Obituary: Brother Kevin Crowley, Capuchin friar who fed and clothed generations of people who fell through the cracks

Irish Independent

2 days ago

Brother Kevin Crowley, a man of profound goodness and faith, who died on July 2, need have no fear of judgment. The Capuchin friar, who died in his 91st year, lived the values of his Catholic faith right to his fingertips. Through his work in the Capuchin Day Centre in Dublin, he fed and clothed generations of people who either fell through the cracks or the rest of society preferred to forget.
'And we never asked any questions,' was his unshakeable philosophy.
As prosperity ebbed and flowed, the need for the vital services in Dublin's north inner city never eased. With more families experiencing homelessness, Brother Kevin and the centre were there to offer a hot meal or a food parcel — and respect, dignity and the knowledge that someone cared.
As the cash machines pinged on Dublin's most fashionable streets in the run-up to Christmas every year, the queues for the Capuchin food vouchers grew longer and longer.
The last person who would want to be eulogised would be Kevin Crowley. The only reason he even had a public profile was that fundraisers managed to convince him he was the face of the work, and people wanted to donate because they admired him.
He was born William, in Enniskeane, Co Cork, in 1935, and his parents, William and Catherina (O'Donovan), had him baptised in the local parish church. Those were hungry days when the scars of the Civil War were still raw, and there were real fears that the new Free State might fail.
After schooling locally, he worked for Córas Iompair Éireann (CIÉ) as a railway inspector, but he felt deeply the call of a religious vocation.
It must have seemed like an act of insanity at that time, to leave a comfortable job for life to volunteer for a life of perpetual poverty. When he announced his shift in career at the boarding house where he lodged, the bean an tí confidently predicted he wouldn't last a week. But a gentle hand always seemed to guide Kevin, and he recently celebrated 67 years as a religious brother.
He entered the Capuchin Postulancy in Co Kilkenny on April 7, 1958 — Easter Monday of that year. Before he entered, he called into a bookmaker to put a bet on a horse.
Years later, he would recall with glee how he never found out how the horse fared, since radios and newspapers were forbidden in the community.
Regardless of his fortunes on the racecourse, he found in his ministry a life dedicated to service that brought him priceless happiness.
In 1968, he was asked to take over the running of a clothing guild on Church Street in Dublin to collect unwanted clothes for those in need. As he watched grown men rummaging through bins to try to feed their families, he quickly realised something more was needed, and the soup kitchen was born.
There were brief stints at other Capuchin projects around the country, but his heart was always in the north inner city, and the proud Corkman quickly took to the Dublin wit.
He was there to defend the church when he thought it was getting an unfair lashing
Brother Kevin would always say that the people he served were not subjects of charity, but people with hopes and dreams in need of respect and dignity. He could be caustic about politicians, but saw that they could be a means to an end, and he would hold them to public commitments to do more to help the homeless.
While he never gave in to ­despair about the challenges facing the church, he was there to defend it when he thought it was getting an unfair lashing. When a left-wing TD told the Dáil that she thought the church should be 'consigned to the dustbin of history', he told an interviewer that history would 'put her in the bin'.
It was typical of his style of straight-talking and went hand in hand with his determination to never take no for an answer. Whenever a politician called, Brother Kevin was happy to oblige for a photo opportunity, but he would also bend their ear, and usually got what he wanted.
He was passionately pro-life, and until recent years was a feature of the annual Pro-Life Campaign dinner. A disciple of St Francis, like his hero Pope Francis, he saw care for the vulnerable as part of the same Christian witness: whether the poor, the sick, the unborn, the homeless, the powerless, the addict or the elderly, he was a powerful advocate for those he saw as having no voice.
Brother Kevin was never robust of health, but he wasn't one to mind himself too much either. He was awake each day at around 4.30am, and after going to the kitchens to turn everything on, it was back to the friary for two hours of prayer — sometimes, his confreres say, peppered with a well-deserved snooze in the chapel.
He was not in thrall of ­celebrity, and the story is told about the day a famous folk singer arrived to announce he was donating the proceeds of one of his gigs to the Capuchin Day Centre. Brother Kevin had no idea who it was, but professed himself to be suitably grateful.
He was proud of what his mission achieved, but depressed that it was still necessary. A crowning moment was when Pope Francis visited in 2018. As the papal motorcade made its way to the centre, he turned to a colleague and said: 'I never thought I'd see the day when the Pope would be coming to Bow Street.'
We all know the vocations crisis facing the Catholic Church in Ireland, and it would be easy to see this as a mere sociological reality. But the pragmatic truth is that the fall in vocations means we will no longer have people such as Brother Kevin — people who will willingly embrace a life of poverty, putting their own needs aside to live their life for and alongside those most in need.
His loss, and the loss of such people, will be felt far and wide.