Nunc dimittis now
I FINALLY received the phone call I had feared all my life. “Mark, your nan is not too well. I think you should come.” I packed quickly, and travelled to Shropshire, the county I will always consider home.
On arrival, I found my grandmother in her room, asleep, and so diminished now, her 102 years finally having caught up with her frail body. I spent the day with her. She was conscious, and, though her words were as faint as whispers, we talked as we held hands. I told her everything in my heart that I wanted her to know: how grateful I am for the sacrifice that she had made to step in and care for me when I was two years old; how she, more than anyone, had always believed in me; how I loved her so deeply and always would.
We shared some fun memories, and, as she got weaker, I sang to her the song she had sung to me as a small boy to help me to sleep. With light in her eyes, she joined in. Later, I prayed a blessing on her, and told her I was placing her in God’s hands, and she’d be safe, and held. With a nod and a smile, she told me she’d be OK. I said my last goodbye and, at the door, blew her a kiss: “I’ll love you for ever.”
An hour later, as I sat on the train, the phone rang again. As I was told the news, I felt something strangely peaceful as the tears began to fall.
Ministerial revues
IT WAS helpful to have ten hours by myself as I travelled to Houston, where I’d been asked to address the clergy conference of the Episcopal diocese of Texas. I had never been to a clergy conference like it. Free massages were available, as well as flu jabs; and there was a stall where people donated clerical shirts, stocks, and vestments that they no longer needed so that they could be recycled and used by other clergy.
I went riding, which I always love; sang jazz settings of sacred songs in Spanish; and laughed a lot with the impressively open and thoughtful Bishop Andy Doyle. At his “fireside chat” with the clergy — which, as he says, isn’t at a fireside and isn’t a chat — he lists things that he has come across that his clergy shouldn’t be doing (putting glitter in the ash at the beginning of Lent; using goldfish biscuits for children’s communion), but he does it with such humour and kindness that his clergy roll around, laughing at themselves, and seeing the need for amendment of life.
I made many new friends, and was sorry to say goodbye to them all, as, at the end, they made their way home in a state that is bigger than France.
Second time around
WHILE I was in the United States, the presidential election was reaching its climax. One priest offered a view over breakfast: “Politicians and diapers have one thing in common. They should both be changed regularly, and for the same reason.”
Texas is a Republican state, but the cities tend to be more liberal. One billboard outside a home said: “Harris. Obviously.” Well, it was not obvious; and, once home, I heard the news that many I met had feared: there was to be a second coming. Trump was back.
In recent times, there has been something of a pattern. The strongman gets elected, is thrown out of office, and then makes a triumphant return. This is what happened with Hungary’s Viktor Orbán, Poland’s Kaczynski, Slovakia’s Fico, and Israel’s Netanyahu. It is not just that they return, either, but that they return as a more authoritarian ruler, with a swagger of impunity. As Roosevelt warned, “Never underestimate a man who overestimates himself.”
Mixed blessings
THE average bus speed in the City of London has now fallen to 6.6 miles per hour. It certainly felt like it as I made my way to the extraordinary Coronet Theatre, in Notting Hill Gate.
It was opened in 1898. Edward VII often visited, and Sir John Gielgud saw his first Shakespeare play there. Many of the biggest stars of the day trod its boards, including Ellen Terry and Sarah Bernhardt. In 1923, with the advent of film, it became the much loved Coronet Cinema, until 2014, when it was taken over by Anda Winters to start the gradual process of restoring the neglected venue.
It is an intimate and warm place, with candlelit hallways, antique décor, stage props, and surely the most beautiful theatre bar in London, where drinks are served on a grand piano.
I listened to Eanna Hardwicke read Louis MacNeice’s Autumn Journal. It was haunting and fresh. The son of a bishop (“My father made the walls resound He wore his collar the wrong way round”), MacNeice often wrote poetry that is suspended between nostalgia and anxiety. Some words have stayed with me: “Give those who are gentle strength, Give those who are strong a generous imagination, And make their half-truth true and let the crooked Footpath find its parent road at length.” Amen to that.
It’s behind you
NOTHING annoyed me more than when my grandmother had to deal with fraudulent cold calls. She was too polite to get rid of them quickly, and I could always sense the worry that the caller was bringing into the room.
So, I was delighted to read of the new “AI granny”, Daisy, who has been programmed to keep scammers on the phone as long as possible so that callers can be tracked. The scam-baiting chatbot has been designed to fit preconceptions of the elderly; so Daisy witters on about her knitting, her frustration with modern technology, and the daily life of her cat.
This is all more seemly than my approach. Once, getting very annoyed at one scammer, I took the phone off my Nan and said “May your bowels turn to concrete.” As we approach panto season, I hope all our wishes come true.
The Very Revd Dr Mark Oakley is Dean of Southwark, and Canon Theologian of Wakefield Cathedral.