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Good, Harold

 
9781786052414: In Good Time: A Memoir

Sinopsis

Rev Harold Good, Derry-born Methodist minister, retired Church leader and one of the oldest surviving actors in the Irish Peace Process, lifts the curtain on a remarkable life in an overdue memoir that promises to be the publishing event of the year.

From Ian Paisley's turbulent arrival in the early Fifties to the burning of Bombay Street and internment; from searching for bomb victims with his bare hands on the Shankill to climbing into bunkers with Fr Alec Reid to verify IRA decommissioning, Good has seen it all. Helped by recently excavated phone texts, he reveals his role as a back channel between the DUP and Sinn Féin when he facilitated secret meetings in his home between Martin McGuinness and Jeffrey Donaldson that helped create the historic partnership government co-led by Paisley and McGuinness.

Good couldn't have imagined that one day he would help change the course of Irish history, play a hitherto undocumented role in weapons disposal by FARC and ETA in Colombia and the Basque Country, and be asked by Queen Elizabeth II over lunch in Buckingham Palace for advice about her visit to Ireland.

This challenging page-turner is an important contribution to the post-Brexit debate about the future of Ireland.

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Acerca del autor

Harold Good served as a Methodist minister in Shankhill and Crumlin Road Prison. In 2001 he was appointed president of the Methodist Church in Ireland. In 2005 he was one of two independent witnesses, the other being Alec Reid, who oversaw the decommissioning of arms by the IRA. Martin O'Brien is a journalist, columnist and broadcaster. He is the Northern Correspondent of the Irish Catholic, and he worked for BBC Northern Ireland for 28 years. In 2013 he established Martin O'Brien Media, based in Belfast.

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PROLOGUE ‘What’s past is prologue.’ William Shakespeare, The Tempest On numerous occasions, not least since my participation in the secret decommissioning of the IRA’s remaining weapons back in 2005, it has been suggested to me by close friends and others that ‘it’s about time you wrote that book.’ Now in the second half of my ninth decade, sixty-two years since my ordination and more than twenty years into retirement, and while there is yet time, I have chosen the title In Good Time. In this sharing of memories I have been anxious lest unintentionally I might betray confidences and dishonour the trust that has been placed in me throughout my ministry and more public life. The most important code in peacemaking is confidentiality, which means that there are things I cannot share. But as time passes it does become possible to say more about things that in their time may have been considered secret or not for sharing. And if what I have said in these pages sounds in any way egotistical, forgive me. That is the risk that goes with the telling of any personal story. As I write, the headlines are of the brutal Israeli-Palestine conflict and the cruel Russian invasion of Ukraine, and I am reminded that however imperfect some may feel our peace to be, we all know that we are now in a dramatically different and much safer place in Northern Ireland. But while recognising the statesmanship, hope and vision of those who brokered the landmark Good Friday Agreement, we are on an unfinished journey, which is why I have written into this book things I believe we need to say to each other at this time. It is my hope that these messages will speak to our unhealed wounds, unresolved differences, irreconcilable narratives, our uncertain constitutional future and our as yet unanchored peace. Let me summarise what I believe to be the key lessons which I and others have learned over these turbulent years and which I wish to share in the pages that follow. How paths have been made for politicians and governments by lesser-known people and the need for bold leadership in both church and state. The need to talk Being prepared to put oneself in the shoes of ‘the other’, whoever that might be, listening and journeying with each other, is a prerequisite for the resolution of any conflict. And as is so wrongly perceived, being prepared to engage in such a way does not mean that one is capitulating or surrendering one’s own position. In this book I refer to many times when people of differing and diametrically opposing views sat at my kitchen table while I poured the tea. As I listened to them, and they to each other, I was profoundly moved by the evolving spirit of trust which broke down barriers and opened doors of understanding and new possibilities. In much of what I have written, there may be those who feel that I have been overly attentive in both time and attention to those from the republican/nationalist tradition. In response I refer to what is a fundamental first step in the bridging of any chasm. For the architect and builder this will inevitably involve what may appear to be a disproportionate amount of time given to an understanding of the side of the river with which he or she is less familiar. Having said that, let it not be thought that in our outreach to others that I or others with me were tolerant of terror or unmindful of the horror and grief which has been inflicted upon so many on either ‘side’. Having known and ministered to many victims of violence, nothing could be further from the truth. The need for truth To emphasise the need for honest conversation is not to be confused with the politics of condemnation, finger-pointing or ‘whataboutery’. The endless recital of a litany of blame and denial of responsibility was something in which we became well practiced in public as well s in political life during our weary years of conflict. I have witnessed enough of such exchanges to know that they never will provide an environment in which people will be open to one another. On the contrary, they are more likely to retreat into their respective and defensive corners. But having said that, uncomfortable though such conversations may be, in every fractured relationship, be it personal or communal, truth does demand mutual acknowledgement of responsibility for what each has inflicted upon the other. For it is truth that sets us free. Not your ‘opinion’ nor my ‘opinion’, but truth, however unpalatable, which is a prerequisite to trust. The need for trust The level of trust of which I speak only becomes possible when people are prepared to build personal relationships, show leadership, take risks and venture out of their comfort zones. Later in this book I will I refer to times when at my kitchen table I sat with people of very differing and diametrically opposing views. But as I listened to them, and they to each other, I was profoundly moved by the evolving spirit of trust which broke down barriers and opened doors of understanding and new possibilities. Such engagement is no less needed today than then. When addressing a variety of audiences in university or community groups, here and elsewhere, I have spoken of the importance of a relaxed setting for serious conversations. Such as our kitchen table with a pot of tea and my wife, Clodagh’s, scones. I go on to speak of these three ‘Ts’ – talk, truth and trust – which are fundamental in the process of constructive dialogue. Following one such presentation it was a frivolous but perceptive listener who called out, ‘Don’t forget the Tetley’s.’ And how right he was. But above all, let this book be about the possibility of change. Let us not subscribe to the futile notion that ‘nothing will ever change’. Within this book you will read of unlikely people who made unlikely journeys in their own lives and on behalf of us all. In spite of our disbelief, the impossible became possible. To build a decent, tolerant, prosperous future for our children and their children we must believe in the possibility of change. Perhaps beginning with ourselves. I would also like this book to contribute to a reflection on the role of clergy in situations of conflict and on the role of the institutional Churches in all their diversity in the light of what we did and what we failed to do during the Troubles and since. In a later chapter I attempt to be honest as well as fair in my critique of the role of churches throughout our troubled past. But let us not forget that within all of our churches and communities there have been faithful under-shepherds who have given of themselves in selfless pastoral care of families and individuals in their darkest hours and who, in their pastoral practice as well as in their preaching, ensured that even when the candles flickered we did not lose hope. For many this did not come without price. I think of my eldest brother, Peter, also a Methodist minister, and of his friend Father Kevin Mullan. They both ministered in Omagh when the town was bombed in August 1998, causing more deaths and injuries than in any other single atrocity during the Troubles. While Peter was deeply appreciated by most of those to whom he ministered, he suffered very public as well as private censure for his unflinching ministry of reconciliation, doubtless contributing to his sudden and untimely death at the age of sixty-six – a sad reminder of how pastors and counsellors in frontline pastoral and caring professions will absorb the pain of those whose stories are so easily forgotten. As I write I am very aware of the now more public conversations on the future of this island. As a child of this realm and been twice honoured by Queen Elizabeth II, I am a content and respectful citizen of the United Kingdom. But as a ’Derry boy with a West Cork father, a mother from Armagh and a Waterford wife, I have inherited a more than usual understanding of the whole of this island and its histories. And as a minister of an all-Ireland Church, it has been my privilege to serve congregations in both jurisdictions. So, from childhood, I have grown up with a profoundly personal love for my island home. I love its landscapes and its people, its poetry, myths and legends. But, as with all true love affairs, one has to be honest about what hurts as well as what is pleasing. Having been closely involved in our peace process, I am very much aware of the deep hurt that we have inflicted upon one another, across the generations as well as in the more recent past. As I listen to reasonable arguments emphasising the potential social and economic benefits of reunification I am reminded of conversations with estranged couples who have sought my pastoral counsel. If one or the other was serious about reconciliation would I begin by emphasising the obvious social and economic advantages of returning to share one house? Of course not. For a meaningful restoration of their relationship we would begin with the difficult, honest and at times painful conversation about the hurt and the history of their broken relationship, as well as what a return to a shared house would look like and what it would demand of each if it were to be a meaningful and lasting relationship. If nationalist Ireland, in its diversity north and south, is to invite large ‘U’ or small ‘u’ unionists into such a conversation they need to be very sensitive to the genuine fears and feelings of those with whom they wish to have an honest dialogue about the future. And conversely, I appeal to unionists and ‘others’ to be open to such a conversation. The alternative may well be to find ourselves in a situation which has come about by default rather than design. With the inevitable risk of a re-distribution of resentment and the repetition of history. My hope is that this book will make a contribution to all of the honest, sensitive and respectful conversations that must take place if we are to have a more settled and shared future on the island of Ireland, in whatever mutually acceptable shape that might yet be. For all of us peace is a challenge as well as a privilege.

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