..linguistic refuge for the poor sermoniser. He, (it was always ‘he’
in those days), might start off with a quotation from the Bible, but then he
was on his own, unless he was guilty of plagiarising from the book of 500
Great Sermons – (Guaranteed to Rock your Congregation in the Bosom of
Abraham), which, given the standard of sermonising I was privy to, none
of them were.
Not one of the hundreds of sermons I endured comes to mind, even though the
Cathedral was blessed by having an allegedly great preacher in Dean Martin Sullivan,
(two showbiz personalities in one, I used to think), who went on to become Dean
of St Paul’s Cathedral in London. (I think). Despite his reputation, I
suspected his sermons were all thud & blunder – the actual content
didn’t stand up to even my juvenile scrutiny.
I used to enjoy Canon Orange’s sermons though. The worthy Canon’s
sermons weren’t so frequent and weren’t necessarily congregation
pleasers either, not helped by being delivered in a parchment dry, quavery voice,
but, to me at any rate, they sounded scholarly and well-considered. Unravelling
the language of the King James’ Version is a philosophical exercise in
itself, not dissimilar to studying Shakespearean plays, and almost as rewarding.
(In my case I have to confess I studied only the Hamlet play in any
depth, but I can honestly say it continues to illuminate my life – don’t
get me started).
The language of the Bible is both dense and poetically concise, and while I
imagine recourse to the original Greek documents from which the KJV came might
reveal some perspective on religious thought perhaps obfuscated by the poetic
approach, the wondrous imaginings engendered by simply translating KJV poetic
English into personal philosophical thought is quite fascinating enough.
Having just claimed that all the sermons I listened to have disappeared into
the ether of wasted time, I can remember the subject of one sermon that Canon
Orange tackled. It was based on the following Prayer: Be careful for nothing;
but in every thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests
be made known unto God. And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding,
shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus. Philippians:4:6,7 KJV
The ‘Be careful for nothing’ phrase got me, just like the ‘Greys
is Great’ slogan got me a few years earlier. It suggested a proposition
as provocative as the Zen one-hand-clapping cliché, whereas it’s
far more likely that I simply didn’t fully understand the language in
which the invocation is couched.*
The New King James Version has it as ‘Be anxious for nothing’, and
the God’s Words translation has it even more prosaically as ‘Never
worry about anything’, but they are not nearly as satisfyingly mysterious
as the original. The original line is a little verbal irritant that I’m
sure will eventually emerge as a lustrous pearl of wisdom – just give
me a few more decades of thought on the matter.
Something about the recent Laffy benefit put me in mind of one of Christ’s
parables that was probably expounded on in umpteen of the sermons I was subjected
to. On reconsidering the parable of the Prodigal Son, I now detect a Zen-like
aspect that I hadn’t picked up on before. Being the philosophical dilettante
that I am, I’m hardly qualified to speak on matters philosophical, or
anything at all for that matter, with any kind of authority, but I’ve
never let that stop me in the past, so I’ll posit that one of the charms
of Zen Buddhism is its knack of stripping away the sophistry and moral trappings
of society to reveal the real way of the world. I seem to recall the story of
a popular Zen mystic not allowing court officials to wear their robes of office
when they consulted him.
So, using the Zen formula, once you strip the Prodigal Son story of the ‘good’
stay-at-home brother’s (I thought) justifiable indignation, it simply
becomes a story about a father’s joy at regaining a lost son, which is
precisely where the parable is pointing us.
I occasionally find myself listening transfixed and enraptured to liturgical
music at 3.00 in the morning, which is when it seems to be played mostly. It’s
as much a part of my musical heritage as the blues, probably moreso, but I can’t
see myself in that environment again. It’s not that being an atheist is
necessarily an impediment either. Making music of any sort can be the purest
expression of humanity’s intrinsic optimism, and if there were a God, he, she
or it knows that, if nothing else, I am an optimist. But I’m not a
participator, not a willing one anyway. Like my mother, and my
father for that matter, I’m sailing Life’s ocean solo, with only the band for
company as the passengers cram into the lifeboats. And I’ll be playing my favourite
liturgical piece (Bach?) as we slide under the cold, grey seas, ‘All, all is
vanity, All, all, all is vanity, saith the Preacher..’
*I misinterpreted the Lord’s Prayer too – what on earth did ‘Thy
will be done’ mean? (I took ‘will’ to be an adverb).