Hugh's Day: A Sermon

Hugh of Lincoln November 17, 2010
Luke 12:35-44
Titus 2:7-14

In the early summer of 2009, I managed to make two pilgrimages while living and studying in England. One was to the famed appearance of Our Lady in Walsingham in the Norfolk region; the other was to the shrine of Saint Hugh of Lincoln inside the massive Lincolnshire cathedral. Both hold a special place in my spiritual formation that shall never be forgotten.

The flat midlands of Lincolnshire afford the eye great, distant vistas of Britain. From the train down from Mirfield, I could see far in the distance the towering cathedral of Lincoln floating above the town as it sat quietly atop a massive hill. Consecrated in 1092, the existing cathedral as we know it today was restored and enlarged in 1192 under Hugh’s episcopacy. The western front is a rather interesting blend of Norman and Roman architecture that reflects the long history of the faithful of Lincolnshire, one of the largest dioceses in England. With the double-stroller off and kids in tow, we headed into the town of Lincoln like bewildered pilgrims worn down by two very spirited children. Like good Episcopalians, we found a nice pub for lunch. Fortified and feed, we climbed the massive hill towards the cathedral. All along the way, I responded to numerous objections from the family: “if you’ve seen one cathedral Chad, you’ve seen them all.” But after spotting a confectionary shop, I knew I could buy back their loyalty during this forced uphill march. After all that it took to get here, I found myself asking the question: what is it about Hugh?

Born around 1140 into a noble family in the Burgundy region of France, Hugh was the youngest of three sons. His mother, Anne, who died relatively young, was known for her particular care of the poor and sick. The sight of seeing his mother wash the sores of local lepers seared young Hugh. Following his mother’s death, Hugh’s father William enrolled Hugh at a local Austin Canons’ monastery for his education—a common practice amongst the nobility at the time. Hugh’s devout and highly restrictive education formed him at young age. At fifteen, he made his profession as a canon and was later ordained deacon at nineteen. Soon afterwards, Hugh was given charge over a parish where he tasted pastoral strife. But something else was stirring deep within him.

Not far from Hugh’s parish rose the Chartreuse mountains, often snow-capped and vivid with color. High in the Chartreuse range bore a monastery and order of the same name, the Carthusians. This highly austere and secluded monastic order was founded by Bruno who followed the reforming spirit of Cluny. Known for their great silence, the Carthusian order is a community who blends the eremitical way of life with that of enclosed brotherhood. Few Carthusians were ever elevated to the episcopacy and few managed canonization by the Church, something that is a point of pride for them because theirs is a life hidden in Christ through prayer, silence, study, and liturgy. All of these drew Hugh to the mountains to see the great charterhouse known still as Le Grande Chartreuse. At twenty-three, Hugh joined the order and was destined for a life of contemplation and silence in the alpine mountains of France. Or so he thought.

Ten years into his life of solitude and prayer, the missionary spirit rose up in the Order as King Henry II of England sought to pay penance for his unfortunate role in the death of his archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas a Beckett. Henry sought to found three houses in England and the Carthusians were chosen to be one of the three. Hugh was appointed prior of the new house and sent off to England. Hugh’s reputation was quickly spreading on the island. When he secured a land grant from the King of England for the new monastery, he bought the existing huts and houses from the peasants and then in turn gave them their dwellings back which were carted off and sold again by the peasants. Hugh was not going to go the way of the Benedictines and Cistercians who were well known across the land for their often unscrupulous entrepreneurial zeal. Not long into his priorate at Witham, Hugh was elected Bishop of Lincoln and later ordained to the episcopate in Westminster Abbey.

Again I ask the question: what is it about Hugh? Or still, what does Hugh have to say to us today? Here you have a monk who is bishop. He refused to indulge the lavish lifestyle prominent amongst his brother bishops at the time. He lived under the strict discipline of his order, much to the annoyance of many secular clergy around him. He was unrelenting in his care for the poor and even washed the sores of lepers in his Episcopal mansion—something his momma would have been proud to see. Above all, Hugh’s humility and tact is something that many politicians today should heed; for his cheerfulness and love of God’s people made it difficult for the ruling powers to oppose him. In our age of divisive, hate-filled rhetoric which alienates and polarizes the citizenry, Hugh would not hesitate to direct our eyes to the millions of children who have no health insurance, those who are homeless and jobless. Hugh would tend our sores and wash our feet, and that is something worth celebrating today. Hugh, quite simply, had a way with people that drew them closer to the love of God in Christ. His example and witness to us echoes our readings from Luke and Paul’s epistle—where striving for the Kingdom of God begins with how we conduct our own lives in accordance with Christ. Hugh was Christ’s hands, voice, and love made present to all who came near.

Back at the cathedral, I managed to squeeze our large American stroller through the tiny doors of the western porch. Once inside, I was awestruck by the grandeur and simplicity of one of Hugh’s lasting memorials. While he never saw the cathedral completed, its foundation serves as just one of many of the saint’s legacies for the Kingdom. As I moved to the far east-end, back behind the great choir and high altar, I saw what I had longed to see—the shrine of Hugh. I dropped to my knees, touched the shrine, and made the sign of the cross. Hugh’s spirit was palpable, and my prayer to Christ was that I may follow the good example of such a humble servant to draw others to God.

Click here to see my post from last year with photos from the pilgrimage. 

Here, I Cry

I stood proudly once,
twenty odd feet towering above
where the wind pushed me higher.

Towers of steel forged by experience
could withstand the idle assaults
that came.

Nearby glances were thought
empowering, nay
sweetly on my heart.

And the fall came.
All at once.

Those memories seem vain nowadays;
twisting the ego tightly round a
hellish nail.

Chill'd nights,
sleepless nights,
cast the daze upon my face.

Nothing escapes.
Nothing holds.

And my cries go unheard.

The Barb of the Nazarene

Hooks of love caught the world (i am)

from the heights above (breaks barriers of hate),

while feeding the fishy souls (and men);

catches and releases (drawn to his wounds)

from the barb of the Nazarene (live again).

Lost in Wonder, Love, and Praise: the Liturgy of the Lamb

The Church of the Advent, Photo by Br. Ciaran Anthony DellaFera, BSG

Turning the corner past Boston's famous bar, Cheer's, I could hear the English Change Ringing bells tolling down the avenue.  In a methodical count, the peal sang out into the crisp air, bouncing off the otherwise silent brahmin neighborhood.  The day could not have better, clear skies with a light breeze.  Boston Common was already spilling over with tourists, runners, and the like.  Sunday was prime time for Bostonians to be out and about.

The spire from one of the gem's of The Episcopal Church began to come in focus, and my pilgrimage was nearing its climax.  And there it was, on the corner of Brimmer Street in the posh company of Beacon Hill, sits The Church of the Advent.  I arrived with ample time for exploration before Solemn High Mass was to commence at 11:15 a.m.  My heart was racing.

Now it goes without saying that every pilgrim erects a construct of expectations--whether spoken or not--of how the people and place will receive the hungry.  I must admit that I had a few in mind that Sunday morning, and upon my own discovery, were proven to be unfounded.  The prevalent stereotype of "spikery" in Anglo-Catholicism was at the forefront of my mind en route to mass that morning.  

Opening the door to the sanctuary was a bit otherworldly--the incense from the previous mass was thick in the air and I had an immediate, striking sense of the Divine.  I could smell it.  The twenty-five or so choristers were practicing a beautiful setting of the Kyrie, and the mixture of male and female voices struck a deep impression right at the threshold.  Inside, I grabbed a choice seat with a good view of the altar so that I could soak up all that I was about to encounter.  I sat and surveyed the interior beauty of this gem.  The sunlight that morning was piercing the clerestory windows, amplifying the smokey vaults of the ceiling.  This was going to be something unlike any ordinary Rite II liturgy.

I discovered a pleasant, harmonious blending of Rite I from the 1979 Book of Common Prayer along with what could only be described as Sarum additions.  I got a kick from seeing pasted inserts on the inside back cover of the Book of Common Prayer revealing several of the additional texts.  Underneath the Hymnal was a card with the Angelus and antiphons to the Blessed Virgin Mary printed on both sides.   The hymnody came from The Hymnal, 1982 and was juxtaposed with mass settings in Latin and Greek--the Kyrie, Gloria, etc.  The Gospel was chanted, we genuflected at the appropriate place in the Nicene Creed, and we all said the Angelus following the liturgy complete with the ringing of the Angelus bell.

Ceremonial aside, what I feeling inside was simply exciting.  The power of liturgy to transport you both out-of-time and in-time was not only made possible during the mass but was actually experienced, as evidenced by my goose-bumps.  This was a feeling I have not felt for some time.  One of the unintended consequences of liturgical training in seminary is that you tend to have a harder time worshipping in the broader church--one has to work extra hard to suppress feelings about liturgical mishaps and the like.

Following mass, I wondered about the sanctuary still reeling from the heavenly banquet but wanting somehow to capture that same feeling through photographs.  There were several shrines about the place, but one in particular just sang out, Christ the Great High Priest.

There he was, crowned and adorned in the priestly chasuable with hands outstretched to me.  "I love you," he says, "come to me and I will refresh you."  The hands beckoned a hungry, hurting world to take Christ's burden of love and justice, of true freedom in eternal life.  The eyes were piercing the holiness around me, drawing me into an intimate space of Christ's presence transcending the temporal.  Never before have I felt that way before a shrine, not even Walsingham herself I dare say.

Reentering the atmosphere, I climbed down the stairs for coffee hour and found myself making new friends over a glass of sherry in the garden.  Ah.  This was my kind of parish.  I say that I was lost, off in wonder, love, and praise;  its more likely that I discovered that I was found to be in a place where the liturgy of the Lamb draws both the familiar and the odd together, making new creation.  What a treat for a Sunday.