BEATS OF LOVE
187. Father John Scanlon
FATHER JOHN arrived at our parish during a time of forced transition. His mission was to build a new church, but we were stubbornly attached to the "Wig-Wam," our cosy social club-turned-worship space. Because my father managed the parish accounts, we knew everyone.
That intimacy vanished when Father John brought in his own team. He made it clear we needed to migrate to the new building, completely discarding the warm folk masses and jovial spirit of our previous priest.
My father was the first to bail. He shifted to dropping us off at the curb and retreating home to the sanctuary of his Elvis records. After he died suddenly, and my hangovers devolved into comedowns, I bailed for good too, though not before confessing to wanking, a sin met with total priestly indifference.
My mother, an elegant, sharp-minded beauty and clinical snob (it’s a miracle I crawled out of her), lasted longer. When Father John called round some months after the funeral, she foolishly expected a welfare check. Instead, he dropped off a stack of mission boxes and asked her to distribute them. Painfully shy, she was utterly appalled. Not long after, she bailed too.
Father John re-entered my life while I was holed up in my elderly aunt’s spare bedroom. I spent many nights curled up on her sofa while she attended church functions. Following her husband's death, Father John and the wider parish had thrown her a vital lifeline. Yet despite this, when my mother and I returned to church, my mother adamantly insisted we go to the one in the neighbouring town.
The true complication arose when I volunteered at the local school and witnessed a gentler side to him. The tension peaked when I had to request his permission to marry outside the parish. It turned out he knew far more about me and my family than I realised; our distance visibly wounded him. It left me utterly overwhelmed by a conflicting mix of guilt and emotion.
When our two parishes amalgamated, I was stuck for a Lent resolution. Then I ran into Father John. He gave me a jovial smile and a pat on the shoulder, and I attended his weekday Lent masses. I’ve been going ever since. If he can push through these masses in his ninetieth year, I can certainly attend them on my days off. It’s part spiritual recharge and part massiv respect for a misunderstood titan of our community.
In stepping into his church anew, I realise he hasn’t just built a structure of brick and mortar; he has quietly, painstakingly, spent a lifetime building us.
