Take Me To Church

Domhnall O'Donoghue recalls his years as an altar boy, including his involvement in the mesmerising Easter Week services.

During my final years in primary school, I was an altar boy – and if you'll forgive my boasting, quite a good one at that. However, if it weren't for my steely determination, I mightn't have received the opportunity to follow in the footsteps of my older brothers and don the coveted red and white cassock and surplice.

One afternoon, a priest arrived at our classroom and invited the boys to volunteer for the then popular position – it would take another year before the role was offered to our female counterparts. ­ The arms of six pupils shot up, including mine. Unfortunately, the priest only required five, so the teacher was tasked with making the selection.

"You're involved in enough as it is," he whispered to me, knowing that my extra-curricular activities already included Speech & Drama, dancing and music.

Full of youthful vim and vigour, I had no intention of allowing a busy weekly itinerary to stand in my way, so I marched up to the same priest in the parochial house that evening and boldly listed all the reasons why I'd make a good candidate. Not only was it a successful pitch, but my enthusiasm and commitment were duly noted, and within a year, I received the honour of being the church's head altar boy.

Amongst other responsibilities, this plum position meant that I partook in the lion's share of services throughout the week, notably weddings and funerals, which had the added bonus of being great money-makers. ­ The Best Man or undertaker would reward my contribution with anything from five to twenty pounds – a tidy sum for someone who had yet to make his Confirmation.

HEAVENLY EXPERIENCES

Flourishing finances aside, my dedication to altar serving sprung from my love of acting, convinced that our church – Saint Mary's in Navan - was akin to a theatre with the congregation doubling as the audience. It was certainly no coincidence that a Parisian opera house had inspired the building's architect the elaborate clothing and props were deftly utilised in both settings, along with lighting, music and descriptive narrations. And these theatrical similarities were never more apparent than in the lead-up to Easter.

Most of my peers at that time readily welcomed Easter Week as it heralded the end of Lent and the beginning of chocolate binging - for me, however, my only interest was in the activities taking place in St Mary's. Before the pageantry and joy of Easter Sunday, the various services were unlike anything that I'd ever seen. From Palm Sunday to Spy Wednesday, I was mesmerised by the heightened drama unfolding in the church around me.

Having regularly assisted the sacristans in decorating the beautiful altar over the preceding months, I vividly remember the unadornment of the space on Good Friday. I discovered that it was a prayer service rather than a mass, which included the Stations of the Cross – the 14-step commemoration of Jesus' final days on earth. My eleven-year-old self was unnerved by the absence of the Eucharist while simultaneously being wowed by the sight of a priest traipsing down the aisle, carrying an enormous cross.

WASHING FEET

Once, on Holy Thursday, I abandoned my altar boy duties to assume the role of a 'disciple', which meant that the priest cleaned my feet. Through the eyes of a child, it felt like such a humiliating task for him – and an upending of the traditional hierarchy that existed between the priest and his congregation at that time.

Quoting Jesus, the priest later explained: "You should wash one another's feet. Very truly I tell you, no servant is greater than his master, nor is a messenger greater than the one who sent him."

While I was probably too young to fully grasp the significance of this concept, that question – Are you willing to wash the feet of your neighbours? – is one that we're being asked to consider this Easter as countries like Ukraine endure brutal wars, resulting in untold deaths and thousands of refugees desperately fleeing their homes.

Like others in Ireland, my relationship with the church has changed over the decades, but I firmly believe that at their core, most religions remind us of the importance of caring for others in times of need.

As a child, I was enamoured by the theatricality of Easter Week; as an adult, it's the simple messages like supporting the less fortunate and removing societal hierarchies – evidenced by Jesus washing feet during the Last Supper - that still resonate with me.

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