Evensong

It sat in his solar plexus. A knot of anxiety. It had settled many weeks ago or more. Always there - a visceral discomfort - sometimes squirming in restlessness, making it's presence felt more acutely with pain. But usually a kind of draggy feeling that could continue throughout the day.

The recent interaction with that girl had let the demon out again. This damned ache in his stomach, distracting him from getting on and doing things. From the bench he looked about the square - it was better to be out and about than brooding at home - that was for sure. He had a commitment to a social event at 7pm. She would almost certainly be there, the expectation added to his discomfort. There was also time to kill. his life nowadays felt largely like a time to kill.

Bonn Square was the centre of the centre in Oxford and not very welcoming on a November evening. It was also where the drinkers or dealers gravitated to, and the space for expressions of crazy behaviour. His coffee and cigarette was his only comfort. He knew that if he make the effort there was evensong to experience at Merton College tonight. He had checked earlier and the fact lay before him - evensong at Merton 6.15. It was now twenty to six – “time waits for no man” – his mothers voice came from the beyond. He was free to choose. He also knew - deep down – that if he didn't go and fill up the time, he wouldn't get to the social event – where he would have to be sociable and more importantly do the right thing – whatever that was -with regard to getting to know this girl. Another fragment of advice from his past crossed his thoughts - better to do than not to do. A friend had said that when he had hesitated in going on that trip abroad all those years ago. There had been too much hesitation.

His body seemed to make the decision. He got up and followed his feet; they lead him from the menagerie of Bonn Square to the quiet and dark of the cobbled back-ways, leading to Merton. He entered through the lodge, passageways and quiet quods and removing his woolly hat, he found the anti-chapel. Passing behind the back of the organist at the great organ, who was playing a rather doleful piece; he was now in the choir and stepped up into the second tier of the aisles that ran along the side of the chapel.

Reflecting that churches always draw the eyes upwards, he gazed at the 13th century stained glass windows and up towards the Gothic revival ceiling from which the angels looked down. The organ boomed as the congregation waited.

He knew that the earth was not at the centre of the medieval world because of pride or narcissism- it was because the imperfect and base fall downward. So we always look upwards in churches, yearning to the perfect world of the heavens. The growing pains of his life had taught him that he was not the centre of the universe.

The organ continued it's mournful and rather sinister drone - in sympathy with the draggy feeling in his guts. The stout verger dressed in long black, seemed to float into the chapel- led by her staff of office and followed by the choir and attendant clergy. All solemnly filled in – and to his surprise the choristers were girls. They entered the choir's benches next to his, and opposite- filling much of the chapel, up towards the chancel. They looked so pure and wholesome. Two priests joined them on either side. The choir master stood poised. The service began as the Reverend Canon sang in plain song:

Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost.

The choir of angels responded against the silence of the chapel:

As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.

The psalms were sung, the voices clear but the tempo was slow and plodding - the organ a thin high backing drone. As the service continued his attention wandered from the service back to his own fretful musings - only to be pulled back again to the service - as it unfolded with it's readings and incantations. Push and pull – the within and without - discordant with each other - fragments of the service vying for his attention.

A lady was now reading from the lectern in the centre of the chancel she announced The Prophecies of Jeremiah. He forgot himself as he tuned in to the sounds and rhythm of the words:

...the people who survived the sword found grace in the wilderness...I have loved you with an everlasting love, therefore I have continued my faithfulness to you. Again I will build you and you shall be built. Oh virgin Israel, again you shall take your tambourines and go fourth in the dance of the merrymakers. Again you shall plant vineyards on the mountains of of Samaria and planters shall plant and shall enjoy the fruit.... I will let them back by brooks of water, by a smooth path, where they will not stumble.

Something about the poetry and hope in the words had pleased him. The girls' started singing softly. He glanced at the service program – The Magnificat in G (Sumsion) - was written. The organ was flourishing, The layered voices rising upwards – where else would they go? Now swelling, light but powerful and ending with the familiar words:

Glory be to the father and to the son and to the holy ghost, as it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be....world without end amen. Ahhhhmeeeeeen.

Adages and aphorisms from his years of searching search came back to him. Rake the dirt this way or rake the dirt that way – it is still dirt He thought of The wasteland - these fragments I have shorn against my ruin - he smiled inwardly at this melodramatic turn. In his own story – the endless quest for what? The self help books and all. He had drank for the comfort, while it also pulled him further towards the pit. The problem of being and the endless discomfort in the disease he had carried. The eventual and inexorable descent into the hell and insanity of alcoholism. The slow recovery. The years of endless searching for an empty hope - would he ever feel the full release from his troubled soul - To find the peace that passeth understanding?

The symbols of psychology, the fervid archetypes, paraded across his fretful mind. His fancy fell on the Minotaur, In the labyrinth of confusion and pain in his gut - protecting him from some kind of harm. Maybe even devouring some virgins to keep him safe – good God - was he mad?

The choir was singing again. This was the Nunc Dimittus in G. Again he was drawn out of himself and he stopped thinking. The intense purity of the voices filled the chapel.  His mind was quieted and he was present in a kind of eternal moment. The voices soared over him, the organ claimed it's part but the etherial voices rose above it. Soon he was swept along and became one with the singing. Floating layered voices, tumbling over but ever upwards and ending on the long long amen of the Gloria Patri:

...Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen. Ahhhhmeeeeeen.

The beauty was intense, his own preoccupations could not gainsay it. He felt it in his heart. Looking upwards at the angels in the ceiling, the tension in his guts loosened, the labyrinth uncoiled – the tragic Minotaur was quieted – did it drop away also - no probably sleeping – but that was good enough. The pain fell away  into the endless depths below, that is where hell lay. He had been too close at one time.

The priest started again. He didn't join in with the congregation, even though he recognised the words from his Catholic childhood. Without doubt or hesitation– unrelenting - the priest proclaimed:

I believe in God, the Father almighty, maker of heaven and earth and in Jesus Christ

his only Son, our Lord, who was conceived by the Holy Ghost, born of the Virgin Mary suffered under Pontius pilot. Was crucified, dead and was buried; he descended into hell. On the third day he rose again; he ascended into heaven...

But he didn't believe – could he? What does it even mean to believe? The Our Father was sung. The song of peace was sung; soaring voices again. Pure, higher and higher they surged. But he was now in balance -coming down from the heights- grounded as the song of peace washed over him. The tingling sounds of girls voices merging with the organ - like tubular bells. The spell had ended. The priest continued:

Let us pray for all in need of healing tonight whether in body, mind or spirit.....the Lord will not suffer your foot to stumble. He who watches over you will not sleep. As we come to the end of the day with the psalmist let us pray to God that he might keep watch over us through the night ahead and keep from stumbling all who face danger or uncertainty in the night watches...In the peace of this Holy place let us hold before God now the prayer on our hearts this evening.

His own yearning was in his heart. A rather pedestrian hymn in comparison, concluded the service,. The choir of angels and attendants filed out in stately procession. The great organ boomed and filled the chapel with Bach.

He slowly left the chapel and smiled at the clergy who waited to acknowledge the public at the chapel entrance. Laughter and chatter of the choir girls reached him as he passed a room just off the passage; so they were only human after all and he loved them for it.

He walked out into the dark streets onward to the his social event - feeling loose and at ease. He wondered know how long the feeling would last. However for now it was real and tonight he would not stumble – that was written - he was OK -all would be well. He realised that in an eternal moment during evensong, the chapel and his heart had been a fulcrum about which everything and the universe had turned.