Article on John O'D
Gabrielle DEAN
A brave sacrificial activist goes on his voyage to God
Philosopher and poet John O Donohue was like an Irish Moses to the alienated faithful, writes Eoin O Suilleabhain
Sunday January 20 2008
Some people are just supposed to grow old and always be there. John O Donohue died last week, a day before his 54th birthday was one of them. His website says he passed away in his sleep on holidays in France.
John O Donohue, it could be said, was a trailblazer who defined the shelf-title of one of Ireland's best-selling cultural exports -- Celtic Spirituality. Failte Ireland should have had a representative at his funeral considering the hordes of crystal-bearing New Agers that scour the west coast searching for their Celtic soul, excitedly exchanging their dollars for our harp-clad coins: John kept up our side of the bargain.
His book Anam Cara, Irish for "soul friend" was published in 1998 and was an international best-seller. The London Times described it as a living epic prayer. World famous spiritual author Deepak Chopra wrote that anyone who read this book would have a powerful and life-transforming experience. The book was described as answering the yearnings at the heart of people alienated today. His subsequent books, Eternal Echoes, Divine Beauty and Benedictus, and his poetry collection Connemara Blues are each masterpieces of the spirit in their own way.
The Welsh poet and close friend of John's, David Whyte describes him as a love-letter to humanity, a serious philosopher, a critical take-no-prisoners thinker, the responsible head of a close, extended family and a courageous, almost sacrificial activist. As part of the Burren Action Group, he took the Government to the Supreme Court to stop the building of an interpretive centre in a totally undeveloped area on the Burren, and won. Philosopher, theologian and poet Mark Patrick Hederman describes him as a poet and prophet to those who believe in God in a vivid, robust and tactile way.
John was one of many Irish men of his generation who joined the priesthood and found that they had to leave it -- after some 19 years.
I knew John as a friend of my mother, Noirin Ni Riain. They had toured together in the US, Noirin singing and John reading, and Noirin had come home with some hilarious and moving stories of their time on the road. One gig in Chicago was very modestly attended (purely due to the lack of any publicity of course), and just before the performance John said to her not to mind the small crowd; they would mind each other.
John edited Noirin's PhD in theology and helped her hugely in shaping the final drafts. I remember, in the final stages of the thesis delivery, he used to roar laughing down the phone, "the bacon's at the gate Noirin, you just have to bring the bacon in from the gate!" She had to explain to me that bacon used to be delivered and left at the gate of houses in rural Ireland.
I first met John when he came down to Glenstal Abbey in 2004. We were recording an album with Noirin, the monks and Sinead O Connor called Biscantorat -- The Sound of the Spirit. Noirin had invited him to read some of his poetry for the recording from his then yet unpublished collection Connemara Blues. She had told us to watch out for his laugh, that he had the most amazing loud and warm laugh. She always quoted Dostoyevsky as saying that a person can be judged by the way they laugh. And John's laugh was a rare gem.
The morning before the recording, my brother, myself and Noirin were talking about John over breakfast. When she told him we were calling him a 'legend', he fell around the church laughing.
Last Saturday, we drove down to John's funeral. We shared a car with two other legends of Celtic Christianity, Sean O Duin and Mark Patrick Hederman, both Benedictine monks at Glenstal Abbey, Co Limerick. Noirin had been asked to sing after the communion. She had been asked to sing the Beatitudes, Jesus' first sermon, "blessed are the poor in spirit, blessed are those who mourn".
The funeral was in a tiny little church up on a hill overlooking the Atlantic out to the Aran Islands in a village called Fanore in the Burren, county Clare. We arrived there early. As we approached, traffic wardens in high-vis rain gear directed us to the caravan park nearby.
In the freezing morning wind, with the grey sky racing overhead and the sound of the ocean behind us, we made our way on foot. I was carrying Noirin's small Indian harmonium in it's red leather case over my shoulder, keeping my head down on the rough road by a little rocky river that flowed from a gap between two stony hills.
Turning round the corner of the stone wall into the churchyard, I saw the big white marquee put up for the mourners. The church was tiny and could fit maybe a maximum of 150. We were seated up in the front row. Behind was Minister Mary Hanafin. I overheard her saying that she was in college with John and that they had been involved in debating together.
I had wondered before the funeral what the reaction of the Church would be. Had his ex-employer totally shunned him, accusing him of turning his back on his vocation? I didn't know what to expect, but that was certainly not the case.
We were early, but as the little church filled up the amount of priests filling up the tiny altar space kept increasing. There must have been nearly 40 of them huddled around on small chairs, bustling for space. I even saw one trying to take another's chair while he kneeled over to whisper to one of his colleagues.
There were two bishops there as well, and Noirin also pointed out Eamon Casey to me. He was sitting up around the crowded altar too, though he wasn't wearing the white vestments of the others. He had a black suit on with a white collar. I had thought that he was a representative from the 'other persuasion' and it took me a few seconds to recall where I'd heard the name before.
John O Donohue never really left his vocation. Hederman describes his books Anam Cara and Devine Beauty as liturgical texts and homilies showing the reader how beauty shines forth from the realities of daily life. His books touched the lives of so many, so deeply and in such a spiritual way.
I can't help comparing his leaving of the priesthood with the difficult reality that so many people of his generation also experienced in trying to live within the Catholic Church. How many people have been alienated from the rites of the sacraments and the sharing of Communion because of their right to intimacy; their right to separate from marriage; their right to sexual expression; their right to be women treated equally?
In my mind, I see John as an icon of a Celtic Moses, leading his generation out of the desert of old Catholic Ireland. He was searching for the promise that is there within the Catholic tradition. In a BBC interview he said, "the things I think the Catholic Church are really wonderful at are things like the sacramental structure, the mystical tradition, the prayer tradition, the intellectual tradition, which can hold their own with the best in any religious system".
The main thing that struck me from the funeral last Saturday was how much that man was loved. The word funeral just doesn't describe what I experienced there. The warmth of the love in that church burned so warmly in through the fog of sorrow that the promise of its lifting was quite clear.
His brother Pat told a story typical of his uproarious wit. A farmer was on his way to market one morning with a pig under his arm when he met a man on the road. The man said, "Where are you off to with that pig under you arm?," and the farmer said, "I'm off to market to sell him. I'm going to sell all my pigs today."
"And how many pigs would you have?"
"I've four pigs at home, and when I've sold this pig, I'll go home for the next one until all my pigs are sold."
"But why are you carrying the pigs one by one? Surely that's a terrible waste of time?"
"Ah sure, what's time to a pig?"