The Higher the Moral High Ground the Harder the Fall
Tales from Irish Politics.
In the quiet, windswept village of Ballymagash, where the Atlantic mist clung to the streets like a drunk who wouldn’t take the hint, Father Bartholomew was regarded as a holy man - pious, upright, and unshakable in his faith. Each Sunday, from the pulpit of St. Jude’s, he preached about virtue, fidelity, and the sanctity of marriage with the conviction of someone who’d never let his eyes wander below a woman’s neckline. But behind the rectory’s closed doors, the good Father’s sermons gave way to softer whispers. His housekeeper, Sinead, knew him not as the unyielding shepherd of souls, but as a man bound to her by secrets far too intimate for confession.
Sinead wasn’t some temptress sent by Satan to lead a shepherd astray. She was practical, efficient, and, by most accounts, the only reason Father Bart hadn’t long since burned the rectory to the ground by accident. What grew between them wasn’t born of sin or seduction, but of routine, shared chores, quiet laughter, the drop of a hand, the kind of whispered conversations that would’ve had the congregation reaching for their smelling sa
Their love was real, if carefully hidden. Their undoing wasn’t affection, but hypocrisy, the chasm between Father Bart’s Sunday sermons on purity and the murmured truths spreading amongst the villagers. At first, it was nothing more than an arched eyebrow or a knowing smile over the shop counter or loose talk between neighbours at the bar. Gossip, once planted, grows deep roots, like knotweed in the garden, impossible to dig out once it takes hold.
When the truth finally surfaced, it didn’t explode so much as seep out, slow, painful, a gaudy, relentless procession of causes and consequences tramping past the point of reason. The scandal didn’t lie in the affair itself; most in Ballymagash, if pressed, could forgive a moment of human weakness. Ireland, after all, is a nation well practised in the art of discreet curiosity, the twitch of a curtain, the tilt of an ear. No, what cut deepest was the hypocrisy. Father Bart, who had thundered from the pulpit about fidelity and virtue, had been living a lie all along. Every sermon, every solemn warning, now rang hollow, echoes in a church that grew emptier by the week. The faithful turned their faces away, and the man who once stood as their moral compass found himself shunned, a figure whispered about in the very pews he had once commanded.
Sinead didn’t fall so much as sink, slowly, into the soft silt of village pity. They didn’t hate her, sure, how could they? Hatred requires conviction, and Ballymagash had none left to spare. They regarded her with that weary, sanctimonious sigh the Irish reserve for tragedy that happens within walking distance. She was not a sinner, not really, just another lost soul devoured by the contrivance of love and loneliness.
The rectory, once alive with clatter and catechism, curdled into silence. Dust gathered where love and lust had been. At night, the candles seemed to hesitate before burning, as if afraid to illuminate the man who still lived there. Father Bart drifted through the rooms like an unfinished absolution, a fragment of guilt made flesh, not so much exiled by his church for he was not the first priest to be tempted by flesh, so much as by the unbearable scorn of the world that no longer tolerated hypocrisy.
While their overt roles differ, priests and politicians share common ground in their public-facing positions and their influence over others' lives. Both often serve as moral guides or perceived leaders, articulating values and shaping community norms – whether those are spiritual tenets or civic principles. They both rely on communication, rhetoric, and a certain degree of charisma to connect with their constituents or congregations, seeking to inspire and unify. Furthermore, both operate within systems that involve hierarchy, rules, and sometimes, the delicate balance of power, with decisions often impacting a broad swathe of people, making accountability and public perception crucial to their continued good standing. They both thrive on faith: the priest asks you to believe in miracles, while the politician asks you to believe in campaign promises.
For years, Bertie Ahern cultivated the image of an ordinary Dubliner, a pint-supping, sports-loving politician who shunned the pretensions of power. As Minister for Finance, he cracked down on tax cheats. As Taoiseach, he preached about ethics in government while distancing himself from the scandals that engulfed his peers. The public believed him. How could they not? Bertie seemed untouched by the corruption that tainted so many around him. A leader who wore an anorak like a badge of proletarian honour.
