I spend my first flight in years adding tabs into my new bible. Somewhere over China, I manage to stick Zachariah to Matthew which results in very unbiblical language. I recall the Browning quotation in Stalky about a text in the Galatians offering 29 distinct damnations. I count my sins as we fly through the night.
Last year, I bought a house in a surreal Hong Kong New Territories enclave which rejoices in the name of “Beverly Hills” and features architecture closely modelled on the London of Mary Poppins combined with the excess of Louis XV. Nearby is the massive, 76m-high statue of Guan Yin, the goddess of mercy, who looms over the Tsz Shan monastery. Built by billionaire Li Ka-shing, the goddess, according to local gossip, shelters a bomb-proof mausoleum where the great man will eventually reside. My driver has visited five times, less in a spirit of piety and more to take advantage of the free café which, I am told, offers an unrestricted choice of drinks and cakes. As I walk my dogs every morning, I reflect that public religious statues are an invitation to prayer. We were told never to pass a grotto without saying a Hail Mary and I apply the same logic to Guan Yin as she smiles serenely down on me.
Hong Kong has a vibrant Christian culture. Churches are packed with services ranging from the guitars of the mega-churches to the Tridentine Mass which I attend. We live under the shadow of Pope Francis’ Traditionis Custodes. Why? In the hierarchy of issues the Church needs to address, this seems low on the priority list. The Tridentine Mass offers the wonder and awe of the consecration devoid of distractions. When we were small, we always knew when the dreaded sign of peace was coming as my father would start shuffling and glaring around him, daring anyone to attempt to shake hands. In Asia, we bow to each other, which seems to me to be far more preferable.
I haven’t been in the UK for almost three years and I am delighted to find that my house is still standing. Even better, the renovations are (almost) finished, including what my builder, Pawel, refers to as the “Jesus light” in the kitchen. This will illuminate a Sacred Heart picture once I organise myself to get up to the Oratory to have it blessed. Growing up, the Sacred Heart was a feature of many Irish Catholic houses, often surrounded by palm crosses in various states of decay; the comforting red glow, Jesus’s kindly expression and the assurances that families displaying the image will be protected offered us hope. It is a practice we should revive.
When I came to Hong Kong, handover had recently taken place; there was a sense of trepidation and a flow of people emigrating to Canada and Australia. When it became apparent that life would totter on as before, the territory breathed a sigh of relief and got on with things. Then came Sars, when all the expats fled and we experienced a taste of what life was life behind a mask. Civil protests, enactment of the national security law and the pandemic have resulted in departures. At the airport, I see multiple young families, holding their BNO passports – British National (Overseas) – bidding teary goodbyes to grandparents. Many families are opting for Catholic schools and they will bring a wonderful vibrancy into our churches. I hope that local parishes are looking out for them.
My darling father died just over a year ago at a time when Australia’s borders were closed; he donated his body to medical research. We are now planning a memorial service in Kerry where we spent all our childhood holidays. Crammed into whatever Seventies horror my father had been conned into buying, we’d race for the B&I ferry, one year driving through the still-smoking remains of the Toxteth riots in Liverpool. On the miserable return trip, the rear axle scraped the ground as the car would be rammed with turf, spuds, Tayto crisps, Barry’s Tea and, under the back seat, bottles of poteen. My father’s strategy was to declare the dregs of a bottle of whiskey and be told to go on through customs as we children bounced happily on seats concealing a year’s supply of the finest Kerry moonshine.
A few years ago, I went back to university to read theology. Having my tutorial essays dissected taught me as much about humility as it did about the Cathars. I developed a deep attachment to St Ignatius and revelled in the sanctity of the Northern saints. Why are we so poor at teaching our own history? During the pandemic, I ran an online Sunday school. All went well until the students discovered Zoom filters which transformed them into fantastical beasties and I found myself teaching the Beatitudes to a class of what appeared to be wriggling potato tubers.
I am looking forward to getting back to Downside and sitting in on some of the Lectio Divina groups. The Manquehue community direct these wonderful, reflective spiritual readings which are attended by Catholics and non-Catholics with equal enthusiasm. After hard times, the school is flourishing and there is an atmosphere of respect and kindness led by the head, Andrew Hobbs. At Christmas, I received a handwritten card from one student filled with her joy at being back at school and offering me her prayers.
A girlfriend, finding out that I will be in the UK, asks if I will watch her son rowing for Eton in the National Schools’ Regatta. I reply that I would be thrilled – less so when I check the details and see that the gates open at 6am. I rowed at business school and remember the horror of northern French mornings. We had a particularly awful river populated by coal barges and floating rats. I hope Berkshire will be more temperate.
Jessica Ogilvy-Stuart is a governor of Downside School
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