Photo: detail of ceiling at the church of St Germain des Prés, Paris. [Mr G]
One of my pastimes is to be a ‘groupie’ with a local choir which includes friends. Last weekend we went to Paris where they presented two concerts and a musical involvement in the Saturday Mass at St Sulpice. It is currently acting as the Cathedral whilst Notre Dame is being restored. At the first concert, in the church of St Germain des Prés, some of the sopranos noticed a spider hovering over the choir as they sang. It had travelled quite a distance from the ceiling but by the end of the concert, it had disappeared. So I wrote this poem….
A Spider goes to a Concert.
Down came the Spider Abseiling intrepidly, hanging by its own thread, precariously, from the church roof. It stops. Hovering over music ascending from collective voices. Sounds made by practiced singers. “Look, a Spider”, a soprano points out between pieces. but the Concert builds to its final crescendo. No time to spend on Spiders. As the music fades, the concert ends and the Spider is gone.
Not a Spider at all, but an Angel, taking up the music to heaven, for God to enjoy!
[Mr. G.]
Inspired by a spider who came to a concert by The Felicitas Choir at the church of St Germain des prés Paris. 27th Oct 2022)
Those of us who live in the Northern Hemisphere began the season of Autumn at the end of last week. The day is known as the Autumn ‘equinox’ or, more technically, the ‘astronomical equinox’
‘Equinox’ is the day when daylight and darktime hours are equal. This happens twice a year in Spring and Autumn. The word ‘equinox’ comes from two Latin words, aequus which means, equal and nox which means night.
The initial effect is that we notice the nights are darker for longer and there is generally a drop in temperature. Nature begins to adjust accordingly. Many birds migrate whilst other birds arrive to over-winter. Many animals hibernate (just as, in this season and, in winter many of us would like to do so also!) Biologically the pace of life slows. For some it isn’t a happy season but for others it has a magic of its own.
The countryside, forests, woods and parkland areas of towns are ablaze with colour as the leaves of the trees put on their autumn garb. They are stunning signs of summer’s end and the onset of winter as the trees become skeletal. Not everyone enjoys this time of year. Those beautiful leaves, golden, red and bronze are fluttering to their death.
A poem, I was once given, expresses a poignancy about this process of autumnn and deepens the message.
‘When I am King I’ll wear a robe of autumn gold and deep blue sky and tell my fierce red subjects ‘Hold up your rich dying, do not die For I’m your King.’ but they’ll reply Such robes are only won by dying.
The poem was composed by a young man who was diagnosed with an illness for which there was no cure. It was a powerful comment on his own impending death, but not in any morbid or fatalistic way. It ends on a note of hope. There is no way we can hold up the natural order of things as season moves into season. Nor can we hold up the process of our own dying which is as inevitable as that of the leaves falling from the trees. But it is how we view, or bear, this process of dying which matters. As Christians, death should be viewed as a positive experience which ought not to frighten us. Gilbert Shaw, an amazing guider of souls wrote:
God’s gift is death as well as birth: No man can close the open door, Through which the soul must pass from earth, To meet unveiled the LOVE that waits.
The open door, through which we pass from death to life eternal where LOVE, who is God, awaits us, in Christ Jesus. In His dying Jesus put on the robe of autumn gold that can only be won by dying. but in that dying he opened for us the way to a completeness of life that is far more glorious than we dare imagine. This is why we can face death hopefully. It is the door through which we must pass to God
At one level, the falling of the leaves is a sign of Nature’s essential renewal and there is never a complete dying. Even in Autumn, buds are forming on the tree which shed the old leaves so spectacularly. New life is always near, which is why there is such a truth in the poem by the young man facing his death. You cannot ‘hold up the dying’ . The rich robes of our Lord are ready to clothe us in Resurrection light and life and love. Autumn then, is a season of both the emptying of nature and the beginning of renewal and re-birth.
That is a truth for all who are prepared to allow God to draw our souls into the arms of ‘the LOVE that always waits.
When I was in infant school I starred in a small thespian production. My role was that of ‘Clerk of the Weather’ over which Ihad total control and I wore a top hat to prove it!. I was able to command thunderbolts, raindrops, wind, sunshine and so much more.
Last week in France, the dry spell, as in England, was interrupted by thunderstorms. Flooding followed before hot spells returned.
Inspired by my memories of that wonderful few moments of power, I wrote this little poem..
The Clerk of the weather has heard the peoples’ cry! from his well stocked store house he scrabbles around throwing thunderbolts over his shoulder followed by a splendid light show of forked beauty illuminating the indigo sky, crackling like witches! His generosity knows no bounds as he adds thunderbolts and whirling winds. Deluge after deluge of pooling rain deliciously kisses the ground. The orchestra of thunderous drums beats across the sky accompanied by a light show of immense power.
The Clerk laughs gleefully, loving this reckless cacophany reaching down to crash upon the earth, soaking into parched and thirsty ground. But as the water floods across the baked soil the people cry; Enough!, Too much! Never satisfied.
The Clerk of the Weather draws breath and blows a wind so violent, it drowns their protesting voices and buffets them into submission. The Clerk thus reminds them just who is in charge.
My friend Piers sent me this poem and reflectiondrawing on the Rule of Saint Benedict and its relevance to the Lambeth Conference of the worldwide Anglican Church.
I was drawn to dwell on hospitality by recent events surrounding the Anglican Lambeth Conference which began on 26 July 2022. Anglican Bishops and their spouses from around the world have been invited to Canterbury to worship and pray together and to explore a range of topics. I was saddened that partners and spouses of gay and lesbian bishops were not invited and this set me thinking about what true hospitality looks like. St Benedict writes about hospitality in his Rule: in Chapter 53 he says,
‘All guests who present themselves are to be welcomed as Christ, for he himself will say: I was a stranger and you welcomed me (Matt 25:35). Proper honour must be shown to all, especially to those who share our faith (Gal 6:10) and to pilgrims. Once a guest has been announced, the superior and the brothers are to meet him with all the courtesy of love.’
I also found this useful commentary by Jerome Kodell, OSB in which it becomes clear that, for St Benedict at least, there is a lack of pre-judgement and a defencelessness about true Christian hospitality. So my poem comes not as a rebuke, but as a plea – that we welcome others with true generosity so that all may feel settled and at ease. Only then can we feel safe enough to speak and to explore together.
My prayers are with all involved in the Lambeth Conference over the next few days.
Mr G's Ponderings 