The concept of “God in a Bottle” was something I was previously unaware of until recently. While perusing a catalogue for an upcoming auction in Dublin, I discovered that two artefacts relating to this phenomenon were listed for sale.
Held at a venue in Stephen’s Green, Adam’s, the auction boasts a diverse melange of furniture and miscellaneous items brought together under the title “Irish vernacular”.
The items listed within broadly represent the typical features of Irish rural life during the mid to late 20th century. The assortment consists of items such as classic dressers, grain bins, fixed beds, súgán armchairs, peat buckets, and more.
Among the items are two “milking stools”, with a four-legged and an opulent five-legged variant – these are reminiscent of the sort I might have sat on as a child. However, if the “God in a Bottle” was also a part of the Irish everyday language during that era, we may not have indulged in that precise vernacular where I was raised.
Upon further research, I have learned that it is a spin-off from the traditional concept of a ship in a bottle, albeit with religious symbols instead of nautical paraphernalia meticulously arranged through the bottleneck.
Commonly, the presence of a cross and a ladder were customary, along with other emblems of the Crucifixion – a hammer, pincers, and at times, a soldier’s spear.
Adam’s infers that although this form of folk art has deep roots in numerous cultures, it has an especially strong association with Ireland. However, they further mention: “these compelling creations have occasionally made their way to England, most likely transported by Irish workers employed in road construction and building projects”.
In my pursuit of learning more about this phenomenon, I stumbled upon a website run by an antique dealer in York, where an example from 1937 found its way there a couple of years back.
The auctioneers there tried to propagate the notion that “these bottles are principally associated with the Irish community living within mining territories”. Though quite contradictory to this belief, the cross in their possession was crafted with the inscription “To Miss M Bryant from T Prisk”, which aren’t notably of an Irish origin.
Notwithstanding, the occurrence of this phenomenon has been noted far beyond England. It seems to have made its way to an amusing blog named Don’t Forget Your Shovel, managed by one Susan Arthure, an Irish archaeologist residing in South Australia.
Past a certain period, she recounted her experience of “snorkelling with the cuttlefish near Whyalla”, an Australian aquatic undertaking, and shared her reflections.
“It was an unforgettable experience, closely followed by scouring a little curios shop enroute to home in Wirrabara, where I stumbled upon a marvelous ‘God-in-a-bottle’ in the last section of the shop.”
It was a historic flagon bottle, sized over 30cm in height. The ordinary crucifixion depiction was substituted with the detailed imagery of the Sacred Heart of Jesus and the Immaculate Heart of Mary. The creator’s identity was listed on a card reading “Peter Coleman of Adelaide.”
This specific creation wasn’t her first encounter with such an item in South Australia. There was a matching one displayed in a museum situated at a vineyard founded by Jesuit monks in the mid-19th century. The latter was complete with the typical cross, ladder, hammer and even a small jug (suggested to represent vinegar?), all enclosed in an old wine bottle.
Surprisingly, the term ‘God in a bottle’ rendered scarce and recent results when searched for in Irish newspaper archives – almost all from the past three years and primarily about a man from Roscommon who is preserving the tradition.
Adding to the intrigue is a 1978 Evening Press GAA column, the link to religious art fell away upon a closer look. It read “The Myths of the Open Draw,” pertaining to an ongoing debate about the GAA potentially scrapping the provincial championships for an unrestricted knockout competition where all counties have an equal chance.
Arguing against the suggestion that this would make the competition fairer, the author metaphorically used a phrase he was obviously well-versed with, regardless of the fact the context didn’t align with its precise folk-art meaning.
In dismissing the open draw proposal, he stated, “The entire uproar is indicative of decadence – a quest for some ‘God in a Bottle’ or ‘Deus ex machina’ which will magically convert the weak into the strong without any effort on their part. Such notions became obsolete with Cinderella.”
I’m aware this isn’t the primary focus of my discourse, though I couldn’t disregard the Evening Press journalist’s mention of the subject. It compels me to highlight that six years later, when an unseeded draw was experimented with for the first time during the 1984 Centenary Cup, both dominant teams of that era, Kerry and Dublin, were premature in their exits.
On the other hand, my modest home county of Monaghan — finally liberated from the dominance of the Ulster Championship — surged through the ranks, painting a victorious streak across Limerick, Mayo, Offaly, and Derry, before reaching the finale. In the ultimate face-off, they were narrowly bested by Meath. Notably, there was no divine intervention pleaded for at any point in their journey.