The church where I am rector, St Bride’s in Fleet Street, was reduced to smouldering rubble by the Great Fire of London in 1666. It was rendered a charred ruin by incendiary bombs during the Blitz in December 1940. Yet the impact of the present pandemic upon our church has, in one particular respect, exceeded the consequences of both of these devastating events: it has caused all public worship here to cease.
This is extraordinary. After the fire of 1666, our then vicar, Paul Boston, continued to hold services in a tabernacle in our churchyard until the new church was built. Following the destruction of our building in the second world war, worship continued in a room attached to the church, which was converted into a makeshift chapel.
But today, while our beautiful Christopher Wren designed-church in the heart of the City of London is in good repair, its doors are locked and bolted in Holy Week, of all weeks, the most significant and sacred time of the Christian year. Like all churches, we have been forced to close while social distancing requirements, essential to reducing the spread of coronavirus, remain in force.
Churches have had to rethink every aspect of their life and ministry as a result of the pandemic, and it is both fascinating and heartening to see the range of creative and innovative responses that have emerged. Some have been able to live-stream services, and others are conducting their regular activities via video platforms such as Zoom. Clergy and their teams across the country are patiently and prayerfully using whatever means they have available to offer support and spiritual sustenance to their communities.
What has been remarkable — and for most of us completely unexpected — is the impact of these initiatives. My own church is not alone in discovering that far from proving an obstacle to our worshipping life, the temporary closure of our building has had the opposite effect.
St Bride’s is blessed with an amazing professional choir, and for many years we have routinely recorded our services. So we have an extensive archive of congregational hymns, worship and choral music that has suddenly become a resource of incalculable value.
Thanks to the marvels of modern technology (and the editing and IT skills of some of our team), we are able to construct acts of worship, combining archive material with new prayers and sermons specially recorded for each webcast service. As a result, we have been able to sustain our normal pattern of Sunday worship as well as the full range of Holy Week services, online.
The response to these recorded acts of worship is far beyond our expectations. Not only is our core congregation listening in, joining our prayers and lighting candles in their homes, but they are encouraging friends and neighbours to do likewise. Many who have attended the occasional service here in the past are now tuning in on a regular basis. Others are discovering us for the first time online.
Undoubtedly, part of the reason for this is that many people are feeling isolated at home and in need of a sense of community. However, in many of the responses I have received since self-isolation and social distancing began, I also detect a real hunger for spiritual refreshment. The pandemic has not only turned normal life upside down; it has also challenged us to look at our priorities and at those things that give our lives meaning and purpose.
There is, of course, no substitute for human relationships and community life, which is why virtual worship will never replace the real thing. Yet I suspect that when we eventually emerge from this challenging time, we shall all have learnt a great deal.
At the time of writing, I have just recorded my addresses for Good Friday, which is the bleakest day of the Christian year, when we reflect upon the isolation and agony of the crucified Christ.
Crucifixion was a particularly barbaric form of execution because the actual cause of death was normally suffocation. The weight of a human body suspended in that way made breathing all but impossible unless the victim could use his legs to raise his body up, momentarily, to gasp for breath. That was why Roman soldiers would break the legs of those whom they wanted to die swiftly.
Reflecting on that fact, my thoughts inevitably turned to the countless numbers of people across the globe who at this moment are isolated from loved ones and fighting for each breath, in a global wave of human suffering that transcends all human boundaries.
This is not a time for pious platitudes. But the reason why the Christian faith can speak of hope meaningfully is precisely because it recognises that the desolation of Good Friday is not an end but a beginning. Easter reminds us that there will be new life the other side of this. We must not lose sight of that fact.
