Pentecost

Imagine, for a moment, that we had a time machine and could step back into Harrogate in the mid‑1870s, when this parish was still young.

The town was rapidly expanding on its journey to becoming one of the great spa towns of England. As elegant hotels opened their doors, visitors arrived by the new fangled railway to “take the waters,” and a growing population was drawn here by new opportunities. It was against this backdrop of growth and confidence that this church began its mission in 1873.

St Robert’s was built in the Gothic Revival style very much loved by Victorian Catholics, because it deliberately echoed the architecture of the Church before Henry VIII broke with Rome. Such links were important to the Catholics of the time.

In the house is preserved a vestment whose needlework is said to be that of Katherine of Aragon, first wife of Henry VIII. Probably passed on from a recusant Catholic family, it’s a visible link between our parish and those days before the upheaval of Reformation.

The Gothic influences - these arches, the pillars, carved stone, coloured glass, richly adorned sanctuary – there were originally frescoes on either side here - they were all designed to lift hearts and minds towards heaven. For nineteenth‑century Catholics, beauty mattered. As well as architecture, the music, incense, vestments, and candlelight all preached the Gospel in their own way. They spoke of the glory of God, so awakening the soul to realities far beyond the everyday world.

This confidence was hard‑won. When St Robert’s was built, Catholicism in England was only just emerging from centuries of suspicion and persecution. It was less than two hundred years since the last Catholic martyr was hanged, drawn and quartered at Tyburn, and only forty‑four years since the Catholic Emancipation Act of 1829. Earlier Catholic churches had been built with great caution.

Many people fail to notice the church of St Mary’s when they pass through Knaresborough. That's because when it opened in 1830, it had been built in a deliberately discreet way, resembling more a school or a meeting hall and that was due to the residual hostility Catholics still faced at the time.

Indeed, when moves were made to build a Catholic chapel in Harrogate in 1842, the vicar of Low Harrogate helped scupper the plans, famously warning the people of the town of the 'most blasphemous doctrines of the Church of Rome'.

But, by the 1870s, something had changed. Catholics could once again build openly and visibly with less opposition. The very presence of this church became, then, a public sign of faith and renewal, the raising of these walls being an expression of hope: a conviction that God should be worshipped with beauty, that the ancient faith could once again help shape the life of English society, and that future generations could gather here to hear the Gospel and receive the sacraments.

That hope has been richly fulfilled. Over more than 150 years, this church has stood at the centre of countless lives. Here children were baptised, couples stood before this altar as brides and grooms - Emily and Andrew will be the latest ones this coming Tuesday - standing on the same spot as four generations of Emily's family. 

Loved ones have been mourned here but in the light of the resurrection, and generations knelt before the Blessed Sacrament carrying the same hopes and fears we carry today - worries about illness and work, anxieties about the future, and private sorrows known only to God.

These walls have also witnessed profound suffering. From this very church, young men left in uniform for the trenches of the First World War and later for the battlefields, seas, and skies of the Second.

Families would gather here to pray for sons, brothers, husbands, and fathers whose very lives were put at the service of their country. I remember kneeling before Mass at the age of twelve in our parish of First Martyrs in Bradford, my mother quietly telling me and my two siblings to pray for our eldest brother who had just left to join the Army.

That simple moment of prayer linking us directly with generations before us. How many mothers, in churches like this, have knelt with the a mixture of fear, faith, and hope, placing the lives of their children into God’s hands?

Sadly, in those years of war, many never returned. They were dark years and the Church did what she has always done and continues to do today: place sorrow into the hands of God, proclaim hope in the midst of loss, and remind grieving hearts that, because of Christ, death does not have the last word.

Through all of this, the Holy Spirit was at work.

The same Spirit who descended upon the apostles at Pentecost guided this parish through growth and hardship, faith and doubt, joy and grief. There were times when this church overflowed on Sundays and parish life flourished. In more recent years, it may have seemed that those days were gone forever. And yet, quietly and often unexpectedly, there are signs of renewal once again.

We’re all aware of the increase in the numbers of people seeking to join the Church, both locally and nationally, many of whom speak of a profound sense of “coming home” - as though, after a time of restless searching, they have discovered not something 'new', but rather 'long awaited': a faith spacious enough for the mind, nourishing for the soul, and providing the resilience needed to carry the weight of human life.

In a world so often marked by noise, distraction, and division, the quiet power of the Holy Spirit continues to draw hearts towards Christ. The Spirit speaks more deeply than the ideologies that fracture society, proves more lasting than the passing fashions of each age, and calls us beyond the endless distractions that compete for the human heart.

All of this should give us tremendous hope. Because the true life of the Church is greater than numbers or nostalgia. It’s found in the faithfulness of ordinary people: in prayers whispered in silence, acts of kindness and trust, courage in suffering, and hearts that slowly learn to trust in God.

That’s why this building matters so greatly. It is the house of God. It is where the sacraments are celebrated and generations have encountered Christ. It is why we began the building fund: to preserve what we have received, not for ourselves alone, but for those who will come after us.

If you look up at the roof of this church, you will notice that it resembles the hull of a great ship turned upside down. That’s no accident. From the earliest centuries, Christians understood the Church to be a vessel carrying God’s people through the storms of life towards the safe harbour of Christ. The barque of Peter, was the name given to it by Tertullian, one of the early Church Fathers.

The word nave, where the people sit, comes from the Latin navis, meaning ship. It’s where we get the words ‘navy’ and ‘navigation’. So, we gather here in this nave not as isolated individuals, but as fellow travellers, sustained by word and sacrament, upheld by one another’s faith, and carried forward by each other’s prayers.

Today, Pentecost Sunday, we remember frightened disciples transformed by the gift of the Holy Spirit into people capable of carrying the Gospel to the ends of the earth. It was that same Spirit who inspired those Victorian Catholics to build this church with confidence in the future. It is that same Spirit who sustained later generations through war, loss, and sacrifice. And it is that same Spirit who is quietly at work among us today.

If those first parishioners could walk into St Robert’s now, much would astonish them. But they would also recognise something deeply familiar: a small red light on the sanctuary signifying the Lord’s presence, the Gospel still proclaimed, people still gathering for Mass, and hearts still searching for God.

And whose task is it now to tend that flame and pass it on? Yours and mine. There is no one else.

Pentecost poses a number of questions – do we need to put our faith up a notch in our order of life’s priorities? Do we need to take a more firm stand against those who would water it down? Do we need to give more help to the Holy Spirit in His many tasks?

Let’s pray on this great feastday of the Church for a deeper openness to the Holy Spirit - that renewed in confidence and hope, we may each play our part in the continually unfolding story of this parish, and of the ancient faith carried to these islands by Augustine, by placing the practice of that faith more firmly at the centre of our own lives.

The same Spirit who descended at Pentecost, who inspired those Victorian builders, and who has sustained this parish through generations of prayer, sacrifice, sorrow, and joy, is still alive and active today - here within these sacred walls, and here within our hearts.

As we imagine stepping back through time to meet those first parishioners of the 1870s, we should remember this too: one day others will look back on us in exactly the same way. We are now the latest custodians in a long line of believers who received the flame of faith from those before them and were entrusted to hand it on undimmed to those yet to come.

In two thousand years, the fire first kindled in the apostles has never been extinguished despite an army of opposition.

And now the sacred responsibility rests with us: to keep the flame of faith burning so that future generations may find in St Roberts not merely a beautiful building, but a bastion of prayer, a ship of faith where Christ truly finds a home amongst His people.