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.

The day before our meeting in Coventry, I recalled another beginning: I visited Dorchester Abbey (Oxfordshire), which I had attempted to visit on my ‘grand tour’ of English Cathedrals last year but found it closed.  I was immediately hit by the recollection of that first day of the trip when, full of hope and excitement, I had visited.  What made this so significant was that, at the end of that trip, I returned to a dying (and very, very beloved) Blue.  I became acutely aware that I had begun my exploration of England’s 43 Anglican Cathedrals with a rabbit who was very much alive but would be completing it without him waiting for me at home.  Once again, the trauma of losing him became overwhelming.

Dramatic camera-fade to the present time:  I have two beautiful rabbits, Erev and Lilah (aka the warring factions!) and a cohort of friends who have affirmed and upheld me throughout 2022.  The dark days after Blue died are behind me, however long they may cast their shadows.  Life has moved forwards and I have found new happiness.

On Tuesday, I will complete my collection of English cathedrals (and, thanks to Journey of Hope, I have gathered 12 Northern Irish cathedrals of both denominations, too) and once again I will reach the end of a pathway.  It is poignant that I should do this just as JOH is complete (the in-person modules, at least).  I find myself deeply sad that our current path is concluding yet, just as I did when Blue died, I knew there was no turning back.

And so I ask myself ‘what next?’ 

The answer is obvious: just as I built a new relationship with Erev at a time when Blue’s ashes had not long been scattered in all his favourite spots in our garden, there are only two things that I need to do.  First: I need to accept the position in which I find myself and be kind to myself as I adjust; second: something needs to rise from the ashes.  And so, at Mary-Rose’s suggestion, I will try to maintain our community of JOH 2022 participants (perhaps Becca will give me some cat-herding tips!)  I haven’t settled upon a format as yet, but I sincerely hope to find a way in which we can discuss, collaborate and continue to grow together.

In the meantime, I intend to take a little respite and then I hope to begin visiting as many of you as possible in your church / spiritual settings.

Much love to you all,

Franceska

Image: Chapel of Reconciliation, Coventry Cathedral (taken with a very silly lens!)

I am from cots, beds 

And starchy white aprons

I am from ward 8 

Thermometers, bedpans 

And the wireless in the corner 

I am from silent looks 

And pass-it-on clothes

I’m from the Lord is my shepherd

And Amazing Grace,

The Sacred Heart statue

And the Angelus at noon.

I am from the larks

And the pond 

Where Mr Pastry fell. 

I am from Charlie and Maisie 

 From my father’s tin whistle

And my mother’s Irish songs

I am from eggs and black pudding

I am from old, faded photographs

Of family I heard about, but never knew

Of stories I listened to, but never heard

Of dreams that were dreamed, and some lived. 

I am from hope rising. 

I’ve been reflecting on the project we are asked to describe as emerging from this Pilgrimage, in each of our journeys.

Right at the beginning, St. David’s injunction to “do the little things” spoke to me, and I ramped up my response to every need I encountered, feeling glad still to be useful in retirement.

But I was disturbed by a sense that one unifying thread was missing…though constantly aware of the importance of responding to the inner divine imperative, in preference to external goal-setting.

I can’t say I’m now doing anything other than the little things which present themselves as opportunities: I’m resisting the egoistic drive to pioneer some grand new initiative and produce impressive results within a defined timeframe.

But there are so very many little things that the art seems to be in listening, and prioritising to optimise the application of my capacity and skill.

Today I visited the Henri Nouwen blog and accessed the first of a series of talks addressing the issues we’ve been looking at, over these months – such wisdom! The speaker quoted from a poem entitled “Slow work”, composed by a Unitarian minister, Rev. Elizabeth Stevens, following the recent mid-term elections in the USA. It puts things perfectly, for me:

“Oh, my dear ones.
I know you were hoping
For a once-and-done.
For an earthquake,
A tidal wave.
Hoping that if we gave it our all,
A single push would be enough.
That after this, we could
Sink
Back into complacency,
Back into the comfort of our privilege.
I confess, in the secret corners of my heart,
I wanted to believe it could be that easy
That justice would emerge as from an egg
Fully grown
Not with wet down and weak wings…

But beloveds,
We are chipping away at a mountain,
Not a boulder.
Calcified structures
Created to oppress,
Control,
Kill.
2000 years of this stupid idea
That some are more worthy,
Some deserve power by virtue of who they are.
Erosion is slow work, sweethearts.
Celebrate the progress
The triumphs.
Celebrate also the heartbreaking almosts.
Breathe.
Rest for a time.
Then get up and turn again toward kindness,
Toward your neighbor in need,
Toward those who are still trapped in the stone.
Tell them, “I won’t give up.”
Tell them, “I am with you.”
Tell them, “For you, I will learn to eat rocks.”
“For you, I will keep chewing, keep grinding,
Until the mountain crumbles to dust.”

from avocados and chocolate

I am from the warmth of CA sunshine

I am from palm trees

The lemon trees who’s long gone limbs I remember as if they were my own

I am from baking and hosting

from grandmas Carol and Ada

I’m from avoidance and quiet

and from neatness

I’m from conscientiousness and sweetness

and “be careful, dead kids are no fun to play with”

I’m from Burbank and Scotland

and fresh guacamole

From independence and travelling abroad

Confidence and heirlooms for furniture

I am.

I am from grandparents who adored me and accepted me just as I am

I am from the cuddly-toy rabbit my godmother gave me for my second birthday who I loved so much that he became a series of real rabbits that have spanned my life so far

I am from learning to read, not just books but any words I could find

I am from loving every second that I have spent learning

I am from asking God when my parents said no… and blaming Him when life seemed unbearable

I am from waiting for hours at our front gates with welcome banners for my overseas cousins to arrive and nights spent talking with them until we were put into separate rooms

I am from feeling different and not fitting in anywhere I went

I am from rope swings, dens, wading along streams and rivers, climbing trees and talking all night with my other godmother’s son

I am from not being the pretty one, the kind one, the popular one, the one who was chosen for teams but having a few really special friends at any one time

I am from the beatings, the emotional manipulation, the mental abuse and always feeling afraid

I am from the girl guide camps where we would chat, sing, get muddy and laugh way beyond lights-out

I am from discovering classical music as a teenager and knowing that I fitted in at last and would always have precious friends

I am from meeting my very best friends at the age of 16 and discovering that, no matter how long we go without seeing each other, it is as though we have always been together

I am from singing alto at school, soprano at college, tenor at university and finally finding my place in the second tenor section in choirs as an adult

I am from that first pair of hippie patchwork trousers that I wore until they were mostly holes

I am from the orchestra residentials where I had a whole gang of friends who wrote to each other for years afterwards – Coathanger, Past Sax-life, Gnome, Sheep, and some who even used their actual names

I am from that first orchestra tour, where I fell in love with the Czech Republic, spent a fortnight with my friends, was treated as an adult for the first time and cried when it was time to come home

I am from the gap year where I followed my dream of studying music for the first time

I am from hugging my grandmother at my grandfather’s funeral, knowing that she was as broken as I was

I am from co-dependency and people-pleasing, saying yes to anything that I thought might make me essential to their lives

I am from agreeing with things that are repulsive to me now, just to feel a part of something

I am from the university years, when I only hung out with other screwed-up people for brief, intense friendships and relationships

I am from passing my driving test age 20 and discovering the freedom to go anywhere

I am from pit orchestras, bandstands, symphonic concerts, chamber music, concert bands and any other way I could participate in music-making

I am from treating flute pupils as individuals and listening to their jokes and from the bet with one of them that I couldn’t learn the bassoon in a term and pass grade 5

I am from the contrabassoon solo in Shostakovitch 5, conducted by one of my longest-standing friends

I am from improvising along to hymns and praise songs in countless churches and on countless instruments, finding acceptance among people but avoiding God

I am from the years of putting all my energy into running a St. John Ambulance unit, where I achieved all that I aimed to but where those above me just didn’t understand my approach

I am from getting kids excited about giving gifts to people in hospital each Christmas Eve

I am from having the privilege to watch those kids grow into amazing adults and still think of me as a friend

I am from ‘coming out’ to my friends as an abuse survivor… and being offered unconditional love and acceptance

I am from getting so traumatised by the Department for Work and Pensions’ treatment that friends would come over every evening and take me for a moonlit swim in the sea as a distraction

I am from being made homeless and realising that those who had the least helped me the most in those months of need

I am from sitting beside one of those friends in her hospice bed just a year later

I am from realising that I don’t fit the gender binary particularly well… and learning that I am quite happy that way

I am from discovering the rosary, adoration and the Tridentine Mass in Latin and finally finding peace and a way to come to God

I am from realising that symbolism is deeply meaningful to me… and using it to make vestments and my Rosary Garden

I am from having the courage to go to the first Co-Dependents Anonymous meeting, which set me on a path to recovery

I am from the bleakness of parting company with someone who I thought would be my friend for life

I am from returning to a church that I had left years earlier, only to hear the same epistle reading as the first time I went there.  I am still there.

I am from feeling the call to serve God as a Deacon… but the Diocese not yet being able to see it

I am from my autism diagnosis, which assured me that God had made me this way and will use my gifts for His purpose, helped me to accept myself as I am and gave me the freedom to stop pretending to be just like everyone around me

I am from learning that God will use the traumas of my past to teach me the importance of boundaries, of peace, of not judging and of openness

I am from my 40^th birthday Mass and party, where people from every part of my adult life came together and I just stood there, overwhelmed and grinning

I am from those wonderful lunchtimes with my Wednesday friends (a group of adults with learning disabilities) where each of us accepts the others as equals, from blowing bubbles to catch, from paralysing hugs, from sitting in silence together, from uncontrolled giggles, from being insulted in sign language, from slightly dribbly kisses, from squeals of laughter, from asking ‘who is the biggest pickle here’ and pointing at each other and from unconditional love

I am from playing duets with Beloved Duettist in between making puns in so many languages, reciting the London Underground map and singing ridiculous words to what we’re supposed to be playing

I am from Beloved Vicar, who believes in me and allows me to express myself freely… but also knows how to set boundaries lovingly and firmly

I am from so many trips to the Czech Republic and Slovakia; thousands of miles by bus, train and car; visiting out-of-the-way villages, towns, cities, churches and historical sites, driving the length of the Iron Curtain and the river Vltava to take photos, meeting my surrogate family in Telc and wandering the streets of Prague for days at a time, lost in wonder

I am from trying to say ‘I don’t eat that – it comes from the Devil’s bottom’ in Czech, managing instead to say ‘it comes from hell without changing buses’… and laughing at my own ineptitude

I am from driving 2000 miles around England to visit (almost) all its cathedrals

I am from loving and losing the pets who became family – and learning to love their successors just as much in their own way

I am from playing for 6 hours in a workshop on an instrument I’d had 20 minutes to learn to play

I am from Journey of Hope, where I felt I should probably be there to make the tea when I looked at the qualifications and experience of the other participants, but was welcomed, accepted, embraced, loved, heard, valued and challenged

I am from the unavoidable giggle-flap when cold water reaches my middle

I am from laughing all the way to the Giant’s Causeway and back, sticky ice cream in my hair and feeling part of our transatlantic family

I am from love, although it took me a while to realise that

Image: Me at my 40th birthday party with my best Friends, Janet and Rodney, who I met wen I was 16

I am from Halifax, West Yorkshire

I am from Ecstacy

and the moment I was welcomed into my Quaker community

I am from the ocean and the top of the cherry tree

I am from Octavia Butler

and peanut butter

I am from recovering from my eating disorder

and learning a new language as an adult

I am from Penelope Fox and Pleasance Catchpool

from Peppermint tea

Water

Misty

and my friendships and community

I declare myself an ambassador of rest. An advocate for the self-care necessary for us to be able to show up in solidarity for generations and centuries to come.

I declare myself a pleasure activist *(see adrienne marie brown’s excellent work on this). An advocate for eros, for erotic justice, for joy, for dance and for delight in the beauty and sensual ecstacy that enlivens and animates our lives.

I declare my right to reclaim desire, to follow and trust my instincts and intuition. As a bisexual and polyamorous cis-woman, I work towards inner peace, overcoming internalised homophobia and patriarchal thinking to be free from shame and judgement. I do this for the love of myself and the people I love and with the hope that my courage can light the way for young queer people to come.

I declare my desire for justice. I allow this desire to support my ability to stay with the discomfort that arises out of exploration and action around my white and class, gender and ableist privilege. I declare my desire not to confuse comfort with peace, so I can live in the uncomfortable reality of our world, and know that not one of us is free until we are all free and we can not be at peace until we are all at peace – with earth, with one another and with ourselves.

Recently I have been noticing and naming this as virtue signalling, the word used to describe the action or practice of publicly expressing opinions or sentiments intended to demonstrate one’s good character or the moral correctness of one’s position on a particular issue.

What are the stories we keep telling ourselves? What are the narratives taught in Sunday Schools?

LOOK OVER HERE, for example at the Quakers such as Elizabeth Fry who until recently was on the British £5 note who went into women’s prisons and improved conditions. So we are celebrated for reforming prisons (but where is the conversation about abolition?).

LOOK OVER HERE, at the Quaker Retreat centre in York famous for being ahead of its time in treating mentally ill people as people and leading the way in occupational health (but again, where is the conversation about social models of psycho-emotional health?)

LOOK OVER HERE, at the early Quakers who spoke out to abolish slavery and support the Underground Railroad movement, (but what about those who continued to own enslaved people beyond abolition and the way many Quaker businesses profited from the sugar trade built on the backs and deaths of so many people.)

LOOK OVER HERE, at the Quakers who spoke out about witch hunts in Salem, (but so late in the era, what was our part in early witch hunting in the UK and the US?)

LOOK OVER HERE, at the Quakers who were conscientious objectors (but what about those of us who are yet to divest our money from banks which support the arms trade?)

LOOK OVER HERE at the Quakers able to take environmental action and put solar panels on our roofs and buy organic food (and yet how do we judge those who can not afford to make such choices?)

LOOK OVER HERE, at me virtue signalling by being critical and trying to stay woke and on top of the curve of the moral spectrum and be on the right side of history…

My faith taught me from an early age to virtue signal, to learn how to show I was an ally rather that to actually be one and to teach me how to be exceptional white middle class woman. Although being a Quaker also teaches me as an adult to hold the complexity of history, to speak and seek the truth and to know my complicity in oppressive systems as well as my part to play to dismantle them, i am acutely aware of the omissions we choose to conveniently not emphasise and the ways in which we have a duty to start digging and sharing more of the dirty as well as squeaky clean parts of our individual and collective past and present.

In 2021, British Quakers collectively committed (Quakers don’t vote but rather make decisions rooted in silent worship) to becoming an actively anti-racist community and inclusive and welcoming for non-binary and trans folk. This was based on realising the Quaker Testimony of Equality is not necessarily enough to ensure actions reflect values.

In 2022 this was added to with a minute made in the yearly meeting gathering that made first references at the national level to financial and other reparations for how Quaker institutions have profited from and continue to proliferate oppressive systems such as slavery.

The decision making process of Quakers is slow but it does enable us to evolve and react and reflect the practices and morals of the present day. This means we can perhaps virtue signal more than other Christian denominations and faiths, but how does it actually translate in practice?

There is a famous Quaker phrase, what does love require of us?

Right now it requires discomfort, actions, humility and accountability. Love requires us to have courage to really live our faith.

If we were created in the image of God then, as a human, Jesus must bear the divine image too.  Yet we have twisted things so that God and Jesus have become images of us instead.  The image with this post has a white, blue-eyed, Aryan Jesus like those in childrens’ bibles of my youth; it also has a historically informed impression of how Jesus might have looked.  Aryan Jesus is, for me, a heresy.

Jesus was born to an unwed mother, into a working-class family; he was a refugee for parts of His life; He was mocked, tortured and killed for speaking truth.  How many of our clergy have experienced the above?  Yet they stand in persona Christi.  The vast majority of clergy (in my experience) are white, middle-class or above, highly educated people from stable families and inherited the established faith of their homeland.  Many of them went straight into theological training from university and then into ministry.  Some of them people have taken great effort to see how the other half live; many have not.  I was once told by a priest that ordination is a profession of the middle classes – and he was proud of how he, from a background in care and a patchy education, was managing to emulate everything they represented.  No, no, no, no, no! 

I must call myself out: I am white and from a middle-class background.  I have, however, lived in poverty for much of my life and left behind my middle-class roots.  I’m also not neurotypical, have a physical disability, came from a home that was abusive and am gender non-conforming.  I also feel called to ministry, but the diocesan vocations team can’t seem to equate this to the above. 

I have seen how clergy who are out of touch with the man on the street damage our integrity: the priest who married during the second lockdown because his fiancée was pregnant and was more concerned about their lavish wedding with 29 people present than about solidarity with the rest of the world, damaging the reputation of the Church locally, and the priest who can’t understand that most of the congregation can’t afford a £350 weekend pilgrimage to Walsingham or a £1200 trip to Oberammergau, alienating most of his congregation and leaving them feeling inferior; he couldn’t understand why parishioners asked for free, local discipleship courses instead.

These clergy are not unusual and neither are congregations who are like them.  Imagine walking into church like that for the first time as a person of colour, having nothing to put into the collection plate or not understanding half the words in the sermon.  How long would you stay?  If white, middle-class Jesus is a heresy, surely we should be trying to represent Jesus with diverse clergy?

Jesus ALWAYS sided with the underdog.  He never excluded the poor, the disabled, the foreigner, the uneducated, the outcast or the slightly odd.  Surely our churches and their clergy should be exactly the same?  Yet still our churches are treated more as country clubs for the righteous than hospitals for the broken and outcast; our mission to those we view as less fortunate than ourselves come from the ‘poor them’ perspective rather than Jesus’ absolute equality of welcome and hospitality.

Lord, help me to wave my nonconformity around as a beacon to all those who might be afraid to come to Your Church as a sign of your radical acceptance, equality and love.