Tuesday, 11 December 2012

Going dangerously off-message

Holding a session with prospective PhD students today on how to prepare a research proposal, I was emphasising that, rather than proposing simply filling in gaps in our knowledge, they should promise a radical new perspective on the subject.

And so I found myself saying that, instead of just another brick in the wall, they should offer a view of the dark side of the moon.

My schoolfriend Tristan Burn would have been honoured. The trouble was, I found myself wondering, how many more Pink Floyd album titles could I drop into the discussion? 'The Final Cut' would have been easy enough, when we're talking about editing. 'A Momentary Lapse of Reason' not much more difficult. 'Animals' - trickier, but a single word is usually easy. 'The Piper at the Gates of Dawn', well, maybe not. Sadly, of course, the moment slipped by. But I think I did successfully date myself in front of a group of students.

Sunday, 2 December 2012

A-level revolution?

On Friday last week, I did possibly the most worthwhile day's work I've ever done. Pearson, the publishing empire which (amongst many other things) run the UK examining board Edexcel, asked me to be one of 12 academics in Theology / Religious Studies to advise them on the outlines of the new RS A-level, the school-leaving exam for English 18-year-olds. (Why me, I have no idea, but it didn't seem worth arguing.)

I trogged along with a certain ho-hum sense, and found myself instead in an almost revolutionary conversation.

Of course academics have been grousing about A-levels for years. We've been complaining that they leave students incredibly highly trained to perform very tightly defined tasks to an extremely high standard, but that as soon as they're asked to deal with something unexpected, to show any independence or intellectual initiative, or to tackle primary texts which aren't pre-digested for them, they flounder. And we also complain that they can't write coherent or correct English, and when they do they can't communicate effectively or construct any kind of sustained argument.

In short, we want A-levels to train students to think; to read; and to write. None of which are in any sense easy skills, it should be said.

So we unleashed a wave of pent-up complaints at the poor folks from Pearson. And they took it. They told us that virtually every other subject area had told them the same thing (apparently Maths aren't so fussed about good English usage). And they gave every possible indication that the new, reformed A-levels would very seriously incorporate these concerns. I came away with a spring in my step, believing that we had made progress into a brave new world - and putting some real intellectual heft into an exam that 30,000 kids sit every year seems like a good day's work to me.

Plus I banged out 5000 words of stuff about Calvinism on the train. Don't get days like that very often.

Wednesday, 28 November 2012

Breaking the logjam

After that last post on women bishops, how could I not recommend this petition, which seems to me one of the few practical ways of tackling this question (and also the constitutional sclerosis) that I've seen?

If it's actually not practical, I'm sure someone will tell me ...

Wednesday, 21 November 2012

The women bishops disaster

Well, surprise, anger, despair, bafflement, a suffocating blanket of why-did-I-expect-anything-else, on this subject. I was lifted out of this last night, shortly after the news came through, watching two small boys blowing up each other's Lego models. Who could watch that and not think that spiritual leadership is a distinctively male quality?

But then, I'm a scarcely-repentant Protestant who doesn't really believe in bishops at all. So what do I know. Two slightly more considered thoughts.

One: this is certainly a disaster, but it's primarily a constitutional disaster - the product of a deeply obscure and dysfunctional decision-making process in the Church of England. It's not so much the supermajority requirement - something that pushes us to consensus is not a bad thing. But making it impossible to revisit a deeply urgent issue for five years is simply ridiculous: this needs to be resolved. And it also brings out how problematic the House of Laity is. This is a very indirectly elected body, and I believe relatively few of the candidates make their positions on the key issues plain to the electors. This isn't democracy in action; it's not clear that the lay representatives actually represent anyone, no matter the fine personal qualities of the individuals. If this fiasco exposes the essential illegitimacy of the body and of the process, then it's achieved something.

Two: we do, as a Church, actually deserve this. The bitterness, lack of goodwill and hairsplitting failures of generosity with which the debate has been conducted on both sides - including by me - has not been a model of Christian decisionmaking. A little repentance all round would not go amiss at this point. It might make the resolution of the issue a touch easier too.

Friday, 16 November 2012

Impossible history

Yesterday I had the unusual experience of leading a 90-minute class on the use of historical theory for theologians, and then going to preach on the connection between history and faith at evensong at University College. That double perspective and the discussions that resulted crystallised some old problems for me.

There was a lot of talk about how history (that is, modern, academic history, wearing its 19th-century rationalist garb) deals with miracles. The tendency is to assume that history is basically secularising. Leigh Eric Schmidt's wonderful history of American revivalism, Hearing Things, describes academic history as approaching the sacred with 'narratives of suspicion'.

That's obviously true, but I now wonder if it's both less sinister and less problematic than it appears. Because what strikes me now is that history deals exclusively in probabilities: nothing is ever proved or disproved categorically. But a miracle could almost be defined as an event whose probability can't be assessed.

On one level, you need to make an a priori decision whether miracles are possible at all. If no, then you are left with the Sherlock Holmes principle: eliminate the impossible, and whatever's left, however improbable, must be the truth. Which, as the late great Douglas Adams pointed out, is ever so slightly silly. "The impossible often has a kind of integrity to it that the merely improbable lacks."

But more than that, even if you grant that miracles are possible, how on earth can you assess their probability? A miracle is by definition an exceptional event, even a unique one, which defies patterns. It's neither probable or improbable: either it's impossible or it's inevitable.

So history isn't hostile as such to miracle-claims: it simply can't process them. They're outside its scope. And fair enough. The trick is to remember that, when there is something about which we cannot speak, it is sometimes prudent to keep silent.

Saturday, 27 October 2012

Antisemitism revisited

One other detail which has stayed with me from this conference, from a paper by Rebecca Peterson on how the Lutheran theologian Philip Melanchthon wrote about the Jews. Melanchthon was (in this as in many things) much more moderate and softly-spoken than Luther himself. But apparently, when he wanted to say something positive about the children of Abraham, he tended to call them Hebrews or Israelites; when he wanted to criticise them, even if he was talking about the same time period, they became Jews. The implication is that there really were good and admirable Jews: but they'd all been dead for more than two thousand years.

None of which makes Melanchthon implicit in genocide. But it does make him implicit in something.

Sixteenth Century Studies at Cincinnati - II

Another day, another batch of papers. Two I'd flag up today, in addition to various others which were as good as I knew they'd be. Paula McQuade of De Paul University did a great piece on catechisms written by mothers for their children, using a wonderfully rich Northamptonshire manuscript that no-one has ever come across before, and painting a delightful picture of how tender and intimate this business could be.

But (in a day which has been dominated by literary stuff) the one which most struck me was Hannibal Hamlin's piece on how George Herbert's poetry drew on Robert Southwell's. That may not sound too exciting, but stay with me. He was talking about Herbert's 'Love (III)', the final poem in his sequence 'The Temple':

Love bade me welcome. Yet my soul drew back
        Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
        From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
         If I lacked any thing.
A guest, I answered, worthy to be here:
         Love said, You shall be he.
I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,
         I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
         Who made the eyes but I?
Truth Lord, but I have marred them: let my shame
         Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?
         My dear, then I will serve.
You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat:
         So I did sit and eat.
Which I knew and loved before. But what Hannibal proved, to my satisfaction, is that this poem contains conscious and deliberate echoes of Southwell's poem St Peter's Complaint, which was very well known in the period. Which left me thinking that Herbert wants to allow us to read his poem as being spoken by St Peter; and not by the despairing Peter who has just denied Christ, like in Southwell's poem, but by the Peter who cannot dare believe that the risen Christ is forgiving him and is asking him to sit and have breakfast on the beach. And now that you have that in your mind, can you read Herbert's poem the same way?

Friday, 26 October 2012

Sixteenth Century Studies at Cincinnati

A half-time report on this always amiable conference. In amongst seeing old friends and eating a lot of seafood, I have also made it to a few papers. Megan Hickerson and Margo Todd gave excellent papers on, respectively, how the fact that Henry VIII was fat has affected the way we've understood him, and on the genuine popularity of the comprehensive moral policing that sixteenth-century Perth enjoyed.

But the fun of these conferences is hearing people you've never heard of speaking on subjects you never thought of. I'd pick out two so far as especially good:

Yesterday, I heard Rosemary Lee, a doctoral student at the University of Virginia, speaking about the Carmelite missionaries in Persia in the early 1620s; and in particular about their housekeeper, a woman whom they nicknamed 'Teresa'. 'Persian Teresa' apparently converted to Catholicism or something which she understood to be Catholicism - and not because the missionaries tried to convert her, but of her own initiative, since they were clearly surprised. And then she took it on herself to become a wandering preacher, until the surprised friars realised what was going on and reined her in. But she was a preacher in an apparently traditional Shi'a Muslim mode; this combination of homegrown Catholicism and Persian Shi'ism seems to have been very much her own concoction. It's a great story and she presented it very engagingly: it should make a terrific article.

And today, I heard Bruno Feitler of the Universidade Federal de Sao Paulo in Brazil talking about the Inquisition in Goa, the Portuguese colony in India, in the late sixteenth century. I've always told students that the Inquisition only had jurisdiction over baptised Christians, but I now discover that's not exactly true. Even in Portugal, it occasionally claimed the right to try Jews who were pretending to have converted but had in fact never been baptised. In Goa, the Inquisition was initially felt to be a hindrance to missionary work (since baptism meant subjecting yourself to it). But then it discovered an ingenious workaround. It claimed the right to try non-Christians who were luring Christians into error; which meant, in practice, sentencing these people to death and then pardoning them on condition that they converted and were baptised. This trick was by 1580 producing so many converts that the Jesuits queried the practice - but the king of Portugal backed them up. By the early 17th century the Goan Inquisition was using this wholesale, even on indigenous peoples who hadn't threatened converts' religion at all. And it worked ... who says persecution doesn't pay?

Saturday, 20 October 2012

Auckland Castle

I spent much of yesterday at Auckland Castle, as part of the advisory panel to the massive redevelopment planned there, which will eventually include big exhibitions on the history of the Church in the region, and also on the history of religion in Britain from the earliest days to the present. All very exciting, and some of the fun tech-y possibilities for the use of smartphone apps in the museum context which Dee Dyas from York's Centre for Christianity and Culture was showing us were really impressive.

But the star of the day was obviously the building itself. I'd been there before, chiefly to photograph this item for my forthcoming book:

It's a memorial painting for Bishop James Pilkington, the first Protestant bishop of Durham and arguably the most Puritan bishop ever in the Church of England; and it's also the most realistic contemporary image of a Protestant family at prayer which I know of.
But there's lots more there, naturally, and we got shown to all the nooks and crannies normally hidden - including whole sections desperately in need of some love, attention and money. Highlights included the memorial in the chapel to Bishop Richard Trevor (1752-71), known cruelly in his own time as 'The Beauty of Holiness' - and while the sculptor clearly tried to improve on the original, you can still see why:

Rather more specially, this lectern-box which, like so much else, dates from Bishop Cosin's time, in the 1660s. It's in the bishops' private chapel which isn't normally open to the public:

More of this kind of stuff will eventually come out into the light of day as the Castle is progressively opened up over the next five or more years. The hope is not only that it'll be a superb exhibition; but also that it'll bring an economic boost to Bishop Auckland, which has yet to be seriously touched by the economic regeneration that some other parts of the North-East have seen.


Thursday, 4 October 2012

Protestant transubstantiation

Busy week, so not much posting. Just time for a bonkers theological idea of the week. Apparently the Lutheran theologian Flacius Illyricus, at a debate in 1560, argued that the Fall was a kind of transubstantiation, in which the Aristotelian substance of humanity was totally altered from God’s image into Satan’s at the fall, despite preserving the outward image of God only damaged in the visible person. So while it might appear outwardly that humanity is capable of good as well as evil, this is an illusion: behind and beyond all verifiable evidence is a brute fact, namely that we are totally depraved.
            Or to put it another way: a certain kind of Protestant needs to believe in human corruption so badly that they will reconstruct the whole of reality, if necessary, to assert it.

Tuesday, 25 September 2012


Another sermon, this one from a couple of months back: but a few people have asked me for a text of what I said. It was a departure for me, doing one in this narrative style. And this one has nothing to do with the Reformation at all.

'The truth is that no-one knows how it started. There are the stories: some people talk about the bookshop in Leicestershire that found itself unable to get a shipment of Bibles, or about the church in London where the vicar became so tongue-tied during the prayers that the service had to be abandoned. But the nature of the episode which became known as the Famine was that it crept up on us. As a country, we only really noticed it when it had us firmly in its grip. There are those who would argue that, if we had noticed it sooner, it would never have come to the point it did.

            The Bibles were the most visible sign that something was wrong. For decades England had been awash with unwanted Bibles. They gathered dust in every second-hand bookshop, and lots of houses had one mouldering on a top shelf somewhere. But now it seemed that they had all crumbled to illegibility, or been turned to mush by leaks or floods. Bookshops couldn’t get hold of them. Churches found that their copies had been eaten by mice. When publishers tried to print new ones, they came off the presses as gibberish. When they tried to import them, they found that the shipping crates leaked, or that they arrived safely but turned out to be entirely in Korean, or – in one particularly ominous case – that every page was blank. People tried to download the text from the Internet, but the files were corrupted and broadband connections kept crashing. There was a high-profile attempt by a consortium of scholars to try to reassemble the Bible from the quotations that could be found in other books, but all that emerged was a disconnected string of nonsense. Some people started arguing that the Bible had never really existed at all. The very idea of a book which contained the Word of God was obviously a metaphor, and it was only the crass literalism of our own age which would imagine that such a thing had ever physically existed.

            The prayers weren’t so obvious. It started in those churches where the ministers prayed extempore; they found themselves increasingly unable to do it. Where they followed an order of service, it was easier, but soon enough those churches began to struggle too. And what they experienced in public was, it soon became clear, widely shared in private. People could still read the words off a page in front of them, of course, but the difficulty in concentrating on doing so became so intense that it was only by sheer brute force that people could hack their way through the words of a prayer. There was no hope of actually praying it. Churches began to be boarded up. One of them provided the iconic image of the whole affair: the church in Manchester where someone spray-painted across the boards ‘CLOSED BY ORDER OF THE HOLY SPIRIT’. Of course, by then no-one knew who or what the Holy Spirit was any more. But it was around that time that people stopped calling it the Famine and started calling it the Blockade.

            There was considerable interest in what it would mean for us as a nation. Some commentators argued that it would be a liberation, and we’d be free to celebrate our true nature; yet the people inexplicably failed to party in the streets as they were supposed to. Other columnists were lugubriously apocalyptic, and warned of a country on the verge of slipping into feral chaos. But the reality was different. Rather than moral anarchy, we were overtaken by a certain listlessness and withdrawal. People stopped speaking to each other. They spent more time indoors, alone. TV viewing figures crept up. You began to see people in the open simply sitting and gazing into the distance. Some gathered around the boarded-up churches: not doing anything, merely being there for a little while and then moving on. There was a drifting lassitude, which lulled and numbed us even as it tightened its grip.

            But if no-one knows how it started, everyone knows how it ended. The story bears retelling. A raw, cold winter’s evening in a village in the Northumberland hills. A young couple driving home: sitting in their car in silence, as had become the way. And they passed an elderly woman waiting at a bus stop. The two of them looked at one another: both knew that the last bus had gone. They stopped, reversed, offered her a lift. She accepted enthusiastically. Indeed, as soon as she was in the car, they noticed the vibrancy and sense of life about her; it was unfamiliar. She noticed them, too: the nothingness which filled the car. What was the matter, she asked?

            ‘Are you the only person in England who doesn’t know what’s been happening?’ they replied, and told her a little of what had been going on. It was evidently new to her, but she did not seem taken aback by it.

            ‘Can you be surprised?’ she asked. ‘That if we scorn God’s gifts and take them for granted for so many years, finally he should choose to take them away?’

            Then they reached their home village. Their passenger said she lived only a little further on and would be happy to walk. But they pressed her to come in and have something hot to eat first, and she agreed. And as they warmed up some soup and bread, they continued talking.

            ‘So’, they asked, ‘why this emptiness? It’s not as if we prayed before.’

            She fished in her handbag, pulled out a small, battered book, and found a page in it. ‘When he said he was the bread of life, do you think he was joking?’

            Both of her hosts stood still and stared. ‘Is that …,’ the wife asked, ‘… is that a Bible?’

            They served up the food in silence. Eventually, the husband asked, ‘So what can we do?’

            Their guest tapped the book again. ‘We can do as he said.’ And she picked up a bread roll: ‘We can break this, and eat it, in remembrance of him.’

            And their eyes were opened; and they never saw her again. But as it turned out, they did not need to.'

Sunday, 23 September 2012

The Prayer Book at Carlisle

I was asked to preach at a festival evensong at Carlisle Cathedral yesterday, celebrating the 350th anniversary of the 1662 Book of Common Prayer. I was royally welcomed and had a very good time there (again!). It's a slightly awkward event, since naturally many of the congregation were deeply affectionate towards the BCP, and my own views are a bit more ambiguous than that. In particular, I didn't have the nerve to comment on the Prayer Book's abject attitude to state power, which it portrays as uniformly benevolent and only ever to be obeyed - but it didn't seem the place for a Lib Dem party political broadcast.

Anyway, here's what I said (more or less):

It is one of the strangest objects in the life of the Church: hidden in plain sight, so familiar that we do not realise how odd it is. The Book of Common Prayer: the book that launched a thousand books, which sparked a rebellion in one century and a civil war in the next, which began as shockingly revolutionary and became a touchstone of conservatism, and which has defied all efforts to rewrite or relegate it for three and a half centuries. You might have expected some rewriting: it had been done often enough before. The first edition of the Prayer Book came from 1549, from the turbulently Protestant reign of Edward VI. The second, which was radically different, appeared only three years later, in 1552. Both were edited and assembled by the then archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Cranmer, as part of his programme to turn a reluctant England into a Protestant country. And it’s still essentially Cranmer’s Prayer Book we have today: there were some minor further revisions at the beginning of Queen Elizabeth I’s reign, in 1559, and another set in 1662, when the Prayer Book was restored after the Civil War, Cromwell’s republic and the eventual restoration of the monarchy. And that 1662 version, scarcely changed from Cranmer’s original, is the liturgy we have followed this afternoon.

            I love it; many of us love it. But what I’d like to do for a few minutes this afternoon is to show it to you from some different angles. Because its history is of a book used very differently from the one we have today.

            When Cranmer’s Prayer Book was first introduced in 1549, it was a shocking revolution. To know why, you need to know what it was replacing. Before 1549, the mainstay of the English church, as of the Church across Europe, was the Latin Mass, which was said in every church at least weekly, and often daily. And that Mass would seem very strange to us, even to those who come from a Catholic background. The modern Eucharist is a kind of dialogue between priest and people: the priest says a bit, then there is a bit in bold for us all to reply, and so forth. And because of that it is essential that the whole thing is conducted in a language that we can all understand, or at least understand up to a point. This is why most modern Anglicans find the idea of a Latin service so bewildering: what’s the point if no-one can understand it? The point, however, that the medieval service was not only in Latin, but that the priest usually whispered it, or muttered it: for most of the congregation it would make no difference whether he was talking English, Latin or Swahili, they couldn’t hear him. Nor could they see him: he would be in the chancel, they down in the nave, so what they could see would be the screen – we still have medieval screens in plenty of our churches; and above it the rood-loft. Every medieval English church had a rood-loft; not a single one survives. It was a central, life-size or larger crucifix, with Jesus flanked by his mother and the beloved disciple St John: the crucified Lord, framing the body of the risen and glorified Lord which the miracle of the Mass, the miracle of transubstantiation, made literally and physically present. So the lay people knew the priest was up there, but couldn’t hear him, nor really see him, and you couldn’t understand what he was saying even if you could hear him. What you can see is this vivid full-size crucifix and, perhaps, other images of saints dotted around the church. So for most of the service you will do your own thing. You will say your own prayers, perhaps using your own Book of Hours which you have brought with you. You may move around – after all, most churches in this period don’t have pews yet, and so you have to stand or kneel on the stone floor – move around and say your devotions to each particular saint. For most of the service, the medieval Mass was an occasion for private prayer, not for the whole congregation to be united in a single act of worship. After all, why do you need to hear the priest? He isn’t talking to you. He is talking to God, praying for you, celebrating the sacrament on your behalf. And while I wouldn’t actually advocate that, I do wonder sometimes if in the modern church we forget what worship is for. We don’t worship for our own entertainment or even, principally, for our own edification or uplift. Our services are not there to amuse us or offer us therapy. We are there to worship God, to offer ourselves to him and not to talk to each other. For all its faults, the medieval church understood that better than we do.

            Nor did most medieval people actually receive communion: only the priest himself did that. Most people only received once a year, at Easter. The modern practice of weekly communion would have suggested to our forebears either that we are fearsomely holy people who live our lives continually aware of the immanent and transcendent presence of God; or that we have slapdash, complacent and presumptive attitudes towards the sacrament and the grace of God which it represents. Their reticence was largely based on a trembling awe. After all, they believed – as a great many Christians, including some here today, believe – that when a duly ordained priest celebrates communion, and offers bread and wine to God, God miraculously transforms the bread and wine into the very substance of Christ, his body, blood and bone, as they put it. They only retain the outward appearance of bread and wine. So in every celebration of Mass, the miracle of the Incarnation is made new: Christ himself is literally, physically present among the people.

            In his two Prayer Books of 1549 and 1552 Thomas Cranmer systematically took this kind of Christianity to pieces, and set up something different in its place. He did so because he had become convinced that the medieval way of doing things, a way that he himself had practised as priest and as bishop for many years, was gravely wrong. And so he implemented a religious revolution in order to put it right.

            The Mass’s place in the regular round of worship was taken by two new services, which Cranmer called morning and evening prayer, but which quickly became known as matins and evensong, after two of the round of daily offices sung by monks and in cathedrals. That link was made because that was Cranmer’s source. He based those two services on the Benedictine office, the prayers said each day by the oldest order of monks in Christendom. Cranmer disapproved of monks, whom he saw as freeloaders with pretensions to spiritual superiority who never did anything to help the rest of the church; but he thought that their simple rounds of prayers could be made the property of the whole people. And like the Benedictine offices, these new services were to be said responsively, with the priest in dialogue with the people, in what we now recognise as the typical Anglican way but which was then very much a novelty. And these Prayer Book services of matins and evensong were to be said in every church every day. And if you read Cranmer’s preface to the Prayer Book,  it makes it absolutely clear what Morning and Evening Prayer were for. They were teaching tools: they were mechanisms for delivering the English Bible to the people. If you came to Morning and Evening Prayer in your parish church every day for a year, as some people might well do, you would in that time hear the entire New Testament read four times, apart from the book of Revelation, which Cranmer was wary of; almost all of the Old Testament read, apart from some of the stodgy bits; and you would hear the entire book of Psalms read from start to finish every single month. The liturgy which served as a delivery system for these great slabs of Scripture was itself very heavily scriptural: the canticles, the versicles and responses, and many of the prayers are either directly lifted from Scripture or only very lightly modified. A few prayers were included which are not directly Biblical in origins, notably the collects, and these are probably Cranmer’s finest work: but they are fragments around the edge of a service which was 90% pure Bible. And this was quite deliberate. You no longer came to church to say your own prayers privately. You came to be shown a good Biblical model of what it was to pray; and above all you came to be taught, to be exposed to Scripture. Worship was no longer principally for God’s sake; it was for the sake of edifying the believer, in the belief that faith comes by hearing, and without faith there can be no true worship.

            Cranmer did this because – and I’m afraid there can be no doubt about this point – he was a full-blown, card-carrying Reformed Protestant. Modern Anglicanism has tended to see itself as a moderate movement, halfway between Protestantism and Catholicism. For Cranmer, that would have been as nonsensical as trying to be halfway between good and evil – as embarrassing as we might find that view nowadays. Modern Anglicans have valued the historic episcopate and the threefold order of bishops, priests and deacons, and the Catholic structures which we inherited from the medieval church, not least the glories of our cathedrals. Cranmer of course was a bishop, but he had an extremely low view of episcopacy, as did most of his successors for the next fifty years. For him, ‘bishop’ was simply a title that you give to a senior official in the church, and there was nothing particularly special about how that official should be appointed. And as to cathedrals ... Cranmer was long of the opinion that the cathedrals should either be dissolved altogether, that is, that their property should be turned over to charitable purposes and the building allowed to become merely parish churches, or, at least, that they should be refounded as resource centres for their dioceses. Instead of supporting canons and prebendaries – a species of clergyman whom, he said, were neither good teachers nor good learners, but good eaters and drinkers – instead, a cathedral should spend its resources supporting a corps of itinerant preachers, who would move around the diocese bring the true, Protestant word of God to the people.

            Instead, after his death the Church of England slowly changed into something a little different. And his Prayer Book was at the heart of that change: a book which once seemed so shockingly radical came to be treasured for the way it preserved so many of the texts and patterns of the old ways, a union of the old and the new which came to fit very well with how the Church of England thought of itself. Pretty soon it was hardline Protestants who were disagreeing with it. And in the 17th century, when it finally took its current form, the word ‘Common’ in the title was little more than a bitter joke: the Prayer Book was by then a sharp point of division. When the Book was reintroduced in 1662, two thousand parish clergy who could not square it with their consciences were expelled from their livings, an event which the Church of England has done its best to forget but which is still the foundational trauma of the Noncomformists. And at the Glorious Revolution in 1689, there was a serious attempt to revise it to produce a new liturgy, the so-called Liturgy of Comprehension, that would be acceptable to a much wider sweep of English Christians: but the Church refused even to discuss it, and even suppressed the text so that for a couple of centuries it was uncertain even what the Liturgy of Comprehension had said.

            Now of course we do not use the Prayer Book as a weapon in the same way, and the so-called ‘alternative’ liturgies of Common Worship actually dominate the Church’s life. Even when we do use it, we don’t use it the way Cranmer would have done. We don’t use his lectionary, there is almost never more than one psalm, and much more emphasis is placed on the musical and ceremonial quality of the service than he would have liked. But if Cranmer were here now, would he be using his own service, or Common Worship? Well, he would have thought Common Worship’s theology was rather soggy, rather as we might think his theology was rather spiky. But he would have approved the principle of updating liturgies as language changes, and indeed I think he would have been dismayed to find that his words, almost unchanged, were still being used 450 years later: he would have feared that that was a form of idolatry. And yet ... the Prayer Book service has earned its keep all these years. Cranmer was no especially great writer of theology, polemic or devotional work, and he was a very poor composer of verse. But he was a wonderfully precise author of liturgy. He had the unusual gift of being able to write, or rather compile, the sort of texts which sound better the hundredth time you say them than they did the first time. The years of labour behind the Prayer Book show themselves in the care with which he uses language – much of it archaic now, but there is not a word wasted. His Collects are beautifully concise compared to the terribly longwinded ones in Common Worship. Personally I like much of Common Worship, including its flexibility, and it seems to me that an exclusive diet of the Prayer Book could become deadening. I also have to recognise that much of my affection for the Prayer Book is a matter of historical sentimentality, and that sort of thing really can become close to idolatry. Nor do I want to start thinking that if I like the sound of a service, that means that that service is true worship of God. And yet ... the tightness, precision and economy of language in the Prayer Book is a legacy which is worth holding on to, and – which is rather harder – trying to recreate for our own day.

Friday, 21 September 2012

Astronomy Photograph of the Year

If you have five minutes and fifty-five seconds to spare, you will not be wasting them here.

Monday, 17 September 2012

And the prize for best relic goes to ...

The other thing from Wilsnack: a case of the lesser relics and offerings owned by the shrine, in addition to its prize relic (three bleeding Hosts). You will of course recognise this as …

 … a whale vertebra: but not, it seems, just any whale vertebra. This comes from Jonah’s actual whale.
                I’m actually not at all convinced that anyone really claimed that in the Middle Ages, but it’s too good a story to inquire into too closely.

Medieval Christians hated Jews shock

I had time before the Berlin conference to go to Berlin’s Jewish Museum: not, as I had idly thought, the Holocaust Museum, but a museum covering the whole history of Jews in Germany, and not allowing the mid-20th-century to dominate the rest of the long story. It manages to make the story as a whole appear vibrant and hopeful as well as horrifying. (My personal surprise: if I read the numbers right, of 560,000 German Jews in 1933, 200,000 apparently died in the Holocaust. Which obviously is very bad: but I had not imagined that more than half of Germany’s Jews survived. If those numbers are correct, I suppose this is because within Germany itself, the Nazis tightened the screws relatively slowly through the 1930s, and plenty of Jews were able to get out. Presumably, then, German Jews had much better overall odds of surviving than did Polish Jews.)

                Still, there was also stuff on the long history of antisemitism in Germany, whose centrality to German culture I hadn’t appreciated. (Of course, since the Jews were simply expelled from medieval England, it didn’t happen here. The English had to make do with victimising and massacring the Irish instead.)

                And then, the next day, the conference went on an expedition to the stunning medieval churches of Wilsnack and Havelberg, which are a long way off the beaten track and I would recommend to anyone. Any what do we find all over them? Well, there’s this:

And this:

All of which, needless to say, are pretty nasty anti-Semitic caricatures.
                And then we keep meeting Jewish material during the conference. The Jews’ role in Protestant eschatology, the Jews as a template for the Christian nation. And for Lutherans especially, the Jews and their law as a vital straw man. You can’t have justification by grace through faith unless you’ve got some Jews to show you just how wrong justification by works of law is.

                So I come away reminded that Christian anti-Semitism isn’t just some nasty quirk easily isolated. (Duh.) It’s systemic; Christianity’s original sin. Or one of them, anyway.

Sunday, 16 September 2012

Sister Reformations II

Just back from this very agreeable conference in Berlin, on the English and German Reformations. For me, the academic highlight was David Trim’s paper on the ethics of warfare in the Reformation era, a paper which somehow had additional punch coming from a first-rate military historian who, as a Seventh-Day Adventist, is also himself a pacifist. He gave a sober description of how the laws of war didn’t change at the Reformation (the principle that it was legitimate and appropriate to massacre rebellious peasants even after they had surrendered was universally accepted). And also of how they did: in the religious wars, the classic codes of chivalry which meant that surrendering forces were given quarter, and captured noblemen were ransomed, were largely abandoned: such people were simply massacred, as if they were rebels or infidels rather than the soldiers of another Christian prince.
                David promises he’s on the point of finishing his book on England’s covert role in the religious wars, whose concealment was so effective that we still largely haven’t seen through it. It will be worth the wait.

                Another Sister Reformations conference is pencilled in for 2015: maybe in Germany, maybe in Durham if we can raise the funding. Any suggestions for fruitful themes that would help us compare the two Reformations welcome …

Tuesday, 11 September 2012

My new book!

Shameless puff department: Jessica Martin's and my new book Private and Domestic Devotion in Early Modern Britain is just out. The companion volume, on worship in the early modern parish church, is a few months behind but is on its way. It would be rude to pick out my favourites in the volume, but there are some crackers there. My own piece is on the piety of sleep, so at least if you find it makes you nod off I can claim that the prose style was ironic.

Friday, 7 September 2012

Kate Narveson

I've just received an advance copy of Kate Narveson's new book, Bible Readers and Lay Writers in Early Modern England (Ashgate). I'm excited to get my hands on it. I reviewed it for the publisher and here is part of what I said:

'This is a really tremendous piece of scholarship: subtle, humane, insightful and – when it needs to be – biting.  ... I am fully persuaded by the big assertion of the book, which I take to be that godly reading and writing were a liberating force which cut across lines of gender and clerical status. Perhaps I was already predisposed to agree, but the book taught me a great deal that I didn’t know, and crystallised more that I half-knew but had never quite pinned down.
            The quality of the writing is as good as I have come to expect from Professor Narveson; the text fizzes with quotable quotes, and with felicitous conceptual coinages like ‘household publication’. It is also mercifully free of technical jargon. ... Sometimes, in my darker moments, I wonder what literary scholarship is really for. This kind of thing is what.'
I've been banging on about Kate's work for some time, but I'm going to keep at it. She's not well known in the field of English Reformation studies, but she deserves to be; I hope this book will help to put her firmly on the map.

Reformation Studies

Now recovering from the Reformation Studies Colloquium in Durham, just held from 4-6 September, which if I say so myself was pretty good. I'd pick out two of the short communications that I heard as really outstanding:

Robert Harkins of UC Berkeley, Ethan Shagan's doctoral student, gave a cracking paper titled 'The Legacy of Marian Nicodemism'; really exciting stuff. He took the conventional idea that 'Puritan' was in origin an allusion to Novatianism, and suggested that this remained its beating heart through the Elizabethan period: that underneath it all, the Puritans' real gripe was that all these people who were now pretending to be all holy had conformed during Mary's reign and not repented of having done so. And he had some great archival work underlying it.

And Susan Royal, my own doctoral student, who gave a paper on Lollardy and 17th-century dissent: not looking at (yawn) the prosopographical or other direct connections, but the theological ones. She showed not just that the Quakers and many others are heavily citing Lollard precedents, but that they are doing so through Foxe's Book of Martyrs , and that Foxe himself deliberately includes lots of radical-sounding material on oaths, tithes and other subjects from the Lollards which goes well beyond Elizabethan orthodoxy. Was Foxe a radical himself? No ... but as Susan was arguing he's not exactly a straight-up-and-down magisterial reformer either. I think the notion that Foxe simply tidies up and edits out radical material from his sources is now unsustainable.