c. 1999 Religion News Service
(Tom Ehrich is a writer and computer consultant, managing large-scale database implementations. He lives in Durham, N.C.)
LONDON _ Yes, I’ll admit it, I was a tourist on Sunday.
On my first trip to London, I walked as far as my legs and feet could endure. For the first time I had visuals other than movie scenes to go with countless books and plays I have read.
Reciting poetry to myself, I first went down to Buckingham Palace. Then on to Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, the Thames, numerous Embankments, Nelson’s Column, the Admiralty, in and out of squares, mewses, crescents and parks, plus a few plain old streets whose signs read like scenes from novels: Whitehall, Mayfair, Harley, Portman, Pall Mall.
Throughout my walk I was struck by how exuberant London felt. People seemed happy. Maybe the English are dour on cloudy days, but on this day, in brilliant sunshine, families played in parks; locals of a dozen skin colors carried ice cream cones; tourists from around the world gawked at London’s 19th century grandeur; old men walked dogs; old women sat in lawn chairs; lovers walked arm-in-arm.
At 11:26 a.m. I came upon Westminster Abbey and found that a sung Eucharist had just begun. A red-gowned marshal barring the gate agreed to let me in if my intent was to worship, which it was.
Inside, I was directed to the nave, from which one has a good view of a polychrome screen and Isaac Newton’s tomb but can see nothing of altar, clergy or choir beyond. So I listened _ to a visiting choir from St. James’ Episcopal Church in Los Angeles, whose rich tones echoed in the rafters; to a sermon that talked about suffering as if it were a matter of theory; and to a flawless rendering of Anglican liturgy.
I drifted off to prayer, and then searched my memory for historical fragments. On the way back from communion I suddenly found myself walking over the tomb of Charles Darwin.
It was the procession, however, that undid me. While an organist waxed eloquent, choir and clergy exited, led by a young verger gowned in red and black and carrying a golden tipped staff. The congregation stood, careful not to speak or make eye contact.
The verger actually seemed to be smirking as he glided self-importantly through the nave. The choir looked stiff, perhaps nervous, as they followed their assigned path. But more than that, they looked smug, as if they had just done something lesser ensembles could never do. The three clergy wore grim expressions, the sort one sees at holiday dinners when relatives leave a meal they hadn’t enjoyed sharing.
One priest took up a position at the door, where he nodded to me but kept his arms clenched to his chest.
Was this the”joy of the Lord”going out to proclaim the gospel? Outside in the sunshine happy children were shouting and people were connecting. But here, in that fellowship where supposedly”true joys”are to be found, where God’s immense love for humankind is the news at hand, the gray-faced visage of religious propriety had claimed the throne of grace.
The smirks and smugness didn’t dampen my mood for long. It was too pretty a day to linger over the annoyance of being patronized by religious paraders. But I did wonder at the strange disconnect between a sunny world outside and a cloudy world inside.
Jesus said that when the Son of Man comes in glory, he will”repay”the faithful for what they have done. In this instance, when the verger presents himself before the throne of grace, will Jesus smirk back at him? Will he relieve the glowering choristers of their elaborate vestments and ask what else of the gospel they had put on? Will he nod ever so slightly to the priest?
Or will Jesus do again at the last day what he has done every other day, namely, forgive and embrace? Will he teach the verger to smile? Will he teach the choir to do more than sing well, but to radiate Christian hope? Will he gently unlock the priest’s clenched arms and draw him into an embrace that will thaw his heart?
DEA END EHRICH