Breaking the bounds
ATTENDANCE at a senior colleague’s office retirement “do” brought these lines from William Cowper to mind: “From all his wearisome engagements freed, Shakes hands with bus’ness, and retires indeed.”
My colleague’s tenure has been transformative, and often brilliant. Rightly, she deserves to be freed from the countless wearisome engagements that come with her position. As for me, I am reminded that my own retirement beckons urgently; so — for once — I pay proper attention to the event’s rituals: the eucharist, speeches about impact and transformation, my colleague’s staff team awkwardly gripping glasses of prosecco in the middle of the day. They seem to be calculating the grammar of the event.
What, after all, are the rules for a daytime works “jolly”? What would happen if those present drank several glasses and then had to return to their desks? Might the diocese collapse, or — a thought — benefit?
When cake-and-sandwich-time arrives, the bishops ensure that they are near the front of the queue. One even furtively takes a doggy bag, and is off to his next event. Will I, too, have to negotiate these rituals of departing office? I become suddenly weepy. The highlight of the event is the farewell film, composed of short speeches, heartfelt words.
I have always been self-centred enough to want to watch my own funeral, to check who, if anyone, turns up. Perhaps a retirement do is the next best thing.
Service centre
I AM poor at life’s ordinary matters. Thus, I feel positively swollen with pride when I organise the MOT on my car all by myself. My dad — to whom, before his death, I “delegated” such matters — would have ruefully shaken his head.
Still, as I sit in the waiting area of garage for the return of my car, I am fascinated by the story that the dealership seeks to tell about itself. It makes a series of promises: of service to your car, to you, and to your peace of mind. Who knew a garage could abound with the language of car and obligation?
There is talk of confidence in “our team”, and plaques celebrating top salespeople — or, as the garage calls them, “customer heroes”. The terrible (albeit complimentary) coffee flows plenteously, and the whole garage exudes determined cheerfulness. I note the branded goods — lanyards, coasters, hoodies — and there are people on hand to guide you through this realm’s strange “liturgies”: the PCPs, trims, disbursements, and so on. Garages, perhaps, are not so different from many of our churches.
When the final bill arrives, the sales assistant asks, tentatively, “Is there anything else we can do for you today?”, wondering, perhaps, whether he can sell me salvation in the form of a new car. He spots my clerical collar, and is it just me, or does he look away, knowing I am already a lost cause?
Travelling companion
I HAVE never travelled light. When I pack for a weekend, I anxiously dump every item I own into half a dozen suitcases. This may be a token of my neurodivergent self’s talent for “catastrophising”. Certainly, in my head, when I travel, I plan not just for reasonable what-ifs (the likelihood of dressing for four seasons in one day in the UK), but also what might be required if there were an earthquake or asteroid strike at my intended destination.
As I prepare to head to Gloucester Cathedral to lead their Holy Week devotions, even I can recognise that a geological incident in Gloucestershire is unlikely. Still, my car groans with the sheer weight of that stuff that I need for a week away. Intriguingly, I get the clothes down to one small suitcase.
The other half-dozen bags comprise medical gubbins. I pack enough stuff for a medical ward: bags of saline, sterile packs, drip-stand, pump, etc. I even arrange for further supplies to be delivered directly to the hotel. This is what medical dependency looks like, and I feel a deep sense of vulnerability. My flourishing has never been more dependent on a network of care.
Travel is an over-used metaphor in church circles. Hope swells, however, as I remember that, this week, that I shall be travelling in the company of Christ. I pray he will hold my burdens in his.
Song-soaked stones
HOLY WEEK in a Premier Inn. It sounds more like the title of a wry short story than a plausible reality. I find breakfast each morning revealing — almost Pinter-esque in its silences and glances. Red-faced, bald men with pot-bellies eat vast cooked breakfasts slathered with brown sauce; a woman tries to stay cheery for her two small children; the businesspeople look brisk and hungry and stick to yogurt and fruit; the staff want to get us through our meals quickly, perhaps wondering if this really is what life is meant to be.
I wonder how old my croissant actually is — indeed, whether it is a croissant at all. I try to remember that it was for such people as us that Christ suffered, died, and was raised to new life.
Meanwhile, the cathedral’s beautiful liturgy holds all our little lives in a wider frame. I am reminded that when one leads anything worth while, one receives more than one can ever give. Each evening, the service of compline (from the Latin for “completion”) stills and heals my aching heart.
Cathedrals such as Gloucester’s are not really made for preaching or talking, but for singing. The cadences of Byrd, Bruckner, et al., echo faintly through its precincts, I swear, for days after the choir departs.
Mercury rising
EASTER arrives in fire and song, despite the best efforts of Storm Dave (who names these things? Double-glazing salesmen?). I am mesmerised by the wild dance of the vigil’s Paschal fire and impressed by how many have turned out for the service. It is the patient, ancient words of the beautifully sung Exsultet, however, that transport me into Easter light.
I don’t mind admitting that I’ve spent far too much time recently oscillating between deep anxiety and utter bewilderment at the way this world’s power-brokers treat ordinary human beings as if we were non-playing characters in a video game. But it is impossible to be afraid or lost when our Lord is risen.
The drama of the ancient Easter liturgy is perfect balm and glorious challenge, and there is joy when both tiny tots and the ripe in years shout “Alleluia!” in this ancient cathedral.
I find myself weeping with joy as we sing:
When our hearts are wintry, grieving or in pain,
Thy touch can call us back to life again;
Fields of our hearts that dead and bare have been:
Love is come again like wheat that springeth green.
In season and out, when darkness rises and falls, nothing in this world can keep a Good God down.
The Ven. Dr Rachel Mann is the Archdeacon of Bolton and Salford, in the diocese of Manchester.
