It was a warm summer’s evening and as Jeremy sat back in his pew to relax, the final notes died away on the organ. The preacher took a deep breath to begin his sermon. ‘Evensong’ mused Jeremy, ‘I wonder how many times the words of Evensong have echoed around the roof of this beautiful church over the centuries? Generations come and go, but the worship of God always goes on, uniting people of all ages and generations in the fellowship of faith.’
As he pondered on the evening light shining through the great West Window, the solid Norman arches beside him, and the memorials to great men, former Rectors, and honest village folk around him, Jeremy found his mind wandering back through time, until he was back in the 1190s. Three monks were entering the church. The village was certainly different, just a few wooden huts scattered across the adjoining fields. The church itself was much smaller than the church where he worshipped every Sunday - just a simple rectangle, with a chancel built on to the end. A bell was tolling as the monks, who had come from the nearby monastery to take the service, filed into the church. They processed up to their stalls in the chancel, and a few villagers crept into the building behind them, but they had to stand for the service. A stone bench ran the length of the church walls, and one or two of the elderly folks settled themselves on it. Jeremy smiled. ‘So the weakest went to the wall’, he noted.
Jeremy didn't understand any of the service, and nor, he suspected, did many of the village folk: it was all in Latin. But he detected a great reverence in the simple Plainchant and was struck by the godliness and faith of the worshippers. In the chancel was a low stone altar, freestanding, covered with a cloth and two candles. The priest was dressed in colourfulvestments. When it came to the Communion, or Mass, for it must have been a Saints' Day, most of the congregation went forward, but only to receive the bread. The priest alone received bread and wine.
But Jeremy couldn't stay, he found himself rushing onwards through time, almost 300 years. Labourers were working hard on the building, and the church was beginning to take on a more familiar shape. The newer arches and windows did not have the solid, semi-circular design of the Norman arches. Now, there were graceful, pointed arches, admitting more light, and giving an impression of loftiness to the building. The new south aisle was almost completed, and high above his head, masons were working on the tower. Jeremy was amazed to notice how dangerous the whole process seemed to be - wooden scaffolding, and no safety equipment. And a team of labourers - no machines to make life easy for them - carried out all the lifting of the big blocks of stone. He marvelled at the faith of people who could devote so much time and effort to build a church for worship, whilst their own lives were so basic - a routine of daily toil. ‘Give us this day our daily bread’ - how real that prayer must have been for them, and yet they could give themselves to the building of a lasting monument to God.
As he continued his meditations, Jeremy found himself moving through time again, until he was standing outside the church one ordinary Sunday morning. He approached an elderly man on his way home who was only too pleased to talk. ‘Ay, as a lad, I lived through some difficult times. The service was all in Latin then, but then the King wanted a new wife and made himself Head of the Church when he fell out with the Pope.’ When he had been young, that there had been much heated discussion about it all, but in a country place, well, what did it really matter who was Head of the Church? All the events up in London hadn't made much difference to them. Jeremy smiled and wondered what difference the General Synod of his own time really made to the daily life of the parish.
The first noticeable difference had been when King Henry decreed that they should have an English Bible in the church. ‘Seemed strange at first’ continued the old man, ‘to hear the Lord's name being spoken in English, but we got used to it, and that was only the start of it. In the reign of King Henry's son, the boy king, Edward, well, then the whole service was done in English. We got an English Prayer Book. That was when we were told we were Protestants, whatever that means. Our old priest at the time thought it was marvellous - it became much easier for him to lead the service. But not everyone liked it. My old mother always used to harp on about this modern service, and why couldn't they leave things like they always had been. But I said to her, “Well mother, that's progress.” Only the educated folk like the priests had any idea of what the Latin meant, and I sometimes used to wonder if even they did.’
‘Anyway, when the young King died, we went back to Latin services, and became good Catholics again. They were terrible years, - people were burnt at the stake if they wouldn't accept the pope. We even had some martyrs here in our village. But when good Queen Bess came to the throne, then, it was change again, back to the English service, and back to being Protestants. Our young Catholic priest just disappeared overnight. Many of them tried to flee to France, but a good many never made it. I hope ours got there. He was popular enough in this parish despite all the religious differences there had been.’
‘And since Queen Elizabeth began her reign, well, I've been left in peace to become an old man. She's been a good Queen though - she certainly gave Philip of Spain a good hiding the other year. Some of our men took to their own boats and made sure the Armada kept well away from our shores.’
‘How remarkable’ thought Jeremy, ‘that here's a man in 1591 who could recite by heart Evensong that was almost the same as he himself used in the 21st Century. I wonder what Archbishop Cranmer would think of that? He never expected his Prayer Book to last so long - ten years I think he gave. His concern was to have worship in the ordinary everyday language of the people. Trouble was, he made such a good job of it that no-one could ever part with it.'
As he went into the church, Jeremy felt quite at home. Both side aisles were complete, in fact its shape was exactly as he knew it from his own time. But he did notice the plain glass windows. Whatever colour there may have been before King Henry’s reign, now it was gone. In fact, most of the furnishings were rather plain. There still weren’t many pews, but there was plenty of space.
Almost another century rolled by before Jeremy was back inside the church, listening to a Bible reading from the parish’s Rector. This was much easier to understand than the Bible of Henry VIII. He realized that he was listening to the Bible of King James, which became the standard biblical text until well into the 20th Century. Amazing, he thought, that the dear old Church of England had provided continuity against the backdrop of so much change that had occurred in England over the last 400 years.
As the centuries rolled by, Jeremy heard other voices in the church: honest village folk, come to pray and worship, distinguished Rectors, bringing wisdom and learning, and as he watched, he understood the importance of worshipping God, and passing the Christian message on to each new generation. There were the rumblings as he listened to people commenting about the non-Conformists, and the building of a Methodist Chapel in the village. There were the cries for more ritual in the liturgy, and he realized that many villagers, who had their lives uprooted as they moved away into the growing urban areas, looked to the church to provide them with a sense of security – that somehow God was still with them even though their lives were turned upside-down – no longer measured by the ever changing seasons of the year, but by daily toil in the “dark Satanic mills” of industrialization. There were the cries for social justice and reform, and Jeremy noted, with a sense of pride, that the Church was at the forefront of so many educational and social reforms. Why, next to the church stood a schoolhouse, built by parishioners, and he felt a sense of gratitude for the Church of England School where he had learned his three ‘R’s and spent many happy days.
The long reign of Queen Victoria flashed by and the church took on a more familiar form, with the rebuilding of the north aisle to its present design, and the gradual re-introduction of the stained glass windows, with the familiar Bible stories that he had gazed upon right through his own life.
And then he was standing outside the church, on a dull November morning. A stone cross memorial had been erected, and inscribed at the bottom of it was a horrifyingly long list of local names. A crowd stood around the memorial, in total silence, many in tears, as the Rector recited some familiar words: ‘They shall grow not old as we that are left grow old. Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them.’
‘The war to end all wars,’ muttered a lady next to him. ‘Let’s pray that really will be true.’ Jeremy winced.
As he reflected upon all the momentous events that his church had witnessed, Jeremy was suddenly brought back into the present, and he realised that up in the pulpit, the preacher was coming to the conclusion of his theme. He hadn’t heard a single word of it.
‘But’ he thought, ‘does that really matter? What is important is that the worship of God continues to be upheld. Generations are born; congregations come and go again; Rectors move on with regularity; as year succeeds to year, people of all backgrounds and conditions are called to believe, and live lives of faith. True, we can never understand it all. There may be questions that none of us have the answer to, but Jeremy felt sure that God is over all of us, and one day, it is to Him that we'll be answerable for what we do with our lives.’
The preacher drew breath to reinforce his text. 'All mortals are like grass; all their glory like the flower of the field; the grass withers, the flower falls; but the word of the Lord endures for evermore.’
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