The year and day of ordination was marked off from the start and acted as
a sort of beacon towards which one aimed and its approach seemed to accelerate as the
years went by. Some had a most romantic notion of the whole thing and really harboured the
ambition to save the world once ordained. Some did look on it as a career, in a good sense,
and spoke openly of having a large parish or even reaching the higher flights of the
hierarchy. Some, the intellectuals, looked forward to further studies in Rome or Paris and
quite openly saw themselves as returning to the seminary as professors. Most of us - and all
tended to gather into like-minded groups in spite of all the phobia about ‘particular
friendships’ - simply battled on to learn what we could, pass exams, keep our noses clean
and looked on the day of ordination as a reward for six years of sustained effort.
What all did share was a practically total ignorance of what life would really be like ‘out in
the parish’. We all knew the theory of starting off as curates, we knew the sort of work to be
done in parishes, we listened to horror stories of the cruelty of parish priests but did not
really believe them. The expectations of priestly work were clear and seemed to be
unchanging. We knew what would be expected of us in general terms, the jobs of curates,
parish priests, chaplains; the whole idea of celibacy which was simply accepted as a
necessary condition for ordination; the concept of obedience as accepting the job given by
the Bishop etc. There was very little rumbling of discontent on important issues and no inkling
in 1959 of the tremendous changes which would be unleashed on the Church by the Vatican
Council and that the world outside in general was changing more and more rapidly.
Money - or the lack of it - was a constant problem to most of the students even
though all the necessities were paid for by the Diocese and there was little or no opportunity
to spend on entertainment, drink or outings. The holiday wages I earned went mainly on
transport. I had to make sure that there was enough money in the kitty to get home for the
summer. Spending was restricted to the strictly controlled and - now accepted as evil - habit
of smoking and the odds and ends which one needed for stamps to keep contact with the
outside world, soap etc to keep handsome and hygienic and the purchase of paper, ink,
typing ribbon (amazing how often the old fashioned sort could be run and re-run through a
portable typewriter) and frugal sweets such as Polo mints. The odd thing was that whenever I
reached rock bottom in finances - which meant that only £5 were left in the Post Office book -
either the old Canon from Aylesbury or some other kind and usually unexpected benefactor
would send a postal order or note and things would look up again. Or the Catholic
Needlework Guild sent some pairs of socks, pyjamas or shirt to worthy students. These were
invariably made for gorillas so that I resold them to bigger students and solved my financial
problems for another few weeks. Mr. Micawber was my patron saint and I never went below
the £5 in the savings book [ which also brought in 2 ½% interest per annum - 6 old pennies
per £1]. My last two years were spent in comparative opulence: Bishop Parker had
negotiated a grant from some obscure Irish society rejoicing in the name of St. Joseph’s
Young Priests’ Society and based in Dublin. Every quarter thenceforth I received a postal
order for £10 and the first letter I wrote after ordination was to thank the Society and assure
them that I had made it - just.
Just - because throughout the six years - as before and ever since - I have never
had the luxury of God whispering in my ear that he wanted me to be his priest. It seemed a
good idea at the time and every beginning and end of term it seemed not such a good idea
and I used to tell my long-suffering spiritual director that I reckoned I ought to give up. He
invariably agreed that I would not be the answer to any heartfelt prayer by Holy Mother
Church but advised that I should pray a bit and wait for a week or two before making the final
decision. In the blind confidence that a vocation came from the call of one’s superiors rather
than a Paul-like divine voice near Damascus we repeatedly agreed that I ought to carry on.
The hurdle of Philosophy and the Tonsure having been cleared the next four years
were occupied with the study, first, of Fundamental Theology (a sort of introduction to and
reasoned defence of theology) together with Dogmatic Theology, Moral Theology and Canon
Law. Plus, of course, still the Church History and Scripture both with their continued
drawbacks of their manner of being taught. Again, the system was the same: sit and listen,
take notes, research, write up notes, learn for the examinations but never discuss, ask
questions or - God forbid - be asked to write an essay or air one’s views. The nit-picking in
trying to solve insoluble mysteries of the Trinity or Real Presence took up so much time that
complete other tracts of theology were never really covered. Equally, the morality of
thoughts, deeds, omissions, intentions and wildly inventive case histories never really made
moral theology something positive or practical. The tract on sex (!) had to be studied from a
text book written in Latin since the vernacular would have made the book more obscene for
that period than ‘Lady C’s Lover’ and, no doubt, would have produced a court case sooner or
later. Case histories were always lurid, mythical and the female in the case was always called
‘Bertha’.
Canon Law was, at least, a cut and dried science where every word and phrase
had a meaning and any reasonable interpretation could be justified and argued by reference
to the principles of law. In many ways each discipline impinged on the others and, at last, the
Philosophy we had suffered in the first two years came into its own by giving us the
understanding of technical terms and a discipline of thought and argument which made the
rest possible; even if not exactly easy. The volume of study and knowledge and literature
through the centuries on all these subjects is incredible and in all languages under the sun,
from Greek and Hebrew through Latin to the notoriously learned, heavy and stodgy Germans
who must be the most thorough of all scholars and make for the most tedious reading.
In an establishment of over a hundred students plus some fifteen professors
there are innumerable jobs that have to be done to keep the place running smoothly.
Cooking, washing up, laundry and cleaning of the house in general was under the
supervision of nuns with the help of maids and general help from the local community. The
cleaning and general order of one’s room depended on the individual and, again, was
presumed to be done properly without having to be supervised. All other jobs to do with
study, the liturgy, the welfare of students, entertainment, general maintenance, sport, were
farmed out to students on a very rigid basis of seniority and growing responsibility. Few, if
any, went through the six years without some ‘public’ duty even if only for a year or so.
The claim was that, after the first year of getting to know the students, such jobs
would be dished out according to the abilities, gifts or needs of individuals. Whether by luck
or judgement the job I was landed with was sacristan - a four year stint which progressed
from the first year doing menial jobs such as cleaning brass and lighting candles to the lofty
status of head sacristan who was in overall charge, opened and locked church and safe,
ordered everything for the liturgy and was generally regarded as one of the elite.
This four year job probably did me more good in the long run than all the rest of
the training and learning in the whole of the six years. From being excruciatingly shy and
dreading standing out in any way in a crowd or even the company of two or three others, I
became capable of appearing and acting in public. Not in any way with ease or without a care
or thought, but as a result of realising that shyness is a hidden, very insidious form of pride
and arrogance and can be overcome by determination, taking a cool and down-to-earth look
at oneself and by careful preparation so that whatever one is going to do in public is all
organised beforehand.
Cleaning brasses was no problem; just a bore. But going out in front of everyone
to light candles the first few times was a heroic deed. Especially if a candle would not light or
the taper went out. The lesson learnt was that candles had to be so prepared that they would
light; a taper had to be carried so that it would not blow out. Obvious, perhaps, but a most
valuable lesson.
For Benediction a multiplicity of candles ( minimum of twelve; maximum indefinite)
were required by liturgical laws. There were innumerable candlesticks of all shapes and sizes
avail able and for big feasts it was expected that the candle sacristan ( me, for one year)
would create a spectacle. It was not unusual to have well over a hundred candles arranged in
a pattern to represent the feast. It took ages to arrange ( good excuse for not going out for a
walk one afternoon) and I spent many happy hours during lectures planning the display with
dots on graph paper. My record was 240 candles on Christmas Day representing the crib
and a star up high. Little things tended to amuse little minds!
One then progressed to looking after other parts of the church, the vestments,
the laundry, the altar cloths which had to be perfect and eventually take full responsibility for
everything including the mistakes or slackness of more junior sacristans. In comparison to
many jobs being done in the outside world by a young man of 22 or 23 these responsibilities
were slight; but in their context and under the eyes of a crowd of critical students and
watchful staff, fastidious and often fanatical liturgical experts, the job had to be done right
and was a marvellous training for getting rid of shyness plus gaining a determination to do
things properly. It also, incidentally, had some perks; such as not having to join the seasonal
potato picking and having one afternoon a week free from the above mentioned physical
exercises so as to do this particular job. As head sacristan you also had a lot more flexibility
in what one could do and when; one had the keys of the whole place and a reasonable
extension as to getting to bed at night and a more friendly relationship with the authorities
based on mutual need and trust.
The job did teach a lot about the liturgy which in those days was far more
complex and defined than it is now. [There was, and perhaps still is, a liturgical bible
generally known as Fortescue O’Connell which laid down every action and every detail of
every liturgical ceremony. It also boasted the famous footnote stating: ‘Bishop now enters
wearing skullcap only’]. By luck or common sense I never got too involved in the gory details
and sometimes quite heated arguments about liturgical details. But the job of sacristan also
brought about at least one quite hilarious situation when, on locking up at night, one had to
go through the length of the whole, quite long, chapel in total darkness to get back into the
house through the internal rear door. This was achieved by walking straight down the centre
aisle towards the reflection of the sanctuary lamp in the picture of the Pope hanging right at
the back of the church. Two steps to the left on reaching this plus one forward and the door
was there. This worked quite infallibly except for the night when there was a coffin in the
middle of the aisle containing the stout body of a Monsignor who was destined to be buried in
the small graveyard next morning. He made it; but only just. Forgetting that the coffin was
there and walking boldly straight down the middle I encountered the coffin with my midriff, was
badly winded and knocked the Very Reverend off his catafalque. The coffin, fortunately, did
not split. Recovering from the shock and putting on some lights I heaved him with some
difficulty and great danger of a hernia back into place and no lasting harm was done.
Another boost to morale and/or remedy for shyness or conviction that one could not
do things in public was being made a ‘pluvialist’ to the Rector for all the most solemn
occasions. This meant that you had to have some sort of voice for the odd intoning at Mass
or solemn Vespers, you wore a full cope, had to know when and how to bow, use the thurible
and generally support and help the celebrant in a worthy and dignified manner - all, again,
under the scrutiny of a hundred pair of eyes of all the students in the place and the critical
approval, or not, of those who knew the liturgical bible backwards and regarded the rules as
sacred. The Rector was a little man but with tremendous dignity and awareness of his
position ( he eventually became the Bishop of Brentwood). He thus chose two little fellows to
be his assistants and expected the same dignified bearing from them. Charlie was the other
one. Ten years older than myself, an ex- barber who had left school at 14 and, on eventually
deciding to become a priest, had sold his business and used the money to learn Latin and
catch up on what are now called ‘humanities’ with a two year stay at a monastery, he found
the intellectual part of the six years a real burden. He and I lived in next door rooms for six
years, shared the bottom of the house list with the other Charlie ( the Gibraltar one), had
similar attitudes to walks and physical exercises, have remained friends ever since and found
the whole of the ‘pluvialist’ business a great strain on our sense of dignity. Charlie was short
but also very thin with hardly any shoulders to bear the cope with confidence. A special set of
vestments proudly inherited from a rich donor from Rome and consisting practically
completely of very stiff cloth of gold eventually brought our career as Rector’s assistants to
an inglorious end. On solemnly entering the chapel and genuflecting poor Charlie
disappeared from view and left the cope standing under its own rigidity with no head sticking
out of the top. This performance brought the house down, caused irrepressible giggles to him
and equal mirth to myself and earned us both a rebuke and, shortly afterwards, the sack from
that particular job. [ After intense research I have at last discovered the meaning of the word
‘pluvialist’. It comes from ‘Cappa Pluvialis’ - a rain cape used by the Romans. It was a huge
and heavy kind of tent which the Church eventually decorated and glamorised and called a
‘cope’ – obviously derived from ‘cappa’. Keep on reading this and you will gather all kinds of
useless wisdom!]
Mirth and enjoyment was not lacking in what would nowadays seem an incredibly
artificial regime. There were many simple things we enjoyed even without television, radio,
newspapers or visits to the pub. On looking back, the time went by pretty quickly; possibly
because of the rigid structure which made all of us very aware of where we stood, what was
expected of us and, above all, what we were aiming for. Eventually the time came to prepare
for ordination; having received all the minor orders and the Diaconate, learned all the theory
that was available and very little practice. It would have been unheard of to follow the modern
system of sending a Deacon into a parish for a few months to see life and work in the real
world.
We never practised baptising a baby or doing a wedding. Sermons were preached
once or twice a term to a group of fellow students. The script had to be written out, vetted by
a professor and then preached parrot-fashion or read out to the small audience who took
notes and then criticised content, delivery and manner. Every sermon had about four or five
weeks of careful preparation, polishing and perfecting. Nobody said, and we innocents never
even imagined or suspected, that out in a parish there would have to be at least a sermon a
week - often more. We did, once each, baptise a doll. This, quite naturally, did not squirm or
yell, it did not have manifold chins which had to be lifted for the anointing of the little chest
nor did it have thick hair into which the water soaked and trickled into the eyes and there
were no parents or family standing around listening to an all Latin service.
What we did do was to practise the saying of Mass under the eyes of a
specially chosen friend or server who week after week, for six months, would check every
word, every action and gesture so that it conformed with the rubrics. Rubrics were –
still are – the rules laid down for every public liturgical act; and especially the Mass. They are
so called because they were printed in red and they used to be unequivocal: ‘ The priest
does this, says that’. Now they are flexible ( ‘the priest may do this or that or other’) to such
an extent that each priest’s Mass can vary widely in gestures, length and peripheral words.
The essentials, of course, stay the same.
There were three kinds of ‘voices’ that had to be used: loud, audible and secret. Three
different bows: profound, deep and of the head only. Signs of the cross on oneself and the
spreading of hands for prayer had to be at a certain level and within the confines of one’s
width of shoulder. The signs of the cross above the chalice or altar could - wonderful to
relate, we had a choice - be either horizontal or at an angle of 45% but had to be consistent.
One’s thumbs had to be firmly and properly joined to one’s first finger on both hands from the
moment of Consecration until after their purification after Communion. The words had to be
as the missal intended - in Latin, of course, with the proper Ciceronian accent and not the
English public school pronunciation or the fizzy sound of the French clergy; who always
sounded like leaking lemonade bottles.
Eventually a ‘dry mass’ (simulated, since one had not yet been ordained) was said
under the eagle eye of the appropriate professor and if he approved then one was ready for
ordination. It was traditional that the server and supervisor of all this for a Deacon was a year
below him and thus learning a lot himself and the beauty of the hierarchy system in the
sacristy was not just that we were specially familiar with amices, cinctures, stoles, maniples,
dalmatics and tunicles, chasubles and copes, chalices, patens, ciboria, pyxes, lunettes,
cruets, purificators, palls and corporals – not to mention tabernacles, torches, acolyte
candles, sanctuary lights and the ideal number of candles ( made of at least 65% beeswax )
to be displayed on special days and special occasions - but also ‘served’ the ex-sacristan
about to be ordained and were, in turn, served by the sacristan who was next in line after
oneself. No modern priest - since the vernacular has come in and the rubrics have become a
matter of choice - can imagine just how rigid the rules were and how every priest celebrated
Mass in exactly the same way. Which, of course, allowed no personal projection or variety but
also brought about great dignity and never caught either priest or people off balance by
something unexpected. By the end of the practices every sign and gesture was automatic
and in no way had to be thought about so that it could not take away from devotion or
attendance to the words and their meaning. There was, as so often in all of this, some sense
and method to apparent madness.
Ordination was, of course, the ultimate aim and took place on the Saturday after
the feast of Pentecost. It was a ceremony lasting some four hours, all in Latin, which could
not be left for any reason (faints, calls of nature included) under pain of excommunication(!)
and most were ordained in the seminary chapel. A few chose or were chosen to be ordained
in their parish and those from outside the Diocese more often than not went off to their
cathedral or parish to be done by their own Bishop. I was given the choice of either being
ordained in the chapel or joining the Franciscans and be ordained by my own Bishop Parker
with them. I had nothing against Franciscans [ they had done their best to educate me for six
years at Buckingham] but would have been surrounded on the day by strangers. I chose,
together with eight others, to be ordained at the seminary by the Bishop of Southwark.