The Day South Africa got its first Cardinal

Becoming a cardinal can give you a spring in your step, as Owen McCann, archbishop of Cape Town, found when he received the red hat in 1965. His former secretary, MICHAEL SHACKLETON, recalls how a sick archbishop became a vigorous cardinal.

Owen McCann, the archbishop of Cape Town, had been present at the first three sessions, sitting among the enormous throng of fellow bishops in the imposing setting of St Peters basilica. At this fourth session he found himself seated among the elite group of fellow cardinals. In February of that year Pope Paul VI had made him South Africas first cardinal.

The news of the appointment came to him at a moment that was, oddly enough, inconvenient.

In December 1964 he had returned home feeling fatigued. He said the third session of the Council had been stressful, due mainly to the uncomfortable long hours the assembly had endured debating the content of the proposed document that eventually became the Constitution on the Church in the Modern World (Lumen gentium).

As chairman of the Southern African Bishops Conference at the time, which met together weekly during Vatican II’s sessions, he sharply felt the pressure of the frustrating debates around this issue, not to mention the other business of the Council.

As a resolute upholder of Church doctrine, he admitted that he and many other bishops found themselves in deep water because the document’s focus was not primarily on doctrine but on how the Church could interact with the modern world. This was a territory he was somewhat unfamiliar with. No previous ecumenical council had directly tackled the question of the Church and its relationship with secular affairs.

Coincidentally, although knowledge of his state of exhaustion was not widely known, The Southern Cross issue of October 28, 1964 published a picture of him entering St Peters, with an innocent tongue-in-cheek caption: Why is Archbishop McCann looking so worried while climbing the steps of St Peters? Is he depressed by the Roman heat wave or by the tremendous speed of the deliberations since the opening of the third session?

When at the end of the session Pope Paul announced that he intended to travel to India to preside at the 38th international Eucharistic Congress to be held in Bombay (now Mumbai) from November 27 to December 6, Owen McCann decided he wanted to be there too. But he hit a snag.

Because of the apartheid policy then fiercely in force in South Africa, the Indian government implacably refused him entry. The Vatican endeavoured to assist by offering him a diplomatic passport. He declined because, he said, he wanted to represent South Africa in India, and not the Vatican.

Eventually, Cardinal Valerian Gracias, archbishop of Bombay, put in a few smooth explanatory words with the Indian authorities, and Archbishop McCann had his visa, which delighted him.

Perhaps he did not realise just how much the stress and extra travel had truly exhausted him. In Bombay, keeping up with the various papal functions left him drained of energy.

When at length he landed home in Cape Town he appeared gaunt. He would not see his doctor and claimed he had picked up a bug somewhere. Conscientious, as ever, he sat late into the night catching up on lost hours of paperwork. At Christmas, he celebrated Midnight Mass in the cathedral as usual.

But it was obvious to his vicar-general, Mgr Jack Galvin, and the chancery staff and clergy that he needed to see a doctor urgently. He was patently bone-weary and sometimes lost track of what he was saying. This was not like him, a man with a focused and precise mind.

Then on January 4, 1965 his doctor, Sid Kiel, waving aside the archbishop’s protests, put him into the Monastery hospital in Sea Point, run by the Holy Family Sisters. Doctors’ orders were for him to rest completely for at least three weeks.

The Monastery was well known for its medical excellence. Doctors in the area regularly praised the dedication, expertise and efficiency of the Sisters and staff. It was also the designated treatment centre for sick seamen, many of whom were airlifted from passing ships.

I visited the archbishop every day as he lay flat on his back, looking green about the gills. He would quiz me about every detail of the business going on at the archdiocesan chancery in his absence. He even drafted letters for his typist, Sr Sheila Bell, to have ready for him to sign.

One morning, while he was instructing me about my duties for the day, the redoubtable Sr Peter walked in. Over many years she had become well versed in the behaviour of patients, not least the rough and ready seamen.

She greeted us politely and then abruptly halted. Glancing at the papers in our hands, she glared at the pair of us. Turning a compelling eye on the archbishop she demanded: What’s all this? You are supposed to be resting!

She deftly drew the pen and papers from his fingers and pressed them into my hands, ordering me to remove them from her sight. Then she addressed the man in the bed.

Look here, she said with the hint of a threat in her eye, there are no archbishops in this hospital. There are only patients, and patients do what I tell them. Remember this: you are not indispensable.

From that moment Owen McCann began to relax, and even appeared relieved. I believe he needed someone like Sr Peter with the right credentials to take his mind from his high office and to concentrate it on his low state of health and the seriousness of the need to recuperate.

When he left the hospital he let me take him out to buy a couple of light, white jackets to replace the austere black that he always appeared in. He moved into End House in Gordons Bay, a little holiday spot where clergy and religious could now and then enjoy a spell of a rest by the sea. Smiling, he declared how well he liked it there and how he was looking forward to being back at work in a week or two.

The summer days and sea air were like a balm and the archbishop’s health rapidly responded. He actually obeyed doctors’ orders and was in no hurry to return to his post.

Then on Monday, January 25, 1965 the apostolic delegate, Archbishop Joseph McGeough, brought him the incredible news that Paul VI had included him among 27 newly named cardinals who would receive the red hat on February 22 in Rome.

Owen McCann was stunned. He immediately returned to Cape Town and to his desk. Messages of congratulation came flooding in from all quarters, home and abroad. Cape Town’s mayor and the city council declared their pride that a son of the city had been so deservedly promoted by the Church.

There was no hint of a goodwill message from the South African government. This was not surprising because of the many times the archbishop had condemned its apartheid policies.

It was rumoured that the pope had chosen McCann as South Africa’s first cardinal because of his tenacity against the odds to attend the Bombay Eucharistic Congress as a patriotic South African Catholic. Whether Owen McCann knew the real reason or not, he said nothing except to insist that the honour was directed not to himself but to the Church in South Africa and to Cape Town.

This sincere modesty was very much in character. But Archbishop Denis Hurley of Durban shifted the limelight to where it belonged when he wrote: Warmest and heartfelt congratulations. Delighted at news for South Africa, Cape Town and McCann.

Those who knew how sick the cardinal-elect had been, asked themselves whether he would be strong enough to carry even more responsibilities than before. Some of his priests pessimistically predicted that his health might now take a backward step and he would not wear the red hat for long. They were wrong: he wore the red hat until his death at 86 in March 1994.

Contrary to expectation, he astounded everyone with his sudden new surge of vigour, almost as if his sick-leave had been a preparation for this unexpected turn of events. He was now unquestionably the picture of health, and the decisive and confident archbishop again.

As for me, when he almost casually remarked that because I was now a Cardinals secretary, he would need me to accompany him to the Vatican Council’s final session in September, I suddenly grasped the fact that this new adventure was not to be the Cardinals alone. The two of us would share the historic moment, each in our own way.

n Like Cardinal McCann, Michael Shackleton is a former editor of The Southern Cross.