This year, I completed my tour of Church of England cathedrals. Each one brought something different: intangible presence at Carlisle, sensing centuries of prayer at Southwell, the heart-rending Pieta at Ripon, vaulting at Peterborough that seemed to me a series of vases stretching to heaven, Liverpool’s enormity but intimacy, Southwark’s parish church atmosphere and Bradford’s pelicans.  The services gave colour to each place: Mass at Liverpool, the Litany at Coventry, Sheffield’s Evening Prayer, choral Evensong at Carlisle and, on Christmas Day, the televised Eucharist from Blackburn.

I have favourites (Carlisle again), but only one cathedral inspired me by its message, symbolism, and mission: Coventry.  When I first heard Coventry’s story of rising from its own ashes, I was enthralled.  On my first visit, I was open-mouthed at the new cathedral, seeing how meaning played out architecturally; I joined the Litany of Reconciliation, a perfect introduction.  Still agog, I spoke with the Dean and declared it the ‘most beautiful ugly building’!  Overwhelmed, I sat outside before approaching the ruins.

The ruins resonated deeply within me.  What if the thoughts of the Provost had not been ‘Father Forgive’? or the Scott rebuilding had been realised, whitewashing the destruction? In either case, an opportunity missed.  Two words, perhaps the strongest of Christ or man, spoken not in defiance but surrender to God’s will in pain and anguish; light in darkness.  The resurrection of both Christ and Coventry embraced that darkness, allowing transformation – if Christ had not died, never descended into hell, and had walked on earth as before, we would not be reconciled to God; if Coventry had been rebuilt, we might have forgotten that destruction and loss were precursors to reconciliation.

Coventry embraces both suffering and reconciliation.  In the architecture and fittings of the new cathedral, I found echoes of the Crown of Thorns – not reconciliation but the suffering endured to bring it about; the apparently dull interior belies the colour, light and glory seen after ascending the choir and turning back to the world, transformed.  The Gethsemane chapel’s message is clear: “if it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt” in its mosaic and the Crown of Thorns manifest in its screen.  Coventry’s decision: to accept the bitter cup offered and be transformed.

I didn’t take out my camera for some time; I knew immediately that no photograph could capture it.  On subsequent visits, in wonder again, I took photos of details that I felt I might capture with some authenticity or which I had missed previously. Still, I cannot envisage an image that could begin to describe Coventry.  Maybe I should visit when there is a large congregation – perhaps that the essence of this place lies in its community. The Christmas ‘Form of a Servant’ liturgy explains, as the Bishop removes his insignia to become one with his flock, the humility and surrender for which Coventry stands, yet it remains intangible.

As I left Coventry the first time, my thoughts were simple: ‘be more Coventry’. Through Journey of Hope (for which I would not have considered applying had I not experienced Coventry), that is what I am trying to do. 

Under the Christmas tree for me this year is something I have wanted since my first visit: a Cross of Nails pendant.  For years, my Jerusalem Cross for years has been a symbol of those five wounds that changed everything; I never envisaged replacing it.  Tonight, it will be replaced with the Coventry Cross as a sign of my commitment to sharing that change however I can.