Harmonic dissonance
ONLY in the Church of England would the phrase “a tale of two cities” call to mind an episcopal area rather than the Dickens novel. I was recently in one of those two ecclesiastical cities — Westminster — at a dinner given at the House of Lords by the Royal College of Organists. Being completely unmusical, I am in awe of church musicians. I sat and listened as these masters of music, instruments, and (often, and most complicatedly) other musicians told stories of remarkable ministries devoted to beautifying our worship.
Much of my training at theological college with regard to expected relations with church musicians could be described as “Brace, brace, brace.” In fact, I have been lucky throughout my ministry to have worked alongside excellent musical ministers (many, indeed, have been considerably less difficult colleagues than their clerical counterparts). I am especially blessed with the magnificent Richard, at Charlbury, and Amanda, at Shorthampton. I might not be able to read music, but I am immensely grateful that they can — and can do so much more besides.
Perhaps we ought to train clergy in a way that encourages them to spend time and effort connecting with their musicians, albeit in less elevated surroundings than the House of Peers — although the condition of the Parliamentary estate these days means I can’t promise that I didn’t see a rat or two scurry across Palace Yard as we left. But that is part of the appeal of the second of the two cities: despite its pretensions of political grandeur and power, it crumbles and creaks just like anywhere else.
Benefit of hindsight
TWO cities reminds me also — especially at this time of year — of that trigger of so many clerical-musical arguments: “I vow to thee, my country”. When I was at theological college, a sniffy dismissal of it was seen as a mark of theological maturity. Ordinands girded their loins for fights, in future incumbencies, with organists or British Legion representatives. Now, I think the exploration in verse two of the “second country”, describing the city of God, makes it perfectly orthodox and rather moving.
Such a defence of the hymn would have had me ostracised at Westcott House, but the realities of ministry as an incumbent, as well as time to reflect on the text itself, have made me realise that, far from being out of date, the comparison of earthly and heavenly allegiances is a pretty topical subject for a hymn. And it’s difficult to take lectures on things’ being theologically or emotionally underdeveloped in an ecclesial polity that still entertains “Will you come and follow me” or “One more step along the world I go”.
Eternal truths
WHAT we know as the second verse was originally verse three, but we rarely sing Cecil Spring Rice’s other lines, written while he was Ambassador to the United States, just before the First World War: “I heard my country calling, away across the sea, Across the waste of waters she calls and calls to me; Her sword is girded at her side, her helmet on her head; And round her feet are lying the dying and the dead; I hear the noise of battle, the thunder of her guns, I haste to thee, my mother, a son among thy sons.”
The main criticism is probably mawkish sentimentality rather than jingoistic fervour, although conversations with Ukrainian refugees returning home to help in their country’s struggle have sounded similar to the above.
Their limited poetic merit aside, much of the snobbery about Spring Rice’s words came from the distance afforded by history, which allowed outright condemnation of such thoughts as incompatible with faith in the Prince of Peace. Well, history ain’t so distant any more, and articulating theology that speaks of the radical call of Christ to, and for, all, and yet acknowledges particularities of time and place, is one of the most urgent tasks of our times.
Game of thrones
NOT long after my visit to Westminster, I followed in Spring Rice’s footsteps across the Atlantic. The publication of my book Twelve Churches (Feature, 12 September) took me from one capital to another. “You’ve chosen the worst possible time to come to Washington,” a friend told me. I was there at the tail end of a book-promotion drive, just as the irreconcilable differences in the body politic of the United States resulted in a shutdown of their government.
As I walked along the National Mall, an automated chorus sounded at regular intervals as the pre-recorded “This museum is now closed” message was issued from the Academy of Sciences to the Smithsonian.
There was, of course, some activity: as we know, Churches in America have no business with the State, and so continued their operations — preaching, organising, caring for those in need — with little regard for the political situation. The bars were busy, too.
The busiest place, however, was the White House itself, where President Trump is building his carbuncular ballroom. Outside it, a man, with a homemade microphone fashioned from a jerry can, was bellowing 1 Timothy 6.10 at the presidential residence. I noted with approval that he used the Authorised Version. America might be a place of “No Kings”, but the King James Version seems to be a happy exception to the rule.
Safe distance
EVEN before it became so explicitly a temple of Mammon, I never found the White House an especially pleasing edifice. I know that there are Brits — even some of the clergy — for whom the TV series The West Wing is a sort of fifth Gospel. There is a type of post-Puritan idealism associated with the fandom — an anger that the world is as it is rather than as it should be — which, dare I suggest it, has probably given much aid and abetment to the current President and his desire to smash that order.
Then again, my views on the clerical engagement with democratic politics are not mainstream. To my mind, the part played by the clergy ought to be the same as our relationship to dog-breeding: be as fascinated as possible by the technicalities, but never allow oneself to be involved in the actual process.
Powers and dominions
SHUT down or not, Washington is not, to my mind, a particularly lovable city. I walked up the National Mall to the Capitol, acutely aware that, while monumental, it is not an especially interesting or attractive space: a sort of Legoland on steroids.
The place that it most reminds me of is the equally unlovely Via della Conciliazione and St Peter’s, in Rome. I suppose the purposes are the same, even if the aping is accidental: monumental statements of power and purpose. Give me the rat-infested warrens of Westminster any day.
The Revd Fergus Butler-Gallie is Vicar of Charlbury with Shorthampton, in the diocese of Oxford.
Twelve Churches: An unlikely history of the buildings that made Christianity is published by Hodder & Stoughton at £30 (Church Times Bookshop special offer price £24); 978-1-399-73130-0.