The Making of the Lamb (18 page)

The vicar leaned back in his chair in the parlor and set aside the letter he’d been reading. No one knew when or how the old stone cross depicting the boyish figure of the Christ child had ended up in the vicarage cellar. Legend was that it had gathered dust there for several hundred years. “Well, it has lasted these centuries. I very much doubt it will wear away all that soon with a bit of rain and air, my dear,” Bernie responded. “Besides, it’s such a beautiful cross, displaying Our Lord in his childhood. Tunic crosses such as that are rare and shed light on an aspect of Christ that not many know about. It will be an excellent addition to our churchyard.”

Bernard Walke had been vicar of St. Hilary’s for some twenty years, and his parishioners had grown accustomed to his High-Church practices. He celebrated mass frequently and with reverence. He used the Book of Common Prayer, but emphasized all the sacramental elements of the service. He introduced incense and icons. To some outsiders the Anglo-Catholic orientation made the place unrecognizable as Church of England. He liked to think of himself as a gentle soul—a peace advocate both during and after the Great War. And his mail attested to a national following of the broadcast of his devotional plays from the parish on BBC radio.

Being on the wireless was all well and good, but the beautification of the church was a greater pleasure. After a parish-wide cleaning, he had come up with the idea of resurrecting the tunic cross from its dank cellar tomb and displaying it prominently along the path leading to the entrance of the church.

How troubling that his wife and greatest ally did not share his enthusiasm.

“Yes, but why are they rare, Bernie?” The question was rhetorical.

“Now Annie—”

“You know as well as I do that religious intolerance still exists, and those bands of sectarian zealots out of Plymouth—the ones that call themselves ‘Kensitites’ and ‘The Protestant Truth Society’—are still doing everything they can to fight what they call your Popish ways.” She shook her head, as the flicking of her wrist drew up loop after loop of white cotton thread. “They still come by to disrupt the services. They say they have a judgment authorizing the removal of the things you worked so hard to restore in the church.”

“That case in the Consistory Court is nothing to be concerned about. They have no proper jurisdiction over the church. They just got some woman who never attends our services to claim that she is aggrieved by what she calls our stone idolatry.” He turned to the next letter in his stack.

“You cannot keep ignoring the writs. The officer has been by several times this week trying to serve you.”

“It’s a matter of principle, Annie. The Consistory Court employs the language and forms of the old spiritual courts, but that continuity was broken and its spiritual nature lost when it began allowing appeals to the secular courts on spiritual matters. I will not plead before such a court or accept its judgment on such things.” He sighed. “But I see your point about keeping that tunic cross in the safety of our cellar, at least for now.”

The next afternoon, Father Walke—as everyone but his wife called him—mounted his horse to take a pleasure ride up Tregonning Hill and treat himself to a view of the vast Cornish countryside. On clear days, one could see all the way to Land’s End and Bodmin Moor. As he settled into the saddle, a young woman from the town ran up to the vicarage gates, shouting, “They’ve come, Father!”

He turned back. “Who has come?”

“The radicals!” she shouted. “They are in the church itself!”

Father Walke went pale as he realized who she meant. He ran to the church with a parishioner—the bell ringer—and attempted to enter the main door of the church. They found it barred from the inside, so they made their way around to the priest’s door leading to the Lady Chapel. Father Walke pounded on the door and shouted, “Open up, this is the priest!”

The door cracked open, and the two were admitted—only to find themselves at the mercy of a thuggish bunch in workmen’s clothes. The bell ringer made a dash for the belfry to ring for help, but three ruffians quickly restrained him.

“Oh, dear God!” Father Walke howled. Several men were pillaging the church, smashing the statues at the side altars. A pair of them toppled the image of the Blessed Virgin. All was a blur of havoc and desecration. Closing his eyes, he tried to take himself elsewhere, but could not. The crash and clatter of brass and shattered pottery assaulted his ears.

The only privilege the pillagers allowed him was that of taking the Blessed Sacrament to safety in the vicarage. As he walked by, a few parishioners, seeing what was going on as they returned from school or work, lined the churchyard path, kneeling and praying.

As I pass from the tumult of passion, the world of quiet faith is now out here with the people.

Crowbar Raid on a Church

Kensitites at St. Hilary

Ornaments Carried Off

Vicar a Prisoner

Dreadful headlines blazed across the front pages of the London papers. People countrywide and even overseas responded with a wave of donations in solidarity with Father Walke and his ravaged church. Postal money orders and checks began arriving in the mail within days. Throughout the week, the people of the parish used the funds to restore the church. Carpenters and masons repaired the building. Other images were brought in as replacements for those carried off.

On the following Sunday, Father Walke led a Mass of reconciliation. Once again, the church was made cheerful with flowers. “We are eternally grateful to everyone from near and far who gave money or lent a hand to help restore our parish home,” Father Walke declared during the sermon. His voice cracked with emotion, and he paused to recover himself. “It is surely the work of the Spirit that in a few short days our church is restored, nearly to what it had been. But I fear that the peace we have enjoyed these past years may be at an end. We must stand strong during this difficult time. We must not be afraid of those who despise us, and as Our Lord taught us, we must love our enemies as we love ourselves.”

A special meeting of the parish followed the service. All semblance of order was dashed in the anger and frustration of the members. Many demanded a police investigation and prosecution of the outsiders. Others pointed out that prosecution would be difficult in light of the order of the Consistory Court that backed the raiders with some color of law.

“And what about poor Father O’Donoghue’s headstone?” asked Matilda Lawrence. The frail gray-haired lady, the matron of the parish, hardly ever spoke. The pews fell silent, and all turned to listen. “I still remember him from when I was a girl. What did he ever do to deserve having his grave defaced?”

“She’s right!” declared Tom, a burly miner. “They smashed his headstone to pieces. Surely, that Constancy Court—what is that anyway?”

“The Consistory Court,” corrected one of the parishioners. “It’s an old ecclesiastic court from the Middle Ages, run by the bishops. It doesn’t do much of anything nowadays.”

“Humph! Surely a court would not authorize grave robbery!”

“The court only authorized the removal of the listed objects from inside the church,” said the lawyer. He was a vestryman from Penzance and a longtime friend of Father Walke. “The court only has jurisdiction over the interior of the churches; it has no authority over graveyards. I wouldn’t call it grave robbery—a good case for grave desecration, though.”

“My friends, we are losing sight of why we are here.” Father Walke rose. “This is a house of peace. We come here to reconcile all men to God, even those who despise us. Besides, I’m sure that ruining the headstone was an accident. I saw the motor coach back into it while trying to turn around. The driver got out and apologized for the damage.”

Father Walke’s words only partly quieted the anger in the pews.

“At least they ought to pay damages,” Tom muttered.

A number of people agreed.

Annie took a turn to speak. “Let’s use the tunic cross from the basement of the rectory as a new headstone for Father O’Donoghue.”

Bernie looked at his wife, a bit shocked. “If it had not been for you speaking up before the raid, that old cross could have been smashed to bits. These radicals despise anything that smacks of idolatry. I am so glad I listened to you in keeping it safe where it is. Why are you changing your mind now?”

“Too much has been destroyed,” Annie replied. “It brings me to tears to think about it. They didn’t just destroy our things. What we lost were symbols of our Christian faith that no money can replace. The tunic cross shows Christ as a child. Now most of all, we must be as children, and without fear, we need to trust in our Father. It is important to show this symbol to the people of our parish. We mustn’t hide it!”

Bernie smiled. His wife’s wisdom and sense of calm never ceased to amaze him. She was right.

A few parishioners spoke up, dead set against the idea, afraid of what might happen to the precious artifact if the raiders came back. Others were more interested in pursuing retribution. Nonetheless, the idea of using the tunic cross gained support as others chimed in.

“I can certainly keep an eye on the churchyard,” the constable said.

“Besides,” added the lawyer from Penzance, “the exterior is beyond the power of any future writ from the Consistory Court.”

Some of the raiders came back to disrupt the services by singing their own hymns in an attempt to drown out the voices of the choir. The second Sunday on which this happened, the police came by to take names, and some were later convicted of brawling and violating an order of the King’s Bench obtained by the lawyer from Penzance.

The raiders never returned after that. Maybe they feared the law was now on the side of the parish, or perhaps they finally realized that they would only be stirring up public sympathy for the church, along with a fresh outpouring of donations, if they made the papers again.

The new plaque of polished stone to mark Father O’Donoghue’s grave had arrived a week after the Mass of reconciliation. Father Walke, wanting to wait for all the fuss from the raid to die down, held off from affixing it to the tunic cross. Parishioners still distraught from the raid and its aftermath called on him for more pastoral support. But Annie was not to be put off forever, and she kept reminding Bernie that he needed to get on with it. On the appointed day, it took three burly men to carry the tunic cross up from the vicarage cellar. Father Walke wanted to help, but the men said he would only be in the way.