The privilege of service
Inward Grace 2
WHAT MADE you want to be a priest?” I’ve been asked that question many times, but never found it easy to answer. I was only nine when a teacher asked me whether I’d ever thought about it. Of course, I hadn’t. And while that initial question may have planted a seed, I never felt it was something I had to do. When I mentioned it to my parents, they were supportive, but they also assured me that, if I changed my mind, they would be happy for me. I never
felt under pressure. And the seed flowered. It was pastoral priesthood that attracted me, so I offered myself to my home diocese of Shrewsbury and was accepted. I was sent to the English College in Rome immediately on leaving school. I was 17 years old. What may seem extraordinary today was unremarkable then. Indeed, of the 15 of us, arriving in Rome for the first time in October 1963, six of us were not yet 18. It was a privilege to be in Rome. We had come for seven years. For the first three the Second Vatican Council was in session each autumn. And then, for the remaining four, which I have often thought was the more fascinating period, there were bishops and experts, periti, visiting regularly to work in post-conciliar commissions in order to try to implement what the Council had decreed. It was an exciting time.
A key feature of the Council’s teaching was its attention to the relationship between the universal Church, based in Rome, and local Churches. That issue came to loom large for me. During those years we did not return home every summer. We went instead to Palazzola, the English College villa overlooking Lake Albano, opposite the papal residence at Castel Gandolfo. The location is spectacular. I spent four summers there from late June to early October. They were the best of times.
While there in 1964, I read Meriol Trevor’s biography of John Henry Newman and found it so engrossing that afterwards I began reading Newman himself. Here was Newman, faithfully Catholic and quintessentially English, offering an illustration of what that relationship between the universal and the local Church might look like. The consequences for me have been far-reaching. After my ordination, on my return to England in 1970, I was sent to Oxford to research Newman’s understanding of Christ and since then I have been invited to write and lecture on Newman in many parts of the world. Newman’s influence on me has been incalculable.
Another crucial issue during the Council was its teaching on the common priesthood of the baptised and on ministerial priesthood. The use of the same word, priesthood, for the baptised and the ordained, has led to confusion. There is an instinct that asks, which is better? But the question is misconceived. The Council stated plainly that the two are essentially different. They are not two versions of the same reality. As they differ essentially, like chalk and cheese, it is a mistake to compare them. Nevertheless, they are related. The ministerial priesthood ministers to, is at the service of, those who have been baptised. That desire to serve has guided me.
WHILE AT OXFORD, although a graduate at Oriel, Newman’s College, I lived at the Catholic Chaplaincy. I regard it as a blessing that my first experience of ministerial priesthood took place in that setting. During the previous 11 years, the chaplaincy’s style had been transformed by Michael Hollings. It was an open house from 7 a.m. until midnight and besides members of the university it was a magnet
The call to ministry is confirmed during ordination, the culmination of years of study for a wide range of characters. Michael had left just before I arrived, but his successor, Crispian Hollis, later the Bishop of Portsmouth, maintained and developed what Michael had established. I became a kind of supernumerary chaplain and by the time I left in 1974 a view was forming that I might return as chaplain myself one day, but not before, as Crispian wisely insisted, I had had experience of parish life. That parish experience proved to be priceless.
I served the next three years as curate at English Martyrs’ in Wallasey. The main reason for my appointment, however, was to act as chaplain to St Mary’s College, the new Catholic comprehensive next door, where I formed friendships that I value to this day.
I was also chaplain to a small women’s cottage hospital nearby. On Saturday mornings I would bring Holy Communion to the Catholics and on Monday evenings, after school, would visit all the patients, listening to them and trying to calm those who were nervous. On one occasion one of the consultants took me to task. He was angry. He imagined that I was trying to dissuade from proceeding those who had come to have an abortion. I was not because realistically that moment had passed. They had made their decision. All the same, I was trying to care for them.
In 1977 I returned to the Oxford chaplaincy and was there for the next 12 years. It was perhaps the highlight of my life, although I would not have wished it to continue indefinitely. Much of my time was spent in conversation with people who were curious about Catholicism. Some were Catholics wishing to know more, others were interested in becoming Catholics. Being at university, they liked to read, but, while much has been written about what Catholics believe, I found that those accounts tended to peter out and leave unaddressed the critical questions inquirers want to raise. Eventually I tried to fill the gap by writing The Catholic Faith.
BEING AN open house, there were surprises. I walked into my study one day to find a man who pointed at me and declared, “I am the Pope and you are under obedience to me.” Needless to say, this was not Pope John Paul II on a private visit to me personally, but a kind man, mentally unwell, who had stopped taking his medication.
On another occasion, after celebrating the midday Mass, a succession of people called to see me, some with appointments, others on the off-chance. Finally, at five o’clock, just when I thought I might finally get some lunch, there at my door stood Michele Totah, an American graduate of Christ Church, who was then teaching in the States, but was calling to discuss whether she might have a vocation to the religious life. She had been visiting St Cecilia’s Abbey on the Isle of Wight and had fallen in love with the place. She returned there the following year and became for years an outstanding Novice Mistress and Prioress. She was only 60 when she died from cancer in 2017. I regard her as a saint.
I left Oxford in 1989 and in 1990 was appointed parish priest of St Paul’s, Hyde. They were immensely happy years. At the same time, I was asked to join the National Conference of Priests and from 1994 till 1997 I was its chairman. In 1993, without preparation, I had also been appointed Director of the Diocesan Religious Education Service. So, by the end of 1997, I was very tired. The combination of parochial, diocesan, and national responsibilities was taking its toll.
But in 1998 my role at the RE Service was ending, which was a relief.
However, just before Easter that year, my bishop, Brian Noble, told me that he had been asked to sound me out: would I go to Rome for seven years as Rector of the Beda College which prepares older, English-speaking men for ordination? I was appalled. I had loved my seven years in Rome as a student but had no desire whatever to return for seven years more. As a celibate priest, the circle of friends we form is invaluable. I hadn’t lived in Rome for 28 years. Leaving friends would be hard. Becoming Director of the RE Service without any preparation for such specialised work was demanding enough. This was far worse.
To be ordained, however, is to accept an invitation. It involves risks. We are sometimes asked to do work that is not immediately congenial, such as in my case being Director of the RE Service and now being asked to become Rector of the Beda. But, I have discovered, if we try to accept with generosity, we may find that things are not as we had supposed. Generosity can bring light into darkness. I prayed and I consulted wise people, and finally decided to accept. I stayed not for seven years, but for 17. I felt greatly blessed. I never mentioned my initial reaction to the men at the Beda till I had settled. It was a valuable lesson to share with them. It is no good being priests on our own terms.
When I set out on the path to priesthood, it seemed the most wonderful vocation imaginable. To serve is a privilege and I have been invited to do so in many contexts. Now, however, the scandal of abuse, which has caused devastating damage to so many, has mired this ministry in horror. As Newman remarked long ago: “We are at the mercy of even one unworthy member or false brother.” There have been many more than that. And yet without hesitation I give thanks for the life to which I was called. To risk discipleship, whatever the cost, to be at the service of others, is a life-giving privilege.
I can lay claim to no extraordinary spiritual experiences. But being faithful in prayer is essential. My friend, Tony Philpot, reflecting on the precious ointment, the nard, poured by Mary of Bethany over the feet of Jesus, has identified it with time: “In the modern world, time is the most precious thing we have.” Time is our nard. Giving prayerful time to the Lord, even when it seems unrewarding, is the greatest compliment we can pay him. I try to pay him that compliment.
Roderick Strange is rector of Mater Ecclesiae College, the pontifical institute based at St Mary’s University, Twickenham.
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