And so the "phoney war" came to an end.
From opposite ends of our huge altar the Dean and I offered the Eucharist livestreamed on Mothering Sunday - the Mother Church of the diocese striving to continue to feed her children scattered in diaspora - and then there was just one more day of opening before lock-down was introduced.
I left the Cathedral to take a short, simple funeral for a long-standing member of the congregation whose death had nothing to do with covid 19 - but whose service was the first limited by the constraints of social distancing and the need to keep things moving because already demand for slots at the crem was beginning to grow...
With no particular thought, I added a few extra things to my bag. I wouldn't go back to my desk that afternoon...and I had a feeling that it might be a while before I was there again. I had no idea, though, quite how long...
That night the Prime Minister announced lockdown, the building was closed and we moved into a new phase of this extraordinary season. Now it was "home alone" for me and the dogs and I was so incredibly thankful for the temporary permission given by our bishops to preside alone...We continued our newly formed practice of offering Morning Prayer with Communion each day at 9.15 and began to see new communities forming around that service, as friends and congregation members and unknown visitors stumbled across us on Facebook and a little flight of hearts and thumbs up travelled up our screens. Libby and Willow began to experiment with canine contributions to worship, while Figaro did all that he could to sabotage it by leaping onto the tripod and ensuring that the phone was never quite straight...
To my surprise, I began to value this experience tremendously. It was indeed vicarious worship - but with more sense of a congregation present than sometimes when they are sitting in the far distant back rows of the nave...The regular need to stop and pray gave structure to days that might otherwise have slipped into free fall...And I loved that I was now in touch with people who had been part of my journey at many different stages - that for this season, we were worshipping together. I never once as I presided at Communion felt even notionally alone.
I'd created a worship space in the dining room. The table was a good height and size. The mantelpiece was already home to many icons and I loved that I could look out the window and see down the road - my neighbours homes - people I didn't know well, but with whom I was newly connected in our shared experience of lockdown and whom I could, as I broke bread and drank wine, bring in prayer into the circle of God's love. It worked well as a space...but what changed it for me was the experience of UNmaking it on Maundy Thursday. We had worshipped together each evening through Holy Week, - with my dear friend Charlotte from our beautiful neighbour church, St Clare's at the Cathedral delivering the sort of addresses that were like lights placed thoughtfully to transform the darkest corners. We were in a definite rhythm of prayer and it felt good - even if it wasn't the way we usually spent Holy Week.
On Thursday, though, we were beset by technical woes. The Deanery internet is no more reliable than mine here and after a couple of attempts it became very obvious that we would not manage to livestream a zoom service that included other voices...The decision was made that the Dean would livestream to Facebook, Charlotte's pre-recorded address would be stitched in afterwards -...and so, for the first time in ordained life, I found myself with no active role in worship on Maundy Thursday - and feeling pretty desperate about it.
Enter two rather wonderful friends - both priests - who picked up my online wails of distress and offered to join me if I offered something online myself.
So that's what I did. And God was there and it was very very beautiful.
But it was what happened at the end that made this a watershed moment for me.
After we had read the Gospel of the Watch I stripped the altar, extinguished all my candles, took down each icon, removed everything that spoke of "church" and left it heaped to one side. I listened to Psalm 22 to the Wesley chant, as I do every year and as I unmade church that evening in the gathering dusk, that very ordinary dining room in my suburban semi became non-negotiably holy ground, as much church as anywhere I've been.
As I left the room in darkness at the end of the Watch, I did so on tiptoe - not wanting to disturb the deep layers of God's presence that I was suddenly and wonderfully aware of.
And all through Good Friday and Holy Saturday I passed the dining room door reverently, removing my shoes, knowing that this was ground.
In all the increasingly fraught and fevered debates about whether or not clergy should be allowed into their buildings to live stream from there, I've held on to that overwhelming sense of God's presence in my dining room. I couldn't ask for more than that...and the room has been changed forever by this season so that whatever comes next, I've received an unexpected but unmissable gift.
It can't "compete" with the layers of deep prayer that have shaped our ancient buildings, with their patina of prayer and worship offered and received, but it was all that I needed - a place where God's presence was undeniable, where I knew, and know, God was as inextricably connected in those small things which hint at the transcendent day by day.
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