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Published: December 28th 2005
THE VICARAGE, Lahore Cathedral
Bryan at the dining room table, reflecting on some very strange occurrences. He would often do his work here because the screened doors provided a pleasant breeze.ENTRY EIGHT — February 19th 1987
Parousia Miranda and I examined the contents of our find: a travel journal belonging to the Rev. Harold Nigel Fox, Jr., photos, an old chalice along with correspondence and documents. This is an excerpt of a letter I wrote to Dr 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 at the dining room table, my clothes are soaked with perspiration. The 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 known as the
Catholic Apostolic Church (sometimes called Irvingites). Along with many other occult practices, this religious group believed that the changes which attend the Coming of the Lord will not be such as to attract the attention or the gaze of men. The pending judgments: the
Back from the General Post Office, Lahore, Pakistan.
We received a letter from Dr. R.K. Harriman, Department of History and Archaeology, Trinity College.
political, ecclesiastical, and social changes which they involve, will seem to come about as ordinary events in human history, produced by the changes that are working in society. The rising up of the Anti-Christ and his full revelation will appear as the outcome of changes of opinion that have been going on for a long time, and will be upon men before they are aware of it. Only those who are looking for the Lord's appearing, who have received with faith and reverence the warnings of the great event, will recognize its tokens and not be taken by surprise. Harold Nigel Fox helped draft a catechism based on the Seven Signs of the Apocalypse.
1. The Anti-Christ — the Beast of Revelation, the Wolf of the Apocalypse, who will plunge humanity into great darkness. His mark is 666.
2. The Abomination — the great holocaust prophesied in the Book of Daniel which is to be inflicted upon God's chosen people.
3. The Great Tribulation — is the seven year global conflict described in the Book of Revelation sometimes called Armageddon.
4. The Elements Bomb — is the ultimate weapon, described in the Bible, to
WINTER SCENE: The Vicarage
Winter in the Punjab was quite pleasant. Most days were sunny with a high of near 70 degrees Fahrenheit while at night it never went below freezing. By the middle of February the heat started to return. be unleashed on mankind (2 Peter 3).
5. The Second Coming — is the second incarnation of the Son of Man sometime called the Second Advent or the Parousia.
6. Clouds of Glory — in which all nations will see the Son of Man.
7. Nation of Israel restored — refers to The "Dry Bones Prophecy" as prophesied in the Books of Ezekiel and Isaiah.
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 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, Jr. They and others were part of The Great Commission that would spark the return of Christ: "The Gospel must be preached in
THE VICARAGE, Lahore Cathedral
Bryan at the Office after studying a most unusual letter from Dr Harriman, TST. all the world as a testimony to every nation, and then the Parousia will come." At 18, Harold Nigel Fox, Jr., believed he had seen the face of the Parousia at his conversion...
...graduating Cambridge, still too young to be ordained, Nigel Fox (as he was known) went to the United States for postgraduate study and a teaching fellowship. The young deacon found the American seminary was not up to his exacting standards but made life-changing friendships. After being ordained to the priesthood at Southwark Cathedral, he was inspired by Basil Westcott to embrace missionary work. Nigel ended up in South Africa around the turn of the century. There he spoke out against racial prejudice. He was physically assaulted repeatedly — each time by whites. A tall handsome man with a full beard, he could be intimidating but his kindness of heart generally put people at their ease. Nigel's calling was cut short due to ill health, and at approximately age forty, he retired to his family estate in a small town near Wells, England.
(see below)
WHAT I OWE CHRIST: The Journal of Ministry and Travels combined with the Personal Reflections The Mission
Near Butterworth, British Kaffraria, S.A. of the Reverend H.Nigel Fox
"The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page" wrote the Eminent Divine. It is my hope to record not only my planned travels to Fiji, South Africa and so forth, but also explore the "most important spiritual journey" spoken of by St. Augustine. Such a journey has many secret destinations of which the traveller is totally unaware! —
H.N.F. (1897) Union Theological Seminary in New York City. The rain continued as the sun began to peep out from behind dark clouds; it truly was a monkey's wedding! As I descended the conveyance from London I noticed that the newly washed village had not changed much in ten years. No one had bothered to remove the outdated
East Avalon sign that hung above the old platform. It can be fairly said that Somerset is one of the prettiest places in all of England. From this vantage point I could see the many picturesque cottages as well as 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 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 towards his motorised conveyance.
I was most impressed by my man Sipho's organisational 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; they were 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 forwards 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 late-summer sunshine. This produced a gloomy, almost eerie atmosphere.
The long-case clock in the entrance hall had just gone three as our 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."
After a few moments of empathetic silence he began to scuttle 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 lad of approximately 16 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 chap 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 each 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 years abroad. Inviting Sipho to join me, together we made short work of the sandwiches, savouries, scones with clotted cream and sweet pastries.
After thanking him for all his labours over the month, 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 Tobatshana! 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' of relentless energy along the vagaries of emotional depression were the cause of my return to England. I saw no reason to keep the truth from my closest friend, but was imprecise 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 have overstrained myself. The doctors now 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 it was wise to depart Umtata before there was such an occurrence."
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 forwards to catch the words. "God shall 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 per 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 i.e. 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 then 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. Mister 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 . . . "
My father's church
How supposed Christians can fabricate such slander is still quite beyond me. Do they not realise that we are all simply fellow travellers
en route to the grave? 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 along with an embarrassing explanation. 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 towards 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, and they thought that a great metanoia was at hand. 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. 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, asking, "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 . . . "
"Quite."
" . . . 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 the 'youngest agent' of His Majesty's special services during the Great War. Although his derring-do had made him a proper hero; he had experienced a severe breakdown after only one year of service and returned to South Africa. I had been the one to help put the pieces back together and we became exceptionally close.
To my surprise he went on to become a clergyman. Bishop Bell found him an appointment as a pastor to the German-speaking church in Forest Hill. Hans enjoyed London but being used to warmer climes, he found his residence draughty and was always cold. Once he jerry-built his fireplaces with small coin-operated gas heaters; twice he almost burned the vicarage to the ground. Then a rather large family of mice decided to take advantage of his well heated accommodation. When they took up residence, Hans was forced to store his food in large jars! However he did leave out an assortment of tit-bits every morning in the 'rodent room'. This and other measures kept the mice confined to one well heated room of the house. Hans was always joking about his 'family'; there was always an abundance of humour with him nearby. Sometimes he would start our piano duet in the wrong key until I figured out he was pulling my leg; this greatly amused Sipho who revelled in my being nonplussed!
"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 to-morrow week. He is too happy!"
The Old Graveyard
On one particularly pleasant autumn afternoon, I walked down the long pathway to the ruins of the proud stone church from long ago. Along the brow of the hill, houses still overlooked the 'Necropolis' below. As I stepped through the gate into the graveyard, a heavy feeling of despair overtook me. Here was my father's flock, those raptured cronies 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 standing in the church, was set apart. I made my way with difficulty through the tall grass to the back of the church. No one had tended this area of the graveyard for many years. I picked out his headstone only because I knew where it was located, then sat down 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 as 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 continued to seep through my entire body. As I continued to sit, a strange, dark anger also came over me; it was 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. The Reverend Harold Nigel Fox Junior hurried home, not looking back.
* In 1865, the territory was re-incorporated into the Cape Colony where it would henceforward remain. However it would continue to be referred to as 'British Kaffraria' until the Great War.
Links:
Library — Catholic Apostolic Church
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mary
non-member comment
different
i think you could get quite a following