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ENTRY EIGHT- Parousia





Miranda and I examined the contents of our find: a travel journal of Harold Nigel Fox, photos, an old cup and many many letters.



This is an excerpt of a letter I wrote to R.K. Harriman, Department of History and Archaeology, Trinity College:

... we have settled into the Vicarage. Perhaps 'unsettled' would be the more appropriate term. As I sit writing you under the ceiling fan, my clothes are soaked with perspiration. The sweltering heat of the Punjab is not the cause - anxiety is.

Miranda and I have been the victims of some strange occurrences. We have also made a rather disturbing discovery. The mystery seems to involve a 19th-century cult called the Catholic Apostolic Church. . .


His reply was as follows:

Harold Nigel Fox was one of the founders of a popular cult that called itself the Catholic Apostolic Church. It produced a catechism based on the Seven Signs of the Apocalypse. Inspired by outbreaks of glossolalia (speaking in tongues), agalliasis (joy of the Spirit), and miraculous healing, this notorious cult grew at an alarming rate, until it became a very

Bryan's Students

real threat to orthodox Christianity.

[Then] the story gets rather interesting. When the decade of the Incarnation came and went without an appearance of the 'Light of the World', the Catholic Apostolic Church merely vanished. Today they are an obscure footnote in the history books.

Several important people to come out of this cult during the 'post-Rapture' period were the Rev. John G. Lake, the Rev. C.F. Andrews and the Rev. Harold Nigel Fox Junior. They and others were part of The Great Commission that would spark the return of Christ: "The Gospel must be preached in all the world as a testimony to every nation, and then the Parousia shall come." (CAV) At 18, Nigel believed he had seen the face of the Parousia at his conversion. . .
... After Cambridge, still too young to be ordained, Nigel Fox Jr. (as he was known) went to the United States for postgraduate study and a teaching fellowship at Union Theological Seminary in New York City. He found the American seminary was not up to his exacting standards but he had life-changing friendships.

After being ordained at Southwark Cathedral, he began his ministry in South

The Dawn

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Bryan trying to read the Dawn newspaper but his mind keeps wandering (re the Bell Tower).

Africa in 1913. There he spoke out against racial prejudice. He was repeatedly physically assaulted - each time by whites. His calling was cut short due to ill health, and at age forty, he retired to his family estate in a small town near Wells, England.

The Journal
of the Ministry and Travels
combined with the Personal Reflections of
the Reverend H. Nigel Fox Jr.

The rain had just stopped and the sun was beginning to peep out from behind dark clouds as I descended the conveyance from London. The newly washed village had not changed much in ten years; no one had bothered repainting the outdated East Avalon sign that hung above the platform.

It can be fairly said that Somerset is one of the prettiest places in all of England. From my vantage point at the old station I could see many picturesque thatched houses and the magnificent spire of the Catholic Apostolic Church.


I looked round for a porter to help me with my luggage, when a strapping young man strode up with an air of efficiency, doffed his cap and enquired, "You're the Reverend Nigel Fox - come from South Africa - aren't you?"

When I acknowledged this with a nod and a smile, he grabbed the largest of my cases, a portmanteau, and, lifting it as if it were empty, tossed it over his shoulder. "I'm your cabman. That, er, chap you've got, uh, Sipho, working for you, er, sent me to collect you," he stammered as he piloted me toward his motorized conveyance.

I was most impressed by my man Sipho's organizational skills and pleased to be spared the trouble of arranging for my own taxicab. We quickly motored to the top of the rise at Brunel Terrace, where the Fox family residence stood. It was an imposing porticoed structure, in need of a coat of paint.

Much to my surprise, however, the grounds were immaculate - not at all in the unkempt state I had imagined.



Sipho stood by the entrance gate with a huge grin on his face, his teeth flashing white against his ebony complexion.

"Molo, mFundisi!" he called out forcefully, coming forward to help with the cases. "It is so very good to look upon you once again."

We hugged, much to the cab-man's consternation, and together carried the smaller bags into the house. The cabby followed with the portmanteau and other chests.


Inside the mansion it was darker than I remembered, notwithstanding the high ceilings and large bay windows. Father's Van Gogh collection dominated each room. The fantastic colours of that artist's 'Arles period' had a disturbing aspect to them - maybe unnerving would be a better word.

Sipho's extraordinary job of maintaining the interior could not make up for the fact that the trees abutting the house had grown, making an effective barrier to the sun just beginning to show itself. This produced a gloomy, almost eerie atmosphere.

The cabman excused himself quickly, refusing the proffered cup of tea, and was shown to the door. I sank into the largest armchair in the drawing room, Sipho hovering over me with concern.

"It was a difficult journey, mFundisi?" he asked, his brow creasing.

"Quite," I replied, "and tiring without my loyal travelling companion."

As he scuttled about the pantry preparing tea, I recollected a very different Sipho, the clever, almost wily, young lad who had come to my attention so many years ago. Having just arrived in British Kaffraria as a missionary, I was in need of a helper who would be many things, including a tutor in Xhosa. As my purse would allow only one salary, my man would have to be both a domestic and a gardener. I had almost despaired of finding such a multi-faceted character, when a young Xhosa chap of approximately 18 years approached me on one of my walks and fell into step.

"I hear you are in need of Sipho's services," he said confidently, in English.

"Who is Sipho?" I asked. "And what does he do?"

"Aha! Sipho is a very talented man - he can do anything required of him."

"Anything?" I was intrigued.

"Within reason, of course," my walking companion explained. "He can even cook meals."

Beginning to know a little of Xhosa men by that time, I was most impressed with this last statement. "When could I meet this man Sipho?" I questioned, enthusiastically.

"He is already at your side," the young man informed me, flashing a gorgeous Cheshire-cat smile. One could see that he had enjoyed his little charade immensely.

Although slightly suspicious of each other at first, we had, over the years, grown exceedingly fond of one another. I now saw him more as a son than a servant. His habits were regular, and he had become a distinguished gentleman's gentleman instead of the cocky, rather tattered-looking kaffir who had done things 'harum-scarum,' as it were.

The demon

My reverie was interrupted by the clock mounted over the chimneypiece chiming the hour. It marked Sipho's return with the tea. Some freshly baked scones accompanied the tea utensils, and beside them was a bowl of rich, clotted cream. Sipho's face shone with delight.

"Have you become a baker in my absence?" I chuckled.

"Oh no, mFundisi," he answered seriously. "There is a reputable bakery in town which sells such delectables. I have only become their very good customer."

I was truly amazed at how quickly I began to accommodate myself to these once familiar surroundings after all my travels.

Inviting Sipho to join me, together we made short work of the tea and scones. After thanking him for all the hard work he had done over the past several months, we subsided into a comfortable silence.

At least I thought it was comfortable until I looked up to see my good friend staring at me, brow again furrowed. He moved his large cane chair closer to mine. (He had insisted that we transport this particular cane chair all the way from his kraal in South Africa!) I lit my pipe, as was my custom after tea.

Several times Sipho seemed to want to say something, but busied himself by fidgeting in the chair. Finally, in a gust of suppressed air, he managed to speak his mind, the words tumbling quickly one after the other: "With your permission . . . has my good teacher continued to be plagued by those . . . episodes?" He sat examining the floor guiltily, knowing the rather personal nature of such a question.


These so-called 'episodes' being the cause of my return to England. I saw no reason to keep the truth from my closest friend, but was vague by necessity. Since even I was confused about their nature, much elaboration was not possible.

"The episodes continue. So far they have not interfered with my day-to-day routine. But I had overstrained myself and was obliged in the end, under doctor's orders, to surrender to them. The doctors and psychologists believe these curious attacks are consequent upon physical and mental stress. I have not yet been stricken during a sermon or a pastoral visit, but I wanted to depart Umtata before this occurred."

Sipho sat shaking his head, still looking down. His eyes brimmed with tears, but he blinked them away (Xhosa men do not weep). His next comment was said in a whisper. I leaned forward to catch the words. "God will care for us." He finally lifted up his countenance, aglow with sympathy and love.

"We are together now," I reassured him. "You can help me when I am feeling out of sorts."

We sat in silence once again, but Sipho continued to be restless and uncomfortable, picking at the arm of the cane chair with his long fingers. As usual, I could read him like a book. The more time the two of us spent together, the less we were able to hide our true feelings from each other. One might add that at times he could be a frightful pest!

"Is something else bothering you?" I asked, pipe clasped in my teeth, an indication of mild vexation.

Sipho again sat observing his takkies (plimsolls). This time his shoulders were slumped and his hands were grasped between his bony knees. The expression on his face was unnerving. A profound confusion mixed with fear clouded his normally serene, clean-cut features. There was a curious hesitancy about him. For several minutes he refused to say anything.

"Do speak up man. No need to be mealy-mouthed!" At times he could try the patience of a saint; at that moment I felt as if I were the most long-suffering of mortals.

In a quavering voice, punctuated with heavy sighs, Sipho asked a most unusual question. "Do you know why (sigh) the children . . . in this town (sigh) . . . run past this house? At first I thought it was merely the typical play of the energetic English children," he went on, smiling tentatively. "The amaXhosa do not move so quickly," he reminded me.

Words began to pour out faster and faster: "But then I noticed that they only run when they come upon your family residence - and stop when they had made it to your neighbour's property. When I try to ask the children about it, they all run away. I have never seen children move so quickly . . . I was too frightened and asked everyone in town for the answer. Your loving servant was rewarded at the bakery. Mr. Julian, the baker man, said the children are afraid of a demon which they think is a lodger at our place of residence."

By this time Sipho's eyes had grown so very large, the whites so pronounced, that they appeared to pop out of their sockets, making him look most undignified. He had not blinked once throughout his entire narrative. His voice slowed and dropped to a faint, hissing whisper: " . . . and Sipho has heard this demon . . . at night . . . . "

The Old Graveyard

How supposed Christians can fabricate such slander is still quite beyond me. I was familiar with the stories of a 'demon' which, haunted the Fox residence, however I had hoped that enough time had passed since my father's ascending to be with the Lord that people would have stopped their hurtful rumours. Now it was obvious that the people of village had a long memory.

No doubt it would be necessary to make a clean breast of things. I would explain to Sipho how the demon legend had evolved, telling him about my father and the role he had played in the life of the community. In doing so I would be forced to elaborate on what had been a very strong influence in my younger years - the Irvingites. Painful memories long suppressed came flooding back, especially now that I was once more under the roof of my childhood abode.


As I began recalling those early days, I could sit still no longer. I rose from the armchair and began to pace, hands grasped behind my back. Striding toward the front passage, I was arrested by Father's portrait that dominated the hallway. With my greying beard and hair, I was now the spitting image of that daunting figure, save for one thing: I lacked his piercing dark eyes under heavy brows. I thankfully, had inherited mother's lovely deep-set eyes.


-ii-
Sipho remained in his cane chair, patiently watching me pace, knowing by my expression that I was working through some difficult ruminations.

"Let me assure you that there is no demon," I said, puffing on my pipe for emphasis. "It is merely a silly fabrication that this town seems unwilling to forget." A quick glance assured me that Sipho was brightening. I tried to make the tale a simple one.

"My dear father, you see, was a most unusual character. He was a member, and what they called an 'Angel' , of a strange church - a sect - which sprang up in the 1800s. This sect was very interested in the new age: they believed the old world, as we know it was coming to an end. They thought that a great metanoia was at hand, and they preached this message to all who would listen."


"Metanoia, mFundis?"

"A spiritual rebirth, as it were."

Sipho nodded his head, encouraging me to continue.

"They often spoke of the Lamb and the Wolf, the Christ and the Antichrist; many young children became frightened and had nightmares. As children will, they shared their fears with their friends, and soon several of them were seeing 'demons' and 'beasts'. Parents began to forbid their children to play with those of us who attended my father's church. A legend grew that the church was 'of the devil'.


I paused to empty my pipe and find my tobacco jar. "Since my father was one of the church leaders, and we lived so close to the church cemetery, the story began to circulate that there was a demon living in our house which had possessed my father. As you can imagine, it was not easy to live with such hatred and fear coming from the community. I became something of a recluse, but my father was undeterred and continued to speak out with much fervour."

Sipho listened intently, his gaze fixed on me as I continued pacing and puffing; glancing at him periodically. "When my father died some ten years ago, the local church closed down. The other churches in the sect also began to falter, as the various ministers could not be replaced. You see, the last of the twelve 'Apostles' (those who had originally been anointed to head the church and to ordain its clergy) had been 'caught up' to Heaven some nine years earlier. As one can fairly imagine, this was a blow from which my father's peculiar type of religion could not recover. The church building here has been boarded up for quite some little time . . . but it seems that the legend still remains."


-iii-
My dear friend shook his head sadly, but looked relieved that I was convinced that there was no actual demon. Then he started to pry further into my family life: "Did you have no brothers and sisters to share your difficult time?"

"No - " I replied, trying to hide my displeasure at his impertinence, "and now with Mother and Father gone I have neither kith nor kin."

"You have Sipho . . . "

"Yes."

" . . . and Miss Anna and Pastor Hoff!"

Thinking of them was a pleasant thing indeed. I felt encouraged at hearing their names. Anna was my Goddaughter and Hans Hoff was like another son. He had been in His Majesty's special services during the Great War. Although his daring-do had made him a legend - a decorated legend at that - he had experienced a severe nervous breakdown after only one year of service and returned to South Africa. I had been the one to help put the pieces back together, as it were, and we became exceptionally close.

To my surprise he went on to become a clergyman. He now had a two-year appointment as a pastor of the German-speaking Protestant churches in London, St. Paul's and Sydenham.


"Have you heard from Pastor Hoff?" I asked.

"Yes. He is very much pleased that you are here. I have extended an invitation to him for tomorrow week. He is too happy!"


-iv-
With many thoughts swirling round in my mind, I walked to the ruins of the once proud stone church. Along the brow of the hill, the houses overlook the trees and green grass of the "old cemetery" on the slope below.

As I stepped through the gate into the graveyard, a heavy feeling of despair overtook me. Here was my father's flock, as it were, those raptured cronies of my father huddled close together for comfort. My mother's grave was nearest the path - as if she was hoping for a visit from her only son, a son who had long since deserted the faith.

Father's tomb, because of his position, was set apart. I made my way with difficulty through the tall grass to the back of the church. No one had tended this part of the graveyard for many a year. Father, had suffered from a financial misfortune due to the duplicity of a friend. I picked out his headstone - only because I knew where it was located - and sat on a bench nearby, my head in my hands.

I now saw his work in its futility. Such a pity. He had believed so strongly, yet had been mocked and ridiculed so severely. Some thought him a hypocrite, a false charge I need scarcely say. His handsome, rugged, features rose up in my mind and I remembered his overwhelming presence as he spoke from the pulpit, the twin lights on the altar, the Seven Lamps that hung before it. . . What power he had held over a congregation! What a waste!

Melancholia began to seep into my body as if I had been drugged. As I continued to sit, a strange, dark anger came over me - a black malevolence. The headstones glimmered grey on my right. It suddenly seemed evil and cold in the shade of the large yew tree overhanging the tomb, so I quickly dragged myself through the grass and into the late-afternoon sunlight. I hurried home, not looking back.

Links:
Library - Catholic Apostolic Church

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