Month: May 2021

Dear Parishioners, 

This time of the year gifts us with a number of Bank Holidays which, rather like proverbial buses, often come in fairly rapid succession, dependent upon the falling of the lunar Feast of Easter. This weekend there is a heightened enthusiasm for a break from routine as we are promised an improvement in the weather, and for our youngsters there is a half-term holiday, not to mention the recent lifting of some of the restrictions limiting our ability to socialize as freely as we may have wished to do. However we choose to spend this time we will inevitably encounter other people. For some a disappointment, as they seek sanctuary in the Dales or by the coast after a prolonged period of simply not being able to get there, and once there discovering that half the county has had the same idea. And for others the opportunity of gathering with family and friends fulfilling the sole purpose of the building of their fire-pit and purchase of the varying designs of overhead coverings and shelter manufactured specifically for outdoors allowing people to shelter safely and comfortably in a garden surrounding. 

Whether we lament having to share an open space with others or have simply lived for the moment to arrive over the last year when visitors could be welcomed back into familiar surroundings, it is doubtful that any of us will avoid the presence of others over the holiday weekend. Random or purposeful encounters with others provide many of us with the very stuff that feeds a hobby that we rarely admit to but find quietly gratifying and which, in its own way, often satisfies the basic hunger and thirst that we have as human beings to connect to others. It is best described as people-watching ! It can be carried out in the queue at the checkout in the supermarket, at the stop for public transport or as we simply enjoy a quick ‘breather’ taking advantage of one of the seats in our public spaces, mentioning just a few of the vantage points I admit to using in this pursuit. There are endless opportunities to indulge ourselves in this pastime. Standing sentinel at our church doors during the week gives me plenty of opportunity to watch my fellow human beings going about their business. From the doorways of both I, often unobserved, witness the finest and worst elements of our shared humanity. The impatience of speeding drivers on Bath Road; the reassurance of parents encouraging their children to take their first hesitant steps into the brand new world of school and education; the discarding of litter; and the joyous, unrestrained laughter of youngsters sharing the hilarity of an on-screen image.  

At St. Paul’s I am able to look across the road and watch the comings and goings in the King Edward VII Memorial Park but not before observing numerous drivers waiting for the lights to change who, thinking no one will see them, begin composing a text, and when the lights change find that there is a long gap between themselves and the car that was once in front of them, not to mention a horn-blowing driver behind. One of the most noticeable habits amongst my fellow townspeople in the recreational space of the park is their willingness to cut corners, appearing to be programmed at finding the quickest route, taking a short cut regardless of the state of their footwear as they cross grass and flowerbed alike without respect for either. With its horizontal and vertical pathways disregarded by walkers, runners and those taking strides and steps in between, in order to get to their destination as quickly as possible, I often wonder if those hastening to the bus station are able to embark immediately, or find themselves stood waiting in a queue, rendering their decision to corner-cut and take a shortened route somewhat invalid.  

The two central parks in the towns of Heckmondwike and Cleckheaton hold a special place in my heart as these are the places where the majority of the Fallen from our worshipping communities are commemorated on beautiful memorials. Not that either was envisaged with that purpose. Both Green Park and its related space in Cleckheaton, also called Green Park on maps pre-dating its current layout, were created from the benevolence of local people, some incredibly wealthy, others just ordinary, everyday folk who wanted somewhere pleasant to enjoy fresh air and the opportunity of taking advantage of a formal open space in which they could sit, alone or with family or friends, and make the most of the simple pleasures that life offers, not least amongst them those without gardens of their own, living in terraces and in busy yard areas. In their heyday musical entertainment would also have been available, offered by local musicians and bands. Pathways laid in them were intended to maximise the potential for exercise whilst in these none-too-large leisure spaces. In Cleckheaton the park was created to commemorate the reign of a man dubbed the Playboy King, Edward VII (1901 – 1910), who was renowned for enjoying the outdoor life, and blew a freshness into the public face of the English monarchy, after the rather dour latter decades of his mother’s reign. Heckmondwike’s Green Park was formalised to acknowledge the Coronation of his son, King George V, and Queen Mary in 1911, having previously been a site on which travelling shows and fairs pitched, and for most of the year a piece of, generally speaking, waste land used by the youth of the day for play. It was in light of this latter use that some objections were made to its conversion into a more formal area. Eventually members of the Firth family came to the rescue by offering to provide a two acre field for the youngsters of the town to play on and furnish it with fittings for enjoyment such as swings and roundabouts. The land at the top of Beauregard (a name which means “beautiful gaze” or “easy on the eye”) Street near to Flush Mills was to be named the George V Playground.  

Contemporary newspaper reports from the time of the Great War tell of the use of the perimeter of the Cleckheaton park by the Catholic community. It was at this time that the indigenous population of the town, mainly worshippers at the Non-Conformist cathedral-like places of worship which dominated the spiritual landscape of the Spen Valley, enjoying their Sabbath promenade along the pathways of the park caught their first sight of Continental Catholicism in the initial May Procession organized by Fr. Paul Van de Pitte in 1915. After a Service in the Mission Chapel handed to the Belgian Guests (as they were referred to in the press; a totally disarming collective, devoid of any form of judgmental or political labelling) of the district which included readings, a sermon, the recitation of the rosary, and the blessing of the statue of Our Lady that was to be carried in procession, the pageant began. The route was hardly long, from the Marsh area of the town, around the four sides of the park and back again to the church in Dewsbury Road. The leading children, wearing costumes made for the occasion, such as those of the May Queen, her retinue, banner-carriers and those holding streamers attached to them, altar servers, together with others, all attired in their Sunday best, must have delighted in being the object of admiration from those stood within the park, craning from its various walkways in order to catch glimpses of their finery and to delight in the spectacle of the occasion. It is possible that, radiant in their moment of glory and as the focus of attention, the processional route will not have been long enough for the children of both Belgian and English families taking part in it ! Within the confines of the park no doubt other children will have separated themselves from their parents to follow the procession around its borders, captivated by the colourful drama. A year later it was reported that the chief object of the procession was to show the devotion of the worshippers towards the Virgin Mary and to her intercession, through prayer and witness, for the Allied Nations and the distressed people of Belgium. How proud too the parents of the processing children must have been watching their off-spring enjoying a moment of glory, being admired by neighbours and fellow townspeople. With the reality of the Great War taking its toll on families, such an innocent distraction, featuring a rising generation whose parents all hoped and prayed would grow up in a world of peace, must have been a most welcome sight. 

It was an event that grew over its four year lifespan with Belgian refugees joining it from further afield as Fr. Paul Van de Pitte’s ministry widened. Not only were local people content with the distraction from a vantage point within the park, where vertical and horizontal pathways cut across trimmed lawns highlighting neatly laid out seasonal flowerbeds and maximised the ability and capacity of those promenading to pause but, growing in confidence, they took to gathering in the vicinity of the Chapel to share in the entirety of the event. It was an early expression of Christian Unity.  

Far from being a short cut used in haste, I find our centrally located parks to be havens of peace and an opportunity for brief distraction. In them I speak with people not encountered elsewhere, acknowledging, when present, the work that those employed by Kirklees do to maintain them for our use, at the same time never failing to cast my eyes in the direction of the war memorials remembering and praying for those who gave so much, allowing those who so wish to take the short-cut or conversely for others to walk the extra mile with their fellow pilgrims on life’s journey. Choices made in freedom. The original intention of the creators of both Green Park and the King Edward VII Memorial Park is not lost a century and more on from their openings. With such a rich seam of our local population passing through them they also provide a time for reflective prayer. Perhaps not in the quiet surrounds that we would normally use for our conversations with the Almighty, but somewhere in which we are gently prompted by others – in the casual chatter of passers-by, the distant excited voices of playing children, those about to start a journey, or make their way to school or a health centre – that the community of which we are apart constantly stands in need of a remembrance before God.  

Prayer for the Local Community. 

Father God, we pray for all in our community. 
For those who live here, we ask that they may thrive and prosper. 
For those who work here, we ask that they may strive to improve the lives of residents. 
For those who use our healthcare facilities and educational establishments: may their needs be met. 
For those who come for recreation, my they find enjoyment in their activities. 
For ourselves, that we may serve You in our community in ways that truly matter. 

May your Bank Holiday weekend be kind to you, and in it may you find recreational pleasure for body, mind and soul … and perhaps a walk in one of our parks ! 

Be assured of my prayerful remembrance of yourselves and those you love the most and know best, together with assurances of affection.

As ever,

Fr. Nicholas    

Dear Parishioners, 

The appearance of these words along with the Newsletter and Readings for Holy Mass this weekend will reassure those parishioners who on reading the beginning of last week’s musings may have thought that I was destined to be snatched away from parochial duties to write better endings to some TV dramas. However, like many a prize, I remain unclaimed! The blackbird-parents about whom I wrote, are noisily calling to each other as I write these few lines. One in search of food the other taking a drink from the birdbath: easily contented and seemingly happy, and simply getting on with life. What an example to us all. From the press this week I gather that I have not been alone in finding inspiration for writing in birdlife as the wonderful (a personal opinion!) Michael Morpugo’s latest work “Song of Gladness” is the fruit of a much simpler life, lived under the restrictions of Lockdown, the dawning of a deeper appreciation and awareness of the environment in which he found himself living. In the subtitle of his book – “a story of hope for us and our planet,” the most important word for me is “hope.” A quiet but necessary virtue. It is with this gift that we have collectively looked towards a horizon, illuminated by the promise of better times, during the often dark days of recent shared life-experience, and with which individually we have stirred those closest to us to think of renewed opportunities of togetherness and pleasures yet to come.    

The former Children’s Laureate became known to me when his book “Private Peaceful” was serialised on BBC Radio 4 some years ago. Having only heard extracts, I decided to visit Waterstones and seek a copy to read for myself. Searching shelf upon shelf without success I eventually sought help, only to be guided to the Children’s Section of books, where there were numerous volumes of his writings! Despite being hesitant – an adult buying a children’s book for himself! – I took the plunge, and was an immediate convert. He is a skilled story-teller, and it isn’t only children who like a good story. Perhaps his best known work is “War Horse,” available now on film, but the best is the theatre production. I have seen it twice, travelling to London to do so, and blubbered at the same scene twice! The puppets (rather like calling a marquee a tent!) are brought to life by amazing stagehands and actors. Wow, wow, wow! If you have seen it, you will know exactly what I mean, and if you haven’t you may be left wondering what I’m going on about; better still, when theatres reopen, you may be drawn to a production of this amazing story of equine-human relationships.              

From a now distant mention of hope, may I venture to speak about its near relative: kindness. Each time I go to the fridge my eyes catch sight of a laminated sign hanging precariously with magnetic force from its door. In large print are three letters ARK beneath which their meaning is typed – Acts of Random Kindness. It serves as a reminder of a gesture made to me, and as a gentle nudge to reach out to others in a thoughtful manner. Originally it was attached by a ribbon to a couple of bars of chocolate. A kind, thoughtful and generous addition to someone’s shopping basket during the days of Lockdown which subsequently found their way through my letterbox encased in a freezer bag. Such actions seemed prevalent during the initial Lockdown period when neighbourliness became the virtue and reality which it once had been. These acts remind me of some words often recited by a great-aunt of mine in my youth: “I shall pass this way but once; any good that I can do or any kindness I can show to any human being; let me do it now. Let me not defer nor neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again.” I was never quite sure who she was quoting, and neither are they who take it upon themselves to immortalise similar sentiments on cards and posters. Common thought seems to be that whilst attributed to French exile Etienne (Stephen) de Grellet (1773 – 1855) who fled revolution and a death sentence to begin a new life in America where he joined the Society of Friends, they may not have been his own words, just some he borrowed. Whatever their origin they are a great leveller, reminding us that sometimes the opportunity to do good knocks but once on the door of our ability to respond to it in a certain situation or to an individual, known or unknown to us. It can provide a good mantra for humanitarian actions of great or small proportions, the impact of which is best judged by those whose lives are touched by a meaningful word, attitude or gesture extended to them.  

With so many clamouring for attention to be drawn to their individual plight of hardship and difficulty on the pathway of life, still more jostling for a response to be made in the name of their situation, the amount of kindness that each of us has to offer can seem wholly inadequate to alter, change, or do anything at all to assist them. In the last year alone so many issues have been focused on at different times, all relevant and needing addressing, but surely a common, shared, not to mention global problem has to be greater, if only for the span of time it is beyond our control. When, for whatever reason, scenarios are not dealt with a victim culture can be created, causing isolation, anger, difference and a growing stack of bricks used to build walls between people. As a fundamentally optimistic person, imbued with the gift of hope, I would like to think that for every person building a wall, there are two people building bridges, bringing people together. An important building block in the construction of the latter is kindness. 

Many of us will have been touched by the plight of those currently being described as the Windrush Generation. The initial group of 1027 passengers arrived at Tilbury Docks in 1948. The majority of them had set sail from Kingston, Jamaica, but a smaller number boarded at Tampico, Mexico, as the Empire Windrush was called upon to divert its course and pick up a further 66 passengers. These, often overlooked in reports made, with the exception of one, were the wives and children of Polish soldiers who had fought alongside the Allies, and had been displaced in Mexico since 1944. Two very different groupings of people, each with their own heritage and their own story to tell, yet their shared experience was of arriving in a new country to begin life afresh. Each of those 1027 people on disembarking began collecting stories that they would in turn pass on to others. Some exposing the worst of human nature whilst others revealed the best. Recently I was privileged to hear one of the latter when asked to celebrate Holy Mass for a former nursing colleague of a parishioner who had sadly died. This lady had been a part of a slightly later Windrush Generation. In reflecting on her earliest days in this country she always gave credit for the kind welcome she received. Arriving on our shores in a cotton frock, sandals and no coat she was horrified to be greeted by English snow. Having secured a job in a clothing factory the women amongst whom she worked quickly recognised her need and discreetly organised a whip-round providing her with warmer clothes, shoes, and a pair of wellingtons. Bricks of human kindness and compassion building a bridge, and perhaps sowing the seeds, or watering those already sown, that inspired this lady to enter a vocational way of life that would allow her own gifts to shine in the care and support that she offered to others.    

Sometimes it isn’t a deed that touches the inner life of another human being, but a fleeting comment, given gravitas by the circumstances in which they are uttered. The following is an extract from a wonderful publication, recently loaned, which was compiled at the end of the twentieth century from stories told by those whose length of life covered each of its decades, indeed a couple its contributors were born in the nineteenth century. The words are those of Alice Whittle, widowed of her husband, Norman, at a young age: “When Norman died so suddenly, my faith went to pot. The only question I could ask was Why? Why has the Lord done this to me? I was brought up as a Methodist and looked forward to going to chapel. My dad used to say, “Our Alice is the only one that has a bit of faith in her.” But when Norman died it went to pot. And I remember, it would be a couple of weeks after Norman died, a knock came to the door. And it was this lady, and she had about four roses, and she said, “I go to the United Reformed Church and we heard about your sad loss. Will you accept these from me?” So I invited her in and put the kettle on and we had a cup of tea. And she asked me if I had any faith. I said, “I did until this happened over Norman. I’m left with a little lad at my time of life, 49 years old, no wage, no nothing. I keep asking the good Lord why, but there’s no answer.” And she said, “Will you do something for me before I go? The next time you say your prayers, will you not ask the good Lord why, will you give Him thanks for the strength He’s given you to carry on.” And that was the turning point for me.” It would be good to think that out of a simple, kindly-intentioned, yet rather daring knock on the door of a relative stranger a lasting friendship was born. Sometimes a quiet confidence, an inner boldness is necessary to move thoughts of kindness into meaningful actions. The Lockdown restrictions meant that Acts of Random Kindness could be done almost anonymously: something dropped through a letterbox or on a doorstep, perhaps just the briefest of pleasant verbal exchanges from a deliverer to a resident stood in their doorway, or even conversing through the slightest opening a window could provide.  

Despite his great external qualities of determination and physical doggedness, St. Paul provides numerous incredibly sensitive and insightful references about his understanding of kindness as a gift from God to be shared with others, he even presents it to us as part of a wardrobe of clothing to be worn by those who call themselves Christians: “You are God’s chosen race, his saints; he loves you, and you should be clothed in sincere compassion, in kindness and humility, gentleness and patience. Bear with one another, forgive each other as soon as a quarrel begins. The Lord has forgiven you; now you must do the same. Over all these clothes, to keep them together and complete them, put on love.” (Colossians 3:12 – 14) He ranks kindness next to patience in describing the attributes of love: “Love is always patient and kind.” (1 Corinthians 13:4) Above all he asks that we do not make a choice about who we show kindness to, discriminating for whatever reason, instead he insists that we “Treat everyone with equal kindness.” (Romans 12:16) With such an approach we may be able to untangle the knot of a sense of overwhelming inability that we so often find ourselves toying with helplessly in the face of the magnitude facing hardship and difficulty.   

A brief moment of contemplation about our own life-journey will bring to mind acts of kindness which historically, and in the present, continue to mean so much. Some of which may have been life-changing. With such thoughts comes a compulsion to go and share what we have found so beneficial, removing any hesitancy that we may have about getting it wrong, making a mistake or being misunderstood. With the Festival of Pentecost just a week away St. Paul offers a timely reminder that “The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace patience, kindness, goodness, trustfulness, gentleness and self control.” (Galatians 5:22ff) So let kindness abound! 

Holding you and your loved ones in affectionate thought and sincere prayerful remembrance. 

As ever, Fr. Nicholas 

Dear Parishioners, 

Whilst Sophie Ellis-Bextor may have sung about “Murder of the Dancefloor” last Friday evening I witnessed what Alfred, Lord Tennyson described as “nature red in tooth and claw” on the Presbytery lawn. And, yes, the pesky magpie was at the centre of the traumatic events. Over and above all the other outdoor noises, (and there are certainly increasing amounts in comparison to the still, quiet days of a year ago), could be heard the shrieking call of the resident blackbirds. Well used to their rather loud conversations with one another across the garden I initially dismissed their cries as mere background din. However there was something urgent in the persistence of the clamour that made me look out of the window. To my horror I saw a magpie astride a blackbird chick whose distraught parents had noisily taken matters into their own hands by systematically dive-bombing the larger predator. Rushing outside I soon found myself a part-player in the unfolding drama. Having frightened the magpie into retreat I shielded and examined the chick … only to be the subject of friendly fire coming from its parents who continued to swoop low with beaks pointing in my direction. Eventually they gleaned I was friend rather than foe.  

Whilst surprised at the size of the chick, at a guess just a few days away from discovering the gift of flight, I stood for some time protectively over it, whilst it recovered somewhat from its experiences. All the while its parents were in close proximity, gathering, during the temporary truce, food for their off-spring to eat. Backing away, I observed feathered parents tending to the immediate needs of their chick. It was incredibly moving. Standing sentinel, it wasn’t too long before the magpie, with a reinforcement companion, was back, viewing the scene at a safe distance. For about an hour and a half I was back and forth from desk to lawn offering assistance to the blackbirds in fending off the magpies. Having observed the physical damage done to the chick, not to mention its traumatised emotional condition, there was little more that I could do. The time lapse included several crude imitations by myself of our Father in Faith, Abraham, shooing the birds of prey from the altar of sacrifice spoken of in Genesis (15:11). The ringing of the phone took me indoors for what was the briefest of moments leaving the birdlife to their finest, bravest, worst and cruellest. As the call, an automated message reputedly from Amazon (other delivery services are available !) informing me of the imminent arrival of a package that I had not ordered, ended, I noticed that a sudden eerie stillness had descended outdoors. The chick was gone, its parents silenced and not a magpie to be seen … just the tail end of a cat rushing at speed down the drive ! It was the unforeseeable ending to a script that many the creator of a TV drama would have been envious of.  

The next morning the blackbird parents were back in the garden, bathing, seeking food and calling loudly to each other. Both continue to bob around, and I have noticed the gathering of further nesting materials, so perhaps their treetop residence is being repaired. Unsure about the spiritual lives of birds, I did reflect that not even the savage removal of a chick takes place “without the Father knowing it.” (Matthew 10:29) 

Sacrifice is an defining element of Christianity, rooted in the offering made by Christ of Himself on the hill of Calvary, it is present in the first Testament, and in the early history of Christianity St. Stephen is widely recognised as being the first of a long, and sadly continuing, list of named individuals called upon to lay down their lives for the Faith. Last Tuesday we celebrated the Feast of the English Martyrs. Having been Parish Priest in an area where one of the churches was dedicated to the collective patronage of these men and women, the day holds a special significance. In a period of just over a century, beginning in December 1886 and concluding (so far) in 1987, successive Popes have acknowledged our fellow country women and men’s ultimate gift of themselves in fidelity to the Catholic Faith by raising them to a road which led to two of this number being canonised in 1935 (Ss. John Fisher and Thomas More), forty more in 1970, and Archbishop Oliver Plunkett of Armagh in 1975. Earlier and later, groups of martyrs were beatified; fifty-four in 1886, nine in 1895, one hundred and thirty six in 1929, and eighty five in 1987. The ceremony of December 1929, presided over by Pope Pius XI (1922 – 1939), was attended by Gilbert Keith Chesterton and recalled in “The Resurrection of Rome.” In 1935, for the Canonisation of the Yorkshire-born Bishop John Fisher and Thomas More, a considerable number of clergy and pilgrims from Leeds were present in Rome; the Diocese able to boast of having the first church in England dedicated to the new martyr-saints, at Burley-in-Wharfedale, built in 1932, largely from the personal resources of widower-priest, and late-vocation, Fr. Frederick Le Fevre.  

The pathway to public recognition for this cohort of martyrs began quickly. As early as the mid-1580s, whilst Elizabeth I sat on the English throne, the relics of sixty-three martyrs were already being honoured and images made for reproduction in devotional literature. The pubic persecution of Catholics in England began on 4^th May 1535 when three monks were executed at Tyburn in London – Prior John Houghton of the London Charterhouse, Prior Robert Lawrence of the Beauvale Charterhouse, and Richard Reynolds, a Brigittine monk from Syon Abbey – beginning a period of about one hundred and fifty years during which the ultimate price for being recognised and betrayed for the Catholic Faith was execution. This sacrifice was made in a variety of environments including the public scaffold, languishing in prison and during the process of barbaric torture. Amongst the ranks of these men and women were a Countess and a rural Priest, who died almost a hundred and forty years apart and whose formal recognition by the Church was separated by over a century. Margaret Pole, one of just two 16^th century English women peeresses in their own right, was the daughter of George Plantagenet, 1^st Duke of Clarence, and niece of King Edward IV. Her formative years were dominated by personal turbulence rooted in political wrangling, and came to an end when her cousin, Elizabeth of York, married Henry VII. Through this union she found herself married to a relative of the King’s, Sir Richard Pole. Seemingly secure, politically speaking, the Poles became Chamberlain to Arthur, Prince of Wales, and lady-in-waiting to his wife, Catherine of Aragon, respectively. With Prince Arthur’s death in 1502, Margaret lost her role, and when Richard died in 1505 leaving her with five children and a limited income, it was Henry VII himself who paid for her husband’s funeral. ‘Gifting’ her middle son, Reginald, to the Church, Margaret retired to live with the Bridgettine community at Syon Abbey.  

When Catherine of Aragon became Queen, Margaret was once more appointed to the court as a lady-in-waiting, a move which in 1512 saw her being restored to some of her late brother’s lands, for which she had to pay for the privilege ! A shrewd financier, by 1538, Margaret was the fifth richest peer in the realm, but her relationship with Henry VIII was turbulent. As governess to Princess Mary, with the ascent of Anne Boleyn and Henry’s declaration of Mary’s illegitimacy, she refused to return the princess’s gold plate and jewels to the King, and when she offered to serve Mary at her own cost, he refused. Finding herself caught up in the political intrigue surrounding the Pilgrimage of Grace, for whom Pope Paul III charged her son, Reginald, (who had risen through clerical ranks to the position of a non-ordained Cardinal) with the funding of, and with another already executed, Margaret was stripped of her titles and lands. Imprisoned from November 1538 in the Tower of London, together with a grandson and nephew, she retained several servants to care for her family. Evidence procured by Thomas Cromwell saw her fate – the death sentence – hang like the sword of Damocles over her. The date of her execution was totally dependent upon Henry VIII’s whimsical mood swings, evidenced by the fact that having granted her an expensive wardrobe of clothing in March 1541, just weeks later on 27^th May, he signed her life away ! At the venerable age of sixty-seven, Margaret Pole was executed. In deference of her noble birth, just 150, mainly invited, witnesses were present, and not the general populace. Her son, who in the reign of Mary Tudor, was to be the last Catholic Archbishop of Canterbury, despite an earlier rift with his mother, said that he would “never fear to call himself the son of a martyr !”  

Annually at Mass we hear the story of Eleazar, a man of advanced years, who chose to die rather than lead others into erroneous ways, as Scripture recalls: “His courageous death was remembered as a glorious example, not only by young people, but by the entire nation as well.” (2 Maccabees 6:31) Listening to it evokes thoughts of a Yorkshire-born martyr, who having ministered secretly as a priest for over half a century was apprehended during the celebration of a baptism at the age of eighty two. Fr. Nicholas Postgate was subsequently condemned to death under legislation passed the previous century in the name of Elizabeth I, in whose reign he was born in 1596/97. On 7^th August 1679, on the Knavesmire at York he was hanged, disembowelled and quartered. One of his hands was sent to Douai (France) where he had trained for priesthood. Betrayed by John Reeves, manservant to Sir Edmund Berry Godfrey, for the reported payment of twenty-two shillings, the link between the nocturnal skulduggery of Judas Iscariot in the events of the first Holy Week, was not lost in subsequent stories claiming that Reeves took his own life by drowning before any money changed hands ! The longevity of Fr. Postgate’s ministry in a time of persecution and betrayal is almost unique, matched by the fact that he spent almost the last twenty years of his life discreetly celebrating Holy Mass and the Sacraments not far from his birthplace around the Guisborough, Pickering and Scarborough areas. The late dating of his execution ranks him amongst the final swath of martyrs put to death for their Catholic faith, although others would continue to die in penury and prison for their fidelity. 

Whilst our hearts may swell with a faith-based recognised near-relational pride at the mention of the sacrifices made by Margaret Pole, Nicholas Postgate and many others, there is another side to the story of the English Martyrs. John Foxe (1516/17 – 1587) compiled a “Book of Martyrs,” which continued to be expanded until the Victorian era, detailing those whose lives were taken from them in the name of a different faith – Protestantism. Often an overlooked element of history by Catholics, not only was Mary Tudor the worthy recipient of the name “Bloody” in reference to her brutal dispatch of hundreds of men and women, but her own father, and siblings, Edward VI and Elizabeth, as well as James I, at the same time as executing Catholics were themselves culturing lengthy martyrologies consisting of those deemed fervent Protestants, who like their Catholic counterparts were prepared to offer the ultimate gift of their lives. Rather like the stealthy cat and the chick, this is probably an unexpected factual ending !  

With liberality and freedom in the realm of faith and our ability to live as people of recognisably different traditions it can be easy to forget or overlook the sacrifices made by others in the name of faith, or even dismiss such oppression to the shelf of history. Regrettably in the twenty-first century the ultimate sacrifice, martyrdom, is still a feature on the landscape of faith for many. In the case of the persecution of Christians its presence is often brushed aside by the media. In a time when in a whole variety of ways many have been asked to make sacrifices for a greater good, it is worth recalling Christ’s own words to those who give up what they have for others. He states that there is “no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends” (John 15:13) which is the ultimate response to His new commandment to “love one another as I have loved you.” (John 15:12) In the celebration of Holy Mass this weekend we shall participate not simply in the verbal high ambitions of the Word made flesh, but the absolute reality that God’s Word was the bond, or manifestation, of His love for each one of us … sacrificed on the hill of Calvary. So, in signing-off this week I would like to assure those who are continuing to make sacrifices, and especially those feeling the weight and burden of them, you are not alone. As a community of faith we journey with you, and like Simon of Cyrene, I would like to think at we not only walk with you but help to share the load too. This weekend, very especially, you are being remembered at the altar. 

Holding you in prayerful remembrance and affection. 

As ever, Fr. Nicholas

Dear Parishioners,                                                                                                                 

It was once said that necessity is the mother of invention. These words ran through the hall of my memory on Monday afternoon as I stood admiring a portion of our family garden that I had been employed in the process of weeding and turning over for the previous couple of weeks. The job was finished and a neighbour complimented me on my handiwork. Internally, I felt as though I had arrived on the stage of recognised gardeners ! The bed of garden contains a good number of rose trees, a pampas grass (the majority of whose sharp and biting leaves are held prisoner behind some supportive fencing; but straying hands, arms and legs beware !), a hydrangea and a glorious array of spring bulbs and plants that simply look after themselves, and yearly grow in number and capacity to offer the vibrant and varied colours that speak to all who look at them of the first signs of life at the dawn of a new calendar year.  

Over the last few months I appear to have undergone a rather subtle conversion process, manifesting itself in conversations about gratitude for cooler nights that have helped maintain a longevity amongst our beautiful spring flowers not least the fragile fruit of hidden bulbs, the lack of wind to ruthlessly remove tulip blooms and blossoms prematurely, but also lamenting those same sharp frosts which have mutilated the magnolias of which I am custodian. Although not flung from a horse during this change, it has involved picking up and wielding stored equipment whose presence just a few short months ago I would only have been aware of through a cursory glance. Busying myself with this front of house activity has not seen me responding to any heavenly voice, but rather those of numerous Otley neighbours who have stopped me in my tracks, exchanging pleasantries and enquiring about Dad. At the core of this metamorphic change is my relationship with the garden.    

Our garden was always the domain of my parents. Having begun their married life in a back-to-back terrace, their move to our home in 1964 (yes, one address for almost fifty seven years, and there are still other neighbours who have been there longer than us !) fulfilled particularly my mother’s dream of having a garden which soon became a shared source of pride and joy. My mother would spend many an afternoon pushing an aging mower up and down grass, which had it been sat in the barber’s chair would have been subjected to a Number One blade all over. She was skilled with both long and short handled shears, and was equally impressive with an edging tool when determining the boundary of the lawn. On one occasion having left the mower for a moment she returned to find a rat sat atop of it. Mustering a shriek, a neighbour came to her rescue with a stone, which hit the mower and sent – what was later described as a drowsy rodent – scuttling. On another occasion a wandering patient from Highroyds Hospital was found asleep on the lawn, profusely apologising when disturbed by Mum, saying that he thought it was a park ! Bless him; the garden is attached to a two bed-roomed semi-detached property, hardly Chatsworth House. Each of the three aspects of the garden has its own memories. The lawn was where we would sit as a family enjoying the summer sunshine, sometimes on the swinging seat which for a number of years was ritualistically erected around Eastertime, and whose cushioned seats were carefully housed in the garage after every use to protect them from dew, rain and other forms of dampness.  

The lawn is also home to a line of three cherry trees; an aged weeper, a rather chic Amanogawa, and a standard which stands almost protectively head and shoulders above the others. The DNA profile of the weeping variety is probably closely related to my Dad’s given the number of times he has caught his head beneath its branches. With a bloodied head he would enter the kitchen passing the comment that he had come up too early when working beneath it ! There was occasional mention of the weeper’s removal, but with his head healed the veiled threat was soon forgotten. Beyond lies a second bed, again predominately housing roses, but there is a lovely diversity of other forms of plant and shrub life. Discreetly in a corner is something edible: rhubarb. On Monday I invited a couple of neighbours to come and help themselves to some of its stalks, as Dad normally does, as the harvest is beyond meeting his own needs. In return he usually receives a couple of crumbles. Personally I’m not living in hopes of these being delivered to the Presbytery anytime soon ! As a small boy I recall this part of the garden containing some lilac trees which both grew quickly and also out of vogue, so they were taken out in favour of roses (the culturing of which was a notable recreational habit of one of my predecessors at Holy Spirit, Fr. Denis O’Sullivan 1889 – 1897, who was something of an authority on them). The year before her death for Mothering Sunday I bought Mum a lilac sapling. Dad planted it so that it could be seen from the front window. It took immediately, and surprised us by budding early the following year. Mum never saw it in bloom, but touchingly on the day she made her last journey from home to church, a single stem of pure white blossom had burst forth, along with its rich scent. Almost on the fifth anniversary of that day, the green buds are waiting to mature and change their colouring. As the years pass, so we note an increase of its fragment stems.  

Returning to the focus of my recent labours, the colourful and varying array of species of spring flowers at the edge of the bed reflect the canny Yorkshire approach of being hesitant to throw things away, not least bulbs given in bowls for internal displays at Christmases past, such as hyacinths and miniature tulips, daffodils and narcissi in all shapes and forms. On the demise of their initial crop they were randomly buried outside, where their presence evokes numerous happy festive memories from perhaps as many as thirty or more years ago. In those distant times of childhood and youth my own contribution to the maintenance of our family garden was being handed a bucket and implement with which to remove weeds from various nooks and crannies. It was far from a labour of love or even a voluntary contribution to Team Hird, instead it came from an overly loose tongue passing the comment that I was bored ! Vocalising any experience of boredom was virtually mortal sin in my parent’s eyes, the only remedy for which was the penitential act – literally carried out on my knees – of removing weeds.  

My favourite part of our garden is at the back of the house. It is mainly pebbles (enhanced by some which were collected on forays along various beaches where holidays and days out were spent) surmounted with a variety of planters, a small rockery area and a pond. There is also a greenhouse, and yes, for the inquisitive of mind, this too has recently been given the pantry treatment – of both internal and external acts of tidying and culling – by yours truly ! The acknowledgement of which was shared – Confessional-style – and with the trepidation of a naughty child, to Dad on my first visit to him in hospital in late-March. At a distance I was granted pardon ! Fondness for this garden area probably comes from the fact that it has noticeably grown up with me over the years. In childhood it was home to a couple of pine trees each of which attracted numerous species of birdlife, and occasionally a squirrel. With the extension of the garden thanks to the reduction of space taken up by a neighbouring YEB generator came change, the removal of a privet hedge and an opening up of the space to more natural light. As a small child it was the area where I could be found sitting and playing in a paddling pool, later it was where various pets had their caged homes, and when we inherited Bracken in 1980 it became the contained and safe area in which she could roam freely, amusing us as she would follow the sunlight in order to lay out full length, basking in its warming rays. More recently it was where Dad and I would sit socially distanced for a few hours each Sunday drinking copious mugs of coffee chatting, commenting on the lack of both air and road traffic, listening to the bird life, and able to overhear conversations of neighbours also sitting outside making the most of a climatically pleasant Lockdown experience.  

Of late, for many green spaces have taken on a new significance, and, as for myself, have become an outlet for time and energy, offering in due season a sense of achievement and satisfaction, or a place to exercise or, more recently, a safe environment in which to meet up with family and friends. A horticultural theme dominates the Gospel of this weekend, albeit focusing on a more rarefied form of cultivation than mere flowers or shrubs. In Jesus’ usage of the vine we are probably more able to connect with the imagery than with the vision of shepherding offered last weekend, despite our TV familiarity with Yorkshire’s own, Amanda Owen. Emphasising the need to remain a part of the Vine, which is Christ Himself, there is mention of pruning and cutting back in order for new life to be given the necessary nutrients and environment to grow and blossom, and above all enjoy a harmonious relationship with the ultimate source of life.  

Gardening draws us into a new classroom and learning experience. Whether we are in attendance or not Nature is engaged at her work. Seen or unseen, above ground, below ground, life is evolving and being nurtured. With a generous spirit of accommodation what demands space in one season, retreats and makes room for its neighbour in another. When the exertion of producing a harvest rich in colour and enjoyed by the passer-by is over a process of near hibernation begins to rejuvenate that which has spent its energies for this year at least, recharging itself for a similar crop next spring or summer. Whether heads of many colours or bows of blossom benefit from a kind and gentle climate or succumb prematurely to decimating wind, rain, frost or snow, the virtues of patience, resilience and acceptance are taught, as innately plants, bulbs and shrubs hold an almost tangible and confident hope that they will be back again the following year. Some accept too the brevity of their existence. Blossoming and flourishing for a single season, whilst others age both gracefully and disgracefully, gaining all the while a memory of presence spanning decades for some and centuries for others. When it comes to diversity, tolerance and acceptance, gardens appear to have an abundance of each quality; even weeds are made welcome ! As St. Paul’s describes love, so too the growing population of a garden reflect a delight in the splendour and glory of one another’s blooming achievements. Such spaces are devoid of jealousy. A garden can teach us a lot if we are open to learning from it, working with it and giving it an assurance that we care for its over-all well-being. In standing back and observing the fruit of my own labours last week I could easily share God’s own creative statement of satisfaction when Genesis (1:12) records that “God saw that it was good.”  

Let us continue to be united as a community of faith in both prayer and affection, 

Fr. Nicholas