Thurifer continues to stay home
Possibly perverse; during recent isolation I watched a film about silence. “Into the Great Silence” a documentary by Philip Grönig was released in 2005, to much acclaim. I missed seeing it then and this seemed opportune to remedy that omission. Filmed for a total of six months in 2002 and 2003, it chronicles the day-to-day life of the Carthusians in the monastery of La Grande Chartreuse, in the French Alps. It took the monks some sixteen years from Grönig’s proposal to their acceptance. It is a magnificent achievement and, in its way, gripping. Not least when the camera focusses for several minutes on individual monks, as if sitting for portraits. We see every slight movement, half smile, twitch. One, however, sat for several moments face immobile, unblinking. But, of course, it was not silent. There was a cacophany: footsteps crunching through snow, sawing wood, digging soil, scissors cutting cloth, electric razors shaving monastic heads, footsteps, swishing movement, creaking, sweeping, scraping, utensils on plates, doors opening and closing, bells, groans, sniffs and coughs, pages turning and rustling. In the surrounding silence the sounds were not magnified but formed a constant sound-track and demanded attention. There was the human voice heard in liturgies (two professions), reading during meals, singing the Offices and gloriously in late afternoon when the rule of silence, briefly, was relaxed and an animated and joyous discussion was heard, albeit from a distance which did not allow us clearly to distinguish the conversation.
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Like many, my experience of deliberate silence is when on retreat. The silence of days in the Abbey Bec-Hellouin, Normandy, of religious and retreat house here are only feeble by comparison with lives dedicated in silence. I was put off retreats for some time. My final year at theological college saw Advent and Holy Week retreats in college, a dire Leavers’ Retreat at Stacklands (now defunct), which alone could have put me off re treats for life, a diocesan ordination retreat. For several years their virtues eluded me until Bec.
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A little before the country came to a halt, a new emporium opened in my leafy suburb, Essential Accessories. I thought that the nature of accessories was that they were not essential. But who am I to know or care anymore. Despite the oxymoron, I hope they survive to trade again.
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One of the canards killed off during the pandemic crisis was that enforced exile from our churches took us back to the house churches of the early years of Christianity. This formed part of the Archbishop of Canterbury’s apologia for his ill-considered policy. (Seeing him resile, through a gritted smile, on the Andrew Marr programme, guidance not an instruction, was a joy to behold.) Fr Peter Anthony (of this parish and St Benet’s, Kentish Town) performed this mercy killing in an accessible video (posted on Facebook). He made his argument with admirable clarity and moderation, and it was accessible to anyone not familiar with the history of the Early Church (like the Archbishop, clearly). Wide and up-to-date reading was marshalled and incorporated into lucid explication. It is well-worth viewing. As a contribution to the slow learners’ course in Early Church History: “On Sundays there is an assembly for all who live in teens or in the country … on Sunday we all come together. This is the first day, in which God transformed darkness and matter and made the world; the day on which Jesus Christ Our Saviour rose from the dead.” [St Justin Martyr 100-165AD]
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It should have come as no surprise that the powers-that-were at Lambeth and Bishopthorpe did not cover themselves in glory. Their policy of “going the extra mile” was somewhat undermined when that little bit extra was, not closing churches but preventing priests from live-streaming even if they were able to gain access without breaking the stay at home mantra. As if that was not enough one bishop (at least) forbade his priests to attend the dying and the sick with the Sacrament. Not quite the heroic image as that of Dr Pusey turning up on an East-End Vicarage doorstep to offer help during an outbreak of cholera. O tempores, O mores. Were I of a suspicious and cynical disposition I might sniff an attempt to complete what the protestant Reformation left (mercifully) unfinished.
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Looking back. one of the most interesting comments made at the height of the pandemic was by Professor Niall Ferguson (the historian not Neil, the epidemiologist modeller and lockdown buster) in The Spectator in April, “The US … has big government. And this is what it does: agencies, laws, reports, PowerPoint presentations … and then … when the endlessly discussed crisis actually happens – paralysis, followed by panic.” This seems profoundly true. One of the few growth industries is acronyms. Bureaucracies become top-heavy. More chiefs, fewer Indians. More bishops, fewer worshippers. More commission reports, fewer bums on seats. Commitment to mutual flourishing, since then no diocesan bishop, no deans, any canons? One Archdeacon lost: two gained (both appointed by the last remaining diocesan who shares our integrity. Floreat.
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Many have commented that one of the effects of the restrictions was the reappearance in cities of birdsong, no longer overpowered by the noise of traffic. Not when recording a talk for a website and you play it back and the most interesting thing you hear is the birdsong.
Thurifer