Month: August 2024

England’s Bloodiest Battle

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I had wanted for some time to visit the town of Towton. Not so much the town itself as for the fields which rise above it on the way to Saxton. Here a battle took place in the 15th century which may have cost more lives than any other conflict on English soil. It was part of the War of the Roses, and some estimates claim that 28,000 Lancastrian and Yorkist soldiers lost their lives in a single day. Over time the signs of battle have vanished from a landscape now given over to agriculture. It cannot be claimed with certainty where the spot lies on which the warfare took place. However, on the 29th of March 1461, during a snowstorm, two mighty armies clashed and laboured for several hours to prevail. It was Palm Sunday.

This battle is a central event in Shakespeare’s Henry VI part 3. The exhausting and bloody nature of a conflict in which the armies were evenly matched is expressed in words the Bard gives to King Henry:

Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea
Forced by the tide to combat with the wind;
Now sways it that way, like the selfsame sea
Forced to retire by fury of the wind.
Sometime the flood prevails, and then the wind;
Now one the better, then another best,
Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast,
Yet neither conqueror nor conquerèd.
So is the equal poise of this fell war.

Shakespeare, W. Henry VI part III, Act 2 scene 5.

Gazing across fields, above which huge clouds pass serenely, it is hard to imagine the butchery that took place here more than half a millennium ago. The loss of life is all the more extraordinary given the weapons available at the time. War was a matter of sustained labour, with sheer physical force being the principal means of achieving victory. Being a soldier required strength and stamina and the chances of survival were poor if you were injured in any way, as the medicines of the time had limited effects.

In Macbeth, Shakespeare describes another military encounter, also finely matched: “Doubtful it stood, As two spent swimmers that do cling together And choke their art”. This would be a fitting description of the struggle across the fields near Towton. Perhaps, in some cases, there are worse things than an immediate and crushing defeat. The attrition of balanced forces was devastating for the communities involved. At the time of the battle England’s population was under 2 million and the losses of the day may have amounted to more than one percent of the nation’s inhabitants. Inevitably, this figure would have included an even greater proportion of the able-bodied men of the time.

Today, the fields above Towton look no different from the the arable land that stretches east towards York and west towards Leeds. The history of the place is told on a couple of display boards with a trail that takes visitors across the most likely places of significance during the battle. The devastation of this domestic conflict is long disappeared, but it has become a place for people to visit and contemplate the history of warfare, politics and – it is to be hoped – the continuing necessity to labour for the peaceful resolution of conflict

Lancashire Low

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It’s probably a phrase which means nothing to all but a few people today, but ‘Lancashire Low’ was once a term applied to the character of the worship offered in the churches of that county. I heard it first when speaking with an ‘ACCM selector’. These figures were the driving force of the Church of England’s process for selecting candidates to train for ministry. Having lived all my life in Lancashire this description came as news to me although, intuitively, I recognised what it was describing. Not high up the candle ‘bells and smells’; nor ‘happy clappy’ evangelicalism, but a fairly sober, minimalist and no-frills approach to divine service. During my childhood and adolescence, as the C of E began to experiment with new liturgies, this character was beginning to change. Perhaps most notably, the Eucharist was becoming the most central act of worship, and a variety of vestments were beginning to be used more widely.

“the Lord’s Supper is a sacrament of our redemption by Christ’s death; it is not only a badge or token of our profession, but rather a certain sure witness and effectual sign of grace and God’s goodwill towards us, by which He doth work invisibly in us, and doth not only quicken, but also strengthen and confirm our faith in him”.

Mary Astell (1668-1731)

One of the parishes in York which I am supporting on Sundays could not be further removed from ‘Lancashire Low’. The church of St Lawrence, a few yards outside the city wall to the east, was built at the time of Catholic emancipation to offer a High Church, Book of Common Prayer, liturgy for people who might otherwise have been attracted across the Tiber. On Maundy Thursday, when the church is stripped of all adornments, the vestry overflows with the sheer quantity of vestments, candles, hangings etc. etc..

Despite the disparity between the church of my youth and this particular church, there are many interesting features in the character of St Lawrence’s. Firstly, located in an area of significant student accommodation, it counts many 18-30 year olds in its congregation. As is the manner of High Church liturgy, there are lots of ways for these young adults to get involved, for example, in the choir or serving. Perhaps in an age when choice continues to be elevated as the principal virtue, the given nature of the liturgy – its specification and detail – holds a counter-cultural appeal. Also, in a world of words, the presence of fabrics, colour, smells and bells, offers an in-person sensory experience that is welcome and appealing. All too often, when I assist at other churches, there is only the vaguest awareness of a pattern or tradition. “Wear what you like” can be the unhelpful response when I ask about the usual clergy attire for conducting the service. More often than not there are no vestments at the church or, if there are, the sets are incomplete.

Unusually, with an immense amount of hard work by dedicated laity, this church has been transformed from near-closure to become one of the better-attended churches in the city. There has been a sustained commitment to weekly Evensong on Sundays which has established a strong choral reputation and can see attendances reach a hundred. Generous gifts and successful grant applications have put the fabric of the building back into good order. None of this has been easy, not least because many students are only with the church for a few years while some, however, have decided to make York their home and continue to worship and assist at the church.

It is not possible to convey the Gospel, or help people shape and develop their religious life, without contact and engagement. Over many years the church of St Lawrence has done the hard work of building student engagement and outreach. Despite the assumption of many people that a church using the Prayer Book would be destined to failure, the opposite has been true. This is not without risks, as there can be a temptation in any tradition to see what is at hand and miss that to which it points, but you can’t get somewhere unless you start somewhere. In recent years several young men and women have entered on a journey of vocation leading to ordination. This is a church that has an ebb and flow of involvement, but it is unlikely – whatever happens in the future – that people will forget the experience of worship into which they are invited and immersed at a formative stage in their lives.

The Mystery of the Creation

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I have always found that churches and chapels in remote locations have a certain appeal. Sometimes these might be a long way away, such as the Keills Chapel, dating from the 11th century and near the village of Tayvallich on the west coast of Scotland. In other instances they are much closer at hand, like the small church at Bossall a few miles east of York. In both cases these buildings stand in relative solitude, with only a handful of houses nearby. Like the poet Philip Larkin, visiting these empty spaces of ancient significance conjures an atmosphere both melancholic and reflective. Who were the people who built this place, attended services here and, on one particular day, held their last act of weekly worship?

Having strayed into the local second hand bookshop recently, I came across a volume of selected prose by RS Thomas. In one short chapter Thomas writes about “Two Chapels”, with only one thing in common: remoteness. The first is called Maes-yr-Onnen in Radnorshire. It was August and, as the building was locked, Thomas stretched himself out on the grass and began to think about the past visitors to the chapel:

“sober men and women dressed in sober fashion. I saw them leave the sunlight for the darkness of the chapel and then heard the rustling of the Bible pages and the murmur of soft voices mingling with the wind”.

RS Thomas, Selected Prose, Ed. Sandra Anstey, 1986, Poetry Wales Press.

It was in this revery of imagination that Thomas found, like St John on Patmos, he had a vision. It was a moment when he felt he comprehended “the breadth and length and depth and height of the mystery of creation”. Yet, beyond this, Thomas was unable to put the experience into words. Reading the little he wrote about this event reminds me of the visions of Julian of Norwich. In that moment Thomas discerned that “everything is a fountain welling up endlessly from immortal God”. It feels to me as though this ancient chapel suddenly became for Thomas a dark and brimming well, replenishing with living water a world that so often becomes disenchanted and descends into cynicism. Like God, whether attended or unattended, the Chapel stood its ground and told its truth.

Out at the Church of St Botolph in Bossall, it is not difficult to share a little of the feeling Thomas encountered at Maes-yr-Onnen. It is the smallest parish in Yorkshire, built in the late 12th century, and is never open when I visit. The churchyard is overgrown and neglected, but seems to me to be none the worse for the lack of tidy graves or well-tended curb stones. What might seem to some to be a place of death is bustling with life. House martins are nesting in the eaves. A wyvern weathervane tells you from whence a gentle Yorkshire breeze is blowing. Swallows flit too and fro and, above them, swifts wheel and dive on the afternoon’s heat. Despite all our neglect of the planet, here is somewhere that time has forgotten to alter. One small red letterbox, opposite the church, is the only sign of connection to a wider network of society and even that, today, is largely unused.

RS Thomas believed strongly in the connection of people to the landscape of Wales. For him it was the case that “Here, in the soil and the dirt and the peat do we find life and heaven and hell”. To leave the land, and to live in towns and cities, was to abandon connection to the environment in which the Welsh should “forge their soul”. This may seem a romantic and unrealistic notion in 2024. However, as we have seen in recent weeks, it can hardly be said that the current society in England is one where there is peace and flourishing for all. We may not be able to have the kind of connection to the land that Thomas saw as spiritually needful, but perhaps we can make more of those places that offer a sense of spiritual location and peace. Places to stretch out, metaphorically or otherwise, and contemplate. Thankfully, almost without exception, they exist in all our communities and perhaps the call to the church in current circumstances, to quote words TS Eliot put into the mouth of Thomas Becket, is to “Unbar the doors! throw open the doors!” Most of these places are both close to communities but, remarkably, also other-worldly and distinct. They continue to have a part to play in our society but require the resources and support in order to fulfil their vocation to be at the service of all parishioners.