13

Moving on

I begin to realize that I need to move. I also know that most of the people who support me, who support us, who have been our lifeblood this past year or so, live in or around Cambridge. So we do not want to move too far. I make an appointment to see the Bishop to talk about my future. I explain my situation and ask if he knows of anything which might be suitable in the area. ‘Well,’ he says, his eyes lighting up, ‘what about the Canon Missioner’s job here at the cathedral?’

I am not looking for a cathedral job so I had not noticed the advert. Although I love the building, I have always thought of cathedrals as places of privilege, elitism and establishment. Not my style at all. ‘Oh, I don’t think a cathedral job is for me,’ I reply. ‘Why not?’ he says. ‘At least, have a look at the job specification. It could be just the thing for you.’ We chat for a bit longer and then I head home. Without enthusiasm, more to please the Bishop than anything else, I ring up the cathedral and ask them to send me the details. When the pack arrives, a couple of days later, I read through it with growing excitement. ‘Bloody hell!’ I say to myself. ‘This is my dream job!’ As I look back at my ministry in South America and in the UK over the past 20-odd years, it all seems to be so relevant. It has all, in one way or another, been focused on mission. Mission to address the pressing social and economic needs of indigenous people in northern Argentina. Mission to plant churches and make disciples in Bolivia. Mission to start a new church, on a council estate, in Cambridge. Mission to our local schools. Mission to the underdog, to prisoners, to the forgotten, to people who think of themselves as rubbish, but who are precious and beloved in the eyes of God. Could such a view of mission be transferred to a cathedral? It certainly seems to be what they are looking for, according to the job description. I hardly dare believe it, but in my heart I feel that everything I’ve done so far in my life has prepared me for this moment. There is only one way to find out. I fill in the forms and send them off.

To my surprise I am called for interview. It is a two-day affair. A tour of the cathedral, lunch with senior staff and a presentation to give on Day One. Dinner with the Cathedral Chapter and the Bishop that evening. Wives are invited. Best behaviour. Try not to eat too fast and don’t slop the gravy down your shirt! Day Two is a series of interviews with the Bishop, Dean and other Chapter members.

I start to prepare the presentation. I do a bit of research about cathedrals from their websites. I am shocked to find that, although they all include virtual tours, none of them seems to connect spirituality to the building and its history. I have done a bit of this sort of thing myself at the Leper Chapel, built to serve the needs of a leper hospital on the edge of Cambridge in the late eleventh century. It is in my parish and I find that its history – of those who were thought to be beyond the pale – ill, disfigured and forcibly separated from their loved ones – seems to ring bells with many in my parish who themselves feel ‘outcasts’. I arrange regular school visits to the chapel. Children and staff are often in tears as we light candles for those who are ill or dying, for those who feel rejected or excluded, for family members from whom they are separated, for dads they no longer see. Perhaps I could do something similar at Ely Cathedral, on a bigger scale? Could we use the building to make such connections for our visitors, so that they experience not just an historical tour but a spiritual pilgrimage? How can I present my ideas? I have never used PowerPoint before, but a mate from the General Synod gives me a quick overview. It turns out to be pretty easy and user-friendly, especially as most of my presentation will be pictures.

I turn up for Day One. There are five of us being interviewed. The others are all smartly dressed in black and speak with posh accents. They look like ideal cathedral material. At one point I am sitting with one of the other candidates’ wives in the deanery dining room, waiting to be called for my presentation. We begin talking. ‘We are just praying,’ she says, with all sincerity, ‘that the right person, the person God is calling, will be appointed.’ I have had it with piety, though. ‘Oh,’ I reply, ‘I’m praying that I get the job.’ She is not impressed. At last I am called to give my presentation. It seems to go down OK. Annie joins me for the evening and, thankfully, I don’t disgrace myself at dinner.

We get home at about 10 p.m. There is an answerphone message. It’s from the City Council Works Department. They say that the tree is ready and will be going in at 9 a.m. tomorrow morning, if we’d like to be there. My heart sinks and I am thrown into turmoil.

We have talked, as a family, for some time about a memorial for Tom, a place to go and remember. We finally settle on having a bench down by the river, in the place he regularly walked our black Labrador, Princess Sheewana. She is named after a Larson Far Side cartoon, in which two dogs are introducing themselves over the garden fence. One says: ‘I am Vexorg, Destroyer of Cats and this is my wife, Princess Sheewana, Barker of Great Annoyance and Stainer of Persian Rugs.’ Having seen the cartoon, our kids settle on the name long before we ever get the dog. Anyway, it is in this place, where Tom walked, threw sticks in the river for Sheewana and filled his pockets with conkers every autumn, that we decide to put the bench. We also decide to plant a tree next to it – a horse chestnut, of course. That is why they’ve rung. They are planting the tree tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. and have invited us to come. It is at the exact time I have an interview with the Bishop.

What to do? Annie and I, with our son, Ben, sit up late, talking. Should I just forget the interviews? Wouldn’t going to the interviews instead of the tree planting be, somehow, a denial of my love for Tom? I wrestle with my conflicting thoughts. In my mind is the passage about Jacob wrestling with the angel.1 I have a postcard of the huge sculpture of this event, carved in marble by Jacob Epstein, which I have seen, recently, at Tate Britain. I sit and look at it. I notice that, actually, the sculpture captures the moment when the wrestling is over. Jacob’s hip has been put out of joint and he can no longer stand upright. Jacob is spent and almost lifeless. They are no longer wrestling. Instead they are intimately held together, by the angel’s powerful arms, which hold Jacob up. What is more, the limp body of Jacob looks remarkably like Tom. The wrestling is over for me as well. I can ‘no longer’ as the prayer2 says ‘stand upright’, so I lie down on the bed, utterly spent.

Annie and Ben go to the tree planting. Ben has saved some white roses from Tom’s coffin, which are now dried. He puts the petals carefully into the hole in the ground in which the tree is to be planted. He takes photos to show me and his sisters. The workmen are very supportive and respectful. It apparently all goes off well and the tree looks healthy, surrounded by its protective fence, overlooking the river. Annie asks the men if they will keep an eye on it for us. One of them smiles kindly and says: ‘We’ll do our best, love.’

Meanwhile, I have arrived at the Bishop’s house, a reluctant interviewee, feeling dreadful. ‘How are you this morning?’ he enquires, cheerily. ‘Terrible,’ I reply. ‘I almost didn’t come.’ Then I tell him about what has happened and my conflicting emotions. He is very supportive, but I am aware of not wanting to play the ‘Tom sympathy card’ and we move on to discuss other things. Given the circumstances, the day goes off, as Wallace might say to Gromit: ‘as well as can be expected’. It is such a relief to head home. I feel completely wrung out.

Annie is on retreat and Ben is out, so I am on my own when the phone goes. It is the Dean who says, in a cheerful voice: ‘Well, you’ve got the job!’ I can’t believe it. ‘What are you going to do to celebrate?’ he asks. It is not the reply he is expecting. ‘I am completely knackered,’ I say. ‘I am going to bed.’ I do at least remember to say thanks and that I am very pleased to accept the job. Then I head for bed. Tonight I will sleep well.