Hear Our Silence

I am reading the life of R.S.Thomas by Byron Rogers. We were on The Times together in the Sixties - was he Diplomatic Correspondent?

His highly readable and decidedly undiplomatic account of this mysterious poet and priest has all the compelling tautness of a detective story. Thomas himself was a complete solitary. He performed his parish duties parsimoniously, tending to avoid his flock as far as possible. Once his poetry became published, he was increasingly in demand. Although he replied to all his admirers letters, he rarely accepted a speaking invitation.

His wife was a gifted artist but her talents were curtailed by her husband’s calling, even more so by his silent and unsociable ways. They had one son, Gwydion, who did his best to protest at his claustrophobic unbringing, eventually escaping to London to become a college lecturer. It is through his reluctant son that Rogers begins to penetrate the secretive maze of Thomas’s eremetic existence.

A review of The Man who went into the West in the Telegraph praises Rogers for having the ‘delicacy and determination of an archaeologist - and the wit of a publican and far-sightedness of a dreamer’ by which he ‘excavates people and places.’

If Thomas chose to be tantalising in life, in his poetry he was a magic communicator. He now has a huge and growing following. Byron Rogers has done much to demystify his subject; but to me, the puzzle remains - how this rare poet of such intense vision and mood can have been so cold a fish.

He became known as the ‘Ogre of Wales’, ending his days with his uncomplaining wife Elsi in an ill-heated hovel of a stone cottage by the sea.

Gwydion Thomas comments: ‘I don’t know what the Social Services would have done had they come on the set-up at Sarn. Sectioned my parents for a start.’

So what do I know of miracles?

Sailing across Ulswater as a lonely young man, then meeting my future wife. The birth moment of each of our children. Yes, and mini-miracles like a sunset - or today, walking through town to see a Dad eyeing his two-year-old daughter. She was being bold enough to be alone, running behind a tree, yet keeping in contact with him by waving. Presently, she reappears, strutting along fine, just enjoying her movements and being alive.

And I think Jesus did his stuff, demonstating and sharing his being fully alive, first to the recipient - the cripple, the sick woman, the dead son of a widow - but secondly to all of us. His miracles and words are signs and messages: of the meaning and everyday reality of our life - now.

Take Cana, John’s chosen first sign: water into wine. What a story: front page news. But attend to the details. ‘There was this wedding feast: the mother of Jesus was there . . . Jesus and his friends had also been invited.’

Replay that: ‘his mother was there: Jesus plus friends had also been invited.’ Some editing, some story-telling.

So the whole emphasis is upon this woman; she takes a scan and sees something is badly wrong. This party is not working. An aside to her Son:’they have no wine.’; this is their day and it’s all going wrong.

‘Woman, why look at me: don’t try to put me on the spot. Not yet . . .’

His mother takes charge. This determined woman says to the servants - moving things from below - ‘just do whatever he says’.

‘Fill the empty water jars’ . . . Jars that have just been used to wash the hands and dusty feet of the company as they had arrived. Jesus takes charge . . . ‘now draw some and take it for the butler to taste’.

‘This is the best wine ever . . . ‘ And so it was served out, gallons of it, and the feast was saved.

Moral of the tale? I think Julian of Norwich sums it up -

See I am God

See I am in all thing

See I do all thing

See I never lift my hands off my own works

nor ever shall without end

See I lead all thing to the end I ordained for it

from without beginning

with the same Might, Wisdom and Love

that I made it

How should anything be amiss

[Third Shewing]

We too like Rageh Omaar: my son Charlie was at The Dragon with him, and we remember him coming to birthday parties - round and podgy and far from home.

Dear Rageh, how you have blossomed. Oh, but not like this.

The Miracles of Jesus (BBC 1) was the pits. Yes, I know the Beeb has opened its grudging religion Sunday teatime stage to you for your three-part series; I know the Bible Society are jumping up and down, assuring you this is just how Jesus should be sold in our media scorched world - that Lion have jumped on your camel and published a book for the classroom . . .

But no, Rageh, not like this.

First question: did you write your script? or did you simply have to mouth these words from the experts. I think everyone was out of their depth, including you.

A simple fact: there is no ‘first miracle of Jesus’. John puts the water into wine first - to his purpose. Mark does it differently. We simply can’t tell what came first . . . 

Another simple fact: the Dead Sea scrolls make no mention of Jesus or his miracles. These writings (in Hebrew and Aramaic) are a complex tissue of monastic mores, religious practice and commentary on the Bible. So bringing them into your story made no sense at all. It was merely cheap Gee-Wizz to lull your Sun audience. ‘Dead Sea Scrolls, cor yes, heard of them. Very ancient, very risky . . . is that why God is dead?’

Your gaggle of actors milling around a scruffy walk-on Jesus (you shd have put in for the part) were frankly ludicrous. A simple aside, why did the ancient Elijah do his stuff with apparent ease and our 30 year-old Jesuah make such a huff and puff and then have to be carted off by his mates. And what was all that confetti rose petal stuff all about?

Maddening. ‘Fraid I turned off.

And the thought of all those forthcoming RE lessons using Bible Soc. materials . . . hope that doesn’t turn too many off as well.

The death of Jan Willebrands is more than the death of one man - a notable cardinal, courageous and loving - it signals the demise of Rome’s reaching out to other faiths and churches with a respect which recognizes our common journey.

Pope John’s initiative in setting up a Secretariat for Christian Unity in 1960 was a typically bold step. The Jesuit Cardinal Bea helmed its first decade; then Willebrands took over for the next 20 years.

Heady days. As a young Jesuit theologian, I accompanied Bernard Leeming, a leading Roman ecumenical figure, to the Faith and Order Conference of the World Council of Churches: Nottingham, 1960. We came away promising ‘unity within the decade’. But the only tangible outcome was the Congregational Church aligning with the Presbyterians to form today’s United Reform Church. They stood apart from the rest of us with their open-hearted vision.

Willebrands built upon Bea’s foundations. A warm man, he was a gifted communicator capable of forming strong friendships with church leaders across the globe. In 1970, he visited Michael Ramsey at Lambeth Palace; at a Cambridge conference, he stunned his audience with the suggestion that the Anglican Communion might seek union with Rome as a ‘uniate’ church.

That is to say, they would retain their full identity including  liturgy, married clergy and their autonomy. But the suggestion went no further. And when John Paul became Pope, the ecumenical temperature dropped sharply. Finally, to the dismay of Willebrands, his Secretariat was demoted and subsumed into Cardinal Ratzinger’s Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. It was as if the North Sea fishing fleet had been recalled and confined to harbour for good.

No photo comes to hand, so I offer the cardinal bird above. His feathers seem to be fluffed out against the cold: I wonder when he will fly again?