Trust me, I'm a theologian

Don't follow the crowd - they may be lost too! That was my final lesson from Assisi. Saturday morning I just missed the bus up to the old town and so hoofed it up the 2 1/2 miles in the cool spring sunshine. In old Italian towns there's always at least one more romanesque church you haven't yet seen. San Pietro was the antithesis of the big Franciscan basilicas: nearly a thousand years old, plain, quiet, a place to escape the crowds. A little market had sprung up on the Via San Pietro and I climbed up through streets and alleys to reach the main piazza. My aim was to buy a miniature copy of the Croce San Damiano, small enough to fit in my rucksack but large enough to hang on the wall in my office. I found one in a souvenir shop brimful of schoolchildren on a day out. A few other nicknacks and a bottle of wine to take back to Rome, and I was back down the hill to collect my bag and get to the station. I was there in time, bought a panino from the station bar and got to the platform to find it packed with people from the conference. 'Here's the train', someone shouted, and I followed a group into a carriage. We'd just sat down when the train started moving - about five minutes earlier than we expected. We looked at each other,then someone said, 'you know, I think this is the Florence train.' General alarm followed. Fortunately, the train stopped at a village a few miles away, but we had over an hour to wait for a train going back in the direction we wanted to be. That was fine for me as I just needed to get to Rome by nightfall. For those who were flying from Rome that afternoon there was a time of rising panic! I think it worked out for everyone - though there was a mad rush for taxis when we reached Orte, just outside Rome.

I presume they made sure the Pope got the right train!

I enjoyed reaching Ponte Sant'Angelo and the Methodist manse late afternoon and going for a walk. I paid my respects to St Peter's square (the 'big daddy' of Baroque triumphalism) and then followed the Tiber, first to the rather run-down area around the renaissance Villa Farnesina (the one with the risque frescos) and then into Trastavere, which was limbering up for what was likely to be a long night of partying. I bought a wonderful icecream from a gelateria, then crossed the river to walk back along the Via Giulia - a long thoroughfare whose high walls conceal some of the grandest renaissance palaces in Rome. A lovely evening with Ken and Marion and two of their friends. Rome is such a good place to stay - especially outside of the hot summer months. It's one drawback, I think, is the airport - an uncomfortable and disorderly place with few facilities for those not intending to buy an expensive handbag. I kept wanting to go up to people and say 'don't you know how to form a queue?'.

Back to Belfast, and to its usual mixture of wind, rain and the occasional glimpse of the sun. It's time to get the garden ready to receive the plants that are slowly coming to life in the greenhouse, but the soil is still pretty waterlogged. I'm determined not to make the same mistake as last year. I sowed early, then put plants out in the first spell of warm weather. It soon turned cold and wet, leaving courgette plants shivering and miserable. They never did recover.

Today, the Church of England commemorates Christina Rossetti, sister of the more famous (and much less well-behaved) Dante Gabriel. She's an under-rated poet in my opinion, who could write something as simple as 'In the bleak midwinter' as well as the scarily gothic 'Goblin Market'. Here's her 'A Better Resurrection', which perfectly captures the tension between faith and doubt.

A BETTER RESURRECTION
by: Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

HAVE no wit, no words, no tears;

My heart within me like a stone

Is numb'd too much for hopes or fears;

Look right, look left, I dwell alone;

I lift mine eyes, but dimm'd with grief

No everlasting hills I see;

My life is in the falling leaf:

O Jesus, quicken me.

 

My life is like a faded leaf,

My harvest dwindled to a husk:

Truly my life is void and brief

And tedious in the barren dusk;

My life is like a frozen thing,

No bud nor greenness can I see:

Yet rise it shall--the sap of Spring;

O Jesus, rise in me.

 

My life is like a broken bowl,

A broken bowl that cannot hold

One drop of water for my soul

Or cordial in the searching cold;

Cast in the fire the perish'd thing;

Melt and remould it, till it be

A royal cup for Him, my King:

O Jesus, drink of me.

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing ....

One of the best things about Italy is the food (another, of course, is the wine) and the catering at Domus Pacis has been excellent. But for two meals, we had to fend for ourselves in the old town of upper Assisi. The first was Wednesday dinner and I found myself with a group of people (including an American Jesuit, an Irish theologian and the formidable Fulata of the women's desk at the World Council of Churches). We found a cute little restaurant down an alley off the main piazza (old Italian cities are like that) and enjoyed an unpretentious, homely set menu for €16. So far, so good. But as we left, the chef intercepted us with 'a domani, pesche fresco'. We didn't know much Italian, but we understood that they had fresh fish tomorrow. And Thursday we had to find our own lunch, so a bunch of us headed back to del Carro for their pesche fresco.

The staff tried to explain what the fish menu involved, but they knew no English and we had little Italian. I tried to piece together the words I understood and make some sense out of them. I heard 'spaghetti vongole' and 'pesche al forno' and presumed that meant we'd have a first course of spaggetti with clams and second of fish baked in the oven. But there had been other words which I'd not understood and ignored. In fact, we had triggered a massive enterprise in the kitchen, that would take them (and us) over two hours to work through. First, we were brought large bowls of shell fish: baby clams and mussels. They were good. Some time later (and after wine and bread) the next course appeared: huge bowls of spaghetti with more clams and half a lobster each. At this point I realised that we were no longer on the €16 menu! It was magnificent, but of course there was more to come. After another long wait we were presented with small stuffed and baked fish with potatos.

By this time we were already late for our next conference session, so had to forego coffee and just take a sip of the complimentary limone liqueur. The fish menu turned out to be €30 a head - not at all bad value for what we had, but not really what we'd expected when we'd walked in. A great meal (though perhaps at the wrong time of day), an adventure in good company and a cautionary tale about assuming you know more of a language than you really do.

Learning to love St Frances

Assisi was always going to be a challenge. Yes, it's an exquisite Umbrian hill-town with ancient buildings and excellent restaurants, but it's also the centre of the world-wide Franciscan movement. Those who know me well will understand that I have difficulties with this tradition: all that anarchic free-spirit stuff tends to get irritating when you're trying to get things done.The opening night of the conference looked as if all my prejudices were going to be confirmed. We sang 'Make me  a channel of your peace' (never  good sign) and just as the service of compline finished there was a raucous sound and a band of musicians in medieval costume strode in. Up popped a Franciscan friar and annouced that we were having a party - and we were all led into the bar by bagpipes, trombone and tambourine. 'Here we go' I thought.

But then we began to spend time in the ancient part of Assisi: we had a guided a tour of the great basilica  from an American Franciscan who was in turn informative, funny and tearful as he recounted the story of St Francis and his ministry. The great basilica, now restored after the earthquake of 1997 and with the Giotto frescos back in view, was built in the two years after Francis' death, hundreds of stone masons giving their labour out of love and respect. Beneath the gothic upper basilica is the lower, darker and more mysterious romanesque church and underneath them both the tomb of St Francis, excavated in the nineteenth century. I can only say that, in spite of the inevitable tourist trappings there was a genuine sense of the holy, of having (in TS Eliot's words) knelt where prayer has been valid.

Then, this morning, we had our prayers in the basilica dedicated to St Clare, Chiara in Italian (the same as the word for 'light'). We heard of her struggle to develop a new form of monastic life, of her strength of character and her wise and eloquent counsel. In a side chapel hangs the Croce Damiano. This is the painted cross that (so Francis firmly believed) spoke to him with the voice of Christ and commanded him to restore the church. It still has a powerful presence.

Pax et Bonum from Assisi

From Belfast to Assisi via Rome.
On Sunday morning I sang with my choir in St Peter's (RC) Cathedral as part of the Titanic commemoration. In fact the newly commissioned Requiem for the Lost Souls of the Titanic, with its 4 choirs, 2 brass ensembles and mezzo-soprano soloist, came together remarkably well, though I suspect some regular worshippers were bemused. The 2-hour service ended with a packed congregation singing Nearer my God to Thee - a remarkable occurence. Inspite of my difficulty with the whole Titanic hullaballoo, I found myself drawn into it and even moved.

Then there was an early (3.00am) start to Monday, as I drove down to Dublin for the  7.10 flight to Rome. A bus took me directly from the airport to within a few minutes' walk from the Methodist centre by the Ponte S Angelo in time for lunch with Ken and Marion Howcroft. In the afternoon I visited the Anglican centre, occupying part of a vast renaissance palazzo near the pantheon, an oasis (if that  is the right word) of englishness, with its library, chapel and drawing room. Later, I went round the Castel S Angelo (admission free as it's 'culture week' in Rome). Built by the emperor Hadrian as a mausoleum, it became a fortified palace for popes, with a corridor leading to the Vatican. My main interest was that it is the setting for the final act of Tosca with the heroine hurling herself from the high terrace at the climax. The views across Rome are stunning.

Then yesterday my major achievement was to get one of the ticket machines at Termini station to work - a personal first! The train to Assisi was full, and from the conversations I overheard had a high proportion of theologians on board. We passed through the Umbrian countryside, still green at this time of year, with its ancient towns perched on hilltops and beneath them rows of those plants that have been such a blessing to humanity: olives and grape-vines.

We are staying in Domus Pacem a (Franciscan-run, of course) hotel/conference centre next to Santa Maria degli Angeli. This enormous Baroque basilica has within it the much older Porziuncola - the tiny chapel restored by St Francis as a young man and the place where he died, laid (on his instruction) naked on the bare earth. The Porziuncola is a great centre of pilgrimage but during our opening service I couldn't help wondering what the combination meant. Was the enormous, triumphalist, basilica symbolising the fact that Francis' simplicity and charismatic goodness had been captured and tamed by the institution, or was it saying that somehow the reforming movement Francis started had succeeded in infecting the whole Church?

The conference is international and ecumenical - though perhaps with a majority of Catholics. In a weak moment, and to save Edgehill some money, I agreed to share a room. My room-mate (who I have met once before) turned out to be a young Romanian Orthodox priest who's an expert on Maximus the Confessor. The room is very small and the shower is only just big enough for me to squeeze in.

This evening we were in the old town of Assisi, but more of that tomorrow.

It was alright when it left here!

I arrived back in Belfast to find the city gripped by Titanic fever. April 14th marks the centenary of the sinking of Belfast's single most famous export. Personally, I find it rather strange that a city should fix its identity on a ship that sank on its maiden voyage - it suggests serious issues of self-esteem - but nothing seems to detract from local pride. You can even get T shirts saying, 'Titanic: built by Irishmen, sunk by Englishmen'. There's huge new visitor's centre, just opened in what has been been called the city's 'Titanic Quarter'. On Saturday, at the very time that the boat went down, I should be singing in a specially composed requiem at an event in St Anne's Cathedral. I will definitely not be going on the torch-lit procession from the Cathedral to the city hall!

It took a few days to get back to Belfast. Having landed at Heathrow on Monday, Miriam kindly picked me up and took me to Tewkesbury. Next day we converged with other family members to celebrate my mother's 80th birthday at an excellent lunch in a village pub near Grantham. Unfortunately, I've brought back an unwanted souvenir in the form of a nasty skin infection - legacy of a string of flea bites to my ankles in Tonga - so have been a bit sorry for myself and need to get some anti-biotics once surgeries re-open after Easter.

After all the preaching while I was away, not having a role in leading Holy Week services was a bit of an anti-climax. However, Diane and I (once again) made the long journey to join in the Easter vigil at the Benedictine Community at Rostrevor. Nestling in a valley in the Mourne mountains, the location is beautiful, but last night there was drizzle and wind as the congregation joined the monks around the fire that had been lit outside the church. From the fire was lit the great paschal candle and from it, in turn, the candles we carried as we processed into church. 'The light of Christ' echoed round the building, and then Brother Thierry sang the Exultet ('Rejoice heavenly powers; sing, choirs of angels') to launch us into the service. It took nearly three hours: unhurried, simple, dramatic and joyful. In music we moved easily between Latin plainchant and the modern settings from Taize. As always, Father Mark preached in a way that encouraged and challenged.



 All being well, in just over a week I'll be travelling to Assissi for an ecumenical conference and will report from there. My expectation is that it won't be quite as hot as Fiji, but that the coffee will be even better!

 Easter blessings to you all!

The best-laid plans

Greetings from Santa Monica! It's a long story. I was all set (and eager after all that time in black) to leave Tonga on Friday afternoon but reckoned without a fierce tropical storm that has caused immensely damaging flooding in Fiji and grounded flights for most of the weekend. It also crashed most computers in Fiji, which didn't help. Winston and I chased round to try and find out what was going on, then gave up and went to Billfish, a restaurant/bar on the waterfront and had just about the best tuna steak I've ever tasted. Saturday morning, thanks to Winston's office, we managed to get on an Air New Zealand flight to Auckland and were booked for an onward flight to Fiji the next day, all ready for my scheduled departure from Nadi Sunday evening. But Sunday morning flights to Nadi were still cancelled. I approached the Qantas desk and was  mightifly relieved to get the last seat on a direct flight from Auckland  to LA. Arrived LA soon after 6.00 this morning.

Sister Fehoko and Fr Sione at St Andrew's High School

where I took the assembly on Friday morning.

this all underlines the fact that when we travel from the '1st world' to the '3rd', if a disaster strikes, as it has to Fiji, we always have a ticket home; those who have lost homes or crops, or their means of living don't hav e that luxury. Winston has had a succession of crises while I've been working with him and will want to spend time with his parishes in the west of Viti Levus, where the flooding is worst. In addition, one of the priests at the Cathedral in Suva, with whome I shared services a couple of weeks ago, has died suddenly at the age of 55 while we've been in Tonga.

Much of my luggage (including warm clothing and rail tickets) is still in Suva, but that is a small inconvenience by comparison.

But back to LA: on the advice of a helpful man on the information desk, I decided to have a few hours out of airport and catch a bus to Santa Monica. As some of you will know, there is no better way of remindeing yourself that not everyone in the US is rich and happy tha n by riding on a public bus.

Once at Santa Monica I treated myself to an excellent breakfast (eggs Benedict on the verandah of the Georgian Hotel, overlooking the ocean - I recommend it). Then I walked along the famous walk-way and pier, perhaps looking slightly incongruous  sporting my panama and towing my suitcase. I saw the various ways people get fit at the beach: beach volley ball, running, gymnastics, cycling, roller-skating, etc  I looked for a church to celebrate Palm Sunday but the only one I found had already finished its service; Santa Monica seems rather more interested in the body beautiful than the immortal soul.

Apparently no-ne had thought of getting fit before!

My next contact should be when I'm back on terra Britannica.