HISTORY OF ST ANNES
As you enter St Anne's Church and look at the stained glass windows on the right-hand side, you will notice one that stands out very clearly. It depicts the familiar scene of Our Lady of Fatima, appearing to the three children, Jacinta, Francesco and Lucy.
As you look at this beautiful window, have you ever noticed the Polish emblem above this scene and wondered why it is there?
Janus was buried in Buxton Cemetry in 1953 and Carrie was laid to rest there beside her beloved Janusz, almost 50 years later.
From 1837 Mass was celebrated in Buxton by visiting priests each week. A Father O'Farrell was named from 1848, but it was only in 1850 that the first resident priest was appointed.
Father Edward McGreevy 1850 - 1863 (ob. 22 June 1863)
Father William Margison 1863 - 1871
Father Michael O'Driscoll 1871 - 1873
Vacant 1873 - 1875
Father Joseph Reddington 1875
Father John Power 1875 - 1885
Canon John Theodore Hoeben 1885 - 1899 (ob. 11 Aug 1900)
Father Frederick Kind 1900 - 1927 (ob. 31 Mar 1927)
Father Luke A Prendergast 1928 - 1937 (ob. 29 Sept 1937)
Canon Arthur J Bird 1937 - 1941
Father John Toomey 1941 - 1942 (ob. 1 Feb 1942)
Canon Alfred Baldwin 1942 - 1956
Father Philip Morris 1956 - 1957
Father J Paul Klee 1957 - 1959
Father William McEnery 1959 - 1960
Canon David Ryan 1960 - 1967
Father Bernard Doran 1967 (probably only priest in charge)
Father Gerald Collins 1967 - 1971
Father Joseph Duggan 1971 - 1977
Father Andrew Murdoch 1977 - 1978
Father Paul Cullen 1978 - 1987
Father Dennis Higgins 1987 - 2017 (ob. 20 Jan 2017)
Father Gerry Murphy 2017 - present
OPENING OF SAINT ANN'S CATHOLIC CHURCH, BUXTON. (from our special reporter) retyped by our Anne Cleary (sic) click on the PDF logo to read the full (almost) text.
Advent Church Opening
Christ Speaks
These fourteen steps
That you are now about to walk
You do not take alone.
I walk with you.
Though you are you,
And I am I,
Yet we are truly one –
One Christ
And therefore
My way of the cross
Two thousand years ago
And your “way” now
Are also one.
But note this difference.
My life was incomplete until I crowned it
By My death.
Your fourteen steps
Will only be complete
When you have crowned them
By your life.
Christ speaks
In Pilate’s hands, My other self,
I see My Father’s will.
Though Pilate is unjust,
He is the lawful governor
And he has power over Me.
And so the Son of God obeys a son of man.
If I can bow to Pilate’s rule
Because this is My Father’s will,
Can you refuse obedience
To those whom I place over you?
Man replies
My Jesus Lord,
Obedience cost You Your life.
For me
It costs an act of will—
No more—
And yet how hard it is for me to bend.
Remove the blindfold from my eyes
That I may see that it is You whom I obey
In all who govern me.
Lord, it is You.
Christ This cross,
This chunk of tree,
Is what My Father chose for Me.
The crosses you must bear
Are largely products of your daily life.
And yet My Father chose them, too,
For you.
Receive them from His hands.
Take heart, My other self,
I will not let your burdens grow
One ounce too heavy for your strength.
Man My Jesus, Lord,
I take my daily cross.
I welcome the monotony
That often marks my day,
Discomforts of all kinds,
The summer’s heat, the winter’s cold,
My disappointments, tensions, setbacks,cares.
Remind me often that
In carrying my cross,
I carry Yours with You.
And though I bear a splinter only
Of your cross,
You carry all of mine, except a splinter, In return
Christ The God who made the universe,
And holds it in existence
By His will alone,
Becomes, as man, too weak to bear
A piece of timer’s weight.
How human is His weakness is the Son of Man.
My Father willed it thus.
I could not be your model otherwise.
If you would be My other self
You also must accept without complaint
Your own human frailties.
Man Lord Jesus, how can I refuse?
I willingly accept my weaknesses,
My irritations and my moods,
My headaches and fatigue,
All my defects of body, mind, and soul.
Because they are Your will for me,
These “handicaps,” of my humanity,
I gladly suffer them.
Make me content with all my discontents,
But give me strength to struggle after You.
Christ My Mother sees Me whipped.
She sees Me kicked and driven like a
Beast.
She counts My every wound.
But though her soul cries out in agony,
No protest nor complaint
Escapes her lips
Or even enters on her thoughts.
She shares My martyrdom –
And I share hers.
We hide no pain,
No sorrow,
From each other’s eyes
This is My Father’s will.
Man My Jesus, Lord,
I know what You are telling me.
To watch the pain of those we love
Is harder than to bear our own.
To carry my cross after You,
I, too, must stand and watch
The sufferings of my dear ones;
The heartaches, sicknesses and grief
Of those I love.
And I must let them watch mine, too.
I do believe –
For those who love You
All things work together unto good
They must!
Christ My strength is gone;
I can no longer bear the cross alone.
And so the legionnaires
Make Simon give me help.
This Simon is like you, My other self.
Give Me your strength.
Each time you lift some burden from
Another’s back,
You lift as with your very hand
The cross’s awful weight
That crushes Me.
Man Lord, make me realize
That every time I wipe a dish,
Pick up an object from the floor,
Assist a child in some small task,
Or give another preference
In traffic, or in the store;
Each time I feed the hungry
Clothe the naked,
Teach the ignorant,
Or lend my hand in any way –
It matters not to whom –
My name is Simon.
And the kindness I extend to them
I really give to You.
Christ Can you be brave enough, My other self,
To wipe the blood from my face?
Where is My face, you ask?
At home whenever eyes fill up with tears,
At work when tensions rise,
On playgrounds,
In the slums,
In the courts, the hospitals, the prisons –
Wherever suffering exists –
My face is there.
And there I look for you
To wipe away My blood and tears.
Man Lord, what You ask is hard.
It calls for courage and self-sacrifice,
And I am weak.
Please, give me strength.
Don’t let me run away because of fear.
Lord, live in me and act in me
And love in me,
And not in me alone – in all men –
So that we may reveal
No more Your blood-stained but Your glorious fact
On earth.
Christ This seventh step, My other self,
Is one that tests your will.
From this fall learn to persevere
In doing good.
The time will come
When all your efforts seem to fail
And you will think,
“I can’t go on.”
Trust Me
And carry on.
Man Give me your courage, Lord.
When failure presses heavily on me
And I am desolate,
Stretch out Your hand
To life me up.
I know I must not cease,
But persevere,
In doing good.
But help me, Lord.
Alone there’s nothing I can do.
With You, I can do anything You ask.
I will, with your help.
Christ How often had I longed to take
The children of Jerusalem
And gather them to Me.
But they refused.
But now these women weep for Me
And My heart mourns for them –
Mourns for their sorrows that will come.
I comfort those who seek to solace Me.
How gentle can you be, My other self,
How kind can you be?
Man My Jesus,
Your compassion
In your passion
Is beyond compare.
Lord, teach me,
Help me to learn,
When I would snap at those
who hurt me with their ridicule,
those who misunderstand,
or hinder me with some misguided helpfulness,
those who intrude upon my privacy –
then help me curb my tongue.
May gentleness become my cloak.
Lord, make me kind like You.
Christ Completely drained of strength
I lie, collapsed, upon the cobblestones.
My body cannot move
No blows, no kicks,
Can rouse it up.
And yet My will is Mine.
And so is yours.
Know this, My other self,
Your body may be broken,
But no force on earth
And none in hell
Can take away your will.
Your will is yours.
Man My Lord,
I see You take a moment’s rest
Then rise and stagger on.
So I can do
Because my will is mine.
When all my strength is gone
And guilt and self-reproach
Press me to earth and seem to hold me fast,
Protect me from the sin of Judas –
Save me from despair!
Lord, never let me feel that any sin of mine
Is greater than Your love.
No matter what my past has been
I can begin anew.
Christ Behold, My other self,
The poorest King who ever lived.
Before My creatures I stand stripped.
The cross – My deathbed –
Even this is not My own.
Yet who has ever been so rich?
Possessing nothing, I own all – Father’s love
Be not solicitous
About your food, your clothes,
Your life.
Man My Lord,
I offer You my all –
Whatever I possess,
And more,
My self.
Detach me from the craving for prestige,
Position,
Wealth.
Root out of me
All trace of envy of my neighbour
Who has more than I,
Release me from the vice of pride,
My longing to exalt myself,
And lead me to the lowest place.
May I be poor in spirit, Lord,
So that I can be rich in You.
Christ Can you imagine what a crucifixion is?
My executioners stretch My arms;
They hold My hand and wrist against the wood
And press the nail until it stabs My flesh.
Then with one heavy hammer smash
They drive it through –
And pain
Bursts like a bomb of fire in My brain.
They seize the other arm;
And again agony explodes.
Then raising up My knees
So that My feet are flat against the wood,
They hammer them fast, too.
Man My God,
I look at You and think:
Is my soul worth this much?
What can I give You in return?
I here and now accept
For all my life
Whatever sickness, torment, agony may come.
To every cross I touch my lips.
O blessed cross that lets me be –
With You –
A co-redeemer of my fellowman.
Christ The cross becomes a pulpit now –
“Forgive them, Father . . . “
You will be with Me in Paradise . . .
There is your mother . . . There . . . your son . . .
I thirst . . .
It is complete.”
To speak I have to raise Myself
By pressing on My wrists and feet,
And every move engulfs Me in new waves
Of agony.
And then, when I have borne enough,
Have emptied My humanity,
I let My mortal life depart.
Man My Jesus,
God,
What can I saw or do?
I offer You my death
With all its pains,
Accepting now
The time and kind of death in store for me.
Not by a single instant
Would I lengthen my life’s span.
I offer You my death
For my own sins
And those of all my fellowmen.
My God! My God! Forsake us not.
We know not what we do.
Christ The sacrifice is done.
Yes, My Mass is complete;
But not My mother’s
And not yours, My other self.
My mother still must cradle in her arms
The lifeless body of the Son she bore.
You, too, must part from those you love,
And grief will come to you.
In your bereavements think of this:
A multitude of souls were saved
By Mary’s sharing in My Calvary
Your grief can also be
The price of souls.
Man I beg You, Lord,
Help me accept the partings that must come –
From friends who go away,
My children leaving home,
And most of all,
My dear ones
When You shall call them to Yourself.
Then, give me grace to say:
“As it has pleased You, Lord,
to take them home,
I bow to Your most holy will
And if by just one word
I might restore their lives
Against Your will,
I would not speak.”
Christ So ends My mortal life.
But now another life begins
For Mary
And for Magdalen,
For Peter and for John,
And you.
My work as man is done.
My work within and through My Church
Must now commence.
I look to you, My other self.
Day in, day out, from this time forth,
Be My apostle –
Be My Victim –
Be My Saint.
Man My Jesus, Lord,
You know my spirit is as willing
As my flesh is weak.
But The teaching You could not impart,
The sufferings You could not bear,
The works of love You could not do
In Your short life on earth,
Let me impart them,
And bear them,
And do them,
Through You
But I am nothing, Lord.
So Help me!
St John's Gospel tells us that Jesus was the Word of God made flesh. We are favoured indeed if at any time we actually experience the awesome majesty of God through Jesus. How much stronger must have been the experience of those sharing his life on earth. Tim Rice sums this up in 'Jesus Christ Superstar' when he has Mary Magdalene experiencing the strong magnetism of Jesus and singing that she loves and fears him at the same time. No wonder the Scribes and Pharisees were afraid of him.
