Diversions
Outings and Opinions

Chris Price

  Introduction

The essays and poems in this collection were originally published as articles in Newslink, the monthly parish magazine of St Faith’s Church in Crosby, north of Liverpool. As magazine editor for over forty years, I have indulged myself by publishing my own writing whenever there were empty pages to fill, and this little book of diversions is the result.

The pieces were not, and are not proclamations of the faith, sermon substitutes or attempts to evangelise, though they are written from an unashamedly Anglican Christian viewpoint. Many of them would come under the heading of travel writing, being accounts of special and often unusual places of worship I have visited over the years, often in relatively remote parts of England, Wales and Scotland.  They cover a geographical range from the remotest part of the Shetland Isles to western Cornwall, and most, though not all, are located in the Celtic fringes of our island. Although broadly descriptive, these pieces often contain observations and commentaries.

Other pieces are more rooted in controversy and the expression of strongly-held opinions, having their roots in events and happenings – including newspaper stories, films and television programmes – which have provoked a response in this writer over the years. Some were designed to amuse and entertain, and may prove to be diversions in more than the merely geographical sense. Finally, there are a few poems: one or two by other writers to accompany prose pieces, and two or three of my own, written since the publication of my verse collections: ‘Poems from the Back Pew’, ‘Reflections’ and ‘Afterthoughts’, all of which are  in print.

Each piece is a product of its time – some were written 20 or so years ago – and while churches and islands don’t date much, happenings and opinions do. I have updated one or two essays, others may have been overtaken by events.

It is my hope that those who persevere beyond this introduction may find something to connect with their own experience, to echo, maybe, their own feelings or beliefs, or merely to give passing pleasure and Diversion.

First impression March 2009

Uploaded in instalments to website from June, 2011

Fight the Good Fight?


The other day, browsing TV channels, I happened upon the last half hour or so of the Kenneth Branagh film of Shakespeare’s ‘Henry V’. I came in just as the victorious, exhausted English soldiery, having beaten the French at the battle of Agincourt, were streaming off the battlefield. Then a powerful and moving sequence unfolded. A solitary soldier began to sing, unaccompanied, ‘Non nobis domine’ to a lyrical and haunting tune. As he finished the lines, others joined, then more and more caught up the tune and repeated it. As the camera tracked slowly past lines of weary, muddy and bloodstained survivors, some carrying the dead and wounded, the chorus swelled to a triumphant climax.  Everyone seemed to be singing,  many  looking heavenward, and all caught up in the power of the moment as they offered thanks to God and dedicated the victory to him, led by the King, whose progress we have followed as he carried a wounded comrade the length of this famous four-minute tracking shot.

The words are: ‘Non nobis, Domine, non nobis, Sed nomine tuo da gloriam’, which the translates as: ‘Not to us, O Lord, not to us, but to your name give glory.’ The original musical canon was, apparently wrongly, attributed to William Byrd; the Branagh film’s music was written by contemporary English composer Patrick Doyle.

A powerful and telling piece of modern film-making, then, and one which gave this writer pause for reflection. Shakespeare, it is surely fair to say, would have included this hymn of heartfelt praise for victory as a patriotic and religious statement with no hint of irony. The soldiers at the real battle of Agincourt, had they actually been moved to sing, would have doubtless been just as happy to attribute the victory and offer its glory to the God in whom, as a matter of course, they believed.

Six hundred years later, the host of muddy film extras seen singing their tired hearts out on location with Branagh, would, I suspect, have been far less likely to subscribe to these sentiments. Some of them, provided of course that they were English film extras, would have had no problem with uttering patriotic sentiments, (although some critics lambasted the film as jingoistic and accused Branagh of suspiciously Thatcherite leanings) - but singing a hymn of praise to God might stick in the throat of many of today’s more cynical liberal agnostics.

And what of us today? We are rightly happy to ascribe our successes, and the triumphs of good over evil, to the hand of our God. We can praise him for sparing us from disaster, but are we (or should we be) as happy thanking him for victory against our enemies in war? Some wars can quite easily be seen as righteous crusades, where the spilling of ‘enemy’ blood is a sad but necessary and justified price to pay for preserving freedom and justice. Wars did away with Hitler – and with slavery.

But what about wars where things are less black and white, and where the other army is equally convinced that right is on its side? The soldiers who received the host before going over the top in the trenches grappled with troops who had been equally blessed and prepared and were equally convinced that God was on their side. Whichever side emerged victorious in such situations would sing ‘non nobis domine’ (or its secular equivalent for unbelievers) with the same fervour.

This is an age-old dilemma, for which there is no easy solution. It is hard to see how God can wish his creatures to pit themselves in battle against each other in his name, or for the sake of giving glory to it: yet without past wars, tyranny would almost certainly have been triumphant in many lands, not least our own. How do chaplains to the forces resolve this dilemma? In what we look back on as uncivilised times, kings, or their nominated champions if the kings were particularly old or weedy (or just sensible), would meet in single combat to decide crises of honour or territorial disputes. How about reviving the idea, and setting army chaplains against one another, armoured only in righteousness and righteous certainty, rather than whole armies? It would save a lot of waste, expense and bloodshed, and it would make marvellous films…

Anglicans at the Top of Britain    


Over the years, during my journeyings to the Highlands and Islands of Scotland, I have visited quite a few of the places of worship of various far-flung communities. To look round, and to worship in, these places is an intriguing experience. Severe and extreme Protestantism holds sway in a good many areas (too many, actually): especially the North West Highlands and the northernmost Hebrides. In those places everything closes for the Sabbath (even the lavatories are locked: no relief for the visitor!), many B and B establishments close, and the ferries mostly don’t run (even quite recently a minister led a protest against an attempt to run a Sunday ferry by lying down on the slipway). The services are often in Gaelic and are the ultimate in ‘hymn/prayer sandwich’ worship, with long and fierce sermons; this writer has yet to darken the doors of such a church.

The established church in Scotland is of course, the Church of Scotland (the Kirk), whose services are not unlike those of the Methodists or the U.R.C. south of the border. On the island of Coll we once attended the morning service on Pentecost Sunday: it was homely, welcoming and worshipful, but not until afterwards did we realise that neither in the hymns, the prayers or the sermon was there a single mention of the Holy Spirit!

The Anglican Communion in Scotland is represented by the Episcopal Church (the ‘Piscies’), in full communion with the C of E and with ancient roots in Scottish Christendom. Identified with the English gentry (they are also labelled the ‘English Church’), they are in fact thoroughly Scottish and, although few in numbers, have congregations throughout the country and its islands. Outside the cities and the lowlands, in areas where people are spread thinly, one priest often covers vast areas and covers huge mileages bringing the sacraments to handfuls of folk, sometimes in shared churches and people’s houses. On our travels, we have worshipped at Oban Cathedral and a good many smaller churches, and, on our recent pilgrimage to the Shetlands, encountered the Episcopal congregations there.

The Church of St Magnus in Lerwick has a resident male priest and an assistant female priest, covering two churches. Despite the churchmanship here and throughout the Episcopal church being reassuringly Catholic (plenty of candles, robed crucifers and choirs, vestments and sometimes even a whiff of holy smoke), they have, despite some fierce internal opposition, come to terms with the existence of women priests and indeed seem likely to see their first woman bishop before long.
 
We dropped in on a coffee morning in their hall on the previous day, were made very welcome and learnt, during the notices on the Sunday, that they had raised some £1,500 on the day (helped by much raffle ticket selling!). It all seemed reassuringly (or do I mean depressingly?) Anglican: a small congregation, subdued singing, far more women than men, hardly any young people and a cash crisis...

The honour of being the northernmost congregation in the Anglican Church goes not to St Magnus, but to the little church of St Colman on the island of Yell, only some few miles south, as the crow (or the bonxie) flies, from Muckle Flugga and the barren rock of Outstack that is the first landfall south of the Arctic Circle, and round which we sailed on a spectacular and dramatic wildlife cruise. We called in (and signed in, leaving greetings from St Faith’s) at this lovely little church.

But there is an Anglican presence a little further north again. On the little island of Fetlar there can be found the Society of Our Lady of the Isles: an Anglican sisterhood founded in recent years to bring the religious life back to the northern isles. Time did not allow a visit there, but I have been reading the books of Mother Mary Agnes, foundress and for seven years sole member of the order and recently herself priested, and was moved by her fascinating story of that remote and beautiful place.

Shetland is a wonderful place: all sea and islands, with the biggest oil terminal in Europe to bring it prosperity, fund a swimming pool for every 2,000 inhabitants and build fine roads to link the many isolated settlements. Its cliffs are ‘seabird cities’, peopled by puffins, fulmars, terns and gannets (and those bonxies: huge predatory gulls); its people look to Norway rather than to Scotland and burn a replica Viking longship in the dead of winter; it has a fully-furnished bus-shelter with its own website, where this writer ate cucumber sandwiches and sang, as instructed, the National Anthem on Jubilee Monday; its places have abrupt and harsh Nordic names like Yell, Unst and Skaw; it is a midge- and bagpipe-free zone; it lies further north than Bergen in Norway, which for its northernmost inhabitants, is the nearest railway station; its people are relaxed and so very friendly - and, crucially, it lacks the unyielding intolerance of the Sabbatarian ‘free’ church congregations further south. Its quiet ecumenism and lack of fanatical excess perfectly complement the scenic beauty of these distant islands at the very Top of Britain.

Canon and Convert

If you can’t be at St Faith’s on a Sunday morning, it is difficult to dream up anywhere better to be than at Chichester Cathedral celebrating its Feast of Title on Trinity Sunday.

That was where we were a few weeks ago, worshipping amid a riot of beautiful stonework, stained glass and vivid works of art, both paintings and sculpture, at the Sung Eucharist. Outside, peregrine falcons screamed in the sunlight from the spire which they haunt; inside the cathedral was surprisingly well-filled and the welcome, the music and the ritual itself were warm and inspiring. And on top of all this, the celebrant was the Dean, none other than Nicholas Frayling, late of St Nicholas, Pier Head and known to many of us. Over a glass of wine in the South Transept afterwards he took time out from greeting his congregation to welcome us and enquire after St Faith’s and our clergy – and he sends the warmest of greetings to St Faith’s and all who remember him. 

What particularly prompted this piece, however, was the presence at the service of Chanoine (Canon) Dominique Albert, Archiprêtre (Arch-Priest, or Rector) of Chartres Cathedral, with which, as with several other great European shrines, Chichester has enjoyed long and fruitful ecumenical relationships. This distinguished French Roman Catholic priest was decked out in full French R.C. garb (the Dean invited Fr Neil to envy such sartorial excess!) and he preached passionately and often comprehensibly on the difficult topic of the Trinity. I don’t expect he took communion, but his presence as we all filed up through the chanting choir to kneel beneath the magnificent and colourful John Piper altar tapestry bore eloquent witness to the warm ecumenical embrace that is often possible between Anglicans and Roman Catholics. The whole experience was uplifting, devotional, and it felt entirely right in every way.

Within a few hours we were listening to a television studio discussion about the recent conversion of Autumn Kelly from R.C. to C.of E. before her marriage to Peter Phillips. The R.C. journalist Melanie McDonagh was sounding off indignantly about this, inveighing against the tyranny of the laws of succession, inferring both denominational treachery and pressure from the Protestant establishment. It was sadly all too clear that she felt that the girl had forfeited her birthright and sold her soul, if not to the devil, then at least to something vastly inferior to the True Church. The rebuttal came from the splendidly named Dickie Arbiter, who calmly pointed out that it would take a catastrophe of unimaginable proportions to remove the serried ranks of those currently above her new husband from the scene and thus put her in reach of the throne - and that no pressure of any sort had been put on her to ‘come over’. It was her free choice, and one to which she was as entitled as anyone else. Indeed so – and I felt that had the conversion been in the other direction I cannot imagine anyone making such a fuss.

The contrast between the Archiprêtre’s benign presence at a great act of Anglican sacramental worship and the intemperate condemnation of the actions of an individual member of the Catholic laity speaks volumes about the polarities of viewpoints existing in the field of ecumenical relationships. All I can say is that in both cases actions speak so much louder than words. If the church is to survive and bear faithful witness in a divided and secular world, we surely need many more Chichesters and far fewer McDonaghs.

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Don’t mention Christmas!


The Daily Telegraph of December 8th carried attacks by two separate writers on the often-reported trend towards the secularisation of Christmas and what many see as the campaign to marginalise Christianity even further in our society. The writers are Religion Correspondent Jonathan Petre, quoting Dr John Sentamu, the forthright Archbishop of York, and columnist Jeff Randall, and their eloquent pieces give heart to those of us who still Stand up for Jesus.

According to Jonathan Petre, Dr Sentamu is clear about what is happening. He is waging all-out war on secularists, who, he claims, are unfairly blaming other faiths to advance their own anti-religious agenda. ‘They are trying to pretend that it is possible to enter into the true meaning of Christmas by leaving out Jesus Christ,’ he says. ‘This really is the case of throwing out the baby with the bathwater, or in this case throwing out the crib at Christmas.’ They pervert and abuse any notion of diversity with flawed arguments about multi-culturalism for the sake of promoting a narrow agenda. And ‘other faith communities, who have stated categorically that they are in no way offended by Christmas, know that if Christmas falls, they will be next.’

He quotes John Mortimer, playwright and atheist (and creator of the wonderful Horace Rumpole), who said; ‘Our whole history and culture in Europe is based on Christianity, whether you believe in it or not. Our culture is Christian: Shakespeare, Mozart – all that makes life worth living is part of the Christian tradition.’

The columnist tells that three out of four employers have banned Christmas decorations for fear of offending other faiths, and an alarming 74% of managers are not allowing any decorations in their offices this year.

Jeff Randall doesn’t pull his punches either: his article is headed ‘Christmas is being crucified by white, middle-class do-gooders’. He says he is binning all the cards he receives which have no Christian images or which fail to mention ‘the “C” word’. He says he is no ‘wierdo fundamentalist’: ‘I flicker somewhere between an agnostic and a mild believer.’ His protest is about resisting those who ‘seem hell bent on turning Christianity into a crime.’

He quotes the same depressing statistics as Jonathan Petre, claiming that employers have been told that they could be sued if they were to allow displays of Christian joy, but not those of other religions. Then, and most satisfyingly for this writer, he sounds off about ‘the health-and-safety stormtroopers’ who are ‘parking their tanks on our tinsel. Santa’s sleighs need seat-belts, and mince-pies must be “risk-assessed” before being handed out to children.’

Returning to the basic theme, he stresses that, far from being offended by a Christian Christmas, Muslims, Jews and Hindus in this country and elsewhere welcome our celebrations and are often happy to be part of them. No, ‘the demons in this horror-story of crucifying Christians (there he goes again, mixing up his Great Feasts!) are white, middle-class do-gooders, whose assumptions of a superior morality are as disgraceful as they are disgusting.’ In the view of Dr John Sentamu, the splendid Archbishop of York (Randall’s phrase, but shared by this writer) they are the “chattering classes” who see themselves as holding a flag for an atheist Britain.’ Randall goes further, and sees a more pernicious purpose: that of eliminating ‘the teaching and guidance of old-fashioned Christianity’, which so offends them. Thus Christian voluntary groups are harassed on the grounds that being a Christian excludes ‘diversity’ and Christian Unions at universities are suspended for insisting that their members have Christian beliefs. ‘Somewhere along the line, a loose federation of diversity champions, equality campaigners and human-rights activists has metamorphosed into a tyrannical minority for whom Christmas is an abomination,’ he concludes.

It is easy to see these as the views of a right-wing diehard obsessed with conspiracy theories; nevertheless the facts reported in these articles and the opinions stated will ring bells with many of us, I guess. We are undeniably now a minority in this country, with shrinking congregations almost everywhere (although the reverse is, intriguingly, true of cathedral congregations, which seem to be growing equally rapidly). In my lifetime I have seen church membership change slowly from being an accepted norm to an increasingly small minority activity. We should always take heart from recalling that the church has survived many such apparently terminal declines, and successfully faced down more than few prolonged attacks on its beliefs and status in past centuries – and, God willing, it will continue to do so. But it needs us – and articulate and vocal champions like those whom I have quoted – to identify the enemy and to Fight the Good Fight. If we don’t Stand up for Jesus, then no-one else will. And a Happy and Blessed Christian Christmas to us all.

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Cathedrals Old and New

A week in the sunshine of western Scotland recently gave me the chance of visiting two fascinating and strongly-contrasted cathedral churches. One was ‘ours’ - tiny, remote, Victorian Gothic, ‘catholic’ and struggling. The other, one of ‘theirs’, was vast, mediaeval, awesome and beautifully maintained but with never a candle or crucifix in sight!

The Cathedral of the Isles and College of the Holy Spirit is one of two cathedrals of the Scottish Episcopal Diocese of Argyll and the Isles, and sits in sylvan surroundings above the town of Millport on the little island of Great Cumbrae off the Ayrshire coast. We joined the congregation that all but filled it on Whitsunday. There were about 50 of us, and the place holds about 60! The cathedral, and the surrounding collegiate complex, now a retreat centre and unique bed and breakfast establishment, is a Butterfield gem, exotically decorated, with a lovely Lady Chapel, icons, statues and colourful wall tiling. At the service there was incense, reservation, a host of candles: all the accoutrements that we rejoice in at St Faith‘s but are rarely found in Scotland. But there was no choir, and just one visiting retired priest as celebrant.

In conversation with him later, it transpired that they are in interregnum, and seem to be facing a struggle to survive. The scattered congregations of our sister church in the Highlands and Islands share a handful of itinerant clergy: still regarded as the ‘English Church’, they sit somewhat uncomfortably between the R.Cs and the spectrum of often direly dour Protestant churches of the Reformation. Although the previous incumbent (neither Dean nor Provost, but Warden) has shared the cathedral ministry with his wife, also a priest, the visiting priest, who rejoiced in the name of Fr Pagan, spoke bitterly of ‘priestesses’ and revealingly of the divisions within the ‘Piskies’, as they are known, over the ordination of women.

It was a revelation and a delight to share in their worship on their Feast of Title, but it made us realise how uncertain seems to be the future for the Episcopal Church of Scotland, with only about 30,000 committed members in the whole country. As with Northern Ireland, the Reformation struck more deeply and divisively than in most of England and Wales, and fragmentation is still all too often the name of the game north of the border. Instead of realising that Christians have their backs to a common wall these days, the churches of  Scotland seem happier to turn their backs on one another.

Glasgow Cathedral is, as they say, definitely something else. Firstly, it is a Church of Scotland Cathedral (in itself something of a contradiction in terms for a church without bishops); secondly it is in the care of the state. As a result, it is immaculately maintained and showcased and alive with visitors. It is a quite magnificent mediaeval building, preserved intact and little altered from its centuries-old state, and filled with imposing architecture, vistas and artefacts. But in all other ways it wasn‘t our idea of a ctahedral at all. The many pre-Reformation altars, dutifully labelled and with their original sacramental purposes explained as historical curiosities, are devoid of candles and crosses. Even in the superb and beautiful vaulted lower church, with its forests of ancient pillars, there is no real sense of sacramental, living worship, and the entire place, for all its echoing grandeur, had no feeling of the numinous and felt more like a museum exhibit. A Cathedral presided over by a ‘Minister’ and run by the local Corporation, it is at the opposite end of the spectrum to the living eucharistic worship of Cumbrae’s Cathedral. Glasgow’s Cathedral lies securely in the hands of the sate, but safe though its body undoubtedly is, we saw little of the soul and spirit so clearly in evidence fifty miles away on the morning of Pentecost in what may well be the world's smallest cathedral. Here at least, small is beautiful. For the time being, anyway.

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Hidden Treasures in Maghull

Hidden away in a leafy corner of the churchyard of St Andrew’s Parish Church in Maghull, yet only a few yards from the traffic roaring along Northway, are two very different places to treasure.

The Ancient Chapel of Maghull is the oldest place of worship still in use anywhere n Merseyside and West Lancashire. It is usually open to visitors just three times a year, and worshipped in scarcely more often. It dates from the time of the Domesday Book, when Maghull was a small and impoverished marshland settlement.

Its early history is obscure, as are its origins, the name of Maghull itself, and the reason for its lack of any known dedication. Possibly a chapel of ease for Halsall Church, and originally part of the Diocese of Litchfield, before Chester Diocese was created, and later still our own Liverpool Diocese, it contains a mixture of ancient features, which pose more questions than they answer.

Various additions and alterations were made down the centuries, until the coming of the Leeds-Liverpool Canal, which runs nearby, opened up the area and brought about an extension, in 1830, more or less doubling the size of the Chapel. By 1869 Maghull had become a Parish in its own right, the Chapel was too small and inconvenient, and in 1880 Bishop Ryle consecrated the new church nearby – actually the first Church to be consecrated in the newly-formed Liverpool Diocese.

In due course the various extensions to the old building were demolished, and it reverted to its mediaeval size and form, although with a new porch. Apart from a temporary use as a mortuary during a virulent flu epidemic, little use was made of the building in the next century, until some 30 or so years ago, when it was rescued from the attention of local vandals, cleaned up and made secure.

Following a talk on the chequered and still uncertain history of the Chapel, we were lucky enough to be able to attend said Evensong in the Chapel. The cadences of the Book of Common Prayer were entirely appropriate to this lovely, ancient and peaceful building, and sent us on our way rejoicing.

And the other treasure? A few feet from the door is the grave of Frank Hornby, M.P and  resident  of  Maghull.  Those  old  enough to remember Binns Road, Liverpool 13,
Meccano, Dinky Toys and, of course, Hornby trains, will, as this writer, see this grave also as a shrine in its own right. Cleaned up and renovated by the Hornby Collectors Society, it stands as a memorial to a man whose marvellous toys, models and kits enthralled generations of both young and old and whose grave, like the Chapel in whose ancient shadow it lies, is part of the hidden history of Lancashire.

Memories of Manhood’s End

'A Small Pilgrim Place'

Pilgrims at Pistyll

For many centuries pilgrims have been making the long trek to the end of the Lleyn Peninsula to take boats over to Ynys Enlli, Bardsey Island, a holy place where reputedly the bones of many thousand saints lie buried. I have been to that mysterious and remote place, three pilgrimages to which were equivalent to one to the Holy Land, and have also found and visited several of the ancient churches dotted along the pilgrimage route, where the devout would rest, and take refreshment physical and spiritual. A recent exploration of the quiet corners of this beautiful Welsh peninsula turned up another link in the chain in the little church of St Beuno, at Pistyll, not far from Nevin.

St Beuno was to North Wales in the 7th century what St David was further south: there are a good few places hereabouts bearing his name or associated with his story. He was reputed to be a great healer, and to his little church nestling in a quiet tree-girt valley which leads steeply down to a remote pebbled beach, came not just pilgrims en route to Aberdaron and beyond, but many seeking healing. There was a hospice nearby, a holy well, a lepers’ house and even a monastery; today only the church remains, with, quite possibly, the remains of the holy saint beneath its simple altar.

It is still used for worship every few weeks, and its parishioners have revived an ancient custom of strewing the stone floor with wild medicinal herbs and rushes, laid there every Christmas, Easter and Lammastide (early August). Their sweet lingering smell, the plain wooden pews and the few clear glass windows give this humble place a very special odour of sanctity. There is no lighting, and there would have been no seats, other than the ledges around the walls, where the infirm could perch (some remain, distinctly uncomfortable – ‘the weakest to the wall’ indeed). There is a very ancient Celtic font, whose ‘symbolic writing depicting life without Beginning or Ending compares with Buddhist symbols used on ancient Prayer Wheels.’

Outside, beneath the lepers’ window (where the afflicted could peer in and watch the elevation of the host at mass) is a massive corner stone, apparently not of local origin. This would have been dragged here from many miles away ‘until the faithful received permission to set it up… they then remained by it in  prayer and fasting for forty days prior to the commencement of the building’ … another fascinating insight from the guide leaflet into a word whose real significance had previously escaped me. 

In the churchyard, old fruit bushes and hop vines survive, as does the danesberry, ‘used by soldiers and invested by them with imaginary life-giving powers… to assist in the transmigration of souls.’ I cannot track down this mysterious plant! The graves are relatively modern, and they include that of the splendidly-named Revd Thomas Michaeliones, last Rector of the parish and responsible for much of its restoration and upkeep.  This fascinating character (Google research tells me he was born Michael Jones, changed his name for no known reason, and was a fervent Welsh Nationalist who abandoned his nonconformist origins to embrace Welsh Anglicanism. He rescued the church from terminal decay – and, amazingly, owned a gold mine at Mawddach, which made our present Queen’s wedding ring!) Not far away is the last resting place of the Welsh actor Rupert Davies of ‘Maigret’ fame, with the touching inscription, ‘Greatly loved by his family and friends. Remembered with affection by thousands who had never met him.’

Pistyll’s ancient church made a profound impression, and as we left it to the whispering ash trees and the sea washing the quiet shore below, the late Rector’s words echoed what we felt. ‘A lonesome little sanctuary by the sea, whose walls are hoary with age, within whose nave the story of the centuries in silence sleeps. Pilgrim  of today, canst thou pass by without kneeling here to bless and to pray.’

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Schism on Stronsay?

Regular readers will know of this writer's preoccupation with far-flung Scottish islands and remote Christian communities. While watching Adam Nicolson's weekly TV voyaging around the Atlantic coasts of Britain, I was therefore doubly delighted when, early in October, he ended up landing on the tiny island of Papa Stronsay, across the water from the somewhat larger island of Stronsay, which is itself a satellite of the Orkney Isles. Throughout his voyages, Nicolson (son of the late Nigel Nicolson, farmer and writer and himself the owner of three even more remote Scottish Hebridean islands) leavens his scenic sailing travelogues with visits to local places of interest - and he certainly found one on Papa Stronsay. 

He spent a day and a night as a guest of the Transalpine Redemptorist Order - a community of some thirty monks from all over the world who have established a strict religious community there. Nicolson, an avowed agnostic, sat in on services, mucked-out farm buildings and resisted the attempts of the international monastic community to convert him to the faith. He was awestruck by rising in the dark for the daily 3.15 am Mass (and we think our annual 6.00 am celebration on Ascension Day is an ordeal!), impressed by the strictly enforced vows of poverty, frustrated by the enforced silence of the monastic routine and the rigid avoidance even of eye contact at mealtimes, and bewildered by the constant use of Latin in the liturgies. He was nevertheless clearly impressed (if unconverted!) by the experience and moved literally to tears when the community crossed the sound to his sailing boat, sprinkled it with holy water, blessed it and presented him with a set of rosary beads. The final shots showed him sailing off into the sunset, waved off by a colourful assortment of black-robed monks and priests. 

I had never heard of these people before, and Nicolson said little about them in his film apart from implying that they were seeking a stricter life than the contemporary Roman Catholic church encouraged, so I had immediate recourse to the internet. Fascinating! They are in fact, as I was beginning to guess, a relatively recent breakaway organisation, founded as a refuge for those unwilling to accept their mainstream church's modernisation. They look to Pope Pius X and to Archbishop Lefebvre, names perhaps familiar to those interested in the affairs of the Roman Church, and now have their own hierarchy of bishops and priests to perpetuate their orders. They are followers of St Alphonsus, founder of the piously severe Congregation of the Most Holy Redeemer. 

I dug further, and found more intriguing information. The Transalpine Redemptorists date back to 1732, but their present incarnation dates from what they term 'the crisis in the Church' following the reforming Vatican II Council, which hit them badly. Their website baldly explains why they opted out. 'The reasons are simple. The New Church offered heaven to all religions, mocked Hell and denied the necessity of the intercession of the Blessed Virgin Mary for salvation.' Archbishop Marcel Lefebvre (a thorn in the flesh of the Vatican) advised them to make a new foundation and in 1987 they 'consecrated themselves anew to the Immaculate Heart of Mary', and formed their breakaway movement. 

Now, affiliated to the Society of Saint Pius X (Lefebvre's priestly confraternity, which apparently boasts 4 independent bishops, over 400 priests and 100 brothers and nuns worldwide) the British branch has raised over two million pounds, bought and settled on Papa Stronsay. Here, in common with their affiliated sites (there is a church in Liverpool of the same tradition), they say the Latin Mass and have turned their backs comprehensively on the Church whence they came. They now call the island they purchased and the monastery and community they built 'Golgotha'. 

Even more revealing was an article from the news archives of the 'Orcadian' local newspaper from 2002. Sadly, this reported that a novice monk from the order was apprehended in a Kirkwall internet café viewing 'sinful images of a homosexual nature'. In its background to the report, the newspaper explains more about the Redemptorists. 'The monks are not new to controversy,' the report says. 'They hit the headlines when they ordered women to cover up when on the 250-acre island they purchased in 1999. The strict Order told female archaeologists to wear ankle-length skirts and long-sleeved shirts while working on the site of the island's 12th century chapel. Male archaeologists were asked not to wear shorts, and radios and CD players were banned.' 

This writer wonders how much of this was known to Adam Nicholson when he sailed in to Papa Stronsay. I found the film, and the facts, just a little disturbing. The sincerity and passionate commitment of the order is beyond question, and there should be no quarrelling with those who wish to turn back the clock and preserve the religious past so wholeheartedly, even if their zeal and doctrines rival the fundamentalists. 

But there were jarring notes. Nicolson was clearly informed of the existence of a real and unimaginably terrifying physical hell awaiting those who were not saved.  One  monk  made  it  quite  clear that the main purpose of his monastic existence was to make sure of saving his own soul. And, in the corner of the cell Nicolson slept in, there could plainly be seen a skull. A 'memento mori', no doubt they would say, and a symbol of our mortality: nevertheless it seemed a somewhat morbid, even sinister artefact in a place so strangely renamed as Golgotha - the place of the skull. 

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Shining Examples

   
Most of the stained glass in Liverpool‘s mighty Anglican Cathedral is too high up and far away to make out. I know, having been frustrated during more than one sermon. But in the Lady Chapel stairway you may much more easily admire portraits of twenty-one latter-day ‘Noble Women’, designed by James Hogan and installed there as the Lady Chapel - the first part of the cathedral to be finished - was being completed in 1908/9. What Bishop Chavasse at the time described as the ‘saintly succession’ of heroic self-sacrifice, was commissioned to complement  the existing windows in the chapel itself, which depict women of faith up to the 17th century. 

One portrait in particular is of special interest. Alongside such worthies as Grace Darling and Elizabeth Fry may be seen the head and shoulders of a woman against a background of rocks and a lighthouse. She is Mary Rogers, and the scroll around her head reads ‘Stewardess of the Stella, faithful servant 1899’. Her story, central to a tragic tale of shipwreck off the Channel Islands, is told in ‘The Wreck of the Stella, Titanic of the Channel Islands,’ by John Ovenden and David Shayer, and I am grateful to Frances Luft, back from a visit to those same islands, for putting me on the trail of the dramatic story. 

The Stella, a railway passenger steamer, was one of several boats competing for custom on the run from Southampton to Jersey and Guernsey. The rival ships often raced to their destinations, and on March 30th, 1899, the Stella, in thick fog, ran recklessly into the Casquets reef and sank within eight minutes with the loss of some eighty lives. The book goes into fascinating detail about the events of that day and the subsequent enquiry, as well as telling of the relatively recent discovery of the wreck and what it has revealed. The story seems to be one of over-confidence and negligence, and certainly of the unnecessary loss of life, but the actions and behaviour of Mary Rogers do much, as so often in times of tragedy, to redeem the disaster. 

In the short time available after the ship struck the deadly reef, she worked calmly and speedily to get women passengers out of their cabins and fitted with lifejackets: seeing one without a lifejacket she gave her her own and helped her into an already overloaded lifeboat. She then refused to endanger the lifeboat’s safety further and turned away. At that moment the Stella slid backwards, Mary Rogers, according to many reports, cried ‘Lord, have me’, went down with the ship and was not seen again.
As Ovenden and Shayer write, ‘Her heroic action, her final reported words, and the poignancy of her death on Maundy Thursday, caused her to become within a short time a national heroine.’ An eye-witness called her ‘the quiet, calm, good angel of the wreck’. 

Little seems to be known of Mary Rogers‘ background. Born in Somerset and living in Southampton, she was a widow, her sailor husband having tragically been drowned at sea sixteen years earlier. After her death she became a nationally-known figure and an icon of the women’s suffrage movement. The book speaks of ‘a woman doing a man’s job and putting duty before female rights of escape, leading to a sacrifice which has a strong Easter resonance’ 

There are quite a few memorials to Mary Rogers, but the cathedral window is probably the most distinctive. In a city by the sea, it speaks eloquently of the heroism and self-sacrifice of ‘those who go down to the sea in ships’. And the book, by calling the Stella, however inappropriately, the ‘Titanic of the Channel Islands’, makes a final link with Merseyside in general, and St Faith’s in particular. 

A Church Befriended

‘Parking for the walk is in a layby on the B4416 by St Mark’s Church in Brithdir. The church is worth a visit.’

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The Buddhist Experience
 

To begin with: some history. In 1903, a British Mission to Tibet, in reality a military expedition designed to counter a non-existent Russian threat to British India, succeeded in reaching the forbidden city of Lhasa and ending Tibet’s isolation and much of its mystery. This Younghusband Mission also exposed Tibetan Buddhism to western investigation for the first time, and, through the uncomprehending and critical fundamentalist Christian judgement of  those whose reports came back, a harsh and damning image of that newly revealed faith was created. Tibetan Buddhism was seen by them as ‘A cloak to the worst forms of devil-worship, by which the poor Tibetan was placed in constant fear of his life from the attacks of malignant devils both in this life and the life to come.’ 

And indeed, the behaviour of the Tibetan armies in the face of British military might seemed to bear this verdict out. Urged on by lamas and monks, they put their faith in spells, prayers and incantations and were no match for organised military strategy. Much nearer our own time, the far more brutal and much more long-lasting Chinese occupation of Tibet, and the ousting of the Dalai Lama (whose descendant has just visited Britain) had the ironic effect of dispersing Tibetans abroad, and revitalising and reviving their faith. Their apparently primitive religion of ‘Chos’, the application of Buddhist Law introduced into Tibet by Indian gurus in the 10th and 11th centuries, and known as the ‘Thunderbolt Vehicle’ or the ‘Diamond Path’, became modified and softened in teaching and practice, so that the Tibetan Buddhism of today bears little or no resemblance to the ancient, primitive superstitions the British met on the high passes of the long road to Lhasa a century ago. 

Almost all of this story was unknown to me until I read ‘Duel in the Snows’, Charles Allen’s account of the 1903 expedition. I read it in the wake of a visit to inspect some Tibetan Buddhists in the unlikely setting of a small and beautiful Scottish island last June. This Holy Island (not the Lindisfarne one, let alone the Anglesey offshoot where the boats go to Ireland), lies off the Isle of Arran, which is the southernmost of all the Scottish islands and a place of great beauty, and a lot of rain and mist. We took a small boat on a bright, warm day from Lamlash to visit this Holy Isle, to find that it was the annual open day of the Buddhist community there. The island has ancient Christian connections, but twelve years ago, a Tibetan Buddhist community, an offshoot of a full-blown monastery on mainland Scotland, bought the island (people do a lot of buying of islands in Scotland), and last year completed the conversion of its only farm into an International Centre for Peace and World Health. 

It is impressive and intriguing: it’s fascinating to see chapel shrines with statues of Buddha in place of crucifixes or saints, and the incense there has a different smell. They were friendly and hospitable, handed out tea and (extremely) home made rock cakes, and showed off their peace garden: a touching display of homely, well-meaning text boards, bird-feeders, organic composting, little fairies (yes, really!), meditation corners, lots of mandalas (not, not Mandelas) and beautiful views over the sea to Arran. Along the path leading to the other end of the island were several large carvings of the Buddha, boldly painted and with piles of little offerings at their feet. At the far end, in isolation, is an international group of Buddhist women on silent retreat. Not your average Anglican Quiet Afternoon - this lot are there for three years and three months. (If I hadn’t found the path to inner enlightenment by then I’d want my money back!). 

There is an inter-faith dimension to the community. They advertise a forthcoming dialogue between a professed Buddhist nun and a Christian nun, and they happily point the way along the path to the cave of St Molaise, a 6th century follower of St Columba. We visited his draughty retreat, and drank from the attested healing waters of his holy spring. This writer will tell you of any long-term benefits, but it was a lovely draught on a hot day. 

I‘m still not sure what Buddhists believe, but they certainly didn‘t seem to be under the influence of any malignant devils in 2004. They floated gently and serenely around, bare-armed and saffron-orange robed, with assorted Tibetan and Scottish accents and, far from seeming an alien presence on that beautiful island, they, their centre, and their home-spun invocations to peace, love, harmony and respect for all creation add something indefinable and magical to Holy Island, which made me want to find out more. On this brief acquaintance, they seemed enviably detached and uninvolved, radiating peace in idyllic settings miles from troublesome reality and not doing much that might improve things in Iraq or Sudan, but that‘s a superficial judgement. 

We found them, and their retreat, enchanting, and would happily return. They don’t allow alcohol, but then we were only there for a few hours... 

        Benefits of living in isolated places, from the King of Samadhi Sutra.
        To have fewer and fewer activities and to be far removed from noise and distractions.
        To be free from quarrels and also to be free from harm.
        To not let obscuring emotions increase and to not create causes for discord.
        To always enjoy perfect tranquiillity and to keep body, speech and mind under control.
        To live in a way that is conducive to liberation and to quickly reach complete freedom.
 

Inter-Faith Friendship
(to a Buddhist friend)

That we shall meet again you may be sure -
on some blue sea-beach in the Pleiades
or bivouacked beyond the Milky Way...

We will remember then how once we met
on this green planet,
how our lives touched briefly
and then went their separate ways.

And you shall teach me all the mysteries
 to which, along your way, you found the key.
And I will tell how every path I trod
(by mosque or temple, synagogue or shrine)
led always back to where I had begun
- a bloodied cross which from a hill proclaimed
the love of one who suffered there for me
and taught, ‘Love God, for this much God loves you
and such should your own love for others be’.

Forgive me if I have not understood
your view of truth - my own will take me more
than one brief lifetime fully to explore.

David Yarham

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The Nun's Storyy

The Nun's Prayer

(reproduced in honour of Sister Penny but, of course, with no other relevance to her…)

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'Want to Start your own Church?'

'PROCEED WITH YOUR ORDINATION' was the title, and the sub-heading 'Become a legally ordained minister within 48 hours!'  Clicking on the link, (as one does, but only after scanning for nasty surprise viruses as Denis Griffiths reminds us always to do) I opened up a dazzling page of tempting prospects offered by 'Minister Charles Simpson'. Once ordained, I could, Mr Simpson promised, 'marry my BROTHER, SISTER or my BEST FRIEND' (not all at once, of course). And I wouldn't have to 'settle for being the BEST MAN or BRIDES' MAID' (so clearly Charles Simpson has no problem with women ministers). 

When it comes to the conducting of funerals, he says 'Don't settle for a minister you don't know!!' Under the heading of Baptisms, I am promised that once ordained I will be able to say 'WELCOME TO THE WORLD!!! I AM YOUR MINISTER AND YOUR UNCLE!!' What's more, I will  be able to 'VISIT CORRECTIONAL FACILITIES' (something I‘ve always coveted...…) 

Charles Simpson assures me that the Certificate being offered to me would cost me not $100 (yes, of course it's an American scam!), not $50: no, 'the entire life-changing course' is a snip at only $29.95. For this I get a Certificate 'IN COLOR, WITH GOLD SEAL professionally printed by an Ink Press' and shipped to me free.
And of course, once I am legally ordained, I can start my own church. 'MINISTRY IN A BOX! CLICK HERE TO LEARN MORE' it says. This of course I did and learned that for a mere extra $79 (worth over $120, he says), my Box will contain, among other goodies, a whole range of Ceremony Certificates, all with embossed gold seal on high quality paper of course, a 'Wallet ID card' (particularly vital, I would have thought), an 'Ordination Monastery Credential' imprinted with my name (particularly intriguing, that one!) - and, undoubtedly the most valuable item in the whole Box 'One Laminated Parking Placard with embossed gold seal'. 

Trains of Thought

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Llanddwyn Island

Below the ragged black-winged ravens’ croaking calls
The forest track winds between tall stalking trees.
Seaward, the soughing tops echo the sea’s singing
Until the path bends down to the spreading sands
Where, beyond the long lines of crested marching waves,
The grey green island beckons over the ebbing tide.

Here from the paths around this gentle place
See cormorants, heraldic, drying their dragon wings,
Limewashed lighthouses perched above the rocks,
And crosses high against the sky, honouring
A girl of holy legend, patron of Welsh lovers.
Dwynwen, a princess from the past’s dark years,
Spurned in love yet faithful to this special place,
Her tale blended with legend and romance.

The arched ruins of her ancient church
Lie in a grassy hollow cropped by white ponies.
I sing a quiet hymn to her memory amid the tumbled stones.
 
Returning, above the sparkling dancing waves,
Wind kites in bright and soaring arcs
Dip and race, lifting their skimming surfers
To slice and lurch and leap above the sea,
Or flop, satisfyingly, into the shifting spray.
And now, veiling the mountains’ long, dipping crests,
The dun clouds crawl eastward, cloaking our world.
Llanddwyn’s sanctuary is lost to sight.

Chris Price: October, 2008

Llanddywyn is a beautiful tidal islet, reached from the great mountain-ringed beach at Newborough on the east coast of Anglesey in North Wales. It is home to the romantic legend of the fifth-century princess and saint, Dwynwen, Welsh patron saint of lovers, whose feast day is January 25th.

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One Foot in the Past?

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Points from a Pilgrimage

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Indifference

Golgotha

When Jesus came to Golgatha,
They hanged Him on a tree,
They drove great nails through hands and feet,   
And made a Calvary.

They crowned Him with a crown of  thorns,
Red were His wounds and deep,
For those were crude and cruel days,
And human flesh was cheap. 

When Jesus came to Liverpool
They simply passed Him by,
They never hurt a hair of Him,
They only let Him die;

For men have grown more tender,
And they would not give Him pain,
They only just passed down the street,
And left Him in the rain.

Still Jesus cried, "Forgive them,
For they know not what they do!"
And still it rained the winter rain
That drenched Him through and through;

The crowd went home and left the streets,   
Without a soul to see,
And Jesus crouched against a wall
And cried for Calvary.

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The Aftermath of Terror

 
By the time this gets into print the horrifying events of July 7th in London, and the equally frightening but mercifully less lethal events of July 21st, will have taken their place in  history, alongside the bombings in Madrid and Bali and, of course, the ‘9/11’ holocaust  in New York. Fr Mark’s powerful sermon (which can be read online at the church website for those who missed it) says all that needs to be said about the theological implications of that terrible event. My thoughts, or rather afterthoughts, were prompted by watching the television coverage of the Trafalgar Square vigil on the following Saturday night, when many thousands stood in respectful and appreciative homage to the dead and wounded and listened to a long succession of speakers. 

These latter spoke (a few sang, played or chanted) for anything from two or three to ten or more minutes, and their contributions consisted of tributes or statements, followed by readings of poetry or memorable prose. Contributors came from the ranks of the good and the great, but also the ordinary people of London, who had helped or just been caught up in that unforgettable day. 

Like, I guess, most people, I was caught up on the day by the unfolding drama of that Thursday, finding it hard to avoid the constant parade of tragic and dramatic images on the wall-to-wall TV coverage, not just because so many scheduled programmes were replaced, but also because of the human drama that was being shown to us. Throughout the day, much was very properly made of the dedication and professionalism of the emergency services and the resilience and compassion of the victims and those who gave them help. And it was these admirable qualities that were again rightly lauded in the Trafalgar Square vigil. Contributor after contributor paid tribute to the people of London and how well they coped with disaster. Their matter-of-fact, understated cheerful heroism and self-sacrifice brought at least some goodness out of an otherwise unmitigated evil. People of every type, creed, age and colour were unashamedly united in proclaiming their defiance of terrorism, their belief in freedom and tolerance and their deep concern for our common humanity. It is ironic that it seems to take the worst events (the Blitz, 9/11, and now 7/7) to bring out the best in humankind, but it is an irony rooted also in our Christian faith, from its foundation down through the long story of the martyrs of our creeds. 

All the stranger, then, that the Christian faith played so relatively small a part in the vigil. The Bishop of London was there, as was the Archbishop of Westminster, and their words of course echoed with the messages of our beliefs. But they shared even this one slot with a Muslim, a Jew and a Sikh, and they were sandwiched between policemen, trade unionists, the Mayor, firemen, hospital workers and bus drivers, as well as (I guess) anarchists and activists and (definitely) rap poets and singers. And as such they represented, more than anything I can remember, the widely multi-cultural society of urban Britain. To bring these disparate elements together took a skilful balancing act and,
of course, a unifying national disaster. But it was in no sense a Christian, or even a religious gathering. 

A generation ago, any significant national gathering would surely have been framed in a religious context. It would have featured, as most state occasions still do, robed Anglican clergy and formal liturgy, with perhaps a token appearance by the Church of Rome and a Nonconformist minister. The event would have been presented in terms of the age-old certainties of Anglican Christianity. How things have changed. Following a tragic event which tested the faith to the limits and engaged the fears and sympathies of a nation, today’s suffering people took part in a vigil that simply celebrated humanity, with little or no reference to the spiritual dimension; it acted out a powerful folk ritual that owed little or nothing to the established church or even  the notion of a Christian nation. 

To record this is most certainly not to criticise or complain. The whole thing seemed to this life-long Christian a fine and moving tribute. What it did do was to show how far we have travelled in recent decades. We are a multi-faith society, in which Christianity can claim less and less automatic right to be heard. And equally sadly, for so many people now, religion, albeit in its extreme and distorted form, is seen as a cause of conflict and the dealing of terror rather than the bringer and agent of peace, wholeness and meaning to life. The people who came to that vigil did not seem to be coming to pray: if anything they would see those who pray as being those who, to some degree, had brought about the deaths these spectators had come to remember and mourn. For those of us who do believe, there is much here to think and pray about: not merely centred on the terrible events themselves, but on the reactions those events brought out and what that means for the faith and for the world Christ came to save. 

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Anglican Outposts

The one furthest to the southwest is to be found on St Michael’s Mount in Cornwall. This beautiful and spectacular crag is offshore from the little town of Marazion, just east of Penzance. A National Trust property, it also houses some of the St Aubyn family, whose patriarch is Lord St Levan: their castle crowns the wooded crag, which you get to either by walking at low tide over the connecting causeway or, if the sea is in, by small boat. After a testing slog up, the castle is a fascinating and romantic building – and it contains the Church of St Michael. The original Benedictine Abbey’s Priory Church, rebuilt after an earthquake in the fourteenth century, is still regularly used for worship, and has features dating back to mediaeval times, as well as some fine later features. 

We visited the Mount on a Sunday, making our fittingly damp pilgrimage over the causeway on the one wet day of a fine week, and joined a congregation of some 30 or 40 for a lovely Eucharist, about as near to heaven as this earth perhaps permits. There was a strong sense of spiritual continuity and of union with the countless numbers who have made their pilgrimage  to this English Mont St Michel. 

On our way home to Crosby we took the boat from Bideford to Lundy Island for the day. This beautiful, wild island in the Atlantic off the Devon coast is rich with flowers and birds, and boasts a fine, hospitable tavern and wonderful walks on the wide turf above the sea. And it has its own church: a solid, oddly urban-looking Victorian edifice which dominates the tiny village. 

Lundy is now also in the benevolent hands of the National Trust, but, like quite a few of the most beautiful places and properties of Britain, owes its survival in no small part to the equally benevolent patronage of Victorian and Edwardian families and gentry. In the case of Lundy, the family’s name was, very appropriately, Heaven! For many years the island was known as the Kingdom of Heaven, and a priest of that name had the church built and maintained. Today it houses exhibitions and is only occasionally used for worship (and for expensive weddings, we gathered!), but it stands foursquare as a witness to the Christian faith – and, like its western counterpart in Cornwall, acts as an Anglican Outpost in the seas of faith.

Parish Portraits

Recently, my retirement has been enlivened by reading an excellent book and watching a most interesting TV series. They have in common the subject of  Anglican parish life, but they reflect it in very different ways. 

The book (not yet published: I am in the happy position of reading and reviewing pre-publication proofs) goes by the title of ‘Mysteries of Glass’, and it is written by Sue Gee. Set towards the end of the eighteenth-century, it is an affectionate portrait of a young curate taking up his first position in a delectable country parish on the Welsh borders. At first all is good and the book delightfully portrays its protagonist coming to terms with rural parish life: the visiting, studying and preaching, and the deep affection for the natural beauty in which he finds himself set. As he grows in confidence, however, he falls in  love,  despite  himself,  with  the  wife  of  his  ailing  and doctrinaire rector. He agonises with his conscience as he eventually yields to love; his feelings and that of the girl are movingly described. The book, inevitably, has no happy ending but it is by no means entirely pessimistic, and for me its chief delight lies in the portraying of a lost age of England - and of the Church of England. In this rural idyll, people know their place and that of the Church to which they give their automatic allegiance. But the moral code is severe and unyielding and personal happiness seems always to come a poor second to duty and doctrine. 

The TV series is called ‘A Seaside Parish’. Some years ago, the BBC filmed an earlier series (‘ Country Parish’) following the work of a parish priest moving from a suburban living to a rural one. He had to come to terms with a range of problems, and, after the series ended, sadly chose to abandon parish life, partly due to the pressures of a mountain of correspondence from viewers seeking his pastoral help. I very much hope that the same thing doesn’t happen to the Revd Christine Masson, vicar of a cluster of village churches centred on the north Cornish seaside village of Boscastle. 

The series is, as I write, ongoing, but she is coping well. The everyday portrait of a priest faithfully doing God‘s work of care and prayer is a heartening one, not least in the way it counters the more common prevailing TV images of the C. of E. as a church more likely to be peopled (in and below the pulpit!) by eccentrics, trendies, gays and heretics. She has her made-for-TV moments, of course: meeting local witches, posing for a nude builders’ calendar (the builders are nude, not the Vicar!), and being menaced by nocturnal jellies on the doorstep (you’ll have to watch it!) - but the most interesting thing to me is that she is a woman priest, divorced and remarried, and has a real compassion for outcasts, misfits, and those to whom, not so long ago, the Church would have had no mission or contact. Anglicanism has come a long way from the pattern of life so faithfully and beautifully portrayed by Sue Gee, but it would, I think, be a real mistake simply to deplore the loss of old certainties and values. Gee’s curate is ostracised and disciplined for forbidden desires: Boscastle’s vicar would be more likely to have understood him and made him and his like part of her ministry of compassionate understanding. That she, and so many like her, survive in the 21st century to bring God to her flock is reassuring and heartening. Her life is no idyll, for all the wild beauty of her parishes’ landscapes - but neither is it bound by a rigid, unforgiving and class-ridden hypocrisy. And for that we should offer humble thanks to the God of the Church. 

Food for Thought

'Britain wallowing in ‘mourning sickness’

Britain is suffering from a severe bout of ‘mourning sickness’, a collective condition characterised by ostentatious, recreational grieving for dead celebrities and murder victims. The nation has replaced the social ties of Church and family with the rites of conspicuous compassion - the piling up of rotting flowers and sodden teddy bears, the ‘lapel loutism’ of empathy ribbons and the staging of ever-lengthening minutes of silence.’ 

Thus begins a challenging article by reporter Sean O’Neill in the Daily Telegraph, reporting on an unflattering portrait of British society offered in a booklet by Patrick West from the ‘Civitas’ think-tank, the Institute for the Study of Civil Society. His views are savagely critical of this trend in our behaviour, and he puts it down to cynical and selfish motives. These ‘collective carers’ are, in his opinion, merely wanting to be seen to care, rather than actually caring, probably because they want to be loved themselves. He dates the phenomenon from the Hillsborough disaster, when it was largely localised on Merseyside; since then it has spread rapidly through the reaction to the Dunblane massacre and the ‘ghoulish displays of weeping and countless bouquets of flowers left outside Kensington Palace following the death of Diana, Princess of Wales’. 

Since then, the report believes, what it pointedly calls ‘grief lite’ has become for many an everyday and even enjoyable event, reaching its ‘fearsome peak’ when thousands of ‘grief tourists’ descended on Soham, to the despair of local people and their vicar, in the wake of the deaths of Holly Wells and Jessica Chapman. 

Tellingly, the report suggests that ‘the compassion caravan’ has a tendency to move on quickly to new causes. Today, Diana is a mostly forgotten individual. ‘On the fifth anniversary of her death, the gardens of Althorp and Kensington Palace were deserted. Diana had served her purpose. The public had moved on. They were now too busy ‘never forgetting’ other people.’ 

These are harsh words indeed, but they strike a chord with this writer, although I have some misgivings about the wholesale condemnation of ribbon-wearing, which is surely still often evidence of contributing to the worthiest causes. But I have long found something distasteful and morbid about the ‘shrines’ to road victims  left to rot  around posts in Merseyside  and elsewhere. The tributes at Anfield, which I well remember visiting in the wake of the Hillsborough disaster, were powerfully and movingly focussed on a local grief and its epicentre at the ground. Even then, though, I was uncomfortable at the pages of tributes in the local press, as many people seemed to be jostling for space just to be seen to be part of the mourning process. Since then, the phenomenon so acutely analysed by Patrick West’s polemic has become ever more mawkishly prominent, the product of sentimentality rather than sentiment and, as the report thought-provokingly concludes, has grown at the expense of real compassion. The report states bluntly that ‘the spread of ribbon-wearing has not been accompanied by a growth in charitable giving. Between 1995 and 1999, as ribbons flourished, donations to good causes dropped by 31 per cent.’ There may be no easily demonstrable link between these two trends, but it is tempting to believe in one, and certainly to wish that the mass practitioners of the ‘rites of conspicuous compassion’ would put their money where their mouth so obviously is.

From Page to Screen
...the End of a Journey

Ever since the books first appeared, the world has been divided into two camps: those who loved ‘The Lord of the Rings’ and those who didn’t. With the progressive release of Peter Jackson’s epic film version over the last three years, the division has spread into the world of film, and the ranks of Tolkien-lovers have grown even greater. As a life-long fan, who well remembers being present at the farewell lecture of the Merton Professor of English Language at Oxford University, I have relished the unfolding of what I have no hesitation in regarding as a masterpiece of film-making, and the screening of the final triumphant part marks the end of a towering achievement. 

If you haven‘t seen them, do make a point of watching the films on the big screen, on video or on DVD. The extended versions in this latter format carry absorbing hours of background information, explaining some of the staggering skill that has gone into the special effects, the sound, and the digital creations responsible for so much of what you will see, not least in the creation of the character of Gollum. There has been nothing to equal Peter Jackson‘s films, and it is hard to imagine anything doing so in the future: this is the definitive version. 

But the books remain, and they are equally worth visiting, or revisiting. They are superb works of the imagination, many-layered, poetic and quasi-documentary, and they are underpinned by Professor Tolkien’s deeply-researched scholarship, both historical and linguistic, which lifts the books far above the level of mere fantasy or escapism into a world of rich and convincing detail. One of the most impressive aspects, to this writer, of the filming process was the profound respect in which director, actors and production staff held the books, and the loving care with which they strove to be faithful to them. The author, of course, died many years ago, but it is sad that his descendants and estate have so clearly disowned the film, since it is created in no small part as an act of homage to the original masterpiece. 

But there is more here than mere epic achievement. The Tolkien world, on the page and the screen, has a moral and philosophical dimension that is out of the commonplace. The values it enshrines, and the standards its ‘good’ characters maintain, are universal, and they are Christian. Tolkien was a staunch Roman Catholic, and although he was careful not to introduce overt ‘religion’ into the stories, and to deny any easy allegorical interpretations, the tales are of  a hard-fought struggle  to meet  destructive evil  with the forces of integrity, and basic decent goodness. There is no pretence that the struggle is easily won, and a recognition that sacrifices must be made and that much has to be lost in the process. Indeed, the book is often pervaded by a melancholy awareness of mortality, and the passing of old glories and stories, and the ending is certainly no glib fairy-tale. But it is most certainly what might be described as ‘life-enhancing’: a reading, and no less a viewing, leaves you feeling many good things - awestruck, perhaps, impressed and entertained, certainly, but also more aware of the value of life and the many-coloured God-given splendour of the human condition. In these early years of the 21st century, with so much darkness, uncertainty, cynicism and despair abroad in our world, the epic creation of J.R.R.Tolkien, and of those whose film so magnificently underlines his achievement, can give us fresh hope and inspiration. 

Papists and Protestants 

Warning: church can make you ill’
‘Original sin in the Outer Hebrides’
 
Two recent articles in the Daily Telegraph, from very much the opposite ends of the religious spectrum, illustrate the lovable eccentricity of the Christian church as seen through the eyes of those on its fringes. 

In the first, Jonathan Petrie, the ‘Religion Correspondent’, is delighted to be able to report that ‘Irish Roman Catholics have been warned that church-going could pose a threat to their health because incense contains potentially dangerous chemicals.’ 

The threat to altar boys and girls was highlighted by Dr Jim McDaid, ‘a transport minister’ (well this is Ireland we’re talking about) in the context of plans to ban smoking in the workplace. He isn’t actually against incense as such, but is worried about the carcinogenic agents present in the smoke. A spokesman for the Dublin Archdiocese dutifully agreed. ‘Obviously anything that sends a cloud of smoke into a child’s face is something we would be concerned about.’ Interestingly, she went on to say that while incense ‘had been widely used in the past during Benediction and High Mass, nowadays it was most often used at funerals.’ Finally, the Master of Ceremonies to the Archbishop of Dublin had his say. ‘In a small church building you have to be aware, particularly if there are servers suffering from asthma.’
The Holy Smoke at St Faith’s is certainly not confined to funerals, so perhaps the sacristan and his acolytes will be putting in for danger money. On the other hand, no-one could call St Faith’s a ‘small church building’ so, as the symbol of our prayers wafts straight up to heaven, it will probably only pose a threat to any lurking pigeons or beetles in the rafters. 

As the (Protestant) crow flies it is no great distance to the Outer Hebrides, beloved of this writer but, in its northern reaches, a last outpost of stern and unbending fundamentalist Protestantism a world away from Papish incense-swingers. Columnist Adam Nicholson, who actually owns a clutch of delectable islets, wrote recently about original sin, a concept unknown to free-thinking Britain in general but alive and well in Lewis and Harris. He gives an entertaining description of a recent Stornoway service at which he was the one man not in a suit and his wife the one woman not under a hat. 

‘Some of you may think,’ the minister thundered, ‘that you are here on this earth to enjoy yourselves. Well, I have got some news for you. You are not. You are here on this earth to suffer.’ Nicholson speaks of the ‘shimmer of appalled delight that riffled through the congregation at these words.’ He goes on to analyse the Calvinist theology that makes possible such a statement and has preserved, against a rising tide of erosion, the uniqueness of the Presbyterian Sabbath where reading the Bible is about the only approved activity. 

Having experienced the Stornoway lifestyle myself, I rather enjoyed Nicholson’s thoughtful and witty analysis and, in part, his defence of this vanishing way of life. Until, that is, I read this sentence. ‘It was publicly stated, in several Hebridean pulpits, that the two girls from Soham who were kidnapped and murdered last summer would not have met their fate if their families had kept them inside as they should have done’ 

Two worlds and two Christian denominations, a few miles apart across a northern sea, yet more than a world apart in their interpretation of the Gospel. Each has its absurdities and its blinkered preoccupation; they share, also, a continuing decline in their numbers and influence and, in the case of the Roman Catholics, an entirely understandable loss of moral authority in the wake of ongoing revelations of years of institutionalised child abuse. The cautious, lovable ‘via media‘ that shelters under the Anglican umbrella accommodates both extremes, thank God: long may it continue so to do. But this writer at least is happier to be a victim of passive holy smoking at ‘our end’ than to condone the joyless and judgemental puritanism at the other end of that colourful spectrum.

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