What brings us into bulwark cathedrals?

A band’s tribe trek to a cathedral that’s defied the dark for centuries.

George Pitcher

George is a visiting fellow at the London School of Economics and an Anglican priest.

A view from a floodlight footbridge towards a gap between office buildings which reveal a cathedral and its illuminated dome.

I went along to read some Genesis at a local Nine Lessons & Carols service, wearing the coat I’d worn the week before on my annual cathedral benefit tour with the evergreen folk-rock band Jethro Tull.

The coat still bore the stick-on backstage pass, ‘access all areas’, that acts as some form of security for band, crew and instruments. I hadn’t had time, or the skill to be honest, to soak it off gently to avoid damaging the fabric.

A number of congregants, both men and women – I hesitate, for contemporaneous reasons, to add “of a certain age” – noticed it. “Does Ian Anderson still stand on one leg when he plays the flute?” asked one. “I’ve still got some Tull albums from the Seventies,” added another. “Great band,” affirmed a third.

It strikes me that more church congregants recognise Tull than Tull fans recognise the Church of England. That’s to be expected, given that this is a tribe that grew up with a prevalent post-modern atheism. I remember in the early days following a pair of increasingly hairless old hippies into one of these gigs. “Looks like a flippin’ church,” said one. “That’s because it is a flippin’ church,” replied the other (though naturally they didn’t say “flippin’”).

These cathedral shows, of which there have been about 30 now, sell out easily and very soon after tickets go on sale in the summer. We played Bristol and Salisbury (again) last week. The larger cathedrals benefit to the tune of upwards of £25,000 for a couple of hours of Christmassy rock ‘n’ roll. They come because they like the sound of Jethro Tull and Anderson’s songwriting canon.

But there’s something else going on. They come, these predominantly unchurched people, to take ownership of their cathedral. They may come because it’s Christmas and it’s the right place to be. They come to be together, if not as the Body of Christ then at least in some sort of communion, which is true of any rock concert gathering in a corporate way, but which is lent something transcendent in a gothic cathedral.

This raises questions for me. The first is this: Come Christmas, what is it that they and we have all been waiting for, this crowd of people who seem strangely anticipative, not just to hear one of their favourite bands, but to hear something else in the air in a sacred, ancient place?

I have a theatrical role, somewhere between master of ceremonies, band confessor and rocking retainer. Top hat, tails, leggings, codpiece, pixie boots and a knobbed cane. Oh yes, and my clerical collar. It’s the dog collar that connects me to a reality beyond the show business.

In addition to cavorting, I deliver a Christmas blessing during the intro to the last number of the night (usually “May the joy of the angels, the wonder of the shepherds…” etc.). I’m struck by how moved many people are and remark on it afterwards in the crowd. There’s a real hunger for peace and goodwill in a broken world, not just an appetite for a thumping bass line to swing hips to, as they raise their eyes to a vaulted, lit ceiling far away, sometimes a thousand years old.

My second question is relatedly this: What does a merry Christmas mean in this context? Quite often, Tull’s Christmas song from 1977 will be on the setlist, Ring Out, Solstice Bells. It’s pagan in theme (“seven druids dance in seven time”) but it engenders in this setting a strong folk memory of light and cheer in the darkness. There’s a defiance of the dark here and the cathedral stands as a bulwark against it down the centuries. Be of good cheer because all will be well – that’s what it means to wish a merry Christmas.

A final question: Why do they come back every year, this motley band of ageing rockers (though there are youngsters too)? Part of the answer to that is the comfort of the familiar and eternal – and I don’t mean only songs that are up to half a century old. It’s a truth among other truths that religious observance is growing in some societal pockets, among Gen Z men for example.

Cathedrals aren’t like parish churches, where you may feel part of a small community. Cathedrals are a part of the world, in all its harsh reality. Katherine Amphlett LINK has written here of Coventry cathedral (where Tull has played) and a feeling of how Christmas is far from twee in these settings – the Christmas story is hard and subversive. To my mind, it’s a story about persecution, homelessness, displacement, oppression, refugees and misogyny.

A cathedral is big and strong enough to bring all that to. It always has been. We see some of that recognised in the audiences for these Christmas shows. Perhaps you’ll join us at a cathedral near you next year? Meanwhile, merry Christmas.

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Explainer

Creed

Weirdness

25 May 2023

3 min read

When christenings happened in secret

Modern day christenings might appear fairly benign on the surface, says Julie Canlis, but they still bear vestiges of an older, more perilous, rite of baptism.

Julie Canlis

Julie connects Christian spirituality with ordinary life in Wenatchee, Washington State, where she teaches and writes.

A father wearing a suit carries his child who is dressed for a christening in white.

A Mexican father carries his son to a christening.

Photo by Marco Antonio Casique Reyes on Unsplash.

Christians today are baptized – often christened as babies – as part of an ancient entry rite into the church. Some of you reading this were probably christened, or have attended christenings, as a conventional rite of passage. But eighteen centuries ago, joining a church was not for the faint of heart. Baptisms happened at Easter, often in secret, and only after a semi-Olympic training of three years in order to be allowed into its secret membership. Every aspect of preparation was vital – almost brutal – aimed at the spiritual survival (certainly not bodily survival) of the church and its members. This was no pinky handshake. Why would people want to join at all? This was an ordeal which, if one passed, meant public shame at best and lions if the wrong emperor reigned.

First there was the obstacle of finding one. Churches were secret, often hidden in remote underground catacombs, and undetected by officials. Those who risked their lives to bring ‘candidates’ for membership into their secret fellowship had to vouch for character because betrayal could mean death for all gathered. (Enter the first 'godparents' into the rites of the church).

Second, one’s profession could mean disqualification: if a gladiator, prostitute, or actor was seeking admission, they would be given three years to stop their vocation – and begin caring for the poor, the orphans, and the widows of the city. Within these years, they were only allowed to hover on the outer threshold of the church, increasing desire for the more classified rite of the eucharist. Stock items such as the Lord’s Prayer and the Creed were kept strictly confidential until the week prior to baptism (never written – only memorized), lest they be handed out too early to those who would later fall away.

All this was leading up to the clandestine rite of initiation – baptism – which occurred in the middle of the night, Easter eve. After fasting until sunset for 40 days (enter the modern practice of Lent), these candidates would undergo final questions during Holy Week. They took part in daily exorcisms, rejecting all darkness in their life, and culminating in the final renunciation: “I renounce you Satan, and all your works and all your empty promises.” An ancient description of bling.

They were also examined by the local bishop for whether their lives were characterized by social justice: were they caring for the sick? were they living according to an obsolescent class system or into their new reality as equals? were they treating their bodies as temples of God? As one fourth-century bishop exhorted in the middle of Easter night, “why do you stand there, different in race, age, sex, and rank, who will soon be one?” Baptism was the great leveler, like death.

And die they did. Earliest baptisms were held in secret, but as Christianity was sporadically tolerated, people were baptized in mausoleums – Roman funerary buildings, to communicate very loudly: you are coming here to die. These primitive structures continue to be unearthed all over Europe, every time a new underground route is being laid, or a skyscraper is being dug. And the foundations tell all: large fonts to walk down into, shaped like crosses, octagons, or even wombs. Here you go down to die, and be reborn. Archaeology reveals hooks on walls for cast off clothing, for the candidates were to become like newborn infants again. Plunged into the waters three times, they emerged naked and were clothed in white – a symbol of overcoming suffering and of primal innocence. In this upside-down society, one went into the water having been classes as a Competent One (competentes) but was upgraded after baptism to the nickname of Infant (infantes) – even higher praise. And the reward? Finally, being admitted past the gate (origination of the church ‘narthex’) into the sanctuary itself, to take part in its contraband banquet: the bread and wine.

Modern day christenings might appear fairly benign on the surface, but they still bear vestiges of this older, more perilous rite. We have godparents, white garments, and a triple splash of water. The Book of Common Prayer still requires parents and godparents to renounce Satan on behalf of the baby, that supposed figment of our imagination. And although we have lost much of the symbolism of death and rebirth, one thing hasn’t changed: this adorable baby will still die. For the ancients, one’s death was merely the completion of baptism, in which one had already begun the art and process of learning to die. Baptism didn’t keep one from death, but baptism “baptized” death and allowed one to get on with living.