‘Let’s get out of here,’ I whispered, almost in tears, as the priest finished his horrible homily.

Standing at the altar in front of a stained-glass window showing Jesus with his arms outstretched, this priest was telling us all off for what had happened in Dublin, three hours’ drive away.

I suppose we expected a bit of a lecture, going by the speeches about Palestine that we had been subjected to in previous weeks. We did so want to fit in by going to Mass, which had been noted by our Irish neighbours as a good thing.

The priest told us how un-Christian we were being for listening to social media gossip

But this was too much. We couldn’t be doing with an extended political manifesto extolling the virtues of Leo Varadkar and open borders on a Sunday morning.

We sat there stone-faced waiting, because we were sure, at some point, this man of God would offer a prayer for the five-year-old girl stabbed in the street, who, so far as we had been allowed to know by the media coverage, was lying critically injured in hospital.

This, so far as we could see, was what had led to the rioting in Dublin, along with the stance of the authorities in saying ‘nothing to see here’.

The priest took the same line. It was ‘someone having a psychotic episode’, he said, as if that made it all right. The congregation stared back, expressionless. The only sound was a baby gurgling on its mother’s lap. ‘What the hell?’ I whispered to the builder boyfriend.

The priest told us how un-Christian we were being for listening to social media gossip and not being very nice about foreigners.

I don’t believe any of us in that church had said or thought any such thing. I had not heard one unreasonable comment about migrants in west Cork either before or after the incident in Dublin.

What was the man insinuating? As for social media, it seemed like the only way to get updated information.

The priest said we had turned against the other, the stranger – and he quoted the gospel reading, ‘whosoever you did that to, you did it to me’.

‘What about the child?’ I whispered. ‘What about what was done to her?’

The BB replied sarcastically that I was missing the point. ‘He’s got a political ideology to defend.’ The lady in front turned her head slightly – in disapproval, possibly. If we didn’t get out of here there might be a scene. Could this crowd turn ugly? Would more people walk out with us?

I concluded they would not. This was one of those long-suffering Catholic congregations that listens every week to its leader telling them how sinful and inadequate they are, and how they must try harder, by being even nicer to strangers they have already warmly welcomed. They were well used to this.

The priest ploughed on with telling us off. We were not to look on social media any more. We were not to listen to ‘lurid rumours’ about the stabbing. We were not to think about it. The only thing we must do is support asylum seekers and economic migrants, including the ones in the local hotel here.

They’re Ukrainian, as it happens, and really ought not to be lumped in with the incident in Dublin. But the priest seemed not to see any difference between one immigrant and another, no matter what culture or belief system they were from, or indeed, if you want to go down that route, what state of mental health.

If I were a Ukrainian I would have been insulted. Then I thought, and whispered to the BB: ‘Hey, we’re economic migrants! He’s lumping us in with it.’

‘He’s a leftie,’ hissed the BB. ‘What do you expect? He thinks all immigrants are the same.’

The priest concluded by telling us we were not to question the authorities. If the police said the stabbing of three children and a nursery worker outside a crèche was no concern of ours, then that was what it was.

‘This is brainwashing!’ I whispered to the BB. The lady looked round again.

We waited until he ended his oration with the sign of the cross, then got up. As we bolted for the door, a man held it open.

He was a neighbour of ours. He had a funny look on his face as he followed us out. A few seconds later, another man walked into the car park.

Only four of us in total. But four souls is better than nothing.