'It's like Chariots of Fire' - that's the usual way to explain the Lichfield Dash.
Chariots of Fire was the 1981 film about the achievements at the 1924 Olympics of two remarkable men: Harold Abrahams, a Jew seeking to confront prejudice; and Eric Liddell, a committed Christian, running for the glory of God. In one particular scene, Abrahams attempts the Trinity Great Court Run: to run around the perimeter of the Great Court of Trinity College, Cambridge (a distance of 341 metres) in the 43 seconds it takes for the college clock to strike 12.
Well, the Lichfield Dash is some sort of equivalent. As it happens, the perimeter road around Lichfield Cathedral is a 430 metre circuit. So it's considerably longer than Trinity Great Court. But, as it happens, it also takes a bit longer for the clock of Lichfield Cathedral to chime 12 noon: almost 62 seconds in fact, which is just long enough for an elite athlete to get round.
So, each year in July, Lichfield Cathedral Close is given over to a foot-race. Actually, it's given over to a series of foot-races, the culmination of which is the Lichfield Dash itself at 12 noon. Earlier in the day there are age and gender differentiated races, some of them (for younger athletes) only cover the length of the Close. This year there was an innovation in the form of a cycle race.
The main event is usually won by a semi-professional male, who usually does manage to get round inside the time of the chime. But the highlight of this year's event was not the Dash itself, but the race which preceded it: the novelty relay. There were three teams: one representing Ansons (a firm of local solicitors); one (surely the favourites) representing the Lichfield Harriers (a running club); and a third, 'First Class Males', representing - you guessed it - Lichfield Cathedral. And the winners were - you guessed it - First Class Males.
Why 'First Class Males'? Because this time last year, the Post Office issued a set of stamps featuring images of some of Britain's finest Cathedrals. And the image selected for the first class stamp was an image of - you guessed it - Lichfield Cathedral. So we had some T-shirts printed up, complete with the image and the slogan 'First Class Male'.
So let's hear it for Lichfield Cathedral, a first class building; and for our first class relay team, the First Class Males.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Black Voices
Wow. Where to begin? I've just got home from a performance in Lichfield Cathedral by a female vocal quintet called Black Voices. Together with the specially trained Lichfield Chorus, they have given us an inspiring evening of Gospel Music, which ended in a standing ovation.
The first half of the programme was basically performed by the Chorus - a choir especially trained for the occasion, consisting almost entirely of white middle class people, aged (I guess) 7 to 70. We were told how hard many of them (including some experienced choral singers) had found it to work in the Gospel style - without written music, committing words and harmonies to memory, or improvising instinctively. It was a tribute to them that it no longer looked like hard work. It looked and sounded like a way of singing that came quite naturally. As one of the Black Voices herself put it, 'They even looked like they were enjoying it'!
But for me, the second half of the programme was even more moving. The Black Voices themselves performed a suite of Slave Songs (which is what we are now rightly encouraged to call the kind of songs which in a previous era we knew as Negro Spirituals). The sequence told a story.
The first song had no words. It was a setting of moans and hums, symbolising the way that slaves from West Africa, first captured and taken away from their tribal origins, might find themselves among people with whom they didn't even share a language, but did share a musical tradition which enabled them to communicate. I confess, I'd never really thought about the way that a single slave-ship might easily contain multiple language groups, and that occasionally slaves must have been separated from their communities and have found themselves utterly alone.
The next few songs were songs of lament and of loss, of anguish and grief and desolation - the sort of song you can easily image a person might sing, if they were wrenched away from home and family, from familiar routines and found themselves captive. I was reminded how many of the Psalms in the Bible are songs of lament, and how rare it is to find such things in church hymn books or in the repertoire of contemporary worship songs. We're good at praise these days, but much less at protest and complaint and at pouring out our sorrow to God. By and large, even in a recession, we don't know what exile feels like.
Ultimately, however, the cycle did indeed culminate in songs of praise. And there is something extraordinary about the human capacity, and maybe especially the Christian capacity, to rise above present circumstances, however disastrous and agonising they may be, and to find grounds for hope in the love and mercy of God. So the programme ended with songs of deliverance, the last of which was inevitably 'Oh happy day'. That's a song you have to sing from the inside, I suspect. At least, I can imagine that even a musician of great empathy might not get the most out of the song, without some inkling of what it means to know the forgiveness which Christians find in Christ Jesus: 'Oh happy day, when Jesus washed my sins away'.
It occured to me last night that really, fully to sing 'Oh happy day' or 'The Deliverer' from the inside it must be necessary to sing 'Nobody but me one' or 'Motherless child, long way from home' from the inside too. Fully to pour out your heart in praise to God, perhaps it's necessary to know what it is like to pour out your heart in sorrow too. Maybe truly authentic praise has that depth to it.
The first half of the programme was basically performed by the Chorus - a choir especially trained for the occasion, consisting almost entirely of white middle class people, aged (I guess) 7 to 70. We were told how hard many of them (including some experienced choral singers) had found it to work in the Gospel style - without written music, committing words and harmonies to memory, or improvising instinctively. It was a tribute to them that it no longer looked like hard work. It looked and sounded like a way of singing that came quite naturally. As one of the Black Voices herself put it, 'They even looked like they were enjoying it'!
But for me, the second half of the programme was even more moving. The Black Voices themselves performed a suite of Slave Songs (which is what we are now rightly encouraged to call the kind of songs which in a previous era we knew as Negro Spirituals). The sequence told a story.
The first song had no words. It was a setting of moans and hums, symbolising the way that slaves from West Africa, first captured and taken away from their tribal origins, might find themselves among people with whom they didn't even share a language, but did share a musical tradition which enabled them to communicate. I confess, I'd never really thought about the way that a single slave-ship might easily contain multiple language groups, and that occasionally slaves must have been separated from their communities and have found themselves utterly alone.
The next few songs were songs of lament and of loss, of anguish and grief and desolation - the sort of song you can easily image a person might sing, if they were wrenched away from home and family, from familiar routines and found themselves captive. I was reminded how many of the Psalms in the Bible are songs of lament, and how rare it is to find such things in church hymn books or in the repertoire of contemporary worship songs. We're good at praise these days, but much less at protest and complaint and at pouring out our sorrow to God. By and large, even in a recession, we don't know what exile feels like.
Ultimately, however, the cycle did indeed culminate in songs of praise. And there is something extraordinary about the human capacity, and maybe especially the Christian capacity, to rise above present circumstances, however disastrous and agonising they may be, and to find grounds for hope in the love and mercy of God. So the programme ended with songs of deliverance, the last of which was inevitably 'Oh happy day'. That's a song you have to sing from the inside, I suspect. At least, I can imagine that even a musician of great empathy might not get the most out of the song, without some inkling of what it means to know the forgiveness which Christians find in Christ Jesus: 'Oh happy day, when Jesus washed my sins away'.
It occured to me last night that really, fully to sing 'Oh happy day' or 'The Deliverer' from the inside it must be necessary to sing 'Nobody but me one' or 'Motherless child, long way from home' from the inside too. Fully to pour out your heart in praise to God, perhaps it's necessary to know what it is like to pour out your heart in sorrow too. Maybe truly authentic praise has that depth to it.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Lichfield Festival
I've just come home from an extraordinary performance in Lichfield Cathedral, of the Great Voices of Bulgaria: fabulous harmonies and extraordinary precision in ten female folk singers. It was a treat.
The first few items in the repertoire were explicitly religous - including a setting of the Lord's Prayer. But I found a sense of the presence of God as much in the apparently more secular items of the programme. There was just something in the intonation and collaboration which transported me to a sacred place.
It was one of those occasions when I marvel at the fact that I can access such beauty so readily. For me, it was a two-minute walk to get home at the end of the performance.
This, you see, is the ten days of the Lichfield Festival. What a wonderful opportunity. Over the next week, I am looking forward to performances by Black Voices (a wonderfully talented Gospel quintet from Birmingham), by Harry Christophers and the Sixteen, by the poet Michael Symmons Roberts and by the CBSO (City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra).
It is extraordinary to have all this on our doorstep. Today, for example, has been the Georgian Market. The Cathedral Close was - despite the wet weather - thronging with stalls and visitors. Many were in costume: in the past this has traditionally been the Medieval Market; but this year is the 300th year of the birth of Lichfield's most famous son, Samuel Johnson, so a change of emphasis was inevitable.
It is a great privilege for a Cathedral like ours to offer hospitality to so many people, looking for so many different experiences. There is a missionary challenge here that I don't yet feel we have got our heads around. Roll on 2010.
The first few items in the repertoire were explicitly religous - including a setting of the Lord's Prayer. But I found a sense of the presence of God as much in the apparently more secular items of the programme. There was just something in the intonation and collaboration which transported me to a sacred place.
It was one of those occasions when I marvel at the fact that I can access such beauty so readily. For me, it was a two-minute walk to get home at the end of the performance.
This, you see, is the ten days of the Lichfield Festival. What a wonderful opportunity. Over the next week, I am looking forward to performances by Black Voices (a wonderfully talented Gospel quintet from Birmingham), by Harry Christophers and the Sixteen, by the poet Michael Symmons Roberts and by the CBSO (City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra).
It is extraordinary to have all this on our doorstep. Today, for example, has been the Georgian Market. The Cathedral Close was - despite the wet weather - thronging with stalls and visitors. Many were in costume: in the past this has traditionally been the Medieval Market; but this year is the 300th year of the birth of Lichfield's most famous son, Samuel Johnson, so a change of emphasis was inevitable.
It is a great privilege for a Cathedral like ours to offer hospitality to so many people, looking for so many different experiences. There is a missionary challenge here that I don't yet feel we have got our heads around. Roll on 2010.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Calvin's 500th anniversary!
Yes! It must be an achievement of sorts: there was a letter in The Times yesterday, taking issue with something I have written. A badge of honour, surely?
There is a small and eccentric world, in which tomorrow is a big day: it's the 500th anniversary of the birth of John Calvin.
Last Saturday, I wrote a brief article for The Times, attempting to correct the exceptionally negative view most people have of this hero in the Christian tradition. It's online at http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/comment/faith/article6632482.ece. I admit, this is an unashamed piece of theological journalism - but most people accept such a caricature of Calvin that redressing the balance by emphasising his positive achievements seems like a worthwhile exercise to me.
However, I have provoked the ire of someone in Belfast - where presumably there are some pretty toxic associations with the name of Calvin. The letter is also online, and in the interests of fairness, I feel I ought to point you towards it: http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/comment/letters/article6661675.ece.
The issue is the extent to which Calvin may be, should be, regarded as a severe persecutor of heretics (and in particular how far he was responsible for the death by burning of Michael Servetus in 1553).
My critic quotes passages in Calvin's writings in which he rejoices gleefully in Servetus' death and takes personal credit for it. I don't dispute that there are ugly passages in Calvin's writings. From the point of view of the 21st century, it's hard to find a 16th century theologian in whose writings there are not ugly bits.
My argument is a) that Geneva was a relatively bloodless place in 16C Europe; b) that Servetus fled there after having already been condemned by a Roman Catholic court; c) that he was put to death by the secular authorities, and not by Calvin; and d) that Calvin intervened to request his sentence be commuted from death by burning to execution by the sword.
All this I stand by. Did Calvin believe heretics should be killed? Yes. Did he rejoice in the death of Servetus? Yes. Did he take pride in his own part in that process? Yes. Does this make him a villain? Not by the standards of the day. On the basis of their collusion in, even support for, the death of heretics by burning, you can't condemn Calvin as a bigot and then honour Elizabeth I, say, as 'Good Queen Bess'.
My stance is, that Calvin's theology is altogether more life-affirming, world-affirming and true to the grace of God than the contemporary caricature suggests, and I think the 500th anniversary of his birth is a date worth celebrating.
So, happy birthday John!
There is a small and eccentric world, in which tomorrow is a big day: it's the 500th anniversary of the birth of John Calvin.
Last Saturday, I wrote a brief article for The Times, attempting to correct the exceptionally negative view most people have of this hero in the Christian tradition. It's online at http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/comment/faith/article6632482.ece. I admit, this is an unashamed piece of theological journalism - but most people accept such a caricature of Calvin that redressing the balance by emphasising his positive achievements seems like a worthwhile exercise to me.
However, I have provoked the ire of someone in Belfast - where presumably there are some pretty toxic associations with the name of Calvin. The letter is also online, and in the interests of fairness, I feel I ought to point you towards it: http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/comment/letters/article6661675.ece.
The issue is the extent to which Calvin may be, should be, regarded as a severe persecutor of heretics (and in particular how far he was responsible for the death by burning of Michael Servetus in 1553).
My critic quotes passages in Calvin's writings in which he rejoices gleefully in Servetus' death and takes personal credit for it. I don't dispute that there are ugly passages in Calvin's writings. From the point of view of the 21st century, it's hard to find a 16th century theologian in whose writings there are not ugly bits.
My argument is a) that Geneva was a relatively bloodless place in 16C Europe; b) that Servetus fled there after having already been condemned by a Roman Catholic court; c) that he was put to death by the secular authorities, and not by Calvin; and d) that Calvin intervened to request his sentence be commuted from death by burning to execution by the sword.
All this I stand by. Did Calvin believe heretics should be killed? Yes. Did he rejoice in the death of Servetus? Yes. Did he take pride in his own part in that process? Yes. Does this make him a villain? Not by the standards of the day. On the basis of their collusion in, even support for, the death of heretics by burning, you can't condemn Calvin as a bigot and then honour Elizabeth I, say, as 'Good Queen Bess'.
My stance is, that Calvin's theology is altogether more life-affirming, world-affirming and true to the grace of God than the contemporary caricature suggests, and I think the 500th anniversary of his birth is a date worth celebrating.
So, happy birthday John!
Sunday, July 5, 2009
The Lichfield Mysteries
Choral Evensong at Lichfield Cathedral last night turned into an impromptu 'son et lumiere'. It wasn't planned -- but from my point of view it was dramatic and pleasing. The choir was in good voice, and sang the service to Tudor settings. The 'sound' bit of the 'sound and light show' was, then, entirely as expected. The 'light' was provided by a technician, experimenting with special effects on some rigging temporarily installed in the Nave. Thus, as the choir sang the Magnificat, the ceiling of the west end, usually white, turned blue, then red, then gold, back to blue, then red, then gold, and so on. A bit more co-ordination with the music, and we may have stumbled upon a new and exciting development in the English Cathedral Choral tradition.
This, you see, is the weekend of the Lichfield Mysteries. It's an extraordinary triennial event, with a claim to being the biggest piece of amateur dramatics in the country.
Mystery play cycles are a fabulous part of our heritage, dating back to the high middle ages. (I found myself wondering if the Tudor musicians who had composed the settings the choir sang last night ever performed in mystery plays, or wrote music for them.) Fragments of the original Lichfield Cycle survive in manuscripts dating back to the fifteenth century -- though the modern version has in fact only been going for 15 years.
A typical cycle (and our cycle is typical) attempts to trace the whole sweep of the Bible story from Creation to 'Doomsday'. This year's performance comprises 24 plays, including 'the killing of Abel' and 'Noah's Flood', 'Joseph's Doubt' and 'the Dream of Pilate's Wife', 'the Harrowing of Hell' and 'the Resurrection'. The sequence involves some performances of near professional quality (including some stunning choreography and costumes), with some pantomime moments and the kind of hiccups generally associated with amateur dramatics. But the event is breath-taking in its scope and ambition and should be much more widely celebrated than it is. It's good to think that these stories, about Abraham or the Exodus, the Prophets or the Nativity (and the values they cultivate, and the faith they imply), are still part of the public imagination.
If you want an epic today, forget the four hour 'marathon' that was Federer versus Roddick (terrific as that was: a historic achievement eclipsing a heroic effort). For a true epic, take in the six hours (24 plays x 15 minutes) of the Lichfield Mysteries. After all, Wimbledon comes round every year, but for this you have to wait until 2012.
This, you see, is the weekend of the Lichfield Mysteries. It's an extraordinary triennial event, with a claim to being the biggest piece of amateur dramatics in the country.
Mystery play cycles are a fabulous part of our heritage, dating back to the high middle ages. (I found myself wondering if the Tudor musicians who had composed the settings the choir sang last night ever performed in mystery plays, or wrote music for them.) Fragments of the original Lichfield Cycle survive in manuscripts dating back to the fifteenth century -- though the modern version has in fact only been going for 15 years.
A typical cycle (and our cycle is typical) attempts to trace the whole sweep of the Bible story from Creation to 'Doomsday'. This year's performance comprises 24 plays, including 'the killing of Abel' and 'Noah's Flood', 'Joseph's Doubt' and 'the Dream of Pilate's Wife', 'the Harrowing of Hell' and 'the Resurrection'. The sequence involves some performances of near professional quality (including some stunning choreography and costumes), with some pantomime moments and the kind of hiccups generally associated with amateur dramatics. But the event is breath-taking in its scope and ambition and should be much more widely celebrated than it is. It's good to think that these stories, about Abraham or the Exodus, the Prophets or the Nativity (and the values they cultivate, and the faith they imply), are still part of the public imagination.
If you want an epic today, forget the four hour 'marathon' that was Federer versus Roddick (terrific as that was: a historic achievement eclipsing a heroic effort). For a true epic, take in the six hours (24 plays x 15 minutes) of the Lichfield Mysteries. After all, Wimbledon comes round every year, but for this you have to wait until 2012.
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