Sunday 5 October 2025
St Winefride Church, Neston
All through Mass the alcove lightbulb, the one illuminating the statue of Mary behind the altar, flickered on and off.
I was staying on the Wirral with family and, looking for the earliest Mass, settled on St Winifride’s in Neston.
Storm Amy had arrived as a bit of a breeze in the North West but was now blowing a relentless gale. Nothing looked at it’s best, including me. Leaves and bits and bobs had been blown about, and my shirt was unironed. But the church looked lovely, set back from the road behind red stone wall and a handsome fir tree. It had free parking, and a warm welcome. And that flickering Mary.
I took a seat at the back. Then, thinking that early services rarely fill up, moved forward a few rows, confident I wouldn’t be taking anyone’s regular spot. At which point the doors opened and the crowds filed in, taking up seats in the rows in front, beside, and behind.
It was an older congregation. There were one or two families but in general the hair was grey not blue. The women in front nudged closer to each other for a catch up. One reported back on her cellulitis, to several friends, a word she whispered as if it dripped with old fashioned shame.
The congregation may have been old but the priest was young. He was more energetic than what I was used to, like the flickering light, and spoke from in front of the pulpit. For a few moments I noticed a sense of being homesick and wanted my regular Mass. But I soon got the hang of it. Especially when he started with the Confiteor.
We often skip this prayer back home, but I’m drawn to prayers asking forgiveness. Naturally guilty, I feel better when put in my place. Psalm 50 does this every Friday morning. And so does the Confiteor. Not only do we as a congregation pray for forgiveness, but we beat our chests three times. Not just words but a physical act of contrition. Perhaps the only catholic prayer with a performative element.
The homily was lively, including a personal story about being stuck in traffic, growing impatient, and not seeing the real source of the problem. It reminded me of some of the Anglican sermons I’d heard, with a personal story weaved (successfully or not) into union with the message of the Gospel.
But there was that flickering light, drawing attention away, like the storm outside.