🎰 IRISH PRIEST SPEAKS OUT: I Saw Our Lady Appear on Cross Mountain in Medjugorje

I was standing at the Divine Mercy Shrine in Medjugorje—the new shrine—when I met a priest whose story felt inseparable from the place itself.

He stood beside me quietly, a gentle presence, and when I asked his name he smiled.

“Father Edward A. Murphy,” he said.
Originally from Cork, Ireland, he now serves as a priest in the Diocese of Fall River, Mᴀssachusetts, in the United States. Medjugorje, however, was clearly a second home to him. He had been there many times—more times than he could count.

When I asked why he kept coming back, his answer was simple and unforgettable.

“It’s like going to a well to get water,” he said. “You come back to renew the graces. Unfortunately, grace is a bit like Guinness—it doesn’t travel well. It’s easy to lose it. So we return again and again, to recharge spiritually, to begin anew.”

That rhythm of returning had begun for him decades earlier, in December of 1990.

Christmas Eve, 1990

Father Murphy first came to Medjugorje just before Christmas, arriving on December 24th, 1990. The church of St. James was still under construction then, and the area behind it—now filled with trees—was bare and open.

That afternoon, someone suddenly said, “Our Lady is appearing on the mountain behind us.”

His first instinct, he admitted with a laugh, was skepticism.

“Let me go over and sort them out,” he thought.

As he walked alongside the church, he noticed a priest calmly hearing confessions.

“I remember thinking, ‘Why isn’t he running to see what’s going on?’”

Then, as he looked toward Cross Mountain, everything changed.

There—clear and unmistakable—was the image of Our Lady.

An American group nearby was recording, and that footage still exists today. But no recording could capture what happened inside him at that moment.

His first reaction wasn’t fear or confusion—it was movement.

“I wanted to run toward her,” he said. “I was fit in those days, and even though she was far away, every part of me wanted to go to her.”

Around him, people responded differently. Some cried. Some knelt. Some stood frozen in shock.

Our Lady, he said, appeared tranquil and peaceful—almost playfully kicking stones, as if bored. Yet her gaze spoke clearly.

“It was as if she was saying, ‘Son, this is the way to heaven. This is the way.’”

Then came the question that would echo through his life:

When are you going to act?

He knew exactly what it meant.

For years, he had been resisting a call to the priesthood—convincing himself he wasn’t worthy, wasn’t smart enough, wasn’t the right kind of man. But standing there on that mountain, all excuses fell away.

Later that evening, someone at the H๏τel said something that struck him deeply:

“It’s not what you see. It’s the message meant for you.”

A Changed Life

When Father Murphy returned to the United States, his first instinct was to fall back into old habits—to celebrate the New Year the way he always had. But the grace he received in Medjugorje wouldn’t let him.

“I knew I had to change my life,” he said.

He attended a prayer meeting he had long avoided. When rosaries were being handed out, he refused politely.

“I’ve got my own,” he said.

He pulled out a rosary he had bought in Medjugorje—and as he looked at it, the links began to change color before his eyes, from silver to gold.

The message was unmistakable:

Never be ashamed to be seen with the rosary.

Soon after, he applied to the seminary—not because he was confident, but because he wanted to be honest with God.

“Let’s get it over with,” he thought. “If they don’t want me, at least I’ll have tried.”

The interview was intense. Priests lined a long table, firing questions. One asked bluntly how someone from “holy Catholic Ireland” could have lived the life he had lived.

Father Murphy paused, then answered quietly:

“You go down very slowly—but you also come back up very slowly.”

Another priest asked if he spent much time with other Irish immigrants.

He joked, “There’s an old saying in Ireland: when you go abroad, avoid the Irish like the plague.”

The priest laughed and replied, “You’re right. All they do is drink.”

An hour after leaving, convinced he’d failed, the phone rang.

They wanted him to start seminary that August.

That was the beginning.

Falling, Returning, Persevering

His journey wasn’t without struggle. At one point, he left the seminary—driven by pride and fear of failure. But within ten minutes of walking out, he knew he had made a mistake.

He returned to Medjugorje and climbed the mountain, praying for hours.

“Lord,” he said, “I will do whatever you want—but don’t make a fool out of me.”

Again and again, one answer surfaced: priesthood.

He returned to the seminary and was accepted back mid-year—something almost unheard of. This time, he persevered.

He was ordained on June 13, 1998, the feast of St. Anthony—his own middle name. Looking back over 25 years of priesthood, he said there was only one regret:

“Why didn’t I go in earlier?”

Medjugorje’s Grace

Father Murphy believes deeply in the grace of Medjugorje—especially its call to confession.

“There’s a charism here,” he said. “Things buried deep inside rise to the surface. Go to confession so the road of grace to your heart isn’t blocked.”

He spoke tenderly about God the Father—not as an angry judge, but as mercy itself. Sitting beside the Divine Mercy image, he reflected on the words written beneath Jesus’ feet:

Jesus, I trust in You.

“We can’t really say those words,” he explained. “What we say is: Jesus, I want to trust in You. Keep saying that—and the walls will fall.”

The rosary, he said, remains one of the greatest weapons of grace.

“When you pray it, Satan has to retreat. It tells him the story of his defeat.”

And the Eucharist, he said, is the heart of everything.

“To hold Jesus in my hands at Mᴀss—how could anything surpᴀss that?”