Poor St. Hugh

Lincoln Cathedral seen from outside
Bailgate at the top of Steep Street..

On my way back from York, my pilgrimage took me to the Cathedral at Lincoln, once one of the tallest buildings in the world.

St. Hugh's saga began with the pride of King Henry (that’s Henry II). It’s well debated what he really intended by the oft quoted line “Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest?” but most agree that it led to the murder of Henry’s Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Beckett. What followed was the need for Henry to demonstrate remorse and repentance proportionate to the crime committed. As part of that effort, Henry determined to build a Carthusian monastery dedicated to continual prayer. Things weren’t going well, so Henry appealed to the abbot of the Grand Chartreuse in France that Hugh, who was head of a daughter community of that monastery and whose fame had reached him through one of the nobles of Maurienne, was made prior of the faltering English community.

The ornate shrine where the
reliquary containing St. Hugh's
head once was displayed.
Fortunately, his head is now
with the rest of his remains.

Hugh’s success and personal integrity in standing up to the king (shadows of Beckett?) eventually led Hugh to be appointed bishop of Lincoln, and under his direction, set about rebuilding the noble cathedral at Lincoln, which had been badly damaged in an earthquake, this time in the “new” Gothic style. He lived only to see part of the quire (choir) rebuilt. After a remarkable career serving both the crown and the church, Hugh died in in 1200. Within a relatively short twenty years the Church named him a saint and his cult spread through England.

The long and short of it was that poor Hugh was even more popular after his death than before. The simple burial he requested was insufficient for the powers that be, and a grander place of visitation was planned, so his body was exhumed and translated to a special chapel built in his honor. When a second quire section (The Choir of the Angels) was completed, authorities planned a still more ornate resting place for the saint and his bones had to be moved yet again – and this time, regrettably, he literally lost his head – during the exhumation and translation to the new shrine it fell off! So, thought those in charge, all the better, now poor Hugh would be buried in two parts – so pilgrims could pay homage twice in one pilgrimage – and of course, donate twice to the upkeep of increasingly expensive grand cathedral. So, poor St. Hugh’s head was in one place, and his body in another, at least until they were finally reunited centuries later when he was reinterred in his final, final resting place.

Steep Street 
Note the angle of the curbing
to the right.

Apart from that strange and gruesome story, which certainly befits the medieval context of this place, the cathedral at Lincoln is a marvel to behold. Like so many others of its age, it was founded upon an ancient Roman encampment. High atop a hill to which access is made up a street befittingly named “Steep Street,” (at an approx. 16 deg. incline). 

Remigius de Fécamp, became the first Bishop of Lincoln, sometime between 1072 and 1092 under the patronage of William the Conqueror, and laid the foundations of the Cathedral though he could not complete the whole of it before his death. Like his successor, Hugh, St. Remigius is also buried here.

Note the lack of alignment in the ribbing
of the two sections of the nave. Done in two
historical periods because of a massive roof
fire, different building techniques resulted in 
a gigantic, "oops."  Could modern people 
tolerate that today?

The cathedral at Lincoln is a precious place. While we moderns are often obsessed with architectural purity, we find in a place like Lincoln a history of imperfection – not born of disrespect but symbolic of the progress of learning. As architects, masons, and other master builders learned the secrets of building these massive edifices, the mistakes inherent in the learning process become clear over time – and the cost involved of “erasing” previous ignorance make the appearance of perfection impossible. So, a building like Lincoln, begun long before the pinnacle of gothic knowledge and skill had been reached shows us a “learning curve” through history and gives us hope that we, too, can learn from out mistakes.

The nave looking back from the
altar at the crossing

That lack of perfection can speak of spiritual realities. For example, whether by design or by happenstance, the south wall of the nave, "God's wall" has even, symmetrical arches, beautifully decorated. The north wall, on the other hand, is called the "Devil's wall." It's arches are irregular and plain. The embedded stone bench is low and uncomfortable, unlike the one on the south wall. More than likely this was because of a need to account for the uneven stone foundation (there is no undercroft at Lincoln - the building is built "on ground"). A clear message is sent however, in the design of the walls. There is no need for "perfection," since perfection resides in God alone and a building, even though erected to the honor and glory of God is but an imperfect monument made by human hands. Its imperfections can tells us more about ourselves than about God.

See the imp seated at the base
of the arch point cross-legged
and impertinent.

And then there is the infamous Lincoln imp. Legend has it that one day the Devil was in a frolicsome mood and sent two naughty creatures to cause mischief on Earth. After allegedly stopping at Chesterfield, twisting the spire of St Mary and All Saints Church, the two imps went to Lincoln to wreak havoc in the city's Cathedral. Upon arriving, the naughty imps went inside the cathedral and started to cause mayhem, knocking over the Dean, smashing the stained-glass windows, and destroying the lights. In a bid to put a stop to their antics, an angel was sent to warn the imps off causing any more chaos. One of the imps hid underneath a table, while the other started throwing stones and rocks at the Angel in an act of defiance - “Stop me if you can!” In a moment of anger, the Angel turned the Imp to stone. He has remained in the same spot ever since, sitting cross-legged on top of the pillar overlooking the Angel Choir – a constant reminder of how good will always triumph over evil.

St. Hugh's Quire, looking 
toward the nave

The "beating heart" of any cathedral is the choir. Here each bench is occupied a "canon" - a member of the clergy appointed by the bishop for special work within the diocese either to care for a particular region and its parishes, some special ministry within the diocese, or within the cathedral itself. Here is the location of the "cathedra" or bishop's chair along with the dean's stall and the stall for the canon precentor, the clergyperson assigned to care for the liturgical needs of the cathedral. Of course, if the cathedral has a "proper choir" or "canons regular" (a sort of monastic community dedicated to the prayer life of the cathedral), these, too, have assigned stalls in the choir, which are occupied for the praying of the daily offices, especially evensong on the appointed days. 

Lincoln has two choir areas: St. Hugh's choir (pictured here) and the Angel Choir behind the high altar that comprises a special

The "Word Made Flesh"

chapel that is the burial place of St. Remigius, St. Hugh, and several other bishops, deans and other notables. St. Hugh's Choir is the "working choir" and centers the prayer life of the cathedral.

Like at York, there are still catholic sensitivities alive and well in this northern fortress city. The cathedral is dedicated in the name of the Blessed Virgin Mary of Lincoln. A haunting contemporary icon of the Virgin with Child (by Aidan Hart) occupies a place of honor just off the Angel Choir. Carved from solid native limestone and decorated with egg tempura, its features invite one into a contemplative dialog with the Word Made Flesh, to whom the piece is dedicated. The gaze of the virgin looks down the length of the magnificent south aisle toward the 12th century baptismal font, near the entrance to the cathedral. As she holds the Word Made Flesh, the

The baptismal font

Christ Child, the connection is made between our baptism and the life we share in Christ. So at one end, an object carved from Belgian stone in the 1100s connects with one carved from Lincolnshire stone in the 2000s at the other - and we stand in between through the ages.

The two and a half days of pilgrimage to York and Lincoln proved more than I could ever image or condense into these two brief blog posts. There is much food for thought and more than likely, you'll here more about it as time goes on.