Pope and Turk

Forgive the irreverent title, but I can't get a tune out of my head.

The older I get, (which isn't actually that antique, just yet) the more I delight in the hymns and songs I grew up with. I don't mean that I want to sing them in worship; it's just that I enjoy re-reading the theology of the hymnal. Some of the tunes are dire, and some of the words are a joke, at least, some of the metrical versions of the psalms ought to be buried forever. However, there are also words that are capable of speaking to me, and hopefully to others.

One such hymn was written by Russell Bowie in 1928, as a version of the 'Dies Irae' to be sung in Liverpool Cathedral. I remember it from the old Church of Scotland hymnal ("Church Hymnary. III Edition). The wonderful words speak about the coming of Christ in judgment, into our modern world. I suppose they came to mind because I've just taken a group of hardy souls in the church through a study of Revelation, for Lent. I'd never really taught on the central chapters before (shame on me). So, the theme of judgment was very fresh in my mind.

Before I share the words, just a brief comment on the title of today's musings. The tune, to which Bowie's words are usually set, is 'Wittenberg' adapted by Bach from the Christliche Lieder of 1524. In Klug's Gesangbuch of 1543 the hymn is headed, "A children's song, to be sung against the two arch-enemies of Christ and His holy Church, the Pope and the Turk." The tune came to be known as "Pope and Turk."

I hope we have moved beyond such nonsense. If these words are to be sung against anything, they should be sung against our continued hesitancy to embrace, unreservedly, the rule of Christ in our lives, to reject the works of evil, and to stand for the values of the Kingdom.

Enjoy the hymn as a fitting reflection upon Christ's passion, His resurrection in power, and the promise of His coming again.

Lord Christ, when first Thou cam'st to men,

Upon a cross they bound Thee,

And mocked Thy saving kingship then

By thorns with which they crowned Thee:

And still our wrongs may weave Thee now

New thorns to pierce that steady brow,

And robe of sorrow round Thee.

New advent of the love of Christ,

Shall we again refuse Thee,

Till in the night of hate and war

We perish as we lose Thee?

From old unfaith our souls release

To seek the kingdom of Thy peace,

By which alone we choose Thee.

O wounded hands of Jesus, build

In us Thy new creation;

Our pride is dust, our vaunt is stilled,

We wait Thy revelation:

O Love that triumphs over loss,

We bring our hearts before Thy cross,

To finish Thy salvation.

Walter Russell Bowie (1882-1969).

The Cement Garden

If I knew enough about psychoanalysis I could probably work out why I picked up The Cement Garden by Ian McEwan the other day. My subconscious self probably looked out the back window at the wilderness, realized that, before long I'll be cutting our half-acre at least once every seven days, and decided that green cement would be a much better option. At any rate, having heard of Ian McEwan from award winning books like Atonement, The Comfort of Strangers, and Black Dogs, I thought I'd give him a try. It's amazing how quickly I can get through a book in five minutes snatched here and there.
The Cement Garden is about a family of four children who live in a rambling old house in an area of half-demolished prefabs and new high-rise blocks. The story was published in 1978, and that fits with the urban renewal (so called) that was popular at the time. It's written from the perspective of a fifteen year old boy who is discovering his sexuality etc. etc. First his father dies (mixing concrete), then his mother dies and is buried in concrete in the cellar. McEwan chronicles how the children cope, in a home without adults. Basically, they don't cope. The story is pretty vile. The main character, Jack, is an ill-tempered brute. Eventually, as you can guess within a few pages, the story spirals down into incest. A younger brother experiments with transvestism. It's a thoroughly depressing story, filled with urban blight and the alienation of modern youth. Is it possible to wash your brain after reading a story? It's not just cement dust that pollutes these pages.
Now, as a study of adolescence, you might say that The Cement Garden is worthwhile. It certainly gives insight into how young males have extreme difficulty in communicating effectively. Jack manages to say and do almost the exact opposite of what he would like to do, in most situations, unnecessarily antagonising those he loves the most. Shy, riddled with acne, he lives a tormented life, trying and failing to be the man of the house. I know boys like that. If nothing else the story reminds me to be patient and to look beyond the behavior to the hurting heart. However, that's not what struck me most about the story.
Last month I read The Northern Light by A.J. Cronin, a bestseller from a previous generation. Strangely, that story could also have descended into a description of incest, but it did not. It's the story of the struggle for survival of a regional newspaper, against the inroads (and dirty tricks) of a national rag, trying to take its readership. In that story, the central character is a rather weak middle-aged man with a heart condition. As the pages progress, he becomes something of a hero, finding within himself reserves of strength he did not realize he had. Although it ends in a double suicide, it's a morally uplifting story. Curiously, the suicides are caused by the leaking of the news that the main character's daughter in law had had an illegal abortion before she married. No one would lift an eyebrow today.
I'm struck by the difference in the two stories. Both are well-written, but Cronin's work builds up the human spirit, McEwan's knocks it down. You would be right in thinking that the latter is really a re-working of themes explored elsewhere, for example in Golding's Lord of the Flies. It's a dark commentary on how quickly societal restraints and cultural mores can break down. In this respect it's Calvinist, in that it testifies to the total depravity of humanity. We are not naturally good. Without law to control our baser instincts we are all capable of the worst behavior imaginable. Of course, the difference between McEwan and Golding is that McEwan is unbearably graphic. He leaves nothing to the imagination. His book would not have been published a century ago, or if it had been, it would have been sold in brown paper covers in shady establishments. Golding's is the better book because of what it does not say. We don't need to have everything spelled out for us.
The most startling contrast between McEwan and Cronin, though, is in the society both authors describe. In the space of thirty years, society has changed almost beyond recognition. Themes like honor and thrift, which permeate Cronin's book, would be completely out of place in McEwan's. In the older work, there is room for faith, even though the relationship between the main character and the church is strained. There can be little doubt that, though he prefers a walk by the sea on a Sunday morning, he would describe himself as a Christian. At one point in the story he is saved from bancruptcy by the goodness and loyalty of ordinary people. Thirty years later, in McEwan's story, there is no room for faith. The church is totally irrelevant; it is never mentioned.
What is the third stage? If we can move from generally held public beliefs to a vague unease with incest in the space of thirty years, where do we go next? If there are no universally held standards any more, how can any behavior be regarded as illegitimate? Will my grandchildren be reading graphic novels in which the bad guys are those who impose their morality on others? Perhaps it will not take that long.
I shouldn't be surprised when the world behaves like the world, when those without any reference point in God behave like pagans, because that's exactly what they are. But I wonder whether future generations will be amazed at how blind we have been to the effects of creeping secularisation. I wonder whether they will also be appalled at how deeply the culture of despair has infiltrated the Church.