Ordinariate Pilgrim

A homily

Crucifixion is probably the most barbarous death ever devised. It was used by the Romans, not only as a punishment, but as a deterrent: anyone tempted to rebellion would think long and hard if once they had seen someone crucified. It is the death to which the Lord Jesus Christ went, freely and of his own will, for the salvation of the whole creation, throughout all time. Totally innocent of all sin, he took the sin of the whole human race upon himself. Offering his perfect life to the Father, he won our forgiveness, and brought us back to God.

Forgiveness lies at the very heart of the love of God which we see in Jesus. This Good Friday I want to put before you those words of Jesus, as he first experienced those great iron spikes being driven into his hands and feet. And he prays: ‘Father, forgive them, they know not what they do’. There are two inspired lines in the hymn by Graham Kendrick we call, ‘The Servant King’. The writer says of the Lord Jesus,

‘hands that flung stars into space
to cruel nails surrendered.’

In these few words he reminds us just who it is who lies upon the ground being nailed to his cross: it is the eternal Son of God, the Second Person of the Trinity, who emptied himself of glory and took our flesh: not just to live among us, though that would have been wonderful enough, but to die with us and for us, to share our death so that we might share his resurrection. Such love, such forgiveness.

You may know the words of this prayer, found in one of the concentration camps of the Second World War: places which mark, as nowhere else, the utter cruelty and depravity of which human beings are capable. This prayer was written by an inmate of the camp, one who had to suffer at the hands of his or her captors. This prisoner prayed:

O Lord, remember not only the men and women of good will, but also those of ill will. But do not only remember the suffering they have inflicted on us, remember the fruits we bought, thanks to this suffering: our comradeship, our loyalty, our humility, the courage, the generosity, the greatness of heart which has grown out of all this. And when they come to judgment, let all the fruits that we have borne be their forgiveness.
(Richard Foster, Prayer: Finding the Heart’s True Home. HarperOne, 1992. page 224)

Such love – such forgiveness

I went recently to Southwark Cathedral for the funeral of the musician Jeremy de Satgé, who had organised the music and singers for my ordination at Most Precious Blood. The boys of Westminster Cathedral choir sang at the funeral, and the music included a setting by Peter Hurford of part of this poem by Robert Herrick. If you want to hear the musical setting go to You-tube; it’s sung by the boys of Southwark Anglican Cathedral, with accompaniment on the Lewis organ – also the chance to see an English altar combined with a towering reredos. The management of the scale is interesting (it’s Sir Ninian Comper, I think) and avoids the altar looking like an overwhelmed sideboard as in the later classical/baroque period.

HIS LITANY, TO THE HOLY SPIRIT

In the hour of my distress,
When temptations me oppress,
And when I my sins confess,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When I lie within my bed,
Sick in heart, and sick in head,
And with doubts discomforted,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the house doth sigh and weep,
And the world is drown’d in sleep,
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the artless doctor sees
No one hope, but of his fees,
And his skill runs on the lees,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When his potion and his pill,
Has, or none, or little skill,
Meet for nothing but to kill,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the passing-bell doth toll,
And the furies in a shoal
Come to fright a parting soul,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the tapers now burn blue,
And the comforters are few,
And that number more than true,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the priest his last hath pray’d,
And I nod to what is said,
‘Cause my speech is now decay’d,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When, God knows, I’m tost about
Either with despair, or doubt;
Yet, before the glass be out,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the tempter me pursu’th
With the sins of all my youth,
And half damns me with untruth,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the flames and hellish cries
Fright mine ears, and fright mine eyes,
And all terrors me surprise,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the Judgment is reveal’d,
And that open’d which was seal’d;
When to Thee I have appeal’d,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

Robert Herrick

… at least, famous in the C S Lewis sense. If I remember rightly, for I have not got my copy of ‘The Great Divorce’ to hand, he heard singing and joyful tumult, and asked his guide who was coming. The reply came that it was one of the Great Ones, who on earth had been Sarah Smith of Golders Green. I count myself privileged to be old enough to have known some of the great ones of the Anglo-Catholic Movement – not, of course, Newman and Pusey, nor even Dom Gregory Dix and Dr Mascall – but rather some of those ordinary but wonderful lay women, usually single, devoted to their parishes and to their priests, who were once such stalwarts of the Faith.

Emily Lenderyou, always known as ‘Lindy’ was well into her seventies when I went to be priest-in-charge of St Edmund, Forest Gate. She had moved as a child into a house in the parish which her parents had bought before the First World War. She had cared for both of them until they died, and had been a civil servant. Taken to St Edmund’s in her teens by a friend, she was a was a loyal and even fierce supporter of its tradition. Mass every Sunday, a regular penitent, her financial giving sacrificial to the point of recklessness, she was a talented seamstress, and made two albs and two cottas which I still wear, decorated with rows of fine drawn thread work. There was nothing of the ‘narrow minded spinster’ about her, and she seemed instinctively to understand many of the pressures which a priest nearly fifty years younger than her was subjected to. She was wise, funny and contented. She saw the church she had worshipped in all her life demolished and redeveloped, and she amazed the Bishop on the day of the consecration of the altar in the new Church Centre by telling him, ‘This is the happiest day of my life.’ Well into her eighties, her wonderful Irish doctor found she had a slow and painless cancer. He got her into St Joseph’s Hospice where she had a marvellous six months, made all the net curtains for my new Vicarage, and travelled by builders’ van (more kind friends) to see my new church. She asked me to leave her for a time in front of the Blessed Sacrament altar. When she died I grieved for my loss and rejoiced for her gain. I still do.

Eileen King had been a missionary teacher in Papua New Guinea returning to retire to Plaistow in East London. She had worked with them overseas, and in retirement was close to their house at Balaam Street. She joined the congregation at St Philip’s Plaistow where I was Rector. She was tall and angular, strode round the parish collecting children (she revived the youth work in the parish) and would hoot with laughter. She looked after the altar linen and one Holy Saturday fell down the steps behind the Blessed Sacrament Altar. Although badly shaken and bruised she refused to go to hospital. ‘They might keep me in and I’d miss the Easter Vigil’ she said – and she got her way. During this time her block of flats was being upgraded, to turn the bed-sits with shared bathrooms into self-contained one bedroom flats. Eileen was appalled at such extravagance, and threatened to sub-let her bedroom if she was not given one of the two ‘bed-sitters’ which were left. She got her way! By this time the controversy over the ordination of women was under way and dividing our parish. She told me that she had always wanted to see women ordained. But she did not believe that I and others were misogynists and that we had done more to enable the ministry of women in our parish than anywhere she had known. I treasure that: it gave me great comfort at a very difficult time in my life. Eileen was taken ill while with friends in Yorkshire. She stayed in hospital in the north because she thought that people might “fuss” if she came back to London. She badgered the Lord to take her home, and he did two weeks before I left the parish. I celebrated her funeral Mass on the day before I moved.

Thanks be to God for the service that these women gave to his Church and to us, his priests. May they receive the reward of their labours.

Robert Herrick (1592-1674) was an Anglican cleric of the 17th century. He was vicar of Dean Prior in the county of Devon. From this parish he was ejected by the Puritans and restored by King Charles II. This poem appears in the ‘Divine Office’ of the Catholic Church, and I have found it quoted on American Catholic sites, which do not always seem to be aware of his background. How good it is to see the Anglican spiritual patrimony already bedding down in the Catholic Church.

IS this a Fast, to keep
The larder lean?
And clean
From fat of veals and sheep?

Is it to quit the dish
Of flesh, yet still
To fill
The platter high with fish?

Is it to fast an hour,
Or ragg’d to go?
Or show
A downcast look and sour?

No; ’tis a fast to dole
Thy sheaf of wheat,
And meat,
Unto the hungry soul.

It is to fast from strife,
From old debate
And hate;
To circumcise thy life.

To show a heart grief-rent;
To starve thy sin,
Not bin;
And that’s to keep thy Lent.

In 1625 the Ferrar family purchased the manor house and church at Little Gidding in Huntingdonshire, nor far from Cambridge. Nicholas Ferrar had prospects at the royal court, but with the loss of the family fortune, he retired to Little Gidding with his mother, Mary, and his extended family: Nicholas himself was unmarried. In 1626 Nicholas was ordained deacon (though never priest) by William Laud, later to be Archbishop of Canterbury. The family immersed itself in a life of prayer, going daily to the church for Morning and Evening Prayer, gathering regularly during the day and keeping vigil in turns during the night for the recitation of the psalter. Practical works of charity involved the family in the care of local people, and they became skilled in the making and binding of books, especially parallels of the Gospels.

The community attracted and repelled: King Charles I visited Little Gidding three times; the Puritans wrote pamphlets denouncing the family for trying to revive the ideal of the religious community abolished in the previous century. In 1637 Nicholas Ferrar died, although the family continued their community life under his brother until 1657.
Little Gidding was largely forgotten until the Catholic Revival of the 19th century. One of the earliest achievements of the Movement was to restore with the Church of England the Religious Life for women and men. The attraction of Little Gidding was undoubtedly its simplicity and devotion, its humble hiddenness, its sanctifying of the relationships of the family, and its willingness to trust in God for its beginning and its end.
As the family disintegrates in western Europe so the ideal of the Christian family becomes harder to maintain, and yet ever more vital in its witness. It does not exclude, but draws into its life of care and service. It is rooted in prayer, simple forms of the Office, grace before meals, the Rosary and intercession, Sunday Mass together. At a time when more and more people are living on their own it sets the counter-ideal of the community. One might envisage family members and single friends buying or renting homes close to each other in an area so that daily prayer and community life are possible, as well as the care of the older and sick members of the community.

Perhaps this form of simple community living might be adapted by young people especially in our cities. Accommodation is often difficult to find, and young Catholics may be forced to live alongside a lifestyle of hard-drinking and casual sex with their flat mates. Perhaps here there is an ecumenical dimension: young Catholics and young Anglicans living in simple community flat-shares; during the week praying the Office and doing some pastoral work; though on Sunday going to the Eucharist in their respective parish churches. The challenge is there too to the rich and influential. Nicholas Ferrar retired from this life to live for God. He used what was left of his fortune to pay for this way of life. Will the wealthy and sophisticated in our society feel the call to embrace it too? The call to holiness in difficult times is as real today as in the times of Nicholas Ferrar, though in very different circumstances.

One of the most obvious features of a parish church in the C of E is its Church Council. It has huge legal responsibility for the building and finances, and more general authority – in tandem with the Vicar – for the worship and mission of the parish. It is the relationship of the vicar with the members of the Church Council which is key. In some churches the Council is the stronger partner, and willingly or unwillingly the vicar goes along for a quiet life. In some places the Vicar is the dominant figure, and manages to ensure that only people who agree with him (or her these days) get elected at the Annual Meeting each year. Domineering clergy usually result in some of the lay people moving to other churches or ceasing to go to church altogether. The same things happen when a group of lay people oppose the authority of the vicar, and the life of the parish becomes dominated by this struggle. In the C of E it may well be theological: the new vicar is too evangelical and wants to stop wearing ‘robes’ and sack the choir – or he may be too catholic and uses incense or talks about ‘going to confession’. Yet at its best the Church Council is a vital part of the life and mission of the parish. I am glad that some form of this council structure has been recognised as part of the Patrimony, and must be appointed in an Ordinariate parish.

In the Diocesan Parish a Council of the lay people to advise and assist the Parish Priest is not obligatory. I was surprised in my Catholic Deanery to find that only two of the parishes had such a Council. One parish priest spoke warmly of its work in mobilising the laity to ‘get things done’; the other priest was not enthusiastic about his group. As far as I could tell, this was not a ‘liberal/conservative’ divide, as might be expected, with the ‘liberals’ keen to share with the laity, and the ‘conservatives’ jealous of the prerogatives of the parish priest. For Roman Catholic Canon Law makes it clear, I think, that the duty of ‘governing’ the parish lies with the Parish Priest. I am reminded of the advice given to me by my local bishop when I was an Anglican. I had been very upset by what I perceived as trivial opposition on the PCC, sniping and time wasted by people gossiping behind my back, while the parish was set to founder. The bishop said to me, ‘It is your responsibility to lead; if you don’t there are others in the parish who will. The difference is this: you are accountable for your leadership to me: they are not and if things go wrong they will just up and leave.’

For the wise parish priest the advice, support and guidance of a good Council of laity is invaluable. He refers and checks his own plans and ideas. He gains insights and information which he could never have known otherwise. He is able to encourage new initiatives which he could not possibly undertake himself. He is able to exercise oversight (which is not the same as control) through listening and advising. As the parish grows is size no one priest can hope to relate personally to the many hundreds of people coming to Mass and the Sacraments. But in these difficult days people quickly lapse if they feel that they do not ‘belong’. The risk for the Ordinariate Groups is that they lose the will to grow because being small is comfortable. So the group revels in its warmth and closeness. But this can also be excluding to anyone trying to join. In my Anglican days I have certainly seen small congregations which talked endlessly about their desire to be bigger: but did everything to keep going with just the same numbers and people as they always had: with the unwritten message ‘Will the last person out after the last funeral please return the church keys to the Bishop.’

As Anglicans we used to say (admiringly) that Catholics would go to Mass anywhere: unlike Anglicans they were not so attached to their buildings that they would walk out if someone dared to move a flower vase! But the attachment to the building could, rightly channelled, give to the laity a sense of ‘ownership’, of responsibility not only for the building but for the life of the parish. My argument in the ‘Catholic Herald’ article on the Ordinariate as Church Planting still holds good. The former Anglicans of the Ordinariate need buildings and parishes into which to pour their energies. Put Ordinariate Groups on the margins of existing parishes with ‘their own’ Mass and you risk wasting a real resource to the renewal of Catholic life in this country.

A wise priest trusts his laity. And the laity respond to his challenge to them with enthusiasm and affection. When the People of God (laity and priests) get it right it is a joy to be part of.