Newspaper cuttings 1940 The War and Christianity

I assist my husband in the cataloguing of books for sale for his on line bookstore. It is not uncommon to find old postcards, notes, or newspaper cuttings within the books. These are interesting in themselves, but usually end up in the rubbish bin.

I propose to give these items an opportunity to reach a new audience by publishing them on my blog.

The book that I was cataloguing today was called 'Thinking aloud in War-time' and was published in 1939. The cuttings I found inside the front cover relate to the topic of how a Christian behaves in war time .

The first is dated 13/6/40 and entitled 'The Methodist Church and the War'.

     'The  Conference of the Methodist Church in Ireland, assembled in Belfast, expresses its judgment on the international conflict as follows:

1.     It is convinced that this is a war between the principles of pagan barbarism and the ideals of the Kingdom of Christ. It realises that the authority of God is being challenged, denied and spurned, and that the existence of human freedom, and of those moral principles which can alone provide a foundation for true living for men and nations, is gravely imperilled.

2.     The Conference calls upon our people in these days of stern trial to stand fast in their loyalty to Christ Jesus, to give an unwavering witness to their faith, and by their courage, sacrifice and prayer, to help to bring the war to a victorious end.

3.     It urges all Methodists to continue to show themselves worthy citizens of the Commonwealth, to assist the constituted forces of law and order, and to exercise with wide sympathy the ministries of comfort, friendship and encouragement.

4.     It assures the men in the Royal Navy, Army, Air Force, Merchant Navy, and the men and women of other war services, of its appreciation of their heroic and self-sacrificing labours, and of its continued prayers that they may be sustained and protected in these days of ordeal. It also remembers with prayer and sympathy those who are  broken in mind or body, all who are bereaved, separated from their loved ones, or torn with anxiety concerning those who are in peril. The Conference also feels deeply for many of its people who are finding business life very difficult and trying.

5.     Finally it calls our people to prayer, to ask God for an early victory for the allied peoples, over the power and brutal tyranny that have set this war in motion, and to supplicate the Throne of Grace for the coming of a new world-order, in which peace will reign, and which will be founded in God's righteousness and justice, and in human brotherhood and goodwill.

 

Secondly, a letter cut from an unknown publication dated 28/6/40, entitled 'The War and Christianity'.

Dear Sirs,

     Unfortunately some eminent people have said this war is being fought for Christianity; for this is likely to do incalculable harm not only to the war effort but even to Christianity itself. In the hope that at least some preachers may be deterred from repeating the cry, I ask, are the millions of Turks and Arabs, and the Muslims and Hindus of India, to be told so? Will they not read it as a call to a Christian  jehad? At present many of them can see Britain and France in definite opposition to international gangsterism, and are disposed to be generous with their blood and treasure, and even the shelving of their political aspirations, to join in the fight for the great cause of humanity.

     Christianity is only one of the religions of the peoples of this earth, and should not claim to monopolise all that is good. It is not propagated or defended by the  sword. That our esteemed President should appear to endorse such a view, in appealing "to all who believe this war should be fought to a righteous finish for the sake of the decencies of life and the Christian faith", is regrettable. Perhaps the above considerations have not been fully weighed by him.

       Yours faithfully,

                                                  Charles J. Rowe,

Richmond , Wexford,

 

It is worth reading these in the knowledge that the Methodist Church in Ireland  ministered across the border to both Southern and Northern Irish congregations despite the political differences.

The Ladder

John was feeling very disgruntled. For the second time in less than two weeks, Mike, the odd-job man, had let him down. He had been due to arrive at 10 o'clock this morning to clear out the gutter at the back of the house. The damp patch on the wall of John's bedroom was increasing in size since the week of heavy rain, and water had been pouring down the wall outside the window from the blocked gutter.

Life had begun to be a trial for John. His arthritic joints gave him severe discomfort when he tried to sleep. His fingers had become stiff and unwilling to respond to the messages his  brain sent. There had been many glasses and plates which slipped out of his hands and ended up smashed on the floor. Since his heart condition had deteriorated, he had been advised not to drive, and he felt like a prisoner in his own house. No more trips to the fishmonger by the quayside, or the little cafe where he had met two of his old mates for a chat on Tuesdays.

His daughter, Marion, had done her best to set up help for him. She taught him how to upload his shopping list on line to the local supermarket and his goods were delivered once a week to the door. He enjoyed chatting to the delivery man as he brought in the purchases and left them on the kitchen table. Marion popped in after work on a Wednesday evening and brought a cooked dinner to share. She came on Saturdays for an hour or two and did some cleaning and washing for John. He was always pleased to see her, but resented having become so dependent on her.

John finished his bowl of soup and threw out the crumbs from the bread for the birds. He could feel his frustration building up and whatever he tried to put his mind to, nothing helped. The messages he had left for Mike had gone unanswered. He knew what he was about to do was foolish, and that Marion would be upset, but his mind was made up.

He went out to the shed first and got a small hand trowel which he put in his back pocket.  He opened the back door of the garage and moved some boxes until he found the old ladder laying along the side wall. He began to pull it out, stopping every few minutes to wipe the beads of perspiration from his brow. Finally, he had the ladder outside, extended it to its full length, and leaned it comfortably up against the back wall of the house.

With steely determination he grasped the sides of the ladder and painfully lifted his right leg to the first rung, then the left leg to the second rung. He gripped the ladder so firmly that his hands were icy white, and moved as if in slow motion. He stopped for a few minutes to catch his breath and the heavy discomfort in his chest eased a little.

 He had reached the fifth rung now, and he felt more confident about the task. As he put his foot on the sixth rung, the sun came out from between the clouds and he felt its warmth on his back. He was at the level of his bedroom window, and he brushed away a few leaves from the windowsill. The heat from the sun was penetrating through his old jacket and his body began to feel strangely lighter. The ladder no longer swayed with his movement. His previously white contorted fingers now held the ladder effortlessly.

He looked upwards and the glare from the sun almost blinded him. He could not see the edge of the roof. He continued to climb, his heart pumping with the anticipation of success now. He felt the freedom of youth for a delicious moment as he climbed further into the sun.

Marion was worried when she could get no reply from her father's phone. She rushed over to the house after work, let herself in and immediately saw that the back door was open. She found him, lifeless, in a crumpled heap on the lawn, with the golden leaves from the cherry tree already settling on his body. The ladder had mysteriously disappeared.

 

 

 

CPNov 2013

Satyagraha. A review

Satyagraha. A review

 

 

This week I travelled to London with my daughter to see Philip Glass's opera Satyagraha at the Coliseum. I am not a regular opera goer, but have always loved Philip Glass's music and was excited to have the opportunity to see this performance.

The autumnal colours of the set contrasted with the Victorian sombre costumes and the bright yellows and whites of the Indian saris in the First Act. The balletic slow walk of the performers gave a meditative processional quality to the work, with the extraordinary puppets adding mystery and humour. Imaginative use of newsprint as a projection screen and transforming linked pages  into a dragon like creature provided constantly changing scenarios.

There was a quality of serenity about the performance despite the references to violence. Glass's characteristic repetitive phrases and subtle key changes, though anticipated, contined to surprise.

The clarity and purity of Alan Oke's singing and his characterization of Gandhi was spell binding. His vow in the Second Act entranced the audience and was incredibly moving. The recurring rising phrase in the Final Act was mesmerising. While he sang, a representation of Martin Luther King preaching, stood high at the back of the stage at a pulpit facing away from the audience, orchestrating the clouds with his definitive arm movements.  I wanted it to continue forever.

I can't begin to understand the depths of this work, but I am left with a hunger to discover more about Gandhi's early life and the development of his spirituality. If you get an opportunity to see this work, I can guarantee you will not regret it.

http://www.eno.org/satyagraha

 

CPNov 21013

Breakfast in Kefalonia

It may have been a mistake to pre-arrange breakfast at our apartment complex. When we arrived, we asked the girl who was standing behind the pool bar when should we appear for breakfast . There was no separate dining area, other than the tables under a canopy by the swimming pool.

'Nine o'clock,' she answered emphatically. It was clear from her reply that before nine would be unacceptable.

We arrived at the pool at nine o'clock promptly the next morning. The girl we had spoken to the day before had just opened up the bar and said good morning to us as she collected the empties from the previous night and tied back her hair. She was dressed in a pair of tight grey track suit bottoms with a sleeveless white T shirt. We asked if we could have breakfast.

She smiled and brought some paper table mats which she placed on the table along with knives and forks individually wrapped in paper serviettes. She then brought us each a menu. There were three breakfast options: a continental breakfast which consisted of fruit juice, coffee, croissants and toast, a cooked breakfast of fried eggs, bacon, beans and toast also with fruit juice and coffee, or a Kefalonian omelette containing bacon and feta cheese but without fruit juice or coffee.

We were hungry  and decided that we would probably not have to wait too long if we chose the continental option. We ordered two continental breakfasts with orange juice and filter coffee.

She returned to the bar area and picked up the telephone. There followed a lengthy conversation in Greek during which we heard the word 'continental'. She remained behind the bar for some time, probably making the filter coffee we supposed, but no food or drink materialised.

After about twenty minutes, a car sped up the track and stopped by the bar, and gave one toot of its horn. The girl went out to meet the car and returned soon after carrying two plates on each of which were several slices of toast, a large croissant and two individual servings of butter and marmalade. She placed these in front of us and returned with two glasses of orange juice and two cups of coffee.

'Sorry,' she said, smiling delightfully, as she placed each of these items in front of us.

It was clear from the temperature and consistency of the toast that it had travelled some distance following the toasting process. The coffee could only have been described as luke-warm and had clearly accompanied the toast on its journey.

Well, at least we knew what to expect on the following mornings!

CP Sep 2013

Reminiscences on being brought up as a Methodist in Dublin

This photograph shows the outer facade of the Centenary Methodist Church opposite St Stephen's Green in the centre of Dublin. It was designed by Isaac Farrell and completed in 1843.

My childhood memories are inextricably entangled with this building. I can find no contemporary photographs of the interior but I remember it as having dark wood pews, smelling of furniture polish, and a balcony extending around the back and sides of the building. At Christmas there was always a tall tree with bright lights and boxes wrapped in festive wrapping paper piled beneath the branches. The youngest children would be brought to the front, clutching their mother's hand, to sing Away in a Manger during the Christmas morning service.

Some of my earliest memories relate to attending services here. I recall a service when I was present with my mother and father and younger brother. I believe my brother would have been about 3 or 4 years old and had brought some of his favourite model cars to play with. Usually we sat at the back of the church, as a family, in a designated pew. On this occasion, far from playing quietly , my brother was noisily pushing his cars up and down the hymn rest. To my immeasurable embarrassment, the minister singled him out during a reading and asked him to be quiet.

My grandfather had a life-long service to the Methodist Church and for most of my childhood acted as one of the 'welcomers' at the front of the church. This entailed leaving home a bit earlier. He drove in his remarkable old Humber car which we as children  adored. It was the greatest treat to be allowed to travel with him to church and help place hymn books among the pews as the church was opened up on Sunday morning. Being of a shy disposition, I would hover in the background, watching my grandfather shake hands with the members of the congregation as they arrived.

Both my parents were very musical and enjoyed singing in the church choir. My mother had a beautiful soprano voice, and I have clear memories of her singing solos during some of the services. The biggest event of the year was the annual performance of Handel's Messiah. It was a long-held tradition that this would be sung every year in December and it was the highlight of the choir year. Both my parents sang in it and it was a huge privilege to be deemed old enough to attend the lengthy evening performance, well past my bed-time. I would follow the words and music from a full score copy, excited by the rich harmonies and the unusually packed building with the balcony seating opened up, brightly lit for this special occasion.

During the normal Sunday services, the children would file out before the sermon  and go downstairs to the Sunday School class rooms. Many of the children were in school uniform as the boarders from Wesley College attended. Boys and girls were together, split into different age groups and the teachers followed a clear syllabus leading up to confirmation classes for the older children. Parts of the catechism had to be learnt by heart. It was quite intimidating at times for a shy young girl, not used to sharing a classroom with boys.

Everyone looked forward to the Harvest Festival supper. This was a well organised affair with food, craft stalls and games for the children. Grandmothers and mothers would have knitted  for months previously; baby matinee jackets, scarves, gloves and other small items were all put on sale for the Missions Overseas. A flurry of baking activity would take place in the days before the supper. Old fashioned games such as pin the tail on the donkey, musical chairs and beetle drive for the older teenagers all took place with crowds of excited  young children running around.

All this came to an end abruptly in December 1968. The congregation arrived on a Sunday morning for the traditional carol service only to find the church smouldering, having burnt down the night before. The facade remained virtually untouched but the entirety of the building behind was devastated. I can recall the smell even today, and the shocked and horrified faces of family and acquaintances. I was sixteen at the time, not quite adult. Traumatised by this event, I can recall pouring my feelings into a poem. The poem is long since lost, but I believe it was read at a service, introduced as having been written by a young member of the congregation without mentioning me by name. I heard it said later that the care-taker had been responsible for the arson attack, and that he was standing among the crowds that morning, watching the fire brigade and onlookers to gauge their response.

That cold morning we were welcomed into the Wesley College Memorial Chapel which was  next door to the smoking building. Many were in tears and it was with difficulty that the familiar Christmas carols were sung. I think I grew up that day, the security of the warm encompassing community shattered, never to feel quite the same again.

 

http://www.methodistcentenary.ie/history.html

CP Nov 2013

Duty

My contribution to Remembrance Day

They left home keen to do their duty

for King and country;

travelled to a foreign land

with joking comrades.

Now the bravado has gone,

smothered by stinking mud.

Their haggard faces hidden by gas masks;

lack-lustrelessly  they followed orders.

Fear like a sickly shroud enveloped them.

They knew their fate;

an inglorious end,

rotting in shallow graves far from loved ones.

 

 

 

 

CPNov 2013

Dawn

The colour of orange flesh,

the pink of new-born,

the red of spilt blood

mingle across the sky.

 

A single blackbird

breaks the silence

with a joyful song.

 

Dewdrops on sheaths of grass

with predatory spiders waiting

in intricate webs.

 

Warm bodies rouse,

and tentatively touch

before the shriek of the alarm.

 

The sun rises in the sky,

a tiny child cries,

a new life,

a new day.

The Parrot

In this God-fearing house,

words never before spoken,

F words,

lewd,

misogynist,

screeched from the mouth of

the parrot in the kitchen.

 

An elderly woman lives alone,

enjoys the company of the bird.

Bakes cakes for Sunday tea.

The family arrive smartly dressed.

Neat little sandwiches,

scones and jam,

the teapot warms.

 

Curses and sexist comments

from behind the kitchen door.

Mother speaks loudly to

drown out the sound.

Children should not hear.

 

As they gather up coats and scarves,

the parents exchange a glance,

then snigger,

uncontrollably laughing

as they wave from their car.

 

 

 

CP October 2013

All in a night's work

It was a filthy night. The rain was coming down in sheets and the street lamps struggled to penetrate the watery darkness. The ancient beech tree opposite the police station was swaying ominously in the wind. The Super had already advised us not to park on that side of the yard for fear of falling branches.

Teresa was taking calls tonight. Young, recently trained and on her first night shift in the station; she looked nervous. I made her a cup of tea and sat with her for awhile chatting until her facial expression began to soften almost to a smile. The phone on her desk rang and she picked up the receiver clumsily.

"Colville Police Station, can I help you?" she said, and I was pleased to see her visibly switch to an efficient business-like presence.

 " Hello dear, I am very worried and I didn't know what to do except to call you ," an elderly woman said.

"Can I take your name and address first please and then we can talk about the problem," Teresa said, following her well rehearsed telephone protocol.

"Of course, dear. My name is Hilda Walters and I live at number 58 Taunton Towers on North Street."

"Thank you Mrs Walters, now what is it that concerns you?" Teresa asked.

"It's  very upsetting, dear. I keep hearing crying coming from the flat above mine. Then it all goes very quiet for a few days only to start up again. I thought I might have been imagining it but when my daughter came round for tea this evening, she heard it too. My hearing is not so good these days so I wasn't sure, but my daughter said I really ought to ring you."

"Do you know who lives in that flat, Mrs Walters?" Teresa asked.

"No dear, the top flats were empty for a long time and it is only in the last couple of weeks I have started to hear noises from upstairs. Most of my neighbours are quite elderly  like myself. I asked Mrs Chubb next door if she had heard anything, but she is more deaf than me and I doubt she could hear anything over the sound of her television."

"Can you hear sounds of crying now, Mrs Walters?" Teresa asked, looking at me to gauge my response to the conversation.

"Yes, it is very distressing. It sounds like a young girl. Do you think you could send someone to investigate?"

"We will send a team right away, Mrs Walters". Teresa put the phone down and quickly completed the contact details form and handed it to me.

I called for my partner, who was sitting at his desk surrounded by unfinished paperwork, and we gathered up our gear and headed out to the car. North Street was in a rather run down part of town, with several tower blocks dating from the 1970's. Most of the tenants had been there for a long time and many were elderly. There were a number of empty flats and we had previously been called there to deal with squatters.

We pulled up in the concrete car park in front of the tower block. The area was littered with plastic bags and fast food wrappers whirling in the wind. The overflowing commercial wheelie bins smelt of rotting food. The sooner the Council re-house the elderly from here the better, I thought. Plans to demolish this block had been talked about for ten years or so.

As we got out of the car, there was a loud rumble of thunder followed by a vivid flash of lightning. The entire block was lit up and I briefly saw the face of an elderly Chinese man at one of the bare upper windows. There was something a little disturbing about this vision, a photographic image captured by the lightning, his sad, pale face staring out into the storm.

We walked quickly into the entrance porch and pressed the lift call button with its grubby red arrow. The stuffy utilitarian lift moved slowly upwards to the eighth floor and we knocked on the door of number 58.

"Hello Mrs Walters, it's Officer Musgrave here," I called through the letter box. We heard her moving towards the front door. She peered through the peep hole, and satisfied we were truly police officers, opened the door and let us in. Her small flat was crammed with old furniture and smelt of stale cooking but was warm and relatively clean. She took us through to her bedroom at the back.

"This is where I hear it best," she said. We stood silently for a minute or so and from somewhere above, the sound of a young girl sobbing uncontrollably was unmistakeable.

"I hear it Mrs Walters, it is definitely not your imagination," I said. " We will go and have a look, thank you for your cooperation," I shook her hand as we left the flat.

We took the stairs up to the next floor. We  moved as silently as possible along the corridor. The  door to the flat immediately above Mrs Walter's home looked as if the lock had recently been changed. There was also a large footprint on the wall next to the door, as if some-one had braced their weight against the wall while forcing the door open.

"Police, open up!" I shouted as I banged on the door. The elderly Chinese man who we had briefly glimpsed from outside, shuffled to the door. We heard the sound of a chain being removed and he opened the door, peering out at us fearfully.

"No speak English", he repeated over and over as we entered the flat. He seemed alone in a sparsely furnished room. There was a rug on the bare floorboards on which was a Mah-jong set, the tiles and dice in disarray. On a small table in the corner was a large bag of rice and an abacus. There were no seats and no curtains.

My partner went to the far side of the room and tried to open a door which was locked. "What is in here?" he asked the old man.

"No, no, no, no speak English", he answered, now visibly agitated.

"Give me the key, sir", I said, miming opening the door. He rummaged in his pocket and produced a key. I put it in the lock and turned the key. I think I was expecting to find drug paraphernalia, but I was taken aback to find four young Chinese girls, cowering on a filthy mattress in the corner of the room.

I looked at my partner. "Trafficking,"  I said, and he nodded. I didn't have to ask him what to do next. He was on his radio to the base asking for back up, Social Services and the Border Agency, while I attempted to get some identification information from the elderly man without success.

While we waited for back up, we were concerned that the criminals might return, potentially armed, so it was quite a relief to see a large presence of officers from the Station and the Border Agency appear quickly. It took most of the night to process the situation, working with the help of an interpreter. The girls were probably no more than fourteen years old and were taken to safe foster homes. The old man was found to be in the country illegally and was removed to a detention centre. Armed officers were left in the flat to await the criminal organisers of the trafficking ring and we left the building to return to the very welcome warmth of the Police Station for a well earned cup of tea.

"All in  a night's work", I said , as we pulled out on to the main road, peering through the windscreen wipers as they struggled to clear the streaming water from the windscreen. Teresa had the kettle on for us on our arrival, and I was pleased to see that she had already added a visit to Mrs Walters on the Community Officer's work schedule for the morning.

 

 

 

CP Nov 2013

The Wife

I never expected

to end my days

like this.

He hit me;

his dinner was cold.

My fault.

I left the knife on the table.

My fault.

The tip pierced

 my heart.

He carried me gently,

kissed my forehead.

Lowered me into the freezer.

Come lift the lid

and see I rest in peace.