Skip to main content

Carlisle Cathedral

I'd like to write a bit more about Iona but need to take a detour first. At the moment we are in Carlisle, Clemency's birthplace. There is a castle, a real one, and a magnificent cathedral and a maze of tiny streets opening onto a market square. It is all quite picturesque, although dreary and careworn at the same time: this is a working city, not a tourist oriented museum. We have looked at the street where Clemency was born and the vicarage (now a Buddhist centre. These Buddhists are everywhere!) where she grew up. And we have looked at the cathedral.

Carlisle has a smallish cathedral, built in the late eleventh century to serve, alongside the castle, as a demonstration of Norman power. It has been overrun by the Scots on numerous occasions, and been subject to the indignities which various reform movements have inflicted on the church. Nevertheless, it is more completely original than most other cathedrals I have seen. The bulk of it is still the eleventh century original and not some late addition or alteration. Miraculously, some superb stained glass and some wonderful wall paintings survived both the zealotry of the reforming idiots of the sixteenth century and the bombsights of the Luftwaffe. There are beautiful objects from all the ages of the church from William the Conqueror until now. There is a lot going on there. I picked up a pamphlet for a very interesting lookking contemporary cafe service, and they have their ministry of contemplative prayer well developed. The cathedral is a contemporary place of worship but its fabric demonstrates a continuity as a place of prayer that dates back 900 years. Many of the other cathedrals have not had such an easy history. The reformers were more thorough, and Henry VIII more rapacious, and the 'improvers' more persuasive. Westminster Abbey, for example was used a a stables by Cromwell's men; the medieval choir stalls were ripped out and used as firewood; the exquisite wall paintings were defaced and whitewashed; statuary was either removed or smashed. The Abbey was a wreck until the 19th century when it was restored, not to what it was, but to what the restorers imagined it should have been like. The result is a beautiful building whose shell is Medieval but whose soul and purpose is Victorian. Westminster Abbey is not so much a place of prayer as a celebratory monument to Englishness - as expressed in the English language and the English royal family - and to the greatness of the British Empire. In comparison, Carlisle's monastic foundations still shine through. To enter it and to pray in it is to be connected to all that history and to the hopes and aspirations of the men and women who kept the faith down through the years.

So to Iona. The island is a little lump of rock off the coast of Scotland. Or really, off the coast of an island off the coast of Scotland. It is impossible to know what it would have been like originally, as it was already long occupied when Columba arrived in the sixth century. The landscape is flat and bleak and the weather if foul. Nevertheless it became the driving force of British Christianity for several centuries. Now, it has some remnants of its long history dotted over it, but like Westminster Abbey, these are largely 19th and 20th century buildings inside shells which are, partially anyway, medieval. The work of the Abbey community, begun in the middle of the 20th century is spectacularly successful, but it remains spiritual response to the issues of the 20th Century. I went to Iona expecting to encounter the Abbey and all it has to offer, but instead encountered the landscape and the weather. Bleak, harsh, beautiful and life changing.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

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...

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 incomp...

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 Traitor

A couple of people have questioned me privately about the Leonard Cohen song The Traitor , and about Cohen's comments on the song, "[The Traitor is about] the feeling we have of betraying some mission we were mandated to fulfill and being unable to fulfill it; then coming to understand that the real mandate was not to fulfill it; and the real courage is to stand guiltless in the predicament in which you find yourself". What on earth does he mean, and why am I so excited about it? For the latter, check with my psychiatrist. For the former, my take on the song is this: The Traitor is another of those instances, as in The Partisan , where Leonard Cohen uses a military metaphor to speak of life in general and human love in particular. Many of us hold high ideals: some great quest or other that we pursue. These are often laudable things: finding true love, finding the absolute love of God, becoming enlightened, spreading the Gospel, writing the great novel or some such ...

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...