Church Not Made with Hands
by Noel Harrington.

This story first appeared on the Waterpeople email list, used and visited by worldwide Waterboys fans. Special thanks to Noel Harrington and Waterpeople facilitator Michael Moensters for letting us reprint it. The Waterpeople List can be accessed via our Links page.

a few days before christmas i think it was, and i heard that one of my neighbours had died. he was in his 60's, had down's syndrome, and lived alone with his brother in a run down old house that's somewhere up the hill from me but which i've never seen. now, to look at the brother, you'd think he couldn't even look after himself; never what you'd call clean, unshaven, one or two teeth left, and well known for the porter and the poitin. but i used love to see the two of them driving around, and i met them a few times in the shop, and jimmy would always make a run for the freezer where the ice-creams were, while paddy did the shopping. everybody around had such time for the two of them, and paddy, and i suppose his parents before him, had always ensured there was a place for jimmy in the community, back in the days when mental illness was a very feared thing in rural ireland - 'touched by the hand of god' was one phrase for it.

so on a freezing frosty saturday morning two of my neighbours and myself headed to the church for the funeral mass. and it's rare i find myself in a church, and the things i did and saw as a child week after week, that never struck me as strange or otherworldly, now confront me head on as rituals from a world i have left, and i notice every sound, word, smell, action and response. but this time i wasn't thinking about religion and my relationship with it, with the coffin sitting up beside the altar, and poor paddy there in his best (and i'm sure only) suit i was thinking about irish funerals and the huge part religion and ritual and process plays in them. i'm sure it was all a great comfort to paddy, and the priest spoke about jimmy with great warmth, and commended paddy on the care he had bestowed upon his brother through the years. a cousin did the readings; a woman with a strong voice and clear diction who knew the piece well enough to cast the odd glance around the church, not just saying the words but telling the people, concentrating on their meaning, forcing the audience to hear, and listen. and i heard her say 'the second letter of st paul to the corinthians' and she began.

"For we know that, if our earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, we have a building of God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.."

and i'm afraid i heard no more. a house not made with hands. so that's where it comes from, a way back, paul the convert, paul the proselytiser, saul the former persecutor turned fervent believer and activist, pursuer of the messiah-dream. 2000 years old, those words, translated down the ages, hebrew, greek, latin, english, with meanings beyond the paradox, provoking thought, perhaps bringing solace. and of course to my mind came the song, one of those defining songs, that illuminate a moment in your life and achieve a significance far beyond the hearing of the music and the singing of the words. those first wholesome, upbeat strums of acoustic guitar, sending out a call - this is no ordinary rock song - this is no ooh baby sha la la - this is no self-love, nor self-loathing - this is no cliché- no tune to please the market - this be music, listen, here's piano joining in, listen, drum beat playing to the heart, listen, for what's this coming indefinable, whirl of instruments, sounds, a band of musicians hotting up, what is this? why these goosebumps? what swirling in my head, imagination-alarm bells ringing, heart has been notified - this is something! this, can only be, THE BIG MUSIC! and voice of young singer so joyfully unleashed, no thoughts but to sing 'now she walks in fresh fields, her tracks are on the land, she is everywhere and no place! her church not made with hands!' and brass heralds triumphant chorus, blowing this hope, this belief, effort alchemised into spirit, and somewhere in mid-song all quietens down and piano notes never sounding so pure and full of optimism, this music is an affirmation of life and all the goodness it has to offer, let suffering be for another day, listen to these notes that i play, they are for you, for now, for the joy that my gift can bring you, and isn't that a pretty sun, setting in a pretty sky (can't you just see it? wherever you are now, in office, at home, at night, or stuck in traffic with this song on your tape-deck, can't you see that sunset? isn't it pretty? and don't you respond to the generous offer, the free moments of simplicity and pantheistic inspiration when your friend asks) 'shall we stay and watch it darken?' and wouldn't you just love to stay and watch it darken?

and at service's end, my friends prompt me to join the procession going up to shake paddy's hand, my shyness holding me back, but one of them says she thinks it would mean more to paddy than the discomfort would to me, so i walk up the aisle, shuffle along in line, i see paddy and his bloodshot face and large round eyes as he looks up at every consoler, and he is comforted, and glad to see them there, but when i appear in front of him and take his hand his face lights up and he smiles his big (almost) toothless smile, for he knows i'm not a churchgoer, he knows i'm not really part of this local scene, and even in his grief he can think through these things, and appreciate that i have made an effort for him, and we close all four of our hands on each other, and i say 'how are you paddy?' and he says 'thanks for coming noel' and i put my hand on his old strong shoulder, and we both smile. it is a tremendously humbling moment, and as he introduces me to his extended family 'this is noel, he lives in danny murphy's old house' and they all smile and shake my hand, it's a welcome, welcome young man to our peaceful old valley, and i reach the end of the line and on out to the december sun and the glorious cold.

isn't community a church not made with hands?