Friday, March 15, 2013

The Day I Realised I Wasn't a Catholic!

I was raised in a Catholic family and attended RC schools until I was 18. Three of my Grandparents were Irish who moved to Bradford in the north of England before WW1, but I never knew them because they had all died before I was born. So to say that I come from an Irish Catholic family is a bit of a stretch because we had no links with the old country, and if asked I would have said I was from Yorkshire. In fact the only Grandparent I did know was a true Yorkshireman. Bradford was a boom town in the 19th Century and attracted Irish people looking for work. My Irish Grandfather, Patrick, had several brothers who emigrated to the USA. Bradford obviously had its attractions, with a sizeable population of Irish descent, even having its own soccer team, Bradford Park Avenue with its Celtic-like strip. Bradford City Football Club being its protestant counterpart.

If my ties to Ireland were tenuous my connection to the RC church was little better - I did the stuff required by the Catholic school system but had no personal attachment or sense of belonging. At primary school it was expected that all the lads would serve as altar boys in the parish church on a Sunday. I refused point blank, not that I was making any courageous sort of 'statement' by it, I just felt it looked daft! I gathered later that the Head-Sister (we were taught by nuns) spoke to my parents about this; 'doesn't he realise what an honour it is?!' In fairness to my parents, who were regular church-goers, they never pressed the issue and when I was 13 they allowed me to decide if I still wanted to go to church. I did not.

Despite going through a 'raving atheist' phase in my teens, in one respect being Catholic did remain with me. In the late 1960's when I was 10 or 11 years old 'The Troubles' started in Northern Ireland and I vividly recall the parish priest coming to our house and speaking to my mother about the possibility of the violence spilling over to the UK mainland. My mother was in genuine fear and even though I didn't understand all that was said, being of a sensitive nature too I registered that sense of foreboding. Occasionally school would finish early and I recall that we would be told to go home directly when rumours circulated that gangs were planning to target Catholic kids - often in response to some IRA bomb outrage. Looking back now it may seem far-fetched that 'The Troubles' should affect us but the fear was genuine enough at the time, even if it never came to anything.

When I was 17 I started attending an Evangelical church and it grieved me that some people I knew felt a sense of betrayal far more acutely then than when I had ceased to attend Mass.

Later when I left school, in 1976, my first job was working in the Criminal Litigation department of a firm of solicitors in Bradford. The senior partner was an amiable gent called Desmond Joyce who, as this story will go on to relate, was a pillar of the Irish Catholic community, a point I had completely failed to register. One day I took a phone call for Mr Joyce from his golf partner arranging a game, I wrote down his name phonetically having asked him to repeat it a couple of times. Later I passed on the message to the Senior Partner, 'an Italian bloke called for you' I said. He looked mystified, slowly I read out the name, 'a Signor Roncelli'. Mr Joyce looked at me in despair, 'that should be Monsignor Ron Kelly, stupid boy!'
That was the day I realised that I really wasn't a Catholic!