O Christ, the Master Carpenter, who at the last through wood and nails purchased our salvation, wield well your tools in the workshop of the world, so that we, who come rough-hewn to your bench, may here be fashioned to a truer beauty by your hand. We ask this for your name’s sake. Amen.

COMPOSED by George MacLeod, the founder of the Iona Community, this was the first prayer I voluntarily decided to commit to memory. I originally heard it prayed by George MacLeod himself when, in 1971 or thereabouts, he led a weekend retreat for the Anglican chaplaincy at the University of Lancaster.

At the time, I did not realise what a towering figure MacLeod — by then Baron MacLeod of Fuinary — was in the history of 20th-century Christianity in these islands. Nor did I realise what a privilege it was that he was willing to spend his time with young people like us, still immature in the development of our faith, and in most other ways, too. It was our immaturity that drew him, of course. We were “rough-hewn”, and the retreat was a chance for the Master Carpenter to fashion us “to a truer beauty”, in which MacLeod had a part to play through sharing the accumulated wisdom of a lifetime’s discipleship.

I remember that he used this prayer more than once, that weekend. It created an image in my mind of Jesus learning the carpenter’s trade in Joseph’s workshop, before wielding the tools of his ministry in the world, and dying on a cross that another carpenter had made. That image has never ceased to be a compelling one. The brevity of the prayer was also an attraction, especially because it is in such contrast to the immense scope of its reference.

I SERVED my first curacy in a parish in the city of Peterborough, on a large post-war council estate: Dogsthorpe. The parish church, built in 1958, was dedicated to Christ the Carpenter. I’ve been told it’s a dedication unique in the Church of England — and in the wider Anglican Communion, too. Perhaps this column may reveal another such church. It was thought to be a very suitable dedication for a parish whose population was largely artisan.

I loved the place and its people, and my fondness for MacLeod’s prayer meant that I took it as a sign — or at least a divine hint — that I should serve there. On that retreat weekend, I remember MacLeod telling us stories of God’s providential ordering of our lives, and that we should not regard such things as merely coincidences. “If you think that’s a coincidence,” he’d say, “I hope you have a dull life.”

I used his prayer quite frequently in my time at the Church of Christ the Carpenter, and thought it would strike a chord with many of the people. They were a vocal lot for the most part, and very willing to express opinions, but I cannot remember anyone referring to my use of the prayer at all. It taught me not to expect that words that move and impress me necessarily to have a universal effect.

The appeal of this prayer has not advanced my own woodworking skills over the years, but has long made me wonder about the many hidden years that Jesus spent in Nazareth before he began his brief public ministry.

This may explain my later affection for the painting Christ in the House of His Parents, by John Everett Millais, hanging in what is now Tate Britain. Jesus, perhaps about eight years old, stands in front of Joseph’s carpenter’s bench. He has had an accident. Perhaps he has been experimenting with Joseph’s tools. Blood flows from his hand and drops to his foot, prefiguring what nails would later do in “purchasing our salvation”. Mary, kneeling, seeks to comfort Jesus.

It is a scene of realistic intimacy, perhaps rather sentimental for modern tastes, but entirely believable. I was amazed to discover that it caused outrage when it was unveiled in 1850. The Times described it as revolting and disgusting. Charles Dickens, whom you might think would have appreciated realism, thought that Mary looked like an alcoholic from a gin shop, and condemned the artist for depicting Jesus as “a red-headed blubbering boy in a bedgown”.

What they seemed to find objectionable was the incarnation of Christ, and that our Saviour was as much at home in a carpenter’s workshop as he was, and is, in the workshop of the world.

The Rt Revd Graham James is a former Bishop of Norwich.