The Sermon

Irish Jesuit Province

The SermonAuthor(s): Mary ClareSource: The Irish Monthly, Vol. 65, No. 764 (Feb., 1937), pp. 124-127Published by: Irish Jesuit ProvinceStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20514078 .

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124

The Sermon BY MARY CLARE.

HE young man was at 12 o'clock Mass; as near to the door as he could get. If there had been a later Mass, he would have been at it. A fellow wants a bit of a sleep on

Sunday mornings, after the long week's poring over cheques and banknotes, current accounts and deposit receipts-all other

people's money-yes, yes, he knew all that. The sermon was a drawback, no doubt. But it could not be

helped. Sometimes he listened vaguely: sometimes he did not listen, vaguely -or otherwise. This morning he had his mind set on that bet he was going to win-with other people's money. He jerked his mind away again. " Straight tip. The dark horse.

Wednesday, the race-day. " He wished it was over, all the same, for it was the deuce of a worry to have that money in his keeping.

Supposing anything happened him-it to be found on him here in the pocket of his vest! Why the devil had he meddled with it at all? What matter! It would be all put back by that day

week. Unconsciously he drew a deep breath. The priest was preaching. Nothing special in the way of

voice. What had he been saying a minute ago? Something about loving God as we would love a good father. The young

man thought of his own father. He had not been particularly good, nothing to write home about, just ordinary-all the same he had been a brick about that mitching-when himself and the brothers did a bunk and went off to Punchestown instead of school. How wretched he had felt that evening-innocent that he was !-and how he had dodged upstairs after the father going



THE SERMON 125

to his room for the night-without a candle, as was his way-and just blurted out the confession, standing in the dark inside the bedroom door. And the father. It was " not the thing to do, of course," he said-an unusual gravity in his voice, and yet a sort of great love-but now it had been made all right. And there was never a syllable about it to the brothers after-no more

than if he had made confession to the priest. What was that this priest above here was saying?-that fear

was a good thing, but, none the less, love might dwell with fear, and light up its darkness as stars make beautiful the midnight.

God was our Father, loving us, craving for our love just like any father in the world-" Son, give me thy heart." What had we that we had not received from this good Father, " of Whom is all Paternity "?

The young man's mind made a sudden leap towards bank clerk Jim O'Halloran, and his two-year-old son-the wife coming into the bank one day, unexpectedly, with news of a sudden salmon bestowed by a country cousin; and Jim was to be sure and be home for dinner up to time, and not have the fish spoiled. Jim did not appear to pay overmuch attention to the salmon, but was wholly immersed in attention to the very plain-faced child who had chosen (with the perversity of human nature) to " take

after " his ugly father rather than his handsome mother. " Where's the boy? " Jim was outside the bank counter, the

two-year-old lifted high in athletic arms. " Where's the maicin?

Where's the smile for Daddy? " The child's face lit up, curi ously radiant over its plainness. " Look, mammy ! Look at the radiator. Look, old man ! " The young man hailed as " old

man " had been certainly impressed. Love was a queer thing, no mistake, specially in fathers. " Of Whom is all Paternity

"

-that was what the priest had been saying when his hearer's mind went off to Jim O'Halloran. The priest was speaking still.



126 THE IRISH MONTHLY

"Christ is our Brother. And such a Brother! Think of the poor Magdalen crouched trembling on the ground before the presence of this great Prophet of the Most High. ' Where are they that accuse thee ? ' ' There is none, Lord.' ' Then, neither

will I accuse thee. Go in peace, and now sin no more.' Peace for her, yes; but He who gives it pays the price-in fear, and long agony, and sweat of blood under the quiet grey olives of

peace in Gethsemane garden: in the savage scourging, and the crowning of mocking thorns: in the terrible nailing of hands and feet: in the desolation of that darkest hour of all when the Father hid His Face. Surely the chastisement of her peace was upon

Him! "

The young man at the end of the church cannot but listen now.

Think of the bandit, bound to his own cross, there by the

side of this strange malefactor who, standing before the power of Imperial Rome, had claimed a Kingdom not of this world. How did that young robber hear those unexpected words, as he,

too, stood in Pilate's court, awaiting the dawn that was to seal his eyes in darkness-condemned to death, ' and we indeed

justly,' as he said, after, with a queer honesty of speech for all

he was a robber, ' but this man hath done no wrong.' He had

heard, at first, perhaps, unheeding; or, it may be, in surprise

that mocked, like those others who were not wise enough to fear

as Pilate feared. But when a yet darker hour was upon him, in the black eclipse of Calvary, amid the horrible confusion of

half-seen moving shapes and taunting voices. There, the words

came back; for words like these have a strange power of silent

reiterance in the soul. The Light shined in the darkness-and

now the darkness did not refuse to comprehend it. ' Lord, remember me when thou shalt come unto thy Kingdom! '

; This day thou shalt be with me in Paradise.' Surely, the whole



THE SERMON 127

great heart of Christ is in that answer. 0 Lord, 0 Lord "-the priest's voice had a kind of agony in it-" how is it with us that we know these things, and yet go on committing sin."

The young man at the end of the church, with the layer of stolen bank-notes over his heart, just holds himself still.

The deep Mass proceeds. Pater noster qui es in ccelis sanctificetur nornen tuum....

"A gnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi. . a . Lamb of God, who takest away the sins of the world. . .

"Domine, non sum dignus. . The young man, very near the door at the end of the church,

with the layer of stolen bank-notes over his heart, has his face buried in his hands.

And his hands are wet.

With great good cheer, Monday morning's sun looks in

through the big windows of the bank. The two clerks are in occupation, one just arrived, and looking round him with the newcomer's inquisitive eye. " What are you fuastherin' over

those notes for? Didn't you count them the last day?" ' I wanted to make sure they were all there," says that other

young man, who has brought his soul safe by the mercy of the

Most High. " Where else would they be? " demands easy-going Jim

O'Halloran. " Don't get panicky. God is good." " He is that," says the young man. There is a smile on his

face, a sort of radiance that curiously reminds the father of " the smile for Daddy "on the face of his own little son.



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