Sharing the peace
TO MY surprise, and completely out of character, I have recently broken up a fight. I was on unfamiliar ground in Sheffield, walking from the theatre to my hotel.
As I passed a pub, two young men exploded out of the door on to the pavement, going hammer and tongs at each other. I couldn’t get past because they were shoulder-locked and punching out of control across the entire pavement. They broke apart and squared off, pacing round and round.
Looking at them, I had a suspicion that neither of them really wanted to be doing this, but pride was dictating that neither of them dare to be the one who stopped. So I said, “Just walk away; it will be OK. Just walk away; it will be OK.” After a moment, although I was not really expecting it, they both swore at me and walked away in opposite directions. I had no idea whether it actually would be OK, but at least they stopped.
When I got back to my room, I sat on the bed, and wondered, “What on earth has just happened?” I was suddenly quite scared — which was odd, because I wasn’t scared at all while it was taking place. But at least, if I ever apply for a United Nations peacekeeping role, I will be able to include this on my CV.
Not quite Ordinary
SEEKING inspiration for a discussion group, I have been looking through the lesser festivals marked by the Church of England during February.
Towards the end of the month, we are bidden to remember George Herbert, the poet and priest who had a short life, burdened with poor health, at the start of the 17th century. In the liturgical year, he is surrounded by ancient martyrs and patron saints.
Just before Herbert’s special day, we remember Polycarp, whose execution as an old man in Smyrna in the second century is still horrifying. Just after it, we mark the feast day of St David, whose ministry in sixth-century Wales was vivid with myths and miracles. In contrast to them both, Herbert’s life as a clergyman is remarkable for its ordinariness. He would surely be bewildered by the place he occupies between his neighbours.
Herbert turned his back on a high-flying political career in order to be ordained. He was Rector of St Peter’s, which still stands, in Fugglestone, near Salisbury. He was noted for his tireless care for his parishioners, providing food and clothing for those who were poor, and visiting when they were ill. Truly, any priest who has this ministry deserves to be lauded, but it doesn’t usually secure them a page in the church calendar.
It was his remarkable gift with words which gained Herbert his place in history. His uplifting poems are full of extravagant metaphors, puns, and word-play; and they are arranged on the page so that the visual impact enhances their meaning — for instance, the poem “The Altar” looks like an altar. But, most importantly, his work is radiant with the joy that he took in his Christian faith.
This is even more evident when his poems are set to music as hymns, as many are. It is impossible to sing “Let all the world in every corner sing, My God and King!” without exhilaration.
Bench marks
SITTING on a bench next to St John’s, Waterloo, eating street food from one of the stalls in their grounds, I noticed that the bench looked like a miniature version of Waterloo Bridge. Wondering whether this was deliberate, I got up to look. The inscription on the side reads: “Those who cannot forgive break the bridge over which they themselves must pass.”
With my peacemaking abilities uppermost in my mind, I found this quotation compelling. I had an inkling that I knew who it was by; so I checked on my phone. I was correct. I had been sitting on George Herbert.
Later that afternoon, I carried my shopping up the steps to my flat, and thought about the neighbours with whom I share the block: a man who is exhausting himself into misery in a dispute with the council from which is trying to get compensation because he broke an ankle tripping over a loose paving stone; and a woman who hasn’t spoken to her sister for nearly a decade after a disagreement over Brexit, and has sunk into a depression that is disabling every aspect of her life.
I found myself wondering whether I should draw on my newfound eirenic powers and intervene. I tried to picture myself knocking on their doors and saying, “Just walk away; it will be OK. Just walk away; it will be OK.” This, I imagine, is what Herbert would have done — and, if not on his festival day, then when? But, as 27 February gets closer, I sense my courage faltering.
Change of gear
ON MY way home in the cold of a late evening, I got off the train at East Croydon. I realised that I didn’t have my hat in my hand. At precarious risk to my journey, and perhaps even to my life, I leapt back into the carriage and searched around my seat. It was nowhere to be seen. As the warning signal bleeped, I managed to squeeze through the closing doors and get back off the train. I stood on the platform to recover my composure. And I became aware that my hat was on my head.
The glow of embarrassment at my stupidity made me so hot that I had to take the hat off. Three days previously, I had been considering my suitability for a position in the United Nations. My expectations of life having plummeted back to normality, I walked home, made a cup of tea, and read some poetry.
Peter Graystone is a Reader at the Church of the Good Shepherd, Carshalton Beeches, in the diocese of Southwark.
