Tom wandered over to the window. A clear morning, crisp and bright with winter sun. Down on the ground, a small movement, and a flicker of flame, Sr. Adelaide busy over a brazier, a large basket of palm crosses beside her. He stood there a few minutes, watching them and considering, and then headed next door to Ruth’s office.
She glanced up at his entry. “Read it?”
“Yep. I… don’t know. That is, I don’t know how to comment, there’s nothing I could improve on. It’s hard reading. Which is the point.”
“It is.” She glanced up at him. “Are you okay?”
He lets out a forced laugh. “Just about! I’ve just read your sermon on the extent of my sin, how I’m leaving Christ to die, that’s going to take a little while to process – before I get to hear it again tomorrow evening. And I still need to tidy up my own homily for tomorrow.”
“Ah yes. Sorry, should have waited until you were done with that.”
“It’s fine, yours is far more important anyway. But it’s going to suck some of the fun out of the pancake party.”
“The pancakes are a celebration of God’s abundant love, which is made more apparent in the knowledge of our sinful nature…”
Tom rolled his eyes at her. “And chocolate eggs symbolise the empty tomb.”
She snorted. “You don’t need to hear my response to that.”
“No.” He looked down. “What’s it like, writing a sermon like that?”
“Um… shall we say, I’m condemning myself too? So it’s hard. I don’t feel I have the right to say it, but at the same time I have the responsibility. I started writing it two weeks ago, that should give you some idea. You know I never do confirmation ones until the day before.”
“It shows – that you’ve spent two weeks on it, I mean.”
“It’s also hard because I know I’ll be speaking to a lot of good people. People who do care, who do all kinds of little things, who would do more if they knew how. I feel guilty, rebuking them when at least they’re doing something.”
“It’s all true, though. And you talk about grace and the need for God’s help. What’s the point in Lent if we’re just going to pretend we’re self-sufficient? Anyway, you’re not making accusations, just prompting our consciences, and if our consciences can be prompted? Then there’s some truth in there. Even if I don’t like it.”
She nodded. “That’s the aim. I haven’t written one like this in… a while?”
“Can’t say I ever have. Wouldn’t have either the confidence or the authority to pull it off.”
“Give it another twenty years or so. Anyway, enjoy your pancake party. Sorry I can’t be there.”
“We’ll think of you, labouring away at Martha’s Kitchen.”
“Oh, that’ll be fun too. They’re expecting double numbers this year, their regular attendance is up so much.”
“No surprises there. The ability to buy one’s own food being a luxury these days.”
“Well, precisely.” She shook her head. “Enjoy yourself. All the staff have earned it. Build everyone’s strength up for Lent…”
And so they did. The catering staff had made the batter that morning, so it was ready when the entire office made their way up as a body after the midday Eucharist. Tom hung back by the door, grinning as some of the younger staff descended on the frying pans, and listened to arguments about the ‘correctness’ of different toppings. Karen slipped past him with a camera, and Kath was a few minutes behind, having been slowed down by the need to remove vestments. She leant against the wall next to Tom.
“Definitely a favourite tradition.”
“I’m going to miss this place.”
“We’ll miss you too. Able to tell us where you’re going yet?”
He shook his head. “Next week, probably. We're sorting out paperwork.”
“I'd better stop talking about it within earshot of other people, then.” She squeezed his arm. “Moving’s always hard, but it’s exciting, if God’s calling you to do so. Off to fresh green pastures.”
Tom suppressed a memory, of Ruth complaining about hay fever and ants. She was a unique person. “No looking back. Wouldn’t want to end up like Lot’s wife!”
“Well, I hope you’ll still think of us...”
“Of course, it’s been a great few years. I’m just not quite ready to settle down yet.”
“I’d be disappointed if you were. Now, sorry, I’m going to make sure they leave me some gluten free…”
She left Tom standing by the door for only a few seconds, before he was spotted and called over. “Tom, come and show us how it’s done!” Grinning, he crossed the kitchen to take possession of a frying pan. Pancake tossing was a skill he’d mastered at theological college, under the instruction of insistent fellow ordinands, and had served him well in curacy. The question was whether he could still manage it, now that his balance wasn’t affected by leaning on a crutch – and yes, he could, by his second attempt.
Once he’d been released from his cooking duties, he slipped over to sit beside Holly, who was in a group already eating. She’d need to be back at the front desk soon, unfortunately.
“Hi. How’s it going?”
She waved an apologetic hand in front of her face as she finished chewing her mouthful.
“Sorry, shouldn’t interrupt you…”
“Mmmm… sorry, it’s fine. It’s nice to get together like this.”
“It is. Is it going to be pancakes round two with Nicholas this evening?”
“No, sadly not. Tuesday dinner is chicken and rice, he won’t have it otherwise.”
“Of course. Not worth any drama. Maybe when he’s older.”
“Hopefully. He’s getting better. Managed to introduce fish and chips on Fridays without too many meltdowns, which is worth it for the variety in my diet. Apparently he talks in lessons, if it’s something he’s interested in. And he talks at home now, does his chores unless he’s in a very bad mood, will come to the shops without a complete meltdown… like, I finally feel like I can get through this.” She smiled at him. “Thanks. For, like, all your help. I don’t know how I’d have done it, it was a mess last year.”
“There will always be people here to help,” he told her, “or just if you need to vent. Keep it up, you’re doing a great job.”
“I do worry about how he’ll grow up. How things’ll end up for him. It’s not a nice world.”
“Oh, I know. But I know you’ll do your best by him, and there are plenty of people who adjust enough to get by. Hopefully the country will be kinder by the time he’s heading out into it, too.”
“I pray it will, every day.” She finished her pancake and stood up. “Thanks, Tom. I’d better get back now.”
“Sure. Back to the front lines. See you.”
Everyone else had another half an hour, though some drifted back to desks and urgent work. Tom hung around until the room was half empty and he’d spoken to everyone left, and then headed back to his own office. His email account was overflowing, again, so that had to be dealt with before he could write his homily. Then some research, for a Lent talk Ruth would be giving in a couple of weeks. Some unnecessarily early preparations for the World War Two centenary commemorations in four years’ time. Finally, he dropped Megan a text.
Free this Saturday if I can be useful.
The reply was quick.
Esther sorts things not me, should be useful tho. U text her or want me to talk to her?
He shot a message back.
You at the camp?
no, work
Will ask her. Sorry to bother you
nw :) see u then xx
He emailed Esther. It didn’t really make sense, going all the way to London when he could do stuff nearer home, but they probably needed most help, due to being the biggest? Anyway, he knew people at the London camp, which meant he had the selfish draw to see them again. Megan and the kids especially.
Ash Wednesday. Appropriately overcast, a thin mist of drizzle with hints of snow. The chapel was in shadow when he arrived, little daylight penetrating the stained glass, just the tiny glimmer of the presence lamp in the sanctuary. The flowers were gone, the altar hung with purple. At the far end, an extra hint of purple, laid prostrate on the sanctuary step. He slipped into a pew by the door and sat in silence. He was early.
Ruth moved at about ten to eight, to kneel in front of her accustomed seat. She hadn’t noticed him, and he didn’t move until Sister Adelaide arrived and went to light the candles. Then he moved forward, to find a prayer book and shift a ribbon to the “Morning Prayer in Lent” page. The other staff were drifting in, now, some with dignity and others clearly half asleep, just like any other morning.
At eight they were gathered, and Tom broke the silence. “Morning Prayer begins on page two hundred and thirty eight. Our psalm is number thirty eight, which begins on page seven hundred and three, and during the intercessions we will pray the litany on page four hundred.” He let them search for pages. “We will begin with a moment of quiet…”
It was a long day, especially for Ruth, who departed straight after Morning Prayer for a school and then a care home visit. At lunch time, she had a service at the home for retired clergy, leaving him to celebrate at Bishopthorpe. Then emails and meetings, for both of them, and finally they drove to the Minster.
Entering through the side door, a verger spotted them almost immediately and made a beeline across the Minster, weaving expertly around the last few straggling tourists. The choir were already rehearsing, harmonies weaving into the echoes of the building. At the West end, shadowy figures sat in small groups, silhouettes blurred with blankets. A couple of visitors hung back to watch the choir and were quickly moved on towards the door by a cathedral volunteer. Tom and Ruth were accompanied the other way, towards the vestry, where a veritable crowd was gathered – the entire Cathedral Chapter, excluding Mark, and a huddle of servers. A couple of vergers slipped past bearing handfuls of silverware.
Tom and Ruth were the last to arrive, so as soon as they were dressed in cassocks, Stephen Winterfield gathered them together. “Welcome, everyone, it’s good to see you all. Thanks to Archbishop Ruth for being here to preside and preach.” The dean dipped his head politely, and Ruth nodded back. “We’ll give the vergers a minute to finish setting up and then do a run-through of movements at the altar. The choir already know what they’re doing. Now, you’ve already got your orders of service, any comments or queries?”
There were a couple, about distribution stations and ablutions and the like, and then Stephen handed over to the canon precentor for the walkthrough. Tom focused on going through the service book, adding in a few annotations. It was strange, to remember that he didn’t have to make allowances for his crutch – it had been a part of his life for so long, for his entire career as bishop’s chaplain. They’d always been good about making reasonable adjustments, and it was strange not to need them, to be working out how to do everything ‘normally’. Did it make them see him differently, now? A sense of ah good, he’s fixed? It did seem as though they paid so much less attention to him now, just let him fade into the background behind the Archbishop, the way things should be.
The quire of the Minster, in augmented candlelight, was almost full when the service began, including the extra rows of chairs. Almost surprising not to be using the nave altar for this, particularly with the Archbishop present, but then it was a weekday evening, this was as good a congregation as they might hope for. Some of the seats near the back held a few of the more ragged attendees, those who now slept each night on the Cathedral’s stone floor. There were others still in the nave, too, in mounds of bedding.
The introit was a recent composition, the only part of the service that was, filled with lush yet haunting strains. Ruth spoke the opening words of the liturgy, then they returned to their places, sitting and gazing up at the soaring vaults above while readers delivered the lessons. Then Ruth ascended the pulpit, and Tom turned his attention to her, as she began by repeating the words of Isaiah, from the first lesson.
"Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke? Is it not to share your bread with the hungry, and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover them, and not to hide yourself from your own kin?"
“May I speak in the name of the living God, who is Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”
The murmured “Amen” died away, leaving a moment of silence.
“Ash Wednesday marks the start of the observation of Lent, a season of self-examination, penitence, self-denial, study, and preparation for Easter. A time for learning, through self-discipline and study, through prayer and through the reading of Holy Scripture, so that through deeper understanding we may see the ways in which we grieve the God of love and may seek reconciliation, and so may know the peace of unity. It is a challenging time, as we take up the cross and so come face to face with the realities of our own nature - with sin, with suffering, with our own mortality. And yet in embracing it, in walking the long road to calvary, we paradoxically draw closer to that which Christ has promised - Life, in all its fullness.”
He'd already read it, so he let his mind wander, growing out from her words. How could he do more? Could he find the strength to do what he really needed to, to throw away comforts and live only on the bare minimum? Was even that enough, or was the only way to give it all up in the style of the monastics? He couldn’t do it, that wouldn’t be asked of him would it? But outside of that, giving up everything would leave him one more mouth to feed, surely that wasn’t the answer?
It was so easy to make excuses. He needed things to do his job, his job benefited others because… he just wasn’t up to it, was he? Whatever good resolutions he made, he wouldn’t follow through.
“Christ is in those who are abandoned, who are sick, who are hungry and naked and imprisoned, in all who are suffering. For he has said it and will say again: "I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not give me clothing, sick and in prison and you did not visit me." And we answer him, "Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not take care of you?" Then he will answer us, "Truly I tell you, just as you did not do it to the least of these, you did not do it to me." Yes, Christ tells us, as they starve I starve, as they freeze I freeze, as they die... I die.
“Now, in our time, is the biggest humanitarian crisis this country has seen in over ninety years - and there have been enough competitors. In a country where illness plunges a family into debt, where regular meals are a luxury for half the population, where children burn their toys to keep from freezing to death. How can we profess and call ourselves Christians when we will not speak as Christ is condemned? How can we sit here, in this Cathedral, knowing that he is outside, hanging on his cross? How can we say that we are his followers when we will not even mourn his passing? We read of the disciples who fled in fear, we see their shame… how much greater is our shame! At least they took his body and laid it in the tomb, and wept at his passing.”
He could see Emily Grace, the tiny bundle too tired to cry as the drop of water touched her head. Anyone could have saved her, could have taken her and her parents in, they’d only have needed a room, a bed or even a sofa, even the floor would have been enough if it was warm and dry, not a tent in the snow. Why did nobody do it? Because they all thought it was somebody else’s decision to make, that some good person held the responsibility. And here Ruth was, reminding them that it was their responsibility, that if they had anything they could share it.
“We have fallen short. Every one of us has failed to do that which is asked of us. Will the master praise the servant who has done only what they ought to have done? And if they have done something extra, will he not say, "why did you spend your time on that, and not on doing that which I commanded you to do?"
“And yet God is not angry - for as Mother Julian of Norwich wrote, if God could be angry even for an instant we should never have life. Yes, if God were angry, we could not live, because God's power is so great that we would be consumed in a moment. And so we know that in spite of all, God is not angry, although we abandon Christ himself, who has given so much for us. Does it not feel easier, to imagine anger and punishment, because then we have a sense of justice? But in the knowledge of God's mercy, in the face of our own utter failure, we feel that we owe everything, and so are reminded of our smallness before our creator. In a few minutes you will receive this reminder again, with the cross of ash on your forehead - you are dust, and to dust you shall return. There are two ways to receive this knowledge - in despair, at the futility of existence; or in awe, that God reaches down so far to raise us up, that he offers not only life but love. And while he commands us with duty, and allows us to fail, even this is a gift. If we lived in pure bliss, would we not be frustrated at our inability to offer anything in return? And if we did not fail, then how could we know his mercy? But God offers us a role to play in the sharing of his love, and in it the opportunity to be like and united to God.”
I’m sorry, he prayed silently. I’m sorry, I’m useless. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it, but I’m useless, I can’t do it by myself.
He saw the bowed heads around the Cathedral, eyes closed and eyes staring into space. The choristers, staring at her, remarkably used to such concepts considering their age. Ruth was a good preacher, he thought absent-mindedly; obviously, that was part of why she had this job. She might well have a shot at Canterbury, actually, if Richard went soon. Certainly had the presence for it.
“There is a part of the Christian life which is spent gazing upwards, into heavenly courts, our eyes fixed on saints and angels, searching for a glimpse of the Almighty One who is there enthroned. We hold onto a promise for the future, of the joyous moment when we too may take our place in those hallowed halls. But what do we see when we look? A shimmer of a promise? A hope, imprinted by our own expectations, hidden behind a cloud of years? Who among us can see the future? If in this Holy Lent we wish to see and walk with God, it is time to draw our eyes down. God is already here, ready to be seen.”
He’d washed off the ashes from earlier so he could receive them again. As he waited, he traced a hand across the almost-healed scar on his knee; and then the moment came and for the first time in so, so many years, he knelt, supporting himself with his hands on the rail as emotion slammed into him. Those words, murmured again and again to others in the line, each of them by name, remember that you are dust. And then Ruth stepped in front of him, her thumb cold on his brow as she marked him with ash, her voice soft.
“Tom, remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return: turn away from sin and be faithful to Christ.”
He returned to his place and watched as Ruth attended to the choir, reminding nine-year-old choristers of their mortality… well, age was no protection.
The psalm was passed around the Cathedral, from the tenor cantor in the lady chapel beyond the high altar, to the main body of the choir in their stalls, to the quartet floating top C’s from the top of the King’s Screen. Strange, how music had such power to invoke emotions. He stared up at the cross, at the candle flames flickering to each side, and it was as though every emotion he'd felt over the past couple of months came flooding through him: the operation, the camps, the prospect of a new job, the grief that never went away. On his brow, the ashes seemed to burn, and he could hear Ruth's voice repeating the same words again and again. The candle flame flickered. Remember that you are dust. His leg ached softly, a reminder that it was still healing. The emotions ebbed away. Ruth wiped her hand clean, the briefest glance in his direction before she bowed her head in silent prayer. Silence fell, and he knew that somewhere in that silence was God.
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