St. Faustina, the Polish mystic, once wrote that the Lord does not speak to the busy soul, He speaks to the quiet soul. New churches often seem to forget this key component of faith in their architecture which Wexford remembers. The very location, nestled among quiet hills in God’s first book, surrounded by frescos of whispering woods bespeaks a peaceful serenity before one even enters into the presence of the Lord.
         When you walk in the doors you can’t help but think of the laughter of children, the very place exudes childlike simplicity. It was not built on the deep theological pondering of Aquinas, but out of the callused hands and simple faith of the farmer.
        The Catechism of the Catholic Church points out that we do not know now to pray as we should, but the Holy Spirit Itself intercedes for us “with sighs too deep for words”. This church is the immigrant’s and the farmer’s inarticulate prayer- a prayer in which Christ, in His grace, has chosen to dwell. There are no flying buttresses or golden altars, but there is an everyday connectedness within the textured walls and the simple stations of the cross. This is the tradesman’s poetry.
        St. Patrick, the apostle to the Irish, at the left hand of the crucifix holds his clover; the Irishman’s first Trinitarian theology lesson. He is stationed as a sentinel to the tabernacle, teaching a quiet lesson, an education for the pure heart.
        How great and wonderful must be the faith of a soul that reflects the childlike, interior disposition of this old church. For, as Our Lord said, the kingdom of heaven is truly theirs.