Evensong Thoughts

The rain hadn’t let up at all that day. But then, this was England—wasn’t it supposed to be this way?

The morning had dictated soggy squelching as we tromped around Stonehenge; the afternoon brought out the umbrellas, a problem when touring Highclere Castle (aka “Downton Abbey”), where an officious tour guide—every bit as daunting as Mr. Carson—barred anyone from toting their dripping “brollies” into the house.

By late afternoon in Salisbury, the group was ready for a warm meal, a roaring fire, and some liquid sustenance.

That sounded good to me, too, but for one thing: I was in a cathedral city. And second, I’m a sucker for Evensong. There really wasn’t a choice.

Maybe it’s because of the quiet beauty of the service, one that closes out the day and asks for protection for the hours of the night. Maybe it’s that the whole concept of Evensong was foreign to a girl growing up in a Christian Reformed congregation in a small Midwest town. Whatever the reason, as an adult, I attend Evensong wherever and whenever I can.

I couldn’t get anyone in the group to join me; the lure of a cozy pub was too strong. So I entered the church, feeling instantly minuscule as I stood under the vaulted ceilings and among the effigies of long-buried knights and their ladies. Ahead of me, the cathedral choir, divided between men and boys, sat facing each other. The boys’ white cassocks cast shadows as the candlelight danced in front of them; the men’s vestments glowed ruby in the low lights. Perpendicular to the choir were several rows of chairs for worshippers, an optimistic setup for the dozen or so of us who huddled in damp clothes, waiting for the service to begin.

A man in a black robe stepped forward, facing the worshippers. I’ve never gotten the hang of Anglican church titles, so I wasn’t sure if he was a pastor, a vicar, a canon, a rector, a dean, or what. But he appeared to have some authority.

“Sometimes, when we have a small turnout, we invite those of you who would like to join us in the choir,” the man said, unfastening the gate that separated the two areas. He didn’t have to ask twice.

I parked myself, along with my bulging purse and day’s shopping, into a narrow wooden pew-type seat, next to one of the choir boys. At each singer’s place, the candlesticks with the funny little shades that I love were throwing a diffused light onto the choristers’ music. A persistent misty rain pinged softly against stained glass windows set high in the walls. Darkness was just creeping in, and the overall effect was as if I were in a fairy tale.

Earlier that day, in a booklet about the cathedral, I had read that Evensong at Salisbury had continued uninterrupted for more than 700 years, and for another 200 years before that at Old Sarum, the predecessor to the 13th-century place of worship.

I sat there taking it in—through the Black Death, the War of the Roses, the Reformation, the English Civil War, fires and floods, renovations and restorations, world wars and wayward kings, a group had met seven days a week to close out the day.

An odd feeling swept over me: nostalgia, relief, an “uplift of the spirit,” as writers of the past dubbed it.

No doubt about it: the world has always been a mess in one way, shape, or form. There are no “good old days.” Surely there were Evensong participants 500 years ago who despaired of their times, who felt as if nothing this wicked, this bad, this divisive, had ever happened before. And maybe they were right—maybe their tribulations would stand up to be some of the worst in human history.

But they kept meeting. Every evening at 5:30 pm they gathered, whether there were many or few, to thank God for the day behind them and to ask for protection for the night ahead, a continuum that can help us keep our collective head above troubled waters.

Indeed, it may be the only weapon we have.

Header photo by Finnbarr Webster