This article
first appeared in The National Catholic Register
The Hand
of St Etheldreda
By Dwight
Longenecker
Cardinal
Newman wrote, “to be deep in history is to cease
to be Protestant.” If you live in England, as we
do, it is almost impossible not to be deep in history. So,
for instance, when I go to the bank in our local
town I walk past a building with a plaque on the
outside wall. The plaque tells me that King Alfred
the Great had a hunting lodge stood on that site.
Across the road stands a Tudor town hall and a medieval
parish church. The evidence of ecclesiastical history
is abundant and vivid here. When you look at local
maps you find the countryside is dotted with the
ruins of old convents and monasteries. Everywhere “the
bare ruined choirs” stand as a stark testimony to
the ravages of the Reformation.
Not all
the monasteries and convents were destroyed. We
often take visitors to a nearby called Laycock. At
the edge of the village is Laycock Abbey. It was
once a convent of Augustinian nuns, but in the sixteenth
century Henry VIII pensioned off the nuns, took the
land and the buildings and gave it to one of his
cronies, who then tore down the church and remodelled
the convent buildings to suit himself. It is still
called Laycock Abbey, but for hundreds of years is
has been an English gentleman’s country mansion.
When I moved
to England and became an Anglican, I was taught that
Henry VIII simply reformed the Catholic Church. “We
are still Catholic,” some Anglicans are fond of saying, “we’re
just reformed Catholics.” It wasn’t until
I visited Poland and heard about the sufferings of
the church under the Communist regime that I began
to see the “reform” of the English church in a different
light. In fact, under Henry VIII and his successors
the English exercised the most systematic, ruthless,
efficient and long-standing persecution of the Catholic
Church in Europe.
Part of
our family’s Christmas pilgrimage to relatives included
a visit to the historic city of Ely where my sister’s
husband is an Anglican minister. In the center of
the town is the magnificent Ely Cathedral. Before
the Reformation it was the Abbey Church of a great
Benedictine monastery. It also held the shrine of
St Etheldreda—a seventh century Anglo-Saxon princess
who gave up her royal life to found a monastery for
men and women on what was then an isolated and swampy
island.
Etheldreda
died of a tumor in the year 630. But when her body
was exhumed the tumor was gone and the body (despite
the damp climate and swampy conditions) was found
to be incorrupt. Her relics were preserved, and she
became one of the most important saints of the medieval
English church. Her shrine attracted pilgrims from
all over Europe and a great Benedictine Abbey grew
up in Ely. At the Reformation the monastery was dissolved
and the buildings torn down. Etheldreda’s shrine
was demolished, her still incorrupt body was destroyed
and the Abbey church became the Cathedral of the
new Anglican diocese.
A visit
to Ely is a history lesson in stone. The Benedictine
Abbey Church is now an Anglican cathedral. The remains
of the monastic buildings now house the bishop, dean
and cathedral canons in considerable comfort. For
centuries there was no a Catholic Church in Ely. Then
in the mid-nineteenth century English Catholics were
once more given freedom. Plans were made to build
a little Catholic Church in Ely. As plans became
known, a nun in Staffordshire said she had a precious
relic of St Etheldreda. Although the Protestants
had destroyed the incorrupt body, the saint’s hand
had survived. During the penal times the relic was
discovered in a priest’s hiding hole in Sussex. Eventually
it came into the possession of the nun in Staffordshire
who offered to return it to Ely.
You can
see St Etheldreda’s hand to this day in the little
Catholic Church in Ely. There is a story that some
years ago the Queen was visiting the Cathedral. After
the service it was planned for her to meet the ecumenical
party. The Catholic parish priest at the time was
a crusty old Irishman. As the Queen shook his hand
she said, “Don’t you think it would be a lovely gesture
to return the hand of St Etheldreda to the Cathedral?” He
replied, “and don’t you think it would be a lovely
gesture to return the Cathedral to the Catholic Church?”
The Anglican
occupation of Ely cathedral and the humble little
Catholic Church illustrates the situation of Catholics
in England. When I contemplate the situation I can’t
help feeling angry. I’m therefore all the more impressed
with the attitude of English Catholics. They are
usually cheerful and positive about the future. They
rarely mention the historic grievances against the
Anglican authorities. They do not look back in anger,
but manifest a kind of practical everyday forgiveness
in the face of 450 years of persecution. They wear
their degraded position as a mark of authenticity.
Voltaire said, “If you want to destroy the Catholic
Church give it money and power.” Maybe losing all
that money and power at the Reformation was one of
the best things that happened to the Catholic Church.
Maybe that’s part of the pruning process the gospel
speaks about. If so, then that perhaps that helps
to account for the durability of the Catholic faith.
When you
see Saint Etheldreda’s hand it is clasped in a fist,
as if she is holding on to something precious. The
relic, like the little Catholic Church in the back
streets of Ely, is a symbol that tyrants and corruption
cannot destroy the Catholic Church. We’re like weeds.
We keep coming back.
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