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Important Parish in the World by Mark J. Kelly Much to the consternation of many and my own bemusement, I believe I have found and will here expound that I have discovered, the most important parish in the world. I know this may appear a hyperbolic exclamation and stir forth indignation from others who would, most correctly and with more excellent erudition, advance their parish church as most deserved of this venerable designation. Notwithstanding the slings and arrows that one would receive for making such a bold statement, I shall herein press my case for and by manner of this encomium encourage others to imitate or correct me with their nominees. With such an august introduction a more earthen declaration of experiences and prejudices should follow before I present my candidate. My experience is quite broad, not by design or intent, mind you. I have been, as an old song rang, half way round the world and half way back again, from Paris, Maine to Paris, France. I have never viewed myself as a cultic voyeur or self appointed student/critic of liturgy. My experience and “research” has always been happenstance though not altogether haphazard. Most, if not always, I was a fellow pilgrim or grateful guest. There is extant no official journal or diary of my liturgical loitering. In retrospect, I can claim to have worshipped or attended services on five continents witnessing many possible venues of worship.1 I stood agog with Snake Handlers in the Appalachians, gazed dumbfounded at “King James Only” Screechers in the American South, sat solemnly with Reformed Psalm (only) Singers of several nations and literally cowered in the basements of modern day Huguenots in rural France as local thugs threw tomatoes. Turkey has long been a “difficult” place, to say the very least, to be a Christian as is most of North Africa. I was serving in the military at the time and under orders not to display any public symbol of Christianity. The time was 1982 and the concern was not political correctness, yet, or fear of offense, but rather our own safety. One visit was cut short due to attacks on local Christians. I have frequented a number of Cathedrals in Europe and the Americas, north and south. The devotion of the common Catholic in South America remains an enigmatic exemplar and fascination after 25 years. This does not even begin to scratch the patchwork quilt of American Protestantism and its various cultures that I continue to interact with. I know Mennonites, Amish, Plymouth Brethren and more. I reside in northern Bucks County, PA. My grocer is closed on the Lord’s Day as is a good part of another shopping center close by, run by good Mennonites who still carry an important Anabaptist heritage that is not descended from 19th century Evangelicalism. The most attractive churches in town, in order are; Lutheran, Methodist and the old Mennonite Meeting houses with their one room schoolhouse simplicity the ugliest is Catholic, a 1970s “ski lodge” sham of an edifice on main street. A variety of German Christian heritages are still present and interactive with this culture. I use the library of the Moravian Seminary not far from my home.2 Another small early Reformation body, the Schwenkfeldes, is not more than a twenty minute drive. Of course some of my worst experiences have been in the western Catholic Church (a collective groan arises from various readers). Thankfully, I have witnessed great acts of true and overt piety as penitents on two knees with one rosary advanced far up hard aisles under the soft eyes of an Icon of a Dark Madonna. I have been in the midst of large Eucharistic Processions by candlelight that stretched on for more than a mile. Lost in a vast sea of worshippers at twilight I did not seem to even walk or expend energy as we glided behind the Blessed Sacrament. I have been to small churches of the Russian Church in Exile, filled with ancient Icons smuggled over by the pious and poor who still stand in long watches and enrich the small and scattered Old Calendar parishes that so pleasantly “reek” of incense and prayer. I infrequently attend Vespers at the Orthodox Church close by and stand with the many converts to chant in English, following reverent Byzantine Modes. With different encounters such as described above (there are more) one witnesses the radiant glory of God in humble circumstances while being made “small” and contrite in spirit when part of a large and glorious pilgrimage event. All have some reflection of Christ and leave a different impression in the soul that draws us to the Heart of Trinitarian Life and gives us a foretaste of the great Banquet to come. Though all these experiences admittedly lead one to a certain point of view and hopefully afford some qualification so as to make bold the above provocative claim, we must remember that we are looking for a parish church, the very backbone of the Body of Christ. It is truly a search for a parish, the place of ordinary communion that unites Heaven and Earth, where Joseph and Mary Catholic absorb their spirituality and pass it on to the world. The median temperature of a parish’s membership is the true heritage it passes on to the neighborhood it dwells in. The trick is to raise the average soul of the average Catholic to an above average place that does transcend the culture and challenge it to change. That really is the desire of all, at the very least, a good parish, if not a great one. What lamb of the flock does not desire a greener pasture or brighter mornings? What Christian does not pine for true, authentic and consistent Liturgy that ascends, transcends and amends our lives? I should also declare, by way of confession, my personal prejudices. I am a Yank of Irish extraction from the Northeast section of the United States. Certainly, I have made the ethnically required and delightful pilgrimage to the “Holy Sod” of the Island of Saints and assisted at many excellent parish and cathedral churches in the Realm of Ss. Patrick, Bridget, Columba, etc. Hibernian Hybrid that he remains, the author carries a warm spot for his Celtic heritage. Yet, to my own consternation and bemusement, I did not find the parish church of my desire in the rare and somewhat clammy clime of the Emerald Isle.3 My wife is a French-Acadian, raised in her own Catholic Culture of extreme northern Maine. While being greatly enriched by this part of the church and visiting the many unique and singularly blessed parishes of this heritage, in my travels and misadventures I am still surprised to find one that could be called “The Parish”. Indeed the place came upon me very suddenly and, for my part I can find no close second. I stumbled upon the most important parish in the world, as it always happens in stories, by sheer “accident”. Some have even described its physical architecture, exterior and sanctuary, as somewhat accidental. A recent posting on the internet describes the interior as such; “The lack of homogeneity makes it one of the more interesting churches to look around,” which is the polite manner of declaring that the church has a hodgepodge of sacred architectural forms and articles, due to donations I am sure, from various persons at different times. Yet for all its “lack of homogeneity” inside, its space is still sacred and has a natural, tangible draw to prayer. The seemingly odd assortment of images and furniture strangely works together and elevates. This parish church has even been described in a well-known biography of one of her more renowned literary sons as “an unlovely edifice”.4 But as I came to know her and her essence, not her accidents, my perception of her beauty and my grasp of her unique standing changed my perception of “a parish”. I was changed by a few visits to this parish church, deeply struck by the people, the priests, the place and therefore her overall position in the world. Of course I mean the Oratory Church of St. Aloysius Gonzaga situated somewhat uncomfortably, (appearing a bit squashed to some), in the Woodstock Road, amidst the ancient city of dreaming spires, Oxford, England.5 The People I was immediately struck by the practical holiness of the parishioners of the Oratory. Their attendance at the Liturgy and private devotions was neither overly pious or under attentive, dressed for all occasions, in varied manner, all for one purpose, the ONE purpose of the Church. All present, at various ministrations and services, seemed to “press on” in that peculiar English manner that all Americans believe is developed by habitual tolerance to the peculiarities of English food and weather. For the children of this Oratory Church, this “steady on” spirit derives from another food source and environment. As I looked at them, they looked at Him. Another striking quality, the types of people in attendance caused me to take note, truly Anglophile rather than straight English, a microcosm of the world was present. As some are surprised to discover Oxford is an international city and so you will find those who sidle silently into the well-worn pews at the Oratory from all over the globe. The microcosm of the world was present, praying in English and all drawing the eyes of their souls in the same direction. I noted and hopefully absorbed a certain “casual piety” that develops from consistent devotion to God in this place. It was at this point that I began to see the critical and unique importance of this congregation. It appeared that an unusual intersection of incidentals had constructed this critical parish, certainly not what I expected to find in my first visit to an English parish Church. As with all such churches, congregations or religious communities, the people who pass through her portals are the ultimate missionaries constantly taking a message of the Risen Lord to a falling world. The daily common commerce of her children is the water from Ezekiel’s new Temple running out to the desert lands. How clearly and cogently that message is dispersed by the congregants, remains for the Church, largely dependent not only on her laity, and several other ingredients we shall consider later. Those attending the Oxford Oratory have a certain “cool medium” setting or cruising speed that, in my estimation, climbs a fair few pegs higher than many Catholics in the West. They sang well, responded in attentive unison and were truly interacting with the Ultimate Object of the Liturgy. Assisting with them was not an intense experience or otherwise effectually stimulating. Yet I was different when I departed. Even after one visit. I could, I believe, pick out the local regulars, migratory student/scholars or vagabond tourists (such as myself). Yet there was a blending. As with the mixed architecture, so with the living furniture of the church. The unique mix of persons that come and go through the doors of St. Aloysius, their individual and corporate destiny, began to intrigue me. I was warmly received; perhaps it was good manners and some pity. The English all take courtesy as seriously as they do their sense of humor. I stood out like a sore thumb. My first attendance at the Oxford Oratory was for the ordination of John Saward to the Priesthood on the Feast of St. Lucy, 2003.6 It was a large event for Catholic Oxford. I was asked to read the Epistle for the Ordination. The only “Foreigner” from directly across the Pond in the whole place and there I was with my Philadelphia, slightly “Rocky Balboa” accent. I was most nervous having to lector before such a congregation. After the ordination I was joyfully pulled aside by many who wished to “meet the Yank” and was able to absorb a good deal of parish thought through her various and varied children. I met strong people who were quietly aware of the power of a parish, and specifically their parish. Therein lay the bemusement on my part. Most Catholics in America do not associate Catholicism with England. In America the Catholic experience, at best (and worst) is Irish, Italian, Polish or of eastern/Byzantine extractions. Due to Modern aberrations in America (I almost said abominations), we tend to look elsewhere for Exemplars of what a longstanding parish should look like. England is NOT one of them. English Christianity to the average American is usually filled with images of Jane Austen’s various vicars or C.S. Lewis’ Fr. Spike, a polite religion that fits comfortably between tea time, long walks and endless readings of Byron or Gerard Manley Hopkins. My prejudice believed I would find more politeness than power. I was quickly and pleasantly disabused of this view. On this first visit, the place was packed with English priests, Dominicans from Blackfriars, Franciscans from Greyfriars and several parish priests in soutanes. As out of compass as I appeared, my status as obtuse stranger and alien was silently erased by the genuine welcome of the parishoners. I was rather quickly and outside of my own immediate awareness made most comfortable, became quite edified and suddenly sensed I was…“At Home”. At Home as I had never been with other people in another place; not in any church in Ireland, the States, or any other place I have ever visited. I was far from being overwhelmed by the unique purpose of this gathering. It is easy to have a rather romantic view of Oxford. Walking about and having several visits does not necessarily allay this romanticism. I had arrived early and was able to pray in the back pews with the parish regulars long before the varied visitors arrived. During the Mass and afterwards the same spirit remained in the church that I had first noted. Visits that followed for daily Mass and Sunday Eucharist only strengthened a bond and conviction concerning the people of this parish. A return several months later assured me that I had not romanticized my first visit. The gentle and steady rivulet running out of the congregation that I met caused me to investigate its obvious source. The Priests St. Philip Neri is no ordinary priest, nor are his sons who still labor under his unique and far-sighted vision. I found the clergy there to be balanced, diverse in manner and focused on their ministry. The Liturgy was plainly (and pleasantly for a change) directed to the LORD not his disciples and their needs or feelings. There was a casual ease to their deliberate manner that made their piety all the more intense. The Oratory has a strong tradition of sacred Liturgy which these priests uphold with care and pleasant custom. The Priests of the Oratory in Oxford have not only the burden of its founder’s reputation and vision to uphold and advance but also that of John Henry Newman. For the visitor who comes to Oxford and attends Mass, or encounters Oratorians in their unique split collar cassocks walking in St. Giles Street with the background of ivy covered colleges and chapels, there is an immediate expectation for them to be very “Newmanish”. Not only are they expected to be great priests but priests of an expected mold. These expectations are as varied as are opinions on Newman himself, not always fully informed or fair. I sensed from visitors I conversed with, and those who willingly volunteered to opine, that their expectations of the Priests of the Oratory are very high. Friends I know, who have never been to Oxford or St. Aloysius, have a certain expectation of how the Oxford Oratorians should conduct themselves and how this parish should be run. The regular, devout Catholic “tourist” doesn’t hesitate to ever so politely voice his comments all and sundry. Again, not very informed or fair. The expectations are easy to cultivate. One needs only take the “Newman-Tractarian Tour” of Oxford. The usual visit to St. Mary the Virgin’s Pulpit, Trinity and Oriel College is a bare minimum. This tour could include a walk, as Newman did out of necessity, from the heart of Oxford to Littlemore where the Sisters of The Work preserve and advance his memory.7 Visit, kneel and pray in his small and seemingly insignificant chapel. In doing so you yourself may start to inherit “Newman’s Dream”, the desire of an Oratorian Church in Oxford. If you read Newman’s letters and his longing for an Oratory in His beloved Oxford where, even in his youth, he wished to be a snapdragon clinging to college cloister walls, you will yourself imbibe some of his spirit. You will then naturally travel to his Oratory and worship in his parish church and help advance his dream. You too will have expectations of these priests and their ministry. That almost unspoken constant weight is upon them. They carry it rather well. At this point a second impression hit me concerning this most singular place. Its priests are unique. They foster the spirit of St. Philip and their own English Oratorian heritage that is larger than Newman himself. The Oratory is not a large body in a worldly sense. They have had a slow, silent and I would argue a pivotal influence in the heart of the Church. The Oratory habitually produces good priests who are good confessors, prayerfully learned and sure-footed. These men have a variety of heavy expectations and pressures on them that are handled with grace and devotion. Deep down inside, though no person has ever spoken it aloud, this place is special. Indeed some of its people whispered it so to me, as their eyes looked gratefully upon their priests. The Place As I prayed before the Blessed Sacrament at the Oratory and considered the meaning of the meditation above I had totally forgotten another great Catholic who did attend St. Aloysius and was changed. At my leisure I strolled down St. Giles’ Street and, made a quick and delightful pit stop in the Pub under the sign of The Eagle and Child. I did the normal tourist thing, ordered a pint of ale and found the little room dedicated to the Inklings. As I peered over my slowly draining glass and considered the famous pictures and plaque, I then appreciated that I was not only drinking in his seat, but had just prayed in his pew. I could not help but reflect on this parish’s most famous son, J.R.R. Tolkien.8 Having loved Tolkien from the age of 11, long before I knew anything of the celebrity and attention that the Lord of the Rings brought, I had an attraction to this man. I had inhaled deeply as a hobbit would good pipe weed from the South Farthing, something of Tolkien’s life and thought in my adolescence that still brings out the best of me in the narrowest of situations. Long before I read a biography or began to discover him in his letters over 25 years later, I wanted to meet this man and learn from him, especially his sense of friendship, fellowship and fidelity. I sat in the “Bird and Baby” pondering the church of Newman’s Dream and contemplating the heart of Tolkien. While being in love with Middle-earth most of my life and cherishing his writings it is his letters that remain the most striking.9 I believe that Tolkien’s letters are the most profound and touching literature to come from his pen and heart, especially his letter on the Eucharist (#250).10 I realized that I was sitting in Tolkien’s Church, the place that fed him the true Lembas.11 Only then did I realize how much the Faith and a great love for the Blessed Sacrament had changed him. Though Tolkien attended St. Aloysius before the Oratory staffed it, he was deeply influenced by the Oratory charism through his beloved guardian and patron, Fr. Francis Morgan, a man who knew Newman himself. Indeed, one could easily argue that Tolkien’s ideals of friendship, fellowship and fidelity, so essential to his writings, are inherited Oratorian gifts. The discussion of fellowship needing no vows to secure its fidelity between Elrond and Gimli as the Ring and Fellowship heads south is a true reflection of Oratorian spirituality and remains a bulwark of the Oratory’s most basic tenets. After their conversion and reception of Holy orders, Newman and Ambrose St. John looked hard and long before they became Oratorians. Newman wanted the Oratory for England based in ideals of friendship and unspoken loyalty he learned in his snapdragon days as he longed to be enclosed in college cloister.12 Later as I sat in the midst of Newman’s Dream and in the place of Tolkien’s prayer, quite suddenly surrounded by the good people and priests described above, I suddenly realized I was in a nexus. Oxford is still such a Catholic city in architecture and design. It is not unusual to see Dominicans, Franciscans and cassocked priests about her streets on common days. Though some may consider the following assertion to be overstated, let it stand: the importance of Oxford and this Catholic Parish in its northern reaches is most critical. The world is largely and increasingly English speaking. People from all over the world, many who will be leaders in their fields and casual tourists, pass through Oxford and Oratorian doors daily. How many casual observers, distracted tourists, students and other temporary residents pass through here, are affected and take the spirit of Neri, Newman and Tolkien to the utter ends of the earth? They will incorporate some of the spirit bequeathed and enjoined by Newman and Tolkien. Or they will be fed by other children of the Oxford Movement yet unborn or under published that have filled their hearts in this place and shall in turn fill others. Many pass through the doors of The Oxford Oratory who will eventually shoulder important yokes and places of leadership in the world, not only England. A quick stroll down past Mary Mags or Carfax at noontime will convince you that Oxford is an international and portal city where many future leaders of this world are formed. My admiration for this parish should in no way distract from other great Catholic ministries in Oxford. The Oratory is far from a voice in the wilderness in this medieval University City. Though my efforts in writing stress the place of a parish, the normal font of sacramental life, Oxford is made great by the services of its clergy and the chapels of the various Houses of Study. The work of individual Catholics and the “Halls” of Blackfriars, Greyfriars, Campion Hall, and certainly not forgetting the Oxford Catholic Chaplaincy at the Old Palace near Christ Church College and Old Tom are in no ways inconsequential to the work of the Faith in Oxford.13 While all these ministries are an integral part of Oxford life, they are nonetheless not a parish. Then there is Ss. Gregory and Augustine in North Oxford. This place stands as perhaps another candidate for the august moniker of this article. Ss. Gregory and Augustine retains a special place in my heart for a number of reasons.14 There are certainly historic connections between The Oratory and Ss. Gregory and Augustine. Surely many have passed through her doors and been affected by its ministry and parishioners and have gone on to effect the world in a thousand ways known only to God. I am sure there are some great comparisons and arguments to be made for this parish and others in similar situations, but my candidate remains The Oxford Oratory. Confound me at your leisure (please). That is my hope in this rant, to raise indignation that some other parish has not been awarded this title, to provoke to action from the overlooked and under-appreciated not mentioned. To eventually make a great parish. Our parishes are called to be lamps set on a basket, the salt of our local society. Many would settle for “good” or even mediocre! But we are called higher, if by small Newman like degrees, “…one step enough for me”. I believe The Oxford Oratory has accomplished some deserved notoriety with a priesthood and people dedicated to the parish being many things, but essentially the House of God centered on the Liturgy and Eucharist, knowing its unique purpose in its assigned place and time in the Kingdom. Forgiving the exclamatory, and I would hope somewhat challenging title presented above, we must admit that there is such a place, or at the very least a short list of parishes that could be considered, THE MOST IMPORTANT PARISH IN THE WORLD. Down inside I hope every Christian takes offense that his beloved parish was overlooked for this title and proclaim to the world its splendors and glories, the knowledge of which will in turn provoke others to jealousy and greater, more godly works. I do encourage others to imitate or correct me, thereby confounding all and sundry with their most legitimate litigation and therefore enriching us all. The Feast of St. Aloysius Gonzaga, 21 June 2007. Endnotes:
Mark J. Kelly is a “Revert” to the Catholic Faith and now resides in Upper Bucks County Pennsylvania after various travels. He has published a large number of articles and poetry in various Catholic periodicals. He may be reached at kellymj@myway.com To read more great articles from CMQ and to subscribe click here... |
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