Genealogical Jaunts

The grounds to the Knock Shrine are beautifully kept. There’s a small pond below the Cathedral and a cemetery at the rear of the grounds. The cemetery is on a hill and holds an impressive number of tall and sculptured monuments near the entrance. Late in the afternoon the spikes of the monuments cross the blades of the devil’s smile piercing the blue cumulus and bestow solemnity on the soul. Near the southern end of the Knock complex is a wonderful folk museum. This museum, which can be entered for a small fee, includes recreations of peasant life in the nineteenth century. The ancestors didn’t seem to have it so bad, according to the recreations I saw—no dung heaps at the doorway, no cows in the kitchen—but I think the downplaying of adversity was for the benefit of tourists, who have an idealized image of great-grandpappy and his family. As might be expected, Church history is prominently featured, including vestments belonging to Archbishop John McHale, a controversial cleric in his day. Between the churches and the museum is a path on which pilgrims make the Stations of the Cross. It was midway on this path, along about the Sixth Station, that we had the most entertaining encounter of our visit to Erin. Standing at the station was a stout, black-haired gentleman of around forty years. He wore black trousers and coat and a thick black sweater. He carried a large duffel bag, also black. He looked at me and I looked at him and I knew I was going to have the touch laid on me just as Veronica was about to wipe the face of Jesus. “Good afternoon, Father,” I said. “Good afternoon. Have you a tract concerning Our Lady of Knock?” He pulled a holy card from the duffel bag. It was a representation of Our Lady of Guadalupe. I reached in my pocket for a donation. I was unfamiliar with Irish coins and fumbled with my fingers to find a donation that wasn’t embarrassingly small or embarrassingly large. “Are you not from here?” he asked. “We’re from New Jersey.” He looked a little confused, so I added, “We live just across the river from New York City.” “That would be America. You have a truly fine cardinal in Cardinal Cushing.” “It’s Cardinal O’Connor.” “He’s cardinal of the great Cathedral on Third Avenue.” “It’s Fifth Avenue.” “It’s the Cathedral of St. Peter and Paul.” “It’s St. Patrick’s Cathedral.” It began to dawn on me that he wasn’t a priest, but a pilgrim overwhelmed by religious preoccupations. I felt around in my pocket for a small donation. “Have you then heard of the Sister Faustina?” “We have not.” “Sister Faustina was a most holy woman whom God is sure to raise to sainthood. Let me give you her tract.” He reached in the bag and handed me a tract. It was a representation of St. John Bosco. “Are you familiar with—dear me, who is that famous saint from Mexico?” “There must be a lot of Mexican saints.” “He was a most beloved and holy man. He traveled widely and wrote many profound sermons. His greatest sermon concerns the Four Ecclesiastical Virtues.” He remembered three. At this point we took leave of this gentle, and rather flustered, pilgrim. I was two tracts heavier and a few coins lighter, but I was glad to be of service as he honed his proselytism on holy ground.