|
Revd David Newton’s Address |
|
Phone: 01942 244459 |
|
To contact us: |
|
WIGAN PARISH CHURCH |
|
Now that Malcolm Forrest has died, it can readily be appreciated that Wigan was his life’s work. Everything he did before he became Rector tended towards it. He died, you know, only yards from where he was born and emotionally he never strayed far from Wigan.
Something of a golden boy at Upholland Grammar School and Exhibitioner of Lincoln College, he might have been anything he chose: but he worshipped at Pemberton where two Vicars, Harry Hare and Hugh Seal, both of whom he revered, inspired and nursed his vocation. Fr Hugh had been trained at Wells and that’s where Malcolm went to learn his Theology with Tom Baker. When Malcolm was interviewed for a Title at Walton, Kenneth Skelton revealed that he would have moved by the time Malcolm was ordained but he begged confidentiality. Malcolm had seen Kind Hearts and Coronets, Skelton hadn’t and therefore simply couldn’t comprehend Malcolm’s hysteria at the revelation that he had been nominated Bishop of Matabeleland. It did mean that Malcolm was to come under the influence of a great training priest, Basil Fletcher-Jones, and it was a mutual joy that Basil presented Malcolm at his Collation here.
After a brief spell at the University chaplaincy, he came into contact in vacation time with Bishop Stuart Blanche who liked what he saw, appointed him to Wavertree and later asked him to be Secretary of the DAC. This was a work that was to stand him in good stead when he had to superintend a major restoration after a disastrous fire in that lovely building. He gently made the worship more Catholic and preached elegant, yet always meaty sermons but he was never happier than when telling stories to the children in the School for the Blind next door. Then came the invitation to Wigan, an invitation that could not be refused. When Malcolm was a boy, the Rector of Wigan was a power in the land: Cuthbert Thicknesse was remembered with awe and fractious children for miles around were told to be good, “Else I’ll tell the Rector.” The glory days had gone, the money had been diverted during several interregna, and half a dozen nuns with three curates were reduced to a single hapless deacon. Within a year, the days of Solemn High Mattins with 25 people East of the screen and a congregation in single figures West of it had gone. The Parish Eucharist was seen to be the principal service with the choir in attendance and modern Liturgy, shortly to be followed by a sensible re-ordering. The daily Eucharist was re-introduced at different times to see which suited best. It’s fitting that the 12.30 slot which proved most popular should be Malcolm’s Requiem. All this was accomplished with style and, more important, it was the most tremendous FUN for Malcolm was fun to be with as you might expect with such mental agility and verbal dexterity.
Services became less solemn and more fun: even the introductory notices had moments of hilarity. One Easter Day, he was told of the presence of some French visitors. He mimicked ‘Allo, ‘Allo as he welcomed them: “I will say this only the once- Hippy Oyster!” One Palm Sunday at the Procession at the end of Evensong, he deftly contrived with his long Palm branch to tickle Annie Parker’s nose. She loved it. When the sharing of the Peace was introduced, he feared it might not take off so he was warmed when Maggie Green said: “’Ere, Rector luv – I’ll shake your ‘and” and he was further delighted when he heard a few seconds later: “ Ee, it’s the daftest thing ‘e’s done!”
It wasn’t just the Parish Church that benefited from this. He was conscious of the extent of the ancient Parish and his inherited Patrimony which he guarded jealously. He habitually boasted he had more local patronage than the bishop and never quite forgave Rector Gunning for surrendering his rights as Lord of the Manor of Wigan in 1861. He took the work of the ancient Charities seriously |
|
The Wigan Clog & Stocking Fund may have had nothing more than a charming name but Eggleston’s Charity had the financial clout to ensure a fine new Hall in Billinge in which his efforts were recognised by the naming of a room in his honour. He fancied himself thereafter to be Laird of Billinge, not merely Patron.
The dullest of meetings too, were enlivened by his wit. A boring DAC discussion about the neglect of valley guttering on some roof or other was lifted by the Chairman’s comment: “Isaiah wrote it, Handel set it to music –‘Every valley shall be inspected!’” The CCC, whose meeting this very day begins with prayers for him, the Executive of the DBF and his being a Director of Church House Limited are all signs that he willingly shouldered more than his fair share of administration.
So why was he left here for so long? Was it because the powers that be felt he was so good at it? Or had he made too many dignitaries the source of not quite innocent merriment? It couldn’t have been the gentle nick-naming of Suffragans as Biggles and Basher. It couldn’t have been his turning down the offer of a parish he thought inappropriate with the comment that the green-backed Kennedy’s Latin Primer of his schooldays had a section on how to frame a question which invited the answer “No.” Whatever it was, he would have graced any cathedral as dean, the fabric would have been secured and the place would have proceeded with great gusto. Thus Wigan gained for longer.
On the other hand, it has to be admitted that Christopher’s death diminished Malcolm. He lost his taste for many things – not nicotine or a dram – but the savour had departed and the rescue which might have restored it was not forthcoming. It’s best to remember the splendour of the whole play and not dwell on the darkening towards the final curtain.
I give thanks that he had the loyal friendship of Earlam and Kenneth at the Happy Hour for many years. I give thanks that he had in Fr Ray a sensitive and generous-minded successor. Certainly, we can all give thanks for what Malcolm was, for what he did, for what he meant to us. I know I’m not the only one here who today feels like an orphan. At this point I imagine a well-loved voice saying irritably “Oh do get on with it, Noot!” So I leave aside his hospitality, his mimicry, his generosity to those he loved, his championing of the Ordination of women and of the marriage in church of the divorced, and I haven’t even mentioned the dogs. But I must share a favourite quote. When asked in hospital some years ago if he was allergic to anything, Malcolm replied: “Yes. Fundamentalists of all kinds.”
He discovered a mostly forgotten poet called A.S.J.Tessimond who wrote this:
|
|
In the heaven of the god I hope for (call him X) There is marriage and giving in marriage and transient sex For those who will cast the body’s vest aside_ Soon, but are not yet rarified_ And still embrace. For X is never annoyed_ Or shocked; has read his Jung and knows his Freud, He gives you time in heaven to do as you please, To climb love’s ladder by slow degrees, Gently to rise from sense to soul, to ascend_ To a world of timeless joy, world without end.
Here on the gates of pearl there hangs no sign_ Limiting cakes and ale, forbidding wine. No weakness here is hidden, no vice unknown. Sin is a sickness to be cured, outgrown_
With the help of a god who can laugh, an unsolemn god_ Who smiles at old wives’ tales of iron rod_ And fiery hell, a God who’s more at ease_ With bawds and Falstaffs than with Pharisees.
Here the lame learn to leap, the blind to see, Tyrants are taught to be humble, slaves to be free. Fools become wise and wise men cease to be bores, Here bishops learn from lips of back-street whores, And white men follow black-faced angels’ feet Through fields of orient and immortal wheat.
And X, of whom no mortal is afraid, Who’s friend consulted, not fierce king obeyed; Who hears the unspoken thought, the prayer unprayed; Who expects not even the learned to understand_ His universe, extends a prodigal hand, Full of forgiveness, over his promised land.
May our dear Malcolm already have discovered that it’s even better than that.
|