Out of the Ashes

ABOVE A 2002 article in The Irish News headlined “Priests present cheque to minister” is a photograph of a collared clergywoman surrounded by four Catholic priests. They stand shoulder to shoulder, all smiling, looking toward something ahead of them. Dominating the background is the burned-out shell of a church.

The backdrop of this image—destruction and religion—exemplifies Northern Ireland to much of the world. But the foreground, Catholic and Protestant clergy standing together, smiling toward an unknown future, might just represent what Northern Ireland—in spite of and because of its divisive and violent history—has to teach the U.S. and other countries who find themselves caught in a divisive and violent present.

During the predawn hours of Aug. 2, 2002, Whitehouse Presbyterian Church, on the north side of Belfast, went up in flames. The fire was first spotted by a Catholic taxi driver who lived across the street—he was up late that evening. He called the fire department, but there wasn’t much that could be done. By morning, as the bleary-eyed pastor and congregants of Whitehouse arrived, the building had burned to the ground.

Eventually, the fire was ruled arson—the third attempt in the year and a half that Rev. Liz Hughes had served as minister at Whitehouse, acts of destruction born of the ongoing conflict between Protestants and Catholics throughout Northern Ireland. By 2002, it had already been four years since the Good Friday accords were signed and peace was officially declared in the small, British-ruled country, but action had not entirely caught up to policy.

Flying the colors

On that summer night in 2002, fire fueled by deeply rooted division, distrust, and a heritage of hatred lit the Shore Road that links northern Belfast and Newtownabbey, where Whitehouse Church is located. But the next night, a different kind of light was shining. In the middle of a prayer service, a young girl from the Catholic housing estate across the street arrived at the Presbyterian church with her mother, carrying a jar of coins—donations from Catholic families in the neighborhood. Over the next few weeks, Catholic churches in the community followed suit, raising nearly 10,000 pounds (more than $13,000) to support the congregation’s efforts to rebuild.

The photograph celebrating this moment of community offers a powerful symbol of shared identity in a country where symbols and identity mean everything. In the moment that picture was taken—and even today—elsewhere in Belfast and throughout Northern Ireland, Irish flags hang in Catholic neighborhoods while British flags hang in Protestant parts of town. Colors—orange and green and red and blue—carry dangerous weight, and many establishments bear signs forbidding sportswear, which carries its own deeper political significance. In some places, such as Belfast and Derry/Londonderry, dividing walls still stand, as well as countless mural memorials, physical monuments to a long history of violence.

For many in Northern Ireland, identity is deeply rooted in whether you are Protestant or Catholic, Unionist or Nationalist, Loyalist or Republican. And the symbolism embodied in the flags and colors and clothing you display (and even whether you call it Derry or Londonderry) tells the world what you stand for, what you hope for, where you belong, and where you don’t.

Peace efforts in the small country have required looking beyond its own divisive history and finding inspiration and hope in the struggles others have overcome. Murals in Belfast, Derry, and elsewhere depict Che Guevara, Nelson Mandela, Martin Luther King Jr., and other revolutionaries from around the world. In fact, the civil rights movement in Derry/Londonderry made its oak leaf symbol half black and half white in recognition of the U.S. civil rights movement. The choice was meant to remind all those working for justice and equality in Northern Ireland that others had done it elsewhere, and they could too. Decades later, peace workers would take similar inspiration from the movement to end apartheid in South Africa and the struggle for justice and peace in Israel-Palestine.

For members of Whitehouse Presbyterian and its Catholic neighbor St. Mary’s Star of the Sea, the path toward reconciliation has involved not only the influence of other countries and movements, but also a deeper look inward, to the heart of their own community. In the face of the identities of division that have wrought such violence in their country, these churches have spent the last several decades cultivating a profound and lasting relationship. This relationship has included supporting each other in times of crisis, in the face of vandalism and other hateful acts. It has also become a part of their everyday life through shared worship, lunch groups, classes about theology, and learning opportunities for primary school children.

“There is so much more that joins us together: love of Christ, love of neighbor, love of scripture, and, of course, grace,” says Rev. Hughes of Whitehouse.

Out of the Troubles

Despite its sectarian factions, the conflict in Northern Ireland has its roots in politics as much as religion. Centuries before Northern Ireland became its own country, the British government sent English and Scottish Protestants to Ireland to plant settlements, effectively pushing out the native Irish, who were prohibited by Britain from owning land. In the early 1920s, when the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland were established, Catholic Irish Nationalists opposed the division of Ireland while Protestant Unionists supported Britain’s continued rule over Northern Ireland.

In the decades that followed, the divisions between these two groups deepened and formalized. Nationalists were seen as dissenters, and on that basis Unionists were given preferential treatment in housing, employment, and voting rights. In the 1960s, a nonviolent civil rights campaign was started as an attempt to end those discriminations, and tensions between Protestants and Catholics escalated. As paramilitary groups organized and clashed with one another and the police, violence broke out. Bombings, shootings, and murders claimed the lives of both Catholics and Protestants throughout the 1970s, ’80s, and ’90s. This period of violent unrest became known as the Troubles.

The Troubles were felt in northern Belfast as acutely as anywhere else. The community around Whitehouse Presbyterian and St. Mary’s Star of the Sea saw major displacement of Catholic families. The parish saw a staggering drop in members, from 12,000 to 3,000. A checkpoint was set up just outside the Presbyterian church. There was loss of life on both sides—mostly Catholic young men and Protestant police officers. Everyone was affected.

As ceasefires were negotiated and peace efforts unfolded in the 1990s, a peacemaking initiative called Moving Beyond Sectarianism was launched. As part of this movement, Catholic and Protestant congregations throughout the country made strides toward reconciliation and relationship-building. For most communities this meant one shared service a year, usually around Christmas. For Whitehouse and St. Mary’s, it has grown into much more than that. The Northern Ireland conflict so often described in broad terms of sides and factions is, for these churches, a complex story of people and their commitment to move forward together from the violence their country has known.

Anne McDermott has been a member of St. Mary’s Catholic parish for more than 30 years. She’s been involved with the relationship-building efforts since they began two decades ago. There is an unflinching but thoughtful clarity when she speaks about the Troubles and the pain they inflicted on her whole community. Moves toward relationship-building, she explains, were born out of a conviction that in the face of such hardship, it was incumbent upon Christians to reach out to their neighbors. The word “neighbor” has come to hold greater significance than other powerful identifiers, even “Catholic” and “Protestant.”

When asked why efforts toward reconciliation have been so successful in the community, Whitehouse members point out that before the Troubles, before displacement, Protestants and Catholics lived and worked side by side. Many of those most involved in the relational efforts between the congregations are older, and they remember those days—despite the years of violence and unrest, they remember that they were neighbors first.

What forgiveness means

This sentiment had already begun to inspire reconciliation work on the Shore Road when Liz Hughes arrived in December 2000, and it’s a conviction she shares.

Prior to Whitehouse, Hughes had spent eight years in the late ’80s and early ’90s serving as a minister—along with her husband—in Jamaica and on Grand Cayman island. During those years, she watched the conflict in Northern Ireland from a distance. Still, she was no stranger to confronting challenge. She was only the seventh woman ordained to ministry in the Presbyterian Church of Ireland, a denomination that still allows individual churches to reject women as pastors on the basis of “freedom of conscience.” When Hughes came to Whitehouse, she was the first woman to serve as their minister. Despite the challenges this presented, she was drawn to Whitehouse’s warmth and hospitality—the same radical welcome that has propelled their reconciliation work in the community around them.

“If you live out loving your neighbor, sooner or later you’re going to pray together,” Hughes explains. McDermott takes it a step farther. “It’s immoral, actually,” she says, “that we don’t come together to pray more often.”

Whitehouse and St. Mary’s—sometimes with the nearby Methodist and Church of Ireland congregations—pray together and come together a surprising amount. Every year, all four congregations participate in a Good Friday walk. Together, a multigenerational group of Catholics and Protestants carry a wooden cross through the community. They make a stop in each of the four churches, taking a moment in each sanctuary to pray and read from the gospel. They also stop in other vital parts of the community—the nearby housing estate, a shopping center, places that have seen their share of violence. In these spaces, too, they pray to the God they share for peace and for healing.

At sunrise on Easter, the congregations come together again to rejoice in the promise of resurrection and redemption.

Other times of the year, the congregants of Whitehouse and St. Mary’s share in other kinds of fellowship. Children from the Catholic primary school come to visit Whitehouse and learn about the Presbyterian church’s beliefs and traditions. Likewise, the students of the Protestant primary school visit Star of the Sea and learn about the Catholic sacraments and stained glass. Adult members of the community have committed to learning together as well.

Over the years, they’ve taken classes together—one recent series was an exploration of what each tradition believes and the history they share. Hughes points out a surprising piece of common history: In the past Presbyterians were viewed as dissenters, oppressed—alongside Catholics—by the Church of England and British rulers. Both churches were also built, in the same year, to support local millworkers.

Last spring, St. Mary’s and Whitehouse Presbyterian held a joint service in celebration of their mutual 150th anniversary. Roughly 150 members of each congregation came together to sing, worship, pray, remember, and give thanks.

Beyond the bounds of this interwoven northern Belfast community, Northern Ireland today experiences significantly less violence and conflict than it has in the past. Various efforts at reconciliation have taken root all over the country. Still, there are challenges. And even with their impressive efforts, there are challenges facing Whitehouse and St. Mary’s too. For example, Hughes explains that the Protestants she ministers to don’t always understand why Catholics fly the Irish flag. And members of Whitehouse make a point of clarifying that the Protestant schools are the state schools—implying a degree of normativity.

Several years ago, the two congregations shared a class on what forgiveness means. Reflecting on the experience, Catholics and Protestants alike described it as an important but profoundly difficult conversation for their context. And even as they prepared for their joint 150th anniversary celebration, they struggled to balance their different traditions and theology. McDermott described the challenge to find the best way to honor the dead in the service. Praying for the dead is a crucial component in Catholic worship, but less so for Presbyterians. What is largely a liturgical difference carries an extra element of weight when many of the dead being remembered died as a result of sectarian conflict.

Those directly involved in the relationship between St. Mary’s and Whitehouse know that they haven’t always gotten it right. “We made mistakes,” one member admitted. “We still make mistakes.” Ironically, this humility seems to be a crucial component of their success. All involved in the relationship recognize that they have something to learn from one another and still need to grow.

Passing the torch

Perhaps the biggest challenge facing Whitehouse and St. Mary’s, and Northern Ireland as a whole, is the question of what’s next. For the committed group of congregants who have spent the last two decades in relationship, the concern is about younger Christians remaining committed to the work. McDermott points out that St. Mary’s has a dearth of younger members, and says that her hope rests in the young members of Whitehouse taking up the charge. Meanwhile, in December, Rev. Hughes said goodbye to Whitehouse after 17 years of ministry there. Thinking on Hughes’ impending departure, St. Mary’s member McDermott expressed sadness at the loss. “We are going to miss her terribly,” she said. Meanwhile, Hughes said that it will be important for the minister who follows her to remain committed to the relational work, and she believes that they will.

Still, another challenge facing the two congregations is the dwindling number of churchgoers overall. While members of Whitehouse and St. Mary’s are compelled toward reconciliation by their common faith in Christ, McDermott points out that many young people in Northern Ireland want little to do with religion when it seems to have given rise to nothing but conflict. Young people from different backgrounds make friends, with little concern for the Catholic/Protestant divide.

“They don’t talk about religion the same way we would,” McDermott says. “I personally think that’s a good thing.”

Meanwhile, the newest and youngest members of St. Mary’s parish are actually Indian and Filipino immigrants who have created their own worship services and come from an entirely different cultural context, one free of the centuries of Northern Ireland conflict. How these rapidly growing immigrant communities will impact and be impacted by those who lived through the Troubles remains to be seen, but what’s clear is that the future of Northern Ireland will be more diverse and more complex than ever.

For the members of Whitehouse and St. Mary’s who are committed to reconciliation work, the path forward is not entirely clear. Even the destination is murky. In Northern Ireland, reconciliation and peace efforts require reckoning with decades—even centuries—of injustice. But that injustice isn’t only systemic. For almost everyone, it’s deeply personal. When asked how Northern Ireland might achieve a peace that includes justice, McDermott points out that true justice—for the lives lost and trauma endured during the Troubles—isn’t really possible.

“When it’s ‘my father was murdered’—or more like grandfather at this point for so many people—how can you get justice for that? You can’t.” The more crucial question, she says, is how a country moves forward toward reconciliation without the possibility of perfect justice, at least in this world.

While these and many other questions linger, for this community along the Shore Road, one thing is clear: Whatever the future holds, they are moving toward it together, united in a common hope.