Arundel Surprises

It must have been forty years since I went to Arundel Castle. The town, a port once but whose economy is now based around antique shops, cafés, and the Castle, I've been to reasonably recently, but the Castle requires a deliberate visit, not least because you have to gather yourself to pay the entrance fee. It was, as one might expect as the seat of one of the country's premier noble families, overwhelmingly grand, though I was struck that there was no section looking at the below-stairs life of the Castle, how it functioned as an economic and social machine, such as you now get at virtually every National Trust or English Heritage site now. At one stage the visitor route (which you need as the place is bewilderingly enormous) does take you along a service passage, identified by its featureless walls and green paint, but the servants are notable by their absence. 

Equally striking is the Walled Garden. I couldn't have seen this on my last trip as it was only designed in 2008. It won an award last year and I can understand why: organised around a series of pastiche Jacobean garden buildings, in timber rather than stone, it's a delightful arrangement of capriccione that amuses and impresses though I'm not sure why the designers picked the Shakespearean theme: the Palace of Oberon houses a water-jet emerging from a rockpile and supporting a golden crown, the water toppling over a grotto beneath.

I could well have seen the Fitzalan Chapel when I was last at the Castle (I viewed it from St Nicholas's Church in 2016, but that doesn't count), but wouldn't have remembered any of it. As well as being present in the east window of the Chapel, as I posted here in 2016, St Catherine also appears in the stained glass of the Castle Chapel too (as below), but round the corner in the mausoleum-chapel of the 14th Duke and his wife is an entirely unexpected image - a statue, showing the saint with sword and book, standing on her wheel. It seems that the Duke may have had a particular devotion to her as the inscription on his tomb certainly includes the words Sanctae Catharina Virginis et Martyris, but in the semi-dark I couldn't make out all of the cramped and abbreviated Gothic script. I cannot find anything written to explain this. I left the saint a note: it is, after all, nearly a shrine.

Fruits of the Spirit

It was the morning of the Village Show and, despite the extraordinarily unfavourable growing conditions in recent months, some dogged local allotment holders and gardeners were turning up to drop off their entries. Ella the former Rainbows group leader was guarding the car park beside the church (which we use on sufferance of our neighbours) and was accosted by Lara who'd been for a run. Lara is still just about a parent-governor at the Infants School and Ella was a parent more years ago than she might prefer to recall. It was a lovely community occasion, they agreed, and from that moved on to a discussion about how communities like Swanvale Halt function. There are economic elements - the few remaining businesses, especially the café and the small supermarket - and social ones, including the Infants School itself. There's a secular primary school further away from the village centre, but from our point of view, and that of people with at least some faith such as Ella and Lara, the Infants School links into the church, bringing one into the other. The children may not grow up with any particular degree of faith, but they will have had some exposure to the deposit of stories and images that make Christianity up. It, and the building constructed to express them, will be something they have in common even if the theology that makes it more than that isn't something they buy into very much. 

That doesn't sound a lot. In fact it is very nebulous and unmeasurable and impossible to capture in Church of England mission statistics. But I would argue (as I think I mightn't have done once upon a time) that it is not nothing, especially in an age when there is little else that brings communities together. Remove it, and you would miss it. You can attempt to construct ways of communities expressing their solidarity and identity and they always seem hollow. I'm reminded of the various well-meaning efforts of humanist groups to come up with some sort of alternative to 'church' that functions in the same way as 'church': they eventually seem to devolve down to stand-up comedy and singing 'Sweet Caroline', and fizzle out. It is as if, to express our common humanity, we need to be committed, however fuzzily, to something more than our common humanity. Funny that.

Caniculares Dies

 ... only with fewer actual dogs. In Swanvale Halt this sharp summer, the canines keep inside for most of the day the same way the humans do. These are quiet times at the church, punctuated only by the roster of events that happen every year - the Feast of the Transfiguration which we try to observe with an outdoor mass in the churchyard (and easily succeeded this year), the ecumenical open-air service in Hornington, and, yet to come, the Village Show. That's likely to be the least successful of the three, given current conditions which have shrivelled the dahlias and reduced the allotment tomatoes to the size of, well, currants. 

 When I can come up with literally nothing I can bear to do at home at the moment, I have a wander about, pray for the people I know or indeed don't know in the streets I go along, and challenge the Lord to bring me into contact with someone who might appreciate talking to me. Sometimes he does, but I'm realising this venture is not very effective if I follow my usual inclination and try to polish off whatever tasks I might need to do before heading out, maybe in the middle of the afternoon; in the middle of the afternoon, everyone who can is hiding out of the sun. The café opposite the church is deserted; the roads are silent. 

I take with me my little directory that lists not just members of the congregation but also baptism families, funeral next of kin, wedding couples, and other contacts. I tell myself I might even knock on a door or two. And at that point I realise how neglectful I have been. Not only have the numbers of all these pastoral contacts declined over the years - which I can't do much about - I have been very shy about keeping in touch with people, and now it's a bit late to go calling on someone whose child I baptised a few years ago and haven't seen since. Despite having a set of very good excuses to knock on a door, I think 'shy' is probably the right description. At the back of my mind I have a conviction that they will have no interest in hearing from the priest, and at the front of it a set of rationalisations for holding back - it's raining, it's the weekend, it's the holidays, it's not the holidays. I have been very foolish, and changing my outlook would do everyone good, not least me.

Apocalypse on the Wireless

Time to use the Giles Fraser graphic again, though I think he has a beard now. I do my best to avoid ‘Thought for the Day’ but I caught it on Monday which was a great way to begin a week off. In this particular instance Fr Fraser was dealing in apocalyptic, ‘the End is Nigh’ language which he averred that the Church had given up since the possibility of nuclear annihilation pushed it towards encouraging optimism instead. This was only good sense, Fraser says, because nobody believes in the Book of Revelation stuff anymore. But now, as he sits looking at wildfires eating up acres of English countryside, it seems to have suddenly struck him that human society might actually, really, be under threat. He couldn’t bring himself to be hopeful in any way, he concluded, to come up with some statement about God stepping in to sort it all out: he sounded on the brink of tears. And indeed, ‘Thought for the Day’ is not usually so revealing.

I was surprised. Giles Fraser claimed never to have heard a sermon in an Anglican church that dealt with the Apocalypse, but I talk about it relatively frequently, and it’s there in the background even if not explicit. The final section of the 1996 Anglican Cataclysm – sorry, Catechism – begins ‘The Christian lives in certain hope of the advent of Christ, the last judgement, and the resurrection to life eternal’, while I’ve just finished reading a book on the suffering of the non-human Creation all five of whose theological contributors, from very different perspectives, nevertheless envisage a final sovereign act of God in which creation will be renewed, the current order of things pass away to be replaced by a perfected one. When I was in the process of converting, my friend Comrade Tankengine, son of an old-fashioned High Church Anglican clergyman, told me the prospect of the End of All Things was the only thing that gave him the hope to carry on at all.

We could take the apocalyptic tradition as symbolic rather than literal. In fact we probably should, unless we’re really ready to countenance the appearance of multi-headed dragons as part of God’s process of preparing the world for the End. In this reading, the strain and violence embedded in the texts represent the increasing recognition of good and evil as humanity advances towards what God wants for it. And it may be so; but that recognition could still require the destruction of everything we hold dear: the two might go hand-in-hand, and we should take account of the possibility.

I faced this a few years ago when thinking my way through the climate emergency. I was not sure then, and am not now, exactly how likely the End is to arise from the changes we can see around us at the moment: for what it’s worth, I think not, though I’m not at all sure our current civilisation will make it through, and that’s a shame enough. But it behoves us to think about it, and pray, and not for that Day to take us by surprise, like the thief in the night.