I am reading a book about the history of my new employer, Leeds Church Institute (LCI). History can be fascinating, both for the strangeness of how life was once lived and, occasionally, for the sudden resonance of a view or action which appears entirely modern.
The quarter century leading up to WWI is described in the book as “the golden age” of LCI. Wealth increased for some, and for others new legislation reduced working hours, meaning that in both cases more time and resources were available for recreation; discussions; hobbies; voluntary work; or religious associations. (The text “Eight Hours for Work, Eight Hours for Rest, Eight Hours for What We Will” was paraded on a union banner in 1889). It was the time when public schoolboys and undergraduates came to Leeds to live in “settlements”, often found in the poorer quarters of the city. Of course, this could be experienced as highly patronising and there’s a powerful quote in the book about LCI’s history from an older woman in one of these areas who declared: “I do so hate being ‘lived among‘”.
As we approach Christmas her words ring in my ears and remind me that the Incarnation was more than a gap year for an earnest deity. Public schoolboys didn’t renounce their learning, connections or resources when they came to reside among the poor. They were no doubt billeted in reasonable accommodation, forming a small community of young people who shared privileged backgrounds. These communities was set in a wider context of poverty; disadvantage and squaller. I can imagine many of these settlement workers, in future years, burnishing their credentials by referring to the time they “lived among” the poor. A year of their youth that bought the claim to a lifetime of social credibility.
“For all the rhetoric of ‘citizenship’, ‘democracy’ and ‘fellowship’, the governance of the settlements, at least in their early years, was in the hands of their patrician founders rather than their ‘members’.”
Freeman, M. (2002). ‘No finer school than a settlement’: the development of the educational settlement movement. History of Education, 31(3), 245-262.
The Word made flesh gives up language. The babe in the manger has no worldly connection that will hoist him out of misery. The infant son of a carpenter must play with the shavings on the workroom floor, and discern his own path through all the perils and possibilities of life. He must learn words and imbibe the teachings and practices of religion. As a young man driven into the desert, the vocation of Jesus is tested in the wilderness of the world, alone with his demons. Preaching, teaching and healing as a Rabbi he will come to challenge both temporal and spiritual authorities. Standing resolute before the powers of coercion and compromise, resolved in his calling and identity, will become the path to his destruction.
This is not living among. It is living with; it is living as; and it is living for.
When I left my previous employment I had no idea what would come next. One of my colleagues asked me: “what are you going to do?” Without thinking I replied, “God knows!” Perhaps this response emerged out of a rather hollow bravado, or a faith which was more certain in words than it was in reality. In the first instance, rather than look around for another job, I decided to have a sabbatical. These are often taken by clergy every ten years or so but, because I was employed outside the Church, I’d never taken one in the thirty years of my ordained life. In the summer of 2023, I began what became a fruitful, fascinating, and rewarding sixteen months of space, reflection and study. A friend once referred to me during this time as a “flaneur’” which I needed to look up (“someone who saunters around observing society”). Fair point.
One of the fruits of this time was reading and learning more about a figure associated with Yorkshire and York Minster, Laurence Sterne. I knew of Sterne’s writing from undergraduate days and the many links with this mercurial vicar of the 18th century found in Yorkshire – not least the Shandy Hall Museum – became a focus of work to produce a Lent book. I ventured out by bicycle to visit various small churches connected to the novelist, not least Sutton-on-the-Forrest. Its pulpit steps, once used by Sterne, feature on the cover of the book.
While not looking for any permanent role, the post of director for Leeds Church Institute came to my attention. Perhaps this was the answer to “God knows”? In any event, I applied and was appointed. The Institutes were part of a movement in Victorian England which offered education and increased opportunity for people from poorer backgrounds. The first phase of these were the Mechanics Institutes. When the Rev. Walter Hook orchestrated the creation of the Leeds Church Institute it has been suggested that he was building a facility to develop “Anglican Mechanics”. In other words, to equip church people with a greater depth of knowledge about their faith and how to live it.
Arriving early on Monday morning (keen to get started) I walked around the city centre. In a small homage to the original home of the Institute, in Albion Place, I stopped for a few minutes to read the Leeds Civic plaque recording its creation. The Institute was ‘The powerhouse behind the advancement of religious and secular education on the principles of the Church of England’. The former home of LCI is in the main shopping area of the city, now decked out in all its Christmas glitz and glamour. I thought about what life must have been like there in the 1860s, when the building was opened. At that moment someone looking fairly dishevelled, who had perhaps spent the night on the streets, came and asked if I would buy him breakfast. I did. Walking a short distance further another man overtook me, apparently talking to himself, when he suddenly launched into an abusive tirade against a woman walking in the opposite direction. She stopped, I stopped, and we exchanged a look as she shrugged her shoulders and asked aloud: “what was all that in aid of?” The man continued on his way, still talking, gesticulating, and going at a good pace. Having checked that she was OK, the two of us carried on in our separate journeys.
Perhaps things have not changed as much as we might imagine since the founding days of LCI. During a phase of exponential growth in population, the philanthropists and civic leaders of Leeds faced a colossal task in addressing the basic needs of poorer communities. Today we would no doubt find their approach patronising and – possibly – coercive. The workhouses were in full operation and the poor had little access to either education or the opportunities that might change their circumstances. Walter Hook, the celebrated Vicar of Leeds, played his part in helping to found new churches and schools. His approach was allied to the principles of the Tractarian Movement, High-Church Anglicanism, but he had arrived at these independently of the movement. Unlike the dons and academics sheltering in ivory towers, Hook was the most significant figure of Anglo-Catholic reform in the parishes. Firstly, as a priest in Coventry, then in Leeds, he advanced the cause of High-Church liturgy and social action, enduring various attacks while he sought to fulfil his sense of calling. Newman wrote to him:
“You are in the thickest fire of the enemy; and I often think how easy it is for us to sit quietly here…”
Hook had not chosen an easy path, but his dedication to parish ministry and commitment to education has left an enduring legacy. It’s why LCI is still here in Leeds, in 2024, working to advance theological reflection and act as a creative fulcrum where spirituality, justice, and learning, meet and flourish. It’s mission remains both a daunting task, and an exciting enterprise.
At the head of this Blog: Old and new together – Dock Street, Leeds, close to Leeds Church Institute
Pitched into the bleakness of winter arrives the season of Advent. In the northern hemisphere the beginning of Advent accompanies the slow march into darkness. Shorter days; longer nights; a steady drop in temperature. The themes of Advent – death; judgement; heaven and hell – match the somber mood of gloomier days. Threaded through topics of great moment, the story of the incarnation is pulled ever nearer. Alongside the readings in church of end-times and apocalypse, every village, town and city displays the brightness of festival lights. The cynical and despairing may shun these illuminations as simply a commercial gimmick; the cold work of retail-marketing to boost sales in a flagging economy. Yet for many of us, somehow, the glimmer of hope these lights celebrate, the baby lying in the crib, can never be given its proper price. There is something here, something to which Advent leads, which can’t be contained by the measure of this world, or our desire to conform everything to our own likeness.
It can often feel, as it does this year, that there is temerity in setting out lights as the nights draw in. How dare we suggest, imply or hint, that something might come to defeat the darkness? It is the ridiculous hope written down by John in the Prologue to his Gospel: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not”. Like Handel’s taunting rendition of St Paul’s words asking Death where its sting has gone, the hope that light might eventually overcome personal darkness, and the darkness of our world, feels an outrageous folly. Perhaps this is so because “the bleak midwinter” can feel so tangible, close and all-encompassing. Nordic countries have recently issued booklets to their citizens about surviving war. Sometimes it is so much easier to embrace fear and resignation, than fasten our eyes on something hardly visible; beyond the horizon; too good to be true.
Advent candle-bridges are a tradition in the windows of homes along Minster Yard in York.
Advent is not for everyone. The images of apocalypse and the ending of time are neither comfortable nor reassuring. “Like a thief in the night”. We cannot be permanently vigilant – we need to sleep. The metaphor suggests that the completion of things will come when we are oblivious to its approach. There is no warning or alarm. We will be shaken our of slumber and the myths with which we live will dissolve in the presence of the Divine reality. In another sections of Handel’s Messiah, we are reminded of the “refiner’s fire”. Who may abide the day of his coming?
Advent reminds us that we cannot control the appearance of sudden and defining events. We are always only a heartbeat away from immortality, and our own encounter with what Sterne’s character Tristram Shandy refers to as “this great catastrophe” which will – at some point – overtake us and bring our experience of this world to an end. Of course, following Friday’s vote in the UK parliament, it appears that there will be limited control, for some, about when that moment arrives. However, as one person said during the debates about this issue, it may also give rise to “internal coercion” and perhaps lead people to opt for something which does not reflect their personal wishes about either motivation and timing.
“We are standing upon the edge of a precipice, with nothing but the single thread of human life to hold us up”.
From a Sermon delivered by Laurence Sterne, quoted in A Sterne Lent 2024
Advent is – and should be – disconcerting. Angela Tilby’s excellent reflection in the current issue of TheChurch Times draws attention to Archbishop Laud’s prayer for the church. It is a succinct and impassioned petition for truth; peace; purity; and reform in the institution. All of these virtues and corrections are needed now almost as much as they were required in the 17th century. Canon Tilby concludes her piece with a simpler prayer which she wrote some years ago, but one which feels as pertinent as ever for 2024:
As light in the darkness, As hope in our hearts. Come, Lord Jesus, come.
The photograph at the head of this blog features the underside of York Minster’s three metre wide Advent wreath, with the interior of the central tower seen in the centre.
Over the past few days I drafted a blog, as I do most weeks. It was largely a litany of despair about the state of the Church of England and the nadir of leadership and direction to which we appear to have sunk. Today is the final Sunday in the Church’s liturgical year, but it might also feel like the dying days of a once great institution. Perhaps, if its demise would ensure more people’s safety and sanity, there will be those who think that extinguishing the final embers would be an act of kindness for all concerned. The Church has failed in one of its primary obligations – but I cannot quite abandon the idea of what it might be.
Instead of a dismal diatribe about the Church’s failings (mine included) I have decided to take a different tack. The “idea of what it might be” includes resurrecting the often unseen but invaluable work of spiritual and pastoral care. In early 2020 I was looking for a poem to accompany some reflections for a retreat, but couldn’t find anything that would fit. Given this sad lacuna in English Literature I decided to pen my own verse and, for better or worse, I offer it on this final Sunday of the year as the slightest intimation of what at its best has been, and might still be, in the life of the Church’s sacramental pastoral care.
Holding Still
This work of holding; of the the task of being still, in order to hear. To shift weight without
disturbance; to keep the hushed, spare – space; the silence into which another speaks.
It is not nothing; this attending and anointing; this taking and bearing and blessing.
To touch what has died with the strength of love; to see in ashen form the hope of resurrection.
The image at the head of this blog is a photograph of a ceramic sculpture by Antonia Salmon, entitled “Holding Piece”
In September 1957 my parents got married. Earlier in the year my grandfather had been asked to become ‘Vicar’s Warden’ at the local Parish Church. He accepted. A local tradesman and Rotarian, Robert’s family was slowly advancing in material circumstances and civic standing. When he became a churchwarden it was news (albeit locally). The gazette carried a report that he “will be sworn in by the archdeacon or chancellor at the annual visitation”. In the 1950s, perhaps especially in counties like Lancashire, the Church of England was a notable presence in most communities. I attended the church primary school across the road from the substantial sandstone bulk of St Michael’s, erected in 1822. On Ascension Day we had a half day – one of many minor observations that peppered the year and kept the school, town and community connected. I’m sure the growing number of working parents often cursed the annual appearance of what must have appeared to be a rather random and inconvenient half-day!
When I began ordained ministry in 1991, also at a parish in Lancashire, it seemed that every church had at least its own vicar if not a curate as well. A nearby incumbent, in a more rural parish, took most of one day a week to visit a local hospital using public transport. Perhaps it was an inefficient way to spend his time, but I bet there were some interesting conversations along the way. In the parish where I served we had over 80 baptisms in one year; a memorable Holy Week with one or more funerals every day; and a church hall that bore the brunt of heavy usage from uniformed groups, parish thespians and the might of the Parochial Church Council. There was certainly no shortage of work to do or activities to support. By the time youth group had ended on a Sunday evening, on a day that began at 7:30 am, I was very happy to slump into a comfortable chair.
Those days have gone – for better and for worse.
Had the Church of England stopped evolving in the 1990s it is hard to know what would be left today. Perhaps, if it had continued to invest and support as much parish ministry as possible, the numbers with which Church House and the Archbishops’ Council seem preoccupied would be little different from those we see today. When people bemoan churches that appear to be stuck in the past, or unchanging, there is good evidence around that these same churches are often doing very nicely. Of course, nothing remains genuinely unaltered because the people change, and so does society. The ordination of women as priests and bishops was a matter of both faith and justice, and has added fresh qualities and fulfilled vocations at a time when both were in decline.
We know from many different reports that in the past egregious wrongs were perpetrated by clergy, and laity, under the guise of virtue, holiness and a perverted theology. I suspect that what we know about is the tip of a very, very large iceberg. All too often clergy have been a law unto themselves and, when something has been raised, benefited from the collusion of powerful patrons. This lack of accountability has deep roots. When I researched the history of institutional spiritual care I came across the case of a Victorian workhouse chaplain, Frederick Pocock, who neglected his charge with impunity due to the unwavering support of his bishop. The Board of Governors of the institution was powerless.
At one level, it seems astonishing that the Church has failed to learn a lesson that goes back deep into its history. In another sense, for rogue clergy, the cover-ups and collusion were (are) a desirable facet of the mercurial behaviour of a Medieval institution embedded in the modern world. Perhaps it is unsurprising (although it was startling at the time) that when I told my grandfather that I was exploring a sense of vocation he immediately left the room to be sick. Looking back I wonder, as a churchwarden, what he had seen or heard that caused such a reaction? He never said.
There is much about Anglican reason, tradition and spirituality that appeals to me. At its best there is a generous and pastoral care for communities and the “frowsty barn”, as Larkin put it, that is often at the physical centre of towns and villages. Sometimes it is the spiritual centre as well – but not always. It feels that this is the moment when England needs to decide the fate of its Church. Whether through a Royal Commission – as Martyn Percy suggests in today’s Observer – or a different process, some definitive solution is needed to ensure the safety and ongoing purpose of the Church. Many of the attractive characteristics of the Church I grew up with have gone – but can something new emerge that preserves the best of it for the future? The 500th anniversary of the Act of Supremacy is on the horizon (2034). Perhaps even Thomas Cromwell might feel that now is the right time to begin reshaping the kind of Church he helped establish, to fulfil it’s calling in a new era?
“To reform church and state you must deal with the populace.”
Mantel, H. (2011). Wolf Hall (Vol. 1). Fazi Editore.
We are in the season of sanctity. First comes All Saints, followed swiftly by All Souls, as we remember those who have lived and died in years gone by – either people we have known, or people extolled by the Church as exemplars of faith. Of course, like so much else, sainthood is bestowed according to the fashion, politics and preferences of church leaders. For example, there are fewer female than male saints. Even so, not everyone makes the cut, nor should they. Part of the premise of my new Lent Book for 2025 is that sometimes the Church forgets those from whom it still has much to learn.
The 18th century vicar and author Laurence Sterne was not a saint, if by that we mean someone faultless in this life. The trouble with Sterne was not so much that he had faults, but that he was very candid about them. In his letters and books there is bawdy and innuendo; passion and compassion. Sterne is all too human and rejoices in a conviction that God had given him the capacity for joy which it would be a sin to deny. In the brief span allotted for his life (he died aged 54) there is an echo of Andrew Marvell’s reminder to His Coy Mistressthat at his back he hears “Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near”. For Sterne, life is too brief and precious to be lived as if it were “one cold eternal winter”.
When I renewed my interest in Sterne’s work, there were certain features that gave his writing a remarkably contemporary resonance. Corresponding with the black British abolitionist Ignatius Sancho Sterne pulls himself up short when he finds himself writing about the kin of a black character in his novel on:
“behalf of so many of her brethren and sisters, came to me—but why her brethren?—or yours, Sancho! any more than mine?”
Laurence Sterne, Letters
Why indeed? Sterne has the capacity and honesty to recognise his inherent – thoughtless – separation of people on the basis of ethnicity. The plea for a recognition of our God-given and common humanity runs throughout Sterne’s work. When it comes to gender differences Sterne is equally pointed in describing the ‘logic’ which denies a women authority over her own body or, come to that, even the right in law to be regarded as a blood-relative of her own children. Wit is the tool which Sterne uses to excavate the absurdities of his day, bringing to light the thin veneer of social etiquette that enabled the continuation of ridiculous conventions. At the same time, living at Shandy Hall in rural North Yorkshire, Sterne is enmeshed in the society and behaviours of his day. He knows this and uses humour to escape the passive acquiescence to which most conformed. Little wonder that friends encouraged him to get his preferment before he embarked on satire. Wit that came close to the mark and exposed conventions for what they were, could cost you a mitre.
Section from “A Flap Upon the Heart”; one of two new drawings by Rob Oldfield commissioned for the book.
A Sterne Lent offers the opportunity to keep company for a while with this witty, mirthful, digressive and somewhat doubtful parson. The book is immersed in an age that can feel very different from our own, yet contains themes that speak at times with remarkable contemporaneity. Above all, Sterne offers a lively voice whose strength is uninhibited by the usual constraints of ambition. His daring portrayal of the world he inhabited has the saintliness of a child-like disposition to tell the truth, even when it comes at a material cost. Sterne’s accurate depiction of human society bubbles out from his quill and left an enduring impact on the development of the novel. I hope that this curious and intriguing book will provide readers with a glimpse into another England, yet also one that touches with humour on human traits that persist within both church and society.
Sometime in the mid-1980s, while studying theology as an undergraduate, my tutor told us that the new language of our discipline was Spanish. He was reflecting on the fact that for most of the 20th century it had been German, but now the rise of Liberation Theology had shifted the axis of theology to the Southern Hemisphere. A few years later, while working and studying in Argentina, I asked my Spanish tutor whether we might read A Theology of Liberation by Gustavo Gutiérrez. I’m not sure my tutor enjoyed the experience of helping me understand the technical and unusual language of the writing which Gutiérrez embarked on in the late 1960s, but it was undoubtedly memorable for both of us! Last week, this Peruvian priest, sometimes called the “father of liberation theology”, died aged 96.
At the beginning of an interview with the Bishop of Blackburn before my ordination in 1991 there was a moment in silence during which he perused my file. Suddenly the bishop latched onto a comment about my interest in Latin America and exclaimed: “Liberation Theology – in my Diocese!” This has seldom been a theology which has lifted the hearts of prelates, and he probably felt fairly safe by stationing me in the leafy suburbs of Preston. Nevertheless, even there, I managed to cause a little trouble now and then, not least over the ordination of women and by developing a social responsibility group in the parish.
Poverty in Peru continues to be widespread despite progress achieved before the onset of the pandemic. Today, seven in ten Peruvians are poor or are at risk of falling into poverty. Picture taken during a visit to a social development project in rural Peru, 2022.
During my time in South America I observed that capitalism flowed more sluggishly than in Europe. It felt as if the aspirations of Western living were there, and some of its attributes and mechanisms, but it seemed that there was simply too little resource to make it happen. Comparisons can be odious, but this felt like the periphery of a system which served the North well, by sacrificing the best interests of the South. To note the fragility of structures in Latin America is not a criticism, but a recognition of the consequential dependency which the wealthy countries maintain with poorer nations. If the blood of finance flows more slowly in the South, it nevertheless continues to serve the interests of the North.
“The poor are a by-product of the system in which we live and for which we are responsible. They are marginalized by our social and cultural world”.
Gustavo Gutiérrez, The Power of the Poor in History
The scale, power and vested interests of capitalism feel insurmountable. No doubt many see it as the least-worst system for organising resources and creating successful societies. The truth is that this domestic security in the West – which is far from perfect – is paid for by many other communities across the world. The natural environment is ravaged and abandoned; societies are left in a state of daily hunger; the consequences of climate change are denied by powerful leaders. As is almost always the case, the least well-off shoulder the worst excesses of system that perpetually widens the gap between wealth and poverty.
Resignation in the face of injustice was never an option for Gustavo Gutiérrez. Like so many pioneers he experienced the scepticism, doubt and hostility which innovation brings. At one point he seemed destined for a formal rebuke by Catholic bishops – if not the Vatican – but this was headed off following an intervention by the eminent Jesuit theologian Karl Rahner. The influence of Gutiérrez continued to be felt across Latin America, and elsewhere, throughout his life. It will continue after his death. His passionate concern for the authenticity of the Church, by renouncing privilege and choosing instead to advocate for the poor, was always rooted in the Gospel and the Jewish Scriptures. Solidarity with the poor was the cri de coeur of Gutiérrez, as well as the product of his theology and lived experience. Ultimately, by the movement of the Holy Spirit in the world, the mission of God to which Gutiérrez bore witness will find fresh hands and voices to continue the work of liberation, which the Peruvian saw as the fundamental nature and purpose of Christ.
The image at the head of this blog, entitled “the death struggle”, was painted by Edvard Munch. The struggle depicted is not primarily that of the person dying, who cannot be seen, but is found in the faces of those expressing their grief. In some measure, in their bereavement, they are beginning to grapple with an altered reality. Very often the faces and experiences of both the unwell, and those who care about them, are remote in the work of theology. In health care chaplaincy in particular, the vast majority of theological reflection and writing is done by the professionals, not by the people undergoing the experiences of illness. This is why a recent article by Professor Graeme Smith is interesting. It draws on evidence from research into the experiences of seafarers who have received ministry from chaplains. Entitled “A theology of chaplaincy from below”, it explores the sailors’ narratives to make the argument that the recipients of chaplains’ care are people who produce of a theology of their own.
It is true that there is a very limited range of material which elicits and explores the experiences of people who receive chaplaincy care. Even when it does happen, it is often filtered through the voice of the chaplain, describing the chaplain’s perception of how people have responded to what has been offered. Equally, a large proportion of what is gleaned is framed as “customer satisfaction” rather than theological insight. The reasons for this are clear, as the secular employers of many chaplains are much more comfortable with these kinds of metrics than with data from a field of study and information with which they may be unfamiliar: theology. Graeme Smith is also right in identifying a suspicion of theology and religion, which may make the use of material framed in this discipline a matter of contestation and doubt.
Smith also analyses of the chaplains’ responses to questions about their theology and purpose. Here he finds that their theology of chaplaincy is both brief and vague. The chaplains would speak about a “ministry of presence” and might expand that to include reference to “incarnational theology”. While I am familiar with this style of response from chaplains I think it would be accurate to note that health care chaplains might also add theodicy and ethics. Similarly, in recent years, some military chaplains would be able and willing to articulate their theology in relation to the growing field of “moral injury”. Perhaps one of the systemic issues Smith identifies in his work has developed as a result of greater inter-faith working. While this is excellent and valuable it may have inclined teams to focus on their areas of common concern and diminished some of the deeper exploration of theology within a particular faith.
While the notion of “being there” in chaplaincy has been a widely accepted trope for professional spiritual care, the COVID-19 pandemic placed that concept under considerable pressure. Being there added to the risk factors of caring institutions. One more body out and about on the wards, or in care homes, added to the risk of the virus being brought into the setting. Was being there essential? As it emerged over time, there were marked differences between chaplains ministering at a distance and those still able to be a physical presence in the hospital or care home. While it might be possible to interpret the incarnation as the needless burdening of Mary and Joseph, with pain and cost to come, God-at-a-distance and God-among-us represent theologies that are worlds apart. Good things did happen at a distance, but it appears that the presence of the chaplain in places of acute loss and suffering had an altogether different quality and consequence.
“It must be very difficult for chaplains who are not able to go into their home and schemes, because I’ve experienced that for retirement living, really not the same. It’s really not the same. Chaplaincy is hands on, face to face and I’m very conscious at least I’ve been able to do, and that must be frustrating for others who have not been able to”.
Swift, C. (2020). Being There, Virtually Being There, Being Absent: Chaplaincy in Social Care During the COVID-19 Pandemic. Health & Social Care Chaplaincy, 8(2).
Without doubt chaplains could do more to articulate and develop the theologies of their ministry. Megan Smith sees this as essential in order for chaplains to sustain their identity and not get wholly absorbed into the institutional paradigms of the places in which they serve. Further, she argues that a simplistic interpretation of incarnation as “being Christ to others” often fails to take full account of all the dimensions inherent in the incarnation. For example, the Word made flesh has a prophetic, critical and challenging edge, which may not be understood or expressed in the ministry of chaplains. At the same time, there can be a misperception that the chaplain comes to bring theology into the institutional setting, while not taking proper account of the possibility that theology is already there – waiting to be encountered.
In my role as a chaplain I have never doubted the importance of theology in what I do, or for the context of a large and complex institution. Theology asks unusual questions and stimulates debates which often lie silent within the discourses of the spiritual. Accessing the theology of the recipients of care is not always easy, but I agree that it is necessary. This is not only for the benefit of chaplains and those to whom they offer care. I have long said that the place where theology is written is very significant. Theology written in intensive care; during a pandemic; in A&E; or from a prison cell, speaks from a place where the tidiness and safety of doctrinal certainty often buckles under the messy complexity of living. The work of Jens Zimmermann on incarnational humanism might offer one route to finding a fuller account of the incarnation as a basis for a theology developed by everyone caught up in a community defined by common characteristics. This might be NHS patients; military personnel; or a community of seafarers. It is significant that Zimmermann finds in Dietrich Bonhoeffer, the prisoner-theologian, the epitome of this approach to theology, where the Christ comes to fulfil our humanity:
“because Christ died for our true humanity, the Christian works for the common good in society as best as possible under any given circumstances”.
Zimmermann, J. (2016). Bonhoeffer’s incarnational humanism. Theologica Wratislaviensia, (11 Dietrich Bonhoeffer na 500 lat Reformacji), 73-86.
I am banned from cycling in misty conditions. This followed a rather painful altercation with some construction fencing that had strayed into the road at the bottom of a long downward incline. On a grey morning, in grey weather, and against a grey road-surface, the grey fencing didn’t register: until I hit it. Suddenly, I was sailing through the air, extending my left arm ahead of me, a reflex action of protection, and landed painfully some yards ahead of the now stationary bike. A lorry driver stopped. Dazed and disorientated I got myself up, beginning to feel an intense pain in my left shoulder. With all the ridiculous desire of an Englishman not wanting to make a fuss, I declined all offers of assistance, placed my bike out of the way, and decided to get a bus towards the hospital where I worked. Once there I went to my office in order to get changed before presenting myself at A&E (one has to have standards). I thought I had broken my shoulder but, it turned out, I had broken the fifth metacarpal of my left hand in two places. I soon learned that it’s an injury called “boxer’s fracture”. At a later date, casting an uncertain eye over me, a surgeon (who clearly didn’t feel I fitted his image of a pugilist) asked me how I acquired the breaks. He suggested that perhaps I should desist from cycling in the future.
Low mist across a ploughed field, near Linton-on-Ouse, October 2024
I did not follow the consultant’s advice, although I have made it a general rule not to ride me bike when visibility is impaired. However, last week, setting out on a beautifully clear sunlit morning in York, I began to encounter misty conditions on the outskirts of the city. Weighing up the likelihood that conditions would improve I pressed on to my planned destination of the Aldwark Toll Bridge, about 15 miles from the centre of York. As I anticipated, when the sun got higher the mist receded and it turned into the kind of bright and clear autumnal day which is the muse of poets. Down country lanes the landscape spoke of the changing season: ploughed fields with the dark earth turned in readiness for growth to come. Trees beginning to bear a foliage of yellow, bronze and green-become-gold.
What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams? Shall she not find in comforts of the sun, In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else In any balm or beauty of the earth, Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven? Divinity must live within herself: Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow; Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued Elations when the forest blooms; gusty Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights; All pleasures and all pains, remembering The bough of summer and the winter branch. These are the measures destined for her soul.
Extract from Sunday Morning by Wallace Stevens
It would be very hard to live without this cycle of outer change. In the northern hemisphere they are part and parcel of my spirituality. Within the altering length of days, and the transitions of spring and autumn, Western Christianity has moulded itself into the furniture of the seasons. From the heavenly sparks of Michaelmas, with the equinox behind us, to the remembrance of All Saints and All Souls, liturgy marches to the tune of a changing year. Over the past three decades I have taken funerals in autumn that have a particular poignancy – of change and decay – with a need, somehow, to return home before the darkness falls. A time to comfort one another in a season that tells us, as all seasons do, that while they might occupy a span of time, they can also be a mood; an atmosphere; and a state of being, which greets us on any given day. Divinity is not only something that comes to us in silence. Nor is she confined to some specific time of the year. God is in all these seasons, and the spirit of all these seasons dwells in us.
Swift Reflections 