The late Brian Lenihan was a good man. You might have disagreed with him on many things. Indeed, some of the decisions he took in his last Ministerial posting will cause uproar and division for decades. But the plain fact is that he was a good man and his death triggered a wave of real sadness, respect and affection.

Cynics, who are legion in Ireland, might respond that we don’t speak ill of the dead. Perhaps. Nonetheless, even the most trenchant critics of his economic policies were effusive, emphasising his intelligence, his political skills and, in particular, his courage and determination in continuing on with his work as Minister for Finance after the diagnosis of cancer of the pancreas, an illness notorious for its attrition.
You could never say anyone in Sinn Féin was on the same wavelength as Lenihan. Yet his Sinn Féin constituency colleague Paul Donnelly TD observed that his death had come as a huge shock and that, “He was a giant in Irish politics and commanded respect from across the party divides.”
Neither would you have listed Shane Ross among admirers of Lenihan’s economic policies but he too has been effusive, referring to him as “Probably the finest parliamentarian of his generation... and one of the nicest, most generous people in the Oireachtas.”
The Gay and Lesbian Equality Network weighed in too, saying Mr. Lenihan had “made a major contribution to the advancement of legal recognition for same-sex couples” while Minister for Justice and as Minister for Finance. “We will remember his contribution and his considerable charm, friendliness and courtesy,” they said.
To evoke such respect and affection after a brief, if high-flying career, even in the face of major controversy, he must have been a remarkable character. Of course, he isn’t the only politician of significance who crossed the great divide in recent weeks – and been fondly remembered. There was Garret Fitzgerald and Declan Costello too. But these were elders of the tribe, men who died in old age after long lives and many-phased careers. Lenihan, by contrast, died in harness, like his father but younger. He was only 52 years of age and had a mere four-year term as a Senior Minister.
As a member of the Lenihan family he was marinated in politics, but his entry to public political life began a mere 15 years ago when he won the by-election in Dublin West following the death of his father, Brian Lenihan Snr. When he was promoted to Cabinet as Minister for Justice, Equality and Law Reform in 2007 he became the third member of the Lenihan dynasty to serve in Cabinet, following his father and his aunt, Mary O’Rourke.
A year later he was moved to Finance by the new Taoiseach Brian Cowen. In the moment it must have seemed a massive endorsement – but pretty quickly it was revealed as the most poisoned of chalices. Not for nothing did Lenihan appear in David McWilliams’ kitchen late one night chewing raw garlic…
Politicians and journalists are mostly night birds, people who sleep little and burn candles at both ends and in the middle. The Hog encountered Lenihan twisting the night away at a conference. At first glance he was tripping the light fantastic. But the second glance showed him working the room, chatting and joking, sparring and engaging. Maybe that was the Lenihan in him. Certainly, it was of a piece with the temperament of his father, his aunt and his brother, people whose enthusiasm, intelligence and plain-speaking overrode so much.
In terms of his legacy, Lenihan was screwed by five fateful arrows. The first was his membership of Fianna Fáil. Yes, this was a family thing and in the context of the times was just what you did. But it strapped him to the house of cards that Bertie Ahern built – the freewheeling economic management, the green light for the banks and the excesses of the developers – and, in turn, to all that followed.
The second was the cruel luck to become Minister for Finance just as that house of cards came crashing down around everyone’s head. Within months he was confronting carnage. He made a good fist of an unwinnable hand, but that’s not to say he got it right. Indeed, there are those who say that his decision to guarantee all the banks and not burn the bondholders was the costliest decision in the history of the State. Bar none.
Lenihan wasn’t an economist. The succession of crises came so fast and on such unimaginable scales that even a highly intelligent guy and a very fast learner would soon tread water. His description of the State guarantee (of all bank deposits) as “the cheapest bailout in the world” came back to haunt him, as did his assertion in December 2010 that “the worst is over.”
The third was the lack of good advice around him at the crucial points. This wasn’t Lenihan’s fault. It was a function of the arrogance of his predecessors especially in the Fianna Fáil/PD coalition and the degree to which they privatised advisory functions regarding State policy. The duplicity of bankers and builders held greater sway than the warnings of economists or civil servants.
The fourth was the external context: the whole witches’ brew of international money markets, global bank risk taking, Greek debts, and north European and British superiority complexes.
It fell to Lenihan to sign the IMF-EU bail-out loan document. In a BBC radio interview (with Dan O’Brien of the Irish Times) he accused the European Central Bank of forcing Ireland to accept the bailout and spoke of his bitterness and regret at what unfolded.
Finally, there was his illness. Being struck down with cancer of the pancreas at the very moment when he needed all his physical and mental faculties was a truly cruel twist. His courage and determination in carrying on elevated him above the herd.
His cancer became a metaphor for the national economic condition and in many minds helped to cement the case for personal sacrifice in the common good. Those with experience of cancer will know just how much it must have cost him and his family.
On mature reflection, it will be seen as a personal sacrifice comparable to those of the patriots whose memory he invoked on more than one occasion.
One of these was Michael Collins – traditionally an icon of Fine Gael, not Fianna Fáil – and it’s a measure of the respect he commanded across the political spectrum that Lenihan was asked to make the annual Béal na Bláth oration last August.
It’s plausible that this might have been the first step in a massive reorientation in Irish politics. We’ll never know now. May he rest in peace.