Just over an hour ago I heard of the death of Canon John Lennon.  Canon John was a good man, a quiet friend and a holy priest, he died in the sixty seventh year of his priesthood, and he was a priest through and through.  He sought no high office, he sought no reward for doing his job and a more faithful man you’d be hard pushed to find.

I first met Canon John in the very late 1990s when he had retired from active ministry and moved into my parish with his housekeeper, Ann.  Ann was a little, birdlike lady who tended to Canon John as if he were her son.  She was about two thirds of his height and I clearly remember the sight of her making him bend over so she could do his scarf up warmly.

However, Ann went and scuppered Canon John’s retirement plans when she died of a stroke.  I was in diaconate formation at the time and served her requiem Mass, it was a clergyfest, they had come from far and wide.  Canon John presided which was exceptionally touching, particularly as he gave us a minor glimpse of emotion during the opening prayer, but ever the professional, he carried his duty out with aplomb.

In the time he was with us I recall him going to Rome twice, he was an acquaintance of Cardinal Sodano and liked to tell us of his visits to him.  It was unfortunate that Canon John’s fifteen minutes of fame came via his association with Thornton Heath.  28 November 1999, he was presiding at 10am Mass, we were saying the Creed when a man wielding a sword entered the church and attacked people.  The congregation lept into action and the man was restrained.  But with his poor eyesight Canon John was not quite sure what was going on!  When one of my friends attempted to take a large candlestick from the sanctuary with which to fend off our attacker, Canon John stopped him “This is a sacred space, you cannot act like this” he said.

In all the carnage that was going on around him within the church, aware that those that needed help were being tended to, Canon John took a handful of the faithful to the side altar and finished the Mass there.  Later he was interviewed on the TV news, the interviewer was astounded he could not see what was happening in front of him as the attack took place.  Taking off his ‘milk bottle bottom’ glasses he held them up to his interviewer and said “you don’t get these in an hour from Specsavers”.

After Ann’s death Canon John moved to Meadow View Road nursing home where Pope Benedict visited in 2010.  I used to see the nuns from here on a Friday when they came into the Flower Market, I used to ask after him and they’d tell me he was still the ‘gentle man’ he ever was.

The last time I saw Canon John was a moment of pure comedy.  I cannot think what the Mass was for but I was in the sacristy at St George’s Cathedral as I was deaconing.  Another of our diocesan venerable gentlemen, Canon John Devane, came in and was chatting to me.  He always knew me as ‘The BTG boy who became a deacon’* Canon Devane explained that he and Canon Lennon would me going onto the sanctuary from the sacristy as they were now both rather infirm.

Canon Lennon came into the sacristy, Canon Devane said
“How are you John?”
Holding his hand up to shield his eyes Canon Lennon headed straight for the few stairs to the sanctuary saying
“Who’s that?”
“Still blind then” said Devane
“What did you say?” said Lennon
“And deaf” said Devane, as he followed Canon Lennon up the stairs
“Hello John” said Canon Lennon as Canon Devane followed him.  Each step was a chore for Canon Lennon, which Canon Devane registered with the words
“and cripple”
“I’m not deaf” said Canon Lennon who then turned and smiled at me. This gave me leave to stop the polite stifling of my laughter and guffaw like the buffoon I am.  I was still doing so when I was joined by other members of the clergy who enjoyed the tail.

In the early days of my diaconate I had the privilege of acting as Canon Lennon’s valet as I helped him straighten his chasuble and fix the radio mike for him.  I don’t feel sad today, I know it’s cliche but I feel privileged that he knew my name and I’d just love to know what he is experiencing right now, because whatever it is, we that knew him know, it’s all good.

*BTG = Bishop Thomas Grant, my secondary school.

When she was asked why Our Lady would have chosen to appear to her, St Bernadette’s response was “because there was no one more lowly in Lourdes, if there had been, she’d have appeared to them instead”.  This makes perfect sense.  Bernadette was not educated, she was 14 when Our Lady appeared to her, but with all the school she missed due to her poor health, she had the academic ability of the average six year old.  At least, this is what we are lead to believe.

Bernadette had no confidence in her ability to do anything at all.  In a conversation with the Bishop of Nevers she confessed she was ‘good for nothing’, the bishop corrected her as he had seen with his own eyes she was good at scraping carrots.

However, it was Bernadette to whom Our Lady imparted her message, no great theologian, no one of education at all, but a simple country girl who in the third millennium would be receiving help from the Learning Support department in school.

Lucia dos Santos and her cousins Francisco and Jacinta Marto were not of a scholarly persuasion either.  While Lucia was articulate for someone of her background, she and her two cousins were illiterate.  Lucia was asked by Our Lady to learn to read and write, an idea that was not pleasing to her mother.

When Peter and John appear before the Sanherdrin (Acts 4:13) they surprise everyone with their ability to convey their message, their lack of education is noted by those who hear them speak.

We also see in the Gospels how Jesus is referred to as “the carpenter’s son” not the scholar of any notable rabbi of the time.

What does this tell us?  It tells us when God has a message for us, he will use a messenger pleasing to him, not someone who conforms to the standards of mankind.  We as humans expect our education to come from people who are educated, trained in their specialism. God has other ideas, which our human fallibility can make it hard to have faith in.

The devil will use that.  Sadly he’ll use our faith in others with whom we share tastes to spread the not so good news and dissent.  For example, he’ll send someone to say “don’t bear false witness” when they themselves have been guilty of a cover up, and the Church has suffered greatly because of such manoeuvres. He’ll send someone to say “don’t get involved in fights” when they themselves are among the most pugnacious of characters.  But God will send someone who can quietly convey his will for all to hear.

We must always be on our guard against our own vanity and personal tastes, but more importantly we must have faith in the people God  sends us, no matter how hard we find their words.

See if you notice a theme here.

http://www.catholicnews.com/data/stories/cns/1401153.htm

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/religion/10847474/Let-there-be-light-Catholic-Church-gives-blessing-to-digital-smiley-face.html

http://supertradmum-etheldredasplace.blogspot.co.uk/2014/05/maybe-because-more-on-dark-night.html?m=1

And when you have, try this: –

http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=colossians+3%3A13&version=NIV

God bless

We popped out to eat this evening. There was one of those annoying types who was sitting alone but drawing attention to himself by talking on his phone all the time, louder than required.

However, all was forgiven, everyone in his earshot stopped and looked at him as we heard him say “His funeral? But I’ve bought him a present!”

I’ll leave that with you.

Friday 23 May 2014 will be a day forever etched on my memory.  Margaret Mizen came in to school to speak to Years Eight and Nine.  Unless you’ve lived under a rock since 2008 you’ll know that Margaret’s 16 year old son Jimmy was murdered in 2008, the day after his 16th birthday.  Rather than be eaten up by anger and revenge, Margaret, her husband Barry and the rest of their nine children work and campaign for peace.

The lovely Nikki at the Mizen Foundation told me Margaret would aim to get to us at 8.45, so I waited outside the school gates to usher her in to her reserved parking space.  8.45 on the dot she was there.  Margaret comes across as a breezy, easy going lady, true relaxed class,  who by the time we had left the car park, felt as familiar as anyone on your Christmas card list.

While we waited for the boys to be registered and bought into chapel we were joined by a few other people whom you’d have thought she had known forever.  I’d heard of other speakers at other schools indulging in a little diva strop before proceedings, the thought went through my mind “they have had the wrong speakers”.

The boys came in and settled down, I had the joy of introducing Margaret and her talk began.  Margaret is softly spoke, she checked she could be heard at the back, which she could and we were off in to an unbelievable experience.  In sweet tones throughout Margaret told the chaps all about herself, her background and her family.  As she proceeded to talk about the day Jimmy died I noted something, there were over 300 boys aged between 12-14 years old, I looked round, she had them all in the palm of her hand, they were listening attentively and in complete stillness and calm.

As Margaret spoke of Jimmy’s death, recounting the day in detail, I won’t deny a lump came to my throat and I welled up, but I had to get into professional mode as I was at work, I wondered how my colleagues were coping with this.  Margaret described in detail of the events that lead to Jimmy dying, when she told us that it all took place in a matter of three minutes I expected to hear an audible reaction, but still a calm silence reigned.

Hearing about Jimmy’s killer Jake roused the boys a little, there was movement in the benches, but that was all.  Margaret had said to me she hoped there would be some questions afterwards, our chaps did not disappoint, we had in total 100 minutes from start to finish, we could have filled 100 minutes with questions alone.  Before we finished I had the chance to share with the boys some words I heard Barry Mizen say at Flame Congress in 2012 “If I want a more peaceful world, I must be peaceful, if I want a more friendly world, I must be friendly, if I want a more forgiving world, I must forgive”.  I was not shy to make it clear to the boys there was emotion in my voice as I said this.  As a rule I shy away from such things, emotion has no place in a professional sphere, but for this one occasion I must ask for indulgence.

As the boys left Margaret shook hands with each boy in Year Nine, we had a cup of tea and, during morning break, Margaret bade her leave, not before meeting one or two staff and (to my great joy) breaking her ‘selfie’ duck when I whipped my phone out.

As I walked back into school the feedback began  “Sir, wow!”  “That was good, really good, and true life too” “Sir we weren’t there, will we get this talk?”  “Mrs MIzen knows my aunt Monica”  and the talk was the only thing being spoken of in the staffroom during break too.  I told my colleagues of the verbal feedback, including being told that “such and sucher member of staff was crying”  two colleagues said “Oh no, they didn’t see me did they?” no they didn’t, it was yet another.

What I, and the approximately 350 other people at that talk, witnessed was true Christianity in action.  While I was able to tick everything that was there, love, compassion, faith, submission, generosity and, most of all, forgiveness, I noted also what wasn’t there, ego, self need, denigration, arrogance, not a sign of anything outside the teaching of the Church.

The Mizen family are astounding, Margaret Mizen is a saint on earth, and it is my utter sublime privilege to have shared some time with her.

It’s no secret that I have had a bad time on social media, particularly Twitter, and it’s no secret that, hands up, I have contributed to my own hard time.  Further down the list of my blog posts I confess I shall not be conversing with any anonymous Twitter profiles.  But I have relented.  the main source of me relenting is a Twitter profile that goes under the name of  Adiutricem Populi (Collegiality of the People, if your Latin is like mine).

As I did not know who ‘Audrey’ as some Twitterers refer to the profile, is, in the days when I had issues, I blocked Adiutricem Populi.  I explained this to the profile owner.  Anyone else I had blocked had been a little tetchy with me, but ‘Audrey’ was fully understanding.  ‘Audrey’ took some time away from Twitter. On returning I was followed.  I blocked.  But beforehand I sent them a direct message explaining why. ‘Audrey’s’ reply will stay with me forever, it was between ourselves but full understanding of my situation was proffered.

After a while I started following certain profiles again in the crusade  for peace. “audrey” was one of them.  Some offered peace but then backed off, with others it was clear that the best way to seek peace was to leave each other in peace, with others, peace was not going to be considered.  For these I pray daily (yes, really, I really really do)

‘Audrey’ not only accepted my situation but also offered me prayers. And this is what Christianity is all about.  As Christians we are here to build each other up.  if one of us gets a new job, let’s laud it, if one of us gets a gig writing for the catholic press, well, Hello!  Kudos you my friend,  thank you for taking the time.  If one of us finds our Bishop/PP/Pope being questioned in a blog by a priest/deacon/layman let’s big up the good stuff rather than engage with the negatives.  When we call in to question publicly the actions of another of our brethren, we are failing, Christianity build, it doesn’t attempt to destroy.

Adiutricem Populi  offers me prayers regularly.   Unbeknown to the profile owner I offer prayers daily.  Let us build, out loud, let’s complain in private.  Let us let the world see that Christians will be known by their love.

Last week we had a Sacred Choral Concert at one of the schools where I work.  At the start of Lent we in the staff choir, of which I am the weakest, were given a piece to learn.    My usual routine when I know what we are singing is to look up the tenor part on Youtube and learn it that way, I have to use a strategy such as this as I do not read music.

Well! This was awkward, I could find nothing.  I tried iTunes, zip! Spotify, nada.  Nothing anywhere.  When I asked our choir leader where the piece was from or who it was by she was very vague so I just put it all to one side, concentrated on getting the Exsultet right for the Easter Vigil and decided I’d learn the piece while in Lourdes.  In the mean time we were all sent an MP3 of the music to help.  Alas for doofus here, not hearing which note related to which syllable meant I was still in the dark, so my time in Lourdes was not my salvation on this occasion. We rehearsed regularly, everyone who heard the piece loved it, “wow! where is it from?”  “it’s beautiful, how did you find it?” we had a true work of art here, a stunning piece I could not get out of my head, but I could not get it onto my tongue

Fast forward to this week.  The day before the concert we had an early morning rehearsal, It was clear I was lost.  This was looking catastrophic as I was the only tenor left.  Our usual cast of 14 had dwindled to five, all for good reason but it meant I could not, for the sake of our choral excellence beg a Sam Goldwyn and ask if they would “include me out”.  Our choir leader put a plan into action.  A student who could read music and knew the part sat next to me, I recorded him singing with the rest of the choir on my phone and for the next 36 hours listened and listened and listened.  For someone who is not an accomplished singer this was a tricky part, but I was not going to let down ‘ma crew’.

Two hours before the concert I was told the dad and brother of one of the students would be joining us, the brother would sing tenor to back me up. “how do they know this work?” I asked myself, somewhat confused and I have to confess, a tad agitated.  With 10 minutes to spare I was found on the lower playground, the piece still playing through my headphones.  It was time to take my place.

When we sat down all was revealed.  This stunning work was an A Level composition by the student who’s family would be singing with us.  This news took my breath away, although in retrospect I am not at all surprised. The student in question played the piano for us when we rehearsed, all I could think in the first five minutes was “did I say anything horrid about the music?”

Our concert started.  With three seconds of the introduction left the choir stood, making an even more dramatic start to Zadoc The Priest (little prayer for Fr Lee every time I hear it) and we proceeded with pieces by Stanford, Rheinberger, Bach, Tallis, Schubert, Rachmaninoff and others, the penultimate piece of the night was us, and I can safely say we were happy with our work.  The concert finished with Wood’s O Thou The Central Orb.  When he stepped forward to thank us at the end,  the Head made sure everyone knew who the composer of our mystery piece was.

It was, for me, a difficult job, but my word how proud and honoured I am that when our chap is famous, my grandchildren will be able to say “grandad sang his first public piece”.  And they’ll know because this adventure is a story they will hear more than once.

I’m home from Lourdes, this was my first time there, although by coincidence I will be back at the end of July. Anyone I know who has ever been there uses the same adjective to describe it; Amazing. And they are not wrong, all life is there, in all it’s forms shapes and sensitivies, and having been part of it for five days makes me very proud.

Physically the town resembles a British seaside resort (well I say resort…) there are lots and lots of shops all selling the same souvenirs of Lourdes, statues of Our Lady, all looking as Bernadette discribed her, range from six inches tall to almost life size, candles, bottles, pictures, glow in the dark rosaries even down to sweets with a picture of Our Lady on the front.  But unlike the seaside towns of Britain where you will encounter two or three customers when you are in one, in Lourdes the shops were heaving with punters.  There are hotels everywhere you look too.  The economy of the place is staggering, If only Woolworths had sold Lourdes water, Where might they be now?

I went with HCPT, now known officially as HCPT-The Pilgrimage Trust.  They take children to Lourdes Every year.  They also take young adults wo go to work with the children and adult leaders in order to enhance the experience of the children who are there.  Something that often gets overlooked is the fact that these young people, in their late teens and early 20s, PAY to go and do this work.

During the week I watched them jump feet first out of their comfort zone to sing songs with actions for the children, I saw big burly blokes with facial piercings having butterflies painted on their faces, I saw girls having their perfect make-up that had taken them ages ruined as they were face painted into tigers, I saw chaps dressing up as elves, penguins or pandas, I saw girls pushing teenage chaps twice their size up hill in their wheelchairs and every time I saw this I would thing of the prayer of St Teresa of Avila “God has no hands on Earth but ours”.

I was with my group one night as we marshalled the candle light procession. Putting it franckly they were spoken to, and treated, like dirt. Not only by those who didn’t want to be marshalled, but by those who they were marshalling for, although this happened as a matter of expedience in 99% of cases but not once did you hear them complain.  The largest amount of comments were saved for the lady who pretended she didn’t understand English as she tried to weave past us, until her friend called out  “Sue, we’re over here, Rob’s got your candle”, much mirth ensued our Sue.

Working in th baths is a most profound privilege. The reaction of some of those you bathe is very deep and you can only feel humbled at being allowed to share that.  If you talk about what happens at the baths it sounds nothing, let me explain. You queue up, you get sent through a curtain to a bath, you strip down to your undies, you then go through another curtain to where the bath is. There are two helpers, one of the helpers holds a large wet cloth round you, you take off what’s left and they tighten the cloth around your waist. When they do, it’s cold and you gasp.  From there you pray at the water’s edge, when you are ready, in you go.  You walk to the other end of the bath, you lean back with the help of the two helpers you go into the water and straight back out again. The water is cold. You stand up and pray, sometimes we helped people pray. There is a statue of Our Lady there, the helpers point to it should you wish to kiss it.  You turn round, you are helped to walk out of the bath, the cloth is held for you while you put your undies back on and you go through the curtain to put your cloths back on.  Sounds a bit random, so why is it so often so deeply moving?

There was many a tearful moment which came from no where, I got hugged, I got kissed, I got asked my name and was prayed for there and then and by one bather I got told to smile less as it made me look creepy (always a bonus) When I went in myself it was almost surreal, the towel is cold but the rest of the experience passed by in a prayerful blur. As I dressed I noted two thoughts, 1- I wanted to do it again and 2- why was I dry? Not a towel had been used yet you are dry before you are dressed.

Mass is a constant feature in Lourdes, I’m a naturally early riser and was often at Mass by 5.30am. Whatever language it was in would not matter. I read the readings of the day each morning, so I knew what was being said, and in French and German I had an idea of what was being preached. Confession and adoration are easy to find too, just join a queue.

Last week I saw God’s hands on Earth, I saw the saints Pope Benedict spoke to at Twickenham in his blue stole with hearts on and I saw the whole world congregate where heaven met earth. I didn’t like all I saw, but I saw the future of the Church, if you hear anyone having a moan about God’s house on Earth, send them to speak to people in Lourdes, although they may be a bit busy.

Well! It’s such an exciting day at Flavin Towers I can hardly contain myself. I spent the best part of an hour breathing into a paper bag, look:-

The neighbours are back. The sheep that are bought to graze in the paddock at the end of our garden are settling in for a nice couple of weeks on Coulsdon Common.

And if that’s not enough, please note:-

THE PHOTOS ARE BEING TAKEN FROM THE SHED!! Does it get any better than that? Ah doh fink soh!!

The sheep are fun to watch, pleasing to listen to and sociable when you are pottering about with your dibber and weed killer.

Beat that Don Quibreath!

I could not be more chuffed at the moment. I’ve just read something that made me don my tap shoes and venture onto the hallway laminate.

Tina Macintyre is being written out of Corrie. The character is an utter harridan, I don’t want her in my sitting room. It will be a joy to not listen to her constant whinging.

Yes I do watch Corrie avidly.

Now, the equally shrewish Michelle…….