TRINITARIAN days. Very cold. I think of poor Bishop Heber. I say
poor, because they sent him off to convert India, instead of
leaving him in an English country living, which he would have much
preferred. But saints can't be choosers. "Holy, holy, holy," we
sing. Sudden winds and brief showers are our lot. Between them, I
tie up fallen roses: John Clare and Duke of Wellington. The latter
was once accosted by a woman in the street with, "Mr Smith, I
believe."
"Madam, if you believe that, you will believe anything."
I have always believed that to carve the Trinity was an act of
great daring. But a medieval sculptor did as much at Blythburgh, my
favourite Suffolk church, a masterpiece that dominates the marshes.
High up on the eastern gable sits God with his Son on his lap, and
the Holy Spirit, a dove, on his head. There it reigns, the Trinity,
beyond Reformation or later interpretations. At its feet, the River
Blyth makes its way to the North Sea. It is "Holy, holy, holy"
every mile. Gulls scream above it.
Benjamin Britten once sent me there to seek permission to hold a
concert in the church. Mr Smith, the Vicar, was puzzled.
"Is it a band?"
"Sort of."
I went with Yehudi Menuhin to try the church for sound. It was
perfect. He stood on the chancel step, and the angelic notes went
up to the angelic listeners in the roof. There is sung evensong
once a month, which is worth a long drive. Very beautiful and holy,
holy, holy.
The readings for Trinity Sunday could not be more contrasting.
One concerns a furtive, nervous, enquiring faith, that of a public
figure, Nicodemus; the other reveals a confident, declaring faith -
that of John the Baptist. One is about a person who is prudent
about what he is coming to believe, and who, because of his
position, does not wish to be identified with the latest messianic
craze, and who, in Jesus's own words, was a true teacher, and not
someone likely to disturb the peace of Jerusalem.
The Roman peace, of course. The occupying army tolerated the
strangest religions, though not if they disturbed this peace.
Nicodemus, as a member of the Jews' Grand Council, and a Pharisee,
or arch-conservative, would not do this. So he went his own radical
way - but by night. He lacked all imagination, and when Jesus told
him that he must be born again, he asked about wombs, etc. This
strange teacher's captivating language and metaphor muddled his
lawyer's brain.
"You ought not to be astonished by it," he was told. "The wind
blows where it wills. You hear the sound of it, but you don't know
where it comes from, or where it goes." So it is with everyone who
is born of the Spirit, which is the living breath of Christ.
House-shaking, mind-shaking, and accompanied by those tongues of
fire which turned into bishops' mitres, the third person of Trinity
Sunday appeared among us.
The last reference to the remarkable Nicodemus is when he
organised the funeral of Jesus, giving up his own fine tomb in the
process. He covered the poor mangled body with rich spices, dressed
it in fine linen, and set a rock at the entrance to keep out the
animals. We still have flowers at funerals to cover the decay.
That all these things should run through my head as I tie up
fallen roses in an English garden is odd.
I look up Reginald Heber. Dead at 43; a poet who was overworked
by the Church. Destroyed, like so many, by the Raj.