Time warp
IT IS the 500th anniversary of the Anabaptist movement, which is especially significant here in Canada, where there are substantial Mennonite and Brethren communities. A college at one of the country’s main universities is named after Conrad Grebel, who, in 1525, made the case for adult baptism, the separation of Church and State, non-violence, and simple living.
Many followers are now part of the mainstream, but there are still communities that use a horse and buggy rather than a car, refuse to take advantage of electricity, and dress traditionally and extremely modestly. They’re good people, with an approach to the faith which I may not share but highly respect.
Contrary to what might be assumed, they also have a self-mocking sense of humour. One of them told me a joke about an old-style Mennonite, who had never visited a city, and so decided one day to make a special journey with his wife and son. The mother went into a shop, and the father and son walked into an office building, eventually coming to a lift. They had no idea what was behind the silver doors, and simply stared. An elderly lady joined them, the doors opened, and she walked in — they assumed into another room — and then the doors closed. A few seconds later, the doors opened again and a beautiful young woman stepped out.
The man looked down at his son and said, “Boy, go and fetch thy mother.”
Let go and let God
THERE is currently a great deal of coverage about the apparent growth in the number of young churchgoers, especially men. This is not a new phenomenon to those who follow such matters, but secular media have now caught on.
While I suspect that the reports are a little too enthusiastic, there does seem to be something going on. What makes this different from earlier movements is that it’s not confined to one denomination, or one wing of the Church. There are examples in Catholic as well as Evangelical Anglican congregations, and in Roman Catholic as well as Charismatic churches. At a recent wedding, I asked the young couple whether they would like communion. “Yes, we would!” And how many should we expect? “Not that big, really. A little over 150.”
It is wise to be cautious, but I find the cynicism or even downright hostility about all this from some in the Church to be incredibly disappointing. Surely, it’s not how people came to faith, but that they came to faith that matters. The argument — one I’ve heard many times — that these conversions are closely linked to political conservatism is reductive and simply untrue.
If anything, it is about a spiritual and emotional vacuum that is shockingly common and brings some of the searchers to church. If they have been influenced, directly or indirectly, by someone whose world-view isn’t ours, I couldn’t really care less. Let the permanent revolution of Christian love begin, and see where it ends.
Voice recognition
CLEARING out some old boxes in the garden shed, I came across my father’s diary for 1963. He obviously lost interest in the project, because the entries become shorter and less regular as the year grows older. The diary is difficult to read, because it often concerns his financial difficulties, and how hard he worked, as a London taxi-driver, to pay the mortgage and provide for his family.
But there’s humour, too. As a boy, dad was at Hackney Jewish Youth Club, along with Harold Pinter. Many years later, Pinter hailed dad’s cab. There was instant recognition, and they had a good conversation. Pinter, however, spoke in elegant, patrician tones, whereas my dad still sounded like a working-class lad from Hackney. One of them, wrote my father, had obviously been working on his accent.
Trampling out the vintage
I GENERALLY find funerals to be more spiritual — even meaningful — than weddings (with appropriate apologies to all the lovely couples I’ve married). The latest was for a woman whose family are active and essential in our church community.
A few weeks before the funeral, we were looking at the interment plot, and suddenly realised that there was a handgun behind a bush: a black, heavy Glock, with a serial number. Since armaments aren’t usually found in Anglican churchyards, we called the police.
The police were with us in less than 20 minutes, said that the weapon was a very convincing imitation and that its having been discarded like this might mean that it had been used for a crime. Then one of the officers said: “These things are very realistic. Someone comes at me with one, and they’re going to get shot.” I thought he was joking, but he wasn’t.
On the morning of the funeral, the daughter of the deceased told me that she was one of the first on the scene when her mum died. Initially, all she could see were her mother’s feet: she was wearing socks on which were written, “If you can read this, bring me wine.” God bless her cotton socks.
Lost in translation
I HAVE another book out early next year — a diary of a clerical year — and have just completed the final edits from the publishers. I say “final” because there are several levels of edit which an author is put through. It is for the best, and I’m grateful for it, but I can’t say I enjoy the process.
I think this is my 20th book, but most of them were sensibly ignored by the reading public. Two of the exceptions were young-adult biographies of C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien, written to coincide with the films of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe and The Lord of the Rings. Because of that, the books sold extremely well, and were also bought by publishers in a dozen countries (no, I don’t read Japanese, Turkish, Norwegian, Polish, or Czech).
When something like that happens, it is difficult to resist counting royalties, and I remember one day grabbing the morning paper to check the latest bestseller list. I was there; but my publisher was on the front page, in a long article explaining how regrettable it was that such a major company should have declared bankruptcy.
A letter arrived a few days later, outlining how I was on a very long list of creditors, would never see any of what I was owed, but that I could buy my “product” — my books — at a very generous discount. I think I may have cried.
Tall stories
GIANT, the play about Roald Dahl and his grotesque anti-Semitism, has ended its highly successful London run. Written by Mark Rosenblatt, it is a remarkable piece of work that began at the Royal Court, moved to the Harold Pinter Theatre, and won numerous awards. I am confident it will move to the US, and certainly hope so, because I want to hear John Lithgow, as Dahl, repeatedly say my name once again.
I was the very young journalist who, in 1983, interviewed the famous author for the New Statesman when he unleashed a sickening stream of Jew-hatred. It’s difficult to explain how it feels to hear your voice portrayed on stage, and I will always be grateful to the writer and the cast for being so sensitive and supportive.
As a Christian and a priest, do I forgive Dahl for what he said? Of course. Did so long ago. His modern, racist successors, however, pose more of a problem.
The Revd Michael Coren is a journalist, and a priest in the Anglican Church of Canada.
