In the annals of 20th-century Irish cultural history, there is no stranger story than that of Father Pascal Conway, "the original blind boy of Glenamaddy", Ireland's only gospel-singing sensation from the early 1950s. Like a lot of families in Ireland in the mid-1940s, Dan and Maggie Conway always dreamed that one day, one of their multitude of children would become a priest. Since Pascal was their only son, he was thought, after much consideration, the most perfectly suited for the job.
Short of stature and short of sight, very short of sight, east Galway-born Pascal entered Maynooth in 1946 and was ordained at the age of 24. A vacancy arose almost immediately, in his old parish, with the passing of Father Dennis Toner, and his proud parents were thrilled with the news that he would be their new parish priest. Relatives and locals thronged the large church to catch the first Mass of the novice clergyman. Father Pascal started tentatively and then droned on and on interminably. Most of the parishioners were untroubled by this, for it was the tradition of the day, and fell into a blissful semi-comatose state.
Suddenly, though, in the middle of his first sermon, Father Pascal removed his thick-set, horn-rimmed glasses and replaced them with a pair of shades. Then, donning the manner of a black Southern Baptist preacher, he was overcome with a screaming, syncopated, spiritual frenzy that awoke and shocked the sleepy congregation. After two hours of hollering and sweating profusely, the young clergyman collapsed to his knees in an exhausted state and had to be brought to the nearest hospital. His perplexed parents kept a bedside vigil and, when he regained consciousness, Pascal told them it must have been his nerves and assured them it would not happen again. The parish were relieved as they prayed for Father Pascal's full recovery.
They waited for the following Sunday. Local man Jarlath Brophy, an eyewitness that day, remembers: "The place was filled with tension. All eyes were fixed on the young priest. The service progressed and communion was eventually served. A palpable sense of relief filled the air, as the Mass was coming to an end and nothing untoward had happened. Then I heard it. That scream. How can I describe it. Like a pig being ravaged by a barracuda. The dark glasses had also appeared again from nowhere and Father Pascal, in an instant, was down amongst the mortified church-goers, singing and wailing. He then jumped to the ground and told them he was moaning for Jesus. I've never seen a more confused and frightened bunch of people in my life."
News spread of this strange occurrence. The magazines and newspapers of the day were filled with articles on the topic. "Remove this clerical error, now!" screamed the headline in the Tuam Herald. "Doctor says priest's discordant caterwauling could cause deafness," claimed an article in the June edition of the Irish Medical Times. Even local amateur poet, village idiot and B-Western obsessive Ambrose Thornton put his own unique childlike spin on proceedings, with his justly neglected verse, "When a Baddie came to Glenamaddy." Meanwhile, during a heated Dβil debate on the matter, Father Pascal was described as a "possessed, godless, communist infiltrator and Brit" in a bizarrely incoherent four-hour speech by Clann na Talmhan TD Peadar Feeney.
But all this coverage aroused public interest. Curious onlookers, religious misfits and people with just nothing better to do with their lives came from afar to catch Father Pascal's service.
At first they were terrified, but gradually more and more of the laity were becoming, in spite of themselves, quietly mesmerised and transfixed by this pint-sized Bible-thumper. And now, when Father Pascal shouted "hallelujah, brethren", instead of trying to ignore him and staring at their shoes and hoping he'd just go away for ever, the congregation would reply loudly and in unison: "Hallelujah!" The whole of the east Galway catchment area was coming under his spell. He himself couldn't explain his strange inner-body transformation during Mass.
"I grew up with reels and fiddles and Bing Crosby. I'd never heard gospel music in my life - and here I was singing it," he said. "I just accepted it as a gift from God. I did have moments of profound ecclesiastical self-doubt though. I once asked Jesus was it possible to be a Catholic priest and a Baptist preacher at the same time. He didn't get back to me."
The worried church authorities began to take note. Father Pascal was becoming a disruptive influence. Parishioners from other parishes were wondering why theirs didn't have the same buzz, excitement and sheer emotion of Father Pascal's sermons. Other priests in desperation tried to copy Father Pascal's style. Their attempts ranged from the self-consciously inhibited to the embarrassingly painful. A church in Tourmakeady even replaced its long-serving choirmaster and brought in Rev Abernathy Norbert Bickie from Alabama to set up and tutor "The Tourmakeady Tabernacle Choir". It seemed the experience of worshipping at Catholic churches was at last on the verge of becoming more spiritual, joyful and invigorating. It had to be stopped.
Father Pascal was summoned to see the Bishop of Tuam. Unable to make a decision, the Bishop of Tuam sent him to see the Bishop of Ferns. Just as indecisive, the Bishop of Ferns sent him up North to see the Bishop of Down and Connor. Both the Bishop of Down and Connor agreed that Pascal should be barred from saying Mass immediately. Pascal reluctantly accepted the view of the bishop, but for the rest of his life, until his death in 1996 , he puzzled over who exactly this fellow Connor was.
Getting back to Co Galway and still feeling the urge to spread the word of the Lord in his own inimitable fashion, Pascal resolved to defy the Church. He decided to conduct secret services in various houses around the parish. His first engagement was at Jarlath Brophy's house. It didn't go to plan, as Jarlath recalls.
"My mother had become one of his devotees, but somehow the crazed screaming and wailing didn't work as well in our living room in front of Mammy, Granddad, myself and Spot," he says. "Also, Mrs O'Malley, the neighbour, angry at not being invited, rang the guards to complain about the racket. They turned up and the whole thing ended up in a farce."
Father Pascal Conway left Ireland in 1959. Finding at last a true platform for his talent, he became a televangelist in Brazil. Later, he even recorded an album there, a baffling bossa-nova gospel collaboration with Antonio Carlos Jobim in 1964.
Karl MacDermott is currently acting as writer-in-residence at home in Kilmainham