Lamplight in the Shadows

by Robert Jaggs-Fowler

  ‘Of course, this wonderful building helps.’

  ‘Indeed. Its fortunes were partially restored in the 19th century as part of the Oxford Movement, when men within the Anglican Church became the forerunners of the movement since then known as Anglo-Catholicism. Some of those priests had leanings towards the Benedictine Order and it was they who initially re-established Norton Abbey as a retreat for clergy within the Church of England.’

  ‘Good for them. I shall raise a glass of cider tonight in their honour.’

  ‘Absolutely! Paul has obviously briefed you about the important parts of life here.’ Smiling, he took hold of a bag and beckoned James inside. ‘Come; let me show you to your room. You must be tired after such a long journey and there will be plenty of time later for talking.’

  As they walked the corridors on the way to the dormitory side of the hall, Luke briefed his new guest on some of the more functionary aspects of life at Norton Abbey.

  ‘Most of our guests are on organised group retreats, but we do have a small number of individuals like yourself who are here to find their own way with solitude and prayer. Andrew Walker is one you might particularly care to meet; professional background like yourself, only he was originally training as a lawyer. We have a structured order of community worship in the chapel on a daily basis and you are welcome to join us as often as you wish. The chapel is open at all other times for private reflection and prayer. There will be a notice in your room giving the times, along with the refectory meal times.’

  They turned at the end of a corridor and took a short flight of stairs to the first floor.

  ‘I always think that it is best to have a room up here, as the views from the south-facing windows are most pleasing. Here we are; this is you, C10.’

  He stopped outside a small wooden door into which was set a rectangular hatch at head-height.

  ‘It reminds me of the entrance to a prison cell.’

  ‘Hence the letter C before the number; except in our case they are reflective of monastic cells. We started to call them rooms instead of cells a few years ago when the diocesan marketing boys thought the concept of a cell might sound too austere for 20th-century priests. Don’t worry about the inspection hatch; they are locked from the inside, so your privacy is ensured.’ He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Tea with cake will be served in the drawing room in about half an hour. Do come along and I will introduce you to some of the other guests.’

  ‘Thank you, Luke. I appreciate your welcome. I feel sure that the next two weeks here will be good for me.’

  ‘If it helps you unravel your tangled thoughts, then we will have done our job.’ He gave an open-handed wave and turned. ‘Until later.’

  Inside room C10, James surveyed his home for the next two weeks. A single bed was positioned in the middle of a polished-wood floor, the latter being devoid of coverings apart from a token beige rug on one side of the bed. A small bedside table supported an equally small lamp, along with a water glass, a decanter and a candlestick complete with a stub of a candle. In one corner was a washbasin, mirror and shaver socket, whilst in another stood an old, dark-brown wooden wardrobe combined with two drawers at its base. In front of the window of small, uneven glass panes and lead surrounds stood a writing desk and chair, alongside which was a well-worn armchair of the type frequently seen in gentlemen’s clubs from the twenties. Two unevenly faded green curtains framed the window. A freestanding, electric-fired oil radiator was the only visible means of heating, whilst the uneven magnolia-coloured plaster walls were bare except for a small, plain, wooden cross hung above the bed. A battered black leather-bound copy of the Bible lay on the desk and supplied the only other ornamentation to the room. It was clear that the diocesan marketing boys had only meant their upgrading of the product to be confined to the advertising. It seemed that absolutely nothing was present that might serve as a distraction to the singular purpose of Norton Abbey as a spiritual retreat.

  As he closed the door to his chamber of frugality, he spotted two notices pinned with brass drawing pins to the back of the door. The first stated:

  Chapel Times

  7.45 a.m. – Morning Prayer

  8.15 a.m. – Holy Eucharist

  12.30 p.m. – Midday Office

  5.30 p.m. – Evening Prayer

  10.00 p.m. – Night Prayer

  The second notice was in respect to the refectory:

  Meal Times

  8.45 a.m. – Breakfast

  11.00 a.m. – Coffee with biscuit

  1.00 p.m. – Lunch

  4.00 p.m. – Tea with cake

  6.30 p.m. – Supper

  To one side of the menu some wit had pencilled the words ‘Please note biscuit and cake are in the singular. Arrived well-nourished and spiritually hungry; left spiritually replete and 5lbs lighter.’ James checked his watch: 3.52 p.m. Deciding that the acquisition of a slice of cake was obviously the immediate issue, he left his unpacking for later, re-locked the door to his personal reformatory and retraced his journey to the ground floor in search of the drawing room.

  30

  A growing sense of discomfort in his right knee brought James back into the present. He twice shifted his position on the unyielding leather-covered hassock before deciding that a vertical position might be preferable. Easing himself backwards onto the thinly cushioned oak pew, he glanced towards a window in the south wall and was surprised to see that it was almost dark outside. A small clock above the door of the chapel registered half past four. Watching the second hand rhythmically pacing the relentless passage of time, he forced his thoughts into secular mode.

  He had skipped lunch, having stayed in silent prayer after the Midday Office. The few other attendees, recognising his need for solitude, left him alone. At first, he prayed using familiar liturgy, the prayers tripping through his mind like well-rehearsed subtitles for a silent movie. Only the movement of his lips had borne witness to the cerebral activity. After a while, with his learned stock of supplications exhausted, he had started to compose the disquieted jumble of thoughts that had burdened him since leaving Bishopsworth and Barminster one week previously. The need to present such ramifications to God necessitated a coherent train of thought, the sorting of which concomitantly serving as an analytical process in its own right. Over the ensuing hours his mind had increasingly clarified, until his knees had signalled that sufficient was enough.

  A shiver running between his shoulders and down his spine broke the hypnotic effect of the clock’s second hand. The Warden had lent him a black cloak soon after his arrival at the abbey; a gesture meant to assist in the induction of all new guests to life within a semi-monastic retreat. Grateful for the cloak’s warmth, he pulled its folds tightly around him. With the realisation that he had grown quite cold with his prayerful stillness came the further recognition that it was raining. The sound of water being driven against the limestone chapel walls and slated roof by a forceful wind made him yearn for the log fire of the abbey’s library. With nothing more to gain by prolonging his period of meditation, he forced his stiff body into a standing position, bowed equally stiffly in acknowledgement to the altar and left the chapel.

  Outside the protection of the chapel’s sanctuary, the wind snatched at his cloak, whipping the trailing edges into a dance of dervishes. Within seconds, the rain plastered his hair to his head before running in rivulets down his face and then finding numerous unsecured ways to send a cold stream of dampness down the back of his neck. He found the onslaught breathtaking, but also strangely invigorating. Bowing into the storm, he half-ran up the steps of the various terraces, splashing through unseen puddles on the stone flags, until he reached the vast entrance of the abbey. Once inside, with the heavy oak doors again closed, the silence was disorientating as the abbey’s thick walls buffered the noise of the storm. He hesitated for a moment in the entrance hall, still half-intent on going to the library. As he stood, a puddle grew on the floor about his feet. The growing realisation that he was soaked to
his underclothes made a hot shower the more attractive option and he set off down the now familiar corridors to his cell, leaving a trail of damp footprints in his wake.

  * * *

  ‘Dear Lord, please save us from a “do more, try harder religion”.’

  The Warden let a copy of The Journal of Religion slip to the floor as he raised his hands in despair. Seeing James enter the library and sensing a willing ear, he addressed his next comments to him.

  ‘James, why is it that even clerics have to be reminded of the desire to live by God’s grace alone? Why do elements of the Church persist in promulgating the concept that religion is all about the need to be doing more and trying harder?’

  Caught off guard, James found himself thinking on his feet as he tried to anchor the foundation of the argument.

  ‘Well, on a personal basis, the concept that there is always room for improvement has certainly been my nemesis for the entire duration of my formative years and beyond.’

  ‘Yes, but God alone is perfect. Nothing we do will make him love us more and nothing we do will make him love us any less.’

  ‘True; but I guess I feel I shouldn’t waste the gifts and opportunities I have been blessed to receive – and time seems so short.’ He poured a cup of tea from a pot set on a side-table and settled himself into an armchair opposite the Warden.

  ‘Also so very true. However, we serve Him from a place of rest; that is, we use our gifts for his glory, rather than earning our salvation.’

  ‘But what if it is really about fulfilling the task He set for us? When do we know we have truly accomplished it and deserve that rest?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think we ever finish, as such. Our lives are a constant outpouring and act of service for the great “well done” of heaven.’

  ‘So no real place of rest, then?’

  ‘Well, we already rest in God – take Hebrews 4, for example – but cannot physically rest whilst the Great Commission is not fulfilled.’

  ‘Hebrews 4?’ James’ face took on a puzzled expression as he struggled to recollect the text. Looking around he tried to locate a Bible on the myriad of shelves.

  ‘Second bay from the window, fourth shelf down.’

  The Warden resumed his reading of The Journal of Religion as James rose and walked across to the stated shelf, selected a somewhat battered copy of the Bible as published by the British and Foreign Bible Society and resumed his seat. As he flicked through the New Testament, a smell of mustiness exuded from the foxed pages. Having located the chapter, he read it through a couple of times before speaking.

  ‘Hebrews 4 speaks of the promise of entering God’s rest for those who believe. However, it then rather confusingly continues to say at 4:10 “for whoever enters God’s rest also ceases from his labours as God did from his”.’ He glanced quizzically at the Warden, who grinned at his obvious disquiet at not understanding the scripture.

  ‘So we work from a place of rest, knowing that we are loved by God and doing his work.’

  ‘I am still not sure that I get it.’ He re-read the chapter and then paused in thought, staring at a marble bust of Leonardo da Vinci, as though pleading with him for inspiration. After a further five minutes, he switched his attention back to the Warden. ‘Do I interpret “rest” as a noun as in, “supported by” God, rather than as a verb meaning “to relax”?’

  The Warden gave another of his knowing smiles. ‘That’s the one!’

  ‘Right.’ He relaxed a little, pleased to be finally redeeming himself. ‘The penny finally drops. I clearly started with a false premise. Now your original statement makes sense, as does Hebrews 4:10. It certainly set me a puzzling mental conundrum.’ He paused as another man entered the library, poured a drink and walked towards them.

  ‘Theology; the science of the kings. Good evening, gentlemen. Do you mind if I join you?’ He gestured towards a nearby chair.

  ‘Not at all, Andrew. I had been hoping to introduce you to James at some stage. James, this is—’

  ‘Andrew Walker.’ He interrupted the Warden and held out a hand to James. ‘One-time fledgling lawyer; now a rather lost and confused sheep-who-would-be-shepherd… but that is a long story perhaps for another time. I couldn’t resist listening to your rather interesting conversation.’

  James chuckled. ‘I am not too sure if it was much of a conversation; more a case of me trying to solve a puzzle.’ He looked from Andrew to Luke. ‘Ok, to help me restore some credibility, let’s go back to the start. If the Great Commission is unfulfilled, surely it’s still our duty to “do more and try harder”?’

  ‘Ish… But we work not in our own strength but in His strength, that is from a place of rest, with the Holy Spirit.’ He jutted a finger in James’ direction before verbally flinging his next statement at him. ‘Zechariah 4:6.’ His demeanour clearly registered his delight at now having an audience of two for his repartee.

  James took up the Bible and settled back into the depths of the winged chair, feeling more relaxed and enjoying the repartee now. He swiftly found Zechariah, the penultimate book of the Old Testament, and started to read chapter four, verse six.

  ‘“This is the word of the Lord… not by might, nor power, but by my Spirit…” So, a man alone can only achieve doing more by exerting much greater physical effort, which can never be as powerful as the resulting strength of working with the Holy Spirit? Or, in other words, if we live a life of grace, we ultimately achieve much more than by simply and physically doing more and trying harder?’

  ‘Bingo!… Oh, in the non-gambling sense, of course.’ He gave a rueful smile at his lapse of clerical decorum. ‘However, religion that drives us to do more and try harder, and which is really idolatry, is a compelling counterfeit.’

  ‘Whereas,’ Andrew interjected, ‘what we should really be advising people to do is to find out what God is doing and join in, pointing out that it worked for Jesus. John 5:19, for example.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  All three men were clearly now enjoying what had started as a cry of despair, but had since become an erudite game. James chuckled and flipped the pages forwards to the Gospel of St John. However, before reading he responded to the bait laid by his learned adversary.

  ‘A compelling counterfeit? You mean that we willingly displace a belief in the human spirit for a belief in God. Yet, man is made in God’s image, so we self-deceive if we act as though we are inferior to God?’

  ‘I agree with your first sentence, but not with the second. For us to act as though we are equal with God would be wrong – even Jesus didn’t do that, as St Paul’s letter to the Philippians reminds us in chapter two, verse six: “Christ Jesus… though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped…” if I remember the text correctly. Therefore, I suggest that humility in service is the way forward.’

  ‘I’m comfortable with that and confess to being less so with my own original statement. However, I am still struggling to see how religion then becomes a counterfeit.’

  Andrew responded. ‘Real faith, that is a relationship with Jesus, demands so much more than simple religion ever does.’ He leaned towards him, his hands gesticulating to emphasise his words. ‘By religion, Luke means when rules, regulations and form matter more than service and worship.’

  ‘Agreed.’ Luke drew James’ attention. ‘That was the Pharisees’ problem. Religion can become something that absorbs us more than the beloved does; not to mention offering a sometimes more palatable alternative to real faith and a relationship with Jesus that demands so much more than religion ever does.’ As he spoke, the Warden made quotation marks in the air every time he enunciated the word religion.

  ‘So, are you suggesting that, by following a rote pattern of worship, we deceive ourselves and are thereby doing nothing more than paying lip service to the real thing? Hence the “compelling counterfeit”?’

  ‘Not quite. I am not anti-liturgy and every church has an established pattern or form of wor
ship; even those that say they do not. I think the counterfeit is investing more in the form than the essence of our worship.’

  ‘Perhaps I should have said merely following a rote pattern – meaning that fools us into thinking it is enough?’

  ‘Then I would agree.’ A smile again creased his face. It was confirmation to James that he was being teased, albeit academically. ‘Psalm 51:16-17 hints at what I mean. I can bring you a gift – out of duty/obligation – but not love you in my heart…’

  ‘Phew, we got there at last.’ Andrew grinned and sat back in his chair. ‘Be careful what you say next, Luke. It could provide James with a fresh controversy!’

  The Warden returned the grin. ‘My lips are zipped.’ He reached into an inside jacket pocket and withdrew a diary. ‘Looks like my so-called “day off” tomorrow includes a two-hour meeting with the Bishop. It’s all caught up with me then!’

  ‘Just tell him that you’ve earned your rest by sorting out Perplexed of Bishopsworth.’

  The Warden’s laughter was this time loud enough to raise glances from one or two other occupants of the library. ‘Do you mean to say that I have already helped you to resolve the conundrum of your future in the Church, James? If I have, then I am doing better than with young Andrew here.’

  James glanced at the wall clock. As he did so, its internal mechanism made a faint noise as sprockets turned and a weighted chain shifted, before emitting a deep, muffled ‘dong’ signifying the half-hour.

  ‘No, you are quite right; we mustn’t keep the kitchen waiting,’ the Warden interjected before either of the two men had a chance to respond. As he spoke, he folded the newspaper and slid it into a Canterbury-style magazine rack at the side of his chair. ‘Come on, you two; the dinner hour calls.’

  * * *

  The refectory at Norton Abbey was a rectangular-shaped, high-ceilinged, wood-panelled hall, the panelling depicting a variety of armorial shields of past priors and other luminaries in the history of the abbey. Down the centre of the room a wooden refectory table with accompanying benches either side was positioned below a glassed cupola. At an earlier hour of the day, the only other source of natural light came from high-set, stained-glass windows. Smaller tables, set for one, two or four persons, were arranged around the periphery of the room. It was to a table for four, in a corner away from other diners, that the Warden led James and Andrew. There, following the saying of a simple Grace, a waitress served them three successive courses, which they consumed in silence.