In a development that is shocking, startling and not at all choreographed to rehabilitate his reputation, Conor McGregor has found God. All it took was a couple of weeks off social media for him to discover the way, the truth and the light. Praise be the PR mavens. Hosanna to the handlers. And kudos to him for sharing his divine revelation at a press conference where he was carnival-barking his bottom-feeding bare-knuckle-fighting carbuncle of a promotion. Truly, the Lord moves in mysterious ways his wonders to perform.
“There is a higher power, God, that dictates my journey and all of our journeys, and I live my life by God’s word,” said McGregor, speaking very softly in tongues these days, evincing the fluency of a televangelist seeking to part gullible rubes from their dollars. “Since around that time that you mentioned at the last event, I’ve engaged on a spiritual journey, and I’m saved. I’m saved. I am healed . . .”
And the word was made flesh and dwelt amongst us.
Swearing off Twitter and Instagram for just over a fortnight was enough to guide him to redemption. A lesson there for the rest of us incorrigibles about how we too might locate the path to righteousness. True salvation lies in a brief respite from posting relentless self-promotional drivel online. Then again, it could be that this is just the way it affects a celebrity with a sexual assault case on his resume that is doing a serious number on his commercial viability. A severe case of the Russell Brands is the clinical rather than ecclesiastical term for this convenient type of just-add-water religious awakening.
Still, a theological breakthrough of this global import begs many questions. The most significant might be where exactly did McGregor find God, who is, according to his own publicists, everywhere. Was the almighty visible in the recent decision by UFC to ban him for 18 months for missing three random drug tests last year? A come-to-Jesus moment for any supposed athlete serious about fighting again. Or, was our Lord in the studio at Fox News Channel, where, just days before embarking on his epic 16-day long spiritual odyssey, McGregor yukked it up with Sean Hannity about togging out at the White House next summer? Wouldn’t be the first visitor to that station to see an imaginary cross masquerading as a smart career move in those klieg lights.
In Matthew 25:31-46, Jesus says, “ . . . I was in prison and you visited me.” If you believe that, and McGregor now apparently does, surely his god must have bumped into him during his various stints in pokey. Did our Saviour knock around the cells the night the Dubliner spent in Brooklyn’s 78th Police Precinct after attacking a busload of fellow UFC scrappers at the Barclays Center? Or was he lurking in the squad car the day Miami Beach cops brought him in for smashing a fan’s phone outside the Fontainebleau Hotel? The grasping click of handcuffs has been known to stir dormant faith in the most woebegone.
“The son of Man came to seek,” declares the Gospel according to Luke, “and to save the lost.”
Perhaps God had been merely biding his time between the pages of McGregor’s musty copy of Bunreacht na hÉireann, emerging genie-like only after he finally wiped the cobwebs off it the day he found out how an Irish president is elected and the limited powers of the office. That painful discovery could have caused him to take the Lord’s name repeatedly, an incantation capable of calling forth the highest power, especially if the person roaring is desperately trying to sing a redemption song for the astonishingly credulous American media.
Maybe a very modern Jesus was loitering in the DMs of Azealia Banks. Hoping to bring back those who strayed from his flock, the digital deity skulked among the unsolicited nudes that the Dubliner sent the rapper, including the offertory gift shot of him weightlifting with his penis. Whatever you do to the least of my appendages, that you do unto me.
It’s not beyond the bounds that McGregor came across devotional graffiti somewhere. Like on the walls of the bathroom stall at the Miami Heat’s Kesaya Center where his encounter with a 49-year-old Wall Street executive after Game 4 of the 2023 NBA Finals remains the subject of a civil lawsuit alleging sexual battery. Presumably, Florida courts will be impressed by the defendant finding religion in the meantime. They can’t possibly think his timely conversion is about profits not prophets, more to do with carefully scripted UFC comebacks rather than holy scripture.
Justifiably famous for turning water into wine, the King of Kings might, for his next trick, make McGregor’s Forged Irish Stout not taste like pigswill. A miracle worth all the Hallelujahs. Or at least he might persuade off-licences and supermarkets that removed it from their shelves following Nikita Hand’s immense bravery to start stocking cans again. Sure, the owner may have been found guilty in a civil trial, answered no comment to over 100 questions from Gardaí, and launched a frivolous, fruitless appeal. But, crucially, that was all before he found God, conveniently located somewhere between the penthouse of the Beacon Hotel, the steps of the High Court and the octagon being built on the South Lawn of the White House.
Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy.
