Skip to main content

Taize


At Lyon our bodies began to protest at their treatment over the past few weeks. I developed a pain in my right shin. Clemency's feet began to swell. Strange how that works isn't it? When the pressure comes off, the body knows it can shut down and repair some of the damage. The trip to Taize through the Burgundy countryside is stunningly beautiful, and the village of Taize itself is chocolate box perfection; a group of large and immaculately kept old farmhouses gathered round a small, ancient church on a hillside overlooking rolling hills. White cattle, soft green woods, vineyards. You know, perfection. The trip was rendered slightly less wonderful by the growing pain in our lower limbs. On the day after our arrival my left ankle came out in sympathy by producing the worst case of gout I have ever had. I spent the first evening in a wheelchair.The atrocious Taize food didn't help of course, but in reality it was all the inner systems telling me 'time to stop, lad'. Not that I listened, of course. I took anti inflammatories instead. The pills worked a treat and the swelling and pain disappeared within hours, so the body had to switch to plan B - give me such a reaction to the medication that my digestive system was laid waste for two more days. Which all altered my Taize experience somewhat. Made it, perhaps, what God intended.

Taize community is only incidentally related to the village in which it is set. The community facility is huge, and, somewhat basic. In terms of facilities, think youth camp. Think diocesan ministry school in a bad budget year. After more than 30 years of continuous ministry some of the major programmes and much of the housing still takes place in tents. You need to think size as well. I'd guess that the trip to Tent F and then to the church from our room was about a kilometre: tricky on dodgy ankles.There are about a hundred brothers in the community who live I never quite found out where, and in everyday Taize life, they are seldom seen. The entire programme is run by volunteers who give a year of their lives to making one of the world's greatest and most important spiritual centres function. And it does function. Smoothly. Miraculously, even, considering the numbers involved. There an ever changing population of a couple of thousand people constantly present. Most of these are young,and all are housed, fed, and nurtured for the short time they are part of the community. Many go away with their lives changed forever by their experience in the Burgundy countryside. In Tent F, the geriatric wing, there is a programme for those over 30, who number only a few hundred. We all arrive, we are given a room (ours a basic but quite spacious double room with a nice view and a hand basin). We all help with the running of the facility, we attend Bible studies and 'meetings' - small group discussions on a variety of topics. The young people take part in the sorts of activities which youth camps have been doing for years; in Taize's case, more than 30 years, continuously. And we worship.

Not many churches can claim an attendance record of several thousand, three times a day, seven days a week continuously for more than 3 decades. People don't come for the facilities or even the programme. It is the worship which brings people to Taize. I want to say more about the worship later, but for now, I will tell you that God and my body conspired to let me worship, sample all of Taize's life and give me PLENTY of time for reflection. Perfect.

Comments

Verna said…
Kelvin and Clemency - may you find rest, healing, and inspiration during your time at Taize. Our thoughts and prayers are still with you and for you on this journey. Be safe, be well, be invigorated, be re-created.
Anonymous said…
Laudate Dominum! And all thanks to Him that you had the time you wanted to reflect and BE in the presence.
N

Popular posts from this blog

Camino, by David Whyte

This poem captures it perfectly Camino. The way forward, the way between things, the way already walked before you, the path disappearing and re-appearing even as the ground gave way beneath you, the grief apparent only in the moment of forgetting, then the river, the mountain, the lifting song of the Sky Lark inviting you over the rain filled pass when your legs had given up, and after, it would be dusk and the half-lit villages in evening light; other people's homes glimpsed through lighted windows and inside, other people's lives; your own home you had left crowding your memory as you looked to see a child playing or a mother moving from one side of a room to another, your eyes wet with the keen cold wind of Navarre. But your loss brought you here to walk under one name and one name only, and to find the guise under which all loss can live; remember you were given that name every day along the way, remember you were greeted as such, and you neede

Kindle

 Living as I do in a place where most books have to come a long way in an aeroplane, reading is an expensive addiction, and of course there is always the problem of shelf space. I have about 50 metres of shelving in my new study, but it is already full and there is not a lot of wall space left; and although it is great insulation, what is eventually going to happen to all that paper? I doubt my kids will want to fill their homes with old theological works, so most of my library is eventually going to end up as egg cartons. Ebooks are one solution to book cost and storage issues so I have been  using them for a while now, but their big problem has been finding suitable hardware to read them on.  I first read them on the tiny screens of Ipaqs and they were quite satisfactory but the wretchedness of Microsoft Reader and its somewhat arbitrary copyright protection system killed the experience entirely. On Palm devices they were OK except the plethora of competing and incompatible formats

Ko Tangata Tiriti Ahau

    The Christmas before last our kids gave us Ancestry.com kits. You know the deal: you spit into a test tube, send it over to Ireland, and in a month or so you get a wadge of paper in the mail telling you who you are. I've never, previously, been interested in all that stuff. I knew my forbears came to Aotearoa in the 1850's from Britain but I didn't know from where, exactly. Clemency's results, as it turns out, were pretty interesting. She was born in England, but has ancestors from various European places, and some who are Ngāti Raukawa, so she can whakapapa back to a little marae called Kikopiri, near Ōtaki. And me? It turns out I'm more British than most British people. Apart from a smattering of Norse  - probably the result of some Viking raid in the dim distant past - all my tūpuna seem to have come from a little group of villages in Nottinghamshire.  Now I've been to the UK a few times, and I quite like it, but it's not home: my heart and soul belon

En Hakkore

In the hills up behind Ranfurly there used to be a town, Hamilton, which at one stage was home to 5,000 people. All that remains of it now is a graveyard, fenced off and baking in the lonely brown hills. Near it, in the 1930s a large Sanitorium was built for the treatment of tuberculosis and other respiratory ailments. It was a substantial complex of buildings with wards, a nurses hostel, impressive houses for the manager and superintendent and all the utility buildings needed for such a large operation. The treatment offered consisted of isolation, views and weather. Patients were exposed to the air, the tons of it which whistled past, often at great speed, the warmth of the sun and the cold. They were housed in small cubicles opening onto huge glassed verandas where they cooked in the summer and froze in the winter and often, what with the wholesome food and the exercise, got better. When advances in antibiotics rendered the Sanitorium obsolete it was turned into a Borstal and the

Return to Middle Earth

 We had a flood, a couple of weeks back, and had to move all the stuff out of the spare bedroom, including  the contents of two floor to ceiling book cases. Shoving the long unopened copies of Sartor Resartus and An Introduction to Byron into cartons, I came upon my  copy of The Lord of the Rings . Written in the flyleaf are the dates of its many readings, the last one being when I read it aloud to Catherine, when she was about 10 or 11, well over 20 years ago. The journey across Middle Earth took Catherine and me the best part of a year, except for the evening when we followed Frodo and Sam across the last stretches of Mordor and up Mount Doom, when we simply couldn't stop, and sat up reading until 11.00 pm, on a school night.  My old copy is a paperback, the same edition that every card carrying baby boomer has somewhere on their shelves. The glue has dried and hardened. The cover and many of the pages have come loose. I was overcome with the urge to read it again, but this old