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Journeyman
A Journal for the Inquiring Christian
Vol. 2, No. 1, January 2003
The 2002 Annual General Meeting of Forward in Faith, Walsingham
| Overview: What really distinguishes the various Anglican sects? You may be surprised. |
How excited I was! It was a wonderful spring day when I made the now-familiar railway journey from King's Cross station to King's Lynn, then hopped on a rather hot and smelly Norfolk bus that took me to the heart of Little Walsingham. As I alighted from the coach I set my vestment-case and little overnight bag down on the recently-swept pavement, and breathed in the sacred atmosphere that surrounds this place of pilgrimage. Every corner and nook infused with prayer and meditation. It reminded me so much of my theological college back in Wiltshire.
Finding my simple, priestly lodgings I made haste to the Abbey where High Mass was shortly to begin. The organ thundered in the candle-lit building as the principal celebrant, Father O'Blation, tiptoed his way up to the high altar. I'm sure I saw a slight grimace as he stooped to kiss the altar. Poor dear, his back isn't what it used to be.
It was a glorious service, what with acolytes and crucifer, thurifer and rosy-cheeked boat boy, banners galore, and the traditional sour-faced MC keeping a tight rein on the junior servers. How could anyone not be inspired by all that tat? I felt a swelling in my loins during the lusty singing of Faith of my Fathers during the offertory, as fresh grains were added to the thurible, and the poor young Deacon had to grope his way through the smoke in order to find the credence table.
We adjourned to the conference centre for gin and cheese and onion flavoured crisps, where the conversation was soon turning to such important subjects as, “The parish next door. Have you heard? Gone Prot!” and “You'll never guess what old Fr Godfrey got up to in Cardiff!” The aroma of cigar smoke and after-shave filled the air, along with shouts of “More gin, dear?” and “Oooh! Don't mind if I do. Never been known to say no!”
The keynote speaker after supper that evening was someone called a liturgical specialist from Oxford, who actually went on a bit too long about non-eucharistic worship. He also wore a grey clerical shirt, which didn't do anything for his pasty complexion. Several of the brethren actually nodded off in their plastic seats, whilst others agreed that he should finish up so we could all get back to the bar.
Soon we were back in our fraternal celebration, and with even more libation the discussions became louder and more animated. I was clear that our holy unity was not as intact as I had previously imagined, as schism and divisions emerged. There were those who believed that we should cede from the Church of England immediately. They drank only Plymouth Gin. The drinkers of Bombay were the thinkers of the priestly class, and held the view that the Holy Spirit had not made God's will known yet. The common or garden parish priest drank simple Gordon's, whereas the senior clergy sipped Tanguerey delicately in the corner. Imbibers of Beefeater or lesser supermarket brands just slumped in a corner, not giving a damn!
What does unite us all is not just a firm faith in the Catholic Church and liturgy, but the agreement that only Schweppes Indian Tonic Water is the acceptable mixer. Thank God for articles and statements of unity. As I retired to my lodgings that night, alone and a little unsteady, I said a prayer of thanks for all that I had learned that day. Or not. I never found out what old Father Godfrey got up to in Cardiff. Perhaps next year.
by Tim Lewis: a Pharisaios Publication (USA) 2002
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