Broken bread, broken curse: thoughts on Corpus Christi and the fire at Grenfell Tower

There is no bread in the Garden of Eden. The menu is confined to the fruit of plants and trees, with bread appearing only after the Fall[1]: as part of the consequences of human disobedience and our ejection from Paradise, we will earn our bread through hard labour and the sweat of our brow. Bread is therefore contentious stuff, tainted by banishment and curse, a constant reminder of what should have been, and of the need to get things right.


Admittedly, the Hebrew Bible does offer a variety of images in which bread is entirely positive. It ‘strengthens the heart’[2] and symbolises God’s blessing.[3] It expresses gratitude, mercy and love;[4] or contains an invitation to safety and security as Boaz draws Ruth into marriage through the age-old allure of a picnic[5]. So the curse of the bread can be broken, though never for long. It is never universally positive. Its status as the hard-won food of rebellious humanity is echoed by the Prophet Hosea who denounces faithless Israel as a mother who takes bread from a succession of worthless lovers.[6] In similar vein, the bread given with the ‘mess of pottage’ by Jacob to Esau in exchange for his birthright, is a symbol of betrayal, of loosening the ties that should be held in highest honour.[7]


But by far the most potent reference to bread in the Old Testament is the unleavened Passover bread eaten by the Hebrews before their escape from slavery in Egypt to life in the Promised Land.[8] Then, as the wilderness brings hunger and complaint, God provides them with manna (the superabundant ‘daily bread’ that returns symbolically in the New Testament in the stories of the feeding of the multitudes by Jesus.[9]) But even this gift goes wrong as the travellers try to hoard it, perhaps fearful that the Lord will not manage to maintain the supply. To no avail: their personal stash goes bad, ‘breeding worms and becoming foul’.[10] If the curse is to be lifted, hoarding is not the way.


The Passover was transplanted into the Christian Church as the celebration of the Eucharist —reading the scriptures and sharing in broken bread together.[11] For the first two hundred years or so, the Eucharist was a real meal, shared by all members of the socially-diverse Christian community. Sadly, it did not take long to be subverted: within a few generations, the remembrance of the Last Supper was divorced from the shared meal: rich and poor could apparently no longer live together and drink from the same cup. Even as early as St Paul’s day (50s CE) things were going wrong. He berated some of the Corinthians for coming to the common table with bulging hampers from which they ate and drank to excess without any consideration for the poor around them. This was eating and drinking to their own condemnation.[12] If hoarding brings rottenness, greed brings judgement. The curse remains.


The whole question of rich and poor equitably sharing the resources of the community was thrown into unbearably sharp focus last week as dozens of the poorest citizens of our capital city were visibly and audibly incinerated (the day before Corpus Christi) as a tower block in North Kensington was engulfed by fire.


It was noted that Christians and Muslims were among the very first to open their doors to offer food and shelter, and to coordinate the distribution of clothes and other gifts that came from all corners of an openhanded community. This was not surprising. Muslims breaking their Ramadan fast know as surely as Christians fed by the Eucharist that the bread’s curse can be erased only by generosity. This is what St Paul taught at Corinth: Christ is made present only in the sharing of bread with the hungry and the maintenance of community with all neighbours in their need.


This is the fundamental truth to which we must cling as we try to digest the events of a horrific year (from Westminster to Finsbury Park, via Manchester, London Bridge and North Kensington).

After the initial horror and the swift response of kindness at Grenfell Tower, there now follow justifiably angry questions concerning the sense of priorities that allows such diverging outcomes for rich and poor in a magnificently affluent city like London in 2017. The prosaic detail of the tragedy, with its litany of absent sprinklers and hoses and composite cladding priced at so many pounds a square metre, illuminates with cruel banality the obscene fact that some human lives merit a greater price tag than others. We have drifted so far from a basic recognition of the dignity of all people, to establish a set of values by which some are provided with the last word in luxury and fire safety technology, while others are reduced to living in accommodation whose standards of health and safety do not begin to approach acceptable levels of adequacy.


This appalling event followed just a week after a general election which saw a completely unexpected rise in young voters, and an equally surprising demand for a society run on very different lines. New voices emerged, seeking government ‘for the many not the few’ and a functioning safety-net of housing, health and social care to be provided by a taxation system that recognises the immense disparity between rich and poor.


Now this is a tale as old as civilisation and those who have followed the politics of our nation will have seen governments of all parties come and go with little or no lasting change to the status quo. It is even tempting to find strange comfort in an exhausted pessimism. But tragedies like Grenfell Tower (the public enquiry may find other words to describe it) can play a part in changing things. It seems that this has not been the experience in the US after New Orleans, but things here do begin to feel different after a spring and early summer of unsettling, heart-wrenching events. People are talking with urgent and unsilenceable voices about ‘love’ and ‘support’, of watching out for each other, whether in the sphere of national security or the quality of our welfare state. And while all of this requires the foundation of a strong and healthy economy, the old electoral mantra of ‘It’s the economy, stupid!’ may well be changing (as the bishop of Burnley recently suggested) into ‘It’s the relationships, stupid’. The prospect of a fatter wallet may be losing its hold on us as we maybe, just maybe start to envisage a radically reordered society. It’s the sort of society some have called the kingdom of God.


Perhaps, then, there has never been a more important time to observe and reflect on Corpus Christi. We have seen that bread hoarded goes rotten. Bread eaten greedily brings judgement. Only bread shared joyfully with all our neighbours lifts the curse of Eden and brings Christ into the world.

[1] Genesis 1.29; 3.19.

[2] Psalm 104.15

[3] As in Genesis 14.18.

[4] Exodus 2.20, Genesis 21.14; 45.23.

[5] Ruth 2.14.

[6] Hosea 2.5.

[7] Genesis 25.34.

[8] Exodus 12.8.

[9] Exodus 16.8; Matthew 6.11; 15.35.

[10]  Exodus 16.20.

[11] Acts 2.42; Matthew 4.4; 26.26.


[12] I Corinthians 11.20-29.


The Rite to Remain Silent – on not ‘banging on about God’

There is an apocryphal prayer attributed to a university Christian Union of the 1950s which asks quite simply, ‘O God, make slack chaps keen.’


The ‘slack chaps’ are those who are perfectly happy to go to church at Christmas and Easter, and who know how to behave if they are ever inadvertently caught up in a harvest festival, but who are sadly never zealous enough for the ‘keen chaps’, the sort who get ordained, or involved in the plethora of quasi-clerical lay-ministries that constitute part of today’s strategy for keeping God’s memory green and the church pension fund in the black. It is the forerunners of this group whom Evelyn Waugh satirises as ‘those with a lay interest in ecclesiastical matters [that] is often a prelude to insanity.’ (Decline and Fall, I.8)


But the stand-off between the utterly committed and the less obviously devout is rarely a laughing matter. In the early centuries, it was partly the fear that the legalisation of Christianity would result in a lower quality of witness (now that the risk of martyrdom had ended) that led to the development of monasticism. The churches might be filling with all sorts of spiritually-negligible parvenus, but standards would be maintained by the mothers and fathers of the desert who battled with demons and wrestled with their own self-will and thus safeguarded the purity of the faith. As Plato observed in the Phaedo, ‘many bear the emblems, but the devotees are few.’


This disparity between ‘slack’ and ‘keen’ is exacerbating the current challenge to the churches. In her 2016 lecture on The rise of ‘no religion’ in Britain: The emergence of a new cultural majority, Linda Woodhead suggests that it is partly the expectation that people who come to church should be fully involved —in a way that, historically, most Britons never have been— that has driven a wedge between England’s Church and people. The C of E has become a ‘sectarian’ rather than ‘societal’ Church: as Britain has become less religious, ‘religion has become more so’; the people have ‘moved away from the churches’ and, by fostering a culture of conversion and wholehearted belonging, ‘the churches have moved away from them.’


This is borne out anecdotally by experienced clergy. A friend of mine recently celebrating his diamond jubilee of ordination reflected that, when he was a curate, couples came for marriage and children for baptism quite naturally and without the expectation of anything more. They were not expected to start talking about Jesus in the post office or praying with people in the cake shop. Things are very different now. Practically before they are through the church door, they are asked for their email addresses, standing orders and gift aid declarations; they’re invited to sign up for the Bishop’s Certificate, and to make at least a provisional agreement to attend next month’s Vocations Day, bringing with them three very good reasons why they shouldn’t be selected and packed off to ‘Vicar School’ forthwith.


And one can see why some in the Church might welcome the disappearance of fellow travellers, leaving behind only the true believers. The Revd @liambeadle for example has tweeted that ‘the death of nominal Christianity —moralistic therapeutic deism— is good news’ (14 April 2017), perhaps because it is felt that in dealing only with the enthusiast there comes a liberation, a scraping off of carbuncles and a shaking off of a barely-Christian half-heartedness that holds the Church back in its gospel mission.


Ruth Gledhill, the freelance religious pundit, would perhaps agree. On her ‘Christian Today’ website she recently suggested (24 April) that the way to help cathedrals turn their midweek attendance success into financial security is to ask churches like St Helen’s, Bishopsgate and Holy Trinity, Brompton (both in London) to plant their brand of religion, with its dedicated and faithfully-tithing adherents, into a cathedral. She imagines Canterbury ‘rocking to crashing drums, rhythm guitars and the fabulous Hillsong at 6pm every Sunday.’


It’s not quite Rose Responses or Howells Coll Reg. I think she also misses the point that a cathedral already is a place of great musical and liturgical variety, hosting many different national, diocesan and regional events, both sacred and secular. To hand cathedrals over to a single church constituency would immediately rob them of their broad appeal and drive away those who love the beauty of the English choral tradition, who provide the high numbers of visitors and worshippers (‘up to 40,000 a week’) and are hailed as the great success of an institution not often dripping in good news stories.


All of which explains why a recent report of a lecture by Sir Simon Jenkins (Daily Telegraph, 5 June) caught many an ecclesiastical eye. He suggests that the cathedrals are doing so much better than the parish churches because they don’t ‘bang on about God’ all the time, but ‘bang on about beauty instead’.


This is, of course, arrant nonsense. Cathedrals ‘bang on about God’ ceaselessly. Their very architecture is a massive theological statement; their extensive programme of daily worship is as abundant a theological proclamation as you will encounter, all of it either directly scriptural or based on scripture; and even the driest, most fact-laden spiel to the weary tourist will include something on the religious significance of the artefacts they are duly admiring. So cathedrals certainly do do God, and do God extravagantly, but with dignity, discretion and reserve, and in beautiful 17th century language set to sublime music, expertly performed.


What makes cathedrals different is that the congregation is under no obligation to do God back. Sitting behind the proverbial pillar, a person may be tourist, visitor, enquirer or believer: no one can tell, and no one will much care. The worship rolls on through the days and centuries, more than willing to draw you Godwards in its wake, but not at all offended if you’d rather just sit quietly and wonder. Evensong, the weekday service that pulls the biggest crowds in most cathedrals, is best suited to this sort of gentle undemanding invitation. Simply by virtue of offering everything but requiring nothing from those who attend, it provides people with the ‘social, spiritual and moral goods’ which even Linda Woodhead’s ‘nones’ desire, but in which ‘the religion on offer in late modern Britain’ is sadly deficient (Woodhead, op. cit.). Whereas much of today’s worship expects a wordy and animated splashing around (having fun and being seen to be having fun), Evensong by contrast is the liturgical equivalent of floating on your back and soaking up the sun’s rays. Your mind is free to think; perhaps your heart will be moved. Conceivably, you will utter silent, half-formed snatches of what might well be prayer. But no-one’s checking. Unlike the ubiquitous Parish Eucharist or Family Service, Cathedral Evensong makes it easy to exercise the right to silence. But be clear that something will surely be happening, even slowly, in heart and mind. The excellent Theos report of 2012 —Spiritual Capital: The Present and Future of English Cathedrals— showed that of those who visited a cathedral mainly for historic or cultural reasons (‘secular tourists’), 84% then found that a sense of the sacred had been communicated through the building, or by the cathedral’s music (79%) or through the peace and quiet of the place (56%). Clearly, whatever it is that cathedrals do, they do exceptionally well, and the Church risks much by changing it significantly.


So let’s hear it for the slack chaps. As the C of E loses 12 members for every single convert, it becomes clear that the future may well lie not with the beaming and the bold who sign up, show up and pay up. It might rather be that the mystery of God is pursued, and the concerns of the Kingdom eventually transmitted by the much broader base of those more modest men and women who jump up and down neither literally nor figuratively, but who sit quietly wondering in quire or nave, disinclined to dogma but moved by the beauty of a Gothic arch or Tudor motet. We cannot know what will develop from this slow propagation of the Word within them. But the keen chaps should know that the Spirit works wonderfully well in all ways and types and times.


Let them be patient, and let hands that would meddle be folded in prayer.

Inked in – how your reaction to summer’s tattoos tells you who you are.

He was a lovely gentle man; young, as we all were. It was three decades ago, in Australia. We probably got talking in the backpackers’ place, where speaking to others is the norm, the unspoken expectation that reverses as age sets in and the size of the hotel bill increases. Anyway, what mattered about him and what I’ve been thinking about is that he was pretty much completely covered in tattoos. I say ‘pretty much’: even backpackers’ hostels have minimum dress requirements. A sea of reds, oranges and blues, his body was a mobile exhibition of abstract art, a bright undulation of very permanent ink. Only above the neck and beyond the wrists was his skin untouched: in a suit and tie his canvas would be covered, guarding him against even the most conservative employer’s disapproval.


He has been lodged in my memory all these years, but my recollection of him is vivid now when rising temperatures lead even staid commuters to unbutton their swaddling clothes, and the carefree expose more flesh than their parents might consider seemly. Now is the time when tattoos that have slept all winter untroubled and unseen are suddenly made visible. On napes and ankles fish swim and birds fly; sprays of flowers climb up calves, and mythical characters loiter in the complex vegetation that creeps across backs. Children’s names are inked on hand and heart while starbursts fall down arms, and Celtic love-knots never fray.


For all their meticulous artistic endeavour, some people hate tattoos and hold in contempt those who wear them. Perhaps they remember them from the bad old days when tattoos were confined to sailors’ cabins and smoky pubs, with LOVE and HATE starkly emblazoned on fighters’ knuckles.


Or perhaps it is their permanence that puts people off. Despite laser treatments, this filling of pores with pigment is not intended to be temporary, easily erased like an ill-advised shade of green in a back bedroom. This feeds their reputation as the regrettable acts of foolish young men, like Neville in Auf Wiedersehen, Pet, who cannot return home to the fastidious Brenda when a declaration of love for the unknown Lotte appears on his bicep after an injudiciously heavy night on the town.


But we have come a very long way since then. Tattoos now grace the pool-sides of the fashionable and wealthy, and adorn the bodies of the beautiful. Luminaries like you, dear reader, shelter an elegant dolphin or a yin-yang in a fine and private place. Even David Dimbleby at 76, limbering up for another General Election, does so with a scorpion basking on his right shoulder.


So I know there’s no excuse for me. Not having even a tiny tattoo feels like cowardice, an almost moral matter, like shying away from the top diving board — or, in my sorry history of belly flops, any diving board at all. It’s just another of the things I never did, like going to a rock concert or having an ear pierced. For me, these acts remain firmly locked behind the door I never opened, where, with flaming sword, the bookish, bespectacled choirboy in me bars my way, uttering his unanswerable No. It’s not the tattoo’s indelibility to blame, you see, but mine.


In the end, this is what all art does. It tells us who we are and what we think. Our delight or dislike (even, perhaps, disdain) for what we see and hear exposes all that normally lies concealed beneath manners and convention. But I do not mourn too miserably. There glides no inky duck across any pasty part of me, but I cope manfully with the deprivation and still have cause to rise each day.


For art is not the only fruit of dedicated endeavour. The slow accumulation of virtue and the steady exercise of love are equally fitting testaments to our nature. They shine forth summer and winter, and are never a cause of regret.

Elevating thoughts on Ascension Day

When I was a little boy, my favourite TV show was Trumpton. I enjoyed, of course, the famous roll-call of Pugh, Pugh, Barney McGrew, Cuthbert, Dibble, Grubb. But the thing that really grabbed me was the fire-engine ladder. “Elevate!” said the story-teller, whenever it rose to retrieve a cat from a tricky roof. “Descend!” he’d say again, every time it came back down. I was always glad when it did: it’s safer for everyone to have both feet on the ground.


I think of Trumpton as the Church celebrates Christ’s Ascension into heaven, forty days after Easter. The bible paints him shooting skywards in a hazy whoosh of billowing clouds. As things have turned out, it was a poor choice of image. From where we sit, it looks like a dodgy science-fiction movie, making it all too easy for the truth of Christ’s Ascension to be dismissed as the foolish talk of fearful folk who can’t cope with their mortality. Soviet leader Nikita Khruschev is said to have remarked that Yuri Gagarin, the first human in space, ‘didn’t see any God there.’ He’d been as high as you can go, and had found nothing.


Khruschev had missed the point. The purpose of the Ascension story is not to promote the idea of a divine territory so many thousand feet above sea level. Rather, it reminds us that the truth of God is revealed in the historic person of Jesus, but insists that Jesus is not limited by history or geography. Just because we weren’t in Galilee twenty-one centuries ago does not limit our ability to know Jesus Christ, or his ability to know us. In his Ascension, he swaps the local for the universal. He who descended to the shop-floor of the human condition is now elevated to a vantage point from where he can see, know, and love us all. He who has battled and been victorious takes his place with the Father at the very heart of reality: and he shares his throne with his creation. We are elevated with him. He budges up, and makes room for us. Our horizon shifts as we re-focus on him; our agenda is altered as we hear his words.


Of course it pays to have both feet on the ground. But now we need to have our head in the clouds as well.

Running on empty: first steps to receiving the Spirit of God

You know that children are beginning to grow up when they reject their parents’ offers of help. “I’ll do it myself,” they say irritably, fending off adult assistance in the sort of task they wouldn’t have thought of attempting just a few weeks before. Thus they lay claim to one of humanity’s besetting errors, the illusion of self-sufficiency. Even without the necessary skill or agility to carry out the operation, they stand their ground with iron determination, huffing and puffing through gritted teeth until success is granted or failure accepted.


It is good that they seek to develop their abilities and increase their knowledge, provided they do not distance themselves from those around them or try to by-pass the dynamic of giving and receiving that characterises healthy and fruitful human relationship. Getting this balance right is crucial to personal development and the ability to take one’s place in family and society.


To refuse all help as something shameful, or as if it threatens to make us vulnerable by establishing a sense of obligation to our neighbours —this can quickly lead to a surfeit of pressure and stress, with predictable results of explosion or collapse. On the other hand, failing to nurture skills of survival, and the facility to respond adequately to life’s daily demands, ultimately saps us of whatever confidence in our abilities we might have, reducing us to a miserable and fretful state of mere existence rather than abundant life.


When St John writes that ‘the world cannot receive the Spirit of truth because it neither sees him nor knows him’ (John 14.17), he is echoing the continuous insistence in scripture that it is only the ‘poor in spirit’, those who know their need of God (Matthew 5.3) who will be granted a place at table. Without that need, we are too full of ourselves to receive the one God sends. He comes to his own, but we are those who ‘receive him not’ (John 1.11).


Our first goal, then, is to learn that, at the most basic level of our existence, our hands are empty. We need God, and have nothing to bring to the party except what God has already given us. We can receive only what we do not have, and what we know we do not have. And if it is not something that we have a desire and longing to receive, we have no hope of doing so.


Alas, as 21st century citizens of the west, we think we have it all already. Even when we get a nasty shock like the hacking of the NHS computer system, we do not question our values or doubt our abilities. We stride on, the super men and women of the planet, capable of everything, fearful of nothing. We have not even begun to know our need of God, to ‘receive the kingdom like children’ (Mark 10.15) or to adjust our vision so that we might see and know the one who comes to us as Comforter.


It is not clear that things are significantly better in the Church. Pope Francis has repeatedly warned against the ancient heresy of Pelagianism, the mistaken belief that we are able to achieve salvation by our own efforts (‘the way I do things’) rather than receive it through God’s grace freely given.


We might wonder where a lot of activity in today’s Church of England derives its sense of direction and drive. Are we really those who are conscious of our emptiness, of a need to receive everything from the Lord’s hand? Or do we secretly believe that we can do it ourselves? If only our worship could be more innovative and eye-catching, our presentation more sleek and glossy, and our daily dealings more efficient and business-like, then surely the salvation of increased numbers would follow as rain follows drought.


And would we not then be justified in looking askance at those less obviously successful? Would we not be rightly impatient with those who take to faith more timidly, whose theology probes without ever striking oil, whose discipleship is modest, whose claims are few? If we’ve made it to the spiritual big time by our Herculean efforts, surely the rest are just lazy, frankly deserving of extinction?


Many would agree. And yet, perhaps it is these apparent failures who, recognising that they have so little, are thus enabled to receive much more. In knowing their inadequacy and incompleteness, they see and know the Spirit of truth, not as a reward for keeping the rules or playing the game successfully, but as a simple consequence of being ready like bewildered children to receive God’s bounty. In acknowledging the failure of their own efforts to bridge life’s gaps and fill its void, they are the ones, in the end, who receive Christ’s promised gift and encounter the Holy Spirit as Lord and Comforter.


But we can only receive with empty hands.

Welcome to the House of Joy — a look at war and terror, life and love

I’m ashamed, but when I saw that Evensong last Sunday at St Paul’s was a commemoration of former choristers who had died in the First World War, I wasn’t thrilled. I prepared myself to enjoy the music and endure the sermon, then I’d hurry to school to take my own chorister son into town for tea and buns.


The service began unremarkably. As always, I smiled at Psalm 147. God ‘hath no pleasure in the strength of an horse,’ we were assured: ‘neither delighteth he in any man’s legs.’


An impenetrable portion of Zechariah gave way to a wonderful Magnificat – the Collegium Regale by Charles Wood. The whole canticle is a joyful proclamation of faith, culminating in a soaring Gloria that insists with assurance that, as it was in the beginning, the glory of God is now and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.


This was a theme reflected in a letter that was read to the congregation by a descendant of its author. Written in France before a big ‘Push’ in 1917, he informs his family that he is not worried about death, but ‘perfectly happy to leave the issue in the hands of God’ in whose ‘good time’ he hopes to be reunited with all his ‘dear ones’.


The letter segued into the anthem, The Great Silence, a setting by the contemporary composer Samuel Bordoli of some words by Ivor Gurney, written in 1916 and entitled Song and Pain.


Out of my sorrow have I made these songs,

Out of my sorrow;

Though somewhat

of the making’s eager pain

From Joy did borrow.

Someday, I trust, God’s purpose of Pain for me

Shall be complete,

And then – to enter the House of Joy …

Prepare, my feet.

Ivor Gurney (1890-1937)


This is an unexpected statement of faith from a poet who suffered much and asked in his poem To God, ‘Why have you made life so intolerable?’ As Bordoli explains, Gurney ‘reflects the mood at the end of the war that from the ashes, the soldier poet will endure his pain and enter the House of Joy.’


The anthem, a very fine piece, ended with the names of each of the twenty-four fallen choristers sung by a cantor, a roll-call (as they would have heard at school) of those who were mown down or blown up by guns or bombs or mines. And then there was silence, for us as for them. But the names (perhaps once painted in gold on honours boards to mark a cricket captaincy or exhibition) continued to echo in our heads, leading us to focus on boy after boy with the lingering attention of a camera.


There was a further remembrance of the twenty-four: their successors, unequivocally alive, standing in the stalls that they themselves had occupied, robed as they had once been robed, singing from the same Prayer Book the very same words. They were as far from any thought of warfare as the previous generation must have been, neatly embodying Edwardian propriety and completely ignorant that the gates of hell were about to open and flood the world with demons.


It is unthinkable that any of the current choristers be caught up in the sort of barbarity that silenced the two dozen young men we were commemorating. Yet, for all its golden grandeur, St Paul’s seems unexpectedly vulnerable, the apple of the nation’s eye and, like Westminster, an icon for aggressors’ hate, a symbol to be destroyed. In truth it is at no higher risk than any of us: it is terror’s random striking that makes it most effective. We are at risk in central London, yes; at risk on the trains; at greater risk, no doubt, in a crowded pub or provincial sports ground. We are at risk in the shopping arcade; in the park; in the sleepy market town a hundred miles from London where – you can hear the news reporter’s quiet voice – ‘ordinary people were going about their daily business, never imagining that such devastation was about to strike.’


But strike it will. This is the nature of evil’s war with good. More and more of us will know people ‘who were there’. We ourselves will be the ones who only just missed the bomb or avoided the carnage by half a street. New names will be read out, mine or my loved ones’ names among them. Such are the days in which we live, violence no longer confined to the vasty fields of France, but brought by blind and hateful fervour to our own front door.


Our young grow up, and we all grow old, in a new age of fragility. Once we fell victim to the plague of disease. Now we contend with violence. It is an epoch requiring courage; but more urgently it calls for wisdom. There is the wisdom of those elected to guide and govern. And there is the wisdom we all must cultivate: wisdom to see clearly; to value ourselves and each other; to be agents of goodness and peace for all the earth; to spend time’s treasure in every passing moment as if it truly were our last. We must, in short, learn the wisdom of love, for love will never be defeated. Its ever-creative offering of new possibility will always prove stronger than the urge to kill. Like the untameable jungle reclaiming the land, love marches on, the heartbeat of reality.


This lesson of love was surely what gave these young men confidence to commit their uncertain futures to God. And now their pain is ended and they have been called by name into the House of Joy, where love is endless and triumphant. Today, where they have led, we all must follow.

In praise of imperfection


My ticket said Oxford, but it was more than a city I was travelling to. For thirty-five years, Oxford has been an admonition, an unhappy symbol of all that I have ever failed to do and be. Like many who did not win a place at the university (and it remains a mighty prize, whatever we may say about a more egalitarian age), I have always carried a lurking sense of failure, of having fallen foul of my own shortcomings and life’s caprice. I’m not alone. Gradually, fed by ordinary disappointments and a ceaseless tide of Morse, we ‘Oxford rejects’ can easily stray into bitter counterfactual culs-de-sac of if-onlys and what-ifs, imaging all sorts of other outcomes for our lives — often remarkably similar to the real achievements of our friends. (He’s a bishop, she’s a judge. What have I done with my life?)


It was with such things on my mind that I was recently heading north from Marylebone in one of the swanky new trains of the Chiltern Line, through flat green farmland, past the retail heaven of Bicester Village, with announcements in Arabic and Cantonese to inform the well-heeled shoppers. At Oxford I was decanted from the train into a truly ‘beautiful city!’ that is (as Hardy’s Jude insists) ‘so venerable, so lovely, so serene!’


I was spending next day with future colleagues at Magdalen College School and was generously accommodated in College that night, with Choral Evensong, dinner at High Table and Betjeman’s ‘multiplicity of bells’ to rock me ‘and the sailing clouds to sleep.’


Evensong was perfect. The full sound of a cathedral choir in a chapel’s much more compact space gives a focus and rich intensity, with added intimacy, like a bedtime story. Outside the chapel door, bright young things sauntered through the cloister, talking of Dostoyevsky. From a carefully-striped lawn drifted the thwack of mallet on ball, as if a perpetual game of croquet was mandatory throughout the summer, perhaps from Athanasius to Mary Magdalen. If I’d known my Hardy better, I’d have looked at the players and said bitterly with Jude that ‘my failure is reflected on me by every one of those young fellows.’ I’d have been talking nonsense, of course. But I’d have said it.


Dinner restored me, fending off any subcutaneous negativity. We entered the refectory in a gowned Hogwartish fashion, attended to the Latin grace and fell to our salmon keenly. I had feared being stuck (not least for words) next to a cantankerous historian or maybe a cripplingly shy professor of Syriac. But I need not have worried: the company was as warm as the excellent venison stew. Declining the additional dessert of post-prandial fruit, port and snuff, I returned happily to my room, significantly calmer than when I had arrived.


Next morning, I took in the scene from my window. The walls had a colour between straw and gold; the stone seemed to breathe, alive with the sun’s brightness. Sticky leaves sprouted and clung to a scattering of pigeon-dolloped statues that gazed into the distance, ascending through the foliage. Tower, turrets, spires and crenulations completed the portrait of perfection. But to be in it was enough. My need to be of it had subsided. I no longer yearned to look back on a life of early achievements and carefully-chosen pathways leading to the prize of a glittering career.


All of this can still beguile: Eliot’s rose garden behind ‘the door we never opened’. And I am certain it is very lovely. To publish one’s fourteenth book or speak with distinction in the Lords is no doubt as good and pleasant as opening the bowling from the Kirkstall Lane End or playing Prospero on the big stage at Stratford. But it is not the life that I have lived which, with all its faults and flaws and failings, has been and will by grace remain a wonderful life, replete with incident and oddnesses, loyal friendship and abundant blessing, from Adelaide to Athens, in cathedral and classroom, singing and keeping silent, as novice monk and family man.


When I was a curate on Tyneside, doing lots of funerals and often stumped for something to say about someone who had done nothing very dramatic with their lives beyond work, family and an occasional game of bowls, I would remind the gathering that anyone can get to the moon. All you need is a rocket. The far harder thing for a human (and the more commendable) is to be for an entire lifetime a loving partner and parent, a good neighbour, a reliable workmate. These things require qualities and the sort of unflashy depth of character that an age of success and celebrity no longer appreciates. When even the clergy are constantly televised (or contriving to be), and going viral is the highest mark of value, we easily lose the ability to appreciate the life that we have lived, the good that we have done, the person we ourselves have been and will uniquely be. And in failing to look kindly on our past, we will find it hard to step hopefully and joyfully into our future, to open unknown doors and savour the smell of unfamiliar blooms.