SHORT STORY: Steps of Faith

David stood and listened to the slow dripping of water in the toilet cistern, steeling himself to take those few familiar steps, which he felt would also take him completely into the unknown.  At his back was the door that led into the domestic part of the house and in front of him was the one that parishioners supposedly called at to visit his father in the ‘working’ part of the house.  The lobby was gloomy with a few unused coats on the pegs, a grey plastic chair, and a bucket of assorted junk – a bicycle pump, an old umbrella, that sort of stuff.

In actual fact it was rare that anyone would call to see the vicar at home and the supposed home – work divide was actually suffused on both sides with what David saw as his Father’s vague disillusionment.  Sometimes it was worse, when a thick blanket of depression would descend and at those times wherever you were in the house, even the sunny front bedrooms with views past the orchard over the paddock, you could feel the darkness insinuating itself out from the desk in the study.

It hadn’t been like that recently.  But David knew that it was up to him nevertheless.  No one else saw both sides of the story.  This wasn’t the first time he had stood here and even now he was almost paralysed by dread.  What if he was wrong?  What if his Dad just looked at him blankly and without comprehension?  Or worse, what if he responded with anger?  But David knew he wouldn’t.  He believed in the power of God’s love.  Love that could melt through ice, break through prison walls, bring the light of truth that was irresistible in its beauty.  He believed that his Dad knew this too.  Why else would he have taken his path in life?  And even though he had fallen short of his own message and become a shadow of the truth he still ostensibly proclaimed, David knew that his own willingness to step forward would change all that – it simply had to.  No longer would he be afraid to talk to his Father and share his deepest faith and feelings.  No longer would his mother suffer in her faithful misery.  All the chains would be broken and the implications would ripple out into the whole of God’s wonderful world. 

The cistern had stopped dripping now.  He could hear the rustling of papers from behind that door and said another prayer for courage.  Yet the strange enormity of those few steps kept his feet rooted to the ground.

                                                        * * *                                                  

Richard sat staring at the blank sheet of paper.  Several previous attempts were screwed up in the bin beside him.  He had never much enjoyed writing for the parish magazine but as time had gone on it seemed to get harder and harder.  Having been round the liturgical loop in this parish more times than he liked to recall, he felt he had used up all his fire – such as it had been.  Maybe not fire, but at least some of his work had been witty and clever, plays on words that were original to him, as far as he could remember.  But now he wondered how on earth he could write something about Christian Hope.  His attempts so far had been perfectly respectable – and he tried to assure himself that he could find worse in many a similar publication – but somehow the words just seemed pointless, more so, in fact, the more he tried to convey some kind of joy or enthusiasm in them.  Enthusiasm!  What did he know about that?  Once upon a time, maybe.  But then Theological College, a hard Curacy, endless bureaucracy and admin, quibbles over flower rosters, third world wars over clearing out bits of junk.  He couldn’t remember exactly when it was that he had finally given in, but given in he certainly had. 

He picked up the creamy white envelope with the flourish of Jonathan’s handwriting filling up more of the front than was really necessary.  He had already dealt with the rest of his post – the letter from the archdeacon querying the details of the faculty application for the new handrail outside the church porch, the …  Oh whatever he had forgotten already – some of them only half opened before being thrown aside in weariness.  But this one he treasured, it was supposed to be the reward for finishing his article, but what the heck.

Jonathan had been the best thing his wife and he had ever done together – along with his twin brother David of course.  They were both good looking and sporty.  David was reliable, strong minded in his own way, but never actually rocking the boat.  Jonathan on the other hand – well he was no angel, no doubt about that (Richard without realising it was smiling half a smile) but there was something about him that meant forgiveness was irrelevant, it was life, life that Richard envied but admired even more.  In his darkest moments it was a vicarious sense of being involved with Jonathan’s life that gave him enough consolation to keep going.

 

Dear Dad

I am writing this at night.  In a few hours time we will make the final preparations for attack.  By the time you read this it will be all over. 

I hope everyone is well at home.  Don’t let the B’s grind you down!

There has been a huge sense of expectation all day long – a sense that we are approaching a boundary that most of us have never been beyond before.  Now things are quieter and I have to confess to a feeling of dread.  I hate to admit it, but I even feel a bit homesick.  I know that if I was there though I would only want to be back here with the rest of them.

After dark I went for a walk out behind the lines.  The sky is clear with no moon and just the faintest breath of wind.  The stars are absolutely incredible.  Do you remember the first time you showed us the pole star?  I’ll never forget.  You told us it was further away than we could imagine, and that God was even further away but at the same time closer than breathing.  I don’t really know what to write – you know I don’t believe all that stuff about God but I still feel the truth of what you said.  I don’t know if that makes any sense.

Anyway, give my love to Mum and to David and tell them I’ll write more soon.

Lots of love,

Jonathan

Richard drifted from rereading the letter to gazing out of the window.  He could see the harvest dust blowing in the wind and knew that the air outside would be dry and choking.  A single butterfly appeared outside the closed window and meandered across, seeming to hesitate for a moment before disappearing from view.  He suddenly felt the rise of a sickening fear and snatching up the letter again he shot a glance at the double picture above the fireplace.  Immediately he heard (or did he imagine) a repeated crack of rifle fire.

He looked across with blank eyes to realise it was a knock at the study door.

“Hello?  David …. Come in.  What is it?”

Going to Church

Except it’s not church as such, though in some ways more so.

Anticlockwise round the reservoir.  Crossing Doe Lane, the path becomes narrower – or rather the encroaching vegetation reaches in further.  Watch out for the stinging nettles and the brambles that catch and tug.  But the Queen Anne’s Lace adds graciousness lighter than air.  The branches close in overhead as well and the leaves are full, making a tunnel of green gloom, which suggests a journey through the innards of the world.

In the background is the roar of the motorway, part-muffled of outright nuisance.  Precision engineering, roaring wildly, the frantic rush and possibility of horrific danger; rubber thrashing against hot asphalt. (We have made it possible to get right outside the weave of life).  Luckily it is muffled enough that the mind can sink beneath it and effectively blot it out, though not altogether without cost.

Now we’ve arrived.  To the left of the path the scarified earth drops away into the clearing by the bridge.  The space is lightly enclosed by sycamore, alder, hawthorne and ash and there is a single pew for the likes of us.  Coming a few weeks ago you would have found the choir full of ramsons (it smelled like they’d all been eating French the night before) opposite a congregation of more lightly perfumed bluebells.  Now just the odd handful of red campion, like mischievous children, have scattered themselves about the place.  Under the bridge the water breaks over the weir, foaming but then smoothing around some huge old blocks of chiselled stone – suggestive of ancient graves, or the relic of an altar whose sacrifice is obsolete – before puckering up in ripples where the stream shallows over the stones and flows on its secret way. 

There is no cross as such though plenty of trees.  An alder grows straight out of the stream’s bank.  From time to time the rising water has torn the earth away from its roots and so they lie exposed, rather disturbing as though they are tortured, unmovingly twisted.  At the same time their craving for depth suggests a strength that is both restful and vital.

The light is best at the turning points of the day when it slants in from east or west, heightening the contrasts – crisp and fresh at early morning, rich and mellow with approaching sunset – but at any time it is still a delight – being constantly tinted, mixed and broken by the moving leaves and branches.

There are angels in the architecture – complete with wings, feathers and heavenly voices – occasionally you see them darting from branch to branch.  A couple of horses amble up to the nearby fence, they look around but they’re not bothered and wander off again.

Time to sit, ponder and imagine.  With Rockley Old Hall a short walk away, what characters must have passed by here or lingered on what business in centuries long gone?  In pre-Christian ages (and more recently perhaps) what spirits would have been said to inhabit such a place as this?  And what of the divine life is manifested to us here and now … ?

We have never really arrived or concluded before time calls for us to move on again.  Time to find a smooth pebble and perhaps a stick to throw into the canopy reflecting pool.  Perhaps make a wish or perhaps not.  Content just to let them go their various ways.

Beyond the Bounds

The week after Easter brings the chance of a favourite pilgrimage.  The A17 can be a bit of a slog, but after King’s Lynn we give the roads their names – coast road, common road, beach road, cockle road – and each transition moves us closer to ‘The Moorings’, 55 The Beach, Snettisham.  Getting there is the main pilgrimage which then makes possible the more intimate mini pilgrimages that flesh out the enjoyment – a walk in Sandringham woods, touring the charity shops in Hunstanton, cream tea at Bircham Windmill – the itinerary varies from one visit to another but there is one element that I must include at least once – a trip to the benches …

The chalets form a long line between The Wash and the gravel pit lakes.  They are constantly evolving – some falling into disrepair or disappearance, but most being upgraded – being added to piecemeal or totally rebuilt.  Put them anywhere else and many of them would look ridiculous but here, by the sea, they are fascinating no matter how dishevelled.  On my bike I pass the last of them and continue alongside the bank that hides the bird reserve.  I pass the remaining piers of the derelict jetty where in years gone by all the gravel was shipped away across The Wash.  Still a way to go yet …

The three benches form a convex arc, each looking slightly away from the others in a general westward direction out across The Wash.  They are solid and sun-warmed, which is reassuring because at this particular spot nothing seems easy to grasp.  There is a vastness that goes beyond words; it seems to exert a pull on the whole field of sense threatening it with breakdown. This is a meeting place of salt marsh, mudflat, grassland and sea with the little Babingley river flowing into their midst beneath an almost complete hemisphere of sky.  In fact the sky is so big that the horizon on the Western side seems even lower than it possibly could be. It is a place that accommodates to the mind more easily in memory than in the present moment.  I remember being here with Jemima, when the tide was at a yearly high and the wading birds, having been pushed all the way back by the rising water at last had to take to the air en masse.  The dense whirling clouds of them twisted this way and that and the reflection of the early morning sunlight was switched on and off by the synchronised altering of their angles.  Then they did a ‘fly past’ solely for our benefit, peeling to left and right just over our heads – a display of unmatchable scale and exhilaration.  I remember bending down to look into the face of a tiny forget-me-not – its infinitesimal perfection an exact miniature of the vaulted blue above. 

I am brought back to the present moment by a single gunshot, for an instant it fills my mind but after only seconds it remains as no more than a pinprick in memory.  Looking around I can make out the horizontal line of the chalets and the vertical line of the spire of St Mary’s, Snettisham but the distance robs them of their substance.  In the opposite direction a few cows seem to float on a haze just above the flood plain meadows.  I watch the swallows following their own invisible lines then close my eyes and listen to the call of the black headed gulls which is half cry, half buzz.  I feel the warm tingle of the sun on my eyelids, the breeze playing cool on moistened lips.  Then a skylark starts raising its own invisible spire of diffused music in the air above my head.

To remain in the present but somehow anchor myself against the dissolving vastness I turn my attention to the benches themselves.  The second is dedicated: ‘Michael Bounds 1917 – 1999’ and the third ‘Ada Bounds 1917-1994 “Rest here awhile”’ – commemorated in a place without bounds.  The boundaries of their existence recorded like empty vessels that contained so much that was precious.  The span of their years overlapped entirely except for those five years for Michael on his own. Now even that is past and their respective benches sit side by side just angled apart, suggesting a slightly different perspective on a common view; easy companionship perhaps with not the slightest trace of confrontation – that would be a good legacy of years spent together.

I always think it would be good to spend a day here – perhaps bring a picnic.  We never have yet.  In fact I never stay for very long before moving off again.  Perhaps a quick visit to the wildfowler’s cabin.  A houseboat that was beautifully equipped and cosy before the owner stopped using it and the vandals arrived.  Now only the swallows move in for a short stay each spring.

Time to return to the moorings.  “This time I’ll write down what I’ve felt and try and make some sense of it that way.”  And so you can perhaps glimpse it too.  But there is nothing quite like being there.

Doctrinal Diversity

I was walking across a bridge one day, and I saw a man standing on the edge, about to jump off.  So I ran over and said “Stop! Don’t do it!”

“Why shouldn’t I?” he said.
I said, “Well, there’s so much to live for.”

He said, “Like what?”
I said, “Well … are you religious or atheist?”

He said, “Religious.”
I said, “Me too!  Are you Christian or Buddhist?”

He said, “Christian.”
I said, “Me too!  Are you Catholic or Protestant?”

He said, “Protestant.”
I said, “Me too!  Are you Episcopalian or Baptist?”

He said, “Baptist.”
I said, “Me too!  Are you Baptist Church of God or Baptist Church of the Lord?”

He said, “Baptist Church of God.”
I said, “Me too!  Are you original Baptist Church of God or Reformed Baptist Church of God?”

He said, “Reformed Baptist Church of God.”
I said, “Me too!  Are you Reformed Baptist Church of God, reformation of 1879, or Reformed Baptist Church of God, reformation of 1915?”

He said, “Reformed Baptist Church of God, reformation of 1915.”
I said “Die, heretic scum!” and pushed him off the bridge.

Emo Phillips, American comedian

Now I’m not having a go at Baptists (in fact some of my nicest neighbours are Baptist) but I did like that joke – taking it to be aimed at all religious people, whenever we fall prey to the evil possibilities that can form the trappings of a religious identity. 

Religion can open us to all sorts of exciting potential but sadly it sometimes does exactly the opposite of ‘what it says on the tin’.

Not least in the parable of the good Samaritan, Jesus tells us that real faith goes hand in hand with a heightened sense of our common humanity with all people (especially those we think are beyond the pale) and results in the crossing of boundaries whenever we can embody compassion and practical care.  

Life goes on?

As I write, Baghdad and Basra are being bombarded by alliance forces and we are being bombarded by the media images of the war.  Ironically, while there seem to be more and more news bulletins there is less and less each time that is actually new.

In contrast to the bombers, heavy artillery, massing troops and ground-shaking explosions it’s almost surreal to get glimpses via live cameras into the heart of the Iraqi capital and to realise that despite everything there are ordinary people for whom life goes on as best it can.

Life goes on.  Despite death and destruction, through despair and anger, life goes on.  And at other times through new birth and happiness, in success and flourishing, life goes on.

It is a testimony to the power of life that the mass of ordinary people will regroup, earth themselves once again and, whether circumstances are better, worse, or much the same, they will continue the struggle to make life as secure and worthwhile as possible for themselves and their families.

This could begin to sound like an argument for fatalism – “Whatever will be will be.  Leave power to the people who have got it and make the best of things that you can.”  If only it could actually be a summons for the world to come to its senses and realise the simple things that are really important – giving everyone the opportunity to live with good food, clean water, a sustainable environment and security and peace.  Surely that is possible – or it would be if it wasn’t for the grasping greedy evil which is so inherent to humanity and which spoils everything.

With Easter just around the corner it might be tempting to say that there is an answer to all this.  But what good is an answer that obviously isn’t in actual fact going to change the real world?  As long as there are people there will be injustice and evil.  And no place is as dangerous as the moral high ground.  But life will go on.  Perhaps Easter simply reminds us that we can’t help it, we cannot resist life.  Time and time again, we get up again, we renew our dreams and we don’t give up struggling for something better.

Pembrokeshire Coast Path : Part 6

Go to Part 1

Having pitched my tent on the dunes just behind Barafundle Bay, I settle down to calculate exactly how many miles I’ve walked each day so far (not including detours and diversions) – 14, 17, 24, 18, 16, 15, 19, 12, & 18 miles respectively.  Now there are about 25 miles remaining.  My feet are no longer troubling me like they were and I decide to try and finish on a high note by completing the walk tomorrow.  I have enjoyed planning and reviewing my progress along the way.  I also realise now how obsessive I am about ordering my campsite, keeping things tidy and efficient.  I take great delight in making a cup of tea – using my petrol stove to boil just the right amount of water in the billy can which fits snugly back into its nest between frying pan and saucepan.  Finally, I make my way back down onto the beach and make a good bonfire but before long it starts to rain so I kick sand over it and go to bed.

Later, in a state of semi-consciousness I hear the breathing of a great creature just outside the skin of my tent.  Its huge deep measure sounds like that of a giant and my body tenses for the inevitable ….  As I emerge more fully from my sleep I recognise the muffled steady grating roar of the waves curling over and running up the beach before drawing back against the pebbles.  No giant after all, but my thoughts turn back to the unsolved murder and I feel vulnerable again.  I repeat my night prayer,  “I will lie down and sleep in peace …” and try to lull myself with the rhythm of the waves but every time I’m about to drop off “Fee Fie Foe Fum …” runs through my mind instead. Eventually I sleep fitfully between heavy showers. 

I wake to more showers but they soon pass and at 6 am I get up to blue skies with scattered clouds.  I am ready to go at 7.15, and with a last look back at the beguiling beauty of Barafundle, I set off into what is promising to be a perfect day.  The cliffs are as dramatic as ever and topped by limestone grassland like a sweet green carpet woven with the blue, pink and white of wild flowers.  Using an identification guide I’ve managed to learn some of the different species along the way.  The names are poetry enough in themselves: wild thyme, common storksbill, rock sea-spurrey, thrift, sea campion, bird’s foot trefoil, common centaury, sea mayweed, viper’s bugloss, heath spotted orchid and scurvygrass.  I stop and chat for a while to a widower.  He’s very friendly and loves being out on the cliffs – but I rather sense that the beauty can’t quite fill the emptiness.

Will I manage to finish today?  I don’t know.  I’ll have to see.  The thought of it feels a bit like the end of life after all that I’ve been through.  What will it feel like when I do finish …?  I turn my attention from such questions to the hot pasty and cup of tea that I have just bought at Freshwater East.  When I get to Swanlake Bay, I am almost tempted to stop and camp.  My guide book is accurate in describing it as one of the most secluded and least visited bays in Pembrokeshire.  There is plenty of driftwood for a good bonfire too but the day is still young and I press on to Manorbier.  As I approach I pass a magnificent house which is being extended to provide yet more opportunity to sit and enjoy the already panoramic views of the bay and the cliffs.  I am envious.  I think about the effect it must have on someone who is lucky enough to live with such a view.  I think of the little flat I’ll be going back to. Its views aren’t too bad actually.   To the east I can see the crematorium and to the west glimpses of road, railway, river and canal, a steelworks, a retail park, cleared industrial land, and residential areas – certainly interesting.  There are flats not far from it, however, which look straight out onto a brick wall and hardly get any light – soul destroying, I should think.

In Manorbier, which is dominated by its mediaeval castle, I make a diversion to the Church.  It is full of interesting features, strange angles, and enticing views, which draw you to go in further.  Continuing on the path again there is a sudden spectacular view of Lydstep Head.  I go back up the way I’ve come to take a detour around it.  Then I go on round Giltar peninsular with spectacular views over Caldey Island with its living monastery.  Once again I am overwhelmed by wind, sea and clear sky and I honestly feel that if I jumped off the cliffs I could fly – though I decide not to for now.  Rounding the point, I get a new view and suddenly feel a lump in my throat.  For the first time, as I look at the distant coast, I can’t say “That’s where I’ll be walking tomorrow”.  I can see beyond Amroth and know that the end is nigh.  However, there are still plenty of miles to cover today and I push on towards Tenby, making an entry by way of the beach, where they seem to be filming some kind of period drama on the sand around St Catherine’s Island.

I pass the very quaint harbour, devour a cream tea and visit the Tourist Information Centre.  Then I push on again.  Tired now I pass along in a bit of a dream through the pinewoods towards Saundersfoot and on.  My right heel is beginning to seize up.  It’ll all be over today whatever happens.  Just after Saundersfoot the path plunges into a tunnel – once the route of a narrow gauge railway that connected coal workings to the harbour.  The exit is partially obscured and it is so dark I can’t see the sides.  The roof drips with cold solemnity.  There are hidden alcoves that recede further into darkness and the metaphor of death seems to become more powerful.  More so again when I emerge from the gloom into what feels like the last judgement.  The old railway course is just above the sea at its high tide and the waves come crashing in between the groins, tearing at the rocks on the beach so that they roar like lions waiting to pounce. The heavens above open for a while in a solid downpour.  Then the sun breaches the clouds and a full rainbow arches over the path.  What more can there be?  I can almost believe I have entered a new state of being with a weight of glory founded partly on the suffering it has taken to get here and partly on the sheer beauty of Life.

Then suddenly it is over.  No lights, no cheers, no welcome party.  Nothing much at all really.  Just a modest sign by the sea wall where I pause for a time before making my way into the welcoming warmth of the pub.

I sign the visitors’ book.  They are very friendly and quite impressed by my ten-day effort especially as I was carrying all my gear.  According to them about 25 people complete the full walk each year.  Some do it unencumbered by baggage and with full backup – the record is 2½ days.

(The end)

A Seaside Blessing

May the salt of the spray cleanse you;

The glistening of the waves lighten your heart;
The touch of the breeze refresh you;
The fire of the sunset calm your fears.
And may the ocean of God’s love
carry you gently till you reach
His haven of peace and rest forever.

© Blackpool Parish Church

Time flies and it’s a couple of weeks already since I got back from the Diocesan Conference – 3 days in sunny Blackpool.  The conference was not without its moments – not surprisingly maybe, given the challenging times the Church faces for various reasons.  But it had its highlights as well.  The North-Pier-and-sea view from my (otherwise basic) room at the Grand Metropole, being one of them, and another being the Tuesday evening Speaker John Bell.  He is the genius behind much of the Iona Community worship material, which I often use especially on Thursday evenings.  He is also a Scot who bears a passing resemblance to Billy Connolly, in humour as much as in looks.

Amongst many other things, he spoke about the early Celtic Christians on Iona.  The beautiful abbey wasn’t built until many years later.  At first they built simple little cells and the faith they communicated was lived very much in the midst of everyday life – not within the confines of a religious building.  Our heritage can easily obscure our faith if we are not careful.

In the Parish statistics last month I forgot to mention one new initiative that has been very encouraging – the monthly service in the community room at Maltas Court.  We were there yesterday with 26 attending and 18 receiving communion.

Another example of the Church moving beyond its walls was at Christmas when the choir went carolling round the pubs.  Not a new idea by any means but a good one nevertheless and part of the kind of approach we should take more often.

Incidentally, in a similar vein it has been mentioned that we should get a trip up later in the year to see the lights at Blackpool – watch this space.