Saturday 19 November 2011

Making History

As a member of the Choir of St John's Edinburgh, I am part of the same spiritual community whose predecessors, 200 years earlier, I am researching for a PhD. Today, more than ever before, I had a sense of being part of an event which was important in the history of the church: the choir sang at the first blessing of a civil partnership between two men. There is now an entry in the church registers unlike any before it.

St John's, Edinburgh, November 2011.

There is also an entry in the congregation's registers for November 1811. William Arbuthnot's son Henry Dundas Arbuthnot was baptised by Bishop Daniel Sandford, the first rector of St John's. William Arbuthnot was an important Edinburgh civil servant, a founding vestrymember of St John's, with a large townhouse in Charlotte Square, and a long landed pedigree in Aberdeenshire. He became Lord Provost in 1815, and again in 1822 when he hosted the memorable visit of George IV to Edinburgh. His baby son was named in honour of his political patron Henry Dundas, the 'uncrowned king of Scotland'. Dundas held unshakeable dominance over Scottish politics throughout the period of the Napoleonic Wars, and, while he did much to make Scotland and Scots significant in Britain and the Empire, he was also severely criticised for his  illiberal regime, run for the benefit of his friends.

Baptism of Henry Dundas Arbuthnot, November 1811

Two hundred years on, St John's gave its blessing to, and entered into its registers,  the partnership of two people from a group who for hundreds of years have been misunderstood, hidden and persecuted in very real ways, for simply loving each other. The significance of this struck me very powerfully during the service. Although we in the choir didn't know the couple, we too were invited into the circle which formed around the altar to witness their vows and exchange of rings. Singing the final hymn in this circle, the choir felt strongly the generosity of the welcome we received.

Those who know me will know that I'm pretty cynical about churches. I'm too conscious of their William Arbuthnotiness: on the right side, knowing the right people, attempting to dish out spiritual benefits from their position of confident establishment: spiritual benefits which are too often rotten.

But today I watched an institution which purports to purvey good news to all of the love of God really do just that. There was no room for cynicism. I'm quite proud to be a Christian. I don't think I've ever said that before.

But let's not be too hard on our poor predecessors, celebrating the baptism of little Henry Dundas Arbuthnot in November 1811. The congregation had been part of the Scottish Episcopal Church for less than a decade. Less than twenty years earlier, it had been illegal to be Episcopalian, and only six years before they were still regarded as marginal and unacceptable. Through close communication with Scottish Episcopalians to resolve the remaining issues, joining his prestigious congregation to the Episcopal Church, and deliberately generous and inclusive preaching, Rev Daniel Sandford demolished that remaining prejudice, as his successor Rev Donald Reid demolished prejudice today.

In the history of a spiritual institution, it is right that it is events and individuals  characterised by striking humility and generosity which shape it and become historic, rather than glorious talent or brilliance. But there is a big challenge, both for the spiritual institution and for those nourished by it -- whether the gay community or a cynical historian. I said I felt proud to be a Christian today: I hope the couple were too. But how easily, as the memory of persecution fades, to keep the pride, and forget the humility and generosity by which we earned it.

So when in 2211 some successor of mine writes about this moment in our history, what new persecution and exclusion might we, in our pride, have created? And how can we make a history which ensures they never have cause to write about it?

Monday 5 September 2011

Creationtide: Year of Forests

Here are the Intercessions I wrote for St John's Church on the first Sunday of Creationtide (which runs from now until 10 October), marking International Year of Forests. You're welcome to make use of these in your church or other contexts: please leave a comment to let me know.

Father, root of our being; Jesus, apple tree in us,
Spirit, oxygen in us: One tree of life, our salvation, hear us.

Root of existence, life from whom all life has sprung, now ground us.
Fashion humanity new in your ancient image: gardeners
nurturing, cherishing, planting the woods of the future. Fill it a-
gain with mercy, compassion, humility, grace, love, justice. As
spring in the earth brings forth her bud, bring forth your righteousness
over the nations.  Lord in your mercy, hear our prayer.

Tree of life among us, laden with fruit and green, of the
stem of Jesse, nourish your Church that we may be fruitful.
Drive out with heaven's abundance the idol of wealth that cheats us with
scarcity, makes us efficient with greed and careless of justice:
Lord in your mercy, hear our prayer.

Oxygen, life-breath, stirring, sustaining, rekindling hope now,
heal our brothers and sisters in need, despair or in sickness.
So as the natural tree by light makes the poisoned air healthy, for
fears by your grace all-divine we receive back hope. In the silence we
breathe them to you ..............................................................................
..........................................................Lord in your mercy Hear our prayer.

Father, root of our being, ground us,
Jesus, apple tree with us, redeem us,
Spirit, again photosynthesised here to sustain us,
Make us planters of trees and proclaimers of you.

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Wednesday 10 August 2011

Goodbye Bovril Factory

It used to be on my route to school, and then to work. We called it the Bovril Factory, because of the marmite smell of hops which hung over our whole area.

Brewing has been one of the chief industries of the south-west of Edinburgh since at least the sixteenth century. The name 'Bristo' (where Edinburgh University now is) comes from 'Brewster'. The reason the area has also become a centre for the arts is thanks to the profits of brewing: both the McEwan and Usher concert halls were named after the brewers who built them.
Bristo Square and the McEwan Hall, from Layers of Edinburgh

It was McEwan's company who built the Fountain Brewery, moving out from the now-gentrified Bristo area into a cheaper industrial suburb to the west, with the convenient transport link of the canal. The twentieth-century brewery building was the latest addition to a well-established industrial area, many of whose quirky and beautiful earlier buildings have been preserved. Sharing the Fountain Brewery site was an old Rubber Factory, whose curving profile makes it appear to be built from its own product, instead of brick -- an unusual material for Edinburgh, but characteristic of Fountainbridge. It has survived the demolition so far, at last un-dwarfed by its surroundings, and I hope will be preserved.

The rubber factory (left) behind the nibbling dinosaurs which revealed it, and the last and highest part of the Fountain Brewery (right) still mainly intact in July. The foreground is the canal towpath.
Our 'Bovril Factory' closed in 2004. Watching its demolition this summer has been endlessly fascinating. This morning, in an Edinburgh Festival downpour, I came past to find a dinosaur pulling the gigantic bovril jar from its shelf:



It's strangely reminiscent of the McEwans Lager ad where people are pushing giant spheres up endless flights of stairs in the rain. I hope the dinosaur gets a nice refreshing pint at the end of his day.

The photographer Dave Henniker has been recording the demolition, the strange buildings, the fantastically beautiful graffiti, elder and buddleia which has embroidered it all.

I can't say I'm too bothered about McEwans lager, being a devotee of the rather posher Deuchars IPA (which is still brewed in Edinburgh, just about a mile out further west). But I do miss the smell of the hops: the smell, for me, of home. And I'll miss this last sublime landmark of Fountainbridge's industrial history, and so will the jackdaws, starlings, swallows and doves for whom, these last few years this strange derelict iron cliff was also home.

It's supposed to be becoming hotels, shops, flats, well-kempt trees growing from paved boulevards, flash-flooding in a downpour. I hope it doesn't. I have a dream of another brewery billionaire coming along: a modern McEwan, creating the Fountain Gardens, green, with great spreading oaks and flowerbeds, lawns where ball-games are allowed, winding paths, fantastic fountains, beehives and birdboxes, little rowing-boats to hire on the canal, a museum of Fountainbridge history in the middle ... Well, one can dream. But if there are any billionaires out there, I know the perfect curator for the museum...




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Tuesday 21 June 2011

Perfection and Freedom: high enlightenment in the Edinburgh New Town

I will give a half-hour talk this Sunday, 26 June, at 5pm in St John's Church, Princes Street. Admittance is free and wine will be served in return for donations.

In August 1792, as revolutionary crowds stormed the Tuileries and
France became a republic, the Reverend Daniel Sandford arrived in the
New Town from Oxford University, and advertised for pupils 'whose
education in the Classics he will superintend, paying particular
attention to the Grammar and Pronunciation of the English Language.'
In 1818, now Bishop of Edinburgh, Sandford built St John's Church,
where he ministered until his death in 1830. His ideology seems
strange to us now, and was old-fashioned even to early Victorians. Yet
his unique message, which married gospel truth with enlightenment
optimism, made him an important role model and inspiration to build a
better world to his influential New Town congregation.

This half-hour talk, first given at the Modern British History Network Conference, takes you back 200 years into the mindset which shaped the architecture and liturgy of our church. It will be followed by a short time for discussion, and at 6pm by a chance to experience that architecture and liturgy, at choral evensong.

Monday 30 May 2011

Rocks, stars, and souls

Today the Guardian reported that "Greenhouse gas emissions increased by a record amount last year, to the highest carbon output in history, putting hopes of holding global warming to safe levels all but out of reach, according to unpublished estimates from the International Energy Agency." The complete article is well worth reading.

What are the practical implications of this? It means things are very bad indeed. It means that the people whose knowledge we trust the most, sensible scientists, reaching the most balanced conclusions, are making predictions which make the preachings of the crazier apocolyptic religions appear mild. It means your grandchildren's lives will almost certainly be badly blighted. Your own life probably will be too.

What are the moral implications of this? It is that we (you and I) are collectively colluding in a holocaust many times worse than that of Nazi Germany. Like the people of Nazi Germany, we did not consciously choose it, but we bear the guilt nevertheless. Unlike them, we have no wicked leader to blame: it is a truly collective crime. It is a horror so enormous that almost the only option is to ignore it: the courage required to face it is, I think, almost too great for human strength. People say to me, 'If you feel so strongly, why don't you spend all your time protesting and stuff?' The answer is, because I don't have the strength. It would literally send me mad, and that would be messy.

What are the spiritual implications of this? Belief-systems promise happiness. Evangelical Christianity promises heaven when you die if you put your faith in Jesus. Secular liberal democracy promises happiness through freedom and prosperity. The liberal Christianity I have grown up in promises happiness through the promotion social justice, 'God's kingdom on earth'. All of these belief systems had much that was valuable in them. But the situation we face today shows all these belief-systems are now utterly bankrupt. If there is a 'heaven', our utter failure to even to face what our 'sins' are, let alone 'repent' of them or 'turn to Christ' ensures none of us will be going there. The secular utopia of liberal democracy has failed, because its own prophets, the scientists, are warning that the future holds not wealth and freedom, but poverty and war. The liberal Christianity, which preached that with God's help we could build a fairer, more sustainable world, has proved itself to be the biggest pie in the sky of all. God hasn't helped (I leave it to you to decide why!) and we were too weak.

Are there any glimmers of comfort? Well -- if you take the perspective of geological time, the catastrophic climate change and mass extinction of the 21st century will be a very minor event. If you take the perspective of the universe, the events on one small planet is equally trivial. And if you look candidly at your own life or any other individual's, with their days and years, joys and sorrows, there are in fact a million things which add or subtract to its happiness other than health, wealth or security, and the one certainty is that it will come to an end.

But if you value your soul, if the poor derided citizens of Nazi Germany have taught us anything, don't hide. Most of us don't want to be heroes or villains, we want to be ordinary members of the chorus, living little quiet lives (I want to write history books and novels, and sing and draw. The last thing I want to be is an environmental campaigner. For one thing, I'm dreadful at it.) But living quietly isn't an option: not to be a hero, is to be a villain, like all those other villains of history who kept quiet in the face of gas chambers, guillotines, African slavery, or whatever it was. So screw up your courage, and find your way to be heroic.

Open your eyes. Find out the facts and face the reality of our situation. Look at the rocks and look at the stars. Understand what happiness really is. Act accordingly.

Thursday 19 May 2011

The Sad Story of James Lundin Cooper: A Charlotte Chapel Biography

You are most welcome to reproduce this article in Church magazines. You may edit it for length but please include the information and contact details at the end. I'd also love to know if you are using it.


The Charlotte Chapel Biographies is an occasional column dedicated to the subjects of my PhD, the 420 identifiable members of Charlotte Episcopal Chapel, 1794-1818, who subsequently built St John's, Princes Street, Edinburgh.

In 1816, twenty-five-year-old James Lundin Cooper brought his bride Sarah Brown to Edinburgh to be married by Bishop Daniel Sandford in the stylish Charlotte Chapel. He was a writer in Kirkcaldy and she was the daughter of a local merchant. He appears a few years later practising his profession, administering the estate of a bankrupt businessman in Kirkcaldy.

Cooper was an ambitious man, and not content to remain merely a provincial lawyer he sought his fortune in business. By 1830 he was manager of the Kirkcaldy and London Shipping Company, which ran three ships and employed three Captains, rejoicing in the names of Moir, Morison and Mann. As the leading Manager (or vestryman) of the Episcopal Chapel in Kirkcaldy, he successfully charmed the energetic, young and dedicated priest Mr Marshall into replacing their decrepit old incumbent, even though the chapel could only offer a paltry £20 stipend. Meanwhile his family prospered: Sarah bore him three chidren, Elizabeth, Michael and Mary.

It quickly became clear to Rev Marshall, however, that Cooper and his fellow managers were running a racket, giving themselves huge discounts on seat-rents, keeping Marshall's salary low, and 'finding it convenient that the clause should fall into disuse' which stipulated that the whole congregation should choose their managers annually, preferring instead to appoint themselves for life.

When the priest tried to rectify the situation, the managers went to the bishop, accusing Marshall of immorality, neglect of duty, and (when this didn't work), insanity. This was a great mistake: Marshall was well-respected, and eloquent clergy weighed in to defend his character from this evident nonsense. Cooper, one of them reported, 'had the modesty to offer evidence to Bishop Torry that Mr Marshall is (or was) insane, and in his hand writing came forth a document in which that gentleman was charged with going to a theatre and dining out.' Cooper, who had been the man of education and status amongst the merchants and shoemakers on the vestry, was made to look very foolish by being represented in the lead actor in this farce.

Whereas other managers left the Episcopal Church altogether and began attending the Kirk -- although they still made a point of turning up to collect the contents of the collection plate, and chattering and laughing in the porch during Mr Marshall's service -- James does appear to have put his head down and attempted to make amends with the priest.

But it was too late. Whether it was divine judgement, the discrediting of his character, bad luck or similarly bad judgement in his business dealings, Cooper went bankrupt  in 1836. In 1838 his daughters Elizabeth and Mary died, and the following year James himself went to his grave. His teenage son Michael only outlived him by two years. I don't know what happened to Sarah. Perhaps she remarried.

One could take various morals from this story. I suppose the first might be, don't accuse your priest of insanity if you meet him at the theatre.

Eleanor Harris.

Please let me know if you would like to be informed of future talks or publications connected with this project. You can email me at eleanormharris@gmail.com or find me on twitter @eleanormharris

Wednesday 9 March 2011

Oddly Gothick

A history post rather than an art one for a change. St Paul's and St George's Church in Edinburgh (pandgchurch.org.uk) used to be two churches -- you can probably guess what they were called. After the small congregation of St George's moved across the road into the big building of St Paul's, their little chapel was later demolished. I've finally worked out where on York Place it used to be: its here, where the casino is! But the Rectory at no.7, which adjoined it on the left and was built at the same time, survived. It looks like a classical georgian house until you look closely. There are 'Gothick' crenellations on the roof, 'Gothick' clustered columns round the door, and 'Gothic' cruciform arrowslits (!) on either side of the second floor windows. As an attempt at making a building look Mediaeval it is not, to our eyes, a great success, with its round arches and its regular rectangular windows. But in 1794 there wasn't anything better around.

A demolished architectural mishmash of a chapel might seem a bit of a footnote in cultural history, except that the Rector for whom it was built, Alexander Cleeve, was the tutor of Walter Scott, who had just begun to practice as an advocate when St George's was built. Whereas Edinburgh Gothic went off in a scholarly direction, Scott ran away with the fantasy to weave wonderful works of fiction, and a house, Abbotsford:


(I hope Travel Destination Pictures will forgive my borrowing their picture if I tell you that they have this and lots of other lovely photos here.)

In Abbotsford, Scott invented the style known as 'Scottish Baronial' which was used to design pretty much every tenement in Edinburgh and Glasgow for the whole of the nineteenth century. Alexander Cleeve, sticking crenellations, clusterings and cruciforms onto his Georgian House, might have a lot to answer for!

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Tuesday 1 March 2011

Ruskin's Moss

Walking between amongst the stone walls and old trees of the Lake District this weekend I was trying to recall John Ruskin's description of moss. I think it's the most beautiful piece of descriptive writing I've ever found, so here it is, so I have it to hand when I have time to illustrate it, or learn it by heart: 
Mosses-- Meek creatures! the first mercy of the earth, veiling with hushed softness its dintless rocks; creatures full of pity, covering with strange and tender honour the scarred disgrace of ruin, laying quiet finger on the trembling stones to teach them rest. No words, that I know of, will say what these mosses are. None are delicate enough, none perfect enough, none rich enough. How is one to tell of the rounded bosses of furred and beaming green, -- the starred divisions of rubied bloom, fine-filmed, as if the rock spirits could spin porphyry as we do glass, -- the traceries of intricate silver, and fringes of amber, lustrous, arborescent, burnished through every fibre into fitful brightness and glossy traverses of silken change, yet all subdued and pensive, and framed for simplest, sweetest offices of grace? They will not be gathered, like the flowers, for chaplet, or love-token; but of these the wild bird will make its nest, and the wearied child his pillow.
And as the earth's first mercy, so they are its last gift to us: when all other service is vain, from plant and tree, the soft mosses and gray lichen take up their watch by the headstone. The woods, the blossoms, the gift-bearing grasses, have done their parts for a time; but these do service for ever. Trees for the builder's yard, flowers for the bride's chamber, corn for the granary, moss for the grave.  -- John Ruskin, Frondes Agrestes 59.

Wednesday 2 February 2011

A Celtic Revival

When my sister and I were little, whenever we went to a museum or castle we were always most interested in the shop, where everything was so glittering and tempting compared to the fusty old objects we should have been looking at.


This girlish consumerism was somewhat looked down upon, but on one occasion I laid out my pocket money on a little pamphlet which, for many years, changed my life: 'Elementary Knotwork Borders, the methods of construction', by George Bain. I got it home and had a go -- and was hooked.


The knots in my sketchbooks begin laboriously, and then I begin to master it...



There were seven other pamphlets, with more knots, spirals, animal patterns, lettering and key patterns (I never got the hang of these), but after I'd collected a few my aunt bought me the full book, 'Celtic Art, the Methods of Construction'.



To a rather obsessive compulsive teenager it was hugely inspirational. If you know any obsessive compulsive teenagers, buy it for them for Christmas!


Soon all the covers of my school exercise books began to be knotted with interlace and animal patterns. Instead of being dragged around museums of which I was really only interested in the shops, I dragged my family (especially Mum) on quests around Angus and the Mearns to find celtic standing stones to sketch.


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I loved the elusive symbolism, the eternal lines which wove from pagan to Christian, the total anonymity of the people who created this curving geometry, but whom I felt akin to because they lived in my favourite part of Scotland and taught me their designs. Here's a page of sketches from the Meigle Sculptured Stones museum:


I collected books with reproductions of the Lindesfarne Gospels and (my favourite of all) the Book of Kells. I delved into intricacy, seeing how much design I could fit into a postcard-sized image. I went short-sighted, but it was worth it. In sixth form I was commissioned to design two official school Christmas cards. My Celtic design was almost too intricate in places to print properly.

I regarded this as a tour de force and was very disappointed when it sold far less well to parents and pupils than my alternative card, a rose window, which took about a tenth of the time and far less technical ability to draw. But the experience was a good lesson in the importance of overall design as well as detail.

I have very few original pieces from the time when I was mastering Celtic Art because they were almost all made as gifts. I found one, though, alongside some bad photographs of its companions, labelled 'thankyou cards'.


I'd dismissed it with 'unsent' scrawled in biro across the top. But my seventeen-year-old self's glowing colours and rich carpet of interlaced creatures astonished my thirty-two-year-old self when I found it. I'm not sure I could do anything so good now. But I think 2011 is the year to pick up my Celtic pen again and see what I can do.