Wounds and Scars

The WW I Memorial in the Churchyard
at St. Andrew's & St. Mary's
Grantchester

It is hard to avoid. In nearly every town and village of any size, any traditional there is in a public square or in the churchyard a monument to “The Great War.” That phrase has a particular meaning here in Great Britain. It refers to World War I. Here that war began in 1914 and lasted for four horrific years. The United States did not enter the war until 1917, and while America's participation may have played a significant role in bringing that war to an end, the allied nations of Europe paid a terrible price. The United Kingdom alone lost 744,000 combat dead with nearly twice that number wounded. The war touched nearly every town, every family in the nation. The moral wounds were deep and were only beginning to heal when yet another war threatened the very existence of the nation itself.

As Americans, we often debate “existential threats” to our own homeland. Here, in Britain, the scars of these kinds of wounds dot the countryside and mar elements of its cityscape. Reflecting on scars like these, however, helps us remember hard-fought battles and provide a lens that allows us to see that people can find strength within even when they may not have recognized it was there – strength that usually emerges from a sense of solidarity – a sense of common purpose.

We have our own national scars and our memorials – a civil war – two world wars – Korea – Viet Nam – 9/11 – Shanksville – the list goes on.

When our scars start to become stories that we can tell, they can offer hope to those who may face similar struggles. When people facing difficult situations can see the wound that healed in healing in someone else's scars, it can become a powerful source of strength for them. That’s why it remains important never to forget our struggles, never to hide our scars. Rather, it remains always important to share our stories, and to listen to the stories of others who have struggled, of those who have gone before us, that we may learn that we to can survive - and heal. Knowing our history - the good and the bad - is important to that process - otherwise those wounds may just fester. For us to heal truly, let's be honest first with ourselves and then with those around us. The scars may form. But they will bring a beauty all their own. 

Church Open, Come In

The Tower of the Church of
St Andrew & St Mary

Grantchester. 

There really is such a place. It’s about 4 km (1.6 mi.) south of Cambridge. A brisk walk through the Grantchester Meadows, trails through farm fields where signs warn of possible encounters with cattle (and how to cope), brought me into the back yard of The Red Lion, not yet open for business, and soon to The Green Man, just opening its doors. Tempting though it was to stop for a bite and a drink, I sauntered just a block further to the Church of St. Andrew and St. Mary.

There it was. It’s funny how things always appear slightly different in real life than they do on the television screen, but there it was, clearly identifiable. Fortunately, there was a sign that beckoned, “Church Open, Come In.” That’s one thing I’ve found here. Regardless of whether it is a big city or a small town, church doors are nearly always open, ready to receive visitors. There is seldom (if ever) heavy security apparatus apparent. I wonder if it is necessary. Perhaps there is an inherent respect for these sanctuaries that is lacking in our society. One can wonder.

The south side rear

Another thing that I have noticed is that because these churches are often very old, space is at a premium. There is no compunction to use every bit of available space for some activity or another. At St. Bene’t’s on Sundays, for example, coffee and cakes are served in the North aisle. The equivalent at St. Luke’s might be to have coffee hour in the Lady Chapel! 

Children's area on the north side 

In St. Andrew's and St. Mary’s in Grantchester, drawings about proposed modifications to the church entrance (and the accompanying capital campaign) are posted near the massive and ancient baptismal font, near table and chairs that serve as a meeting and discussion area. On the side opposite is a children’s area near the narthex. Every square foot being put to use.

It reminds me that church isn’t always “neat and tidy.” In fact, messy church (which often means noisy church) can mean a church that is alive and thriving. Several years ago, I remember standing at a pre-convention meeting during a rather heated debate to remind some folks that the mission of the church was to make disciples and not simply to sustain museums. What good were our lovely and beautiful buildings if they are empty and devoid of worshipers? Holding on to the past for its own sake - keeping things neat and tidy - at the expense of the Church's fundamental mission is a sure path to decline and is, I believe, contrary to the will of God. Everything we do, every change we make must always keep that mission in mind.

“Church Open, Come In” -- I think it’s time we made that our motto, too.

As A Stranger in A Strange Land

And she bare him a son, and he called his name Gershom: for he said, I have been a stranger in a strange land. (Exodus 2:22)

St. Bene’t’s was the scene of bittersweet joy once more on Sunday morning. It’s a strange thing when this happens in a community. They still mourn the sudden and tragic loss of their young and vibrant vicar, made even more poignant by the celebration at hand. Bishop Steven Conway, Bishop of Ely confirmed four young adults. This was the fruit of Anna’s work (as they still affectionately call her) – and this just a bit of it. Add to that the desire to celebrate a moment of national pride in the coronation of the new king. “Cake and fizz” (sweets and champagne) were to follow the service, which packed the small church. Bishop Steven’s sermon hit all the right notes. Humorous at times, serious about the work of the gospel, challenging for the sake of mission, comforting amid grief – it was all there.

Through the weekend, though, something was building in me. I couldn’t quite name what it was until the very end of the service when, in honor of the king’s coronation, all were invited to stand and sing the national anthem, “God Save the King.” I realized at that moment that I could not sincerely do so. It was not my nation. These were not my people, no matter how welcoming, how warm and inviting they were. I was but a sojourner in their land – a guest but for a time – a wanderer. I stood out of respect. I changed “our” to “your” and was silent when the words could not be easily adjusted.

For the rest of the day, though, I began to feel more deeply what had been building for days – a real sense of loneliness – of being cut off from those whom I love and with whom I share so very much. For the first time in my life, I began to experience just a little bit of what it must feel like to be an exile, or a refugee – to be someone who must exist outside of the culture and often outside of the language that is the touchstone of safety and refuge - this latter reality highlighted in the words of the prayers we share in the liturgy. Mind you, I realize how mild this feeling is compared to what others in more extreme circumstances may feel. I am here safely, welcomed, in a place of affirmation, speaking a language I mostly know (although British slang and metaphors can stump me at times).

This isn’t a cry for help or for someone to assuage my feelings with loads of emails or calls. Rather, it is an acknowledgement of the beginning of a renewed sense of gratitude for what I already have – for that to which I will return. Unlike the countless refugees who wander the world looking never to return to the safety and security of the home others compelled them to leave, I am but for a brief time a stranger in a strange land.

Let the Bells Ring

Westminster Abbey - where monarchs
have been crowned for over
a thousand years.

With all the American fascination about the English monarchy, one might think that the USA had no prior relationship with the throne, when in fact, our history clearly shows that our nation resulted from a rebellion of thirteen colonies against that same authority. The early years were fraught with tension. We even fought a “second war of independence” (The War of 1812), whose end finally determined that those former colonies were now a sovereign nation.

Of course, nothing in history is static and international relations ebb and flow. The conflagrations of two World Wars united Great Britain and America in ways that forged what has come to be known as a “special relationship” – strained at times – but seemingly strong and lasting.

One significant outcome of that early rebellion was the permanent change wrought in the Anglican tradition as it was lived out within the US. Bishops in England were reticent to consecrate bishops for the colonies. Clergy of the Church of England then, as now, swore an oath of allegiance to the Sovereign. This caused great qualms of conscience for many clergy in the rebellious colonies. Many remained loyal to the crown and left for England or “English America” (Canada). In a nutshell, what remained was a rump of the Church of England left to morph into The Protestant Episcopal Church in the United States of America once two bishops had been consecrated (Seabury in Scotland for Connecticut and White in England for Pennsylvania.) Apart from the few available clergy, most parishes were left in the care of laity (Wardens and Vestries) as the nascent church began to develop its worship and polity. Nowhere in sight was an archbishop (much less Canterbury) or a king, as Defender of the Faith.

This is part of what has led to much of the tension between The Episcopal Church and other members of the worldwide Anglican Communion. Most of the other members of the Communion look more like The Church of England than The Episcopal Church in their structures and ministries of authority. Bishops have much more power and authority and laity have less of a voice than in the model used by The Episcopal Church. In short, The Episcopal Church is more “democratic” and less monarchical. I could go into much more detail here but that’s not appropriate. The point is, really, that just like the way that our systems of civil polity (government) tend to be messy because they are about dialogue and building consensus, so our church polity may seem less than tidy to others, as we voice our various convictions about what we hold to be true (or not) about the Christian way.

From my vantage point here in Cambridge, I do see the value of the myth and ethos that surround the monarchy, particularly as it provides a legacy of unity and national identity. I believe that was part of the special legacy of Elizabeth II. There must be always something that calls us to look beyond ourselves to rise above the tribalism and “group-think” into which we often descend – something around which we can unite that stands apart from the pettiness that characterizes our interactions with increasing frequency both in society and in the Church - something that calls us to reflect on the values that unite us rather than the differences that divide us.

In the Church, however, we do not need the pageantry and mythology that ties this nation to a monarch. We have this focal point in none other than Jesus Christ, the King of Kings. We have the high altar and the Eucharist – both of which are greater than any of us and all of us together – this was made clear even in the ceremonies of the coronation service. There we can gather, despite our differences, with widely disparate opinions and biases and prejudices but acknowledge that it is the Lord’s presence among us that unites us, share the meal that He alone prepares for us. We can disagree with each other, but as one family still eat at the same table. This is our point of unity, our place of reconciliation.

So let the bells ring their changes. Let the street parties continue. It is a great day for our British cousins. But as much as we long for the stability and permanency that something like monarchy can offer, we, too, have gifts to offer the societies of the world - and we, as Episcopalians - with all our messy Church - also have gifts to offer a communion that struggles daily to find the way forward in following the Way of Love given to us in Christ Jesus our Risen Lord.

What’s Sin Got to Do with It?

In today’s world, sin is not a popular topic. Some have said that the decline in the popularity of Christian religion is its obsession about sin and sinfulness. In the minds of many this leads to a dour, downcast view of the world that recalls the puritanical days of Hester Prynne and The Scarlet Letter. Add to it all the larger than life scandals of the last decade in Christian churches of every stripe and we have a heady mix of moralistic preaching, inauthenticity, and skepticism about anything the Church might have to say about sin and the need for redemption.

This morning at Ridley Hall, a presentation on the spirituality of sin (you got that right) by a recent graduate working on his PhD in theology, The Rev’d Johnny Torrence, introduced some helpful imagery that might go a long way to return us to a more helpful view of this central doctrine of Christian teaching.

Luther and Melancthon
from the windows in the
Chapel at Ridley Hall

Focusing on Martin Luther’s teaching (Luther in an Anglican College?), Torrence suggested we look less at sin from the usual legal metaphors of judgment we so often use. Rather, he suggested, look at sin primarily from a medical point of view.

In this view sin is not merely a series of bad choices (guilty acts) but rather a state of ill health for which we must seek a cure. The cause of the that illness is the conviction that we can somehow find the solution to our deepest problems (regardless of what they are) within ourselves – that we need nothing or no one else. Consequently, we dig deeper and deeper – ever downward, only to come up empty – and when we do, we too often turn to the quick fix – to something that will take away the emptiness or pain that we feel – whether it be some substance, self-soothing behavior, or other temporary, and always short-term fix. The only long-term remedy is a long, hard look at ourselves to assess our brokenness and to determine our true need, namely, to turn out of ourselves to recognize our need another, for the One who understands every element of what is truly human about us – the God-Man, Jesus.

As Torrence went on, I began to think about the series Doc Martin, which I have long enjoyed on PBS. Martin Ellingham is a deeply flawed character. Who ever heard of a physician, a surgeon, no less, who pales at the sight of blood? That is the least of his problems. Throughout the series, he is portrayed as a self-righteous know-it-all, who, despite his phlebo-phobia, is an overly competent physician assigned by the National Health Service to a small fishing town populated by simple, working-class people. Daily, they present themselves with illnesses, for which he is usually able to find an appropriate treatment. He cannot always offer a cure, and his bedside manner isn’t always the best, but he always brings his skills to bear on his patients and allows them to accept (or not) the solution he offers. Sometimes they can be stubborn, but so can he. Sometimes, they will refuse to recognize what ails them, until they reach the point that they are in mortal danger and critical decisions must be made.

I think that is the way it is with God’s healing grace, too. In our brokenness, we can all be stubborn. We can all refuse the advice of the Great Physician – we can refuse to recognize what ails us and continue doing just what we have been doing, all the while wondering why our souls still hurt and our hearts still ache. Yet, God’s grace abounds. That healing grace is always there for our taking – if only we would recognize that which is broken within – our sin – and allow the healer's art to work.

Back to Dr. Ellingham. As members of the Anglican family of Christians, we believe that we live in a sacramental world - a world where God's grace is transmitted through signs that we can perceive - words, things, touch, symbols of every kind. As a priest, I am supposed to be one of those sacramental signs for the Church. Today, I confess that I can identify a whole lot with Doc Martin. I have a whole lot of knowledge and skill crammed in this head of mine. Academic degrees, certificates, years of experience, but I, too, am still broken, like you. I can be stubborn and strong-willed, a bit of a know-it-all at times. Perhaps lacking in bedside manner. Perhaps there are things like Martin’s phobia that I look to avoid in the conduct of my ministry. Yes, I, too, am a sinner. But as one called to be a priest I am a sinner called into the grace of Jesus Christ not only for my salvation but for yours as well. I am called to be a priest with you and for you – to tell you that you are sinners, like me, not to scold you or put you down or disparage you, but to help you see that the grace of God abounds all the more. And that it is by that grace we are healed, that we are saved. Together. 

Thanks be to God. Alleluia! Alleluia!

A Coronation Pilgrimage

Guy Hayward leads off
our journey by singing
"As the green blade riseth"

Pilgrimage is a journey, often into an unknown or foreign place, where one goes in search of new or expanded meaning about one’s self, or others, or a higher good through the experience. Pilgrimage can lead to a personal transformation, after which the pilgrim returns to their daily life. That’s one reason I chose “Walk with Me” as the title for this blog about my sabbatical. In many ways, it is a pilgrimage – a journey to an unknown place …

On Tuesday, I undertook a literal pilgrimage with the help of the British Pilgrimage Trust. Under the leadership of Guy Hayward, just over thirty fellow pilgrims gathered at All Hallows Church near the Tower of London to begin a trek following an ancient route retracing the steps taken (as best as one could after centuries of development) of the coronation processions of old. As we begin, we are asked to be still and to consider what we hope to gain from this quest, what question we seek to answer, what void we seek to fill.

The nave of All Hallows
mostly destroyed in The Blitz
but rebuilt.

For hundreds of years the monarch stayed at the Tower of London two nights before the coronation. Preparations included the creation of the Knights of the Bath – the monarch’s special escort for the coronation. A chosen selection of young squires were ritually bathed before spending the night in prayer. The next day they were dubbed by the monarch before escorting them in the procession. In display of pomp and pageantry the monarch processed through London to Westminster the day before the coronation. Along the way they met a series of pageants – theatrical performances on elaborate stages in the streets. The last of these coronation processions from the Tower of London was that of Charles II in 1661.

The gardens at St. Dunstan's
 in the East. 

Our second stop was The Church of St Dunstan (in the East). Originally built around 1100 it was severely damaged in 1666 by the Great Fire of London and again in the Blitz of 1941. Only Wren's tower and steeple survived the bombing. During the re-organization of the Anglican Church after World War II it was decided not to rebuild St Dunstan’s and in 1967 the City of London decided to turn the remains into a public garden, which opened in 1970. Dunstan worked as a silversmith while a monk at Glastonbury. As the story goes, he nailed a horseshoe

The single remaining
arched portal entrance
to London bridge

to the Devil's foot when he was asked to re-shoe the Devil's cloven hoof. This caused the Devil great pain, and Dunstan only agreed to remove the shoe and release the Devil after he promised never to enter a place where a horseshoe is over the door. This is claimed as the origin of the lucky horseshoe! Pilgrimages are times to tell stories - personal and otherwise. Recall Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. Many such stories (and legends) were shared by the of our times together.

Next, we walked along the Thames. As we walked, our leader regaled us with musical tales of ferrymen and maidens, lost love and medieval love redeemed, until we came to that most famous of places no longer there - London Bridge. 

Well, there is a London Bridge but it isn't the one of our nursery rhymes. The pilgrim stop was its tower gate, which still stands and is the portal entrance to St. Magnus Martyr Church. The story of St. Magnus of Orkney is too involved for this short blog, you can find it at the church's website. The history of the parish, however, is entwined with the history of the bridge and the river and is almost as long as the history of London itself. Like so many other churches in this area of London, St. Magnus Martyr was severely damaged by the Great Fire of London in September 1666. By the end of the fire only about one-fifth of London stood. Innumerable homes, civic buildings, churches, guild halls, and civic buildings had been destroyed or stood as mere shells. 

The next stop on our pilgrim way was the monument erected to this tragic event. Here, in the shadow of The Monument to the Great Fire of London at the junction of Monument Street and Fish Street Hill, 202 feet tall and 202 feet west of the spot in Pudding Lane where the Great Fire started. It was built on the site of St Margaret, New Fish Street, the first church to be destroyed by the Great Fire. Hayward led us in a four-part round of the nursery rhyme that Londoners have learned through the centuries:

London's burning, London's burning.
Fetch the engines, fetch the engines.
Fire fire, Fire Fire!
Pour on water, pour on water.   

Trekking on, we next stopped at St. Mary's Abchurch.

First mentioned in the late twelfth century, it was one of the many churched destroyed in the Great Fire. Rebuilt under the design of Sir Christpher Wren, the congregation sits beneath a great dome, leading one to feel great expanse in little space. Regrettably, the church was again damaged in the bombing raids of World War II but was yet again restored.  

 

With no time to waste, we moved on to our next pilgrim stop, St. Stephen's Walbrook. Again, an ancient site rebuilt from ashes of fire and war, one can see the increasing skill of Wren's design techniques in his use of space and light - all of which would culminate in his masterpiece, St. Paul's Cathedral. 

St. Stephen's is of particular note on our journey not only because of its long pedigree in the city of London and its architectural beauty and pedigree but also of its pastoral innovations. It was here that the Samaritans organization was founded to provide support to anyone in emotional distress, struggling to cope or at risk of suicide, throughout the U.K. and Ireland, often through its telephone helpline. The first telephone used in this work is displayed here. 

While in St. Stephen's, Guy tells a story in song taking advantage of the spectacular acoustics of the Wren design.  

And while the song gives us a moment of respite, we soon are again walking. This time now just a short way from a journey into the nether regions of time and history - into London's pre-Christian legacy in the London Mithraeum. Situated on the site of Bloomberg’s new European headquarters, we find ourselves in an ancient temple, found during the excavation to prepare the this building, and a series of contemporary art commissions responding to one of the UK’s most significant archaeological sites.

Soon enough we find ourselves in the shadow of Wren's masterpiece, St. Paul's Cathedral. This massive church is the first church built for purpose as a cathedral church after the Reformation, and so seeks to enshrine its theological principles within its architecture. Regrettably, we were not allowed to go in (that's another interesting story for another time) but one cannot help but be impressed by its mass and its design. You can almost see where Wren had been testing his ideas in designs like St, Mary's Abchurch and St. Stephen's, Walbrook. 

One of the best views of St. Paul's Cathedral, London

Onward! The pilgrims move on!

We make our way to our next destination, St. Bride's Church, Fleet Street. Guy takes us behind the church to a forbidden place (will we be scolded?) to touch an ancient tree whose roots descended deep into the soil to a well far below the surface. He tells us of ancient customs where water is drawn from such wells in olden times as good omens for the new year, for good harvests, for health, for fertility in the fields. This ancient tree stands as a
continuing sign of our connectedness to the earth in the midst of this concrete forest near a church dedicated to St. Bride (St. Brigid of Kidare). 

The Memorial to Missing Journalists

We eventually go around to the entrance of the beautiful interior to find a church dedicated to the art and craft of journalism and the proclamation of truth. (It IS Fleet Street, after all.) Of particular beauty and solemnity is a shrine dedicated to the memory of journalist dead or missing in the pursuit of truth throughout the world near the place where the sacrament is reserved, placing them under the watchful eye of the divine presence. "The journalist's church" St. Bride's is a place of prayerful remembrance and a continual witness to the importance of truth in a free and open society. 

A wayside stop toward our next destination takes us to the only known statue of Elizabeth I that was made during her lifetime. By this fact, we can have some assurance that it is a somewhat accurate portrayal since no medieval monarch ever allowed any unflattering or inaccurate portray to exist if they knew it existed. Also, it is placed at one of the spots where once of the many morality plays was performed on Elizabeth's own coronation progress to Westminster, so it is a totally appropriate stop for our pilgrim way. 

Ironically, at this same point we also have an homage to the deep English monarchy's deeply pagan mythological origins (yes, there is some). 

This is St. Dunstan's in the West. Not much is left of its facade as much of its entrance was lost with the expansion of Fleet Street. Once would miss it if it wasn't for the giant clock over which the giant figurines of Gog and Magog stand guard!

Effigies of knights buried
in Temple Church

Next we are invited in the sacred precincts of the Knights Templar. The Temple Church has a long and storied history extending back to the time of the Crusades. Its ideological roots extend deeply into the mystic origins of English mythos - Arthurian legends, chivalry, and more. Modeled on the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem, it holds a special place in the hearts and minds of the English nation. It is a thoroughly appropriate stop on our pilgrimage as we near its end. Appropriate, too, was our leader's invitation for us to gather under the circular dome under which many of the knights templar are buried to sing the unofficial national anthem of England, the hymn, Jerusalem. This we did. Even as an American, I could not help but be moved by its lyrics and its melody in that acoustically perfect and historically fraught setting. (We know the tune in the 1982 Hymnal as O Day of Peace, you may also recognize it as the choral piece sung so beautifully in the film Chariots of Fire, from which the film takes its name).

The day draws on. We are getting closer to our final destination. We move on from Temple Church to take a way stop at a point of interest - ancient Roman baths. Down an alley in the midst of King's College, London. an attendant of the Preservation Trust allows us in a small access point. It's damp. It's a small ante chamber then a small room with a rail and a brick pool - about two meters wide and four meters long and about a meter deep. The water is fairly still but is spring fed - it's cold. Guy is off in the corner singing again. This time about water, how water brings life, how water brings healing. As I took my moment to experience this (we've only a moment in groups of four or five), I am put in mind of the story of Jesus and the man at the pool of Bethesda. How the man waited for someone to lift him in. How the man wanted the healing water. The thoughts kept flooding over me as I waited quietly outdoors for the others and I thought of those in my life who need this healing. I prayed for them. Bring them healing waters, O Lord. bring them healing waters. I cried. 

We turned onto the Thames walkway and soon the towers of Westminster were in view. Our destination was in sight. Guy was concerned, though. It was late and the final preparations for the coronation were underway. We already knew we would not be admitted to the abbey since that had been closed for days. But they had begun shutting down the area around it. We all agreed to venture forth anyway. Let's see how far we would get. Onward!

The statue of
William Tyndale

Closer and closer. We walked. The sun, which had been absent most of the day emerged. An omen? Perhaps. As we drew closer, we realized there was now no vehicular traffic. But pedestrians were being allowed through. We were in luck. At least the Victoria Embankment Gardens were open. Onward! Past the statues of Prime Ministers. Past manicured gardens of the best of spring flowers. Plenty of people - staff and civilians alike. We were getting closer. We gathered at the end of the park. There we gathered to regroup once more. There I realized that among of the statues of great statesmen, the first in line of these great men was the figure of William Tyndale. He was not a statesman but a linguist who dared to translate the bible into English. He eventually suffered a martyr's death for his positions during the tumultuous and confusing times of the Reformation. He was first among these great ones.

Across another set of streets down Horse Guards Avenue toward Whitehall. We were getting closer. It was open. We could go to the abbey after all. There was much activity. Moving vans. Armed guards. Barricades. To the left were the buildings Parliament. We had made it.  St, Margaret's Church was before us. Just a bit farther. Soon, we saw the North entrance and the pilgrim's door. That's where we would have entered had we been allowed. But preparations were in their final phases and we knew we would not be able to go in. That will be for another day. For now, we know we had made the trek on which set out.  

We started at ten in the morning and now, at five thirty in the afternoon, we were at the gates of Westminster Abbey. We had trekked almost seven miles through the streets of London. 

We had visited churches and sites that had seen countless generations before us. We had touched stones touched by people that had lived a thousand years ago. We had connected ourselves with the earth, with water, with fire, with air. All of which have the power to heal and destroy. Most of all, we connected with one another starting as a group of strangers but now have the common bond of having walked miles with one another. We may not meet one another ever again, but in this, we will be forever connected.  

My "buddy" Elizabeth from Sydney
her daughter Maye from London
and me in front of Westminster Abbey.

For more pictures see my Facebook page. 

https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?vanity=david.zwifka&set=a.10222952845312244

  

Listen

Listen. 

(Click on the link and listen as you read.)

This is the sound of Sunday morning in Cambridge. It’s 9:30 and I am sitting alongside King’s Parade making my way to St. Bene’t’s Church just a block away for Sunday Eucharist.

This is the sound – almost a cacophony – of change ringing echoing through the streets from several of the local churches. Change ringing is the art of ringing a set of tuned bells in a tightly controlled manner to produce precise variations in successive sequences, known as "changes." This creates a form of bell music which cannot be discerned as a conventional melody but as a series of precise mathematical sequences. It is not merely random noise!

Computer-controlled machinery produces none of this. It is human art and effort. That is its beauty. Each bell is controlled by a single rope, which is pulled by a human being in time, in sequence. Listen again - each note sounded independently in its proper order. Each bell rung with precision tells a story of the willingness of individuals to work together, to play one small part to create a magnificent and joyful noise.

Listen.

Listen, too, for the sounds of life going on in the public square – the voices of children walking by with their parents – some hustling their way to church, others just marveling at the architecture around them, others just looking for an open coffee shop.

St. Bene't's - Founded in the 11th century

Soon it was time to leave the public square for the confines of St. Bene’t’s just half a block away. Just inside – six bell ringers with their captain, busily at work until just moments before service was to begin. As each “change” completed, the captain would call out the next and off they went for several more minutes. Less cacophonous now that only these bells could be heard, but just as joyful.

Mind you, that joy was bittersweet for the people of St. Bene’t’s as in the past week, they laid to rest a much beloved vicar, whose death came suddenly and unexpectedly. A parish in mourning and still celebrating the resurrection gives this city an ultimate witness to Jesus’s words: 

“I am Resurrection and I am Life …”

 ___________________________________________

Just a note ...

St. Bene’t’s is a contraction of the name St. Benedict’s. For more information on St. Bene’t’s Parish, check out its website at https://www.stbenetschurch.org/. St. Bene’t’s was the first parish church I attended here upon recommendation of my dear colleague from the Stevenson School for Ministry, Dr. Deirdre Good, who apparently knows me all too well! Ironically, I exercised my first parish ministry as a priest in a parish under the patronage of this same saint!