a quick note to say: “It’s so weird but, today, we may just have had a massive breakthrough with my father so thanks so much for any thoughts or prayers you may have given us through the night!”
And just like that, I am reminded of God’s influence at work. Still at work. Always at work.