When Archdeacon Cathal McCarthy died on the morning of December 27th, 1997, many of his friends and acquaintances remarked that the occasion was "the end of an era". The reflection had a distinct point but not, I think, the whole point.
Not only had his life spanned most of the current century (he was well into his 85th year), but he had lived through and experienced all the elements that made this century a significant one in both Church and State. He had experienced two world wars, with all their political, social, demographic, cultural and religious implications. He had lived through that most significant religious event of the century - the Second Vatican Council. He had at all times during that period, and until his death, steadily avoided the excesses which the council evoked in so many other quarters - from those who greeted the dawning of a whole new Catholic Church to those who refused to admit any change whatever (a group which, contrary to a myth engendered by some elements of the media, Archdeacon McCarthy publicly pointed out had never included his archbishop and friend, the late Dr John Charles McQuaid).
His priestly life - from which, as with the great majority of his companions at that time, he never even thought of deviating - began when, at a slightly earlier age than usual, he was ordained for the ministry of the Archdiocese of Dublin in 1937. Soon he was appointed to the task of actively assisting, as Dean, in the formation of the then very numerous clerical students at the diocesan seminary of Holy Cross College, Clonliffe. Subsequently he became the vice-president of the college and in due time, at the age of 42, its president. In 1964 he was appointed parish priest of the parish of the Holy Name, Beechwood Avenue, where he ministered actively until his retirement from office in July 1983.
It was during his term as vicepresident at Clonliffe that, in March 1953, he was the victim of a horrific accident, being knocked down by a speeding car on a main road leading to the college. A neighbour, whom he had met accidentally that evening on the bus home from the city, was killed, and he himself was very seriously injured. He was to spend over a year in hospital, during which, in a sudden emergency operation, he had to have one of his legs amputated. Obviously, this radically changed his manner of living, but it never changed his outlook.
It was during this period that I was privileged to become a close friend of his, as I joined the devoted group of so many generous people who tried to assist him in the various difficult stages of his rehabilitation. Happily, this friendship endured to the day of his death, some 44 years later. It was during those years that I got to know the man, in a way which otherwise I would certainly not have been able to do.
They were years marked for him by almost relentless physical pain and suffering because of his accident and its aftermath. That torture he bore with quite remarkable and so often inspiring fortitude: never once did I hear him complain, though his anguish was often palpable. A feature to which many people adverted was his ability to share with his many friends a quizzical and encouraging sense of humour.
He was a man of acute and incisive intelligence. It had of course - as everyone else's has - its own preferences and selections, but it never failed him, even in those weeks and days before his death when his other faculties were in such manifest decline.
Over and above - and indeed governing - all of these qualities, he was a man of deep spirituality, for whom God was the centre of his life. It was precisely this quality which he diffused to so many around him - not all of whom were Roman Catholics by any means: in a very real sense, he was a true ecumenist in the genuine meaning of Vatican II.
High on his list of spiritual values was his devotion to our Blessed Lady as Mother of God. When he died, his attendants found rosary beads in every item of his garments which had a pocket; the number has yet to be counted. It was certainly this devotion to Our Lady which inspired and fired his lifelong work with the Legion of Mary, not least during his parochial ministry in Beechwood Avenue.
Cathal McCarthy was never afraid of death. Quite the contrary: he longed for it with an almost impatient yearning. This was never because it would relieve him of his daily personal suffering. It was rather because he always saw it as the simple gateway to the eternal life promised to him by Christ his Redeemer. He could well have written the phrase in the Preface of the Mass for the Dead: "Lord, for your faithful people life is changed, not ended." Indeed, had he been given the chance, I am quite certain that he would have had a good shot at improving on this translation from the Latin!
For him, God was always very near - and there he was in the wings, awaiting the call home.
The end of an era? In a certain sense, yes. But I would rather think of his life's work as an inspiration for a renewal of his priestly dedication, to the encouragement of those - and they remain many - who today are toying with the invitation to become priests.
Valeas, amice: in paradisum Domini recipias aeternum.