Earthquake, wind and fire: the writing of parish history.

Parish history, particularly in its Catholic context, probably has suffered more than most other forms of historical science from unprofessional treatment. The reasons are not hard to determine. In the first place, a parish, as a very small social unit with little political significance, seemed scarcely to merit attention before the work of John Richard Green and his school alerted thinkers to the fact that everyday life was a significant part of the national fabric. Then, difficulty of access to sources created another obstacle and even when, as in England, the parish chest and the diocesan registry were open to the enquirer, that inquisitive person usually turned out to be an antiquarian, keen to calendar records but not to interpret them as a whole. That applied equally to Catholic parishes, although the experience of the Penal Laws and the disputes between regular clergy and seminary priests added fare to the story of many a re-established Mission.

In Australia the triumph of Cullenite piety at the very time when the first attempts at writing parish history were being made dictated a glossing over of uncomfortable facts so that every bishop, no matter how irascible or incompetent an administrator, had to be 'a grand old prelate'; every priest, even the occasional alcoholic and the poorly educated, was depicted as 'a devoted pastor and scholar'; nuns were patronisingly swept aside as 'good sisters' and the laity, save for the few blessed with fortunes to invest in building projects, barely figured at all. Any challenge to those prejudices will reveal the omnium gatherum of hostile elements in the reference to earthquake, wind and fire.

Basic considerations

The fundamental questions are obvious--What is a parish? How and why was it founded? How can we measure and account for the changes that create the contrast between its foundation and its present character?--but it is an odd circumstance that in writing history of any kind we sometimes overlook those basic considerations. Neglect occurs either because of problems of documentation or because the task has been too readily assigned to a person long associated with the parish and enthusiastic about its story but not well acquainted with historical methodology.

What is intended by the very word 'parish' can need elucidation. Some parishes had churches long before there was a resident priest--that is true of Hurstville and Bankstown--while others had their priests before there were churches, as often happened in country centres such as Queanbeyan where a 'Mission' was formally established before there was any township and five years before the appointment of the first pastor. It is hard to recall the case of a priest being appointed to a nonexistent parish. No doubt something of the kind has happened, but in general it is clear that while there may be a parish without a priest, a pastor without a parish is unlikely.

The question is not purely academic. "What's this about a parish centenary? The original parish was at Kogarah", grumbled the inevitable knowledgeable old parishioner--a cranky specimen too--at Hurstville in 1984. He was spoiling for a fight and was disarmed only when he had to admit that he was the only one who had mentioned a parish centenary while all advertising had referred to the approaching centenary of the opening of the first church building. His complaint was generally correct, of course, but it could have been argued against him that the present parish of Kogarah was originally established under the name, and as part of, Hurstville, where it was clearly intended that the priest should reside until the Moore family provided excellent land for a presbytery (with a first-rate view of a race course) at Kogarah. Nevertheless, for more than twenty years Kogarah was officially recorded as being in the parish of Hurstville and the matter had scarcely been set right when a new and separate parish of Hurstville was established with a priest residing close to the church.

Regardless of legal technicalities which may need to be invoked as self-protection for the intrepid historian, it can be argued that a parish, if only in nucleus, is brought into existence by a group of the faithful who worship the God of the Scriptures and seek the leadership of an ordained priest. It is 'not a communion of saints, but a collection of people.... built from human hearts in the process of purification', as Dr Gregory Haines has observed. (1) What follows in close order of priorities ought to be regular celebration of the Liturgy and administration of the Sacraments, erection of a suitable church building, relief of the sick and the poor, social intercourse and measures for the religious instruction of both adults and children. If in a particular place these are not the obvious priorities, then it is the business of the historian to make suitably charitable observation on the point and to identify its results.

The late Monsignor Joseph Giles, shortly after taking up his last appointment as parish priest at Croydon about fifty years ago, commented: 'We got it wrong, as usual--big school, little church'. (2) The question of priorities was elaborated at about the same time by Fr Clifford Howell, the distinguished English Jesuit liturgist, when he visited Sydney. He held packed audiences spellbound as he spoke about the need for liturgical revival that would give primacy to the praise and worship of God. That was before the Second Vatican Council and it was a challenging message. His list of the attributes of a supposedly thriving parish was headed by 'Well attended Novena services, well filled collection plates ...'; probably a crowded weekly Bingo night was also listed. His message was logical and provocative. It would have been unfair to measure parish life as we then knew it against principles which would put liturgy at the top of the list and a school at the bottom, but today they might well be considered, perhaps with confusing results.

It does not seem that recent publications in the field have improved significantly beyond the typical 'commemorative brochure' which has to pass as a parish history. We are all aware, of course, of 'John O'Brien's' On Darlinghurst Hill (3) and Father Henry Johnston's A Seed that Grew (4)--little classics of long ago which pre-dated Vatican II and changes which the authors could not have foreseen. (Father Johnston lived to witness those changes. They did not all please him and he was, no doubt, glad that his principal contribution to the writing of parish history was made in more comfortable times). Dr Gregory Haines's another Outpost in God's Kingdom, a brief history of Croydon parish, struck new ground when it was published in 1974 and although it was unfortunately restricted to a pamphlet of thirty-odd pages, at every point it identified structural strengths and weaknesses. It ought to be read and noted as a little model. (Dr Haines did not let Monsignor Giles off lightly in the few lines which he was able to spare for him; he was unaware of the old priest's telling contrast between church building and school, which would have pleased his taste).

We have all seen the kind of historical account which begins: 'In 1906 the number of Catholics living in Darktown made it desirable for that area to be detached from Fairtown and formed into a new parish.' The story begins like the flash of a meteor--perhaps a rather dramatic and not unworthy commencement--but causal factors are ignored and no more is said about what had caused the growth of Catholic population in Darktown or about the process, the problems and struggles, of securing the formal establishment of a parish. (When writing of Croydon, Dr Haines has explained these factors in considerable detail).

It deals with a different place in a different clime, but an admirable parish history is one which describes an important Catholic centre in Lancashire where Fr Clifford Howell's Jesuit brethren have laboured successfully for more than two hundred years. Readily allowing for the fact that the pattern of Catholic development in England is very different indeed from that in Australia, there are universal virtues of historical method in Leo Warren's Through Twenty Preston Guilds (5), subtitled The Catholic Congregation of St Wilfrid's Preston--an emphasis which is sustained throughout the text. Better still, the author's introduction lists those characteristics and priorities which are proper to his subject: '... the Preston Catholic Congregation, its devotional life, its apostolic work, and its sustained efforts to educate the young and to care for the poor ... under the leadership of generations of the Fathers and Brothers of the Society of Jesus'. Having more space at his disposal than was allowed to Dr Haines (his work runs to 111 pages), Leo Warren was able to allow himself the pleasure of an historical ramble which resulted in an eminently enjoyable piece of writing.

Nevertheless, Warren misses one point which would probably occur to most people, in or out of Preston, on heating the mention of the town--city, as it has recently become. It is that Preston was the model on which Dickens developed Coketown, the very template of the evils of the industrial age, in Hard Times. Yet, while Warren can be forgiven for making no mention of Dickens, it is hard to understand why he does not examine the validity of the novelist's claims of local materialism and human exploitation, if only so far as they can be illustrated in the conditions of Catholic parishioners of the time. The lesson for the historian is that writers of fiction should not be overlooked in their possible contribution to the tapestry of parish life.

Sources and their difficulties

How many histories devote even a reasonably long chapter to the liturgy, so well described by Saint Benedict as Opus Dei? True, the sources may well be elusive or non-existent beyond a timetable of Masses and Devotions, along with accounts of the regular Quarant' Ore as published in Catholic newspapers with fulsome praise of the saccharine Mass setting performed by a choir under the baton of Signor Somebody, with Miss Goodbody presiding, always 'with authority', at the organ (which was bound to be a wheezy harmonium).

It is all too easy, of course, to make fair game of others, whether musicians or historians, of another age and in fact some research may well establish the extent of trouble taken by those musicians, indifferent as perhaps they were, to add beauty to worship--and for that unquestionably they deserve credit. Above all, let them not be mere names plucked from a newspaper and reproduced without any further identification.

To identify the prime movers and supporters of the push for establishment of a parish is not usually a difficult task of research, but how disappointing it is to be presented with names and nothing else to tell us of the personalities of those who possessed them. True, research along those lines is time-consuming and can be difficult, but even if we can discover nothing more than is disclosed by the details of a will, a death certificate or the pious inscription on a tombstone, the effort is worth it.

Even more difficult to establish is the spirituality of a parish. Synodal and Census returns, if they can be located, will usually provide details of numbers of Easter Communions and Confessions, along with similar statistics which necessarily tell us little of the dispositions of the communicants or, more significantly, parishioners who had lapsed. Something of that may be available in the recollections of old identities--if they can be persuaded to talk about such matters--and in correspondence of priests with bishops (to say nothing of complaints about priests to bishops).

Access to those records will probably prove difficult, but the effort should be made. Diocesan Archives are an obvious source but there are problems of confidentiality. Those of the Archdiocese of Sydney at one time (and probably still) officially closed with the death of Cardinal Moran in 1911, although by some oversight dossiers on priests well after that date occasionally were available. Post-Moran records were designated 'Chancery' and were not part of the Archives, being under the direct control of the Diocesan Chancellor and necessarily restricted, but again an approach from a serious enquirer is not likely to be casually refused.

Parish archives, if they exist and are accessible, should not be overlooked. If nothing else has survived, the registers of Baptisms, Marriages and (perhaps) Funerals have much to reveal and, despite the dark hints of Canon Law about 'others' against whom they should be protected, it is fortunate that their custodians are generally friendly towards enquirers with acceptable bona tides. Dr Haines used the Croydon registers to good effect in compiling useful statistics in his little history and Father Henry Johnston employed the North Sydney registers in a quite different way in his work.

Provoking the elements

As the likelihood of trampling upon cherished traditions of childlike piety and charity is strongly hinted at in the list of priorities earlier suggested, this may be the point at which to explain the pyrotechnical aspects of the title of this paper. All will recognise in them the list of intimidating elements, none of them betraying the presence of the Lord, encountered by Elijah in the First Book of Kings, although the prophet did not experience them in quite that order, which is the one adopted by the American Quaker poet, John Greenleaf Whittier, whose hymn, Dear Lord and Father of Mankind, reaches its climax in earthquake, wind and fire. Whittier is quoted along with the Bible because elsewhere in the poem from which five of the final six stanzas have been excised to form the familiar hymn (6) there is a statement which bears upon history:

   And yet the past comes round again,
   And new doth old fulfil.... (7)

Perhaps that is just a lofty way of saying 'what goes around comes around' but for the hardy soul who will challenge the romance, devotion and tradition which to many form the corpus of parish history, there is the comfort of reflecting on the apparent tendency of history to fulfil the promise of the past as the Church, amid changes, continues the work of reconciling man with God. If that does not appear to be happening, something is amiss. As the past comes round again it need hardly be said that it never quite duplicates itself and part of the historical quest is to detect and explain not only those places where it may seem that the mission has succeeded but also those in which it has faltered.

The earthquakes--the ground-breaking, bone-shaking discoveries of parish history--will first be created by the historian and they are likely to lead to after-shocks directed by disappointed, even enraged, parishioners who expect to find in published history nothing more than confirmation of dearly held misinformation and prejudice. This experience is strong meat for the historian whose digestive system needs to lead into a hardy stomach. In explanation, I take the liberty of quoting an experience in which I proved to be the villain. It has caused regret to me for twenty years or more, of course because I showed no derring-do in my reaction and even more because it revealed the sensitivity of good people to the enemy who might destroy a beloved myth. When the history of the parish of St Felix, Bankstown, (8) was published it proved to have the buoyancy of a lead balloon. However, I was invited by the local historical society to explain myself. Perhaps they knew something that had escaped me! Among the normal gathering of well-disposed persons there were three, an elderly lady and two of her offspring, who were clearly not members of the society. Their defiant expressions signalled trouble brewing and they had come for the specific purpose of exposing an iconoclast. When the opportunity offered, the old lady began to grumble: 'You said that Father O'Brien had his mind on a career. He came here in the Depression years, he took care of us ...' &c &c. Realising that I had somehow tarnished the loving memories of a Soggarth Aroon--no less a person than the future Archbishop Eris O'Brien--I replied that nowhere had I questioned his devotion to the people of Bankstown while he was their parish priest but there was abundant evidence, documented in the parish history, that he had his eye on something beyond that. To the accompaniment of grunts of support from her retainers, the old lady continued to repeat her mantra until all three stood and walked out of the meeting in disgust. On that occasion the earthquake created by the revelation of historical fact was succeeded by a wind of protest and if those good folk had been terrorists there would certainly have been fire to follow.

If in defence of historical inevitability another and final poet may be quoted, Robert Southey tellingly depicted the state of mind of too many when confronted with a problem in history. His once popular poem, Blenheim, describes the difficulty faced by a peasant grandfather living close to the site of the famous battle when his little grandson unearthed a skull and, supported by his sister, began to ply the old man with questions. The nature of the strange object, smooth and round, and the reason for its lying where it was found were satisfactorily explained but the children then began to pose more searching comments and questions--'... 'twas a very wicked thing', '... what good came of it at last?'--to which old Kaspar had no reply but

   ... things like that, you know, must be
   After a famous victory.

Kaspars still abound among us, unfortunately sometimes even in those who essay to write history and either cannot or dare not seek answers to obvious questions.

In writing about Queanbeyan, one might easily stimulate a wind of disapproval, if not an earthquake, if one were to suggest an alteration in the lettering of a window in the parish church which commemorates the pioneer priests, among them 'Father Hastings' who, in fact, never existed--not by that name, at any rate. The monastic scribe at St Mary's Abbey in the early 1840s noted that 'Father Hastings'--no Christian name--had returned to Sydney from the missionary district of Queanbeyan. The name, no doubt imparted to him in a fairly thick Irish brogue, was in fact Heston, Father Martin Heston, but a slim volume celebrating the Queanbeyan Centenary in 1838, (9) including in its contents an unsigned 'History of the Catholic Church at Queanbeyan', had claimed Father Hastings as the pioneer priest. The evidence for authorship points to Fr Patrick Hartigan, already of note as the folk poet 'John O'Brien'. As he was then only at the beginning of his later absorption in history he can be forgiven for an unquestioning trust in shaky sources which not only gave authority to a misinterpreted Irish name but also ascribed to the brief ministry of 'Father Hastings' in 1843 the building of old St Gregory's Church, overlooking the fact, long before published, that the Catholic congregation in the township of Queanbeyan numbered a mere 'eight--all told--bond and free' at the time. (10)

The confusion of the Hastings-Heston name was noted in 1939 by Monsignor Joseph McGovern in his long series of articles on Archbishop Polding published in the Australasian Catholic Record (11) and heeded by Father Hartigan (he was not named as a domestic prelate until 1947) in the In Diebus Illis series, where he referred specifically to 'Father Martin Heston, sometimes written "Hastings"'. (12) Alas ! it was too late, for the knowledgeable old identities of Queanbeyan had noted the name as published in the local story and on the principle of primus in terras 'Father Hastings' won the day. When St Raphael's Church was built in 1956 the window commemorating the pioneer priests set the error in all but concrete. Let the good intention of the window pass for the truth. Only the bold might dare to challenge its evidence.

It was not only Catholic Queanbeyan but its Anglican counterpart also that fell for a tradition that deserved correction, and greeted it with fire, completing the elemental trio. It was a belief, hallowed from about the same time as the discovery of 'Father Hastings' and the myth that he had a church in which to minister, that an ancient building standing beside Christ Church, the Anglican parish church, was the original church of 1844. (Was there a hint of Irish-style triumphalism in the suggestion that the Catholics had a church twelve months before the Anglicans?). The survival of the church of 1844 had been proclaimed by Ransome T. Wyatt, historian of the Diocese of Canberra-Goulburn, who, like the Sydney Morning Herald, had to be right because his claim had appeared in print. (13)

Forty years ago the local Rector became irritated by a pushful would-be historian who was publishing denials of the claim and insisting that the building was an old schoolhouse and that the original church had been demolished in the late 1850s. Reports of the Rector's displeasure began to reach the guilty one who regretted the conflict because he had enjoyed the clergyman's friendship from an earlier time when he was Vicar of Braidwood. There was nothing for it but to produce hard facts to refute Ransome Wyatt's claim and they consisted of evidence that a local lad was hit on the head by failing masonry during demolition of the old church and, better still, a copy of the parish accounts which included a credit for sale of materials from that demolition. Fortunately, the Rector conceded the point, graciously too, and the happy ecumenical relationship was restored.

There are but two small parish histories for which I must plead guilty. I came to write of those two places for reasons which were possibly not unusual. Simply, the story began with Hurstville where the parish priest, a very old friend with a strong historical consciousness but no opportunity for research and writing, asked me to undertake the task with a view to publishing the result in 1985, the centenary of the opening of the first church. (14) That request was made in 1974, so I was spared the last-minute panic sometimes visited upon an unfortunate author-to-be. Another valued friend, the late Monsignor Con Duffy, then asked, on behalf of the parish priest of Bankstown, whether I might be able to research and write about St Felix's in tandem with the Hurstville project. Knowing next to nothing about either place but being aware that at one time their parochial boundaries had met at some impenetrable spot around Saltpan Creek, I agreed. The experience proved to be rewarding, if only for the author.

This immediately raises the question of whether a 'foreigner' is the best person to write about a parish. On the one hand, he may not be admitted to the deeper secrets, sensed but never articulated, of the Catholic community (and this was true of Bankstown); on the other, his detachment from preconception and parochial loyalties may well equip him for the work. Fortunately, I was not invited on account of my knowledge and certainly not my holiness (too faint to be detected), a quality which in any event can lead to disastrous appointments of the kind, for holiness is not a qualification but a disposition. It is not unthinkable that a Jew or a Moslem might write a scholarly history of a Catholic parish. Perhaps it would lack something of the intimate touch imparted by one belonging within the group, but it would be better than the pietism that ignores or obscures difficult truths which need to be admitted.

There was a time when every human failing, particularly among clergy and religious, had to be denied in the name of Charity. What was the result? Human beings whose failings can endear them were turned into plaster saints and so-called history had no more value than fairy tales. There had been at Hurstville a priest who defied the efforts of even the most pious to canonise his memory and the discovery of what lay hidden in his background not only made him more human but also explained events which otherwise lacked credibility. Patrick Briody was his name and he is remembered to this day by at least one senior priest of the Archdiocese because at Hurstville and elsewhere Father Briody occasionally failed to keep marriage registers. That priest still among us ran into trouble when as a youth he applied for admission to the seminary because there was no parish register to support his parents' claim to have been married according to the requirements of the Church. For a time it seemed that a bar sinister was likely to deny ordination until the authorities decided to accept as proof of the validity of the marriage the Registrar-General's records (which fortunately Father Briody had remembered to complete and forward). I have known of a busy priest who failed to meet even that requirement!

Thirty years ago old people in Hurstville remembered Father Briody's imperious behaviour, his lashing of boys as he drove his carriage into the school ground, his harangues from the pulpit; in the kindness of their hearts they put his behaviour down to the fact that he 'belonged to the old nobility of Ireland'. Piece by difficult piece, the exploits of this extraordinary priest were discovered and began to explain the mode and pace of the parish under his administration. Slowly there emerged the fact that Father Briody's problem was the demon drink. More than that, with the aid of the late Father Roger Wynne of North Parramatta, there was unearthed the extraordinary story of Patrick Briody as a little boy, not luxuriating among the Ascendancy but driving pigs to the Mullingar market, who experienced an apparition of the Blessed Virgin along the road. As a reward he had a religious vocation and appropriate education thrust upon him by an awe-struck pig dealer and his wife.

The haughty manner, the eloquence, the fiery conflicts all shielded a life warped by the good intentions of others. Even his reaction to an unexplained 'apparition' on an interior wall of Hurstville Church could be understood in the light of what had happened long before on the Mullingar Road. Patrick Briody emerged from history a more likeable and understandable man when long after his death the secrets of his life were revealed. It would be impossible now to repeat the process as all the informants are with God. What if I had been similarly trusted by the parishioners of Bankstown? There would possibly have been more personality in the published result and the admirers of Archbishop O'Brien could have signalled to me that I should include their impressions in what I wrote.

Then perhaps, having endured the torments of earthquake, wind and fire, I might have been permitted to experience the presence of the Lord in 'the still, small voice of Peace'.

(1) Haines, G, 'another outpost in God's kingdom': The Parish of the Holy Innocents, Croydon, 1924-1974, Holy Innocents Catholic Church, Croydon, 1974, p. 17.

(2) The comment, not previously published, was made in the course of a personal conversation with the writer.

(3) 'John O'Brien' [Mgr. Patrick Hartigan] On Darlinghurst Hill, Ure Smith, Sydney, 1952.

(4) Johnston, H.A., S.J., .4 Seed That Grew, St Mary's Parish, North Sydney, 1956.

(5) Warren, L., Through Twenty Preston Guilds: The Catholic Congregation of St Wilfrid's Preston, St Wilfrid's Parish, Preston, 1993.

(6) 'The Brewing of Soma', stanzas XII-XIV, XVI-XVII

(7) ibid., stanza XI

(8) Lea-Scarlett, E., The Faith of Irishtown: A History of St Felix Parish Bankstown, [No imprint] Bankstown, St Felix's Parish, 1983.

(9) The Story of Queanbeyan 1838-1938, A.M. Fallick & Sons, Queanbeyan, 1938.

(10) Stated by Martin Byrne in his address on the occasion of the dedication of the new bell at St Gregory's Church, 15 August 1880, The Express, 28 August 1880.

(11) Australasian Catholic Record, vols 11-16 (1934-1939); the confusion of name was noted in vol. 16 no. 2, April 1939, p.102.

(12) O'Brien, John, 'In Diebus Illis: The Maneroo', Australasian Catholic Record, April 1944, p.88.

(13) Wyatt, R.T., The History of the Diocese of Goulburn, Edgar Bragg & Sons, Sydney, 1937, p.318.

(14) Lea-Scarlett, E.J., The Faith of the Forest: A History of Catholic Hurstville, St Michael's Parish, Hurstville, 1985.

Errol Lea-Searlett has written several local histories, including The Faith of Irishtown: A History of St Felix Parish Bankstown (1983) and The Faith of the Forest: A History of Catholic Hurstville (1985). This paper was originally delivered to the Society at its annual luncheon on 12 December 2004