Bishop NIKOL CAUCHI was a dedicated servant to the Church, his flock and Gozo. But he was also a profound human being with a sense of charity and fun. Steve Mallia offers some personal reflections on a close friend.

A little over two years ago, a week or so before Mgr Cauchi was expecting to have surgery to replace a narrowing heart valve, he received a call at his room in the Gozo Seminary from a certain Joe Pace from Xewkija – who was always a thorn in the bishop’s side during his weekly phone-in radio programmes.

Mr Pace accused Mgr Cauchi of banning his calls from the live broadcasts and then got personal – commenting on the bishop’s obesity. “You’re wrong on the first score,” retorted Mgr Cauchi, who was on edge and upset by the exchange because of the impending operation, “and you’re not even entirely correct about the second because I have been doing something about my weight (he had lost over 10kg).”

Shortly after, Mr Pace was admitted to hospital in a serious condition and Mgr Cauchi was beset with concern about him – checking to ensure he received good care as well as going to his bedside. This was typical of a man who was known to ask forgiveness from people he had quarrelled with, even when he was in the right – and was proof, if any were needed, that the bishop lived up to one of his favourite maxims: that as much as one condemns an erroneous act of a human being, that condemnation should not be extended to the person himself.

As the people concerned are aware, Mgr Cauchi applied this principle to much more serious cases than the one I have mentioned. And in his own quiet way, he prayed for everyone (even for Saddam Hussein the day before he was hanged) irrespective of what they had done. All he ever asked of people in return was that they prayed for him too, though he was not entirely convinced that anybody did.

Mr Pace quite quickly passed away and Mgr Cauchi decided at the last minute against having the heart operation as it was deemed too risky, but as with almost every aspect of his life the bishop managed to find the light side to even this serious physical ailment. After periodical visits to his cardiac consultant, he would often say, “The doctor tells me to walk more and eat less. But instead I eat more and walk less”, before his entire face – lips, cheeks and in particular his eyes – broke into the most disarming of broad smiles that would have a ripple effect on everyone around him.

He did follow one piece of medical advice to improve his metabolism – eating regular snacks – but was a little disappointed when I was forced to point out to him that these were supposed to replace his larger meals, not supplement them.

His love of food was difficult to suppress and he made no effort to hide the fact. He often recounted the time Archbishop Michael Gonzi had asked him to stay for lunch after a meeting between the two men. The former Archbishop, a light eater, gave his Gozitan counterpart nothing but a tiny bowl of soup which meant he went away hungry. Mgr Cauchi never accepted a lunch invitation from him again. On another occasion he was, together with his secretary at the time, on his way to catch the last ferry back to Gozo (which was in the afternoon back then) and since he had ample time on his hands, stopped to take advantage of the fruits of an appealing fig tree – only to become so engrossed in the feast that he missed the boat, forcing him to spend the night in Malta.

I attempted to exert a measure of control over Mgr Cauchi’s eating habits. But even when I was in his company he would try and slip in an extra portion while I was not looking, especially if pasta or pizza was on the table.

However, it was not just his appetite that contributed to his health condition. Throughout his life he just considered everything else to be more important: writing, broadcasting, running the diocese and, of course, religious ceremonies. His guiding lights throughout were duty, devotion to the Church and his flock, and simplicity.

While he would invariably turn down invitations to receptions, he always did everything possible to accede to a request to celebrate Mass even when old age was catching up with him and if it meant he had to do two back to back in the hot summer months. Acutely aware of his attitude towards his physical self, I had suggested to him some years back to allocate at least a once weekly slot to some exercise, which more often than not involved a walk in one of Gozo’s many scenic spots or a gentle swim at the indoor pool housed in the Arka Respite Centre.

While he enjoyed the excursions (well, the swimming occasionally took some persuasion), he would sometimes call me shortly before we were due to meet to see how we could work round a last-minute engagement request that he could just not refuse. Somehow we always managed, even if it meant the effort for him, particularly in more recent years, was greater. But he so hated to disappoint.

Mgr Cauchi was born at the family home in Għarb on March 29, 1929, and was the eldest of five siblings (Tereżina, Ġemma, Maurice and Achilles). His parents had another child who passed away at the age of two months, and the same fate almost beset five-year-old Nikol, who was always referred to as Kollinu or Kol, when he contracted what was thought to have been meningitis.

His condition was so bad that doctors told his parents he would be better off dead because there was a risk of brain damage. One of his uncles rushed to Victoria to find the then Bishop of Gozo, Mgr Gonzi, who administered the last rites to Kollinu, but the little boy survived.

Not only was there no sign of mental impairment, but it soon became clear that the tiny rural village had a precocious boy on its hands – and one who was keen from an early age to take on roles in community life. Kollinu was an altar boy in the village church where his father was the sacristan, and he took part in several local stage productions. And when he played with friends he was always the general or the leader.

He was an active child, “naughty in other words” as he once told me. Among his misdemeanours was skipping school occasionally along with a few of his contemporaries , or going “on strike” as he described it, until conscience got the better of him and he told his mother – who informed the school – to the chagrin of fellow truants.

Kollinu was also a voracious reader, taking books with him to a cave at his beloved Dwejra, where he would spend hours, or to the garigor (spiral staircase) of his grandmother’s house in Għarb, where he would read and have a sly smoke of his priest uncle’s pipes. The only problem was that his grandmother did not know he was there until one day she was startled to stumble upon him, and his uncle was always looking for his pipes.

But his appetite for books had now become insatiable and his mind had a spellbinding capacity to store much of what he read. As he was growing, he got more involved in Catholic life and taught catechism to younger children.

His thoughts inevitably started turning towards priesthood and – although he experienced a period of doubt, wondering whether he should be a schoolteacher instead – he was ordained on March 29, 1952.

He went on to study philosophy in Rome because the Seminary in Gozo was in need of a lecturer in the subject, and during his time at the Gregorian University took up a newly established course in sociology before returning to Gozo as a teacher and parish priest of Fontana in 1955. Just 11 years later, at the age of 37, he was called to Rome and to the surprise of many offered the position of Apostolic Administrator of Gozo, since Bishop Joseph Pace’s health was obviously failing, before officially becoming Bishop of Gozo on September 10, 1972.

It took him a week to say yes to the original offer, because he found the prospect daunting: “Becoming a bishop is something I always thought was a little far from me, perhaps... I always asked God to put me in a place where I could do some good. Whether it was a priest, a deacon, a patriarch. The important thing is that I was able to do spiritual good to others. That was my only desire,” he had said in an interview.

His early years as bishop were anything but easy as he encountered trouble in the parishes of Victoria that would recur repeatedly during his 38-year tenure as head of the diocese. Things became so bad at one point that a policeman was detailed to keep watch outside the Seminary in Gozo, where Mgr Cauchi had taken up residence.

“This happened when some people in Victoria were protesting about my decisions. I didn’t enjoy it very much to tell you the truth,” the bishop had said in a typically understated manner.

This was a problem that dogged him till the end of his bishopric. Reflecting on the experience, he had said: “It cost me a lot of time and energy, but I always believed and still believe that with education and progress these things would gradually dissipate. What I thought would happen in 30 years perhaps needs 40 or 50.”

In recent months, he was planning an autobiography, which was unfortunately never written. But he did tell me he was beginning to revisit incidents he would rather have forgotten. That is how much it hurt a man who had only ever wanted to see harmony among the people he loved.

Throughout his term in office, he sought to bring changes to his diocese – ensuring seminarians spent a year abroad and setting up a number of structures that involved laymen – as well as taking every opportunity to defend Gozo and its inhabitants. A number of people are homeowners today thanks to the fact that he provided land at giveaway prices, and he stoutly promoted the interests of workers and farmers – through public statements and his editorship of Il-Ħajja f’Għawdex.

Even in recent years he used any influence at his disposal to help people (he enjoyed describing himself as a campaigner for lost causes) – recently helping a Gozitan father to regain custody of a child who was living abroad with his mother against his will.

All the while, Mgr Cauchi lived in a spirit of simplicity. His three rooms at the Seminary would be considered substandard by many of us, and yet it was the place that brought him most contentment. He did not have a fridge, and possessed only a minuscule table to dine upon – where meals left for him by the nuns would often be cold by the time he returned from his duties. But he never complained.

On the contrary, it proved impossible to shift him from these surroundings. When I once embarked on the arduous exercise of moving his 5,000-plus books from there (he didn’t call his desk Magħtab for nothing) after I thought I had persuaded him switch to better accommodation at a newly built extension in a pastoral centre, bit by bit he started to take them back – such was the magnetic effect the Seminary had on him.

Meanwhile, the ring and cross he wore throughout his episcopate were virtually worthless in terms of monetary value despite the fact that people had given him much more valuable items.

He practised the charity that he preached too, regularly contributing quietly to the missions and dropping monetary notes into the collection box at the Respite Centre after he used the pool. I once came across some old pieces of paper in one of his desk draws with cash amounts written upon them. When I asked what they were, he explained with a rather wry smile that they referred to money he had personally lent to members of his flock – not that he had much – and which was never repaid. Even during his term of office he personally paid for his own car, fuel and if he went on a pastoral visit, he would fund the flights.

Few people knew these things because he was an intensely private and intrinsically shy human being, who revealed little of his real self except to the very few who got close to him. This could have led some to misjudge him, because his character was such that he was reluctant to express his feelings, even though they ran very deep.

Whenever he remarked to me that he did “not regret” doing something, I knew this actually meant he really enjoyed it. It was just his way. And he went to great lengths – too great in my view – to try and please everybody, at times with costly personal consequences.

His legendary ability to speak with a simple tongue, recount stories and tell jokes was, of course, what endeared him to many. When he attended the Bishops’ Synod in Rome at the start of the decade, the Archbishop of Milan, Dionigi Tettamanzi, made it a point to dine on the table where Mgr Cauchi was sitting to share his humour, and many years earlier he had befriended Albano Luciani (Pope John Paul I), who said the cigars smoked by the Gozitan bishop reminded him of his father.

But at the same time his humour was a weapon he used to great effect if he wanted to avoid discussing certain subjects – particularly when he was in the company of politicians, so afraid was he to allow them to find out what he was really thinking.

That is not to say he did not tell jokes for the fun of it. Quite the contrary. There are few things he enjoyed more than making people smile, though he graded his jokes in three categories to ensure they were suitable for their audience: those that could be said in front of nuns; ones for general purposes, and AO – which actually were not very AO at all. At the same time, he was self depreciating, freely poking fun at his rotundity and happily recounting any time he had got himself into an embarrassing situation.

This reflected an inner intellectual confidence that marked him out. He had a great brain which he could call upon at will and on almost any subject to provide insight, anecdote and inspiration.

He never sought to impose his views, but by his conduct and example was a great teacher. Although he gave up on trying to teach me Latin – because I was a poor student – practically every time I met him I felt I learned something new; even during the 19-day period he spent in hospital, where after initial suffering he displayed serenity and reflection – not to mention splashes of humour.

In the weeks leading up to his rather sudden admission, he increasingly felt that all was not well with his health. However, he carried on working (the day before his admission he struggled through a broadcast on Radju Marija) and expressed a wish to go to Lourdes – which unfortunately never materialised – after praying to the Virgin Mary, to whom he was a most dedicated devotee, for guidance over whether he should make the trip or not.

While Mgr Cauchi was in hospital, we discussed an article he was planning to write to discuss this most unfamiliar experience – which would also have given him the opportunity to thank the doctors, nurses and other staff members who made every effort to give him the best possible care. He was enormously grateful for it.

Had he known what was coming, he would have also wanted to thank his secretary, Fr Renato Borg, for 19 years of dedicated service, and his family for all the support they provided him. It was no coincidence that when someone once remarked to him that if he moved from the Seminary he would be in “il ġenna ta’ l-art” (heaven on earth), his spontaneous response was why do I need that when I have “il-Ġemma ta’ Għarb” (a reference to one of his sisters). The poignant wit was ever present.

Many of us now hope he is in the real Heaven. Expressing anxiety some months ago over whether he was sufficiently prepared to make the final journey, he remarked to me that he took some solace after reading about a man who had said that if he didn’t have anything else going for him, then maybe St Peter would let him through the gates by virtue of his sense of humour.

On that score alone, God has welcomed Mgr Cauchi with open arms. But He’d better hide the pasta.