This is another, 'story-behind-the-book' post which I would like to dedicate to the opening day of the Pauline year. Today, June 28, 2008, is the beginning of a year honouring and celebrating the life and mission of St. Paul. My reader is wrinkling his nose with a confused expression. "Huh?" he asks, "What on earth does this picture have to do with St. Paul?" Don't worry, I'm getting to that. We'll meet up with St. Paul when we reach Whitley Cross. Trust me.
You know, my father was a school teacher. High school Latin, actually. Asking people questions and giving long, drawn out answers is sort of in my blood. So, would anyone in the class like to tell me what this picture is called?
This is The Huguenot, by one of the more famous of the Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood, Sir John Everett Millais. It's a painting with a strong narrative behind it. The Huguenots were French Protestants, a sect devoted to a brand of Calvinism. In the Roman Catholic France of the 16th to 18th centuries, the Huguenots caused some degree of disturbance to the religious atmosphere of the nation. This particular picture shows a Huguenot meeting with his Catholic lover on the eve of St. Bartholemew's Day. The Catholic girl begs her beloved to wear the white armband which will distinguish him as a friend, rather than a foe to the Catholic army. If he wears the white sash, he will appear a Catholic and will not be harmed. But the Huguenot gently refuses, and assures the maiden that he cannot be worthy of her love if he should remain untrue to his honour and his faith.
Upon St. Bartholemew's Day, 1572, thousands of Huguenots were massacred at Catholic hands. The bittersweet and tragic nature of this painting hangs upon the fact that we may assume this man was among the fallen.
After diving headlong into my beloved Middle Ages with The Flowers of Arden, I was ready to try my hand at something a little different. The Restoration period--when the spiritual conflicts of England paralleled those of the Huguenot unrest in France--had always rather fascinated me. I wasn't fond of Cromwell, who single-handedly blotted out the religious heritage of this island nation--whatever was left of it after King Henry's dissolution of the monasteries. The two most famous Stewart kings--Charles I & II--were, on the other hand, rather charmingly easy to caricature. In me they inspired a sympathy which the Protector could not command. So my second novel, Whitley Cross, focused on the England of 1649-1659. It was about Cromwell's fall from grace---the religious and political turmoil affecting the nation---the juxtaposition of faith and dissension. As in the American Civil War, the English civil war pitted son against father, brother against brother, and friend against friend. Loyalty was everything. The Church to which you gave your allegiance marked you out for one side or the other. The opposing armies of Cromwell and Charles pointed fingers of blame at each another, and cried 'Treason!' with one unanimous roar.
Of course, what the book was really about can be traced back to this very picture, and my fascination with it. It was a love story about a young Protestant man, and a faithful Catholic girl. I wanted to articulate the meaning of that picture. For me, this picture is about Union. It may seem, that fate and worldly cares forever tear these two lovers apart---but they are united in their love for each other, and in their love for God. Both are faithful to one another, and to their God. And what unites them, is that they worship the same God--the God Whom both Protestants and Catholics were willing to die for.
England, like many of its European counterparts, has seen its fair share of religious conflict throughout the centuries. I wouldn't argue that this was to the benefit of the nation, nor to mankind in general. But when I consider the vast array of ruined castles, trodden battlefields, and rotted churches that I have seen--all relics of the tumultuous past--there is nothing that strikes me with such invigorating Hope as a few little words I came across, while making the tour of Westminster Abbey.
Somewhere along the dizzying, crowded way--between the pushing and the shoving of the thronging waves of tourists--we were able to pause for a moment before the gilded tombs of Mary Tudor (you may know her as 'Bloody Mary') and Elizabeth I, half-sisters whose opposing religious views and successive reigns occasioned a good deal of strife in this little isle. They are laid side by side, and upon the funereal monument are inscribed the words,
"Partners both in throne and grave, here rest we two sisters, Elizabeth and Mary, in hope of the Resurrection."
At a little distance, a stone lies in the floor of the great abbey, its surface chiselled with the following inscription,
“Near the tomb of Mary and Elizabeth remember before God all those who divided at the Reformation by different convictions laid down their lives for Christ and conscience’ sake”.
If we are to see the 'silver lining' in the dark cloud of our past, it is hidden in these words. All laid down their lives 'for Christ and conscience' sake.' All are partners in the grave. And all rest in hope of one Resurrection.
That's one of the best lessons England has taught me. And that's why I'm particularly glad that England's most famous church--the cathedral of St. Paul in London--is dedicated to a saint who "was willing to give his life for his faith in Christ, ecumenically committed to sharing Christ’s word with everyone, and willing to sacrifice everything for harmony between all Christians" (Musings from a Catholic Bookstore). Very often have I, beneath the great, gilded dome of St. Paul's Cathedral, heard evensong sung in a carcophony of angelic harmonies. I have heard God praised underneath that dome. I have prayed to Him, and loved to look upon His Image there. I never think of it so much as an Anglican church, but as a church in the hands of Anglicans. It's a wonderful place, where tourists and pilgrims from all over the world gather to pray and to praise.
One memory of St. Paul's in particular strikes me when I think upon the saint himself. In the dark and wintry hours of a December evening, it's usually devout Protestant locals who gather to attend evensong at St. Paul's cathedral. I remember sitting in the chilly atmopshere of that magnificent interior, clutching my coat and scarf close about me as we waited for the service to begin. I happened to look a few seats down to a spare, dark woman sitting a row apart. Her complexion identified her as a native of the Mediterranean, and I saw the black beads of a rosary wound between her fingers. She clasped it throughout the service. Like me, I don't think she really minded that this was evensong instead of vespers. The choir still sung,
'My soul doth magnify the Lord!'
And, I think, that was good enough for her.
I would like to apply myself to honouring St. Paul this year, and I don't have much doubt as to how the saint himself would choose to be honoured. He is a man who spent his life attempting to unify all nations through imparting to them a deep love of Christ. The best we can do, is to try to unify ourselves--our families--our communities--our homes, our nations, and our world, through this same love.
The cathedrals of England--those which still stand, lofty and proud, despite all the turbulence of past ages--are now simply buildings of surplus capacity. Centuries of dissension, political bickering, and theological conflict have slowly emptied the seats in churches around England, and around the world. When our faith is strong, so too is our conviction of right. But does God need us to justify Him? Whatever we own of Right, and of Conscience, let it be, as that ancient stone says, 'For Christ's sake.' Let it be, at last, the love and thanks that we render unto God, which unite us.
"He that regardeth the day, regardeth it unto the Lord. And he that eateth, eateth to the Lord: for he giveth thanks to God. And he that eateth not, to the Lord he eateth not, and giveth thanks to God."
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