Mr Happy

‘I do believe our prayers are heard and answered’, says Michael Mayne, the late Dean of Westminster, in the book I’m reading at the moment, The Enduring Melody, dealing with his experience of terminal cancer. ‘But we have to be clear about what we really want’. Prayer is, we might add, a way of discovering what it is we really want, too. It’s a question that’s worth asking ourselves when we sit with the Lord wondering what, if anything, to say.

Want I really want is, I think, something I am slightly ashamed of. I want everyone to be happy. That desire applies most strongly to the people I interact with most closely, but it’s a general one that I’ve realised conditions a lot of what I do. It seems so superficial, somehow, when you state it so baldly.

Of course that desire comes with caveats. I don’t believe you can be properly happy if you are committed to falsehoods, as eventually they will find you out: creation is a unity, and ultimately falsehood corrupts even if you don’t know you are enmeshed in it. I don’t believe you can be properly happy without God: God is the final truth of all things, and we are, as the saint says, restless till we find our rest in him. Rest and peace lie nowhere else. ‘We seek Christ where he is not to be found, amidst graves and sepulchres’, says the 17^th-century bishop Mark Frank, whose sermons I must look up one day. And it is true that what one person requires for what they think of as their happiness, may bring sorrow to another; they are seeking Christ in the sepulchres, in that case, but it’s what they think, and in such cases I can’t take their self-definitions of happiness as read.

Yet nevertheless, all that taken into account, I still want everyone to be happy. It hurts me when they can’t be, or when people I love seem to be seeking happiness in places they won’t find it (perhaps I am, too. I still have a lot to learn). I fear contributing to their unhappiness.

I’m not sure many Christians have this as their governing desire. They want to tell the truth regardless of consequences, to rescue souls from hell, to please God. So do I, I suppose, but I think of it in terms of bringing them happiness, which I believe would bring happiness to God as well.

Am I happy? Can I say that coming to Christ will bring happiness to those I meet? For decades I thought of faith in terms of truth, and never demanded that it would bring me any kind of joy. Perhaps it wouldn’t. Perhaps it would bring me the opposite by making demands of me I might not be inclined to meet. That’s a criticism of my own failings, to be sure, but I’m being no more than honest. Yet now, nearly 30 years after my conversion, I can sit in front of God, as I conceive it, and feel – joy at simply being there. The vicissitudes of my life (such as they are!) all occur in the context of God’s presence. They remain challenging, painful perhaps, but they are still held within something bigger than they are, and the bigger thing they are held in is the deep conviction that the centre of creation is love. It is, perhaps we might say, a deeper life. I am grateful for it. I am, maybe, happy. At least now and again.

Blazing Infernos and How Not To Have Them

Ever since Grant and Matt went on their Churchwardens' training day last year the matter of fire safety has been, as it were, smouldering away under the surface of the church's life. The last time I talked about this I mentioned that, when we last thought seriously about this some years ago, we decided we weren't completely convinced by our consultant, but on reflection this was a bit unfair although 'opinion was divided' among the people who were obliged to work most closely with him. It was more the case that our insurers, carrying out a general risk audit of the church plant, pointed our attention to their own fire risk assessment template to guide us in our thinking, and that suggested (to me, anyway) that all our level of risk required was to put up exit signs and make sure all our sidespeople and hirers knew what to do if they smelled smoke. And then we had to shut the place because of Covid anyway, and anything more involved was forgotten.

But that was all before the new regulations issued after the Grenfell Tower fire. A little while ago the Fire Service visited, walked around the site, tutted and shook their heads, and issued us with Notice to Comply with all the new laws within three months. It took two months to take the first step of managing to find a consultant with the time to visit and draw up a new, authoritative report on what we should actually do. Now we begin the process of getting quotes for fire alarms, emergency lighting, making our electrics and heating boilers safe (they shouldn't really be in the loft over the hall, but moving them is really unfeasible), and raising awareness among church members, to which end I produced a short and bad video outlining what everyone needs to know. 

To a degree this feels a bit unfair. It's not as though anyone lives at the church, and it compares in any way to, well, I don't know, plucking an example out of the air, a block of flats covered in flammable cladding where lots of souls might have to be roused from their beds in the middle of the night. But it is true that a fire might engulf the boilers and race down the pipes into the church before anyone knew what was going on, or the antique electrics of the organ spark and smoulder away long enough to catch the roof timbers without the aroma of smoke reaching responsible nostrils. We might even be able to get some help with costs from a grant, but I may have to ambush churchwardens from other parishes on their way to the Council offices. 

Two Overlooked Martyrs

Reviewing my photos of Surrey churches I realise that somehow I'd overlooked two representations of St Catherine which should go here, as it's the only place they will be recorded. This is from Holmbury St Mary, one light of a window where she appears as a pair with St Lucy:

More remarkable is one from Dunsfold; here St Catherine peeps from a crowd of adoring saints, only just identifiable by a fragment of wheel. It took a while before I noticed her among the faces. Following the great tradition of depicting female saints looking curiously remiscent of stars of the day, I think this Catherine has a touch of Fay Wray.

The Bond of Love

Something actually spiritual for a change!

Some time ago a parishioner gave me a copy of the Northumbria Community office book Celtic Daily Prayer, published by the company she worked for. I was a bit sceptical as for most people ‘Celtic Christianity’ seems to be Hello-Clouds-Hello-Sky-skip-through-the-fields stuff rather than, say, the Culdees spending hours up the waist in the freezing water of holy wells reciting Psalms. But this book turned out to be rather rigorous in its spirituality, albeit a bit rude to St Wilfrid, so that was all right.

The bit I’m reading at the moment centres on the experience of St Columba on the isle of Iona, and some of the texts come from a long poem published in the early 1900s by Fr Richard Meux Benson, founder of the Society of St John the Evangelist, the Cowley Fathers. My old theological college occupies the SSJE buildings in Oxford, and Father Benson is as abiding a presence there as anyone actually related to the college itself. I was surprised that he was so inspired by Columba, who didn’t seem a likely saint to have come to the attention of a Victorian Anglican priest who spent most of his ministry in East Oxford; but they were both austere characters, and Fr Benson might have felt a connection with the Irishman’s creation of a mission community among the rocks and inlets of Dark Age Scotland.

And death can never break 
the bond of love which God’s own hand 
hath wrought.

- I read this morning. One of the lines I tend, I admit, to reach for when I’ve taken funeral services for people I may not have known very well, or at all, is to speak about ‘the bonds of love which death is powerless to overcome’. I’ve sometimes wondered if this is a bit sentimental. Maybe friends and relatives seldom listen that carefully to homilies at their loved ones’ funerals, but, just in case they might, I want to give hope, but not sell the Gospel short either. Not everything makes it through the process of purgation. Yet at the same time I do believe that love comes from nowhere but God, and that therefore that must survive. What is good about us is gathered by him, and no genuine love we have shared can be lost.

And here is the great and founder of the Cowley Fathers, whose faith was nothing if not demanding, using the same phrase. It also made me think something else. If it’s our love of God which carries us into the new creation, and that love is itself a bond God’s own hand hath wrought, it too is unbreakable. What happiness there is in this, that even in our love of him, we rely not on our own frailty, but his eternal faithfulness.

Unedifying Accounts

The latest Anglican safeguarding scandal to come to public attention depresses in the same way any other has, though it carries its own special quality with it, apparently coming close to closing an entire cathedral in an attempt to get rid of one residentiary canon. The current Bishop of Blackburn, Philip North – as redoubtably Anglo-Catholic as his predecessor Julian Henderson was a conservative Evangelical – blames it all on the outmoded structures of the Church, though there do seem to be other factors at play. I raise an eyebrow when anonymous sources complain of the ‘absolute power’ Canon Hindley exercised at the Cathedral – I’ve never met a member of any cathedral staff who felt they had the slightest influence over their colleagues at all – but when you hear that a judge concluded he had assaulted a man, but nothing was done because nobody could be sure the victim was underage, you do gape a bit.

It takes me back a few weeks when my Antipodean regular reader and correspondent Dr Wellington asked me whether I’d come across the older scandal in the Diocese of London, where the one-time diocesan ‘fixer’ and Head of Operations Martin Sargeant had been convicted of fraud. Yes I had, I replied, and my interest was more than it might usually have been because when the miscreant’s name was first reported I’d realised I’d been to school with him. Within the outline of the middle-aged bloke in the pictures I could just about glimpse the teenage boy I remembered from Bournemouth: you didn't believe much of what he told you even then.

Part of Mr Sargeant’s story involved a now-infamous debrief with the Archdeacon of London when the former left his diocesan post in which he delivered what was described as a ‘brain-dump’ of what he claimed to know about London’s clergy. We now know that this was a compendium of gossip and personal bile with very little truth to it, but the Diocese treated it as positive allegations of abusive behaviour that had to be followed up. The typical Church of England habits of secrecy and inefficiency kicked into motion and one result was the suicide of Fr Alan Griffin who spent a year being investigated for crimes that were never made known to him, and which, the coroner who examined his death decided, ‘were supported by no complainant, no witness, and no accuser’.

It struck me that given our current, and completely understandable, safeguarding culture, it’s hard to stop this happening. We are all taught that any allegation must be reported and followed up: it rests with others to decide what is to be done next. What if, as seems to have happened in London, everyone in the chain feels they dare not be the one who says, ‘this is just poisonous gossip and we will take it no further’?

The integrity of the local safeguarding team is presumably crucial. I have had a case which ours regarded as less serious than I did, and it turned out they were right. On the other hand, I know someone against whom an allegation was made many years ago, then withdrawn (in neither case by the supposed victim, who maintained nothing had happened) and, when the priest demanded in a meeting with the bishop and the Diocesan Safeguarding Adviser the right to begin the long, difficult process of having the matter expunged from his record, was told by the DSA that as far as she was concerned he was guilty no matter what anyone said, and implied that him being ‘obviously a homosexual’ was proof of paedophilia. The bishop, my informant said, ‘went white’ and insisted on dissociating himself from the remark (I can mention this as all concerned are long gone).

At theological college I once found myself marvelling at the ability of the kitchen to both overcook and undercook rice at the same time, and the CofE’s safeguarding practice seems caught in the same place, at once hopelessly lax and unacceptably hypervigilant. The answer, as so many voices say, is simply to bring the police in whenever any allegation is made, like every other organisation. Why, yet again, should we imagine we’re so special?

Strain on the Bookshelf

One thing among many that happens when you are an ordained member of the Body of Christ is that you acquire other people’s cast-off books. Sometimes they are very useful. Over recent weeks, for instance, Il Rettore has given me copies of Mitri Raheb’s Faith in the Face of Empire, a profound examination on what it means to be a Palestinian Christian and why, in Dr Raheb’s view, God chose to be incarnate in this scarred region contended between global powers; and Monica Furlong’s biography of St Therese of Lisieux, an account of how God took a near-pathological personality and made holiness out of it. Again, occasionally an elderly book proves valuable when it might not have seemed so when you got it, like Agnes Sanford’s Sealed Orders which I almost randomly plucked out of a box at the home of a parishioner at Goremead when called on to do so without knowing who Agnes Sanford was and how illuminating the book would be.

Some older religious books remain worthwhile. Not long ago I mentioned Catherine de Houeck Doherty’s Poustinia; once St Therese is out of the way I will probably begin The Enduring Melody, the late Dean of Westminster Michael Mayne’s thoughts on his terminal cancer, and CS Lewis’s essay collection Christian Reflections: Lewis’s originality is always good value even if I find him a bit smug now and again. These works aren’t that affected by the passage of time.

But the truth is that few genres of literature age more rapidly than religious books. From Biblical exegesis to prophetic declarations about ‘the Church of the Future’, their outlooks and concerns – and even graphic design, I find – fall behind the times horribly quickly. This may be partly a reflection of the anxious state of the Western Church in the last sixty years (always seeking ways to keep up with the contemporary world, and never quite managing it), but looking into the past it seems that there has always been a vast ocean of religious books that is doomed to become forgotten and sargassum-covered. I think it’s more to do with the openness of the subject: everyone with a clerical collar and very many of those without one thinks their opinions are worth other people’s time, if they can get someone to publish them. The result is that the bookshelves of lots of good churchgoers are clogged with these flotsam of past spiritual thought, and, stricken by the kind of guilt that leads people to dump stuff outside charity shops so they can take it to the tip rather than face doing it themselves, they give them to the nearest clergyperson.

And, when I retire and have to strip my bookshelves, children, I WILL DO THE SAME. 

Asking the Question

If you listen to coverage of the violent riots and disturbances disrupting various English towns and cities at the moment, one of the more powerful sentiments expressed by people who form the crowds that eventually turn nasty – whether they stick around to take part or not – is that they were never asked whether they wanted their country to change the way it has. They weren’t consulted about it becoming multiracial, multicultural, or however you want to term it, and have ended up in an unsettling and unfamiliar place, or at least that’s what they think. There are many sorts of perceived hurt and neglect behind this – as William Cobbett famously said, ‘I defy you to agitate any fellow with a full stomach’ – and, were anyone of progressive opinions ever to have a conversation with someone who thinks it, you might want to explore whether those changes have actually had any negative impact on their wellbeing at all. But put that aside for a moment. On the face of it, the complaint is true: the UK has never formally asked itself what kind of future it preferred. True; but that’s because it couldn’t have.

The biggest changes within a society are never consulted about, mainly because we don’t know they’re happening, and by the time they have it’s too late to do anything about it. We look back and, contrasting where we are now with where we were once, we can characterise the change in a single pithy phrase such as ‘multicultural society’, but we can only do so in retrospect. In retrospect, we might be able to identify a symbolic point when the shift, whatever it was, began, or even when it had taken effect. But it’s precisely that perspective that enables us to do so.

The UK was never asked in about 1962 whether it wanted to become a society in which Christianity was marginalised from public discourse and influence. The UK was never asked in about 1980 whether it wanted to move to an economy significantly powered by property price inflation with all the attendant social problems. The UK, and the world in general, was never asked, when the building of the Old Forge at Coalbrookdale in 1709 began the Industrial Revolution, whether it wanted to begin the process of exploitation of fossil fuels which would, possibly, threaten the continued existence of our civilisation. All the biggest changes that affect us are never consulted on, because we never see them happening. As far as a multicultural society is concerned, we could stop immigration tomorrow and it wouldn’t change what Britain now is, with 12% of its population non-white and an increasing proportion mixed-race. Nobody is going to undo that. During the Brexit referendum campaign, my spiritual director overheard an elderly couple talking at a bus stop and complaining that though they couldn’t see a GP it would get better once we were out of the EU because there’d be so much more money to spend on the NHS, ‘And then’, the old chap said to the old woman beside him, ‘we can start sending the darkies back’. ‘Of course’, commented the half-Indian Ms Formerly Aldgate when I related this to her, ‘because that’s where the darkies come from, Romania’. That absurdity reveals the fantasy of return to the past for what it is.

In a way, the question is asked, but it’s asked in a million tiny decisions rather than one big one. It’s asked, and answered, in the individual choices people make, and in the election of governments who don’t do anything to reverse the movement in a particular direction. As far as race is concerned, we had an opportunity to choose a National Front-dominated government in the 1970s, but chose not to elect even a single MP. Sometimes, and this is far worse, a government suggests in its rhetoric that it’s going to reverse something, it will, for instance, ‘Stop the Boats’, and then doesn’t. In that specific example there’s little excuse because there were plenty of people telling the last administration that it couldn’t succeed, which raises the question of whether it was pure cynicism or the ministers concerned managed to convince themselves that they meant it. Either way, they now find the phrase thrown back along with bricks and bottles.

Sometimes, there is indeed a moment when a society is asked a question that marks a decisive move in one direction or another. In 2015 and 2018 the people of the Irish Republic voted to legalise same-sex relationships and abortion, marking an unmistakable shift away from being a conservative religious country to being a secular liberal one. But it’s worth noting that the very majorities achieved in those referendums, about two thirds to one third, proved that the shift in attitude had already happened. I recall Malawian comedian Daliso Chaponda remarking that the UK should have learned from Africa ‘where we only ever have a referendum when the government already knows the result’. The joke has a good point: referenda whose outcome is uncertainly close don’t bring any debate to an end. The only sensible referendum is one that confirms what people already think.

You could play a game, maybe, as to what symbolic question you could ask the British public to make them feel they had indeed been consulted over whether to remain a multicultural society. Finding one that would simultaneously be both meaningful and yet bound to be answered one way would test anyone's ingenuity. But, if the research is correct to show that the British at least want to be liberal about immigration more than virtually any other country, it wouldn't break it. 

Two More Museums

The whole reason I went to Maidstone last week was to pay my respects to Ta-Kush, 'the Lady of the House, Daughter of Osiris' at the Museum. As I dripped my way through the rainy streets and finally found the Museum, I found a grand Tudor house - Chillington Manor, originally - a far more impressive setting than I envisaged, even if I quickly discovered that you don't go in here, but through a modern annexe at the side.

Like Hastings Town Museum which I visited last year, but on a bigger scale, Maidstone houses different collections of stuff which it's been given over the years, and what is in fact technically an entirely separate institution, the Royal West Kent Regimental Museum. There's the Bentlif Art Gallery, the Oyler Collection of Toys and Games, Lady Brabourn's Costume Collection, two distinct huge donations of Japanese artefacts, and the Brenchley Collection of South Sea Island ethnography. It's exhausting, and means that if you don't warm to one gallery there's always something different round a corner (and there are a lot of corners). When I visited there was also a temporary display 'I Grew Up 1980s' full of things I have disturbingly clear memories of as well as dark oak rooms full of dark oak furniture and suits of armour. I could have spent much longer here had I not already been a bit worn out by my trip to Knole House in the morning. And at the centre, in her own dark alcove - appropriately the former chapel of an almshouse - is Ta-Kush. They treat her kindly now, but she was cut about after being confiscated in 1820 by Customs & Excise as they checked her for smuggled goods. The children boggled at her, and I stood in silent salute. She has come all this way across time and space, as it were, to teach us about her vanished world. I didn't photograph her.

Then on Friday last week I was in London seeing my god-daughter to hear about the frustrations of life as a very junior civil servant living in the capital and a young Christian who can't find a local church where they don't worship a drum kit. I made a day of it by exploring the City of London Cemetery in Wanstead (which has a café!) and then dropping by at Hackney Museum. As far as you can get from the model of local history museum represented by Maidstone, Hackney's is one room (they have a gallery for temporary exhibitions, but it was closed when I went) under the borough library dating from 1999. Nobody has given them hundreds of oil paintings, Japanese sword hilts or Egyptian mummies; they don't have much, but they make what they have work hard. They focus, as far as possible, on the multifarious stories of the varied people who have made their home in this part of London over the centuries. There is the paraffin stove used by a West Indian couple in their rented room in the 1950s because the landlord turned the gas off at a certain point in the day. There's a net used to catch eels from the tank at the back of an eel-and-pie shop. There's a tiny artwork made by a schoolchild showing how their parents met. There is enormous compassion and commitment. And when I visited there were lots of children enjoying the games and toys for free, and some of the older ones even looking at the displays. 

Go and find your local museum. They're all gorgeous. Well, nearly all.