Sarah Harte: At the risk of sounding like a character from Father Ted, hands off our Angelus

Senator Rónán Mullen came up with the 30-second moment of reflection to reflect “the solemnity of all people, believers or non-believers”, but more of him later.

The Social Democrats want the prayer and 30-second period of reflection to be replaced with one minute of silence to reflect “the increasingly secular practice of the public who elect us, and that respects the beliefs and conscience of those of all faiths and none.” 

They are correct that we live in an increasingly secular society. Who we are is a complicated question, with almost one in five people living on the island not born here. 

When diverse people who naturally have little common cultural identity are brought together, this inevitably means revising identities and interests at a community and national level. Yet, you would hope that we could cumulatively culturally adapt without entirely erasing distinctly Irish traditions.

The Social Democrats' desire for something that reflects all our belief systems raises the larger question of whether such a thing exists. The monomania for finding common ground often springs from a delusion that all differences can be reconciled, from a well-meant insistence that everything and everyone are fundamentally the same.

In a good-natured and respectful discussion on Newstalk's The Hard Shoulder (always worth a listen), the Soc Dem’s Gary Gannon told Kieran Cuddihy that he finds it hard to buy into the prayer and would prefer something more mindful as the prayer reflects just one type of tradition and would like something more inclusive.

The word inclusive is complicated. On one level, you think, yes, sign me up. On the other hand, when you scratch the surface, you figure out that too often, being inclusive is a kind of cultural globalism masquerading as pluralism that flattens out national culture to the point that you have a flat, characterless nothing.

If you try to create something universal, everything unique becomes bland, representing nobody and saying nothing. You end up with an anodyne relativism. Call it the Starbucks effect. One cool coffee shop in Seattle mushrooms worldwide, and kaboom, streets in towns and cities everywhere start to feel the same.

Senator Rónán Mullen naturally had a different view on the abolition of prayer. He got his usual dig in about our abortion laws, still finding it hard to accept that this horse has bolted, although he is entitled to his opinion. 

However, he did make an interesting point about how you would find it hard to find a functioning democracy in the Middle East and how the Christian tradition, as it has evolved, is what we take for granted today as human rights. Host Kieran Cuddihy largely agreed.

Certainly, one view is that the development of human rights on a legal, philosophical, and political basis owes a huge debt to the story of Christianity. However, the topic is one of endless academic debate, with a contrary view being that Christianity borrowed from non-religious and postmodern thinkers and that contemporary rights language clashes with Christian values — big ideas for big thinkers.

On a more prosaic level, Mullen is correct when he says that you don’t have to be a believer to appreciate that the Dáil prayer is distinctly Irish.

I will say this: bowling around Cork City on Saturday, enjoying a rare day of sun, religious freedom was in full evidence. A gentleman on the Grand Parade handed me several leaflets on the Quran and asked if I had a moment to talk. I didn’t, but I was happy to take the leaflets.

Entering and exiting Saudi Arabia in the 80s and 90s, no such religious tolerance was extended. The public observance of any religion other than Islam is verboten. You had to be ultra-careful to ensure that no piece of fiction or non-fiction you were carrying had any religious reference, either direct or indirect, never mind carrying religious memorabilia or having any sign of Christianity on clothing or your person. 

Standing in the airport wearing an abaya, hostile men went through your suitcase, rifling through everything, making sure you hadn’t breached these rules before tossing your stuff back at you.

When you spend time under a regime like that, you quickly appreciate the benefits of a pluralistic society, where a state allows and encourages diverse cultural practices, opinions and beliefs.

Later, on Saturday, on Patrick Street, I came across a group of apple-cheeked nuns doing a brisk trade at their stall, selling ointments, soaps, and religious books. I purchased a €3 Organic Plantain salve with essential oils promising to heal bites, stings, burns, wounds, and cold sores. 

Stamped on the back, it says the Carmelite nuns made it. When I asked where the nuns were based, they said Ballydehob. These may be the nuns whom the Irish Carmelite Order in Ireland has said are not part of their gang — the only Carmelite convent in Cork on the order's official website is in Kinsale — and whom the Bishop of Cork and Ross said do not belong to any religious community in communion with the Catholic Church. 

Whatever. The point is they were free on Saturday to do their thing because our culture empowers people's differences regarding religion.

There is something joylessly arid about the move to ban the Dáil prayer. Of course, Church and State should be separate; we know the consequences of the reverse. Even Pope Francis has stated that: “States must be more secular”.  

This inevitably brings us to the Angelus which RTÉ has been publicly broadcasting since 1950. A breach of our political secularity? Technically, yes. What does this pre-recorded bell say to people? 

A horrendous “tanks on the lawn” anachronism or a daily activity that reminds them of the mystery of existence. For others, it may be a simple reminder to take a breath during their frantic day. Or maybe it is just a signal that lunch beckons or the day’s work draws to a close.

As Michael Coady’s beautiful poem Two for a Woman, Three for a Man reads:

Throughout the wider circle of the year 

the bell tolls for each human death

and people in pubs and shops,

or leaning on the bridge

raise their heads

and count the strokes:

two for a woman, 

three for a man

On his death last year, his publisher, Gallery Press, wrote: “His writing emerges from an intimately known anchorage of place, with abiding themes of transience and continuity.” 

Anchorage of place is an important, valuable concept. Traditions can evolve, but sometimes they represent our uniqueness. In a world of flux, they can feel familiar and reassuring.

I hope they keep the prayer, particularly ‘as Gaeilge'.’ And at the risk of sounding like a character from Father Ted, hands off our Angelus.