An Irish Priest and a Swastika

LENT MEDITATION, 2017

Ephesians 2: 17 - 20

17 He came and preached peace to you who were far away and peace to those who were near. 18 For through him we both have access to the Father by one Spirit.

19 Consequently, you are no longer foreigners and strangers, but fellow citizens with God’s people and also members of his household, 20 built on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the chief cornerstone. 21 In him the whole building is joined together and rises to become a holy temple in the Lord. 22 And in him you too are being built together to become a dwelling in which God lives by his Spirit.

As a boy I grew up Catholic. While I have many memories regarding my religious upbringing, one moment has been forever burned into my mind. My parents, brother, sister and I returned home from a weekend trip out of town to discover something horrific painted on our garage door. On the door, painted in bright red, was a swastika, with the words “GO HOME PAPISTS” written below it.

Having grown up in a neighborhood full of dads who fought in World War II, I knew the meaning of that sign. Then the confusion set in, on many levels. This was my home, so where would I go? Do people think we’re Nazis? The name “Mooney” is Irish, so that made no sense to me. Strangely, one thing is still clear in my mind – the red drips streaking form the words. I remember being afraid someone had written these things with blood.

The next day, at St. Columban Catholic School, my teacher noticed I was upset. I didn’t want to talk about it, yet she remained concerned. She wondered if I’d like to speak with Father Murphy; I nodded. He was always nice to me. I walked slowly to his office. He was standing at the door as I approached, holding a small trash can.

“Good morning, Edward! What brings you to my office?” He said with an Irish brogue woven through the words.

“I don’t know. Sister Teresa thought I should talk to you.” I shrugged as I looked down at the floor.

“Well, it can’t be that you’re in trouble. Is something bothering you?” He trailed off. I nodded.

“Yeah, I guess so, Father.”

Just then Mary Ann walked by – and I felt nervous. Father Murphy must have picked up on my emotions.

“You know, I have to take this trash out to the back. Want to walk with me a bit?” He asked. I nodded. We went through one of the doorways nearby. It was quiet for a bit. Father did not say anything.

“Something happened yesterday, Father, when we came home from Solvang.” I started.

“Ah, Solvang! I do like that town. Wonderful food!” He chuckled lightly.

“Yeah, I like it, too. I got a neat flag of some country called Denmark there.” I said, very quietly.

“Oh, Denmark is a wonderful place. But I don’t believe that a flag of Denmark caused such a long face.” He gently touched my chin. I felt a sob coming up.

“When we got home we saw that someone had painted a swastika and some mean words on our garage, Father.” I blurted out. I felt myself take a deep breath.

“Oh? What words?” He sounded more serious. He squatted down near me and touched my shoulder.  I told him. 

“Oh, Edward, those are terrible words.” Father Murphy said, in a whisper as he arose.

“I don’t understand. Why would someone do that, Father?” I looked directly into his eyes. He paused.

“My son, look over at the parking lot there.” He pointed as he dumped the trash into the large bin.

“I see it.”

“What do you see there?” He asked.

“Two cars.” I answered.  Father Murphy smiled.

“I like your answer. Walk with me…” He said as we turned around.

“Well, it’s just the way it is.” I was more confused.  He stopped walking, and I followed his example.

“You didn’t say, ‘a green car and a white car’, you saw two cars. You saw what made them the same, not what made them different.”

“Okay, but what about the words on the garage door?” I asked as we started walking again.

“Edward, some people focus on what brings us together as followers of Jesus. Other people want to see how we’re not identical. Someone in your neighborhood obviously does not want to see you as being like him.”

“So, people on my street hate me because I’m Catholic?” I asked, with fear in my heart.

“Oh, I believe almost all of them like you just fine…” He said as he tousled my hair. He had a big smile on his face.

“You think so?” I wanted his answer to be “yes”. Father Murphy nodded.  We arrived back outside of his office.

“Just watch, you’ll see. Now, off to class with you!” He squeezed my arm and I returned to my class.

Later, as my mother stopped the car in front of my house, as we arrived home from school, I saw five or six men, with my father, painting the garage door.  I knew the other men did not go to our church, so I was surprised.

“I guess most people do like us…” I said quietly as I remembered the smile on the face of Father Murphy.

Today, I’m concerned that Christianity is in another time of division. Anyone who does not believe exactly as we think is a suspect. Fear, hate and division overpower us at times.

It is my prayer this Lent that we remember the message of verse 19, that tells us that we are “fellow citizens with God’s people and also members of his household.” Let us turn from division and toward that which unites us; let us all be re-painters of garage doors. Let us see two cars, not green ones and white ones. Let love be our guide.

Edward Mooney, Jr.

February, 2017