As
an Anglican atheist it may come as a surprise that it is today that the
restrictions on movement have hit me most.
I do not go out of my way to visit churches during the year, but Good
Friday (for reasons about which I am not entirely sure, see above re. atheism)
is one of the day on which I make every effort to visit a church, to go inside,
to sit down for a few moments and think.
Toni has given up trying to understand my
attitude and now merely shrugs with something approaching disdain when I voice
my predilections. For whatever reasons I
want to visit a church today and I can’t.
And I miss it.
I have tried the idea of the virtual tour,
but that does not even remotely touch the spot in my psyche that demands a
touch of the ecclesiastic, because it is not just the look of the place to
which I respond.
Although the sort of Anglican atheism that
I espouse is ‘Low Church’ my background in St Augustine’s Church in Rumney was
‘High Church’ in its ceremonial.
Ceremonial, I might add in which I participated as a lowly server,
cassocked and surplice as an acolyte, boat boy, thurifer, book boy and
eventually MC – and people wondered why I chose a Cardinal as my fancy dress when
going to a party in college!
The point is, that my experience of
churches is an olfactory one as well – there is something very distinctive
about the smell of old incense lingering among the pews. And then there is the sound.
I favour older churches with high-beamed ancient
roofs (probably extensively mucked about with in Victorian times) where there
is a distinct echoing resonance when the place is empty. In the days when churches used to be left
unlocked, I would visit new and interesting examples on holidays and, if they
were empty, I would go to the lectern and read a section of the bible out loud
to hear the acoustic. So for me there is
a distinct sonic quality that I treasure in churches. Even in modern examples of the architecture there
is something to take out of the experience of visiting.
I do not find most churches welcoming
places, I mean I like being inside them, but people are usually a bit stand
offish. I will never forget going to
early morning communion in a parish church in Edgbaston where I felt like a
modern day peasant among the well-heeled congregation (you only had to look at
the cars parked) and I was comprehensively ignored by priest and congregation
alike. Ho hum! But there is something about the atmosphere
and the hardness of the pews that encourages introspection.
And I like the restraint. At least the restraint that I find in
churches in the UK. Good Friday in the
UK is a bleak time to be inside a church where images are shrouded, the altar
is stripped and there are no flowers. In
Catalan churches there is the same shrouding, but there is a concentration on
the gory so there is often a horrifically realistic corpse somewhere around to
focus the mind: the suffering of Christ with blood and wounds is very much to
the fore.
Well, this year I’m at home and there is
not even a soaring spire above the trees to be observed from the third
floor. No bells have rung, or not within
the hearing of our house. This is a day
like every other in isolation. Like
every other day in Holy Week. Identity
is attached to the days, they possess none themselves.
So, what will my poem today describe? How will its usual identity change? At the moment I have no idea, but, by the end
of the day a draft will have been added to the Holy Week collection at
smrnewpoems.blogspot.com I hope.
Well,
I’ve written a draft that is now in the blog above.
I
spoke to Irene on the telephone and we are both getting progressively more
worried by the attitude of our political masters who seem to be far more
concerned with the economic situation of the country than with the health and
life of the citizens.
The key will be what happens after
Easter. Easter Monday is a Bank Holiday
(if we are still concerned by such things) and the National Government seems to
be concerned to get people back to work.
Any diminution in the stringency of the lockdown will have a
disproportionate effect and will weaken the overall population’s dedication to
the lockdown and there will be a progressive disinclination to behave
properly. And then an increase in death.
Perhaps I am being unduly pessimistic, but
the next couple of weeks are going to be crucial to the way the crisis develops
and I lack faith in the politics of it all!
