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CHAPTER 1

Introduction

This book explores how ordinary people responded to the Northern Ireland Troubles. It exposes the devastating impact of violence and its effects on everyday life. It also examines the role of Christian faith for people in the midst of conflict, considering how religion could be both a comfort and a burden.

It is based on interviews with 120 people, mostly Presbyterians, with a variety of experiences. They include ordained ministers, victims, security forces, those affected by loyalist paramilitarism (including ex-combatants), emergency responders and health care workers, quiet peacemakers, politicians, people who left Presbyterianism, and critical friends from outside Presbyterianism.1 These included fifty women, and seventy-seven people from border counties (including the Republic of Ireland). The heart of the book is stories about how these people, from many walks of life, coped when they found themselves in the midst of the violence and mayhem of the Troubles. While the book focuses on Presbyterians, the stories they tell resonate with wider human experiences of anger, pain and healing. There are stories of faith and doubt, fear and courage, suffering and forgiveness, and division and reconciliation.

The title of the book is inspired by an interview with Rev. Terry Laverty, minister at Portstewart Presbyterian Church. When Terry was a teenager, his brother, who was in the Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC), was shot dead by the Irish Republican Army (IRA). Reflecting on his struggle to come to terms with his brother’s death, he said, ‘I want to encourage anybody who is struggling as a result of violence and trauma to consider grace; to consider the hope that Jesus offers, to consider that there is a possibility of living without bitterness and walking on as somebody who is amazingly and wonderfully free.’

Grace has been defined as free and unmerited favour, extended to those who do not deserve it. It has also been defined as courteous good will. This book does not offer a technical theological definition of grace. Rather, it tells the stories of people who have considered grace, experienced it, and extended it to others. It also tells the stories of those who, for various reasons, have not. Without commanding others to extend grace, it demonstrates that grace is difficult, but humanly possible. It asks readers to join with Presbyterians in considering grace, reflecting on what grace has looked like in the past, and envisioning what grace could look like in the future.

A July morning in Ballycastle

The morning of 16 July 1972 dawned bright and clear in the North Antrim town of Ballycastle. Fifteen-year-old Terry Laverty was shaken awake by his sister. Terry gazed up into her tear-stained face. ‘What’s wrong with you? Is it mum?’ When Terry was four years old, his father had died of an aortic aneurism, leaving behind a wife and seven children. Terry’s first thought was that his mother had died. ‘No, it’s Robert. He’s dead!’ Terry shook his head. ‘He’s not dead!’ Her tears flowed. ‘He is dead, he was shot dead last night by the IRA!’

Robert was just eighteen years old. The four Laverty brothers had shared a bedroom, and as young children Robert and Terry had slept in the same bed. Abandoning a promising engineering career, Robert had joined the RUC only eight months before. He had finished his shift at midnight on 16 July and was still in the RUC station in North Belfast when a call came in about a disturbance at a filling station. The constable due to replace Robert had not yet arrived for work, so he volunteered to attend the scene. As the police vehicle entered the filling station forecourt, the streetlamps went out. It was an IRA ambush. The gunman fired into the vehicle. Robert was struck in the head. He died shortly after in the Mater Hospital.

Still in bed, Terry felt a surge of anger and adrenaline: ‘Get me a gun till I shoot someone!’ But instantaneously, words from the Bible came to mind: ‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay, says the Lord’ (Romans 12.19). He felt another sensation, like warm, soothing oil being poured over his body. He felt it was the ‘holy fire’ of God’s spirit taking away his desire for revenge. Terry believes he experienced the presence of God in those moments. But after the funeral, he felt angry with God and at times even abandoned by Him.

Jean, Terry’s mother, had raised her children in Ballycastle Presbyterian Church. Their minister, Rev. Godfrey Brown, accompanied the police sergeant to the Lavertys’ home and wakened Jean in the middle of the night to tell her what had happened to her son. Terry searched for comfort in the Bible and at church. ‘I was looking for answers and wasn’t really finding them.’

Terry also became angry – not at the IRA, nor at local republicans who drove past his house at night, beeping their horns to taunt the family. He was angry with Rev. Ian Paisley, the local MP. One of Terry’s cousins told him that he had been speaking with Paisley, who promised to visit Terry’s mother. He never did. Whenever Paisley came on the radio or television, Terry was filled with anger about, ‘That big man with the big mouth, who couldn’t even visit a widow who’d lost her son in the Troubles!’ Paisley, founder of the Democratic Unionist Party (DUP) and the Free Presbyterian Church, was viewed by many as a nemesis of Presbyterianism during the Troubles. His figure will loom large throughout this book. But for young Terry, Paisley’s oversight was a source of very personal pain.

In the weeks that followed, Terry tramped along Ballycastle Beach, shouting at the God behind the wind and the waves – the God he wasn’t sure he believed in. He found himself weeping at the slightest provocation, which was embarrassing for a 15-year-old boy. When he was still struggling with tears ten months after Robert’s death, Terry’s school principal called him to the office and asked what he would be doing if he were not in school. ‘Riding my bike. Golfing. Fishing.’ The principal told him to forget school, that he was free to cycle, or golf, or fish, until he got his tears sorted out. Terry said: ‘There was no provision in the system for counselling then. But that single act, that gesture of amazing compassion was very important for my healing.’ So, Terry pedalled his way through the Glens of Antrim, pausing to get off his bicycle and shout at God. One day on the beach, having shouted at God about the futility of Him ‘gathering our tears in a bottle’ (Psalm 56.8), Terry went silent. ‘I felt these words come into my heart: “Tears are the words the mouth can’t speak. Tears are the words of your heart.”’ He became conscious of the tears of all who were suffering in the Troubles, not just his own.

When he was younger, one of Terry’s Sunday School teachers rewarded his pupils with pocket money for memorising Bible verses. Motivated by his desire to buy sweets, Terry had amassed vast knowledge of the scriptures. He recalled Psalm 88: ‘You have taken my friends and loved ones from me. Darkness is my closest friend.’ He found comfort in these words, understanding them as permission to be angry with God. Terry now believed that God understood his anger – and had been with him all along.

It wasn’t until Terry was in his early twenties that he stopped being angry with Paisley. He heard an evangelist preaching who said, ‘Forgiveness is important because it’s all about you being free.’ He went home and wrote to Paisley: ‘You don’t know me and I don’t know you, but I’ve been so angry that you never came to visit my mother. Now I realise that was wrong and I want to ask your forgiveness and tell you I forgive you.’ This was the final piece of the puzzle in letting go of his anger. Paisley wrote back, assuring Terry that he had never been asked to visit his mother.

Terry shared these experiences forty-four years after Robert’s death. Like so many others who have been bereaved in the Troubles, his memories are still fresh. Whenever Terry hears the Death March, which was played at Robert’s funeral, his nostrils fill with the smell of the spices that were used to prepare his brother for burial. He is once again that 15-year-old boy, carrying his brother’s coffin. He weeps when he conducts weddings, because Robert never had the opportunity to enjoy marriage, or have children of his own. ‘The pain never fully goes away,’ he said. ‘Although, thank God, my whole family have been given grace to get through.’

Terry knows his experiences were exceptional. As a minister, he has met many who have not experienced healing in any way. He often feels guilty because he can never fully explain why he received such grace, while so many others did not. ‘I am conscious that there are people who will read this and say, “Why did God not do that for me, too, when I experienced hell on earth?”’ He grieves because people who have experienced trauma are filled with doubt that God exists and intervenes in human affairs at all. He remembers the difficulties clearly, but is grateful that the pain of the journey has brought him to a place where he is not angry anymore; where neither he nor his family feel like victims.

But Terry sees his story not as a prescription, nor as a goad to others that they must forgive and move on. Rather, he presents his story as an invitation. It is the invitation that is at the heart of this book: to consider grace. Terry says: ‘I want to encourage anybody who is struggling as a result of violence and trauma to consider grace; to consider the hope that Jesus offers, to consider that there is a possibility of living without bitterness and walking on as somebody who is amazingly and wonderfully free.’

If religion has been part of the problem, it must be part of the solution

This simple phrase is often used by scholars of religion and conflict. The idea is that in conflicts where religion has played a role, peace is more likely if people of faith are involved in building it. Although the so-called ‘two communities’ in Northern Ireland commonly identify themselves as Protestants and Catholics, many people refuse to believe that the conflict has had religious dimensions. We are convinced that a wide body of scholarship, amassed over many years, demonstrates that while religion has not been the primary cause of conflict in Northern Ireland, it has been part of the ‘problem’.

In 1986, Steve Bruce, a sociologist at Queen’s University, wrote that ‘The Northern Ireland conflict is a religious conflict.’2 If taken out of context, Bruce’s conclusion seems absurd. The Troubles were not a holy war. But Bruce was not arguing that people were fighting over nuances in Protestant and Catholic doctrine. He recognised that the violence was fuelled by competing political allegiances, as well as economic and social inequalities. Bruce was trying to explain why Rev. Ian Paisley was so popular within unionism. Paisley seemed like a throwback to earlier centuries, a crusading preacher-politician who whipped up Protestant crowds with fiery anti-Catholic rhetoric. Paisley had created a surprisingly successful political party, the DUP, which was then the second-largest party in unionism; not to mention a new Protestant denomination, the Free Presbyterian Church. The Free Presbyterian Church had attracted people away from independent evangelical churches and gospel halls, as well as from larger denominations like the Presbyterian Church in Ireland (PCI), the Church of Ireland and the Methodist Church. Paisley regularly criticised these larger churches, but he reserved most of his damnation for PCI. It seemed that Paisley, the son of a Baptist pastor and a Scottish woman from a Covenanter background, called his church Free Presbyterian as a way of criticising Northern Ireland’s largest and most influential Protestant tradition. Paisley and his followers routinely picketed PCI’s annual General Assembly, protesting that the church had become too liberal, too ecumenical, and too sympathetic to the Catholic Church. Rev. Dennis Cooke, a Methodist who wrote a biography of Paisley, put it this way: ‘No Protestant church has received more abuse and criticism from Paisley than the Presbyterian Church in Ireland.’3

While analysing Paisley’s career, Bruce argued that religion mattered more for Protestants than it did for Catholics. In other words, religion was a very important aspect of unionist identity, but was not as important a part of nationalist identity. He wrote: ‘This is the only conclusion that makes sense of Ian Paisley’s career … [Paisley’s] political success can only be understood if one appreciates the central role which evangelical religion plays in Ulster unionism.’ (author’s emphasis)4 We would add that Northern Ireland’s brand of evangelicalism reflects and has been shaped by an older Presbyterian tradition.5

In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the evangelical movement swept through Britain, Ireland and North America. Then, as now, evangelicals were best-known for their emphasis on conversion – their insistence that one is not born a Christian but rather must be ‘born again’ in order to be a true Christian. They believe that being born again gives people a personal relationship with Jesus. Evangelicals also believe that the Bible is the inspired word of God. Many, but not all, insist that the Bible should be understood literally. In the north-east of Ireland, evangelicalism intersected with the existing Protestant traditions, the largest of which was Presbyterianism. Presbyterianism had gained its foothold in Ireland with the arrival of Scottish settlers during the Plantations of the early 1600s. Evangelicalism appealed to people across all Protestant denominations, serving as a unifying force. It informed the ethos of the Orange Order, which was formed in 1795. It helped to quell previous antagonism between Presbyterians and the established Church of Ireland. Presbyterians had been subjected to some of the same penal laws as Catholics – their marriages were not recognised by the state, and they were compelled to pay a tithe to the established church. As relationships among Protestant traditions improved, evangelicals adapted and adopted theological concepts from Presbyterianism. One of the most important of these was the covenant. The idea behind the covenant was that Christians were in committed, covenantal relationships with both God and the state. If the state followed God’s laws – including upholding ‘right’ religion – God would bless it. If it did not, God would curse it. It was Christians’ job to monitor the state, ensuring that it followed God’s laws and protected ‘right’ religion. If it did not, Christians were required to resist the state, even violently as a last resort. This covenantal commitment to both God and the state is reflected in the popular slogan ‘For God and Ulster’. It is no coincidence that the document that unionists produced to oppose Home Rule in 1912 was called the Ulster Covenant, and that one of the perceived threats of Home Rule was that ‘right’ religion would be overwhelmed by Catholicism. Hence the unionist slogan: ‘Home Rule is Rome Rule.’

So, it is significant that this book’s invitation to consider grace comes directly from the large and long-standing Presbyterian tradition. Today, Presbyterianism’s influence is waning as secularisation gathers pace. Like all Christian denominations, the numbers of Presbyterians have been declining steadily throughout the Troubles. In the 1961 Census, 29 per cent of the overall population identified as Presbyterian – by 2011, only 19 per cent did so. PCI’s official membership statistics echo these trends. In 1961, 28 per cent of the population of Northern Ireland were members of PCI; by 2011, that had dropped to 15 per cent. Even so, Northern Ireland is one of the least secular regions in Europe. It is, without a doubt, the most evangelical-saturated place in Europe. In 2008, Claire Mitchell and James Tilley estimated that up to a third of Protestants could be considered evangelicals.6 And evangelicalism remains a major force with Presbyterianism. It is a source of strength within PCI, providing energy and enthusiasm. It is also a source of division. PCI struggles to balance tensions between evangelicals and non-evangelicals. There are even tensions among evangelicals who disagree with each other on a range of issues. One of the most significant of these issues is how to approach peacebuilding – or even if peacebuilding should be a priority at all.

Considering Grace

The General Assembly of PCI meets once a year over four days to discuss issues related to the church and its role in society. Around 1,000 ministers and elders attend. It is presided over by an elected Moderator, who serves a one-year term as leader of the denomination. In 2016, the General Assembly agreed a Vision for Society statement, in which ‘We, members of the Presbyterian Church in Ireland, saved by grace and called by God to grace-filled relationships … CONFESS our failure to live as Biblically faithful Christian peacebuilders … [and] AFFIRM Christian peacebuilding to be part of Christian discipleship.’7 The General Assembly also agreed to support the research project on which this book is based, addressing the question: ‘How did Presbyterians respond to the Troubles?’

A few weeks after the General Assembly, Rev. Tony Davidson, minister in First Armagh and chair of PCI’s Council for Public Affairs (CPA) dealing with the past task group, wrote about the Vision for Society statement and the launch of the research project on the Contemporary Christianity blog. One of this book’s authors, Gladys Ganiel, read the post. A few weeks after that, she bumped into Rev. Norman Hamilton, who convenes the CPA. Norman is a former Moderator who has retired from ministry at Ballysillan Presbyterian in North Belfast. ‘Who is doing the research project?’, she asked. Norman confessed, ‘We don’t know.’

Norman explained that the task group wanted to contribute constructively to societal healing and public discussion about dealing with the past, so they had decided to gather the stories of 100 Presbyterians with a variety of experiences and perspectives, enabling them to tell a wider story about Presbyterian responses to the Troubles than has ever been available. Through these stories, they wanted to recognise that which was good, honourable and even heroic, while at the same time reflecting on the times when Presbyterians failed to be faithful peacemakers. The project appealed to Gladys, a sociologist at Queen’s University. She worked with the CPA to secure funding for the research from the Irish Government’s Reconciliation Fund. This enabled Queen’s to employ the other author, Jamie Yohanis, to help interview Presbyterians.

The most influential book about the role of religion during the Troubles is Religion, Civil Society and Peace in Northern Ireland by John Brewer, a sociologist at Queen’s.8 He argued that the ‘institutional’ churches, that is denominations like PCI, did not do enough to contribute to peacemaking. Rather, it was people he called ‘mavericks’, brave clerics and laity acting in small groups, who took the risks needed to bring peace. Some readers will be familiar with the roll call of these outstanding leaders: Frs Alec Reid and Gerry Reynolds at Clonard Monastery; Presbyterian ministers Revs Lesley Carroll, Ray Davey, John Dunlop and Ken Newell; Church of Ireland Archbishop Robin Eames; Fr Michael Hurley SJ and Geraldine Smyth OP at the Irish School of Ecumenics; and Methodist minister Harold Good, among others. Brewer claimed that the institutional churches lacked the courage and conviction to take peace seriously, and even failed to support the individuals who were doing the hard work on the ground.

During the Troubles, church leaders from the four largest denominations often appeared together or issued joint statements condemning violence. Some denominations released statements advocating peace. The Vision for Society statement is the latest in a line of such statements from PCI. The most significant of these was its 1990 Coleraine Declaration, issued after a special meeting of the General Assembly.9 It was followed by a 1994 Peace Vocation statement. Only a handful of people told us they had been inspired by these statements. Throughout the Troubles, PCI’s Church and Government Committee, the precursor to the CPA, produced a series of documents on peace-related issues. But Brewer dismissed these and similar efforts from other denominations as ‘speechifying’. Statements were an elaborate form of preaching to the choir, because only a minority of Christians who were already committed to peacemaking heard them. The message barely registered at all with people outside the churches.

When we asked people to evaluate how PCI as a denomination had responded to the Troubles, we were usually greeted with silence. People mentioned individuals like Dunlop or Newell, or talked about what their local ministers and congregations had done. But most could not name any initiatives from PCI itself. Only a few ministers and three laypeople mentioned the Coleraine Declaration, Peace Vocation or Vision for Society. Nor did they talk about PCI’s Peacemaking Programme, which ran from 2006–9. Their silence revealed a staggering failure of communication between denominational headquarters, ministers and congregations.

Lynda Gould is clerk of session at Knock Presbyterian in East Belfast. A kirk session is the elected board of elders which governs each Presbyterian congregation; the clerk sees to the functioning of the session, conducts correspondence on the session’s behalf and is responsible for all official records and documents. Lynda has many years’ experience in faith-based peacebuilding in organisations like Evangelical Contribution on Northern Ireland (ECONI) and YouthLink. One of her frustrations is that peacemaking has been compartmentalised to denominational overseeing bodies such as the CPA or to dedicated peace groups within local congregations, making it the priority of a few people rather than mainstreaming it throughout the denomination. Lynda longs for peacebuilding to be at the heart of PCI. But in effect, she said, the establishment of peace groups has marginalised peacebuilding rather than made it a priority.

On the other hand, many Presbyterians do not agree with PCI’s peace statements – especially the idea that PCI should confess for failing to be peacemakers. Some Presbyterians also believe PCI has not done enough to help victims. They think it is wrong that some Moderators and groups like the CPA have advocated reconciliation with Catholics without focusing enough on victims.

It is within this complex and complicated religious context that we carried out our research. Neither Gladys nor Jamie are members of PCI, although Gladys attends Fitzroy Presbyterian in South Belfast and Jamie is a committed member of the Belfast Collective, an independent, evangelical congregation in Belfast. We conducted the research according to rigorous academic standards. We were committed to uncovering as full a story as we could, rather than simply telling PCI what we thought it wanted to hear. That meant including people with a range of experiences and perspectives, people from all parts of Northern Ireland and the border counties, and at least fifty women. Most studies of religion in Northern Ireland have focused on clergy and leaders. Although there are ordained female ministers in PCI, their numbers are few and women’s experiences of religion have been neglected.

The research was designed in partnership with the task group, which helped identify the categories of interviewees: ministers, victims, security forces, those affected by loyalist paramilitarism (including ex-combatants), emergency responders and health care workers, quiet peacemakers, politicians, people who left Presbyterianism, and critical friends from outside the denomination. The selection of interviewees was also facilitated through the task group. Tony and Norman wrote to every serving minister in Northern Ireland and the border counties, inviting them to nominate members of their congregation to be interviewed. The task group used their own knowledge to nominate others. All of the interviewees who had left Presbyterianism and the critical friends were nominated by the task group as well as most of the ministers, who were retired or could not be expected to nominate themselves. Participants were offered anonymity and confidentiality, except for public figures like politicians or others whose experiences would make them easily identifiable in their communities. Interviews were conducted between June and December 2017. Participants were aware that while we were researchers from Queen’s, we were also speaking with them on behalf of PCI. In effect, they were invited to speak to the church – and the wider society – through us.

But we are also aware that not everyone responded to the invitation. We interviewed Rev. Rodney Beacom, who ministers to four rural congregations in Co. Fermanagh. Beacom served in the RUC during the Troubles, and was injured in an IRA ambush in 1994. He did not become a minister until nearly two decades later. He said:

When I look at the families in my congregations who are still suffering because of the Troubles, the reality is they feel forgotten and ignored. When [I got the letter] from Tony Davidson, it was a dilemma for me as to what to do. The first question I asked myself was: What are the victims going to benefit from this? Are they going to be listened to? I did talk to a few victims and told them what I had got and what you were looking to do with this. They didn’t want to get involved, so I didn’t put any names forward, even though I could have because I know that those people feel as if they’ve been abandoned by the state, and abandoned to a lesser extent by the church. It’s the price they feel they are paying for peace.

In addition to listening to those within its own fold who have felt forgotten and neglected, the project reflects PCI’s desire to be heard by those outside the denomination. In 1995, Rev. John Dunlop, a former Moderator and minister at Rosemary Presbyterian in North Belfast, wrote: ‘Perhaps what has been hardest to bear is a widespread sense that outside these grieving families, communities and Churches, few people seemed to care. The deep-seated feeling within the Presbyterian community is that the outside world, even that outside world no further away than Britain, never cared, for they mostly never knew or didn’t want to know.’10

The people we interviewed had diverse experiences and responses to them. But each person was, in their own way, considering grace. We have structured their stories in chapters based on the categories that shaped the research: ministers, victims, security forces, those affected by loyalist paramilitarism, first responders and health care workers, quiet peacemakers, politicians, those who left Presbyterianism and critical friends. People who waived their rights to anonymity and confidentiality are identified throughout by their full names. Those who did not are identified throughout only by a first name, which is a pseudonym. We did not interview equal numbers of people in each category, so the chapters vary in length.11 The book concludes with a chapter reflecting on the significance of these stories for the present and the future. It introduces ‘gracious remembering’ as a way forward. Gracious remembering recognises the need to acknowledge suffering, to be self-critical about the past, and to create space for lament and for remembering for the future.

As Presbyterians strive to come to terms with their experiences of the Troubles, the Vision for Society statement reminds them that they are ‘called by God to grace-filled relationships’. By reflecting on the experiences of its own people, PCI is asking itself what grace-filled relationships could look like today. It is asking itself if it is up to the challenge of considering grace. And it is inviting everyone on this island to join them on this most painful and difficult journey.