Eating in the Great Hall

Since coming to England, I've fallen in love. Not with a boy, don't worry now. Instead I've fallen in love with a city. Walk around York and you can't help but be aware of the rich fusion of historical periods around you. Architectural evidence around the city bears testament to York's Roman, Anglo-Saxon, Norman and Christian eras. Stroll along the city wall for example and an attentive eye can pick out the different eras represented in the layers of stones—some are from the old Roman fortress while others are from more recent reconstruction attempts. Or, if you are in the mood for shopping spattered with a little history, try walking around the Shambles. Wedged into York's city center are countless historical homes now converted into a variety of shops from butcher shops to tea rooms, from souvenir shops to second hand book stores. (Think Diagon Alley for an appropriate mental picture). Each of these buildings is unique; some date back many hundreds of years while others are less old; some are tall and narrow while others are stout; some buildings are constructed solely of brick, others of stone while still others are made of stucco and wood.
But perhaps the best example of the fusion of historical eras is the York Minster. The site of this cathedral dates as far back as Roman times when it was the location of the city's fortress. But since the conversion of the Anglo-Saxon King Edwin in the 7th century the old fortress became the site of York’s first Christian church. From its humble origins as a wooden Anglo-Saxon church it moved up the ranks to a Norman and then its present-day Gothic Cathedral. Go down into the crypt of today’s Minster and you can see the remains of both the Roman fortress and the Norman church. In addition to seeing the old foundations of the Roman fortress’ underground dike or old Norman pillars, one can read a great deal about the ongoing reconstruction work and archeological research still being conducted at the Minster. What is clear about such exhibits is that the reconstruction work is not at all easy; in fact it can take years simply to restore one small portion of this ancient structure. However, despite all the work involved, the commitment to maintain and preserve history is clearly evident as well.
So, other than serving to make you all jealous of my new lover, what do these descriptions have to do with anything of substance? Forgive me if I am making too far a stretch here but I think York’s array of historical architecture and its preservation may have some bearing upon British culture and values.
Think for a moment about North American buildings; despite the fact that English Western architecture predates that of North America by centuries, there are much fewer instances of historical architecture in North America even in regards to simple structures like residential housing. In North American when a building is old and falling apart it seems that the natural response is to demolish it unless it bears some already known historical significance. According to a number of housing surveys that I looked at for both North America and the UK, demolition rates for residential houses in North American were consistently higher than in the UK. However, while York is full of historical buildings and ancient architecture, it is not uncommon to walk down the street and see construction workers repairing various sections of York’s city wall, for example. Or, as I mentioned earlier, York Minster is constantly under restorative construction work. One side of the York Minster, for example, has been hidden beneath a great deal of scaffolding for the duration of my time in York. In short it takes a good deal of conscious effort to maintain old buildings, an effort that increases with age (not to mention price). Of course, when you see the beauty of these buildings it is not difficult to understand why such efforts are taken. But at some point in time, some of these buildings were not of the great historical value that they possess now. Yet, continually throughout the lifespan of these buildings city contractors have opted for the often more difficult route of maintenance and reconstruction.
It seems to me that the contrast between demolition in North America and maintenance in England indicate a subtle difference in the way each country views their past—both immediate and ancient. Judging from my conversations with other British students here and my observations of building trends, it seems to me that North Americans view the past as something more disposable—something that can be torn down like an out-of-date house and simply rebuilt in a more modern style. But in England the past seems to be viewed with a great deal of respect, as something to be built upon, preserved and learned from.
On Saturday, we traveled to Durham—a beautiful old river town. Part of our visit involved a trip to Durham University where we had the opportunity to speak with two professors and two students. Before this interview a few friends and I took a tour of Durham Castle. We soon discovered this castle had a modern 21st purpose. Since the latter part of the 19th century this medieval castle has been converted into a college residence. College students walk up an old oak floating staircase to reach their rooms and eat their meals in the castle’s Great Hall with rifles from the Napoleonic wars hanging protectively overhead. And each year the students continue to vote in favor of conducting at least two meals a week in formal attire accompanied by strict, traditional dining etiquette. Here in Durham, students seek to live harmoniously and respectfully in the gap between past and present. Such a picture is one from which we all might hope to learn to better respect and build up our pasts, both immediate and ancient.

Pheonix: Reflections on Christianity in England

It’s a Monday night—the first Monday after my arrival. My friend, Melissa and I are in the throes of a deep conversation, a little odd considering our surroundings. From outside the room we hear what can only be the drunken clamor characteristic of Manic Mondays at York St. John. Inevitably, my silent, closed door seems an open invitation. I answer the knock and am met with the smiling face of an unknown intoxicated young English boy. After a few moments conversation he looks at me quizzically and asks, “Are you religious? Are you Islam?” And suddenly, less than a week of being in England and with less than a handful of British acquaintances, Melissa and I find ourselves in the midst of a theological discussion about the existence of God. Despite his alcohol-tainted logic, our young Englishman tried to convince us of the absurdity of Christianity: “God is really just a cloud –just water and vapor floating up in the sky. And Jesus Christ? Christ! Do you believe in Jesus Christ? Or Muhammed? The prophet? Or Hinduism?” His questions and his speech began to blur together but we answered him as best we could (all the while fighting the irresistible urge our lips seem to have towards upward mobility).

I’ve heard it said many a time that Britain is a post-Christian nation. Telegraph News ran a story recently titled “Christianity: Will it die within the century?” Polled popular opinion answered in the affirmative. In a nation once defined by its Protestant identity other religions--such as Islam--are outstripping Christianity in rising converts. Friends, too, warned me that this semester might be spiritually challenging without a strong or vibrant Christian community. So I came to England expecting just this—a society in which Christian values hold little sway whose landscape is littered with churches now empty save for a handful of aging congregants. And while Christianity does seem much less prominent here than in American society, I have been surprised and humbled to find my own preconceptions about the state of Christianity in England challenged.

The undoing of my preconceptions started small. I spent one of my first Sundays of the semester at the local Anglican Church, St. Thomas with St. Maurice. Externally, this church fulfilled every characteristic of the dying English church; the majority of its congregants were over fifty and in fact, the already small congregation was a fusion of two church congregations. Though the church was small, its earnestness and hospitality was clearly evident. The passing of the peace was not the contained affair of my home church in Grand Rapids. No, at St.Thomas’ the invitation to pass the peace is akin to the unleashing of the floodgates of heaven. The few dozen congregants poured out of their pews, descended upon us, the American visitors. Looking straight into my eyes, many congregation members introduced themselves saying “Hi! I’m _____. May the peace of Christ be with you” After the service, multiple people came over to me and welcomed me into their congregation showing a genuine interest in my life. And St.Thomas is not alone in this trend; all of the churches I’ve attended whether it be small-- like St.Thomas--or larger--like St.Mike’s--exhibit a strong sense of community that is missing in so many North American churches. Church announcements are particularly telling; whether it be through cell groups, house churches, charity organizations, or church socials, the congregants are actively involved in their church community outside of weekly Sunday services. The leaders of the churches I've attended strike me as approachable—as if there is little distance between pastor and layman; their sermons are delivered with informal, conversational language giving the impression that the man speaking them is as ordinary as you or I. (This is not to say these sermons are not well grounded in biblical text or theology). Services, even the highly liturgical ones, are often conducted in a relaxed, informal (though not irreverent) manner that for me parallels what I imagine a small gathering of the early church to be.I’ve been to churches of high Anglican liturgy and to churches with evangelical contemporary feels and in each of these churches I’ve been met with a sense of community and earnestness that I never expected to find.

One such church that I've been blessed, challenged and humbled by is St.Mike's. While I could speak about St.Mike's at great length, I will share with you just one small example of the way this church has humbled and taught me. The church services I'm used to attending appear seamlessly planned (in so far as that is possible); there is very little within a given service that occurs spontaneously. From sermon texts to songs to prayers, the majority have been preapproved and rehearsed. I understand the reasoning and importance of planned services for I can attest that disorganized services can be simply distracting. However, my experience at St.Mike's has revealed to me that leaving room for the Spirit to speak through one another is a vital component of worship and Christian community. Frequently, St. Mike's reserves a time in its service to invite people to give testimonies of God's faithfulness in their lives or to share with the congregation a prayer request or concern. These testimonies are nothing big by some standards; very rarely do people speak about experiences akin to Paul's Road-to-Damascus conversion. More often than not the testimonial time consists of sharing stories of God's hand in the day-to-day lives of Christian people. What an encouraging way to foster an honest church community that is attentive to one another's needs and bridge the gap between small groups and larger church community.
England could be deemed a post-Christian world, to be sure. My experiences with non-Christians since that first Monday night have not been dissimilar; where God is not disdained, the Bible is regarded as little more than mythological literature. Yet within this post-Christian world, Christianity is bubbling up in new and vibrant ways--one just has to be attentive to hear the gentle, whisper of invitation to come to the cross. St. Mike's provides the perfect example of the power of such a whisper. It’s easy to miss this small church cowering it seems beside the gothic cathedral that is York Minster--now more actively a tourist site than a congregation. Though seemingly small, St.Mike's staunchly and faithfully bears witness to the Christian faith. Pass by the church on your way to city centre on a Sunday morning or evening and you’ll surely hear the sounds of praise music rebounding off the walls and out of the doors. Go inside and you’ll observe a few hundred people, men and women, young and old, some with arms raised, some with bodies swaying or some with heads bowed in praise of their Savior.

Line

There's a term in music which refers to the melodic inhale and exhale within a musical phrase.To play with line means to play sensitively, weaving notes together in a framework of crescendo and decrescendo. I spent a portion of my weekend hiking in the Lake District. The experience of hiking up to the summit and back down again--if it can be compared to anything--is akin to musical line. Just like music is not found in the moment of highest crescendo but in the silent spaces between the notes and the softness of a phrase's end, the significance of the mountain summit is in both the ascent and descent.

On Saturday morning, all twenty-six Calvin students piled into a couch bus and drove three hours to the Lake District, located on the northwest coast of England. Our first stop was Grasmere, the home of William Wordsworth. It is no wonder to me that Wordsworth produced his best poetry whilst staying at Dove Cottage. I'd hazard a guess that even a person without a poetical bone in her body might be moved to write a few lines upon observing the landscape of Grasmere. Though the main road goes straight through the mountains, when you're in Grasmere you feel like you're in a nest. Behind and before, to the left and to the right the mountains frame the village.

Upon our arrival, the group took turns touring the Wordsworth museum and Dove Cottage. It was surreal to be in Dove Cottage climbing the same stairs that Wordsworth, Dorthy, Sir Walter Scott, Coleridge and so many other famous authors tread so many years ago. Our tour guide was a kind, intelligent middle-aged woman who made the Wordsworth's daily life come alive for us. After the tour, we went into the village itself. Other than Dove Cottage, Grasmere's other (and only) attraction is its Gingerbread Shop. It claims the best gingerbread in the world. After laying a few morsels upon my tastebuds, I can inform you that the above statement is not a marketing ploy. Grasmere Gingerbread is in fact the best gingerbread in world (be aware that I am the leading expert on gingerbread existing today so one should not take such a statement lightly).

After a jaunt about the village, we prepared to take our hike up the mountain. Equipped with legging-lined jeans, three shirts, mittens, a wool scarf, a coat, and last but certainly not least my Canadian-flag-patch hat, I was ready to face the snowy mountaintop. But after about, oh, five steps at a very slight incline I was hot. For all of us the ascend was accompanied by stripping. By the time we reached the summit we were all sporting a 90s-style of dress with our coats tied 'round the neck or waist. While the rest of us were huffing and puffing after about ten steps, Dean Ward (our 60 year old professor) seemed to bound up the mountainside with apparently no compromise to his lungs. He must have harnessed the spirit of William Wordsworth (he apparently completed the same hike as we did...in his late 70s).

Being hot and sweaty, though, was part of the joy of the climb. The experience of climbing was one in which every muscle, tensing and releasing with each footfall, echoes the cry of the soul: I AM ALIVE! To look over the landscape--the craggy rocks peeking through burnt-orange tufts of grass all spilling down into the frozen lake--instilled in me an overwhelming sense of grandeur. As I climbed ever higher I would pause to look back the way I'd come and survey the landscape before me. Each pause was accompanied by wordless, speechless awe and an ever mounting sense of unadulterated joy. As corny as it sounds, I found myself humming 'Praise God from whom all blessings flow" as I hiked along the trail to the summit.The way down was as equally moving as the ascent. While one side of the mountain was all sunshine and warmth, the other was covered with snow and ice. Such a stark change in colour--burnt orange to icy white--made the climb down stunning in its own right.

Thoroughly tired but revived in soul we left Grasmere directly after our hike and traveled to Keswick where our hostel was located. My favourite part of the hostel was my bed. Located on the third floor our rooms had the privilege of low slopping roofs. My bed was tucked under one such roof slope and took me back to my childhood memories of sleeping in my aunt's old bed. Her bed was tucked beneath the slope of that red farmhouse roof I loved so much and I always slept soundly in that bed. I slept so very soundly that night too.

The next morning we worshipped at St.John's Anglican and had the opportunity to witness a baptism there. While I wasn't a huge fan of the screaming toddler, I did love the way the baptism was conducted. When the priest reminded us of our own baptisms he didn't just speak words of remembrance. Instead he took a brass bucket of water and dipped a long spatula-like utensil in the water and flicked it onto the heads of the congregants. It was moving to be reminded of baptism in such a tangible way.

After the service we talked to a few church members (one of whom knew Gaylen Byker!) and then headed back to bus. Because of the "bad weather" (an inch of snow) we could only hike around the lake for an hour before having to head back to York which was fine with us because we were all pretty whipped from the hike the day before. Even though the sky was overcast, the lake and the mountains around were still beautiful. By the time we got back to the bus I was tired and ready to head home... back to York :)

Local Backbacon and Brie

I spent the weekend of February 12-13 in Llandudno, Wales. I and nine other Calvin students made the 4 hour train-trek to Wales--five of us left at 3 am while the other five left at 6 on a Friday morning.

For those of you who have been acquainted with an early morning Jenica should be able to guess which train I procured. I wrested my body from my bed at 4:45 and stumbled into the shower, impressed with myself that I was up a full hour and half before my departure. I turned on the faucet ready for some warm watery goodness. Instead I made a discovery. Apparently, the hot water tank is turned off after 11:30 pm. BUT despite the shivering kickoff, Wales proved to be a heart-warming experience.

Joel, Jennifer, Melissa, Mary and I stepped off the platform at Llandudno train station around 10 am-- about 1 hour after the first group, Will, John, Melissa, Erin and Teresa. Upon arrival, John and I went inside the station to see if we could find our hostel.

-Hi. Could you tell us where we could get some information?

-Oh yes love, said the substantially jowl-ed stationmaster, just go round to the lib'ry. Go up this here street and turn left at the turnabout. You'll see a wee church, turn right. Then another street, turn left. That should get you just about to the lib'ry.

Needless to say we got lost and ended up at the seaside.

We did eventually find our hostel and were met by an immensely kind Welsh woman. She allowed us to check in early so that we could leave our packs in our rooms. Immediately after check-in, we headed down to the Llandudno Public Library to make plans for the day. Thanks to Joel's guidebook and previous recommendations from friends we decided to visit a castle in the nearby village of Conwy [yes that is the correct spelling].

What an imposing piece of architecture! Castle Conwy overlooks the entrance to the village and comes complete with towers and moats. Not even my wild childhood imagination could have conjured up such a castle. For a mere 5 pounds we could ramble all around the castle grounds, walk the ramparts and climb the many towers. We were blessed with a beautiful day. The already stunning view from the castle towers was made even more astounding by the sunlight which cast a bright sheen on everything from the lake to the castle bricks. The view from the towers was something out of an old medieval painting. The hills surrounding Conwy looked as if they'd been brushed with a generous streaks of vibrant green and brownish orange. Aside from taking multitudes of pictures and drinking in the views, the lot of us had a blast posing like roman soldiers on top of the towers. After had our fill of the castle, we walked along the seaside and stopped at the harbour. There were so many beautiful old boats beached on the shore for the winter. We also got to view the smallest house in England. Though it was closed for the winter and we couldn't go inside, I was enthused to discover that for the first time in my life I would have had to duck to get through the doorway.

I must preface the following anecdote with a short comment: Contrary to the outcome of the following story, Calvin students are not boring--unless severely tired by travel, hikes, and copious amounts of sugar.

We returned from Conwy at 4:30 and went down to the pub for dinner. The bartender was a bit miffed when all ten of us asked for water with our meals: "Water? Are you sure? Haven't any of us heard of a pint b'fore?" After dinner we stopped at pounland to pick up desert. Equipped with a grotesque amount of chocolate, java cakes, digestives, gummy bears, and burbon creams we arrived back at the hostel around 6. After filling our bellies unto bursting, we thought it would be a wise idea to play the "Ha-Ha" game. Four of us formed a circle with our heads lying on the adjacent person's belly. Each person in the circle has to say "Ha" with enough gusto that the head on their belly bounces like a bobble-head. The goal is to see how many "ha"s you can get in without making anyone laugh. Guess who always ruined it for my team? You guessed correct, twas your truly. By the time 9:00 rolled around, we were all dog tired [hey! remember that some of us had been up since 2 am]. We went upstairs with the intention of reading until some less lame sounding hour came around and we could go to bed with a clear social conscious. All I can say is that I remember lying in bed reading and looking at my watch lamenting the fact that it was still only 9:30--too lame a time for a college student to fall into slumber. Next thing I know my light is turned off, the book is put away and everyone is sound asleep. I looked at my watch--11:30. We are SO COOL.

Had we spent only one day in Llandudno, I would have deemed the journey worth it but the next day topped off an already superb trip. While Mary, William and Melissa took the bus into Snowdonia National Park, the rest of us stayed in town. Llandudno is home to a large hill--a "huge hunk of carboniferous rock" to be exact (words taken straight from the Wales tour guide section on Llandudno)--otherwise known as the Great Orm. Before we trekked up the Great Orm, we asked a local about the strenuousness of the hike. Easy, she said. After a few minutes we realized this hike was not what we would call easy. The Great Orm is shaped like a camel's back with one hump larger than the other. The hike to the summit of the smaller hump wasn't too bad and was certainly well worth the effort. The view of the coast and the patchwork of Welsh farmland around it was amazing. To get to the real summit though, we had to climb down into a valley of farms. Along the way we found a beautiful old church set amongst equally old gravestones. It was humbling to walk around the stones, read the inscriptions and dates and wonder who each person was.

Now picture this. A 50 degree incline. You. Walking it. Now you've got a pretty good picture of the last 200 meters to the summit. Not that I'm complaining though, it was fun to dig my shoes into the pre-made crevices and lean close to the long grasses that were shaped in tufts like baby's hair. Once again, the effort was well-worth it. The view was even more indescribable and awe-inspiring than the first. We sat for a long time, silent, just looking out over the hills. We discovered the most effective way to descend the Great Orm was to run straight down windmilling our arms for balance (apparently all the cross-country runners do it..).

On the way down to the village we stopped at a quaint pub called King's Head. The ambiance was superb and whoever was in charge of the music selection will have my adoration forever. In the space of an hour I heard some of my favourite songs from Keane, Simon and Garfunkel and Van Morrison (among many others I can't recall). Though the menu was rather pricey we took the recommendation of Joel's friends' as grounds enough to foot the bill and try the food. Let me tell you, I don't think I've ever had a better sandwich in all my days. Local backbacon (which is a cross between ham and bacon) smothered with melted brie cheese on a baguette. Oh it was enough to make the tastebuds cry with pleasure. With full bellies, full eyes, and full hearts ten Calvin students returned to York after a wonderful sojourn in Wales.

To Some Point True and Unproven

Greetings from across the pond! I've been in York now for nearly three weeks. Only three weeks? It feels much longer than that.Even now, thinking back on all the things I've learned, seen and done I wonder if time didn't secretly stretch itself long and lean over the past few weeks just to accommodate all my experiences. Here one day can be so full of new wonders that it feels as if a week has past.

The task of putting three weeks worth of material into one blog post is daunting but after three weeks of settling in I'm up for the challenge. The question is are you? It will be a whirlwind, to be sure. So buckle in, here we go:


1. Flying

I left from Grand Rapids Jan.27 at 12 pm. Aside from a minor missing passport blip within the first 10 minutes of my arrival at GR airport (the consequence of a unusually absent-minded Jenica), the trip went smoothly. Even my bloodsugars managed to behave themselves despite lack of sleep and a six hour time difference. After a five-hour layover in Chicago O'Hare Airport we arrived in Manchester bleary-eyed but smiling.

2. Enter York....

From Manchester airport, the city of York is about a two hour bus ride. I spent that time drifting in and out of sleep, ever coaxed from real sleep by the English countryside. During the trip I made an important life decision: I've decided to marry a British boy in the hopes he'll have a grandfather even half as charming as our bus driver.

After registering for classes and settling in, I spent the next day walking around York. How I love this city already. I have yet to get used to seeing stunning architecture everyday--I hope I never get used to it. What ought to have been a mere 5 minute walk to the Grange took at least 20 minutes thanks to the magnetic attraction between my camera and York's architecture. York Minister is pretty high on my list of sites but the city walls have become a close second. I've also been seduced by the peacock blue doors and bright red gutters that garnish many houses here. I wonder how Mom and Michelle would feel about a blue door......

3. The Yorkshire and Whitby Shambles

In England, the narrow streets of the city center are called the Shambles. They've quickly become my favourite spot to spend my free time. I spent my first Friday and Saturday wandering around York's city centre wandering the Shambles. I love the bookshops here, especially the used ones. They're everything a bookshop should be. Fronted by bay windows the walls are lined with simple wooden book shelves upon which worn copies of books ranging from religion to gardening to literature lie. In one of the shops Melissa and I stumbled upon a 3 pound copy of selected Coleridge poems from 1924. Needless to say, I purchased it.

On Sunday morning York St.John led the International Students to Whitby. The city spills off the sides of two meeting cliffs and nestles on the North Sea. One cliff is crowned with a haunting and ornate ruined Abbey. We arrived in the late morning so the sun cast long shadows through the arches. It was so beautiful. And if that wasn't enough cause for awe, the landscape had such a fine dusting of snow that combined with the white light of the sun, the coastline faded away into a warm white haze.

5. Classes

I'm taking four classes at York St.John University. I'm taking two classes, British Literature and British Culture taught by our Calvin Professor, Dean Ward. So far we've read selections from Wordsworth, and Coleridge--both of whom I love. Currently we're working our way through Wuthering Heights. Professor Ward such a wonderful man and teacher--already I've learned a great deal from him. On the first day of class he challenged us all with a line from one of George Elliot's characters. At the end of the novel one character says to the other, "I am better for having known you." I hope that by the end of this trip I am able to echo those words.

Aside from my Calvin classes, I'm taking a History and English class here with York St. John tutors. My history class, Late Victorian and Edwardian Britain is taught by the quintessential British history professor- inanimate and reserved until the clock strikes nine. Then it's as if a light has been turned on and he sits at his desk eyes aglow lecturing us on the given topic of the day. Though I know much less background about British history than the other York students, my 19th Century Europe class from last semester will prove useful. But my favourite York class so far is Post World War II Literature. I have two tutors for this class who alternate the lectures every week. Immediately following the one hour lecture we have a seminar group--a small portion of the class meets for an hour and a half for group discussion. My seminar tutor looks like a thin, white-haired version of Robin Williams and I love him. Currently we're studying African American writing: James Baldwin, Alice Walker, Toni Morrison, Rita Dove and Yusef Komunyakaa.

Though I've only glossed over the first two weeks I hope that gives you a taste of what I've been experiencing while I'm here. Expect a post regarding some of the excursions to museums and Wales in the next couple days. But before I go, I'd like to close with a poem that has really encapsulated my experience thus far. The poem pinpoints the experience of learning as one that literally opens up the world and leads to understanding.

Geometry
by Rita Dove

I prove a theorem and the house expands:
the windows jerk free to hover near the ceiling,
the ceiling floats away with a sigh.

As the walls clear themselves of everything
but transparency, the scent of carnations
leaves with them. I am out in the open

and above the windows have hinged into butterflies,
sunlight glinting where they've intersected.
They are going to some point true and unproven.