This photograph shows the outer facade of the
Centenary Methodist Church opposite St Stephen's Green in the centre of Dublin.
It was designed by Isaac Farrell and completed in 1843.
My childhood memories are inextricably entangled
with this building. I can find no contemporary photographs of the interior but
I remember it as having dark wood pews, smelling of furniture polish, and a
balcony extending around the back and sides of the building. At Christmas there
was always a tall tree with bright lights and boxes wrapped in festive wrapping
paper piled beneath the branches. The youngest children would be brought to the
front, clutching their mother's hand, to sing Away in a Manger during the
Christmas morning service.
Some of my earliest memories relate to attending
services here. I recall a service when I was present with my mother and father
and younger brother. I believe my brother would have been about 3 or 4 years
old and had brought some of his favourite model cars to play with. Usually we
sat at the back of the church, as a family, in a designated pew. On this
occasion, far from playing quietly , my brother was noisily pushing his cars up
and down the hymn rest. To my immeasurable embarrassment, the minister singled
him out during a reading and asked him to be quiet.
My grandfather had a life-long service to the
Methodist Church and for most of my childhood acted as one of the 'welcomers'
at the front of the church. This entailed leaving home a bit earlier. He drove
in his remarkable old Humber car which we as children adored. It was the greatest treat to be
allowed to travel with him to church and help place hymn books among the pews
as the church was opened up on Sunday morning. Being of a shy disposition, I
would hover in the background, watching my grandfather shake hands with the
members of the congregation as they arrived.
Both my parents were very musical and enjoyed
singing in the church choir. My mother had a beautiful soprano voice, and I
have clear memories of her singing solos during some of the services. The
biggest event of the year was the annual performance of Handel's Messiah. It
was a long-held tradition that this would be sung every year in December and it
was the highlight of the choir year. Both my parents sang in it and it was a
huge privilege to be deemed old enough to attend the lengthy evening
performance, well past my bed-time. I would follow the words and music from a
full score copy, excited by the rich harmonies and the unusually packed
building with the balcony seating opened up, brightly lit for this special
occasion.
During the normal Sunday services, the children
would file out before the sermon and go
downstairs to the Sunday School class rooms. Many of the children were in
school uniform as the boarders from Wesley College attended. Boys and girls
were together, split into different age groups and the teachers followed a
clear syllabus leading up to confirmation classes for the older children. Parts
of the catechism had to be learnt by heart. It was quite intimidating at times
for a shy young girl, not used to sharing a classroom with boys.
Everyone looked forward to the Harvest Festival
supper. This was a well organised affair with food, craft stalls and games for
the children. Grandmothers and mothers would have knitted for months previously; baby matinee jackets,
scarves, gloves and other small items were all put on sale for the Missions
Overseas. A flurry of baking activity would take place in the days before the
supper. Old fashioned games such as pin the tail on the donkey, musical chairs
and beetle drive for the older teenagers all took place with crowds of excited young children running around.
All this came to an end abruptly in December 1968.
The congregation arrived on a Sunday morning for the traditional carol service
only to find the church smouldering, having burnt down the night before. The
facade remained virtually untouched but the entirety of the building behind was
devastated. I can recall the smell even today, and the shocked and horrified
faces of family and acquaintances. I was sixteen at the time, not quite adult. Traumatised
by this event, I can recall pouring my feelings into a poem. The poem is long
since lost, but I believe it was read at a service, introduced as having been
written by a young member of the congregation without mentioning me by name. I
heard it said later that the care-taker had been responsible for the arson
attack, and that he was standing among the crowds that morning, watching the fire
brigade and onlookers to gauge their response.
That cold morning we were welcomed into the Wesley
College Memorial Chapel which was next
door to the smoking building. Many were in tears and it was with difficulty
that the familiar Christmas carols were sung. I think I grew up that day, the
security of the warm encompassing community shattered, never to feel quite the
same again.
http://www.methodistcentenary.ie/history.html
CP Nov 2013
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