17
Bottom line – 2
One of the questions the Dean asked me when I applied for the job at the cathedral was: ‘If you get the job, how will you get on with having to come to Morning and Evening Prayer at the cathedral every day?’ Founded by St Etheldreda in ad 673, Ely Cathedral was for many centuries a Benedictine monastery. The rhythm of life of the monks and nuns was defined by the seven daily acts of worship, the Daily Offices – the Opus Dei, meaning the Work of God. The real Work of God was not tending the garden, copying manuscripts, looking after the sick, welcoming guests, caring for the buildings or providing food. All of these were important. The real Work of God was the daily round of prayer and worship. These seven offices have now been reduced, in the Church of England at least, to two – Morning and Evening Prayer. So one of the essential tasks of cathedral clergy is to be committed to this daily rhythm of prayer and worship.
I think about the Dean’s question. ‘Well,’ I reply, ‘it is not what I have been used to, but I’ll give it my best shot’. In fact, however, I find it to be liberating, like a homecoming. I have always struggled with my daily devotions, made worse by friends who tell me what a marvellous time of prayer they’ve had this morning and how God has spoken to them through their Bible reading. I can safely say that this has hardly ever been my experience. Now I don’t need to decide what to do each day, however – there is a standard format to follow. It’s not just me either. In the morning there are six or eight of us, gathered together to pray. I even find myself arriving ten or fifteen minutes early, just sitting, quietly, before the office begins. I am often distracted, thinking about my family, about my work, about the news headlines, about how Leeds United are doing, about the next game of golf. For me, it would be an exaggeration to call this ‘prayer’, but at least I am here, putting myself deliberately in God’s presence, whether he chooses to reveal himself or not – which, generally speaking, as far as I can see, he doesn’t. Yet there is something in this daily routine, undertaken with others, which makes me feel centred, held. Like Philip Larkin who, in his poem ‘Churchgoing’,1 despite his own scepticism, cannot help affirming: ‘It pleases me to sit in silence here.’
Each afternoon, when I am engrossed in my work, the last thing I want to do is break off and sit in a cold cathedral for Evensong, but I go. I listen to the familiar words of the liturgy and hear the Bible readings. The choir sings the canticles and an anthem, reflecting the beauty of this place and of God’s extravagant creation. I hear the prayer requests of our visitors offered to God. Remarkably, despite my reluctance beforehand, I am stopped, stilled and refocused, ready for whatever the evening brings.
In particular, there is the chanting of the psalms, in the same way they have been sung for centuries, which forms the core of the Office. These psalms express to God every possible human emotion and desire. To quote the long-gone News of the World: ‘All human life is there.’ There is despair, anger, confusion, disappointment with God, complaint, bitterness, the desire for revenge. As the psalmist says bitterly to God (Psalm 44): ‘All this has come upon us though we have not forgotten you or been false to your covenant. Wake up, O God! Why are you asleep? Do not cast us off for ever.’ Also present, though, are thankfulness, joy, awe, praise, adoration, faith, hope and love, as in Psalm 126: ‘Then was our mouth filled with laughter and our tongue with shouts of joy. The Lord has done great things for us and we rejoiced.’ These psalms remind me that it is OK to express to God all these conflicting emotions, even at the same time. They say something profound about the deep paradoxes of life, including my highly contradictory feelings about my relationship with God. Epstein’s sculpture is not just God wrestling with Jacob, nor even with Tom. It is God wrestling with me – if only, that is, I could get hold of him. George Herbert, in his poem ‘Bitter Sweet’, sums up for me this internal conflict.
Ah my deare angrie Lord,
Since thou dost love, yet strike;
Cast down, yet help afford;
Sure I will do the like.
I will complain, yet praise;
I will bewail, approve:
And all my sowre-sweet dayes
I will lament, and love.2
‘Lament and love.’ That seems to sum up my existence.
The cathedral is helpful in other ways, too. The pace of life is much more hectic, demanding. So many balls to keep in the air at the same time. There are lots of exciting, innovative projects in which I am involved. There is so much going on, every day. It is non-stop. Now, however, I am generally one or even two steps away from the ‘coalface’. I am responsible for the 10,000 schoolchildren who visit here each year, but the work is delivered by Jan, our outstanding Education Officer, and her team of volunteers. I only occasionally get directly involved with the kids. Similarly, the Ministry of Welcome Team and the day chaplains are the ones who actually do the work of welcoming and ministering to the general public. I simply manage the wonderful Joan and Sally, who manage the rest of the team. Also, one of the other cathedral canons is responsible for most of the pastoral care, so I do not often, now, have to bear the weight of other people’s pain. It is a great mercy to me.
In any case, people here are different. In East Barnwell people wear their hearts on their sleeves. For example, I meet Sharon on the way to school with the kids. ‘Morning, Sharon,’ I say. ‘How’s things?’ ‘Bloody terrible,’ she replies. ‘Had a big row with Mike. I gave him a slap. He gave me a slap. Now he’s walked out and there’s no money for the gas!’ Whereas, at the cathedral, I say: ‘Morning, Julia. How are you?’ ‘Oh, fine, thanks,’ she replies, with a big smile, even though she is in the middle of a painful, acrimonious, messy divorce and is very far from being fine. I miss the honesty, the rawness, the ‘craic’, but I know in my heart that I just don’t have the inner resources to meet so much need, to carry so much pain, any more. So, I am grateful for the cathedral, which holds me in the ‘Cantus Firmus’ and allows me to do what I can, not what I cannot.
The words of the funeral director still ring in my head: ‘What is this doing to your faith, Alan?’ So, what do I actually believe now? Also, as my emotions vary so much from day to day, is belief in God a completely subjective thing, dependent just on how I happen to be feeling at any given time? There are many days when I cannot honestly say that I believe in the existence of God at all. God is silent, distant. Maybe God does not even exist. What if God doesn’t exist? What is the bottom line, then?
I think Christians, for far too long and even now, have focused unhelpfully on what we say we believe. Credal statements were written to define orthodoxy – and to exclude heretics. In our own day the Church seems determined to exhaust itself, and look ridiculous into the bargain, by arguing endlessly about issues of sexuality and gender. Yet the Gospels are comparatively silent when it comes to credal statements. For the most part, Jesus defines discipleship by trust in him and by what we do, rather than what we say we believe. Indeed, the very word ‘faith’ does not refer to a set of metaphysical propositions which I may, or may not, sign up to. Rather it means something more like ‘risky faithfulness’. It is about how you live it out. This is well illustrated by the Quakers, who do not have a basis of faith, but have made a vast difference to society, over the centuries, by their faithful, committed work for justice, for honesty and integrity in business, for decent conditions for workers and prisoners, for peace and reconciliation.
Maybe the Churchills were right after all? ‘KBO.’ ‘Keep buggering on.’ Because, even if God does not exist, the values of the Gospels, the teaching of Jesus, the way of life which loves neighbour and stranger above self, which is committed to work for justice, for peace, for the powerless, for love to triumph over evil – these things are surely worth fighting for, whether God exists or not. So I will keep on ‘buggering on’, trying to live out Jesus’ teaching as best I can, irrespective of how I feel, because this is a better way to live. Better for me. Better for my family and for the people I love. Better for society. Better for our nation. Better for the world. This is a bottom line I certainly can hold on to, whether God exists or not.
Just occasionally, there are also moments of serenity – the soaring music, the astonishing coincidence, the sense of it all fitting together, the look in the eyes of someone I meet – when I suddenly glimpse the glory of God again. In between those moments, I will do my best to walk the walk, both when God seems close and real and especially when he doesn’t.
Another thing about working in the cathedral is the Communion of Saints. I have repeated, for years, this phrase, as I have recited, week after week, the Apostles’ Creed: ‘I believe in the Communion of Saints.’ What does it mean? Does it have any importance, any cash value, for me, here and now? In the cathedral I am surrounded by saints – images in stone, wood, paint and stained glass. Images not just of distant heroes of the Bible, but of the saints of Ely. Those people who lived and prayed and walked and worked here, in this very place where I am sitting now. People like Etheldreda, the Saxon queen, who gave up crown and wealth to found the monastery here, in the middle of this bleak marshland, in ad 673. There is an almost tangible sense of not just the challenge of their example but also their presence and prayers for us today. ‘Since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses,’ says the letter to the Hebrews,3 ‘let us run with perseverance the race set before us.’ It seems as if they, too, are calling to me: ‘KBO, Alan, KBO.’
This Communion of Saints is not just about the saints of old. I think of all the godly people, the saints of today, who have supported me, supported us, over the years, both before and since Tom’s death. Those who have held us, stood by us, stood for us, when we were unable to stand for ourselves and are supporting us still, now. I may often find it hard to encounter God directly, but I meet him all the time in people such as these.
Early one Friday morning, when I am playing golf, as usual, with Michael, he asks me: ‘Does it give you any comfort, Alan, to think that Tom is safe in God’s hands and that you will see him again?’ It is a difficult question for me. ‘To be honest Michael,’ I reply, ‘these days I have no assurance about what happens after death, much less whether I will ever see Tom again.’ He stops and turns to look at me. ‘Oh, Al,’ he exclaims, ‘don’t worry about that! I believe passionately in life after death. I believe passionately that Tom is safe in God’s loving arms and I am certain that you will see him again. If you can’t believe it at the moment – don’t worry – I’ll believe it for you.’
What joyous relief! What deliverance from the unquestioned individualism of our age. Not to have to believe everything for myself! To be able to be part of the communion of saints, past and present, who will hold me, support me, pray for me and even believe for me, when I am spent, and can do none of it at all for myself.
One of the highlights of a visit to Ely Cathedral is the Octagon. Built after the collapse of the central tower in 1322, it is a miracle of medieval engineering. The monks worshipped directly underneath it. It was deliberately built eight-sided. The monks’ rhythm of life was defined by a seven-day cycle of work and prayer. The eighth day represented eternity, into which they were drawn as they worshipped, lifted up by images of saints and angels into the heart of the octagon, where a painted carving of the risen, ascended Christ looks down upon us. He is holding up his right hand as a sign of blessing. With his left hand he is pulling open his clothing to reveal a deep, red-raw, open wound.
This image becomes very important for me. I read again the story of doubting Thomas who, when he finally meets the risen Jesus, recognizes him not so much by his risenness, but by his woundedness. Jesus says to Thomas: ‘Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Do not doubt, but believe.’4 The risen Jesus is not the same as before. He is deeply scarred, wounded. It is no surprise that many of his disciples do not initially recognize him when he appears to them. His appalling suffering has changed him. Then, as he ascends, he takes into heaven that deeply wounded body, so that God might always and for ever know what it is like to feel the pain and suffering of our wounded humanity.
Nicholas Wolterstorff, an American professor of philosophy and religion, in the profound book he wrote following the death of his son, Eric, in a climbing accident, comments on this passage: ‘So I shall struggle to live the reality of Christ’s rising and death’s dying. In my living my son’s dying will not be the last word. But as I rise up I bear the wounds of his death. My rising does not remove them. They mark me. And if you want to know who I am now, put your hand in.’5
Like Wolterstorff, like the wounded, risen Christ, I will rise up. I will live again, but I am not the same as I was before. If you want to know who I am now, put your hand in.
Name
When they came . . . the whole town was stirred because of them
And the women said: Is this Naomi?
She said to them
‘Call me no longer Naomi
Call me Mara6
For the Almighty has dealt bitterly with me.’
Gomer conceived and bore a daughter.
Then the Lord said:
‘Name her Lo-ruhamah7
For I will no longer have pity . . . or forgive them.’
And when you ask me who I am
When you ask me if I am as I appear
I say
‘You may still use my name of grace
But I am now called
One-who-has-lost-a-son
For I am marked by a grieving.’8
Jeanette Winterson, in her moving autobiography, says: ‘Wounding seems to be a clue or a key to being human. There is value as well as agony.’9 She may well be right but, frankly, I’d rather be without it and have Tom back, any day!