But the town of Limavady (pop. 9,500; two-thirds Protestant) is in Northern Ireland, and Scroggy Road might as well be Beirut's Green Line or the Berlin Wall. So great is sectarian suspicion in the divided province that even Christmas greetings between two Christian congregations could lead to trouble. When the Christmas spirit had subsided, Father Mullan, 38, came under minor criticism for his gesture. "A few people, including one or two priests, expressed the worry that A, the church might be bombed again, and B, that I might be putting David's position in jeopardy and pressure might be put on him to leave town."
There was no repeat of the bomb blast that three years previously had knocked out a rear wall and collapsed the roof of the then nearly completed Christ the King church. But the second possibility did materialize. Three weeks after Christmas, Armstrong, 35, was summoned to a session of Presbyterian elders, the group of senior lay members in the church, and "censured" by a 5-to-4 vote. Censure is tantamount to a request for resignation. "When I went into that meeting I was shocked and horrified that it was about Christmas," says Armstrong. "One of the elders said, 'If you're so keen on saying Happy Christmas to them, go join them.' I said, 'Gentlemen, if you're speaking on behalf of the congregation, I've no valid right to be here.' I went home to my wife and said, 'June, we have to move.' "
The following Sunday Armstrong asked his congregation "to pray for June and me, because in the next week or so we'll have to make a very important decision." That day's local newspaper announced the censure in banner headlines. "That afternoon," says Armstrong, "my grass roots members came up to my door saying, 'What did these elders do? We're not having our minister treated like that.' Some said, 'Don't be mistaken, I couldn't go over and wish those Roman Catholics a Happy Christmas. But I reserve you the right to do it.' "
Stung by criticism, the elders two weeks later summoned another meeting and reversed their decision, this time passing a unanimous vote of confidence in their pastor. In the meantime, Armstrong had been offered a peaceful post in Guildford, Surrey, in one of the largest Presbyterian churches in England. "June and I had to do an awful lot of soul-searching, but we decided to stay," says Armstrong, adding, "I know it's not going to be easy to bring up children [Paul, 10, Julie, 7, Sarah Jane, 4, Mark, 1] in a place like Northern Ireland." Touched by the loyalty of his parishioners, Armstrong was also held by his work as chaplain at Magilligan Prison, where he is one of the few Protestant ministers in the area who works with Roman Catholic IRA prisoners. "I show them love," he says, "and try to influence their lives so they will forget violence and love their Protestant neighbors."
About Limavady's prospects for peace, Armstrong is not so sanguine. "Nonviolent towns like this are said to be at peace," he says. "But conversations are about violence. The two communities are not fighting, but they're not together. In a couple of years the trouble could get here."
Still, Limavady has a prayer of escaping brutality should men like Reverend Armstrong and Father Mullan persevere. Indeed, Armstrong, who arrived shortly before the Dec. 11, 1980 Christ the King bombing (the explosion also shattered stained-glass windows in his Presbyterian church), had from the start set upon the task of binding wounds. He helped clean up damage to both churches, and the next morning, when Catholic Bishop Edward Daly of Derry arrived, "I went over to him and said, 'Sir, I'm heartbroken for you.' "
After a TV broadcast of his statements that evening, Armstrong began receiving abusive phone calls. And when the new Catholic church was consecrated in November 1982, Armstrong was the only Protestant clergyman present. "The next two weeks were the most miserable two weeks of my life," he recalls. "People stopped visiting. I was accused of being a 'traitor' and a 'Papist lover' when all I was doing was the neighborly thing." But he had a pulpit and he used it. "Sunday by Sunday I preached the message of 'Love thy neighbor.' I asked my congregation to examine their attitudes toward Roman Catholics. And gradually people started to get behind me again, and things got back to a bit of normality."
Both men have long experience in bridging the gulf that separates their faiths. Armstrong (whose parents ran a butcher shop in staunchly Protestant East Belfast) quit school at 15. But at 16, "a relationship with Jesus Christ took place," and he decided to enter the ministry. Lacking the proper credits, he worked early mornings for a security firm and studied days; at 21, he was accepted by the school of theology at Queens University, Belfast. As assistant minister at Carrickfergus, one of Northern Ireland's major churches, he realized that he "had been worshiping God only from the neck up—that God wasn't interested in getting your doctrines right, he was wanting to know your attitude to people who held different doctrines. And in Northern Ireland, of course, that means Roman Catholics."
Mullan, the son of a chemist, who grew up in Omagh with the intention of joining the priesthood, also developed an ecumenical bent. During his 12 years in the violence-racked Shantallow district of Derry City, he turned Saint Joseph's into something of an ecumenical center. "We took a strong stand against the violence," he says, "and became identified as a kind of political church.
"The big question now," Father Mullan says, "is what has happened since the Christmas incident? Rather than becoming a memory it should become a challenge to do something further." There are encouraging signs. A Protestant boy from Armstrong's congregation recently married a Roman Catholic girl from a church two miles away, and Armstrong was invited by the bride's priest to perform half of the service. Armstrong is giving a talk to a Catholic gathering in the Catholic Bog-side area of Derry. And though the elders "are watching me like store detectives," he says, he'll keep up his friendship with Father Mullan. Adds Armstrong: "It is important for anyone who is a believer of Christ to look for reconciliation, because a congregation that has nothing to say about reconciliation has got nothing to say at all."
- Contributors:
- Terry Smith.
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