The priest in Bedford had been in the parish some four years and had made a
great impression on it. He was gifted, energetic, modern and charismatic,
especially in the Liturgy, which enabled him to do naturally all kinds of things that I
found to be embarrassing if not impossible. The house was a three bedroom semi
right opposite the church and perfectly adequate as a presbytery but huge in
comparison to what I had been used to and with stairs which even Butch treated
with some suspicion to begin with. There was an ‘open house’ policy so that all and
sundry had free access at any time. There was also the mystery of the locked
bedroom. Apparently there was a ‘lodger’ – something which had not been
mentioned and filled me, a hermit, with some foreboding. On my third night there,
very late, Butch went mad on hearing someone coming into the house and
proceeding upstairs into the said locked room. It was the lodger; a young man who
was thinking of, perhaps, going on to the priesthood. We had an amicable
discussion and agreed that his stay would be limited - he seemed as keen to go
as I was to see him go, if only because he was terrified of dogs; never mind new
and strange parish priests. The confrontation was friendly and I would like to think it
did not affect the fact that the lad never did go on to a seminary. Quite quickly the
free and random access – and the weekday nursery school downstairs from 9.00
till 4.00 - were curtailed, although meetings etc were , of course, continued.
Surprisingly many individuals made me feel less guilty about this by saying that an
open house had quite often made it difficult to see a priest in confidence and they
never knew who would open the door or how active the place might be. The
domestic changes did not seem to cause much distress or upheaval in the parish.
One gentleman did point out quite strongly that the house was not mine; it
belonged to the parish. We agreed on that legal aspect of it but decided to
disagree on how that should be interpreted in practice and we have remained on
good terms since.
The church was a modern one, quite big, square and with a floor sloping down
towards the sanctuary. It took a while to get used to walking downhill towards the
altar but was, presumably, what architects are wont to call ‘a feature’ [ even though
on one occasion a little boy kept on rolling his orange down the hill to my feet while I
was preaching and – not perhaps wisely – I kept on throwing it back to him].
Perhaps it did even facilitated the view of the altar and priest for the usual crowd of
Catholics who always sit at the back. Yet one more mystery of my religion. It is a
modern, functional church, but had little of the traditional aura of a place of worship
- changed through the years now by the addition of a few statues, beautiful altar
and some stained glass windows. As a loyal and obedient priest and a natural
extrovert as well, my predecessor had introduced many aspects of the new liturgy,
had several flourishing music groups with guitars and percussion instruments,
enjoyed the services of two or three good organists, keen singers, servers and
general organisers who all made it easy for this country bumpkin to merge in and
not disrupt things or try to mend them if they ain’t bust.
The Sunday Sign of Peace - going down the aisle and actually kissing Catholics
- was beyond me, I explained, and it was cheerfully accepted. The ‘Movers’ –
consisting of nubile young ladies in leotards dancing towards the altar at the
Offertory ( thankfully only performed once a month) and then holding hands with
the priest – was an artistic and perfectly proper interpretation of lay participation in
the Mass. But it was a surprise, not to say shock, which left me so obviously
speechless and ill at ease that, after two or three months the ceremony was quietly
dropped without anyone having to take any draconian measures. It would be nice to
think that the change-over did not have too traumatic an effect on the parish and
certainly no changes were consciously brought in just for the sake of change.
I missed my own lodger – Tommy the donkey – but still had the dog and free
access to a whole zoo of sometimes exotic animals housed at the Convent some
two miles away. The Sisters were charming and helpful in all ways, Sunday Masses
there were a joy ( even though the church was circular and when preaching one
could not help wondering what the congregation behind one’s back might be getting
up to), the grounds vast and there was a standing invitation and welcome to share
lunch with the Sisters and any various visitors or attenders at retreats, study
sessions etc who might be there. I was aware of the temptation to rely too much on
the good will of the Sisters and abuse their willingness to help – whether in the
Liturgy or instructions or even domestic chores – and suspect I did keep what
might, at times, have appeared as a snooty aloofness. The knowledge that there
was always that background and support, plus having an eager and able
parishioner who dealt with all financial matters made the change to a big parish
much easier than I had have feared and expected.
I hardly slept for the first few nights. Not because of the heavy burden of cares for
a new and much bigger parish but because of the traffic. Used to living in a field
with no neighbours and a street some 100 yards away and hearing only Tommy’s
heavy breathing as he huddled for shelter against the caravan wall it was rather
disconcerting to have late night revellers belting past, changing gears to negotiate
the roundabout only to accelerate away again – often with ICE ( for the uninitiated:
In-car- entertainment) going at full blast. But priests are as adaptable as the rest of
mankind and I soon got used to urban noises; even to people banging on the door
much more regularly, frequently and at all kinds of hours than I ever experienced in
the wilds of Northamptonshire.
One early morning – about 2.00 a.m. when for some reason I was still up, typing
and listening to music – the doorbell rang and, as a wise precaution, I took my
Butch with me to open the front door. The streetlight just outside was out ( Bedford
Town Council used to save public money by extinguishing some lights at midnight)
and in the meagre illumination from the porch I saw a figure in a white suit – and no
head ! – standing on the doorstep. It only seemed so for a second but the hairs on
the back of my neck stood to attention and Butch growled ominously – until the man
spoke and it became obvious that it was the figure of a very black man dressed to
kill. He was charming, had spent the evening in his best whitish suit with his
girlfriend and had a terrible row with her. He was very upset, had a coffee, liked the
dog, calmed down and went off home with what I hoped was good advice - to go
back next day with due penitence and red roses. I did know him from Adam and
never heard from him again.
Another late night saw a young lady being abandoned on the doorstep by a
‘friend’ and claiming she was possessed by the devil. She looked a bit dishevelled
and distressed but we discussed the matter, telephoned her mother somewhere in
Oxfordshire and went into the church at dead of night since the girl claimed her
devil would not allow her to enter churches. He/she/they did not seem to mind, we
talked a bit more about the whole subject, said a prayer and by the time the mother
arrived the devil seemed to have gone – not surprisingly, perhaps; the mother
turned out to be a formidable lady – and my nocturnal visitor was calm and demure
and asked to receive Holy Communion. Rightly or wrongly, liturgically and
spiritually correct or not, she did receive Communion there and then very devoutly,
went off with Mum and – again, as so often happens – I never heard from either of
them – or that particular devil – again.
Bedford being synonymous with John Bunyan there were some celebrations just
about to start marking the tercentenary of - I think – the publication/writing of
Pilgrim’s Progress. Since it was the turn of a Catholic priest to be the chairman of
the local ecumenical gathering the other Catholic priests in Bedford all ganged up
and gave me the job for the year. Not only did I not know any of the civic or
ecclesiastical worthies but I also found - and still do find - Ecumenism in action
quite difficult. Without any qualifications whatever I respect the views of others and
their right to keep to them. I even envy so many things other Christians have which
are not quite so obvious in our Church - the singing skill and prowess of
Methodists, the knowledge of and familiarity with the Bible, the much more personal
relationship with Jesus ( rather than the more distant form of address of ‘Our
Lord’), the organisation and genuine lay participation in parishes; to mention just a
few. But I find that actually indulging in what I affectionately but possibly flippantly
call ‘mixed bathing’ is full of pitfalls, hidden landmines, traps and possibilities of
quite innocently causing offence and even hurt. So I blundered through the year
with lots of meetings, a few processions, risking my life guarding the Bishop of St.
Albans from being crushed as he preached by the statue of John Bunyan bang in
the centre of town with lorries mounting the pavement as they negotiated the tight
left turn on their way to Goldington and Cambridge, playing host to T.V. celebrities
and even – most horrible of all – having a breakfast meeting (!) of clergy at
7.00 a.m. in the presbytery. It was a relief to end my year of duty without having
started a war of religion and – as far as I know – doing the ecumenical movement
irreparable harm.
More relaxed but still an experience I would rather not repeat was the customary
Corpus Christi procession organised – using the term loosely – from the main old
church in the town centre and which the ‘new boy’ in town was press-ganged to
lead. It was the proud boast of the old Monsignor there that Bedford was home to
44 nationalities and he tried to involve as many of these as possible in the
procession each year. They gathered, dressed in national costumes, and were
encouraged to sing a verse or two of their favourite hymn in their own language. All
this caused severe congestion in the town centre around the church and delayed
the start of the procession by a good hour. Eventually some semblance of order
was restored and I carried the Monstrance, watched with bemused interest by the
local inhabitants, followed by a good congregation and preceded by an assortment
of servers. Those carrying ‘torches’ used them, off and on, to have mock sword
fights, the singing of hymns – as always in processions – varied by a musical bar or
so from the front to the back of the straggly line. The highlight, however, which I
found strangely moving, was when we reached a crossroads and the policeman on
duty – a Sergeant – having stopped all the traffic, then stood rigidly to attention
and saluted the passing of the Real Presence. It was a simple but very public act of
faith and respect in contrast to the utter lack of interest shown by practically all the
bystanders, passers-by and other people milling around pursuing whatever might
have been their business.
As it happened, this was the last such public procession. Future ones took place
in school grounds or out in the beautiful environment of Clapham Convent. It is
debatable whether it is better to do this and avoid the ‘scoffing of the multitude’
(even just complete indifference) or to show one’s faith publicly even if the public as
a whole has no idea what is going on.
There were Catholic schools in Bedford and my quite false reputation as some
sort of expert had preceded me so that in no time at all, with no really valid excuses
to offer, I was a Governor, a correspondent, a chaplain and general factotum in all
of them. Changes in the age structure were just being introduced and plans were
near fruition for an Upper School to be built on my doorstep. Bishop Grant dug the
first sod – with some difficulty since we had just had a long period of good weather
and the soil was rock hard – and there was a lot of involvement in the building,
planning, appointment of Head and teachers, governors and, of course, raising
money to pay for it all.
Although the parish was a big one and there was more than enough work, the
abiding memory is of being swamped by school business. It may well be that – if
remembered at all – my ten years there were only remarkable for my dog(s), the
vision of a little fellow belting around on a big motorbike and the quaint manner of
heating the church – which was big, square, high and had electric under-floor
heating. This was yet another architectural ‘feature’ and consisted of the floor area
being divided into three sections which, when heated, did do the job very well, even
though the cost was rather high. However, on my arrival one third of the area had
already ceased to function and within a few weeks the second third also became
defunct. Incredible though it may seem, to repair the wiring the whole section of
floor, tiles and cement – would have had to be lifted and relaid at great expense
and inconvenience. My plebeian solution was to wheel in two monstrous paraffin
blowers or, a more genteel description, ‘space heaters’. They did the job but were
ugly, horrendously noisy, had an insatiable appetite for fuel and generally reminded
people of a couple of jet engines on the loose. They had to be switched off for
Mass and their effect reproduced, as far as possible, by hot air from the pulpit!
By the end of my undistinguished career in Bedford I was Chairman of Governors
of five schools, chaplain to two of them and on the Bedfordshire County Council
Education Committee - all part-time jobs over and above normal parish work. All
this while my faith in the value of Catholic schools in general was gradually being
eroded at more or less the same time that politicians were starting to interfere with
education as whole and changes in structure seemed almost to be a daily event.
It is difficult to make any criticism of Catholic Education because the whole subject
has been a ‘sacred cow’ and remains to be so. It is also a personal opinion which is
not shared by everyone by any means. We have spent untold money and effort on
our schools through the years to the detriment of our parishes. Most of our schools
by far are academically excellent and the staff fully trained, committed and beyond
reproach. They have what many call a ‘Catholic ethos’ which does set them apart
from other schools. But they do not seem to be able to ‘form’ young people to
practice their faith and certainly do not produce informed, committed, practising
Catholics. They encourage all this and churn out the right information, even have
lots of pupils passing public and diocesan religious exams but fall into what I
consider to be the general trap when it comes to religious education, formation and
upbringing.
If you would rather not be scandalised then don’t read on!
Through the years I have heard innumerable people say that when they were
children they were made to go to church, Sunday school, lessons etc and were put
off ‘religion’ because of it. We also insist on treating children as special, different,
‘the church of the future’, to be spoon-fed with watered down services specially
adapted for guitars and pop music, to be told things like “ Christmas is a children’s
feast” etc.
That is the trap. Children and young people tend to grow up and
grow out and pass on from this youthful and immature period and, having matured
in all other things, find ….nothing; they have not been allowed to mature in the
practice of their relationship with God – their religion. They have been isolated
from their families, their community, the adults they so soon become.
They are taught to read and write, to have good manners, to use a knife and fork,
to support Arsenal ( or not), to respect their elders and their neighbours, to pay
their bus fares and be kind to animals. All this in the environment in which they live
– their family. They are not given lessons in such things divorced from their family,
in a kind of vacuum or just from 9.00 to 4.00 in term time. If, if it should happen that
they do not have this background, their family uses their fingers to eat and
terrorises the old lady next door then teaching them to do something else is an
uphill struggle and will seldom take root. If even at school they are surrounded by
young people whose family is thus lacking, then that becomes the norm and even
takes the form of ‘peer pressure’, no matter what may be on the syllabus or what
the ‘ethos’ may be.
Yet that is what we do with our schools. Especially the upper, senior or secondary
schools; let’s say from 11 upwards. As small children in junior schools there is
every opportunity to teach and practise the basics of our relation with God and
neighbour and parents are far more willing and able to supplement this and, for the
sake of the child, teach by example. Thus we ought to leave our junior schools to
continue the excellent work they are doing --- BUT make it clear that children will
not automatically go up to senior schools just because they have attended the
feeder school and been baptised. They must be or must become or be in the
process of becoming genuine, practising, Mass going Catholics – within their family
and with their brothers and sisters. Our upper schools should be prepared to close
down unless they are filled with pupils who are such active Catholics or, at the very
least, are making genuine efforts to be part of the worshipping (not just baptised)
Catholic community.
This is real revolutionary doctrine. Some may say it is extreme and fanatical and,
put into effect, could well close our senior schools. In which case we ought to be
able to use the saving in effort and money on parish or community support - not for
youth or children but for the family as a whole. It should be made clear that unless
the family as a whole is involved in the practice of their religion then their child
cannot attend a Catholic school. It may well be simplistic and brutal; bleeding hearts
will complain bitterly that we cannot force people to become Mass goers, we must
not blackmail them into worshipping God.
It is not at all what is proposed.
What is being asked is: “Why do you want your child to attend a Catholic school?
Is it fair to him/her to be taught one thing at school and another at home? Is it fair,
even at a financial level, that the 10% of parents and children who actively support
our parishes and pay for the schools should subsidise the other 90%? And even
more fundamentally, should the ethos and practice and general atmosphere and
‘peer pressure’ of that purely nominally Catholic 90% affect and make it difficult for
the 10% and the whole purpose of our Catholic schools?”
Going back 20 years or more and recalling and now meeting again young people
who had gone through the whole Catholic school system it is incredible how shallow
is their knowledge of their faith and how very few ever go to church, get married
there, have their children baptised. Little things that you would think would stick in
their minds for ever ( unimportant, perhaps, but pegs on which a relationship with
God could be hung – how many sacraments are there? Do you know the ‘Hail
Mary’? Who are the four Evangelists? Why go to Mass? Is dodging your bus fare
wrong? Why pray for dead people? Is contraception O.K.? etc etc etc) are simply
not known; met with a blank look as if one were asking about the intimate religious
practices of the Aztecs - yet they remember and practise the rules of soccer,
value their examination results and have gone on to further studies in their chosen
subjects and have matured in all other ways.
What is really tragic is that so many parents have been sending their children to
Catholic senior schools, supported those schools in every way, practised their
religion, have been active members of parishes and found that their children got so
immersed in and overwhelmed by the general pupil attitude in those schools that
their own teaching and example – even pleading – has had no effect whatever.
They have been saddened and shocked by their children saying: “ Nobody believes
it. None of the kids go to church. They all do it ( whatever it may be). Get a life,
Mum/Dad.” And they ask themselves – and priests – “Where have we as parents
gone wrong?”
Change cannot be brought about by any one school, it cannot be done
unilaterally and in isolation by all our upper schools together. The fostering and
growth of faith and the practice of it does have to be based on knowledge and
information but is not assured by passing examinations, a tiny minority of pupils
going off on a retreat or doing a religious musical, supporting good causes, no
matter how worthy or religious they may be, having voluntary school Masses on a
Tuesday afternoon, no matter how well they may be attended.
Of course all these things do help; as do all kinds of excellent initiatives promoted
by the Diocese, parishes, school staff and anxious and generous parents. But it
has to be supported by the parish, the community, the form of worship and liturgy,
the involvement of each whole family and specifically a very blunt and authoritative
and often repeated statement - supported by an official admissions policy - that
parents cannot shuffle off their responsibility by sending their children to a Catholic
school and expect that school to make them Catholics.
If even some of these things were to be done – and urgently – then the senior
Catholic schools that survive would be a support to and extension of the Catholic
families and community. They could afford to integrate a very limited number of
non-Catholic pupils ( never, say over 15%, and in order to offer our cherished
ethos to others – not seek to convert them – and to avoid making our schools water-
tight units in the community as a whole). Most schools would close because of
spectacularly reduced numbers. The funds and human skills and good will could
then be used on a parish or district level to provide religious knowledge and
continue to support faith and practice – not in crèches, youth clubs, exclusively
youth-based jolly and fashionable (and how long do fashions or fads or being ‘with
it’ last?) liturgies, new ‘ best since the invention of sliced bread’ catechetical
courses - but in practical and simple courses for the families as they grow and
struggle to maintain their relationship with God through the Church.
This ‘verging on the violent’ attitude to our senior schools has developed
gradually. For many years I have had doubts and fears about it all and raised the
matter at various levels in meetings and committees, but been labelled a negative
pessimist and so hoped for the best, presumed things would change for the better
and the situation would not be aggravated by ‘falling numbers’, ‘catchment areas’,
‘surplus places’ and other mantras suffered every month in the Education
Committee and by our concentrated effort to fill our schools, have bums on seats,
even if the percentage of non-Catholic pupils grew year by year. Milton Keynes was
still lacking an upper school and to provide education at secondary level to the
children there as well as fill our own school with Catholic pupils we spent a lot of
time and raised a fortune to run our own transport to and from M.K. I even practised
driving a 35 seater coach and often acted as shotgun on various buses in a usually
vain attempt to calm down the more unruly passengers. By a tortuous and Jesuitical
form of argument in the Committee I even managed to slip 60 plus ‘imported’ pupils
over and above the number the County had allowed for and reckoned with. Several
members commented that I was wasted in the Church and ought to become a
politician - I still suspect that this was not meant as a compliment.
The parish ran smoothly – I think – with lots of parishioner involvement, as few
changes as possible while still remaining inside the diocesan/liturgical laws and all
the experimentations taking place through those years, the usual First Communions
and Confirmations and a constant and running battle to be able to use school halls
for parish social functions without having to pay exorbitant hiring fees. We even
once used the church ( moving all the hefty benches) for a dance but I was assured
that the sloping floor made dancing uphill and/or downhill quite a challenge and the
slow and smoochy waltz at the end was not quite the same in a holy and brightly lit
ambience. We obtained a large statue of Our Lady in some need of decoration. It
had been abandoned in the nether regions of Bishop’s House and loaded on to my
trailer – all six foot of it. The wind plus possibly my rate of driving tore the covers off
the statue and exposed it to the wonder of all heading south on the M1. She was
duly and artistically renovated and we had a Lady Altar/Chapel. House Masses
were a custom which I had inherited and these continued more or less at one a
week at different venues with the villages especially benefiting. In the town itself,
however, the same ‘usual suspects’ tended to attend the same house Masses. An
annual Harvest Mass was said way out in a village hall which was always beautifully
decorated, really well attended and used a few bales of straw as an altar. My
presence of mind one year was greatly admired: at the Consecration a wee mouse
pocked his or her head out of the straw right in front of me. It was seen by one or
two but I did not bat an eyelid nor pause nor hesitate and managed not to say to
the ladies present: “ Oh! look! A mouse!”
The silver jubilee of one’s ordination is certainly a landmark but by temperament
– not humble and self effacing but more like curmudgeonous - I would have
preferred to celebrate it - with some surprise at having lasted that long - quite
privately. However, the parish made it into a big event so that it would have been
incredibly churlish to reject the universal kindness shown to me. My mother
attended the special ‘musical extravaganza’ Mass and was rewarded with a front
seat and a huge bouquet of flowers rather than blame for being responsible for my
existence. The bishop said nice things about me ( reminiscent of priests’ funerals
where there is one priest lying in the pulpit and the other lying in the coffin), some
30 priests came to give moral support, the ladies prepared and served a delicious
and lavish feast to all comers, the parish presented me with a cheque which made
my bank manager very happy and the children decorated the church with their
versions of what they thought of me. This turned out to be the only disappointment
since they had put a lot of effort into their pictures, it was fascinating to see oneself
as they apparently saw me but, because the wedding couple next day would not
tolerate the display, all these masterpieces had to be taken down that evening. I
spent the day just trying to look benevolent and not showing how touched and
grateful I really was. People’s acceptance of their priests and their almost universal
kindness and tolerance never ceases to surprise me.
Ten or twelve years in a parish seems an ideal stretch for both priest and people.
By then most of the damage will have been done and all settle down into a
comfortable rut with things running predictably and smoothly and the temptation is
great not to initiate too many new ideas for fear of rocking the boat. Human nature
being what it is, there must be some people who cannot stand their priest, his
appearance, his mannerisms, the inevitable idiosyncrasies each priest has in the
way he says Mass, cracks his corny jokes. Yet they are landed with him week after
week and must, by that time, be longing for a change. It is easier for a priest since
he relates to many people and the congregation does change gradually as time
goes on. Some priests ask to move more frequently. Others are quite happy to be
left in peace and only budge when they get prodded by their bishop. After ten years
in Bedford I was quite happy to remain there but had a gut feeling that changes
were afoot; so kept my head down and pretended I was not there. A move is always
traumatic – much more for the people of God than even for the priest.
