" . . . redemption, a philosophy less of the mind than of the soul . . . "
In irritation he glanced again at the preacher, a visiting African bishop with quite the most monotonous voice he had ever heard. What about the starving millions? What use to them this cerebral theology from an overweight, pompous fool? Mesmerised, he gazed into the flickering candle flame, wondering how to warm his feet, from which all sensation had long since vanished.
Outside, a commotion in the courtyard broached a brief pause in the reasoned argument of the preacher. Rowdy undergraduates again, he guessed, over-full of college sherry and attempting to douse one of their number in the fountain.
" . . . Thus, in the substance of Our Lord Jesus Christ, we have the embodiment of Redemption, with a capital 'R'. Thanks be to God."
Amen to that, added John to himself, vainly attempting to stop the pins and needles from spreading down his leg. The chapel door slammed loudly, leading him to ponder, as he did each week, on why they didn't fit a decent closing device to the door. By now the choir was in the middle of an anthem so difficult that at any moment John thought they would have to abandon it, since at least half of them seemed to have lost their places. Manfully they struggled on -- only one person continuing to sing after the organ had stopped. Far off in the gathering dusk the dinner bell began to sound its regular, mournful note. Cold soup again, John decided, resigned to an even longer service than usual.
The chaplain intoned the collects. He had a pleasant enough voice, but had clearly forgotten his tuning fork again, as the choir's responses sounded dementedly low. At the sound of running footsteps and more shouting, nearer this time, the chaplain hesitated and sent the chapel clerk out to discover the reason for all the noise.
In mid-note the door slammed again. Everyone turned in amazement as a young man rushed down the aisle, arms outstretched, towards the altar rail, and prostrated himself on the altar steps. He mumbled incoherently. The chaplain hurried over to him -- here was a tormented soul in urgent need of help. Bending down, he spoke quietly to the young man, who suddenly rose to his feet, turned, and screamed, "The missiles are coming! The missiles are coming! We've only got a couple more minutes!"
An icy chill ran through everyone present, adding to the already cold atmosphere. For a moment there was silence. Then a very young choir boy who could scarcely see over his music stand started to whimper loudly. Several people ran out of the chapel. The African bishop fell to his knees in the aisle and sobbed so that his great bulk quivered. Uproar arose as everybody began to talk loudly, wondering if it was true, knowing that it was true; wondering what could be done, knowing that nothing could be done; wondering whether the country's defences would work, knowing that they had already failed.
The Dean, who had been standing apparently as stunned as everyone else, took command. "My children," his voice rose over the tumult, which began to die away, "let us not forget that we are in the house of the Lord, partaking in a divine service. This unseemly behaviour must stop." Then, voicing everyone's thoughts, he went on, "We do not know what is about to happen; we only know that there is nothing to be done about it. We are all in God's hands."
He bowed his head for a moment. The chapel fell silent except for the bishop who was still a quaking purple jelly on the floor of the aisle. The chaplain went over to him and whispered urgently, "Get up, man! For God's sake, what will people think of you?"
The young man who had brought the news helped the bishop to his feet and into the nearest pew. The congregation looked expectantly towards the Dean, who seemed to have gathered strength from his moment of meditation. In a stronger voice he began to recite the Lord's Prayer, the others joining in almost automatically.
As the amens died away, he hesitated for a moment, then picked up his hymn book and said decisively, "We will now sing hymn number 362, 'The Lord's my Shepherd'."
After a short pause while the organist found his music, the familiar notes of the first line swept over those present. Several people had tears in their eyes, but nevertheless managed to start singing.
"The Lord's my Shepherd, I'll not want,
He makes me down to lie
In pastures green, He leadeth me
The quiet waters by."
A mighty roaring noise surrounded the chapel. The electric lights failed;
the organ droned away to a halt. The door burst open, several windows
shattered, and all the candles blew out. Blackness engulfed everything. A
child screamed. Some of the adults sobbed. Like a charmed spell, the
beautiful voice of one of the basses in the choir rose above the commotion,
joined gradually by the rest of the choir and congregation.
"My soul He doth restore again,
And me to walk doth make
Within the paths of righteousness,
E'en for His own name's sake."
John stood there, tears streaming down his face, realising that the
unthinkable had happened, that this really was the end. Through the great
East window above the altar a light began to glow, faint at first, then
brighter and brighter until it hurt his eyes. The image of Jesus at the top
of the window stood out brilliantly from the rest, hand raised in blessing.Some people had begun the last verse.
"Goodness and mercy all my life"
Sections of the painted wooden ceiling began to fall, followed by huge
blocks of masonry from the crumbling tower.
"Shall surely follow me,"
The Dean's face was radiant in the great light. Stretching out his arms
in supplication to the figure of Jesus, he was unaware that he alone
remained to sing the last lines.
"Within God's house for evermore
My dwelling-place shall be."
John L. Dawson
1983
Please email me at: JLD1@cam.ac.uk if you have any comments.