It seems unconscionable that one should begin exploring a world-famous destination like London in a state of exhaustion. Yet, due to the nine-hour time-change, and the dearth of sleep on our first intercontinental flight (with chairs that could not recline!), my wife and I arrived in Heathrow Airport, navigated Customs and the London Underground (also known as The Tube), and arrived at our hotel in mid-afternoon. After dropping our luggage, we fell onto our bed for an hour of shut-eye. Thus somewhat refreshed, and with a will to explore, we embarked upon our first “day” in London.
Our first site of interest was Westminster Abbey. While it has become known as the wedding-site of choice for British royals, it also serves as the place where British kings and queens are crowned. In the finale of one of my favorite movies, the spy-spoof Johnny English, the title character attempts to prevent the Archbishop of Canterbury from bestowing kingship upon a French businessman intent upon turning the whole of England into one vast prison. Johnny does this in a rather (shall we say?) unorthodox manner which causes the Archbishop no end of embarrassment, and in the process, he ends up being crowned instead. But I had journeyed here neither to embarrass the clergy nor to become the next sovereign of the United Kingdom. I simply wished to worship there, and take in a sense of the place.
We joined the throng, and were herded in by the priests, who directed the laity onward past statues, wall plaques, impressive architecture, and a myriad of other distractions, with shouts of “Hurry up! Keep moving! This way please!” Those who carried their cameras and cell phones, so eager to retain a lasting memory of this centuries-old site received more specific instructions. “Put those away! No photographs!” And, in one case, “We’ve had this conversation before sir, haven’t we? You’ll need to delete those photos. Now.” The priests repeatedly reminded us we had gotten in without paying admission because we were attending a religious service, and stressed that the service would last an entire hour. But they performed their traffic-management roles efficiently: eventually all the laity was settled in comfortable chairs arranged in narrowly-spaced rows, and the service was able to begin.
While it is difficult to still one’s mind and compose one’s soul for worship under such circumstances, the introductory musical number, sung by the visiting Abbey Gale College Chamber Choir from Chester, fell like a gentle flurry of snowfalls upon my weary brow. Their voices floated toward the ceiling five stories above before cascading down upon us. I imagined myself standing in the country lane of a rural English village, bundled up in a thick, woolly jacket, while snow drifted down around me, each flake small and dry, individual and unique, whirling and gliding upon unseen air currents. This sonic resonance swept me along, suggesting that if I would just let down my walls of reserve, then perhaps I could really relax, and then my soul might be able to truly worship.
Where Church and State are One will continue with the next post
Our first site of interest was Westminster Abbey. While it has become known as the wedding-site of choice for British royals, it also serves as the place where British kings and queens are crowned. In the finale of one of my favorite movies, the spy-spoof Johnny English, the title character attempts to prevent the Archbishop of Canterbury from bestowing kingship upon a French businessman intent upon turning the whole of England into one vast prison. Johnny does this in a rather (shall we say?) unorthodox manner which causes the Archbishop no end of embarrassment, and in the process, he ends up being crowned instead. But I had journeyed here neither to embarrass the clergy nor to become the next sovereign of the United Kingdom. I simply wished to worship there, and take in a sense of the place.
We joined the throng, and were herded in by the priests, who directed the laity onward past statues, wall plaques, impressive architecture, and a myriad of other distractions, with shouts of “Hurry up! Keep moving! This way please!” Those who carried their cameras and cell phones, so eager to retain a lasting memory of this centuries-old site received more specific instructions. “Put those away! No photographs!” And, in one case, “We’ve had this conversation before sir, haven’t we? You’ll need to delete those photos. Now.” The priests repeatedly reminded us we had gotten in without paying admission because we were attending a religious service, and stressed that the service would last an entire hour. But they performed their traffic-management roles efficiently: eventually all the laity was settled in comfortable chairs arranged in narrowly-spaced rows, and the service was able to begin. While it is difficult to still one’s mind and compose one’s soul for worship under such circumstances, the introductory musical number, sung by the visiting Abbey Gale College Chamber Choir from Chester, fell like a gentle flurry of snowfalls upon my weary brow. Their voices floated toward the ceiling five stories above before cascading down upon us. I imagined myself standing in the country lane of a rural English village, bundled up in a thick, woolly jacket, while snow drifted down around me, each flake small and dry, individual and unique, whirling and gliding upon unseen air currents. This sonic resonance swept me along, suggesting that if I would just let down my walls of reserve, then perhaps I could really relax, and then my soul might be able to truly worship.
Where Church and State are One will continue with the next post
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