Sunday morning Mass never really went away; in fact, it’s been on RTÉ 1 every Sunday for as long as anyone can remember. But the institution has finally clashed with Facebook, with surprisingly entertaining results. An unlikely cause for a viral sensation, the Facebook group for RTÉ’s Sunday morning Mass has amassed 170,000 “fans” overnight. And the hilarious memes and puns have come thick and fast.

“Have two tickets for the front pew for sale, don’t miss a second of the action,” wrote one. Da Pope posted: “So is this still on or wha?” Probably not quite what the page’s moderator had in mind.

The Irish don’t really do discontent or dissent. Rather than rail against the perceived injustices afflicted by the Catholic Church, it’s much easier to create a meme, tongue firmly in cheek, and raise some laughs. And gallows humour is how we’ve long reacted to the unpleasant things in life from Pantigate to Repeal the 8th. The bleaker things get, the more the wryly irreverent on social media come into their own.

But there’s something else afoot here, in these 170,000 Facebook fans, that isn’t merely trolling the church for the sake of it.

Like Hope Ur OK Hun or Official Crumlin Shopping Centre before it, Mass’ Facebook page has lit the blue touch paper by hitting upon an air pocket of the past at the right time. There’s the niggling truth that Mass, rejected outright by millennials, is as nostalgic and meme-worthy as other relic from our childhoods. It’s not the lofty, all-knowing behemoth is was when it loomed large in our young minds and hearts.

Nostalgia is big business on Facebook; a chance to take pause in a breakneck world, enjoy the warm glow of simpler and slower times, and bathe in our commonality. Neurologists have yet to confirm it, but the pleasure centres in our brains light up like battleships at the mere mention of Levi 501s, Findus Crispy Pancakes, Italia ’90 or Zig & Zag.

Mass, to many minds, has become Strawberry Shortcake without the cuteness. He-Man without the bronzed pecs. It’s writ large all over this Facebook page.

Yet like something cryogenically frozen, Sunday Mass has been impressively stubborn in its refusal to change through time. That’s why it’s an experience most of the island immediately understands. And what is Facebook if not a great unifier?

If you’re in your 30s or 40s, you’re part of the generation of many lasts. We’re the last ones to grow up without a computer in the house or in our pockets. We’re also part of the last generation that recalls being dragged to Mass upon pain of death. Back then, Confession, Communion and Confirmation were milestones met with excitement, and likely a genuine resolve to be a better and more “Christian” person. 30 years ago, Christianity and moral fibre were one and the same. No-one seemed to mind that the church was offering instruction on how to be a good person. And then we started asking the really hard questions.

Earlier this week, the Vatican issued a directive not to scatter the ashes of loved ones after cremation, and to store them only in places “approved” by the Church. Again, it resulted in much derision and spirited banter on social media, and how could it not? The message is clear; the church doesn’t get to tell us what to do anymore.

Still, childhoods cast a long shadow. Whether we like it or not, those Catholic teachings, like the Green Cross Code and six-times tables, are stamped on our DNA. Some of us have rejected the experience, and have the Declaration Of Defection to prove it. Others take from the faith if and when needed.

Many deride those with faith as naff, out of touch, and possibly questionable of character or moral fibre. I don’t. I don’t envy them their viewpoints on women’s bodies or same-sex marriage, but part of me envies their certainty of conviction, the spiritual balm they receive from religion, the sense of community and belonging.

But the majority of us have turned our backs on this. We were raised in the bosom of religion, an intoxicating and stultifying opiate for the masses. For many reasons, some of us have walked away from it. Many have yet to find a surrogate tether; something to replace that sense of belonging. For that reason alone, all you can do is find your kind – and Facebook is as good a place as any for that – and laugh.