Category: spirituality

The Flappers

Chris Swift1 Comment

In the weird and wonderful world of Gulliver’s Travels, Jonathan Swift described servants who performed a particular occupation encountered by Gulliver on his third journey. These servants were called ‘flappers’ and their job was to accompany their master or mistress and make sure they were paying attention to what was going on. They did this with the aid of an inflated bladder on a short stick which, when they deemed it important for the person to be alert and listening, was used to flap them on the ear with the bladder. Equally, if it was something they needed to look at carefully, to flap their employer – gently – upon the eyes, thereby preventing them falling down a cliff.

This rather dramatic premonition of contemporary mindfulness was Swift’s satire on the distractedness and self-absorption of philosophers. These 18th century thinkers are portrayed by Swift as disconnected from the world around them, requiring a ‘flap’ or, I would suggest, a slap, to reawaken them to reality. Gulliver was unimpressed by the aristocratic figures who needed flapping, and spent more time conversing with the flappers themselves who, of course, had to pay attention to the world on behalf of others. Swift would be aware that his description is reminiscent of the role played by court jesters, who also used inflated bladders, and were sometimes the only people who could speak truth to power.

Photo by John Nail on Pexels.com

It is not easy to see the world with clarity. Often our gaze is overlaid with memories and interpretations that make our observations conform to views we hold already. This can mean that we fail to discern new patterns or new dangers, in a context where we pull reality towards the norms of our own expectation. I have written before about the value of stringent seeing and speaking, when we try to strip away the layers we impose and see something afresh. It is not easy. Perhaps we all need a flap to the head now and then.

Until I began preparing a sermon for Palm Sunday I hadn’t noticed a comment toward the end of the appointed Gospel reading. St Mark tells us that on entering the Temple, Jesus remained there until ‘he had looked around at everything’. Not preaching; not teaching; not healing or anything else: simply looking. Further research led me to discover that the Greek word used here, περιβλεψάμενος, occurs only seven times in the gospels with all but one of these found in Mark. Why is the evangelist so keen to make this point about the behaviour of Jesus?

Referring to an earlier use of this word in Marks’ Gospel, one suggestion is that the pause for observation “helps to intensify what Jesus is about to do” (Christal, J. 2011). This could be interpreted as a word used to convey dramatic effect: something major is about to happen. That would fit with Jesus’ Palm Sunday entry into Jerusalem and the impending denouement of his mission. Equally, it is possible that Mark’s presentation of the passion captures a growing disparity between what Jesus was realising about the coming days, and a world unaware of events that would come to change history. It reminds me a little of the 2011 film Margin Call about the 2007-8 financial crash. A young financier, working for a large company, had calculated that the world was on the eve of a commercial meltdown. As he is driven across the city he gazes out on a world he knows is about to change, where everyone he sees is oblivious to how their lives will be altered. The character ‘looked around at everything’ because nothing would ever be quite the same again.

I am not convinced that having a flapper around to bop my eyes or ears would necessarily help me to see the world any more clearly. Like the ping of a message on my mobile phone, it would probably lead to irritation. Nevertheless, the point Swift is making is entirely valid. We are parochial and complacent creatures, wrapped up in our own concerns and often lacking the will to shake up our way of seeing the world. In a church where there is often an emphasis to ‘make disciples’ and to be incurious about a theology that questions our way of looking, it might help to remember that Jesus took the time to simply pay attention to the world. At the start of Holy Week it is a helpful reminder to us to ‘look around at everything’. To allow the narratives of Maundy Thursday and Good Friday to jolt our compassion into life, and to look forward with hope to the day of resurrection.

Nothings Monstered

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I find being praised an uncomfortable experience. There are possibly several reasons for this, such as the inevitable injustice of elevating any one person’s efforts when so much excellent work goes unacknowledged and unseen. There is also the danger that praise is a tool of patronage and amounts to little more than a loan which will one day be called in. Lastly, the words used in praise inevitably fail to fully capture the deeds they describe: they are either too capacious or too perfunctory. Among other writers, Shakespeare is notable for his exploration of the ‘precarious correspondence between words and meanings’ (Sicherman, C. M. 1972. Coriolanus: the failure of words. ELH, 39(2), 189-207). Of course, praise can be genuine and well-intentioned – but I would much prefer not to be subjected to it.

Recently I watched a film adaptation of Coriolanus. The character of the play’s title is not a sympathetic figure. He is a stubborn, able and determined fighter, admired greatly by his troops. But he has very little time for ordinary people – the plebs – or their leaders. When he is seeking to become consul, encouraged by his mother, the Senate meets to recount the many worthy deeds which substantiate his appointment, Coriolanus moves to leave the chamber:

Your Honors, pardon.
I had rather have my wounds to heal again
Than hear say how I got them.

Coriolanus Act 2 scene 2

Despite attempting to persuade him to stay, Coriolanus eventually leaves the Senate. Perhaps he finds it impossible to remain when words sound so hollow compared with the deeds they describe. Warfare is a reality that none can imagine who have not stood within it, or know what it is to be such a danger to the lives of others. Oratory risks tidying away complex affairs and obliterating the wounds they leave. Before departing Coriolanus adds:

I had rather have one scratch my head i’ th’ sun
When the alarum were struck than idly sit
To hear my nothings monstered.

Ibid.

Perhaps surviving appears to be a nothing in the context of war. Many people caught up in the chance nature of conflicts, know that a decision to turn left, rather than right, is the difference between life and death. When I heard the remarkable Arek Hersh speaking about his time in a concentration camp, while standing in Auschwitz next to one of the kind of cattle trucks in which he was forced to travel decades before, it was a powerful testament to the apparent arbitrariness of survival.

USSR – CIRCA 1980: Postcard shows Italian Majolica from Hermitage Plate “Coriolanus’s mother and wife implore Coriolanus to spare Rome”, Faenza, 1523, workshop of Casa Priora, circa 1980

Shakespeare appears to have been very interested in ‘nothing’. The title of Much Ado is a play on the word, and ‘nothing’ occurs 34 times in King Lear. In Coriolanus’ bitter sense of rejection as he is sent away from Rome, he undergoes a fundamental crisis of identity. He has been a loyal and outstanding warrior for the Republic – his decision to cross into the camp of his enemy is a ‘Damascus Road’ transformation. His former commanding officer, Cominius, goes to entreat him to be at peace with Rome – and is rejected. Returning to the capital, Cominius describes the state in which he found his late deputy:

“Coriolanus”
He would not answer to, forbade all names.
He was a kind of nothing, titleless,
Till he had forged himself a name o’ th’ fire
Of burning Rome.

Shakespeare, W. Coriolanus Act 5 scene 1.

Forging a name in battle is a long-standing tradition in many cultures. As a result of his service in WWII Montgomery’s most senior title was ‘1st Viscount Montgomery of Alamein’. For Marcius it is the heat of battle that creates for him a title earned in combat, and takes a form of the name of the city where the battle occurred: Corioli. There appears to be genuine modesty in the response of Coriolanus to the gifts that are showered upon him in the moment of victory. He refuses the offer of a tithe of all the treasure in the city, and instead wants to receive the same portion as every other soldier. As he says: ‘I have done as you have done – that’s what I can’. However, refusing to play the game of reward and gratitude can be a dangerous course of action, as Coriolanus comes to discover. He is banished.

Renouncing his past titles and honours, walking away from his citizenship, leaves the resigned general in extreme isolation. I’m not sure that I agree with Ibsen that, “The strongest man upon the earth is he who stands most alone.” Nevertheless, Coriolanus sacrifices an enormity of rank and resources when he sides with his former enemy. As his mother tells him at one point: ‘You are too absolute’. In Shakespeare’s lifetime, people who took an absolute view about religion and the state could find themselves losing titles and property, not to mention their lives. The playwright was familiar with those who could, in a moment, become ‘a kind of nothing’. A state of loss which is perhaps the precursor of a wisdom that comes to us, all too often, far too late:

For wisdom is the property of the dead,
A something incompatible with life; and power, Like everything that has the stain of blood,
A property of the living …


William Butler Yeats, “Blood and Moon”

Refreshment

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Today passes by all sorts of names: Mothering Sunday; Mothers’ Day; Mid-Lent Sunday; Rose Sunday; Laetare Sunday; Simnel Sunday and Refreshment Sunday. Despite the differences, there is a kinship between them, laying emphasis on different aspects of this waypoint through the long sojourn of Lent. For the vast majority of people, who aren’t making any particular commitment to the season, Mother’s Day will be the most recognisable name.

Refreshment seldom seems a bad idea. When we embark upon any long project, or simply feel weighed down with the routine tasks of daily life, pausing to be refreshed sounds a positive step. In some churches, after the weeks of purple, the vestments and hangings on this Sunday will be a vibrant pink. Colour refreshes the dullness of abstinence, flowers will be given and received, and family dinners will be eaten. In gardens and parks in the northern hemisphere this moment in Lent is accompanied by the emerging colours of spring and, hopefully, some slightly drier and warmer days.

In some traditions and ways of living, the idea of refreshment might be regarded as an indulgence. The consequences of this can be seen all too plainly in Hard Times. Dickens locates the exclusion of play, childlike wonder and a lively imagination, in the pattern of life imposed by a father:

“You have been so careful of me that I never had a child’s heart. You have trained me so well that I never dreamed a child’s dream. You have dealt so wisely with me, Father, from my cradle to this hour, that I never had a child’s belief or a child’s fear”.

Dickens, C., Hard Times, 1854.

Dickens may have exaggerated several aspects of Victorian England in his novels, or placed together less common experiences in a single story, but it all flowed out of a reality with which he was familiar. Allowing space for refreshment in the 19th century could be a dangerous step. People might begin to think; to feel; to dream. Better to do your duty, however bleak the prospects, than imagine a life of being ‘fed on turtle soup and venison with a gold spoon’. In that era few were wealthy and many were poor, and finding any kind of middle way between the two was not in the interests of the powerful. ‘Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose’.

Rather than being simply a pleasant 5 minutes pausing on a bench, or walking through a wood, refreshment can mean the moment we begin to see life anew, and wonder how to live the lives we are given. It might be the time we decide that change is needed, and that bobbing along as we are isn’t how we are meant to use this one, precious, opportunity we have to be here. Pulling the levers and turning the handles of our part of existence can fill the time – but it should never stop us pausing and lifting our eyes to the horizon.

Refreshment can be dangerous. It can lead to revolution. It may resolve our heart to pursue a different path. It is never time wasted – but the space in which a different future might be imagined.

What Shapes Us

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I probably shouldn’t be allowed in bookshops – perhaps, especially, the second hand variety. It’s not that I steal from them, but I am mesmerised by so many tantalising titles that whisper: ‘read me – come and see the world from where I’m standing’. All too often I succumb to the siren call of these exciting doors into new worlds of information; history; narrative and imagination. I am at a particular risk living where we are now, as the excellent Minster Gate Bookshop (pictured) stands less than a 3 minute walk away on the other side of the cathedral.

“A bookshop is an idea in time”

Carlos Pascual quoted in Carrión, J. (2016). Bookshops. Hachette UK.

Growing up there were few books in our house. These consisted of map books, a Bible, some children’s books, cookery tomes and a Readers’ Digest three volume ‘Great Encyclopaedic Dictionary’ (the latter now a mere £5 on Abebooks.com: I found it very helpful on many occasions). At my grandparents it was a different story. Bessie, my grandmother, had been a primary school teacher before her marriage to Robert. The small bookcase in the sitting room was crammed with novels by Walter Scott; Dickens and Thackeray. There was also an atlas with a remarkable number of countries shaded in red. It was here that my love of literature began, but its development and maturity came via a charismatic English teacher at secondary school. Before the first years’ long summer holiday Mrs Boll handed round a list of books. Apparently we were supposed to choose one to read: I misheard, and read them all (and I’m a slow reader).

When I look around the study where I am sitting, the books are a record of my evolving interests and passions. There are a few books from undergraduate studies in English Literature and Theology. A selection of novels and poetry titles. More books linked to my PhD research and subsequent publications. A Bible in Spanish. Copies of journals for which I’ve been an editor and a host of miscellaneous and probably ill-advised further purchases. Nevertheless, they are very good company and sometimes I’ll wander about looking for a title (which I know is somewhere) and become distracted picking up these old friends and reminding myself of their contents.

Some years ago I was given a copy of Jorge Carrión’s Bookshops. This recounts the author’s visits to bookshops in many different parts of the world. It has been described as an extended essay and ‘a vital manifesto for the future of the traditional bookshop’. Some of these bookshops are ancient; others are works of art in their own right, employing the skills of local carpenters to fashion the shelving. For Carrión such places are about more than the retail of print, they are the context for people to meet, debate, share new ideas and inspire one another. After all, books have always – to some degree – been dangerous. There is a reason that despotic regimes burn them. No doubt, today, the internet has provided another forum to share ideas and this can be shut down when authorities feel threatened. It’s much harder to track-down and deactivate inked paper.

My most recent visit to Minster Gate Bookshop saw me give in to temptation (twice). I could hide behind a facade of professional interest for one title, an exploration of Jeanette Winterson’s writing and its relationship to religion. I’ve always loved Winterson’s novels. The other is justifiable (I protest too much?) because it concerns Laurence Sterne, and his work is my current hobbyhorse. Incidentally, I have found on occasion that another advantage of second hand books is that they sometimes contain material from a previous owner. In one case this was a typed letter in which the author told a librarian that all his children had turned out to be nincompoops. Reflecting on the chronology, I suspect that they’re probably now all in high-powered jobs.

On the wall of my study is a work of art by Wilkinson. It contains a block of acetate pages printed with a novel, written by the artist: ‘The Alabaster Child’. The work appeals to me for a number of reasons. It gives physical expression to the fact that reading is not simply linear. Later chapters of a novel are in dialogue with earlier sections, or certain words, as they weave towards a particular conclusion. In the case of ‘The Alabaster Child: A Novel’, the sheen of the acetate captures the reflection of my bookshelves on the other side of the room. Books speak to books and the relationship is both constant and dynamic. All my reading, what I remember and what has shaped my unconscious imagination, is in dialogue. As Doris Lessing put it in her Nobel Prize acceptance speech: “it is our imaginations which shape us, keep us, create us – for good and for ill”.

Good Lord, Deliver Us

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Management is an integral part of all organisations. It existed long before it was much spoken about or, indeed, became a field of study and development in its own right. Modern general management was introduced into the NHS following the Griffiths Inquiry in the mid 1980s. It paved the way for streamlining NHS processes and enhancing accountability which – eventually – even incorporated chaplaincy within its structures. Since then, in many organisations, I have witnessed and experienced the power of good management to exclude waste and improve efficiency. However (and there was always going to be an ‘however’!), there is plenty of evidence that contemporary management and executive leadership is far from perfect. Perhaps the instantaneous and seemingly universal response to Mr Bates v. The Post Office arises to a significant extent from the resonance of this story with many people’s experiences of institutional behaviour.

When I reflect upon my own professional journey there have been several key points when I have found myself in disagreement with a majority view. This is very inconvenient because, being naturally inclined to a quiet life, feeling compelled to express contrary views is time-consuming and energy-sapping. Often it requires detailed work to elucidate arguments and marshal the evidence that suggests – at the very least – that there is more than one way of looking at something. ‘Group-think’, especially when the leader’s views are clear and unequivocal, is far too easily generated in an environment which is unwelcoming of dissent. Over the years this is something I’ve observed in many contexts, including those of a research ethics committee and in church settings. The latter may be especially susceptible when the charisma of a Bishop is invested in a particular approach. Criticism of the approach can all too easily be perceived as criticism of the person.

It seems to me that a primary flaw in the case of the Post Office, and in many other institutions, is an inability to require a perspective 180° away from the one holding sway. For example, when a surprising number of post office staff were accused of fraud, and many maintained their complete innocence and were supported by local communities, why didn’t someone at a senior level think the unthinkable: what if they were right and Horizon was wrong? It isn’t difficult to speculate why a supplier might be reticent about admitting faults with a service it had provided. System error can be very costly and damage reputations (leading to even more adverse financial impact).

It would appear that often, as in the case of the Post Office, even independent reviews can encounter opposition if their findings differ from the dominant narrative of the organisation. When in leadership in health care chaplaincy I called on numerous occasions for an independent review of the operation of the Hospital Chaplaincies Council (HCC). There were many reasons for this, not least indications that something was wrong in the core operation of this Church of England quango. Eventually a review took place under Dame Janet Trotter, which concluded that the HCC was “too large and cumber­some for its purposes” and should be dissolved. Its findings were not welcomed by everyone and consequently the report was criticised from several quarters. However, the Hospital Chaplaincies Council no longer exists.

In leadership there is always more you could know, and the data will only ever be partial. Having a healthy appreciation of the gaps – the dark matter – is a key component in grasping the gravity of a situation. Being alert to seemingly insignificant anomalies can lead to the early detection of systemic failures. Simply closing ranks and moving into denial will only work for so long. Eventually, as the case of the Post Office demonstrates, you come up against the tenacity and determination that bends back into shape the distorted reality that huge resources have attempted to impose.

A wise leader doesn’t only want to hear the view of the majority. In 1 Kings chapter 22 we learn how King Jehoshaphat wasn’t content with the homogeneous advice of 400 prophets: ‘Is there no other prophet of the Lord here of whom we may inquire?’ Micaiah had the wisdom to make himself scarce when he knew the King wanted to hear from all the prophets. Micaiah was’t going to fall in line with the rest, and this would eventually earn him a slap and see him thrown into prison. Micaiah had the same inconvenient trait demonstrated by Mr Bates – he wouldn’t sign off on something he knew to be wrong.

“But Micaiah said. ‘As the Lord lives, whatever the Lord says to me, that I will speak.'”


I Kings 22:14 NRSV

Bright Expectations

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Recently I was introduced to the writing of Jon Fosse. The latest author to be awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature, this accolade was recognised by Pope Francis, who praised the Norwegian’s “gentle testimony of faith“. As a leading figure in the world of creative writing, who exchanged atheism for Catholicism some years ago, the pontifical praise for Fosse is hardly surprising. The quality of the prose in the books authored by Fosse is the most striking aspect of his work. The books can be surprisingly brief – A Shining comes to just 46 pages in the English translation. Even as a slow reader I managed to finish this novella over breakfast. However, it is a work that lingers in the imagination, shaped by writing which left me with a sense of shimmering uncertainty. It is a book that makes you wonder ‘what was all that about?’ (in a good way). In terms of spirituality and faith it achieves a credible doubt about our perceptions and consequently allows something beyond our understanding to glow at the periphery of vision. In the words of the Nobel judges Fosse gives ‘voice to the unsayable’. In A Shining the protagonist’s certainties and confidence suddenly evaporate, and time and again what seemed logical is found wanting. Into this scenario comes the strange light of a shining presence.

“I don’t write about characters in the traditional sense of the word. I write about humanity”

Fosse speaking to the French newspaper Le Monde in 2003.

It is not easy to offer a narrative of spiritual enquiry in a Western world that is deemed disenchanted and post-religious. The skill of Fosse is to develop his text with painstaking honesty about the uncertainty of what we see, and the apparently random events that intersect with our lives. To reflect the language of the season, Fosse follows his evolving story with a constant determination. It feels as though his commitment and skill to write whatever comes next, draws us into the wake of his quest. As Fosse said in an interview: “To me, writing is listening, not seeing.” As we read, we are allowed to discover what Fosse has heard.

Across the world the church is celebrating the Feast of the Epiphany. The shining star leads the Magi on an extensive journey. Thankfully, they are also discovering that their search for the meaning of this light did not conform to their expectations. At first they seek the new King in a palace. If they had lacked the flexibility to reassess their beliefs about sovereignty, then the mission to find the King might have ended there. Herod knew nothing about it – and how could a future King be born without the monarch’s knowledge? Their determination overruled the power of their assumptions. Having made the decision to follow the star, and allow it alone to denote sovereignty, they left their homes; walked away from a palace; departed from a capital city; quit imposing accommodation; and completed their journey in humble – but holy – circumstances. This could not have been an easy journey and TS Eliot concludes The Journey of the Magi with reflections that suggest abiding questions: ‘were we led all that way for Birth of Death?’

Expectations can have the power to obscure the presence of things that are surprising, novel or outside our experience. The risk is that familiarity shapes our world as we anticipate it to be, and we make our way through life imposing a pattern that demonstrates little recognition of the differences we encounter. When something breaks through our imposition of normality, it might be said that we experience an epiphany. A vision of reality re-ordered which questions our everyday certainties. The Bible is full of such moments and they are often far from being comfortable or comforting. Easier to lie, like Lazarus, in the shroud of endings, than be re-awakened to new life; new insights; or fresh possibilities.

The Magi allowed the star to reveal unexpected news. They took their gifts where the star commanded, bypassing palaces and people of honour. In the end, when they reached a simple home, they fulfilled their mission with obeisance and splendour. The circumstances were circumstantial. The wise had committed to their truth and followed unwaveringly where it led. It was their resolve to be undeflected in their purpose that led them to a foreign infant of doubtful parentage, in an insignificant town. The encounter – in Eliot’s poem – leaves them ill at ease with life when they return home. It is a reminder that away from the saccharine carols and excesses of Christmas there is a Word revealed that can, if we listen, release us from the captivating assumptions that tame our spirits.

But the child that is Noble and not Mild
He lies in his cot. He is unbeguiled.
He is Noble, he is not Mild,
And he is born to make men wild.

Extract from ‘Christmas’ by Stevie Smith

Advent’s Bitter Chill

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The cold has come. In an era of climate change there is no guarantee that winters will bring us frost or snow – at least, not for any extended period of time. Parson Woodforde, an undistinguished parson in a small rural parish, would have been consigned to oblivion except for one unusual practice: he kept a diary. Woodforde’s world of the 18th century witnessed some of the final decades of the Little Ice Age, which began around 1300 and lasted until 1850. It is quite likely that the Christmas we call ‘Dickensian’ holds some folk memory of the unusually bitter weather that occurred before the Victorian era got into its stride. Woodforde’s winters are hard to imagine given our experiences today.

“We breakfasted, dined, &c. again at home. Very hard Frost indeed, last Night, froze above Stairs in the Stair-Case window quite hard. It froze the whole day within doors in a few Minutes – very severe Weather indeed – So cold last Night that it was a long time before I could get any sleep at all… We were obliged to have Holly-branches without berries to dress up our Windows &c. against Christmas, the Weather having been so severe all this Month, that the poor Birds have entirely already stript the Bushes.”

Christmas Eve, 1796

Perhaps some of us have childhood memories, before double-glazing and central heating, which include times when there was ice on the inside of the windows. However, on the whole, better insulation and heating – combined with climate change – mean that fewer of us experience this degree of harshness in winter. In a different age, Woodforde’s diligent pastoral ministry was no doubt challenging and costly. It also had its rewards and, however difficult it might have been, the clergy were better-off than the vast majority of their parishioners. The question for many of them was how to live in the style they associated with being a gentleman, and living in houses which towered above neighbouring dwellings. Nevertheless, there is a lovely detail in the diaries of how the parson’s diligent ministry was recognised with anonymous generosity:

“Had another Tub of Gin and another of the best Cognac Brandy brought me this Evening about 9. We heard a thump at the front Door at this time, but did not know what it was, till I went out and found the 2 Tubs – but nobody there”.

Woodforde, J. (2011). The diary of a country parson, 1758-1802. Hymns Ancient and Modern Ltd.

I’m not sure what quantity of liquor a tub contained but I’m confident it would have kept the parson and his guests well supplied during long winter evenings.

It is into this growing darkness and falling temperatures that Advent arrives. With Christmas Eve landing on a Sunday, this is the shortest period of Advent the calendar allows. Across the three frenetic weeks before Christmas the season urges reflection on sombre themes. Calling into a supermarket in the middle of York the other day, a member of staff on the till commented that it was so busy ‘you’d think the world was about to end’. Ironically, this may be the point where the extremes of consumerism and the message of Advent collide.

Worlds end all the time. In Gaza children have spoken about how they simply want things ‘to go back to the way they were’. Not that this was ideal, but there were homes, families, stability and some kind of future ahead. For them a world they knew has come to an end, in a way that is devastating. This is true across every theatre of war, where destruction is easy and instant – and building a meaningful future is slow, arduous and uncertain.

Advent can bring a chill that serves to focus our thoughts on the cost of these ongoing end-times, and the task of holding a light when surrounded by a cynicism that gives way to darkness. The cold reminds us of the need for homes, and the suffering of people who lack shelter, support or the means to find warmth. Advent tells us the sobering news that all we take for granted is only temporary, and we must be stirred and watchful for the moments God’s light breaks through. Parson Woodforde offers us perspective about the enduring nature of crisis. On Advent Sunday 1797, he wrote that ‘the present times seem to prognosticate e’er long very alarming circumstances. No appearance of Peace…’. To hold an improbable light in this fearful darkness is the work of Advent – and it is certainly needed no less today than it has been in centuries past.

Common Sense

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In the 18th century the fortunes of the city of York, along with its Minster and clergy, were enjoying a rise in both wealth and status. This led to the creation of prestigious new buildings, sweeping away some of the more mundane Medieval dwellings. This was a time when the buildings surrounding York Minster began to change with dramatic effect. Demolishing – and in some degree, incorporating – 15th century cottages to the north-east of the cathedral, Dr William Ward built himself a fine Georgian townhouse (pictured). He was the chief legal officer (‘commissar’) for the Dean and Chapter of York, a role which brought many pecuniary benefits. The new house was a fitting expression of his wealth and status.

The role of ‘commissary’ brought both influence and financial reward. There is every indication that Ward used his position to become wealthy and further the ambitions of his family. His daughter, Sarah, married a baronet and become Lady Fagg. While little is known about Ward, like many gentleman of his era, we know that he had a significant personal library. This is indicated by an Item in the late lawyer’s Last Will and Testament in which he bequeathed to his wife and daughter, ‘Forty English Books each such as they shall chuse out of my Library excepting the large Bible’. Perhaps foreseeing that this could lead to some dispute over which books each should have, Ward adds: ‘my wife to have the first choice’. In all likelihood the large bible would have passed to his son.

The wealth of legal officer such as Ward was built on a considerable degree of misery. Misery, that is, for the poor souls who came before the ecclesiastical courts. The leading Sterne scholar Arthur H. Cash described these courts as:

‘weak remnants of what had once been a terrifying Protestant inquisition’

Cash, A. H. (1971). Sterne as a Judge in the Spiritual Courts: The Groundwork of A Political Romance. In English Writers of the Eighteenth Century (pp. 17-36). Columbia University Press.

The main purpose of these courts was to deter pregnancy outside wedlock. It often led to both fines and public humiliation. It is hard for us to understand the level of pastoral disregard and cruelty which this system could produce. For example, Cash cites an incident where Robert Milburn was tried in 1753 in the village of Alne, just north of York, for antenuptial fornication ‘with Jane his wife, now dead’. It is little wonder that these courts were abolished or that clergy came to have a very mixed reputation through their enthusiasm to become judges. It provides some insight about how Lawrence Sterne came to be so familiar with a range of conduct and human emotion. Perhaps the perceived bawdiness of Tristram Shandy owes something to the process of examining cases that were brought to the courts by church wardens. In addition to his responsibilities as a parson, as the son of an army officer; a sometime farmer; and a judge in the courts, Sterne must have heard and seen a wide spectrum of life. Additionally, as a frequent visitor to nearby York, he was also connected to middle class mores and cosmopolitan life.

Perhaps William Ward’s main claim to fame is that his death precipitated a decade long dispute between the Dean of York and the Archbishop’s chief legal officer. It was a disagreement concerning the many legal roles which Ward had occupied and how these were to be inherited on his death. The Archbishop’s legal officer believed that the Dean had promised them to him, a promise on which he claimed the Dean reneged. Finally, after heated public exchanges between these two worthies, the situation provoked Laurence Sterne to publish his first significant literary work – a satire on the dispute entitled ‘A Political Romance’ or, as it is often known, ‘The History of a Good Warm Watch-Coat’. It was so accurate and effective that the Archbishop of York instructed all copies to be returned and the entire stock to be burned. Thankfully, at least six people either didn’t get the memo, or they decided not comply with the instruction.

Which brings me to common sense. Looking back it is easy to name the intolerable cruelties of another ago, or of a different place and people. In the style of Jonathan Swift, Sterne brings to the dispute a creative reframing that allows people to see their conduct in a different light. What may have appeared to be an obvious and inevitable response, suddenly becomes more complex and questionable. Creative writing invited the reader to wonder about the behaviour of those involved and the apparent inevitability of the dispute that unfolded. In many ways Sterne was an actor within events that seemed natural and necessary – and in the end he inherited some of Dr Ward’s legal responsibilities. However, he was also able to see beyond the near horizon of common sense and question the relationships and conduct which were doing little to promote the reputation of the church. Common sense in one age can appear as outrageously cruel in another – and I hope that in her new role of ‘minister for common sense’ Esther McVey will recognise the provisionality of her brief. The common sense of one group in society may be seen very differently by another group. Unless handled with the greatest of care, common sense can conserve and perpetuate some of our worst practices and behaviours.

  • The illustration of Dr Ward’s house, Chapter Yard, York, is by Allan T Adams BA FRSA FSAI

Satire in Disguise

Chris Swift1 Comment

The statement that ‘the parish system began to break down’ sounds like a commentary on the C of E in the 21st century. In fact they are words written about the church in the 18th century, taken from an article concerning religion and satire, by Misty G Anderson. It is a salutary reminder that the Church of England has experienced several phases of breakdown since the reformations of the 16th century. Anderson identifies satire as one of the most effective ways in which a highly privileged institution could be critiqued in public. This is because satire never makes things explicit, but relies on the audience’s existing awareness of the gaps between official rhetoric and the reality of practice.

‘Praise undeserved, is satire in disguise’

William Lisle Bowles, Alexander Pope (1820). “A reply to an “Unsentimental sort of critic,”: the reviewer of “Spence’s Anecdotes” in the Quarterly review for October [i.e. July] 1820; otherwise to a certain critic and grocer, the family of the Bowleses!!”, p.15

Satire always treads a fine line in achieving its effect. William Hogarth was warned that one of his prints risked being seen as an attack on religion itself – rather than the excesses of people’s interpretation. The definition of satire is far from easy or clear. On the whole it describes an artistic form which is intended to portray human behaviour in a humorous light, in order to make a political point or amusingly imply that a purported behaviour or action is susceptible to other (less attractive or virtuous) interpretations. Hence satire has often engaged with religions and religious practices to query the motives involved or the disparity between piety and more dubious practices. Many years ago I scripted a weekly cartoon that ran for a couple of terms at the theological college I attended. It was one way in which the weight and seriousness of ordination training was presented in a playful and creative light. It was quite popular.

Andix the Ordinand’ appeared as a six frame weekly cartoon for a couple of terms at Westcott House – recounting the adventures of the Scandinavian student and often satirised College customs and practices. Drawing by the John Brown.

Sadly, the C of E now appears to be so peripheral to much of society that it is seldom the subject for satire. As Gore Vidal observed, satire only works if you know the thing being satirised. Possibly due to the influence of the excellent Ian Hislop, Private Eye continues to identify some of the absurdities and failings of contemporary religion – but I imagine that the amount of print given to this has shrunk in recent decades. Indeed, more recently it has felt that the institution is satirising itself. In the last few weeks a message appeared from the Church of England’s main ‘X’ account heralding the opportunity to order a ‘new Christmas Advent calendar’. For a church where so many leaders try to maintain the distinctiveness of the Advent season this was a startling home-goal. The serious themes of hope, peace, love and joy surely deserve their own space for reflection and action this coming Advent?

A Sleepy Congregation by Thomas Rowlandson is licensed under CC-CC0 1.0

There is, of course, the risk that satire is misunderstood or taken to be factual. In the past this has led the Church of England to publish a clarification. However, at its best, satire teeters on the edge of credulity precisely in order to accomplish its task. We see something – or read something – and need to take a second look. Could that be true? In this way satire has prophetic qualities, pushing an argument or behaviour one stage further and, suggesting that what may now be humorous, could soon become a reality. Perhaps a Church of England that surrenders its presentation entirely to generic marketing would start conflating festivals and shape the church’s life to follow without critical or theological enquiry whatever sells?

A healthy church should encourage the satirists. It doesn’t help if people are too holy to be human or so caught up in self-importance that they fail to understand how marginal (or non-existent) the Church is to so many people in England. Satire is the humour which is perhaps more than any other, ‘of the moment’. It only works, if it works at all, because it touches on the conceits and follies of a particular time. For example, who can listen to the UK-Covid-19 Inquiry enquiry and not feel that people living and working in Number 10 must have known the vast gulf that existed between their public statements and what went on behind closed doors? Clearly some did. When executed well, satire may help steer the church and the world into more authentic territory – and make us smile and wince in equal measure.

‘You can’t make up anything any more. The world itself is a satire. All you are doing is recording it’


Art Buchvald

Civilisation

Chris SwiftLeave a comment

Tied with sackcloth strips, the ears of wheat on the pew ends at Marton in the Forest appear timeless. A small token of thanks for a harvest safely gathered. In the rich land of North Yorkshire, where fields now bare the dark earth of recent ploughing, there is an atmosphere of plenty. No doubt there have been difficult years, and times when the crop has been reduced, but seldom will it have failed completely. It is a lush landscape through which countless streams murmur contentedly. Nevertheless, there has been change. In place of homes occupied by agricultural workers the villages have been gentrified with people in high-end professions, many no doubt enjoying home working in the post-lockdown world. Even in modest Marton there is an ‘Old Vicarage’, from a time when even the smallest community boasted (or endured) a parson.

Lack of food has led to human migration as long as humanity has existed. The Bible is full of such episodes and, in the Book of Ruth, it is famine that leads Naomi to go into the land of Moab with her husband Elimelech and their two sons. It could not have been an easy decision. Many commentators describe the relationship of the people of Israel and the people of Moab as one of ‘hatred’. Nevertheless, the family not only survive but the sons marry two of the Moabite women. Again, probably not something done lightly, but perhaps a small sign of the possibility of better relations emerging between the two peoples. Sadly, Elimelech and their sons perish and Naomi, and her two daughters-in-law are alone.

In an era when links to male family members was so important for security and subsistence this all-female household appeared to be untenable. Naomi decided that they must split up, each returning to their wider families. For Naomi this required a journey to Bethlehem while for the daughters-in-law it meant staying in Moab. One accepts this option; but not Ruth. Ruth comes to realise that if she wishes to remain loyal to her husband and in-laws it will require a decisive change of belief. We have no idea from the book how differences in religious faith were handled within the marriage itself but, at this point, Ruth gives voice the profundity of her decision:

““Do not press me to leave you,
            to turn back from following you!
Where you go, I will go;
    where you lodge, I will lodge;
your people shall be my people
    and your God my God.
Where you die, I will die,
    and there will I be buried”.

Book of Ruth, Chapter 1 . 16-17
Harvest apples around the font at St Helen & the Holy Cross, Sheriff Hutton, October 2023

Remarkably, when the pair arrive back in Jerusalem, Naomi appears to overlook this astonishing daughter-in-law. Naomi announces that she has come back ‘with nothing’ and changes her name to Mara, meaning bitter. Accepting that they are at the bottom of the economic order, gleaning becomes the only way for them to both survive and secure a future. Gleaning was an activity for both gaining food and also for initiating relationships. The women might choose which group of young men to follow in their reaping and, as food was shared, so courtship began. Carefully, Ruth chooses to follow the older and wealthier Boaz rather than to fraternise with the younger reapers. Eventually this leads to marriage with Boaz and the birth of a son, something the women of Bethlehem assure Naomi will be: ‘a restorer of life and a nourisher of your old age’. These same women then tell Naomi, who came back ’empty’, that Ruth ‘is more to you than seven sons’. In the patriarchal society of the time this is an astonishing testimony.

Yesterday I conducted the wedding of two young people. At the end of a week filled with so much horror, hatred and destruction, it felt like the lighting of one small candle in the midst of darkness. Weddings feature a number of times in the teachings of Jesus, and they serve as an image for the Kingdom of Heaven. They bring together communities, recall the past, and chart a path to the future. They are often occasions to cement links between families and for everyone to pledge their support to the couple. However, for marriages like the one at Cana in Galilee to take place, a degree of peace, prosperity and security is required. These circumstances should never be taken for granted. As we see now, in both Gaza and Israel, there are planned marriages which will never take place – either one or both of the people have been killed. In several other contexts, the places and resources to hold a family wedding no longer exist. The threads of what make up a functioning society have been severed. Instead of a harvest there are only ashes; where joy could have been shared, there is only silence.

We have been here before, far too often, but now the weapons and technology enable hatred to do ever more damage. The ordinary things that make up civil society cannot be taken for granted. Destruction is quick and definitive – the creation of healthy communities takes much, much longer. At the moment it is hard to know how peace will return and flourish in so many places in our world. How the celebration of marriages and relationships of commitment will resume and contribute to societies of care and compassion. The first step on that journey must be the ending of hostilities, especially when innocent people become part of the collateral damage of a conflict in which they want no part. Endless violence, modelling violence to a new generation, is in the interests of nobody.