There are two ways in which we can fail to appreciate the significance of the martyrs. The first is the view that they are so much greater than us that they have nothing to teach us and we have no chance of imitating them. When we have considered Blessed Salvio in the past, we saw how his careful and meticulous work and prayer led him to sanctity, thus presenting him as an example for our imitation. Today, I would like to consider the other barrier to our appreciation of his sanctity.

It is all too easy to lose sight of Blessed Salvio as an Oratorian, a bishop, or even a Christian. In a modern view of history, he can very easily become another statistic in the analysis of a highly political war. One of thousands of bishops, priests and religious killed in a war during which hundreds of thousands lost their lives. To oppose this view of martyrs as statistics on one side of a table segregated by political affiliation, we must focus on their defining feature: conformity to Christ. In particular, conformity to Christ in a death like his. This is something which we see very clearly in Blessed Salvio.

When he realised that he was putting his friends in danger by hiding with them, Blessed Salvio gave himself up to the local authorities saying: “I am the Bishop of Lerida and I place myself under your protection.” There is no doubt that he knew that martyrdom would follow this course of action, but his words reveal something about Bishop Huix’s idea of his identity. He was a bishop and it was his role to be a public figure and to stand up for the Faith and to die for it if necessary after the example of Our Lord. It was the role of the civil authorities to provide him with protection, but the fact that they failed in their duties did not mean that he was willing to give up his. He was not a partisan in a political conflict, but a bishop who was living out his priestly identity after the pattern of Christ and, like Christ, died because his identity was ignored in the darkness of secular struggles.

That Christ-like identity shines through even more clearly at his death. Without concern about himself, Blessed Salvio’s attention was fixed on the salvation of his fellow priests who were facing martyrdom together with him. He allowed his mental anguish to be prolonged and received additional physical suffering, being shot in his right hand in an effort to stop him from absolving his flock. But that did not stop him and he continued to absolve them with his left hand as a good shepherd who overcomes obstacles to care for his flock and helps them to reach paradise, where he himself is headed, no matter the cost to himself. Again, if his aims were political, they would have ended at his death, but because he was serving God, his work lasts forever.

Therefore, let us imitate the meticulous growth in sanctity that strengthened Blessed Salvio in his martyrdom, and celebrate his feast remembering that he was both ordinary enough for us to imitate him and Christ-like enough to make that imitation worthwhile.

In recent years our Oratory has grown and grown in devotion to our Oratorian martyr whom we celebrate on 6th November: Blessed Salvio Huix (pronounced something like ‘hush’ — hopefully that makes sense of the title). The altarino with his portrait painted by Alvin Ong in 2014 is placed just round the corner from the entrance to our church on the Gospel side and it is encouraging to see how many people pray there, silently and in trust, asking for the intercession of our first beatified martyr. Our church receives a constant stream of visitors, tourists and faithful alike, and our Spanish visitors are always surprised and delighted to discover one of their own martyrs in that little corner of Oxford which is forever Ibiza (or Lleida, where he was also bishop and where he was martyred).

Reflections in previous years have told the now familiar story of his martyrdom: “in the tumult of the Spanish Civil War, his palace was attacked by the socialists and he found refuge in the house of his loyal servants. To save those who sheltered him he handed himself over to the Republicans and was imprisoned. On 5 August 1936 he and twenty other prisoners were taken to the municipal cemetery and forced to dig their own graves. Bishop Huix was offered his freedom if only he would renounce his faith; rather he requested to be the last to die so he could assist his fellow victims as they went to their deaths. One of the socialists grew furious and shot him in his right hand so that he could no longer bless; he continued to do so with his left hand instead. He was killed by a shot to the head.”

But Bishop Huix would almost certainly have been considered for the glories of the altars even without his martyrdom. In all the portraits and photographs we have of him what shines forth is his fundamental goodness and his kindness. There are many formal portraits of him as provost of Vic and later as bishop; in these we can see the seriousness with which he approached the heavy burden of responsibility that God had laid upon his shoulders in calling him to be a shepherd of God’s people. Yet there are also photographs of him in more unguarded moments — happily smiling, radiating a real Philippine joy. This serious commitment to the Lord and the joy he found in his life with his Master came from one place: prayer. Blessed Salvio led a life of extraordinary mortification and spent many hours in prayer each day. He had learnt very early that we can do nothing without God.

We do, naturally, know him principally for his martyrdom. His loyalty, his faith, his courage in that moment when he was called to imitate Christ in laying down his life for his flock. Years before he had prayed:

Now, most loving Father, I also place myself on the altar of sacrifice and I beg you to deign to receive the total offering that I make of myself, of my soul with all its powers and of my body with all its senses; everything is a gift and a gift that I have received from your infinite generosity; I return it to you as a token of gratitude and homage, protesting here, in the presence of the angels that surround this altar, that I do not want to use your gifts except if it is in accordance with your most holy will.

God accepted his offering. Would we I wonder have that same courage? As we celebrate the English martyrs, and others too from further away lands, in so many days of the liturgical year, I often ask myself what I would do. Would I, on a cold day, have the courage and the conviction to put myself into the hands of the enemies of our Faith, to be dragged through the streets, through a baying crowd…? Would I have the warmth of heart to love God, even whilst standing on a cold scaffold within sight of the instruments that would take to death? Or would I run away, would I give in, would fear conquer anything else in me?

None of us can say of course. But we can hope and we can trust. The life of Blessed Salvio teaches us that every day is a day to lay down our life for Christ. Not always before guns and ropes, but before those less visible enemies: discontent, selfishness, murmuring, self-will, sin… Like Blessed Salvio we need to get on our knees and pray each day to know and to trust and to love the Good Lord who laid down his life so that we might live with him. When we do doubt, when we are afraid, perhaps we will ask the prayers of Blessed Salvio, that we too may take God seriously, and like him, that we may trust and hope, and find our joy in allowing ourselves each day to hear the quiet but encouraging voice of the source of all courage.

It’s an interesting activity, when you have a few minutes, to take a look through the books in your home and ask yourself which ones you think people will still be reading in fifty, a hundred, or five hundred years’ time. Probably not many of them. That’s not to say that they should be forgotten, but simply that, in the end, most things are. Some ancient texts enjoyed great popularity, and now exist only in small fragments treasured by museums. Shakespeare was not the only playwright of his day, but who remembers his contemporaries? It is easy to imagine that in our digital age, everything will last forever, but even now, things go missing. Not everything survives. But St John Henry Newman probably will.

A century and a half after his death, he is read more widely than ever. That’s remarkable not only by the standards of spiritual writing, but by any standard. Of all the Christian writers of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, perhaps only St Thérèse of Lisieux can rival him for lasting influence.

On Saturday, Our Cardinal will be declared a Doctor of the Church. This is a recognition of his contribution to unpacking the Church’s teaching. In fact, not only did he help to explain so many of the doctrines that had been handed down for 1800 years, but one of his greatest contributions was to explain how we can still find new things to unpack in our own day, without changing or adding to the deposit of faith Christ left to his disciples.

Newman’s less technical writings have no less influence. His sermons teach all of us about the Christian life. His meditations and devotions teach all of us about prayer. And he has something in particular to say to those just outside the Catholic Church, who are thinking about coming in. So many have read his works as part of their journey into the “One True Fold of the Redeemer”. His example of searching for the truth teaches others almost as much as his writings do.

But his message is not only for those who are not already Catholic. Conversion is not a single event but a lifelong process. As he famously wrote, “Here below, to live is to change, and to be perfect is to have changed often.” Every one of us is called to continual conversion, until we reach that perfection to which Christ calls us, “building up the body of Christ, until we all attain to the unity of the faith and of the knowledge of the Son of God, to mature manhood, to the measure of the stature of the fulness of Christ.” (Eph. 4:13)

May St John Henry Newman continue to guide us on that journey — through his writings, through his example and by his intercession. St John Henry Newman, pray for us.