After last Wednesday, August 4, our schedule became a bit more harried, and so by the time we arrived back at our hotel, it was late, we were tired, and there was no energy for updating the blog.  However, now that we are in York, the itinerary is a bit more relaxed, and a free morning allows me to play catch-up.  So, sit back and enjoy a recap of the rest of our time in London and our arrival in York to participate in the liturgies at York Minster.

             Thursday morning (Aug. 5) we met our friend, Gavin Webb, who is a professional tour guide in London, helped to guide the International Children’s Choir Festival back in 2007.  In that year the children’s choir from Trinity Church in Myrtle Beach joined with other U.S. choirs for a week of study and singing at Canterbury Cathedral, in Oxford, and in London.  When we knew that this tour would be happening, I was in touch with Gavin, who was able to book us for Thursday and Friday of this week.  He is an absolute wealth of information about London, a city that he loves.  His favourite saying is one of Dr. Johnson’s:  “When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life.”  Gavin also loves the English language and takes delight in pointing out the etymological origins of words and phrases.  And example from our time together over the past couple of days:  As we were going from Samuel Johnson’s home, passing by barristers’ offices, he told us of the wigs that judges once (still?) wore.  Though they looked as if they were made of wool, they are actually of horse hair.  Nevertheless, their appearance was key in one phrase.  If the barristers arguing a case against a judge wanted to try to obscure the fact of a case or present overwhelming evidence to support a certain outcome, thus affecting the judge’s decision, it would be “pulling the wool over his eyes,” referring to his wig.

            So, Thursday morning Gavin took us to Westminster Abbey. 

The Clock Tower with Big Ben

The Houses of Parliament

Westminster Abbey

            What an incredible place it is!  Edward the Confessor, King of England, consecrated the Abbey and died in the year 1065, just one year before the fateful 1066.  Harold succeeded Edward and, in all likelihood, had his coronation at the Abbey in 1065.  As most will know, however, William arrived with his Norman forces the next year and, at the Battle of Hastings, defeated the English, Harold was killed, and William became king of a conquered land.  To cement his claim, he was crowned at Westminster Abbey, and all subsequent monarchs have had their coronations there, also.  (Sorry, no pictures possible, as the rule against taking them inside is strictly enforced.)

             It would be impossible to list all the people who are buried at the Abbey whose names you would recognize.  And, beyond those who are buried there, the names of those who have memorials erected to them are the most noted politicians, scientists, philanthropists, musicians, actors and writers of their respective ages.  Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth I, is entombed here, as is her sister, Mary.  The mother of James I, Mary, Queen of Scots, is also buried here, in addition to the two little princes (Edward V and his brother, Richard, Duke of York) probably murdered, whose remains were found in the Tower of London and placed in the same chapel as Elizabeth I.  St. Edward the Confessor is also buried here, as is Henry III, who had the Abbey rebuilt to include the shrine to St. Edward, along with other royals.

             Of greater interest to me, though, are the scientists who are interred beneath the stones.  Charles Darwin is of these the most moving, along with his supporter, Thomas Huxley, as well as his teacher, the geologist Charles Lyell.  Alfred Russell Wallace is memorialized.  Isaac Newton is buried here, with a wonderful monument which depicts him reclining upon a copy of his great work, Principia Mathematica.  There is also Joseph Lister (the discoverer of antiseptic, after whom Listerine is named).  William Herschel is there, too, the Astronomer Royal who discovered Uranus and infrared radiation, as well as being a brilliant builder of telescopes.  Edmund Halley’s memorial is in the shape of a comet, referring to his discovery of that celestial body that returns every 75 years.

             There are also musicians galore, including William Purcell, who was organist and choirmaster at the Abbey.  George Frederick Handel is buried here, his statue shown holding a page from Messiah.

             The writers who are buried here are very numerous.  Geoffrey Chaucer is the earliest, the author of Canterbury Tales. Thomas Hardy, the brilliant novelist, is here, without his heart, which is buried in his home country of Dorset.  (The other person buried at the Abbey, sans coeur, is Stanley Livingston, whose heart is interred in his beloved Africa, in Zambia.)

             One blot only exists to besmirch the memory of those who rest within the walls of Westminster Abbey.  Oliver Cromwell was, very temporarily, buried in a North aisle chapel.  After three years, in the Restoration, Charles II ordered his remains removed.  These were hung ignominiously in chains, after which he was beheaded, his head being displayed on a pike at Westminster Hall.  The body was thrown into a pit; only the head remains, buried at Cambridge.  (Although rumour has it that it is now in the counterweight bag over the Chancel arch at the Cathedral.)

             You can learn much more about the burials and memorials at Westminster Abbey by going here.

             Following our tour of the Abbey, Gavin escorted us around the immediate neighbourhood of Westminster, a quiet and secluded area of tidy row houses, many of which, according to our guide, are owned by members of Parliament.

Who knew I had my own yard?

  One of the houses of personal interest is that owned by T. E. Lawrence (aka Lawrence of Arabia). 

T. E. Lawrence’s House

Also in this neighbourhood is the headquarters of the Liberal Democratic Party (the LibDems), who are partners with the Tories in the current coaltion government in England.

LibDem Headquarters

We also met a friend along the way around Westminster.  Is this a long-lost friend of Christopher Robbin?

A bus ride down Whitehall took us from the City of Westminster to the City of London.  Here we did some more exploration of back alleys and arrived at the home of Samuel Johnson, the writer of the first English Dictionary, among many other great literary works.

The home of Dr. Johnson

             At last it was time to return to our hotel and get ready for Evensong, our last at St. Paul’s.

             After Evensong, and a little time to refresh at our hotel, Alexandra, Betty Logan, Betsy Bayne, Ken Morehead and I went to St. Martin-in-the-Fields for a concert by the baroque ensemble, LMA (London Musical Arts) Orchestra.  They were playing a selection of Bach and Teleman, including a Teleman viola concerto, and so Alex was particularly interesting in that.  The largest ensemble playing at any time was three violins, three violas, two cellos, one bass and harpsichord.  That was for the Brandenburg Concerto #3.  The other Brandenburg they performed, number 6, was absolutely amazing, one of the best performances I’ve ever heard, with the two violas really sparring with each other.  A special treat was the Bach unaccompanied Cello Suite #1, played with great sensitivity, though it always takes me awhile to get used to the detached bowing in so many current performances, as I learned them at a time when the most popular editions were based on earlier understandings of baroque performance techniques.

             Friday was a return to the British Museum, again with our friend Gavin, who was able to take us around expertly and give us lots of background on what we were seeing.  The exhibit of the Sutton Hoo ship burial and hoard of mediaeval treasure was a highlight of the morning.  You can learn more about this remarkable archaeological find here.

The British Museum

             I was excused from singing on Friday, since I was assisting at the service, and so I took the opportunity to visit the Temple Church.  I have read the writings of Robin Griffith-Jones, the Master of the Temple Church, for many years, being very fond of his columns in the Church Times until he was no longer invited to submit them.  I had e-mailed before our trip to see if I could come round, meet him, and have a conversation.  He very graciously made time in his schedule for me.  On Friday afternoon I called at his house in the Temple, and we had an enjoyable conversation about writing, food, London, the Church, the Temple and his work there, and so on.  It was an hour very agreeably spent.

Memorial to the Knights Templar, at the Temple Church

             It being August 6, the Feast of the Transfiguration, the Evensong on Friday afternoon was replaced with a celebration of the Eucharist.  The Canon-in-Residence, Bishop Michael, was very kind to ask me to assist at the service, bearing a chalice.  For the Eucharist, as at every Cathedral I’ve seen in England (which isn’t too many), a free-standing Altar at the crossing is used, and so it is at St. Paul’s.  The service would be very familiar to folks at the Cathedral, although the use of incense was much more prolific that we’re normally accustomed to.  After all, you do have to make an impact in that enormous space.  The light from the clerestory on the billows of incense was amazingly beautiful, and the choir sang very well.  They did an Ave verum, by Mary Badarak, a composer and member of the Cathedral Choir.  It was exceptional, with the British premier being that very performance at St. Paul’s.

             I was excited to see visitors to the service afterward.  My cousin and her husband, Kaye and Andy Martin, live in London and had come to worship and meet us afterward.  I hadn’t seen Andy since we were on a pilgrimage to Israel together in 2000, and it had been many years before that since I had seen Kaye.  I attended their wedding many years ago, and in the interim they have had three children and, now, grandchildren.  Our evening together, over dinner with pictures and reminiscences, was very, very special.

             Saturday, August 7, had two parts to it.  The first, in the morning, was at Southwark Cathedral, very near our hotel.  Southwark has only been a Cathedral since 1905, though there has been a church on the site since the early 7^th Century, the present building dating from the early 13^th Century.  We were scheduled to sing the Choral Eucharist and Evensong there on Sunday, and so we arrived on Saturday morning to rehearse.  The Rev. Andrew Dunn, the sub-Dean, was very gracious in his welcome to us.  For me, the most notable thing about Southwark is that it is the resting place of Lancelot Andrewes.  His book, Preces Privatae (Private Prayers), is a devotional work of great significance in the history of Anglicanism.  His ministry spanned two monarchies: Elizabeth I and James I.  (O.K., technically four, as we must include Mary and Edward VI.)  He was a most able preacher and theologian, and the influence of his writings continues to affect the life of the Anglican church today.  His tomb now lies to the South of the High Altar, having been moved several times.

Southwark Cathedral

             After our rehearsal, Alexandra and I hurried to catch a train to Canterbury. 

On the Canterbury Trail

            We were really eager to visit Canterbury again, as we’d all been there in 2007 as part of the International Children’s Choir Festival, in which Alex and James participated.  We arrived in the early afternoon and had plenty of time to wander the streets a bit before our appointment with Dean Robert Willis.  Being a Saturday, the streets were jammed with people, tourists and locals alike, who had come in for the shopping.  On the way in we grabbed a bag of local cherries (it being the height of the season) to munch on through the day.  How terrific to be back in this very beautiful and charming town, with the Bell Harry Tower of the Cathedral looking over all.

Canterbury Cathedral

             We had some time to walk around the Cathedral, remembering the events of our last visit. 

The Quire at Canterbury

             Alexandra toured the Quire, re-visiting the stall in which she had sat for Evensong, and remembering the evening when David Flood gave us a night tour of the Cathedral, turning off the lights so that we could experience the mystery of the Quire with moonlight coming through the windows.  Exiting the choir, we saw Dean Willis, who welcomed us and had us follow him to the Deanery, where we visited for awhile.

             Before we left the Cathedral Close, though, we both wanted to see the King’s School, where we had stayed for the Festival.  First, though, a moment to visit William Somerset Maugham, English novelist (Of Human Bondage and The Razor’s Edge, among others) who is buried in a yard at the King’s School. 

Maugham’s resting place

             We are pictured here at the entrance to some of the residential halls of the School, the staircase on which we are sitting is the oldest staircase in the world still in daily use. 

At the King’s School

Mediaeval Romanesque staircase at King’s

              Galpin Hall was where we had our room, and as luck would have it, the entrance was ajar.  We walked in quietly, climbing the stairs to our third floor room, where we snapped a few shots of our 2007 digs.  What fun! 

Jura in Galpin

                      Then out the back gate, which is quite small for me and, three years later, quite small for Alexandra, as well.  The Bell and Crown pub (at which Michael Ramsey is said regularly to have enjoyed a pint) was still going strong, and so that was where we enjoyed some refreshment before landing at the Thomas Becket for dinner (steak and kidney pie for me, of course).  A high-speed train ride back to London, lasting but one hour, and we were in the hotel in plenty of time to get packed up for our journey to York.

             Sunday morning, as I noted, saw us at Southwark Cathedral.  We arrived there around 8:45 for rehearsals, singing the 11:00 Choral Eucharist.  Our friends, Tom and Pat Merrill, from Myrtle Beach, were there, which was a great surprise.  We enjoyed a lovely lunch together alongside the Thames before having to return to the Cathedral for rehearsal and Evensong.  Southwark was a much easier place in which to sing than St. Paul’s.  The scale of Southwark is much more like that at St. John’s in Albuquerque, so I think we all felt a bit more at ease.

             As soon as Evensong was completed, however, we all tramped back to the hotel to get our luggage, and ourselves, on board the bus for our trip to York.  En route we stopped at a Marriott hotel for dinner, which was thoroughly enjoyed by one and all.  We pulled into the Monkbar Hotel in York at around 10:30 Sunday evening.

             York is much like Canterbury, in that it is a small town with a local university (though one not as renowned as the University of Kent).  York has preserved more of its mediaeval character, however, and almost all of the fortified wall still exists around the city center.  There is no great Cathedral Close here for York Minster, as there is for Canterbury Cathedral, and the monastery ruins are much less extensive here.  Nevertheless, the town has a very similar feel, and Alex and I are happy for that.  We enjoyed London, but this is much nicer.

York Minster

             Monday morning we reported to the Minster to be introduced to the vergers and to be set up in the choir room.  It is at the top of a spiral stone staircase.  Walking up it is not a problem before rehearsal and Evensong, but afterward it is a little slower going.  On the walls of the room are hung pictures of Minster choirs throughout the 19^th & 20^th Centuries, along with various notable choirmasters.  T. Tertius Noble (whose Magnificat and Nunc dimittis we are doing while here), is there, along with a nice picture of Edward Bairstow (none of whose music we’re doing).  The sopranos had a fund time trying on the boys’ capes, which were left hanging on pegs.  There is a girl’s choir, also, and Alexandra found her namesake’s peg and is using it for her vestments.  After a tour of the Minster we were free for lunch.  Alex and I discovered Mary Badarak, Susan Collins, and Jeanine Zenge at the Two Keys pub and joined them for lunch.  After that, a little wandering, but at 3:30 all were ready for rehearsal and Evensong at 5:15, our schedule for the rest of the week.  The Chancellor of the Minster is the only priest in residence this week, and he welcomed us warmly to the Minster.

             Immediately following Evensong most of our group were escorted to a local pub by this week’s organist, David Pipe, who is an assistant organist at the Minster.  His favourite watering hole in town is the Guy Fawke’s, and after a pint of Black Sheep, we enjoyed a fine Indian meal before heading off to bed.

             On Tuesday morning a tour was arranged for our group around York.  Alexandra went along, and I stayed in for some quiet time and to catch up on the blog, writing what you are reading now.  Alex enjoyed the tour, returning back an hour later than scheduled, as the tour guide had really gotten into showing people the town.  We lunched at an Italian restaurant, where I ordered spaghetti al tonno, just to see how it compares to what we make at home.  It was remarkably similar and very good.  The only thing the cook could have done to improve on it would have been to put a sprinkling of fresh parsley over the top at the end. 

             Rehearsal and Evensong, according to our schedule, completed the day.  There was a nice party for our group at our hotel just after an hour’s rehearsal that Maxine called, following Evensong.  We focused primarily on a Mass setting of Malcolm Archer, which is quite fun but has a high ranging tenor part that is a challenge for me.  Gone are the days of easy G’s and G-sharps!  After the party a large group of us had dinner at a good Thai restaurant, and then to bed.

           Another day of superlatives: I’m wearing out the thesaurus, trying to find synonyms for “wonderful,” “amazing,” “terrific,” etc.  I refuse to use “brilliant”; even for me, it’s “going native” just a bit too much.

            We began the morning at the very early hour of 6:30 (oy!), leaving our hotel around 7:15 to make our way to Waterloo Station.  Today, you see, was a day of pilgrimage for Alexandra.  Today was the day for our trip out to Chawton, to the house where Jane Austen lived the last eight years of her life and either wrote de novo, or edited for final publication, all of her novels.  I have to admit, as someone who has never so much ventured the pride to read one of her novels, and as a person who has harboured some amount of prejudice against the genre, it was an interesting and moving experience.

            It is a one hour and twenty minute train ride from London’s Waterloo Station to the little village station in Alton. 

            First travelling through industrial areas and low-income estates, gradually moving into the more prosperous suburbs of London, and finally into open farmland and countryside, it is a fascinating train ride.  I felt most at ease when we came to forest land and open wheat fields that reminded me of Constable or Wyeth landscapes.  It was a fun exercise to play “80 mile per hour botany,” trying to see what the local flora is from a speeding train.  How on earth can bracken fern (Pteridium sp.) grow to close to four feet high?! 

           From Alton, one either gets a cab or catches a bus (after which one must still walk a bit) to Chawton, the lovely little village that was once part of the Chawton Estates, inherited by Jane Austen’s brother, Edward, by virtue of his having been adopted by the hereditary owners of the Estates, the Knight family.  Chawton House, ancestral seat of the Knights and manor house of the Estate, still stands, though it is now privately owned by a trust and operated as a library/research center and working farm which is based on organic principles.

             The Estate parish church, St. Nicholas, a lovely church that was originally early Gothic in design, was built during the Lancastrian reigns of the 13^th Century.  Likely altered during the English Reformation, most of the structure burned in 1871, save the Chancel and Sanctuary.  The remainder of the church was rebuilt in the same style and with the same unique materials, knapped flint cobbles.  This was the church in which the Austen family would have worshipped, and Jane’s mother and sister are buried in the churchyard.  The parish continues to be active today, as attested to by the wealth of children’s materials and decorations that adorn the West end of the Nave.  It is a very lovely and quiet walk down the road from Chawton proper to the drive that leads to the House and the church.  Ancient yew trees grow in the cemetery, almost certainly as old as Jane Austen’s oeuvres.  Alex and I had the church and churchyard to ourselves for most of forty-five minutes, soaking up the spirit and history of the place.

              (O.K., “small world” time…As we arrived the Austen House, looking around the exterior, a nice woman was readying the house for the day, opening windows.  She waved at us, and we at her, and then followed the very good advice of another staff member to walk to St. Nicholas’.  As we entered the house later, the window woman was there and introduced herself.  She wanted to know where we were from.  I noted that she had an American accent, and asked her the same question.  “Cincinnati,” came the answer.  Good heavens!  So, we traded Cincinnati notes.  I suppose if I can go to Florence and meet someone from Cincinnati and marry her, it’s not too strange, really, to admit of a Cincinnatian living in Alton and working at the Austen House.)

             Jane Austen’s house, itself, was a gift of the Carpenter family in the late 1940’s, the house purchased at auction and donated to the local Jane Austen Society.  It has been beautifully renovated and filled with historic artifacts that the author, herself, would have used. 

              Perhaps most amazing, and verified by provenance, is the very desk on which Jane Austen penned her literary works.  Seeing this piece of history is not unlike seeing Galileo’s telescope at a museum in Florence, or one of van Leeuwenhoek’s first microscopes in Leiden, one of Willliam Herschel’s own telescopes or even Thompson’s first cathode ray tubes.  It can truly be said that, upon that desk the literary form of the novel was changed.

             What a shock to the system it was to emerge from the return train into the din of London!  The quiet of Chawton had drawn us in, and that calm continued on the return train trip, a calm time of the day when ridership on the trains is quite low.  From that pastoral serenity to the hawking “actors” from the London Dungeon and the jackhammers ripping up Southwark Street was almost too great a juxtaposition, not unlike Paternoster Square outside St. Paul’s to Oxford Street in Soho (but more about that in a bit).

             Our third Evensong at St. Paul’s this afternoon went well.  Today some “bootleg” photos of the interior of St. Paul’s and the Choir.  (More to come…) 

 There has been good attendance all week at Evensong, and today was no exception.  It is nice to have those wandering through St. Paul’s to ask if there is going to be Evensong.  It is, after all, above all else a House of Prayer.  However, it was clear that this was “hump day.”  Many were tired, and the musical performance was not quite what it had been the day before.  Careless errors, born out of fatigue, crept into our Preces and Responses (Smith).  Before we were dismissed to return to the practice room we were urged to get a good night’s sleep.

             Shortly after emerging from the Crypt, it began to rain.  Alex and I had to make it to Dean Street, in Soho, to the Soho Theatre, for a performance of La Bohéme a la mode.  No, Mimi and Marcello were not covered in ice cream, rather it was a performance of Puccini’s masterpiece in English, the libretto reset for modern day Soho.  A friend had recommended this show to us, and so we thought we might give it a try.

             The Soho Theatre is a small venue, 150 seats, and has staked its reputation on creative and unusual productions.  In concept, this one was intriguing: take La Bohéme, the classic tale of idealist, artistic ne’er-do-wells that get caught up in the pathos of romance gone astray, and set it in a modern context, Soho, in this case.  Sung in English, the libretto for this performance was studded with witty colloquialisms.  (How, exactly, does one sing, “’S-up?”)  However, the young artists in the company just didn’t have the vocal umphh to give the performance the interest it needed to overcome the eccentricities of staging and text.  All had too much vibrato and the Act I leads possessed thin top ranges.  Even that we could have dealt with, but the second Act was to have been in the downstairs bar (placing the Tavern Scene in situ).  When Alex and I went down to take our places, the day’s aversion to crowds and noise reared its head, and we decided to give the rest of the performance a pass and head back to the hotel. 

             A quick pass a Soho Tesco, and we were back in the thick of Oxford Street and the crowded Central Line.  Once we arrived at St. Paul’s station, however, we emerged into a much calmer place.  Approaching the Millennium Bridge to cross the Thames back to the South side, I glanced over my shoulder and had this view of St. Paul’s.  It is a fitting end to a very full and colourful day.  If I were British, I might even label it “brilliant!”

             Departing Albuquerque at noon on Saturday, July 31, the group from St. John’s Cathedral were off on their two week (plus) tour of England.  A lay-over in Dallas was a prelude to the actual journey from the U.S. to London’s Heathrow Airport, where we all landed at around 7:30 a.m. on Sunday, August 1.  The organizer of our tour, Simon, welcomed us to England and saw us onto our tour bus, which ferried us to the Novotel Hotel on Southwark Bridge Road, where we gathered, en masse, in the lobby before depositing our bags and being off for the rest of the day until check-in time.

            The first order of the day was to avoid jet-lag, getting on the local time schedule as quickly as possible.  That meant no sleep during the day!  So, several of us walked an hour or so from our hotel to Covent Garden, where we lunched at Rule’s, the oldest restaurant in London, established in the latter part of the 18^th Century.  After lunch, the next stop was the British Museum, where Alexandra and I saw the Rosetta Stone, and the Elgin Marbles (thankfully not returned to Greece), and a spectacular exhibit on the Enlightenment, that oft-maligned intellectual movement of the 18^th Century.  Though the metro offered an inexpensive transport back to Southwark and our hotel, the exhaustion of the trip was beginning to mount, and so we opted for a cab and were home in a flash, ready for a rest, a change of clothes and dinner.  And then….sleep!

            Nine hours later….

           A full English breakfast at our hotel and then off to St. Paul’s.  Being located on the South bank of the Thames, Southwark, the neighbourhood in which our hotel is located, is just across from St. Paul’s.

It’s a nice walk along the Thames to the Millennium Bridge, where we cross to get to the Cathedral. 

Getting cleared through security was our first hurdle, followed by the location of our rehearsals.  Because the normal choir room is being renovated, we have been given the Wren Center, named after the great architect of St. Paul’s, Sir Christopher Wren.  Though its acoustics are nothing to write home about, it is comfortable and large enough for our choir.

            After several hours of rehearsal, the first Evensong arrived!  We processed in, under the Great Dome, at 5:00.  The Preces and Responses were of the Canadian composer, Andrew Ager, a premier of the work in the UK.  The Cathedral clergy, our members of St. John’s who accompanied the tour, and others, commented on how well our choir sang.  Maxine was pleased, and many of us just wanted to remain in the Quire, singing through crescendi and then stopping suddenly, listening to the 9 second (yes, NINE second!) reverberation echo throughout the majestic space.

            The Canon Residentiary for the month of August, the Rt.Rev. Michael Colclough, Bishop of Kennsington, retired, invited a few of us to his home for refreshments after the Evensong.  He and his wife, Cynthia, were lovely hosts, and we chatted about the Episcopal Church, the Church of England, our families and cooking.  The Bishop enjoys cooking, and he fashions himself a “meat person,” preferring cooking roasts to fish, pasta, or other international cuisines.

            Again, back to the hotel for a change out of the choir dress for the day (a necktie, which I had to remind myself how to tie), and then a lovely dinner along the Thames, sunset playing on the dome of St. Paul’s, the promise of another marvelous day of discovery and music tomorrow.  (Tune in tomorrow for more photos and some links to hear some of the music we’re singing at St. Paul’s.)

Day Three, Tuesday:

            Our third day began with wonderful sunshine, heralding a beautiful day.  Out our hotel room, we have a “view.”

            Alexandra and I saw lots of our group at breakfast this morning, along with the rest of the United Nations (geo-politically speaking).

             This morning Alex and I decided that we would go to the Tate Britain Museum.  The Tate Modern is quite close to our hotel, and we opted not to spend time at the modern incarnation of the Tate Museum when the riches of Tate Britain beckoned.  Not to put too fine a point on it:  Why would you choose to walk down the bread aisle at the local Albertson’s when you could visit a classic boulangerie?  (Yes, I know that there will be some who think the French bakery is the Tate Modern, and we will just have to agree to disagree on that point.)  So, a fairly short ride on the Metro (or Tube, or Subway, as we would know it) from the London Bridge Station, and we were at the Pimlico Station and off to the Tate.

            There were many things that drew Dawn and me together when we first met in Florence, Italy.  One of them, which we discovered about each other early on, was that we were great admirers of pre-Raphaelite art.  This is the art of the pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, begun in the 1840’s by William Holman Hunt, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and others.  For the devoteè of this exploration of the spirit of painting before the Late Renaissance and Early Baroque, the Tate Britain is Mecca.  Even if you don’t know the artists by name, you have seen their paintings in many places.  William Holman Hunt’s “The Light of the World” is one of the most famous, the original being at a college in Oxford University, a copy of which is at St. Paul’s Cathedral.

             In addition to the pre-Raphaelite galleries, there were many others, spanning the history of British art from the late 17^th Century onwards.  Having experienced the onslaught of the crowds at the British Museum on Sunday, it was delightful to be in a museum where we weren’t confronted by hoards of people.  What fun to see children, with their parents, engaged in hands-on activities that engaged the kids with aesthetic aspects of the art, and groups of adults listening to art historians explain the background of works of art in the museum!

            After several enjoyable hours at the Tate, we caught the “water bus” back down to the pier at the Tate Modern, at Bankside, very close to our hotel.  It was an enjoyable 18 minute boat trip, past the Houses of Parliament and Whitehall.

            A quick stop in at our room for a change of shoes and a tie for me, and we were back off to St. Paul’s, finding lunch along the way.

            I wish I could post photos of the interior of St. Paul’s for you.  The stewards and guides are quite strict, however, about taking pictures inside the Cathedral.  Several of our group have been reminded, quite politely and gently, but firmly, that no photography is allowed.  However, I will try to sneak some shots for you (and perhaps entice our organist to get some shots from the organ loft) to let you know what we are experiencing each day.

            Evensong today was another great experience.  The Ambassador to the UK from South Korea, his wife and family, were present at Evensong today.  We reprised the Preces and Responses of Andrew Ager.

            Following Evensong many of the choir retired to the Cockpit, the “unofficial” pub of the St. Paul’s Cathedral Choir.  In fact, while we were there, the Cathedral Canon who had officiated at Evensong showed up for a pint.  I’m not sure what “the local” would be for St. John’s Cathedral; it definitely would not have the same charm as the Cockpit.

            For the evening, Alexandra and I had tickets to the Globe Theatre for a performance of Henry IV, Part I.  We met Betsy Bayne there, on a lovely cool evening.  The house was sold out, and for good reason.  What a grand performance!  To find out more about this remarkable theatre, go here.  There’s nothing like an evening with Harry and Falstaff!

            O.K., so we should have gone back to the hotel and bed after the performance, but a little Turkish restaurant, across the street from The Globe, beckoned.  We weren’t disappointed.  Exotic music, a very pretty interior, a grill that was alive with blazing flame as it cooked orders, and delicious food were our reward for a late evening.  The restaurant is called Tas Pide, and the service was every bit as good as the food.  I had a delightful lamb tangine with a tomato bulgur side dish that simply melted in the mouth.

            So, that’s all the news that’s fit to print today.  Sorry for no music today, either.  Days are too long, and I forgot to bring music back from St. Paul’s.  Another effort tomorrow to give you more details on our repertoire here.

Wednesday in Holy Week

Man’s life is death.  Yet Christ endured to live,

         Preaching and teaching, toiling to and fro,

Few men accepting what He yearned to give,

         Few men with eyes to know

         His face, that Face of Love He stooped to show.

Man’s death is life.  For Christ endured to die

         In slow unuttered weariness of pain,

A curse and an astonishment, passed by,

         Pointed at, mocked again

         By men for whom He shed His blood—in vain?

                        –Christina Rossetti

Maundy Thursday

“And the Vine said…Should I leave my wine, which cheereth God and man, and go to be promoted over the trees?”

The great Vine left its glory to reign as Forest King.

“Nay,” quoth the lofty forest trees, “we will not have this thing;

We will not have this supple one enring us with its ring.

Lo, from immemorial time our might towers shadowing:

Not we were born to curve and droop, not we to climb and cling:

We buffet back the buffeting wind, tough to its buffeting:

We screen great beasts, the wild fowl build in our heads and sing,

Every bird of every feather from off our tops takes wing:

I a king, and thou a king, and what king shall be our king?”

Nevertheless the great Vine stooped to be the Forest King,

While the forest swayed and murmured like seas that are tempesting:

Stooped and drooped with thousand tendrils in thirsty languishing;

Bowed to earth and lay on earth for earth’s replenishing;

Put off sweetness, tasted bitterness, endured time’s fashioning;

Put off life and put on death: and lo! it was all to bring

All its fellows down to a death which hath lost the sting,

All its fellows up to a life in endless triumphing,—

I a king, and thou a king, and this King to be our King.

                                       –Christina Rossetti

Holy Week is a time that brings intense spiritual experience and emotions.  After all, it is the week in which we recall, through the reading of scripture and the anamnesis of liturgy, the events in Jesus’ life that led inexorably to Calvary.  In these liturgies of Holy Week, we are not merely going through the motions.  Anamnesis, as some will recall, is not only remembering but actually participating in the spiritual reality of the events.  We do not objectively re-live the Triumphal Entry into Jerusalem, or the Last Supper, or the scourging of Jesus, as if we were some sort of religious time traveller.  Rather, we enter into a sacred space and time, enabled through the action of the Holy Spirit, in which the sacred power of the events is manifested in our hearts and minds, and in the spiritual determination to allow these sacramental moments to shape who we are as Christian disciples here and now.  When, for example, the congregation shouts the angry words of the crowd in the Passion Narrative, “Crucify! Crucify him!”, they are not merely words.  They bring us into a reality in which we are conscious of the ways we, ourselves, betray Christ, ways in which our sins add to the burden he carried to the Cross.  In that understanding, we open ourselves a bit more to God’s transforming love and grace.

Last night, at the Cathedral, we continued our observance of Holy Week with the Office of Tenebrae.  While this liturgy has been offered at St. John’s in the past, it has been some years since it has been done here, and it seems people welcomed its return.  Tenebrae is a Latin word that means “shadows,” and so it is a service that calls to mind the gathering darkness of Holy Week, the gloom that begins to overtake the Light of the World.  Adapted from the monastic practice in which a series of offices are observed on the first three nights of Holy Week, Tenebrae is a series of anthems, chanted or recited Psalms, and scripture readings.  Portions of the Lamentations of Jeremiah are sung, in our case beautifully by choir member and tenor, Jay Hill.  One of my favourite renderings of the Lamentations is that by Thomas Tallis, and may be listed to Here. 

Accompanying the spoken or sung portions is the gradual diminution of light, a dramatic portrayal of the shadows to which the title of the Office points.  One by one, candles are extinguished, until there is but one Candle left, the Paschal Candle, the Light of Christ.  Finally, it is carried out of the church, not to be seen again until the Great Vigil of Easter.  A loud noise, the Strepitus, is heard, symbolizing the closing of the tomb in which Christ is held in captivity until the Resurrection.  The office ends in silence, departing with the experience of the darkness of Holy Week being slowly wrapped around them.

There is a marvelous painting by Rembrandt that has always evoked the mood of Tenebrae to me.  It is called “The Philosopher in Meditation,” and is reproduced here.

Today, of course, is Maundy Thursday, the first day of the Triduum, the solemn Three Days at the end of Holy Week.  As on Palm Sunday, our liturgy this evening will begin on a note of rejoicing as we recall Jesus gathering with his disciples to eat the Passover meal.  Very quickly, however, the mood changes dramatically, as we hear the words read, the so-called Institution Narrative, in which Jesus redefines the Passover foods of bread and wine as the New Covenant in his Body and Blood.  The Lamb of God, pointed to by John the Baptist at the very beginning of Jesus’ public ministry, now begins the purposeful journey to the sacrifice on the Cross.  No alternate sacrifice, Isaac-like, will appear at this juncture, and the poignancy of Carravagio’s painting of the young John the Baptist and the allegorical portrayal of Jesus as the Lamb of God is brought to bear upon our hearts.

As Christina Rossetti suggests: is this all in vain?  Or will we, with prideful thoughts of trees in our minds, humble ourselves to be wrapped ‘round by the True Vine?

“The Voice of my Beloved.”

Once I ached for thy dear sake:

Wilt thou cause Me now to ache?

Once I bled for thee in pain:

Wilt thou rend My Heart again?

Crown of thorns and shameful tree,

Bitter death I bore for thee,

Bore my Cross to carry thee,

And wilt thou have nought of Me?

            –Christina Rossetti

                     Another, for Tuesday in Holy Week:

By Thy long-drawn anguish to atone,

Jesus Christ, show mercy on Thine own:

Jesus Christ, show mercy and atone

Not for other sake except Thine own.

Thou Who thirsting on the Cross didst see

All mankind and all I love and me,

Still from Heaven look down in love and see

All mankind and all I love and me.

            –Christina Rossetti

The Collect for Tuesday in Holy Week:

O God, by the passion of your blessed Son you made an instrument of shameful death to be for us the means of life:  Grant us so to glory in the cross of Christ, that we may gladly suffer shame and loss for the sake of your Son our Saviour Jesus Christ; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.  Amen.

Throughout the season of Lent, our focus has been on a discipline, a Lenten rule, that has enabled us to see our lives more clearly, more honestly.  This honest appraisal has, as it is intended, resulted in our repentance.  We have been brought to the point where we think again about our relationship with Christ, what barriers there are in our lives to that relationship, and what must be done to remove those barriers.  Ultimately, however, our Lenten journey leads us to that one place where our repentance, our desire for amendment of life, can be fully realized: the foot of the Cross.

Holy Week began on Sunday, Palm Sunday, as the emphasis changes dramatically from the ministry of Jesus to his Passion.  Our Lord’s ministry is what holds out the hope of reconciliation and metanoia (a Greek word synonymous with repentance, but with even a more physical connotation of turning to a different direction in one’s life) to us.  In his words, the parables and teaching about the Kingdom of God, we see a vision of what a new life, a new creation, looks like.  With faith and prayer, we can see ourselves as part of that new life, and so we reach out eagerly for it.  That is Lent.

Left to ourselves, however, we do not have the capacity to make that new creation a reality in our lives.  There is only one place where God’s mercy and forgiveness, manifested in love through the gift of Jesus, his only Son, meet fallen human nature in a way that is able completely to transform it.  Again, that place is the Cross.  In Holy Week, we are brought face-to-face with that instrument of cruelty and shame, the vehicle of ruthless execution that the Romans and Jewish authorities of the time expected would be the end of Jesus ministry and charismatic teaching.  By the power of God, however, it was not, and on the hard wood of that Cross was hung not only the physical body of Jesus, and not only the divine body of Christ, but also the human nature that, because of sin, had been separated from the Love and Life of God.  In beautiful parallel, what was driven apart by mankind participating in the tree of the Garden, was brought back into harmony and union through participation in the Tree of crucifixion.

Though the events of Holy Week are painful for us to bear in our spirit, I pray that we will look upon them with unaverted gaze so that the truth of their promise may permeate our hearts and minds, increasing in us faith and hope and glory in the resurrection to come.

 O Lord, you relieve our necessity out of the abundance of your great riches:  Grant that we may accept with joy the salvation you bestow, and manifest it to all the world by the quality of our lives; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.  Amen.

   I know a good many people who find it difficult to accept kindness from others.  Sometimes this reluctance comes from a feeling of unworthiness, that they are not good enough to be the object of someone’s kind attention.  It might be that they have been taught, through life’s circumstances, that they are not worth much, a great tragedy.  It may also be that they are exhibiting false pride, which serves only to draw attention to themselves.  In other cases the hesitation to accept compliments, favours or an offer of assistance is motivated by what we might call “the Martha complex.”  You know, the sister in the Gospel story that is too busy running to and fro to take time to sit at Jesus’ feet and have the blessing of his teaching.  “Marthas” are of great value to the Church, certainly, but it is often difficult to have them step back and let others do for them, for a change.  In still other instances, people don’t want to accept kindness or aid, because in their eyes it puts them in debt to the other; if you do something for me, then I have to do something for you.  There is no understanding of a gift freely given.

For all these reasons, and probably many more besides, human beings find it difficult to accept “with joy” the gift of salvation given by God in Jesus Christ.  Many feel that they are completely unworthy of such a gift.  Well, here’s a news flash:  we are all unworthy of this precious offering.  There is not a one of us who can earn salvation, “…not of works, lest any man should boast…,” as St. Paul reminds us.  And not a one of us is righteous enough to warrant salvation on our own merits.  Gaining salvation through proven righteousness was the aim of the Law, under the Old Covenant, and scripture teaches us that the people of Israel could never attain it.  Indeed, the burden of trying to adhere to the letter of the law is but a stage set for falling short, “all we have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God,” for there is but one who is without sin, and that is Christ, himself.

In America we are both blessed and cursed with the “Protestant work ethic.”  On the one hand, it has been the foundation of the economic engine that has fueled the strength of this country, and it has been the path to success of waves of immigrants over the centuries.  On the other hand, it is fuel to the fire of the theological notion of “works righteousness,” that is, that one can attain to the kingdom of God through good works.  This approach is hinted at in the Book of Acts, in the Bible, when, after Peter has spoken to the people after the events of Pentecost, the people ask him, “What must we do to be saved?”  The emphasis on doing is one that is misplaced, for there is only one thing that we have to do to be saved:  believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and be baptized.  All the things that Christians do grow out of their relationship with God, not the other way around; we don’t participate in works so that our relationship is deeper.

As with the Law, so with the whole notion of sacrifices for God.  God’s gift of salvation is one that is freely given, with no demand for return payment.  Well, there is one payment that is required, as pointed to in Psalm 51, “a broken and contrite heart.”  Gone are the ways of the Old Covenant of sacrifices having to be offered day and night in the temple in order to gain God’s favour.  There is nothing that we have to offer in exchange for the greatest gift ever offered, the gift of salvation and life.  There is that most beautiful line in the Christmas hymn, “In the bleak midwinter:”  “What can I give him, poor as I am?  If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb.  If I were a wise man, I would do my part; yet what I can I give him, give my heart.”  That is the gift God truly desires, the repentant, loving heart of the believer.

This prayer for a weekday in Lent, then, is one that is very important.  We do need to pray regularly for the grace to accept freely, and with joy, the salvation that God has given us.  We should not begrudge it to others, thinking that we know the mind of God on those to whom he grants salvation and those from whom he withholds it.  That’s none of our concern, and we wade into those waters at our great peril.  No, we are called to be mindful of our own relationship with God, and the free gift, freely given, should be the source of unending joy in our lives, the sort of joy that is unaffected by the ups and downs of our existence, the vicissitudes of life.

If we truly feel that joy in our lives, then we will be what Jesus calls his followers to be in the Sermon on the Mount: a light set upon a stand.  That joy in our lives will shine forth in us and illuminate the world around us.  People will see, through the “quality of our lives,” that we are transformed people.  They will want to know the source of that transformation, that joy in which we live, and so we will be able to tell them about the source of that joy: God in Jesus.

May this last week in Lent, which begins tomorrow, be a time of prayer for us to overcome all the obstacles in our hearts and minds to accepting the free gift of salvation with joy.  Then, when we arrive at the Feast of the Resurrection, that gift of abundant life, no longer constrained by death, will produce in us a joy unlike any we have known before.

It is not the only tool, however.  Faith is part of the process of “making bets.”  And yet, as we know from common parlance, one needs to be ready to “hedge one’s bets.”  So, faith is balanced with an analytical, realistic assessment of how a particular company is structured, what its assets are, what the track record of its leadership is, etc.  In to the trader’s mix goes a modicum of faith, tempered with a healthy dose of skepticism.  Indeed, so important has this ingredient of  doubt become that we now have vehicles of investment known as “hedge funds.”  There is yet another tool in the investor’s box: statistically reliable results.  Whether from a proven track record or a numerically quantifiable market share, the professional broker, in the end, wants something he can hang his hat on before “going out on a limb,” putting too much on faith.  When was it that faith became just one of many tools in the bag of tricks of a person whose task is to assess the promise of the future?

It is fashionable to set the tipping point in the Enlightenment, in the mid-17^th to the mid-18^th Century.  A popular multi-volume work of historical analysis of the last century, written by Will and Ariel Durant, amongst other works, has certainly contributed to this perception.  In their magnum opus, the Durants entitled one volume The Age of Faith, and another The Age of Reason.  The implication of these titled volumes, unless one pays careful attention to the fine print, is that not only are these two ways of looking at the world mutually exclusive, but they participate in what, in the history of biological science, has been called “The Great Chain of Being.”  That is, Reason is a chronological, and therefore superior, successor to Faith in the realm of human inquiry into the fundamental questions of existence.  This notion of The Great Chain of Being has been shown to be inadequate to explain the complexity of biological evolution, which does not follow an inexorable path from less complex to more.  Likewise, that philosophical underpinning will not do for the notion of reason supplanting faith.  It’s not as neat and tidy as that, as we can discern from the everyday example of the stock broker’s array of instruments to help in his success.

I think, in fact, that the historical locus of an hierarchy of tools to assess the future is completely lost in the fog of pre-history.  I would argue that as soon as creatures had a conscious understanding of the predictable workings of the natural world around them, that knowledge informed a rational approach to the world.  Part of one’s daily existence could be based upon reason, as when a known plant could be counted upon for safety and nutrition.  However, another part could not be foreseen adequately, and so faith remained a daily companion.  If this notion is accepted, then the point at which faith ceased to be the sole determinant of choice and action was at the origin of the genus Homo, if not before.

As fascinating as a digression on the historical and anthropological origins of faith perception might be, however, the original point of this meditation was that faith is the commodity in which Christians trade.  Given that the human intellect quite naturally includes many other modes of looking at the world, the preference for a faith-based perspective has to be a purposeful choice.  Indeed, St. Paul, in the Epistle to the Hebrews, says as much, when he rehearses the “genealogy” of faith, beginning with Abraham and going through all those who answered God’s call, not out of certainty of result, but out of faith, going to a place they did not know and trusting in an end they could not see.  Faith is the approach to the world which sets Christians apart from the stubbornly skeptical or the radically objectivist philosopher or scientist.  Faith, as Kierkegaard so cogently illustrated by his illustration of the leap to faith, is a state of being that can only be arrived at by a conscious decision to suspend rationalist methodology.  One begins in a state of thought requiring proof of a particular claim, such as that Jesus is both God and man, to a state of thinking where this paradox is accepted as an article of belief through faith.  (Is it mere coincidence that Søren Kierkegaard was Danish, as was Niels Bohr, who elucidated the orbital theory of electrons that led to the notion of quantum states, or quantum “leaps” in electron orbits?  One, a philosopher interested in “quantum” leaps of faith, the other leaps of electromagnetic energy.)

It is unfortunate that the modern culture continues to undermine the legitimacy of faith as a way to view the world.  Post-modernism, with its emphasis on the relativity of truth claims, makes faith a tool without power.  Yes, we might have faith, but faith in what?  Your faith in Jesus is the same as my faith in Shiva or Mohammed.  Faith, in this context, becomes merely a subjective claim to a plot of ground in the vast acreage of competing “truth claims.”  Multi-culturalism, the logical extension of post-modern thought, insists that every cultural expression is true in its own way and has legitimacy in any cultural or political milieu.  Add to this the rather militant suspicion of authority cultivated in the unfortunate hot-house of the 1960s, and it is clear that any vestige of faith, whether in the clergy or the Church, in the Bible or the Creeds, in revelatory experience or the call of God through discerning prayer, is an endangered species.

In this environment, to return to the analogies presented at the outset of the meditation, is it any wonder that people approach the Church with a “consumer mentality”?  If faith is but one tool in our kit, then we, like the brokers in the secular markets, will look for provable results, “market analysis,” and “consumer satisfaction” records.  If we accept the notion that faith is not the sole commodity in which Christians trade, then we’ll be looking at ways to “hedge” our bets.  In that environment, our decisions will take on greater weight than God’s ultimately mysterious direction.  People will choose to act on personal information, separating from the Church in order to follow, not faithful obedience to the call of God into the unknown, but their own inner voices that lead them to certainty and emotional comfort.  Sound familiar?  It is where too many in the Episcopal Church (and those who have left) now find themselves.

This Lent, let us rediscover the strength of faith.  It is not “the blind leading the blind.”  Rather, it is a call into the unknown, where God meets us and leads us into holiness.  Abraham knew that.  Moses understood it, too.  So did Jonah, Isaac, Jacob, Isaiah, Ezekiel, Hosea, Mary, Peter and the rest of the Apostles, Paul, and you and me.

  Lent is the traditional time for preparation of individuals for the Rite of Holy Baptism.  Baptism is, as we know, the necessary sacrament of initiation into the Body of Christ.  It is that turning point in a person’s life when the old self is left behind and the new person is born, a new creation in Christ.  St. Paul puts it succinctly:  “Put off your old nature which belongs to your former manner of life and is corrupt through deceitful lusts, and be renewed in the spirit of your minds, and put on the new nature, created after the likeness of God in true righteousness and holiness.”  (Ephesians 4: 22-24)  The way in which we put off the old and put on the new is to make (or have our parents make for us) a conscious decision to invite Christ into our lives.  That decision, however, is one that is of eternal importance.

Because of the importance of a decision to become a Christian, it is one that should be made deliberately and with preparation.  Most of us in the modern Church have an intellectual understanding of the need for baptismal preparation, but that is usually translated into several sessions with parents and god-parents (or the baptismal candidates themselves), explaining the rudiments of Christian discipleship and considering the ramifications of the questions posed in the baptismal liturgy.  The brevity of preparation is probably driven most by overly-full schedules, both of the clergy and those to be baptized.  That’s a shame, really, and as the Church has recognized this deficiency in its practice, it has attempted to reclaim the model used in earlier centuries of the Church.

That model is one that is based upon the catechumenate, a “school” for the training of catechumens, those aspiring to be baptized.  In its most rigorous form, the catechumenate lasted for two years, with the baptismal candidates being trained in scripture, prayer, and the responsibilities of the Christian in worship, daily living and ministry.  During this time the catechumens would be part of the Liturgy of the Word at the Eucharist, but only until the proclamation of the Gospel, before which they would be taken out to continue their formation, where they studied, were prayed over and anointed with a special oil, “the oil of catechumens.”

At the end of their two years of training, at the Great Vigil of Easter, these individuals would be baptized and would then hear the Gospel proclaimed in the liturgy for the very first time and receive the Sacrament of the Eucharist.  It was an occasion of great joy and celebration for the Christian community.  They would be baptized by immersion, anointed with chrism oil, and then vested in white garments to demonstrate the reality of Paul’s admonition from his Epistle to the Ephesians, quoted above.

As I say, at least one factor in the diminution of the catechumenate in the Church has been the increasing demands upon the clergy.  That fact can serve as a handy excuse, of course, to ignore the importance of basic teaching of the faithful.  At least as important a factor in the dramatic shortening of the time taken for teaching baptismal candidates is that they cannot be taught; most of the time they are infants.  Schedules, then, of both clergy, parents and godparents must be addressed in creating time for preparation, these days a daunting task.

Nevertheless, we must recapture the importance of Christian formation, not only for those readying themselves for baptism, but for all the Body of Christ.  This is why, here at the Cathedral, our program of learning for children, youth and adults is called “Christian Formation,” not merely Christian education.  We are about forming whole, mature Christians who are aware of their identity as disciples of Christ and take the concomitant responsibilities seriously.  Christian Formation isn’t just about the head; it’s about the heart, too.  It isn’t just about what happens in church on Sunday morning; it’s equally, perhaps more, about what happens when you leave the church building and go about your daily life.  Christian Formation isn’t limited to childhood and a connection to the Youth Group; it’s a life-long commitment to continue to grow into “the stature of the fullness of Christ.” (Ephesians 4: 13)

The good news is that the Church is recovering a healthy understanding of the Catechumenate.  This move was initiated by our Roman brothers, and it is now being actively pursued in many Christian bodies.  In many Episcopal churches, including the Cathedral, the notion of the Catechumenate has been shifted, if you will, toward those being confirmed.  We take seriously the need to instruct those seeking baptism, parents and godparents, and we approach with greater seriousness the gravity of a young person making, to borrow a phrase, “a mature profession of faith.”  What was said for an infant by others, in baptism, must be made by that person herself, in front of God and the community of faith.  That course of preparation at St. John’s is, in fact, two years’ in length, culminating, if it is the choice of the young person, in Confirmation. 

At this time in Lent, though, we pause to remember and pray for all who are being prepared for baptism.  At the Cathedral, at the Easter Vigil, we will baptize two older children and an adult.  I am always excited when an adult takes the step of faith in Christ and is baptized.  This is the living out of the Psalmist’s words, “Like as the hart desireth the waterbroooks, so longeth my soul after thee, O God.” (Psalm 42)  We pray that they, with us, will form a holy temple, acceptable to God. 

May we be joined together as living stones, being perfected daily by Jesus’ presence in our lives, so that we might fit closely together and rest firmly upon the foundation of our faith, that very same Jesus.

That end point of our journey, certainly, is the Feast of the Resurrection, Easter Day. The great event that we will celebrate on that day, the resurrection of Jesus from the dead, the triumph of God over the very power of death, has been the expectation of the hard spiritual work in which we’ve been engaged this Lent. Our work has been focused on getting our lives in right relationship with God, attuning our hearts to the songs of invitation and praise that fill the kingdom of God so that we might learn their melodies and have them fill our lives, too. When, on Easter Day, we sing again that great angelic hymn, the Gloria in excelsis, which has been absent throughout Lent, I pray that each of us will have ears to hear and hearts ready to receive the profound joy and promise contained in it.

To be ready in that way, however, we must complete the rest of the journey. Having set our feet to the wilderness way of Lent, it would be a very great shame if we abandoned our efforts now. Yes, we are near, but the remainder of the course is difficult and will test our spiritual endurance. For, you see, Holy Week remains, the great expanse that lies between Palm Sunday and Easter Day. Within the seven days of what is surely the most important week in the Church Calendar, spiritually speaking, which is just why it is called, among all the weeks of the year, Holy. In this Week we recall the last, terrible events in Jesus’ life, culminating with his Passion and Crucifixion. There is only one road to Easter Day, though, and it leads through Holy Week. If you and I are to experience the joy of the Resurrection as it is held out to us, then across the expanse of Holy Week we must travel.

While last Sunday was Refreshment Sunday, a time to rest a bit and recharge the spiritual batteries with the excitement of a visit from one of the prominent leaders in the Anglican Communion today, today is the time to make sure that we are prepared for the last leg, a strenuous leg, of our journey. If you’ve been neglecting your Lenten Rule, made every effort to take it up again and follow it for the next couple of weeks. Above all, make time for prayer, as well as meditating upon the scriptures and listening to what God has to say to you in them. This is the true nourishment that you’ll need for this time between the Fifth Sunday in Lent and Holy Saturday, not the food that fills the body but the food that will feed the soul. 

In addition, resist the temptation to let Church come last in your list of priorities. Yes, life is busy, but coming together in worship, prayer and praise I hope and pray will be at the top of your priorities. We meet Christ in the midst of our fellowship, we find encouragement from one another in communal worship, and we receive the spiritual food of the Sacrament in the liturgy. All these are vital to the spiritual success of your Lenten journey.

So, while this Sunday may appear “normal,” I suppose it is anything but. Which, come to think of it, is probably true for every Sunday.

This is the Collect for today, as set out in Lesser Feasts and Fasts.  It is a prayer that is full of meaning for our Lenten journey.

First, there is a supplication.  This is the beginning of all prayers; we ask God to heed what we send up to him in the form of our heartfelt requests.  The reality, of course, is that God knows what is at the center of our lives, those things that we desire most fully.  There is nothing that is hidden from God, as the Collect for Purity at the beginning of the Eucharist says, “Almighty God, to you all hearts are open, all desires known, and from you no secrets are hid…”  Nevertheless, we offer our prayers, not so that God knows, but that our hearts are opened thereby to the Divine will.  As we have faith to share what we feel most deeply, we invite God into those very intimate aspects of our lives.  “Mercifully hear our prayers, O Lord…”

Second, there is mercy.  As set forth in the Book of Deuteronomy, God does not desire the death of any sinner.  Before each one of us is set the choice between Life and Death.  You and I are given the gift of Free Will, and it is absolute.  Choose Death, and it will be our end.  God does not save us from our choices.  Still, he is always at the ready to accept our invitation to enter into our lives, our thoughts and our choices.  “Behold, I stand at the door and knock…”  God is always there…ALWAYS…ready to hear our feeble whisper of invitation and respond readily, with love and gentleness.  It is a given that, as St. Paul says, “We all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.”  Our sinful human nature is documented from the Fall, through the “stiff-necked” nature of the people of Israel in the Wilderness, all the way through to the stubborn willfulness that you and I exhibit each day in our refusal to follow the path that God has set before us.  And yet, God does not abandon us.  He does not say, as we might very well to our fellows, “Fine, if you chose that way, then you have what you have chosen.”  No, there is mercy.  You and I are spared.  But…

There is a condition.  We must confess our sins.  Grace, mercy, and God’s love are not freely dispensed without action on our part.  There must be confession, a heart-felt understanding that we have done the wrong thing, taken the wrong path.  In other words, there must be repentance.  This necessary condition of mercy is at the heart of our Lenten journey.  Repentance, “thinking again” of the path on which we travel, is crucial to a mature Christian discipleship.  We know we have done the wrong thing.  We realize that we are headed in the wrong direction, and so we “think again.”  We conclude that we must change direction; we must repent.  In that realization, we confess to God those things that set us on the wrong path, the “things done and left undone,” our sins.  In that act of confession God hears the invitation of the “broken and contrite heart” to enter in and begin the healing, the restoration to union with God and wholeness.

That restoration and healing is known as absolution.  This is a theological term that means one’s sins are not only forgiven; they are completely wiped away.  In the act of absolution, it is as if the sins confessed never happened at all.  Again, let us be clear, this is not some magical incantation that is uttered by the priest, “Te absolvo” (I absolve you), nor is it a ring to be grasped on the carousel of faith.  In order to receive absolution, there must be an understanding that we have sinned.  In the words of the Collect, we must be “accused” of our sinfulness.  In the old-time language of my youth, one must be “convicted” of one’s sins.  In the depth of that conviction comes the heart-felt desire to change, to make amendment of life, and therein lies mercy and absolution.

Note, please, that absolution does not come from the priest.  In the Rite for the Reconciliation of a Penitent (Private Confession) in the Book of Common Prayer, after the penitent has recounted his or her sins, the priest is instructed to give spiritual counsel.  After this conversation, the penitent having taken it to heart, the priest then pronounces absolution.  Traditionally, the wording of this assurance is, in Latin, “Te absolvo” (I absolve you).  It is essential, however, that one pay attention to the fact that the priest is only acting as the ordained agent of God’s absolving power.  The priest absolves in the name of God, whence comes the power and grace to remove the stain of sin.

As Lent grows to a close, as we look now to the Fifth Sunday in Lent, I encourage you to take seriously the spiritual benefit of a private confession.  Look in the Book of Common Prayer, in the Table of Contents, and read over the Reconciliation of a Penitent.  Unlike in the tired cliché of the movies, it no longer happens in Confessional Booths.  Nowadays Private Confession happens either in the priest’s office, or, even better, in the place of worship, at the Altar Rail in the Chapel, for example.  The seal of the Confession is absolute and may never be brought up by the priest again.  To do so is to bring discredit and skepticism upon the very rite itself, a very grave offense. 

The promise of today’s Collect is clear; if we confess our sins freely and openly, with a desire for amendment of life, we will receive the mercy and absolution of God. 

“Behold, I stand at the door and knock…”