Lent, but not as we know it

Forty days and forty nights - a Christ like diet

One hundred years ago my parents were in their teens.

Both in the same class at school.
Both deeply involved in the spiritual and social life of their parish, St Margaret's, Canning Town in London's East End.

Their Lenten practice was, so I was told, the norm for Catholic laity and it focused, practically, on diet.

For the whole period of Lent they abstained from meat.

And eggs.

And fish, other than salt cod which became the staple source of protein.
Some families denied themselves milk also.

Meal portion sizes were drastically reduced, one ate a modestly portioned side plate of food for the evening meal. Breakfast and lunch consisted of bread and water.

Tea and coffee were off limits.

This at a time when most people walked many more miles each day.
The physical demands on the human constitution were much greater than they are now.

Daily Mass was strived for.

In the home even greater attention was given to prayer and spiritual acts.

As Lent drew to a close, so their bodies began to respond to the spartan, unhealthy diet and they became infected by boils and sores.

Easter Sunday brought blessed relief and a physical as well as spiritual renewal.

Wind forward 50 years and there was one dish that never appeared on the family table.

Salt cod.

My poor parents could barely bring themselves to say the words, let alone re-create a meal consisting of dried, salted fish.

We shall remember them

My father fought in the First World War, joining up, illicitly, at seventeen years of age.

He survived the 'Man's War' as he used to describe it but it left an indelible mark on him as it must have done with thousands more.

His first years of service were with the East Surrey Regiment ('Steady the Buffs') and he soon found himself in the trenches of Flanders.

I recall him telling me, with all due modesty, how he survived as a very young (Catholic) male thrust into living at close quarters with what seemed to be the male population of the East End of London.

A rough and ready group of men by all accounts.

Each night he shared a nissan hut with about 60 other servicemen and, before climbing into bed he would kneel and say his night prayers - to a chorus of obscene jeers and boos.

I do not think that I would have had that sort of courage at the age of seventeen, or, indeed, now.

In the trenches, he trained as a signaller and was, for a time, on the staff of the Signals Regiment. During this period he was despatched, along with an officer and two other privates, to camp out in no man's land for a three day period, sending back signals recording enemy movements.

The group was hit by a shell which mortally wounded the officer and killed the two privates. My father was badly wounded by shrapnel in the neck.
Nevertheless, he stayed in the shell hole nursing the officer until he died and sending back information on the enemy.

After the death of the officer he tried to find his way back to his lines carrying his rifle which was useless due to shell damage. He tucked the splintered stock beneath his arm and carried on until he came across a group of thirty or so Germans.

Pointing his defunct rifle at them he commanded them to "Hande hoch!" and marched them back to where his unit was based.

For this he was awarded the Military Medal.

He was then invalided out of France spending seven days being shunted around France in a cattle wagon until, at last, he was shipped back to 'Blighty' to recover.

His parish then was St Margaret's, Canning Town, and his Parish Priest, being of stout Irish stock, counselled him on transferring to the Irish Guards "as the fact is, my boy, they are not sending any more of their troops overseas and it is a Catholic regiment".

Sadly, the first part of the good priest's advice proved to be untrue and within 6 weeks of being classified as fit for service, my father was back in the trenches with the Guards.

In the final few weeks of the war he was commissioned into the Munster Fusiliers.

Two memories stand out from the war tales that he told me.

The first was the way in which the Irish Guards Catholic chaplains went over the top with the rest of the men when the attack whistle blew.
With stoles flapping around their necks, the chaplains ran into fields of deadly fire, responding to cries of "absolution Father" by bestowing the Sacrament of Penance on the troops as they ran.

My second memory is of an occasion when I was showing my Father a book on the Great War.
In particular, I showed him a picture of a battlefield covered by fallen bodies.

"Was it really as bad as that?" I asked.

"No" he replied. "It was far worse, the bodies in no man's land would be two or three deep"

Last week I had a business meeting with an eminent academic.

I wore a red poppy in my buttonhole.

I was shocked and then intensely angry that he sported a white poppy in his.

We owe it to those who died and suffered in both World Wars, to remember their bravery and sacrifice; not to glorify war but to recall the sacrifices that were made.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

                                                     
                                                       We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

                                                      
                                                      Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

John McCrae

Richard Collins Born 29th August 1897 - Died 24th January 1979 RIP

Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them, 

may they rest in peace. Amen

Muslim vigilantes arrested

Following recent coverage of Muslim males invoking Sharia Law on the streets of London, two men have been arrested under suspicion of public order offences and have been bailed while further investigations take place.

                            "Do not dress like that in a Muslim area"

 Their actions have been described as 'homophobic' by the various homosexual organisations but this is only partly true. The alleged accused are also heard quite clearly demanding that passers by carrying alcohol should pour it down the drain and some did, in fact, comply.

They can also be heard demanding that women should observe the dress code of some Muslim females and "cover up".

I do not think that any group whether Catholic, Jewish or, even, homosexual, should take  pride in claiming that they were a target under these circumstances.

Precisely 100 years ago my own parents were stoned routinely (also in the East End of London) when they took part in the May processions with other parishioners of St Margaret's, Canning Town. Their attackers were, in the main, Orangemen but my parents were always at pains to dismiss lightly such assaults.

We should have little difficulty in dismissing the vigilante activity of a few Islamic fundamentalists except that, there is a growing undercurrent of unrest in the Muslim communities across Europe.

In the past 12 months there has been a spate of attacks on Catholic churches and events in France and Spain and this will, undoubtedly, spread to Britain.

What to do?

The Government needs to get some backbone and provide a service to the  mosques that counsels, educates and informs young Muslim men and women, as to the rights and wrongs of Islam and the social structures of the west and respect and tolerance for those of other faiths.

That would be a start.

A 'new' Latin Mass for London?

My youngest daughter has just informed me of a 'new' Latin Mass centre in London - Whey-hey! and all that!

I thought that I knew all the crevices wherein a Sunday EF Mass was to be found in the London area.

 The Oratory at 9am, of course, St James's (I like the apostrophe) Spanish Place at 9.30am and St Bede's Clapham Park at the very social hour of 10.45am.

Then there's St Mary Magdalen at Wandsworth Common at the even more social hour of 11am and that's it for parishes with a TLM every Sunday (I'm leaving Blackfen out of it as they are, I think, a bit beyond the London boundaries, sorry Fr T).

Not a lot for Britain's capital city and mother Diocese of England and Wales but......there you go, come the revolution etc.

But now, thanks to Miss Collins, I am informed that St Margaret's Convent Chapel, Canning Town, has a Latin Mass at 6pm every Sunday! How come this one passed me by?

Easy. It's not in Southwark or Westminster, it's in Brentwood Diocese.

Aaah....Brentwood Diocese. Last time I mentioned the scarcity of Sunday EF Masses in Brentwood I got a good roasting from many good bloggers who knew otherwise but, on checking the Latin Mass Society quill and parchment Mass Listings online, I see that only St Margaret's offers the Mass of all time on every Sunday - in the whole Diocese!

Now, if you have the knowledge as the London Cabbies say, please don't beat me up, if you know of other Latin Mass parishes where a Sunday EF Mass is offered, write to the LMS and ask 'em to feature in it in their ledger.

But, in all of this is there a smidgeon of misinformation?

Can you say, with any accuracy which town is in which Diocese? Is Baldock in Westminster or Brentwood? Guildford in Southwark or Arundel and Brighton? Ware in Northampton or Westminster?

And don't even start on Southwark North and Southwark (Kent) ugh!

If you were a visitor from overseas (are we still allowed to say 'foreigner'?) not knowing the geography of England and Wales, where would you begin with a Diocesan index?

I would suggest that the LMS might consider two things in all of this; one, that they produce an index of Mass centres by town or city in alphabetical order, and, two, that they expand their listings to include all Latin Masses, not just ones where they have a finger in the liturgical pie.
Not just those that they support and organise.

And one final point regarding St Margaret's...it was the parish wherein my dear parents were born and brought up.
My mother was the organist when just a slip of a girl and my father painted extensive murals for the church, I don't suppose for one minute that they are still there.
All colour was whitewashed out after the Second Reformation. I think I'm still allowed to say that.