The church was finished. Having moved out in January, we came back in October. We left dampness and dirt; we returned to brightness and light. All involved in this transformation had learned something in the process. Three groups had set out on the journey: the parish; the building and finance committees; the design team. We on the committees were piggy in the middle.
Our first lesson began with the front wall of the church: it was a beautiful old stone wall, but the experts claimed that it was responsible for some of the interior damp because in earlier days it had been plastered. They assured us that it was never intended to be bare-faced and that it would have to be re-plastered. We reluctantly agreed. When the plastering began, a few growls of protest were heard around the parish; we explained, but the parish was not quite convinced.
Our next hurdle was trees. In front of this gracious old church, like a dirty dribbler around a baby’s neck, lay an ugly expanse of tarmacadam. We decided to soften its harshness with elegant beech trees. They would frame the church, and as they grew larger the lower branches could be trimmed and cars could park beneath them. When the trees appeared, there were more growls of protest: the five trees were taking up the space of five cars! Cars, it seemed, were now more important than trees. We were learning fast: don’t dare change anything.
So far the committee and the design team had agreed. But when we moved inside the church we locked horns. New liturgy and old parish practices do not always dance happily together. After the Vatican Council, parish priests and bishops had lost their common sense and nobody had cried stop; old saints had tumbled off pedestals and altars had been carted away.
Now we had more new liturgy. Rome had looked at the sanctuary area of her churches and had decided that all tabernacles and sanctuary lamps should be moved. But Innishannon is a long way from Rome and what works in the Vatican did not necessarily suit our small church; we decided that we would not be moved. Our liturgist was a bit put out by our reluctance to adopt the new thinking but we stuck to our guns and the tabernacle stayed in the same place, and the sanctuary lamp was moved just a little sideways to give an unimpeded view of the beautiful stained-glass window on the back wall. We won that round but gave in on the statues. And, boys, o boys, did we live to regret it.
The baptismal font was another story. The new liturgy decreed that it should be placed inside the main door. Now, putting a baptismal font in the middle of the only aisle of a small country church is not a practical proposition. It would block coffins coming in and brides going out. The male brains of Rome are far removed from the practical reality of ordinary parish living. No woman would have come up with such a daft idea! She would have anticipated the possibility of coffins being upended as bearers had to co-ordinate a sideway swing, or an excited bride falling over an unexpected obstacle on her dash to the altar. The chances of photographers using it as a grandstand for the perfect picture were not outside the realms of possibility. We argued with the liturgist and verbal battles ensued. He explained the symbolism of the cleansing baptismal font at the entrance and we could understand where he was coming from; it was fine for the sweeping aisles of cathedrals but would be a major traffic hazard in our small church. Eventually logic won the day and the font was placed into a recess halfway up the aisle, in front of the confessional. There, families had ample space to gather around for baptisms.
The next struggle was over the floor. One expert wanted to dig up the terrazzo and insert under-floor heating. It would be a very expensive job but design teams are not overly concerned with expense, whereas we had to answer to the parish. That apart, this floor had a lot going for it. Its delicately coloured mosaic designed to the contours of our church was an example of the skill of the original craftsmen. It was in perfect condition and, as well as being easy to maintain, it was bright and clean-looking. The decision hung in the balance until one morning a stonemason whose opinion carried a lot of weight strode in the door and asserted authoritatively, “That’s a grand floor: don’t touch it.” He saved the day. The floor was polished and now looks great.
One of the most delightful experiences in the whole process of renovation occurred when the front of the choir gallery was slowly stripped of its old coat. For years it had been painted a depressing brown with sludge-yellow panels. The day the old coat was removed, out came rich oak panelling. It was unbelievable that for years this wonderful wood had been hidden from view. Now it glowed in all its perfection right across the centre of the church. Its emergence completely transformed the view from the front door. In earlier years, the choir had performed from this gallery, until the ceiling fell in on top of them. Then they moved up beside the altar. After the restoration, they opted to stay put. Some parishioners thought that they should have gone back to the gallery from where they linked the congregation with the altar; others agreed that they should stay up front where there was unity between them and the altar.
The old sacristy had become a terrible dumping hole, but now, having been cleared of all its detritus, it was transformed into a comfortable prayer room. A glass arch now linked it to the sanctuary, which made it a pleasant place for the infirm and parents and toddlers to attend mass. It previously had one large PVC window facing north, with a bleak view. A rich stained-glass window of the Good Shepherd, designed in the style that was contemporary with the original church, was donated to replace this. For the back porch two more stained-glass windows were donated, one depicting St John at his desk scripting “The angel of the Lord declared unto Mary” and a companion for the opposite wall illustrating this story.
The original plans called for a very impressive new confessional to be constructed to the left of the back door. But budgetary needs kept it in its original place, which in retrospect was much better. Sometimes it can be good to be on a budget. As well as that, confessionals are no longer deemed necessary as sins have gone out of fashion.
The elegant steeple was rebuilt and years of weeds and shrubs removed from between the cracks in its stone work. The magnificence of the wonderful arched ceiling was highlighted with subtle colour contrasts, while up-lighting raised your eyes in its direction. Our church was now a thing of beauty and a joy forever.
When all was complete, the official opening was presided over by our bishop, John Buckley, a West Cork bowler who had never lost the common touch. Many exclaimed with “Oohs” and “Ahs’’ as they entered the church. But one man was not impressed: “What did ye do with all our money?” he demanded. “Sure there’s nothing changed.”
Unfortunately one thing had been changed that we should have left alone. We had moved statues. Or to put it more correctly, we had not challenged the liturgical decision that they should be moved. Our Lady had gone from the sanctuary and had been raised to an elevated position in the choir gallery. From there she could look down over the church. The Sacred Heart was now on a pedestal inside the main door, where he could watch the comings and goings. With outstretched arms he welcomed in his flock.
At first, there was no reaction to the moved statues, but then a gentle murmur came from the grassroots. It grew to a faint grumble and slowly swelled into an intermittent wail. Then it turned into a deafening roar. For a historical record, we had provided a leather-bound visitors’ book inside the front door. We felt that it would be nice to have a record of parish visitors and, most of all, of returning immigrants. But it soon became a conduit for the statue protest and turned into a complaints manual. Trying to pour oil on troubled waters, Gabriel placed a halo on Our Lady. She might have been impressed, but not her supporters. The strange thing was that nobody worried about the poor Sacred Heart. It seemed that he could have emigrated and nobody would have cared, but his mother’s move was upsetting half the parish.
Then Our Lady decided to take action. One night, she climbed down over the gallery, went straight up the church, and took up her old position to the right of the tabernacle. She called to her son and heir to come back up to his rightful place. When he arrived, she sent for St Joseph and told him to go down and mind the main door. After all, Joseph was the man of the house and it was his job to welcome in the visitors. Then peace reigned.
It was great to have the job done, but we were only halfway there because we had another church in the northern side of the parish which was in a worse state than St Mary’s and was awaiting restoration. The parish had been divided by the West Cork railway line: Knockavilla lay to the north and Innishannon to the south. It created an artificial border in the parish and introduced a north–south mentality. The railway closed in 1962 but the division was still in the mental geography of some parishioners. The fundraising, however, was intended for both churches and embraced the entire parish, which was very good for cross-border relations.
Having just finished one church restoration, facing into another was a daunting prospect. Then God decided to give us a break. A wealthy and generous parishioner donated a million. It was a mighty boost to our fundraising. We were delighted for ourselves but also for Fr Kingston, who had bent over backwards to keep us all happy. That he had succeeded was a bigger miracle than the moving statues!