We were still in the cathedral, marvelling at both the tangible history and the artistry… far too much to show or to even take in. Everywhere you look, every surface from floor to ceiling bears the evidence of care and craft. In splendour is written the simplicity of the faith of the heart.
We stood at the Crossing, yet another Celtic cross, this time in marble. From the centre you can look up, up to the tiny hole in the floor of the bell tower from which we had looked down and through which a bell rope once hung. A giant St Christopher watches, carrying the knobbed club and the Child, himself carried upon the back of a grotesque figure.
Before you is the quire… pinnacles and spires of wood, static beauty that tells stories… little glimpses of humour and emotion, stories carved in wood captured in the screens, pews and misericords, the mercy seats, upon which the officers of the church could rest.
Geometries are laid out in marble upon the floor, pictures of biblical scenes, evangelists and strange faces. And then you look up at the painted glory of the ceiling, the delicate vaulting that supports the weight of the Church looking like wings that could take flight and carry the worshipper lightly to heaven.
There is a distinct difference in the feel of the various areas of the cathedral precincts. The cloisters whisper of prayers repeated in the contemplation of movement. The nave focuses the eye on the quire and altar, the chapels lend themselves to private moments between the heart and the divine and the courtroom seems to provide a link between the inner and outer worlds.
It is a curious place, the courtroom; a unique example of an ecclesiastical consistory court and the oldest in the country, dating back to 1636 AD. Within the enclosing walls there is yet another enclosure of time blackened wood with raised seats for witness and accused as well as the seat of judgement. Everyone had their appointed seat, their proper place beneath the legal authority of the law. The last case judged here was the attempted suicide of a priest in the 1930s.
The small room with its rigid structure seems to echo the confinement of the soul within the outer world, bound and constricted as it is with rules and regulations, social mores and the requirements of necessity. Yet beyond the door lies a lofty beauty accessible to all, regardless of some perception of social status, both affirming and inspiring faith in a way that seems common to all times, all places and all religions.
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Dear Santa,
She says it is good to remember other days… and remember that what made them special was the love and the thought that went into them, not the money that was spent on things.
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Sue Vincent's Daily Echo 