We're Here!
Well, here we are. We arrived in Canterbury yesterday morning, after the overnight flight from Newark, and two bus trips. (Later we will get on a train, to complete the trifecta.) We were all tired, some of us a little grouchy, and didn't do much yesterday. I have many thoughts, none of them much organized:
It's pretty interesting to be on this trip with roughly the same group of folk with who I entered seminary three long years ago. In the airport and on the bus on the way here, I kept looking around at them and wondering, who the hell are these people? I mostly like them -- or rather, I like most of them most of the time -- but I'm struck at the fact that the majority of my closest seminary friends are not in this group. Actually, I don't feel like much of an insider in this group at all. I like the people individually, but as a group they don't particularly strike me as trustworthy or safe. I skipped the traditional trip to the pub yesterday in favor of a nice walk with a good friend. We got rained on. I felt morose.
My roommate, Ally (and some other of our fellow travelers), and I were on the El Salvador trip our first year, and it's interesting to me to contrast the two trips. We are here at essentially the center of the Anglican Communion, and El Salvador is very much on the periphery. The Episcopal Diocese of El Sal doesn't even really have a cathedral at all; the San Salvador Roman Catholic Cathedral is huge (but not as big as the Anglican cathedral I'm looking at right now! Good grief, it's huge!), and in its crypt is the grave of Archbishop Oscar Romero.
I walked around the crypt after service today looking at all the old dead white guys and little side chapels, and thinking of how much more intense the pilgrimage aspect of that crypt in San Salvador was for me. People still bring prayer cards and flowers to drop on Romero's tomb; in Canterbury people bring their cameras to snap photos. All the donation boxes welcome money in Euros, pounds, dollars and yen.
Last night we went to a service of Evensong. It was a nice concert, but didn't feel too much like a worship service. The only real participant were the male clergy and all-male choir (men and boys). The congregation sang one hymn at the end. I left feeling disheartened. It was more or less a collection of the things I don't like about church presented as liturgy, and it felt as if we had come all this way to observe and celebrate a dying form of spirituality.
This morning, we went to the principle Sunday communion service, which was much better. I don't know if it was the presence of female clergy (a canon, who presided) and verger (they spell it virger! how weird!), the increased congregational involvement, or the little kids who came in at the communion (they were very cute) ... but the whole thing felt much more alive. Also the sermon (by a white man, no less) was actually great.
Last night we also went to a concert too. It was pleasant, but not great (it was the local college's departmental concert). For me the most interesting thing was that it was held in the same space as the two liturgies we attended. It strikes me that what I find most interesting about tradition is when it's adapted to the actual needs of the gathered. Evensong felt forced and artificial, but it was essentially the same service as was created when the first prayer book came out, with a few of the words changed. The Eucharist service today was from Common Worship, published in 2000; it felt more lively and more inclusive.
Likewise, what I find most remarkable about this cathedral isn't the way it was constructed (I've seen better/prettier/nicer/bigger, to be honest), but in how it has been adapted again and again for new generations to use. I'm less interested in seeing its original foundations than in talking to someone about how they retrofitted it for electricity, and do they heat it now or do they just let people's body heat do its thing? In the nave, the big public space at the front of the building, they've put out a very modern-looking set of chairs, and there's a really simply (but gorgeously) constructed lectern standing opposite a gigantic (gorgeously carved) pulpit that must be two stories tall. It might be my favorite part.
One of the churches I'm applying to in Philadelphia turns 316 this year. They've been having Sunday services since 1695. They also have recently opened up an art gallery in their parish hall and held a nine-day festival of fringe-y dance and music there and in the sanctuary. To me, that's much more interesting -- and much more holy -- than bringing tradition out to put it on parade once a day.
Thing is, I really do love historical architecture and all that. I am quite looking forward to finding the local history museum and walking around it. I might take a historical boat tour with my brother (he'll be here in two days!!). In other words, I guess what I'm saying is that I've worked in a couple of museums before... but I don't want to work in one next year.
It's pretty interesting to be on this trip with roughly the same group of folk with who I entered seminary three long years ago. In the airport and on the bus on the way here, I kept looking around at them and wondering, who the hell are these people? I mostly like them -- or rather, I like most of them most of the time -- but I'm struck at the fact that the majority of my closest seminary friends are not in this group. Actually, I don't feel like much of an insider in this group at all. I like the people individually, but as a group they don't particularly strike me as trustworthy or safe. I skipped the traditional trip to the pub yesterday in favor of a nice walk with a good friend. We got rained on. I felt morose.
My roommate, Ally (and some other of our fellow travelers), and I were on the El Salvador trip our first year, and it's interesting to me to contrast the two trips. We are here at essentially the center of the Anglican Communion, and El Salvador is very much on the periphery. The Episcopal Diocese of El Sal doesn't even really have a cathedral at all; the San Salvador Roman Catholic Cathedral is huge (but not as big as the Anglican cathedral I'm looking at right now! Good grief, it's huge!), and in its crypt is the grave of Archbishop Oscar Romero.
I walked around the crypt after service today looking at all the old dead white guys and little side chapels, and thinking of how much more intense the pilgrimage aspect of that crypt in San Salvador was for me. People still bring prayer cards and flowers to drop on Romero's tomb; in Canterbury people bring their cameras to snap photos. All the donation boxes welcome money in Euros, pounds, dollars and yen.
Last night we went to a service of Evensong. It was a nice concert, but didn't feel too much like a worship service. The only real participant were the male clergy and all-male choir (men and boys). The congregation sang one hymn at the end. I left feeling disheartened. It was more or less a collection of the things I don't like about church presented as liturgy, and it felt as if we had come all this way to observe and celebrate a dying form of spirituality.
This morning, we went to the principle Sunday communion service, which was much better. I don't know if it was the presence of female clergy (a canon, who presided) and verger (they spell it virger! how weird!), the increased congregational involvement, or the little kids who came in at the communion (they were very cute) ... but the whole thing felt much more alive. Also the sermon (by a white man, no less) was actually great.
Last night we also went to a concert too. It was pleasant, but not great (it was the local college's departmental concert). For me the most interesting thing was that it was held in the same space as the two liturgies we attended. It strikes me that what I find most interesting about tradition is when it's adapted to the actual needs of the gathered. Evensong felt forced and artificial, but it was essentially the same service as was created when the first prayer book came out, with a few of the words changed. The Eucharist service today was from Common Worship, published in 2000; it felt more lively and more inclusive.
Likewise, what I find most remarkable about this cathedral isn't the way it was constructed (I've seen better/prettier/nicer/bigger, to be honest), but in how it has been adapted again and again for new generations to use. I'm less interested in seeing its original foundations than in talking to someone about how they retrofitted it for electricity, and do they heat it now or do they just let people's body heat do its thing? In the nave, the big public space at the front of the building, they've put out a very modern-looking set of chairs, and there's a really simply (but gorgeously) constructed lectern standing opposite a gigantic (gorgeously carved) pulpit that must be two stories tall. It might be my favorite part.
One of the churches I'm applying to in Philadelphia turns 316 this year. They've been having Sunday services since 1695. They also have recently opened up an art gallery in their parish hall and held a nine-day festival of fringe-y dance and music there and in the sanctuary. To me, that's much more interesting -- and much more holy -- than bringing tradition out to put it on parade once a day.
Thing is, I really do love historical architecture and all that. I am quite looking forward to finding the local history museum and walking around it. I might take a historical boat tour with my brother (he'll be here in two days!!). In other words, I guess what I'm saying is that I've worked in a couple of museums before... but I don't want to work in one next year.
posted by HighlySelective at 4:51 AM
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