Alarms
Last Friday evening the Vicarage phone rang at quarter past seven. My heart sank; mid evening calls are usually from people with a problem at St Peter's, requiring me to go up there and sort it out. This, however, was from Jacqui, our Lunch Club mastermind, so I felt immediately relieved. The relief, though, was short-lived, as Jacqui reported that she was preparing for Lunch Club at St Peter's and the fire alarm was going off. She said that she had checked, and could find no fire, and asked whether I knew how to turn it off. In twelve years the alarm has never gone off, or, to my knowledge, been serviced, so I had no idea. I said I thought it would stop by itself, as surely they are required to do (after twenty minutes, I think) but she then told me that it had been sounding for an hour and a half.
So, I got my bike out and went up to St Peter's, expecting to be assailed by lots of angry residents from the old people's flats next door, who were surely being disturbed. When I arrived I could hear nothing, so I was confused, but when I went down to the church and hall it became audible. In the lobby the bell was audible, but not intolerable, and the same was clearly true of the hall, where Jacqui's volunteers were peeling potatoes. It was only when I went out into the outer foyer that the noise became intolerably loud, and it became clear that it was barely noticeable outside the building. I fetched a stepladder, and with the aid of pliers, screwdriver and blu-tac, silenced the bell.
I then started wondering how useful this system actually is. The bell is meant to be activated by smashing a glass panel (there are no smoke or heat alarms). There are three panels: one immediately under the bell, in the foyer; a second in the church, beside the organ (on the back of the same wall as the first one); the third in the hall, at the far side, beside the fire escape. It is impossible to imagine a situation in which someone walking around shouting, "Fire! Fire!" would not be just as effective as trying to activate this alarm. It's a fairly small space, and a few steps enable you to see it all, and certainly shouting would be effective. There are also plenty of ways out. I had always assumed that our system was a branch of the system in the flats above us, but evidently not, as they did not have an alarm on Friday evening. So, if it had been a fire, the flats above the church, who did need to know, wouldn't have been alerted anyway. We have lots of extinguishers (which are serviced regularly) and plenty of fire exits; I think we have just demonstrated that the alarm adds nothing to our well-being. A conversation with our inspecting architect is required.
Coach Trip
The big story of last week was the public meeting over the TfL proposal to site a coach station at Royal Oak. The Bayswater councillors organised a meeting, expecting a couple of dozen to turn up, but over a hundred people did. Emily Payne (a fellow governor) chaired it, and the excellent Graham King, from the City Council, explained the proposal. It appears that the lease on Victoria Coach Station will come up in a few years, and the Grosvenor Estate wants it back, so as to build more lucrative housing. TfL unimaginatively wants to provide a new coach station and would prefer to do so on land it already owns, hence its interest in the area north of Royal Oak station platform. This slice of land (in St Mary Magdalene's parish) used to contain the sidings leading to Paddington Goods Station, which were removed prior to the digging of Crossrail underneath it. It is at the level of the rail tracks, and so perhaps thirty feet below the level of Lord Hill's Bridge to the west, Ranelagh Bridge to the east, and the Harrow Road (itself beneath the Westway) to the north. Just describing those levels makes it clear how unsuitable this would be. Apparently, Ranelagh Bridge would be removed to make this possible, and so we would lose our access to the A40. Of course it would also be necessary to close Royal Oak station at least while the work was done, and quite possibly permanently, which would hardly be to our benefit. In order to fund the scheme, TfL would build shops, offices and housing in a block over the top of the coach station. What a lovely place to live, alongside the Westway, with the Great Western mainline on the other side.
Of course, this is only one of a number of sites TfL are considering. It is manifestly foolish, even without considering issues of traffic, pollution, infrastructure and so on (which are damning), but my point is that this is a futile exercise. In civilized cities (and actually lots of pretty uncivilized ones too) coach stations are on the edge of the urban sprawl, at suitable transport nodes, where passengers can transfer to rapid urban transport while the coaches go swiftly on their way without having to battle through urban traffic. Lots of British cities do this already, (though admittedly some without necessarily providing the public transport connections) and it has to make sense. No-one would build Victoria Coach Station where it is today, and it is only because it is there already that there is any feeling that it should be replaced by something equally central; if we were starting from scratch we would build it on the periphery, since London has excellent public transport.
There are petitions against the proposal from both the Labour Party and the Conservative Party, and Nicky Hessenberg, who has been helping with our fundraising for the Project, is co-ordinating opposition, so I think TfL have a fight on their hands.
Global Food
Another thing that brought the local community together last week was the Westbourne Global Food Festival, organised by the Westbourne Forum, and held in the Stowe Centre on Saturday afternoon. We had arranged for an array of local restaurants to bring samples of their food, which when combined made a decent plate, which locals could have for free. Then several groups provided entertainment. We ended up having to turn people away, as the hall was just too full. A very good use of the councillors' ward budget. Fish and chips was available alongside Greek, middle eastern, Asian and African food, and the entertainment included African, Bollywood and Albanian dancing, as well as zumba (done by people I can only describe as Londoners). All wonderfully various, and very good humoured.
Monday, 28 January 2019
Tuesday, 8 January 2019
A CHRISTMAS REVIEW
Sorry that December passed without a single blog post, but the month became (enjoyably) busy. It's part of the clerical profession that we become a bit singleminded in December (which I appreciate doesn't always make us easy to live with) and so it was this year. I also found distraction in my free time. So here's a review of what went on over the last month.
A Fairer Christmas
December began with the Christmas Fair at St Peter's, which blessedly raised £900 despite poor attendance. Most of the profit comes from selling raffle tickets to people outside the parish, usually people's work colleagues; some lawyers and call-centre operatives must dread this time of year! The Fair was much improved this year by a portion of the St Peter's School Choir coming to sing carols on the pavement outside, which boosted the atmosphere and gave an infusion of new customers. It was really good to feel some positive collaboration from the school.
Santa Claus comes and visits St Peter's, holding court in a grotto laboriously constructed in the Meeting Room, to which his "little helper" escorts the children. This year Santa had a new suit, which turned out to be much thicker than the old one, and since the temperature was 15 degrees outside, Santa got very hot. When he removed his big, black belt the inside of it was beaded with sweat! I had gone to buy the new suit in the summer, thinking myself very shrewd, only to be told that they didn't get their stock in until after Hallowe'en, which basically gave a panicky three week window to carry out this errand. Still, Santa appreciated it, and it did its job, as he went unrecognised by a ten year old, not to mention a seven year old at whose house Santa often dines. Santa's confidence was so improved by this new suit that he's contemplating making a festive arrival with bells next time, instead of just sneaking round the back. In the old suit, Santa basically had to remain seated for fear that his trousers would fall down and his jacket flap open (to say nothing of his beard coming adrift, secured as it was with blu-tac).
A Feast of Carols
The Carol Service was a resounding success, largely thanks to the Corisande Singers, who joined us for the fifth time. We weren't able to have them in 2017, because we had to have the service at St Peter's, where there is no room for a choir, but this year we were back in St Mary Magdalene's, and so they were back with us. The arrangements were a bit provisional, but we learnt for the future. Because our new boiler will be in the plant room in the new extension we are having to use temporary heating, with electric overhead radiant heaters. These are a bit disconcerting; one of the readers at the service remarked afterwards that she had been lovely and warm sitting under the heater, but when she stood at the lectern to read, she could suddenly see her own breath. They don't heat the atmosphere, but solid things in range of them. People ask how early they should put them on and I have to explain that all that achieves is warming up the seats, possibly to an uncomfortable degree, so it's really not worth it. The fringe benefit of the radiant heaters is that they emit a pleasing amber glow, which turned out to be very useful as we didn't have an appropriate setting for the lights. I had spent some time discussing settings, and then going through programming with the engineer, a couple of months ago, but I seem to have omitted to plan one which works for a "candlelit" service. It was either too bright or too dark, until the heaters rescued the dark setting. I need to get the engineer back to sort that out.
Among the readers we had the heads of both primary schools, the chairman of the Music Society, the organiser of the Lunch Club, and a St Peter's young person, so there was a reasonable cross-section of who we are. The choir also sang a composition by a member of the congregation, Marcus (who is actually a professional violinist) which was lovely. In fact they sang it two years ago as well, but I'm not sure Marcus has actually been present to hear it on either occasion. It was very pleasing that several people who have got involved in the Project over the past couple of years, through volunteering or fundraising, were in the congregation, and joined us for mince pies and mulled wine afterwards.Everyone was very excited by how the church looks now.
Christingle at Fifty
"So what is a Christingle?" they say. Well, huge numbers of people who have attended (or worked in) a C of E primary school in the last forty years or so will know the answer, because the Christingle Service (first introduced to the UK by the Church of England Children's Society in 1968) has become a part of Christmas tradition in many schools. The combination of oranges, candles and sweeties is a powerful one. It's also found its way into parish life, particularly where there are lots of children. Long ago, in Plymstock, I was introduced to the idea of doing it at 5pm on Christmas Eve, as a time that was socially useful (one parent would wrap presents while the other took children to church for a while). It was the youth group leaders who had that insight, and quite right they were. I did it that way until 2017, when Christmas Eve was Sunday and I didn't think it was fair to ask the organist to do 9.30 and 11am, then come back for 5pm, as well as 11pm. I also didn't think many people would turn up, so I brought it forward to the Friday before Christmas, and numbers were halved. I was told people had already gone away. This year I brought it forward to the Thursday, when most schools hadn't yet broken up; same numbers as last year. Next time we shall go back to Christmas Eve. I hope we shall have a better collection to send to the Children's Society.
A Midnight Clear
The congregation at Midnight Mass was well-behaved; that's the first thing for which to give thanks. In Exeter, when I was a curate, we were next door to the Prince Albert and across the road from the Sawyers' Arms, and it helped to have a large sidesman standing just inside the door to keep order and effect removals. St Mary Magdalene's no longer has an adjacent boozer, so we don't have that problem, and the drunks in the regular congregation have known how to behave. It's best if the regulars have their wits about them, as we all have loads of strangers at Midnight, who of course don't know when to stand or sit (despite it being perfectly clear on the sheet) or when to respond, which can be a bit disconcerting. You never really know how many people will come on Christmas Eve, but it was a good turnout, in response to minimal publicity.
I have gained myself more tellings-off for music choices at Midnight than any other occasion, and it is clear that some carols are regarded by some members of the congregation as permanently fixed in particular spots in the Mass. So this year I was unadventurous. I ensured that we did sing some of those that make me cry, but not merely all my favourites. We even sang "While Shepherds" to "Winchester New", which is generally agreed to be the dullest carol known to mankind (I was nearly assaulted after setting it to "Lyngham" once) and I smiled cheerily.
We now have the altar at the top of the chancel steps, and it is tremendous presiding there, as you look out at the painted ceiling of the nave and up at the painted chancel vault and think of all the saints joining you in worship. The restoration has certainly been worthwhile from my point of view! Lots of the visitors have also been impressed, of course.
Morning Glory
There's always the chance that the morning Mass on Christmas Day will feel like an anti-climax after the excitement of Midnight, and it's often a struggle to get servers to turn out, but we usually get a decent congregation at St Peter's, and we sing some different (but still familiar) carols. As my brother-in-law stays, and actually listens to sermons, I have no chance of saying the same thing twice, so I usually spend the afternoon of Christmas Eve hoping to gain inspiration for the morning's sermon from the King's College Carol Service. I think we managed all right for ideas this year, but it can be a struggle to say something new (or something familiar in a new way). In fact the service was lovely, and special in its own terms. I was given more presents, including a couple of white teeshirts, which might seem odd, but that family have given me vests in the past, and it's terribly kind of them. At the end you can really say "Hodie Christus natus est!"
A Fairer Christmas
December began with the Christmas Fair at St Peter's, which blessedly raised £900 despite poor attendance. Most of the profit comes from selling raffle tickets to people outside the parish, usually people's work colleagues; some lawyers and call-centre operatives must dread this time of year! The Fair was much improved this year by a portion of the St Peter's School Choir coming to sing carols on the pavement outside, which boosted the atmosphere and gave an infusion of new customers. It was really good to feel some positive collaboration from the school.
Santa Claus comes and visits St Peter's, holding court in a grotto laboriously constructed in the Meeting Room, to which his "little helper" escorts the children. This year Santa had a new suit, which turned out to be much thicker than the old one, and since the temperature was 15 degrees outside, Santa got very hot. When he removed his big, black belt the inside of it was beaded with sweat! I had gone to buy the new suit in the summer, thinking myself very shrewd, only to be told that they didn't get their stock in until after Hallowe'en, which basically gave a panicky three week window to carry out this errand. Still, Santa appreciated it, and it did its job, as he went unrecognised by a ten year old, not to mention a seven year old at whose house Santa often dines. Santa's confidence was so improved by this new suit that he's contemplating making a festive arrival with bells next time, instead of just sneaking round the back. In the old suit, Santa basically had to remain seated for fear that his trousers would fall down and his jacket flap open (to say nothing of his beard coming adrift, secured as it was with blu-tac).
A Feast of Carols
The Carol Service was a resounding success, largely thanks to the Corisande Singers, who joined us for the fifth time. We weren't able to have them in 2017, because we had to have the service at St Peter's, where there is no room for a choir, but this year we were back in St Mary Magdalene's, and so they were back with us. The arrangements were a bit provisional, but we learnt for the future. Because our new boiler will be in the plant room in the new extension we are having to use temporary heating, with electric overhead radiant heaters. These are a bit disconcerting; one of the readers at the service remarked afterwards that she had been lovely and warm sitting under the heater, but when she stood at the lectern to read, she could suddenly see her own breath. They don't heat the atmosphere, but solid things in range of them. People ask how early they should put them on and I have to explain that all that achieves is warming up the seats, possibly to an uncomfortable degree, so it's really not worth it. The fringe benefit of the radiant heaters is that they emit a pleasing amber glow, which turned out to be very useful as we didn't have an appropriate setting for the lights. I had spent some time discussing settings, and then going through programming with the engineer, a couple of months ago, but I seem to have omitted to plan one which works for a "candlelit" service. It was either too bright or too dark, until the heaters rescued the dark setting. I need to get the engineer back to sort that out.
Among the readers we had the heads of both primary schools, the chairman of the Music Society, the organiser of the Lunch Club, and a St Peter's young person, so there was a reasonable cross-section of who we are. The choir also sang a composition by a member of the congregation, Marcus (who is actually a professional violinist) which was lovely. In fact they sang it two years ago as well, but I'm not sure Marcus has actually been present to hear it on either occasion. It was very pleasing that several people who have got involved in the Project over the past couple of years, through volunteering or fundraising, were in the congregation, and joined us for mince pies and mulled wine afterwards.Everyone was very excited by how the church looks now.
Christingle at Fifty
"So what is a Christingle?" they say. Well, huge numbers of people who have attended (or worked in) a C of E primary school in the last forty years or so will know the answer, because the Christingle Service (first introduced to the UK by the Church of England Children's Society in 1968) has become a part of Christmas tradition in many schools. The combination of oranges, candles and sweeties is a powerful one. It's also found its way into parish life, particularly where there are lots of children. Long ago, in Plymstock, I was introduced to the idea of doing it at 5pm on Christmas Eve, as a time that was socially useful (one parent would wrap presents while the other took children to church for a while). It was the youth group leaders who had that insight, and quite right they were. I did it that way until 2017, when Christmas Eve was Sunday and I didn't think it was fair to ask the organist to do 9.30 and 11am, then come back for 5pm, as well as 11pm. I also didn't think many people would turn up, so I brought it forward to the Friday before Christmas, and numbers were halved. I was told people had already gone away. This year I brought it forward to the Thursday, when most schools hadn't yet broken up; same numbers as last year. Next time we shall go back to Christmas Eve. I hope we shall have a better collection to send to the Children's Society.
A Midnight Clear
The congregation at Midnight Mass was well-behaved; that's the first thing for which to give thanks. In Exeter, when I was a curate, we were next door to the Prince Albert and across the road from the Sawyers' Arms, and it helped to have a large sidesman standing just inside the door to keep order and effect removals. St Mary Magdalene's no longer has an adjacent boozer, so we don't have that problem, and the drunks in the regular congregation have known how to behave. It's best if the regulars have their wits about them, as we all have loads of strangers at Midnight, who of course don't know when to stand or sit (despite it being perfectly clear on the sheet) or when to respond, which can be a bit disconcerting. You never really know how many people will come on Christmas Eve, but it was a good turnout, in response to minimal publicity.
I have gained myself more tellings-off for music choices at Midnight than any other occasion, and it is clear that some carols are regarded by some members of the congregation as permanently fixed in particular spots in the Mass. So this year I was unadventurous. I ensured that we did sing some of those that make me cry, but not merely all my favourites. We even sang "While Shepherds" to "Winchester New", which is generally agreed to be the dullest carol known to mankind (I was nearly assaulted after setting it to "Lyngham" once) and I smiled cheerily.
We now have the altar at the top of the chancel steps, and it is tremendous presiding there, as you look out at the painted ceiling of the nave and up at the painted chancel vault and think of all the saints joining you in worship. The restoration has certainly been worthwhile from my point of view! Lots of the visitors have also been impressed, of course.
Morning Glory
There's always the chance that the morning Mass on Christmas Day will feel like an anti-climax after the excitement of Midnight, and it's often a struggle to get servers to turn out, but we usually get a decent congregation at St Peter's, and we sing some different (but still familiar) carols. As my brother-in-law stays, and actually listens to sermons, I have no chance of saying the same thing twice, so I usually spend the afternoon of Christmas Eve hoping to gain inspiration for the morning's sermon from the King's College Carol Service. I think we managed all right for ideas this year, but it can be a struggle to say something new (or something familiar in a new way). In fact the service was lovely, and special in its own terms. I was given more presents, including a couple of white teeshirts, which might seem odd, but that family have given me vests in the past, and it's terribly kind of them. At the end you can really say "Hodie Christus natus est!"
Thursday, 29 November 2018
OCCASIONAL OFFICES
At Home
It’s pathetic, the way one grasps at connection with
celebrity: I caught myself the other day referring to “my footballer”. The fact
is that we baptized the child of a professional footballer a couple of years
ago, and he (the footballer, not the child) is now playing in the Premier
League, and scored a spectacular goal a few weeks ago. Now the interesting
thing is that he isn’t famous, and has only started appearing in his team’s
starting eleven in the past few weeks, but has been with them for years, hardly
playing, but constantly being injured. I had supposed he must be pretty good,
or they wouldn’t have persevered with him for all this time, and it seems I was
right. I felt a ridiculous glow of pride when he scored, and now watch out for
him on Match of the Day.
I remember when I was a country parson in Cornwall the great excitement when a
footballer moved into one of my villages. Of course he played for Plymouth
Argyle (the Green Slime or the Scum, for the Exonians amongst us) which made
sense, as their ground was an easy twenty-minute drive away. The point nobody
made at the time was that he was the only black man for at least five miles around, but
then in Cornwall that wasn’t a cause for particular comment, since all incomers (like me)
were expected to be strange in some way or another. Our footballer here in W2
does not stand out in that way, but his residence makes less sense; he must
spend a lot of time in his car, but I suppose the Westway helps.
Generations
At another, more recent, baptism, one of my churchwardens
said to me, “There’s a great-grandfather here.” The old gent was frankly easy
to pick out, since he was obviously elderly and in a suit. He was also monoglot
Portuguese, so after “Bom dia” I didn’t have much chance of conversation. This
set me to thinking, though, because my churchwarden clearly thought this was
special, but I’m not sure that it was, round here. Because I still do a fair
number of baptisms for couples in their early twenties, whose parents are only
in their mid-forties, and I can assure you that nothing makes you feel more
ancient than discovering that you are older than the grandparents. I’m quite
sure that we’ve had a great-grandparent or two present on some of those
occasions, but it was perhaps less obvious because they weren’t amazingly old,
and so didn’t stand out. Young women are
having babies generally older, but it remains the case that if your
mother was young when she had you, you are much more likely to have a baby at a
young age yourself.
Successive governments have orchestrated moral panic about
“teenage pregnancy” (at one point when I was in Reading, my parish was supposed
to have had the highest rate of teenage pregnancy in Europe) but the fact
remains that the late teens is the time when women are most physiologically
suited to giving birth, and for some young women having babies is what they
actually want to do with their lives. Yes, that makes them economically
unproductive, but does that therefore make it an illegitimate choice? I
desperately want people to fulfil their potential, but even I have to recognise
that for some people that does not involve going to university; being a good
parent and building stable families seems like a worthy aim as well.
You Can’t Afford to Die
One of the strange things about ministry in central London is how few
funerals we do. Partly that’s down to the totally atypical religious and ethnic
diversity of the population, but also to its youthfulness. If you remember the
song, “Capped Teeth and Caesar Salad” (by Don Black from Lloyd Webber’s “Tell
me on a Sunday”) you may remember the lines, “The cost of land’s so high/ you
can’t afford to die./ If you feel bad there/ you dial a prayer” which was about
1980s Beverley Hills, but you can say the same for modern London. There are few
retirement homes, because, like pubs, they are relatively unprofitable ways of
using land. Meanwhile, older people often move out of London to be near their families (who cannot
afford to live here, or don’t want to bring up children in the metropolis). So
the result is that we don’t do many funerals.
There is also the slight
suspicion that some funeral directors have their favourite clergy, who are
undemanding, always available and sometimes allegedly from the same Lodge. I
am constantly amazed at how little effort many undertakers seem to make to even
find out the correct clergy to approach; you can discover anyone’s Anglican
parish at the click of your mouse these days, but funeral directors are, as an
industry, quite oddly resistant to computers. Meanwhile, the cost of a funeral
continues to go up, and it’s not pushed by our fees, which are fixed by Order
in Council and go up very modestly (and which go to the diocese to help pay our
salary). The cost of burial plots in municipal graveyards is increasing exponentially, as the authorities run out of space (as we won't do as our forefathers did and simply go back to the beginning and start again, and we've got headstones), and cremation does have a genuine cost, which increases with the price of fuel. The fact is, though, that it is an industry with very limited competition, and
a customer base who are not generally in the mood to shop around or argue the
toss about prices. I should say that I know that I have got good deals from the
undertakers I have dealt with, for which I am very grateful, but then I do know
a bit more about the business than the average customer.
Friday, 23 November 2018
DAYS AND NIGHTS
Open Day
We weren't able to take part in London Open House this year, as the church was still a building site, but now that we have the building back we are taking pains to show it off. Those who have been volunteering with the Project were among the first to see the restored interior, as we had a reception as a sort of "thank you" to them. That was also the occasion for the premiere of a series of short films made by local young people, responding to significant places in the neighbourhood, which will be shown on the screens in the foyer of the new extension. We had secured a little Arts Council money, which enabled us to employ a professional filmmaker who was able to work with the teenagers to turn their ideas into reality. They were generally interesting new takes on familiar places, with one that wasn't on our list; one group of youngsters made their film about Grenfell Tower, where they had lost friends. It's not Paddington, but it is only down the road, and very definitely a neighbouring community.
So, having given the volunteers privileged access, we threw a community open day, so anyone who fancied could come in, and lots did. My PDT colleagues did all the work, I just led some guided tours, but it was an excellent day. I was amazed at the numbers, and the variety of people who came; the first people I met were a baronet and his lady wife, and then I talked to an Eritrean mother. The conversations went on all afternoon. Among all the family activities (children making things from twigs) we also had a string quartet, and the delightful sight of a little Anglo-Caribbean boy dancing with the violinist as they played the Csardas will stay with me for a long time. We seem to be managing to continue to connect with a rich cross-section of local people, and the trick will be to continue to do that in the events and programmes that we put on when we're properly up and running (Easter, perhaps).
Infinitum Est...
That could be the motto of the building project (and frankly, most building projects) but actually it's the enigmatic message on the plinth of our War Memorial Calvary. An odd one, because it's not an obvious quotation. The Latin is simple enough, it means what it looks like, "It is not finished" or "It is endless/infinite". But the question is, what is "it"? Sometimes in Latin tags the verb is "understood", you don't need to write it because it's obvious, but that's less often the case with nouns, for obvious reasons. Here though, the subject of the sentence, the noun, is understood, though obviously we're not actually understanding it terribly well, otherwise I wouldn't be writing this. The two words we have tell us that the subject is singular ("est" is singular) and neuter (the "um" at the end of "infinitum" is the neuter ending) but whereas in English almost every noun is neuter, it's not the same in Latin, where masculine and feminine nouns are more numerous. So we are hunting for a singular neuter noun, that should be obvious when read on the plinth of a crucifix. Perhaps I am being obtuse, but it's proving difficult. Love, mercy, justice, suffering: all feminine. My ancient "O"-level Latin insistently supplies one neuter noun, "bellum" which means war. Could they have really meant that in 1929 when they erected the Calvary? If so, it was horribly prescient. There is a famous cartoon, beloved of historians, which was published at the time of the Treaty of Versailles in 1919, which shows Clemenceau, the French Prime Minister saying, "Curious, I seem to hear a child weeping," while behind a pillar is the crying child with the label "1940 class". The French general, Foch, famously described the Armistice as, "Not a peace but a twenty-year cease-fire" but I wouldn't have expected that analysis on an English war memorial.
I was rather expecting that someone would ask me what the inscription meant when we rededicated the Calvary the other day, but no-one did. Curious how words we don't understand become invisible. The whole school trooped out into Rowington Close, and I thanked everyone involved (including generous donors). Then the Acting Archdeacon re-hallowed the Calvary, and I led the Act of Remembrance. After the two minutes' silence, Year 4 presented a very affecting performance. I had been a bit concerned when I heard that two of the children were playing rats, but I should not have worried, as it was perfectly judged. Lucy Foster (our community involvement person for the Project) had achieved something really impressive with them. People were genuinely moved, and the children seemed to get the point.We were amazingly fortunate that we did this in the only dry sunny hour of a dark, wet, blustery morning.
Paradise
Last night I went to another fundraiser for The Avenues Youth Club, this time at the very fancy pub called Paradise in Kilburn Lane. It's a stylish pub, but I hadn't expected a Ten Commandments board on the upstairs landing (so you can check how many you've broken as you wait to collect your coat from the cloakroom?). It's at the Kensal Green end of Kilburn Lane, and so the name is taken from the G.K.Chesterton poem, "The Rolling English Road" ..."we went to paradise by way of Kensal Green." It attracted a very different crowd from the Joan Bakewell/Margaret Drabble evening, with a selection of DJs performing, and very loud music. The place is a rabbit warren, and seemed to absorb a vast number of (mostly trendy young) people. I had expected more dancing, but you can't predict the dynamics of that, I suppose. People seemed to enjoy themselves, and I hope The Avenues did well out of it. I had a good time, anyway.
We weren't able to take part in London Open House this year, as the church was still a building site, but now that we have the building back we are taking pains to show it off. Those who have been volunteering with the Project were among the first to see the restored interior, as we had a reception as a sort of "thank you" to them. That was also the occasion for the premiere of a series of short films made by local young people, responding to significant places in the neighbourhood, which will be shown on the screens in the foyer of the new extension. We had secured a little Arts Council money, which enabled us to employ a professional filmmaker who was able to work with the teenagers to turn their ideas into reality. They were generally interesting new takes on familiar places, with one that wasn't on our list; one group of youngsters made their film about Grenfell Tower, where they had lost friends. It's not Paddington, but it is only down the road, and very definitely a neighbouring community.
So, having given the volunteers privileged access, we threw a community open day, so anyone who fancied could come in, and lots did. My PDT colleagues did all the work, I just led some guided tours, but it was an excellent day. I was amazed at the numbers, and the variety of people who came; the first people I met were a baronet and his lady wife, and then I talked to an Eritrean mother. The conversations went on all afternoon. Among all the family activities (children making things from twigs) we also had a string quartet, and the delightful sight of a little Anglo-Caribbean boy dancing with the violinist as they played the Csardas will stay with me for a long time. We seem to be managing to continue to connect with a rich cross-section of local people, and the trick will be to continue to do that in the events and programmes that we put on when we're properly up and running (Easter, perhaps).
Infinitum Est...
That could be the motto of the building project (and frankly, most building projects) but actually it's the enigmatic message on the plinth of our War Memorial Calvary. An odd one, because it's not an obvious quotation. The Latin is simple enough, it means what it looks like, "It is not finished" or "It is endless/infinite". But the question is, what is "it"? Sometimes in Latin tags the verb is "understood", you don't need to write it because it's obvious, but that's less often the case with nouns, for obvious reasons. Here though, the subject of the sentence, the noun, is understood, though obviously we're not actually understanding it terribly well, otherwise I wouldn't be writing this. The two words we have tell us that the subject is singular ("est" is singular) and neuter (the "um" at the end of "infinitum" is the neuter ending) but whereas in English almost every noun is neuter, it's not the same in Latin, where masculine and feminine nouns are more numerous. So we are hunting for a singular neuter noun, that should be obvious when read on the plinth of a crucifix. Perhaps I am being obtuse, but it's proving difficult. Love, mercy, justice, suffering: all feminine. My ancient "O"-level Latin insistently supplies one neuter noun, "bellum" which means war. Could they have really meant that in 1929 when they erected the Calvary? If so, it was horribly prescient. There is a famous cartoon, beloved of historians, which was published at the time of the Treaty of Versailles in 1919, which shows Clemenceau, the French Prime Minister saying, "Curious, I seem to hear a child weeping," while behind a pillar is the crying child with the label "1940 class". The French general, Foch, famously described the Armistice as, "Not a peace but a twenty-year cease-fire" but I wouldn't have expected that analysis on an English war memorial.
I was rather expecting that someone would ask me what the inscription meant when we rededicated the Calvary the other day, but no-one did. Curious how words we don't understand become invisible. The whole school trooped out into Rowington Close, and I thanked everyone involved (including generous donors). Then the Acting Archdeacon re-hallowed the Calvary, and I led the Act of Remembrance. After the two minutes' silence, Year 4 presented a very affecting performance. I had been a bit concerned when I heard that two of the children were playing rats, but I should not have worried, as it was perfectly judged. Lucy Foster (our community involvement person for the Project) had achieved something really impressive with them. People were genuinely moved, and the children seemed to get the point.We were amazingly fortunate that we did this in the only dry sunny hour of a dark, wet, blustery morning.
Paradise
Last night I went to another fundraiser for The Avenues Youth Club, this time at the very fancy pub called Paradise in Kilburn Lane. It's a stylish pub, but I hadn't expected a Ten Commandments board on the upstairs landing (so you can check how many you've broken as you wait to collect your coat from the cloakroom?). It's at the Kensal Green end of Kilburn Lane, and so the name is taken from the G.K.Chesterton poem, "The Rolling English Road" ..."we went to paradise by way of Kensal Green." It attracted a very different crowd from the Joan Bakewell/Margaret Drabble evening, with a selection of DJs performing, and very loud music. The place is a rabbit warren, and seemed to absorb a vast number of (mostly trendy young) people. I had expected more dancing, but you can't predict the dynamics of that, I suppose. People seemed to enjoy themselves, and I hope The Avenues did well out of it. I had a good time, anyway.
Tuesday, 6 November 2018
GOLD AND BLACK
Gold Medallists
Our conservation architect, Oliver Caroe (the Surveyor of the Fabric at St Paul's Cathedral) entered us for the King of Prussia's Gold Medal, the major national award for church conservation. It was very pleasant to be shortlisted (and so one's friends saw it in the Church Times) but utterly dumbfounding to win the prize. They only gave you three tickets to the awards ceremony, so I went along with Beth Watson (from Caroes) and Lewis Proudfoot, from Cliveden Conservation, who actually did the work. The ceremony took place at St Jude's, Collingham Gardens, (behind Gloucester Road tube) which is the home of St Mellitus College, the Diocese of London's ministerial training wing, and since that building was also shortlisted for our award we were confident that we wouldn't win. That confidence was increased when we discovered that Prince Nicholas von Preussen, who was presenting the award, has a son who works with one of the contractors involved in one of the other projects. We were perfectly relaxed by the time Prince Nicholas came round to look at our display boards and asked a few, desultory, apparently uninterested questions. So we were completely unprepared when Prince Nicholas announced that the medal was being awarded to a Victorian church, which could only be us (and was).
Beth had done all the preparation for the ceremony, producing the display boards and a Power Point presentation to be shown in the event of one's winning. She did as she was told and produced a 10-slide presentation, to last 5 minutes. Then, on the day, our sheet of instructions said it was to be no longer than 2-3 minutes, and the slides would be moved on accordingly, but of course that didn't worry us as we knew we wouldn't be delivering a presentation. We did confer, though, as Beth really didn't want to do it, and so I said that, hypothetically, I would, if she would advise me of what the slides showed (as I hadn't actually seen them). So, as we walked up to receive the medal (and cheque) I was putting thoughts in order. It all went very well.
The ceremony also involved the award of the National Churches Trust President's Prize, which is for new work in a church, and that was presented by the Duke of Gloucester, so our sheet of instructions gave us etiquette for dealing with the royals. The Duke was very pleasant, but everything was so informal (and he's not the most immediately recognisable of the royal family) that none of us got our "Your royal highness" in on first meeting. As for Prince Nicholas, I huffed to my colleagues that it was all a bit rich, since his family ceased to be royal a hundred years ago, and he's not actually a prince of anywhere, and his surname is not von Preussen but Hohenzollern, so I'm not quite sure what etiquette applies beyond common politeness. It has to be said, though, that he was totally upper-class British, utterly charming, and lives in Knightsbridge.
Next year, we shall enter our new building for the President's Prize!
Men in Black
The awards ceremony was on Thursday, All Saints' Day, so the next day, All Souls', was the day of the Requiem. Our biggest event of the year is a High Mass of Requiem on All Souls' Day, celebrated with choir and full orchestra, doing a French Romantic setting. We have a nice set of black vestments for this, bought from the bequest of a deceased parishioner, who loved it, and which replaced a set that were falling apart. My friend Fr Martin Quayle usually comes to help as deacon, and Fr Frank acts as subdeacon. An old-fashioned ritual is part of the evening, as we try to use a nineteenth-century setting in an authentic way, but in a modern rite. This year we were singing the setting by Alfred Bruneau, which remained unperformed in England between its controversial premiere in 1896 and its revival at St Mary Mags in 1986. It is exceptionally loud, and jolly long. We break up the Dies Irae (in what I genuinely think is quite a creative way) to make it a bit more digestible, singing two movements during the intercessions.
There is always a lot of preparation for the Requiem, and Nicholas Kaye, who organises it, gets very tense. This year, the main anxiety was having only the temporary heating provided by our contractors, because the musicians get very grumpy about getting cold. We had also disposed of some chairs (expecting that our new chairs would have been purchased by now, which they haven't) so Nicholas had to hire in more seating than usual. A few unfinished repairs were also not aesthetically pleasing, but I did my best to see that we followed health and safety rules. With four hundred people in church one has to be reasonably careful.
I have always felt that the way most places use traditional Mass settings is silly, because you stand around in the middle of the Eucharistic Prayer while the choir sing the Sanctus and Benedictus, as a very long musical interlude (quite unlike a congregational setting, which is a snappy acclamation). In reality, the traditional way of doing it was that the celebrant continued the words of the Eucharistic Prayer while the Sanctus was being sung, as an accompaniment. In the past they weren't terribly concerned about the faithful knowing what was going on, but we provide a service sheet that explains everything and prints out the texts of what is being sung (and their translation) as well as what is being said quietly. The result of this is that we at the altar are going about the business of the Mass enveloped in this wave of sound, and you get some marvellous moments when the music reaches a climax (by pure chance) at the elevations. With Bruneau the Sanctus alone was long enough to cover the whole Eucharistic Prayer, so the Benedictus became a meditation for us (as it is meant to be). At the altar this is exhilarating, and spiritually uplifting, and often deeply moving. So at the end of the evening I was on an adrenaline high that lasted a while. It all went very well, despite my making a crass error (which fortunately had no consequences and hardly anyone noticed).
Our conservation architect, Oliver Caroe (the Surveyor of the Fabric at St Paul's Cathedral) entered us for the King of Prussia's Gold Medal, the major national award for church conservation. It was very pleasant to be shortlisted (and so one's friends saw it in the Church Times) but utterly dumbfounding to win the prize. They only gave you three tickets to the awards ceremony, so I went along with Beth Watson (from Caroes) and Lewis Proudfoot, from Cliveden Conservation, who actually did the work. The ceremony took place at St Jude's, Collingham Gardens, (behind Gloucester Road tube) which is the home of St Mellitus College, the Diocese of London's ministerial training wing, and since that building was also shortlisted for our award we were confident that we wouldn't win. That confidence was increased when we discovered that Prince Nicholas von Preussen, who was presenting the award, has a son who works with one of the contractors involved in one of the other projects. We were perfectly relaxed by the time Prince Nicholas came round to look at our display boards and asked a few, desultory, apparently uninterested questions. So we were completely unprepared when Prince Nicholas announced that the medal was being awarded to a Victorian church, which could only be us (and was).
Beth had done all the preparation for the ceremony, producing the display boards and a Power Point presentation to be shown in the event of one's winning. She did as she was told and produced a 10-slide presentation, to last 5 minutes. Then, on the day, our sheet of instructions said it was to be no longer than 2-3 minutes, and the slides would be moved on accordingly, but of course that didn't worry us as we knew we wouldn't be delivering a presentation. We did confer, though, as Beth really didn't want to do it, and so I said that, hypothetically, I would, if she would advise me of what the slides showed (as I hadn't actually seen them). So, as we walked up to receive the medal (and cheque) I was putting thoughts in order. It all went very well.
The ceremony also involved the award of the National Churches Trust President's Prize, which is for new work in a church, and that was presented by the Duke of Gloucester, so our sheet of instructions gave us etiquette for dealing with the royals. The Duke was very pleasant, but everything was so informal (and he's not the most immediately recognisable of the royal family) that none of us got our "Your royal highness" in on first meeting. As for Prince Nicholas, I huffed to my colleagues that it was all a bit rich, since his family ceased to be royal a hundred years ago, and he's not actually a prince of anywhere, and his surname is not von Preussen but Hohenzollern, so I'm not quite sure what etiquette applies beyond common politeness. It has to be said, though, that he was totally upper-class British, utterly charming, and lives in Knightsbridge.
Next year, we shall enter our new building for the President's Prize!
Men in Black
The awards ceremony was on Thursday, All Saints' Day, so the next day, All Souls', was the day of the Requiem. Our biggest event of the year is a High Mass of Requiem on All Souls' Day, celebrated with choir and full orchestra, doing a French Romantic setting. We have a nice set of black vestments for this, bought from the bequest of a deceased parishioner, who loved it, and which replaced a set that were falling apart. My friend Fr Martin Quayle usually comes to help as deacon, and Fr Frank acts as subdeacon. An old-fashioned ritual is part of the evening, as we try to use a nineteenth-century setting in an authentic way, but in a modern rite. This year we were singing the setting by Alfred Bruneau, which remained unperformed in England between its controversial premiere in 1896 and its revival at St Mary Mags in 1986. It is exceptionally loud, and jolly long. We break up the Dies Irae (in what I genuinely think is quite a creative way) to make it a bit more digestible, singing two movements during the intercessions.
There is always a lot of preparation for the Requiem, and Nicholas Kaye, who organises it, gets very tense. This year, the main anxiety was having only the temporary heating provided by our contractors, because the musicians get very grumpy about getting cold. We had also disposed of some chairs (expecting that our new chairs would have been purchased by now, which they haven't) so Nicholas had to hire in more seating than usual. A few unfinished repairs were also not aesthetically pleasing, but I did my best to see that we followed health and safety rules. With four hundred people in church one has to be reasonably careful.
I have always felt that the way most places use traditional Mass settings is silly, because you stand around in the middle of the Eucharistic Prayer while the choir sing the Sanctus and Benedictus, as a very long musical interlude (quite unlike a congregational setting, which is a snappy acclamation). In reality, the traditional way of doing it was that the celebrant continued the words of the Eucharistic Prayer while the Sanctus was being sung, as an accompaniment. In the past they weren't terribly concerned about the faithful knowing what was going on, but we provide a service sheet that explains everything and prints out the texts of what is being sung (and their translation) as well as what is being said quietly. The result of this is that we at the altar are going about the business of the Mass enveloped in this wave of sound, and you get some marvellous moments when the music reaches a climax (by pure chance) at the elevations. With Bruneau the Sanctus alone was long enough to cover the whole Eucharistic Prayer, so the Benedictus became a meditation for us (as it is meant to be). At the altar this is exhilarating, and spiritually uplifting, and often deeply moving. So at the end of the evening I was on an adrenaline high that lasted a while. It all went very well, despite my making a crass error (which fortunately had no consequences and hardly anyone noticed).
Tuesday, 23 October 2018
A BREATHLESS HUSH IN THE CLOSE
Wildlife Notes
We were kept awake on the Estate a few nights ago by a very loud and determined fox, evidently walking up and down between my house and the flats. There seemed to be another fox, somewhere distant, answering. It's very hard to describe the noise, but once you've heard it you recognise it. This time it was exceptionally loud. I eventually got out of bed, and from a front window watched the fox come out in front of the church and saunter away up the road, presumably in the direction of the other fox. One of my callers (from Golborne Road) remarked that she had been kept awake by what she was told were foxes, "Sounded like a baby!" she said, "Why do they do it then? Are they talking to other foxes?" I replied that I believe their intention is to meet up with other foxes. "Why's that then? I thought they didn't like other foxes!" I explained that I believe they want to get to know each other better. "Ooohh, yeah."
This is a real St Luke's Summer, for which God be thanked! In the late afternoon sun one day last week I was able to watch a lesser-spotted woodpecker on a rather weedy tree, and then on the wall of the flats behind me, which was a pleasant surprise.
The Ascension of Our Lord
Some of you will remember the War Memorial Calvary ("What have you done with Jesus?") and its structural problems that required it to be taken down three years ago (having been held up by scaffolding for more than fifteen years). The plan had been to restore it quickly as a visible sign of our intent for the whole church, but of course it didn't work that way. In fact that was just as well, because when we came to scaffold the outside of the church the whole of the sunken area over which the Calvary stood was filled with scaffolding, and the wooden cross had to be carefully placed against a wall. The cleaning of the exterior brick and stonework also produced a huge amount of dirty run-off, and it became obvious that if the Calvary had been re-erected in its place it would have got absolutely filthy. So, the fact that the (cast-iron) corpus was waiting in a forge somewhere in Sussex was a good thing.
The exterior scaffolding came down some time ago, and the specialist contractors began the process of reconstruction. Meanwhile, the corpus was restored to his original state. Martin Travers (who designed the Calvary in the 1920s) never stinted on bling if he got the chance, and so our cast-iron corpus was gilded. Now, Travers was more of a designer than an architect, which is perhaps why he had fixed the wooden cross onto a cast-iron beam. It was the rusting and subsequent distortion of this beam that had caused all the problems. So our contractors had to cast a nice new concrete beam, in situ, as the new base, which meant that lots of brickwork had to be taken down, making it quite a task. Then the old stone plinth had to be restored and re-erected, and then the wooden cross was oiled and put in place (which involved more scaffolding and a block and tackle).
Finally, last Friday, the corpus returned, in the back of a van. The gilder came with him, in case of touching up, and there were the men from the forge, and the contractors, and a man with a lorry with a hoist. They had the unenviable task of moving an extremely heavy cast-iron figure that was now covered in very delicate gold leaf and hoisting him up onto a cross about fifteen feet off the ground. Matters were not made easier by three cars ignoring our parking suspension; the contractors told me that one had actually been parked there while they were there, and the driver had just shrugged when told the bay was suspended. The result was that the hoist couldn't get very close, and they decided not to lift the corpus over the cars. Instead they carried him round in a circle, rising to a considerable height to get him round behind a streetlamp. Frankly, I held my breath. All was accomplished beautifully (though not without acute anxiety for the watching Vicar). They fixed his hands in place, but then came an alarming moment when the cross-beam flexed, and indeed the whole cross moved, which worried the contractors sufficiently for them to call the architect. They were reassured, and when his feet were fixed the whole structure became rock-solid. So now, for the first time in decades, the gilded figure of Christ presides over Rowington Close. Best of all, the job has been done in time for the centenary of the end of the Great War.
Back Home
We returned to worship in the main body of the church this weekend. Our Sunday Mass was exactly 150 years after Fr West celebrated the first Mass in the newly-built chancel, and 145 years after the building was consecrated by Bishop Jackson. It's not all finished, with three significant bits of repair work still to be done, and the lights not sorted out properly, but at least we are back, and you can see the brilliant ceilings. It was a deep joy to celebrate the Dedication Festival, and (I hope) to do it as Fr West would have wanted. We had a decent crowd, and a nice party afterwards, and people's joy and relief was palpable. The next thing is to get the new extension finished, so that the parishioners who have waited so long for level access and lavatories can finally come back as well.
We were kept awake on the Estate a few nights ago by a very loud and determined fox, evidently walking up and down between my house and the flats. There seemed to be another fox, somewhere distant, answering. It's very hard to describe the noise, but once you've heard it you recognise it. This time it was exceptionally loud. I eventually got out of bed, and from a front window watched the fox come out in front of the church and saunter away up the road, presumably in the direction of the other fox. One of my callers (from Golborne Road) remarked that she had been kept awake by what she was told were foxes, "Sounded like a baby!" she said, "Why do they do it then? Are they talking to other foxes?" I replied that I believe their intention is to meet up with other foxes. "Why's that then? I thought they didn't like other foxes!" I explained that I believe they want to get to know each other better. "Ooohh, yeah."
This is a real St Luke's Summer, for which God be thanked! In the late afternoon sun one day last week I was able to watch a lesser-spotted woodpecker on a rather weedy tree, and then on the wall of the flats behind me, which was a pleasant surprise.
The Ascension of Our Lord
Some of you will remember the War Memorial Calvary ("What have you done with Jesus?") and its structural problems that required it to be taken down three years ago (having been held up by scaffolding for more than fifteen years). The plan had been to restore it quickly as a visible sign of our intent for the whole church, but of course it didn't work that way. In fact that was just as well, because when we came to scaffold the outside of the church the whole of the sunken area over which the Calvary stood was filled with scaffolding, and the wooden cross had to be carefully placed against a wall. The cleaning of the exterior brick and stonework also produced a huge amount of dirty run-off, and it became obvious that if the Calvary had been re-erected in its place it would have got absolutely filthy. So, the fact that the (cast-iron) corpus was waiting in a forge somewhere in Sussex was a good thing.
The exterior scaffolding came down some time ago, and the specialist contractors began the process of reconstruction. Meanwhile, the corpus was restored to his original state. Martin Travers (who designed the Calvary in the 1920s) never stinted on bling if he got the chance, and so our cast-iron corpus was gilded. Now, Travers was more of a designer than an architect, which is perhaps why he had fixed the wooden cross onto a cast-iron beam. It was the rusting and subsequent distortion of this beam that had caused all the problems. So our contractors had to cast a nice new concrete beam, in situ, as the new base, which meant that lots of brickwork had to be taken down, making it quite a task. Then the old stone plinth had to be restored and re-erected, and then the wooden cross was oiled and put in place (which involved more scaffolding and a block and tackle).
Finally, last Friday, the corpus returned, in the back of a van. The gilder came with him, in case of touching up, and there were the men from the forge, and the contractors, and a man with a lorry with a hoist. They had the unenviable task of moving an extremely heavy cast-iron figure that was now covered in very delicate gold leaf and hoisting him up onto a cross about fifteen feet off the ground. Matters were not made easier by three cars ignoring our parking suspension; the contractors told me that one had actually been parked there while they were there, and the driver had just shrugged when told the bay was suspended. The result was that the hoist couldn't get very close, and they decided not to lift the corpus over the cars. Instead they carried him round in a circle, rising to a considerable height to get him round behind a streetlamp. Frankly, I held my breath. All was accomplished beautifully (though not without acute anxiety for the watching Vicar). They fixed his hands in place, but then came an alarming moment when the cross-beam flexed, and indeed the whole cross moved, which worried the contractors sufficiently for them to call the architect. They were reassured, and when his feet were fixed the whole structure became rock-solid. So now, for the first time in decades, the gilded figure of Christ presides over Rowington Close. Best of all, the job has been done in time for the centenary of the end of the Great War.
Back Home
We returned to worship in the main body of the church this weekend. Our Sunday Mass was exactly 150 years after Fr West celebrated the first Mass in the newly-built chancel, and 145 years after the building was consecrated by Bishop Jackson. It's not all finished, with three significant bits of repair work still to be done, and the lights not sorted out properly, but at least we are back, and you can see the brilliant ceilings. It was a deep joy to celebrate the Dedication Festival, and (I hope) to do it as Fr West would have wanted. We had a decent crowd, and a nice party afterwards, and people's joy and relief was palpable. The next thing is to get the new extension finished, so that the parishioners who have waited so long for level access and lavatories can finally come back as well.
Thursday, 18 October 2018
FROM WESTMINSTER, WITH LOVE
Loves, Labour's Won
Our "heritage pioneers" at St Mary Mags are an excellent lot. They have been researching local history (and aspects of the history of the church) for the Project website, and to provide us with the raw material for future exhibitions, and some have been trained in the techniques of oral history (by a professional) and have been out interviewing people. These interviews will provide an archive of local experiences, but will also be the material for the recordings in the "whispering walls" in the new building, places where you will be able to learn more about the recent history of Paddington from listening to people tell their stories.
The excellence of the heritage pioneers was demonstrated by the fact that they wanted to do more, and organised a pub quiz (partly to ask questions based on all the things they had found out), which they called the "Keeping It Local" quiz. This was held a couple of weeks ago in the Eagle in Clifton Road. This is the pub that used to be the Robert Browning, but I imagine Eagle was an older name, so I'm all in favour of that reversion to tradition. It seemed generally a fairly traditional pub, but they were happy for us to take over their upstairs room, which was a good venue for a quiz attracting thirty-five people. We organised ourselves in teams, and I was quite positive about the make-up of ours, with a wide range of knowledge and several people who were Paddington born-and-bred. I hadn't bargained with the presence of the Westminster Labour Party team, but when I spotted Cllr Dimoldenberg (who is an even bigger geek than I am) my heart sank. I also shouldn't have had that pint of beer (shockingly unprofessional, but I was trying to look relaxed). They beat us by three points, and maddeningly we knew three answers that we had got wrong through pure silliness and indiscipline. Helen didn't like me doing quizzes because I am such a bad loser, so when we have them, I usually help set the questions; here I enjoyed myself but came away sore. Did I shake Paul Dimoldenberg's hand? I did not.
The Heart of Westminster
The Dean of Westminster, Dr John Hall, is one of the smoothest and most charming clergymen in the Church of England (though Helen once got under his skin by asking too-probing questions after a lecture he gave about religious education). At Westminster Abbey he has assured his place in history by building the "Weston Tower" which gives public access to the Triforium, part of which is now a gallery to display some of the Abbey's treasures, and by commissioning a window from David Hockney, just installed. The Weston Tower is a very clever piece of work (designed by Ptolemy Dean, the telegenic Surveyor of the Fabric) which is tucked into a corner formerly occupied by some loos, and which gives astonishing views along the south elevation of the Abbey as you go up the stairs. I suspect that the conceit of using specimen pieces of every type of stone used in the Abbey's history will look rather twee in the future, but it's a pleasing touch. I can't say I like the metalwork that loops across the glazing; neither Gothic nor contemporary, but kitsch in my view. But, as I say, Dean Hall's place in history is assured (even if he misses out on a coronation).
In my view, though, the most important thing he has done is to raise the profile of religion at the Abbey. It's a building with tremendous history, it's always referred to as the church of kings, and is in fact the burial place of most of our medieval and early modern monarchs, and it also functions as a sort of national pantheon, as the actual burial place of such as Chaucer, Newton and Darwin, and the place of commemoration of countless other national heroes of one sort or another. It also contains, in Henry VII's Lady Chapel, the finest piece of renaissance sculpture in Britain (Henry VII's tomb, by Torrigiani), and indeed the Chapel itself is one of the most important works of art of its period anywhere. So it's not unreasonable that the Abbey should be a tourist attraction, and as a "Royal Peculiar" it doesn't have a very clear spiritual function, beyond ensuring that a daily round of worship is celebrated (not a trivial thing, but an alien concept for the managers who run the contemporary C of E). So, it's never been a great surprise to me that it mostly feels like a tourist attraction in which worship occasionally takes place (it's not alone in that) but Dean Hall has ensured that religion has been brought back. I don't know how much income the Abbey expects to make on a Saturday in October, but they have chosen, under Dean Hall's leadership, to forego one Saturday's receipts by closing the Abbey to tourists and making it a place of pilgrimage for the day. So it was that I went, with an intrepid band of parishioners, to the National Pilgrimage to the Shrine of St Edward the Confessor last Saturday.
Because of course the medieval abbey was intended as a place of pilgrimage, housing the shrine of England's royal saint, (famed for his gentleness and radiating the love of God for the poor) and it functioned in that way until the dissolution of the abbeys. At that point the shrine was destroyed, but the Confessor's royalness trumped his saintliness, and so his remains were not scattered (as happened at most English shrines) but reverently buried. Hence, the reconstructed shrine still contains the saint's remains, and the modern Abbey has created a day of pilgrimage, around the Confessor's main feast day, at which the Abbey is absolutely given over to prayer, devotion and worship. We walked down from Paddington (which took an hour and a half, on a beautiful warm, sunny morning) and arrived in time for one of our number to make herself a pilgrim badge, while others used the facilities. We then took our seats for the Solemn Eucharist, which was very well done (Mozart was sung and the Bishop of Ebbsfleet preached). Afterwards there was the opportunity to visit the shrine, behind the high altar, where incense was burning, candles were being lit, and people were kneeling in prayer in the niches beneath the saint's tomb, and around the space. Genuine devotion. Real prayer. That absolutely brought home why all those kings wanted to be buried as they are, in a ring around the shrine, close to the holy man, so full of the grace of God. After the vergers finished clearing up from the service the east end of the Abbey was opened up again, and you could pray in the chapels. The highlight was praying before the Blessed Sacrament exposed in the Lady Chapel. Actually you could see the Sacrament in the monstrance from a particular spot in the Sacrarium (the space around the shrine) which I would never have imagined, but was itself a very revealing detail, because the monstrance was placed on the Lady Chapel altar, that lovely little gem under its baldacchino in front of Henry VII's tomb. To be able to pray before our Lord, present in the Blessed Sacrament, in the very centre of power in this land (knowing that beyond the window in front of you was Parliament) was intensely moving and impressive. The silence there was stunning. That experience on its own was enough to justify all the nonsense. Last Saturday, for a few hours at least, the Lord was truly the heart of Westminster.
Our "heritage pioneers" at St Mary Mags are an excellent lot. They have been researching local history (and aspects of the history of the church) for the Project website, and to provide us with the raw material for future exhibitions, and some have been trained in the techniques of oral history (by a professional) and have been out interviewing people. These interviews will provide an archive of local experiences, but will also be the material for the recordings in the "whispering walls" in the new building, places where you will be able to learn more about the recent history of Paddington from listening to people tell their stories.
The excellence of the heritage pioneers was demonstrated by the fact that they wanted to do more, and organised a pub quiz (partly to ask questions based on all the things they had found out), which they called the "Keeping It Local" quiz. This was held a couple of weeks ago in the Eagle in Clifton Road. This is the pub that used to be the Robert Browning, but I imagine Eagle was an older name, so I'm all in favour of that reversion to tradition. It seemed generally a fairly traditional pub, but they were happy for us to take over their upstairs room, which was a good venue for a quiz attracting thirty-five people. We organised ourselves in teams, and I was quite positive about the make-up of ours, with a wide range of knowledge and several people who were Paddington born-and-bred. I hadn't bargained with the presence of the Westminster Labour Party team, but when I spotted Cllr Dimoldenberg (who is an even bigger geek than I am) my heart sank. I also shouldn't have had that pint of beer (shockingly unprofessional, but I was trying to look relaxed). They beat us by three points, and maddeningly we knew three answers that we had got wrong through pure silliness and indiscipline. Helen didn't like me doing quizzes because I am such a bad loser, so when we have them, I usually help set the questions; here I enjoyed myself but came away sore. Did I shake Paul Dimoldenberg's hand? I did not.
The Heart of Westminster
The Dean of Westminster, Dr John Hall, is one of the smoothest and most charming clergymen in the Church of England (though Helen once got under his skin by asking too-probing questions after a lecture he gave about religious education). At Westminster Abbey he has assured his place in history by building the "Weston Tower" which gives public access to the Triforium, part of which is now a gallery to display some of the Abbey's treasures, and by commissioning a window from David Hockney, just installed. The Weston Tower is a very clever piece of work (designed by Ptolemy Dean, the telegenic Surveyor of the Fabric) which is tucked into a corner formerly occupied by some loos, and which gives astonishing views along the south elevation of the Abbey as you go up the stairs. I suspect that the conceit of using specimen pieces of every type of stone used in the Abbey's history will look rather twee in the future, but it's a pleasing touch. I can't say I like the metalwork that loops across the glazing; neither Gothic nor contemporary, but kitsch in my view. But, as I say, Dean Hall's place in history is assured (even if he misses out on a coronation).
In my view, though, the most important thing he has done is to raise the profile of religion at the Abbey. It's a building with tremendous history, it's always referred to as the church of kings, and is in fact the burial place of most of our medieval and early modern monarchs, and it also functions as a sort of national pantheon, as the actual burial place of such as Chaucer, Newton and Darwin, and the place of commemoration of countless other national heroes of one sort or another. It also contains, in Henry VII's Lady Chapel, the finest piece of renaissance sculpture in Britain (Henry VII's tomb, by Torrigiani), and indeed the Chapel itself is one of the most important works of art of its period anywhere. So it's not unreasonable that the Abbey should be a tourist attraction, and as a "Royal Peculiar" it doesn't have a very clear spiritual function, beyond ensuring that a daily round of worship is celebrated (not a trivial thing, but an alien concept for the managers who run the contemporary C of E). So, it's never been a great surprise to me that it mostly feels like a tourist attraction in which worship occasionally takes place (it's not alone in that) but Dean Hall has ensured that religion has been brought back. I don't know how much income the Abbey expects to make on a Saturday in October, but they have chosen, under Dean Hall's leadership, to forego one Saturday's receipts by closing the Abbey to tourists and making it a place of pilgrimage for the day. So it was that I went, with an intrepid band of parishioners, to the National Pilgrimage to the Shrine of St Edward the Confessor last Saturday.
Because of course the medieval abbey was intended as a place of pilgrimage, housing the shrine of England's royal saint, (famed for his gentleness and radiating the love of God for the poor) and it functioned in that way until the dissolution of the abbeys. At that point the shrine was destroyed, but the Confessor's royalness trumped his saintliness, and so his remains were not scattered (as happened at most English shrines) but reverently buried. Hence, the reconstructed shrine still contains the saint's remains, and the modern Abbey has created a day of pilgrimage, around the Confessor's main feast day, at which the Abbey is absolutely given over to prayer, devotion and worship. We walked down from Paddington (which took an hour and a half, on a beautiful warm, sunny morning) and arrived in time for one of our number to make herself a pilgrim badge, while others used the facilities. We then took our seats for the Solemn Eucharist, which was very well done (Mozart was sung and the Bishop of Ebbsfleet preached). Afterwards there was the opportunity to visit the shrine, behind the high altar, where incense was burning, candles were being lit, and people were kneeling in prayer in the niches beneath the saint's tomb, and around the space. Genuine devotion. Real prayer. That absolutely brought home why all those kings wanted to be buried as they are, in a ring around the shrine, close to the holy man, so full of the grace of God. After the vergers finished clearing up from the service the east end of the Abbey was opened up again, and you could pray in the chapels. The highlight was praying before the Blessed Sacrament exposed in the Lady Chapel. Actually you could see the Sacrament in the monstrance from a particular spot in the Sacrarium (the space around the shrine) which I would never have imagined, but was itself a very revealing detail, because the monstrance was placed on the Lady Chapel altar, that lovely little gem under its baldacchino in front of Henry VII's tomb. To be able to pray before our Lord, present in the Blessed Sacrament, in the very centre of power in this land (knowing that beyond the window in front of you was Parliament) was intensely moving and impressive. The silence there was stunning. That experience on its own was enough to justify all the nonsense. Last Saturday, for a few hours at least, the Lord was truly the heart of Westminster.
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