St Olave's York, 10 January 2014.
First Reading: Isaiah 61.1-3
Gospel: John 20.11-18
The
opera singer Lesley Garrett tells the story of opening an envelope
one morning, and finding – what to call it - dust or rubble? There
was also a note, from her mother: 'Thought you could do with some
Yorkshire grit, dear'.
Barbara
knew this story and, with only a little prompting from me, once sent
me an ointment jar with Yorkshire grit from our garden. Certainly,
she had plenty of such grit herself. Not least in these last days,
she has been strong, unafraid of death, rather just anxious that the
pain should be kept to a minimum. But she has of course been of
uncertain health for some years, and showed great fortitude and resilience
in the face of arthritis, near-deafness and the blood complaint which
was or became leukaemia, and her own grief. She never stopped
gardening, or learning Spanish, or, with neighbour Jean, improving
her mental agility through crosswords, or reading novels, or making
plans to visit her daughter, Katie and her family in Mallorca, who
are with me, my brother Simon, and Jo, Faye and Jacob, and you all, in
spirit.
In
saying that my mother had Yorkshire grit, I am not at all implying
that she was always solemn, stern or strict. On the contrary, she had
a real sense of fun, perhaps best described as a 'suspicion of
discretion'. And again I can confirm that in these last days in York
hospital mum would tease the staff and patients. And I confirm that
to see her smile in spite of the pain did indeed light up so much
more than her face.
But if
she was fun, I do not mean she liked the trivial. Very little TV, for
example. And it can be said that she found much frustrating about
modern life and politics, both local and national. I am glad, for
example, that she has been spared having to hear certain politicians'
more ridiculous romanticising of the First World War. 'The world has
gone mad' might actually be one of her catchphrases. Her frustration
sprang from a deeply rooted sense of justice, fairness and, more than
these, generosity. Barbara was always generous, with money,
possessions, and, yes, as I am implying, with advice!
How to
find the generous spaciousness to tell the story of this generous
lady? Of course, I am not up to it. And we will all have different
memories. But let me say some things, tokens really, to honour
Barbara as she was. Barbara Hodgson was born on 2 March 1938 in Hull,
principal town in the East Riding and soon to be recognised as the
city of culture it always was! She was to be the middle of three
daughters born to Elsie and Sam (Sam, please note, not Samuel). She
won a scholarship to Kingston High School. After school, she had a
variety of jobs, including at a shipbuilders and for the Post Office.
One job involved her cycling from Beverley to Hull every day, and
that on a man's bike; she had to tie her skirt to the crossbar.
But
perhaps she first flourished when she joined the WRAF. Here she
excelled as a sportswoman, playing hockey nationally, cricket for
Cheshire and even playing at Wimbledon. She did not seem to resent
the fact, though, that, when it comes to sport, her children have
emulated their late, and always un-sporty father. Eventually, Barbara
became a qualified psychiatric nurse at De La Pole Hospital, Hull,
where the enlightened psychiatrist got Barbara playing hockey again,
this time with patients as occupational therapy.
It was
also at hospital that Barbara met Charles Patrick Morrow – Pat.
That both our parents worked in psychiatry means we've benefited from
the wisdom which says that people with mental health needs are as
worthy of just as much attention, dignity and respect as everyone
else, and for that I am grateful. After some time leaving each other
mildly flirtatious notes in the drugs box, they did start courting,
and were soon married, in Beverley Minster. And children followed,
me (Nigel Patrick), and Katie and Simon. Barbara devoted herself to
being a home-maker - before the word existed. And I think much of the
energy she'd previously had for sport was redirected to
home-improvement and her new love, gardening, which she learned about
from scratch. The head teacher of the primary school we attended
(Skelton) once rang her up. There was a delay in her getting to the
phone, as she was knocking down an internal wall. The head commented:
'You are the only mother I know of whom I can say that that does not
surprise me at all.' More Yorkshire grit, you might say.
Some of
Barbara's strength at least came from her faith. She once said she
had to be a Christian, as she has tried not being, and it just didn't
work. So as children I'd say we were formed by a liberal, Anglican
ethos, which was overwhelmingly not church going. (We went to church
once a year, dad taking us to the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols
in York minster, while mum and Father Christmas made whatever
arrangements they had to make). Yet, for all that, it had real
content. As a young child, I knew a lot about Jesus, his own stories,
his love, his forgiveness, his presence, his exhortation to us to
love others, especially the stranger, the different, and the enemy. I
also knew that religion and religious texts were something you can
argue with, as when Barbara insisted that Abraham's willingness to
sacrifice Isaac was simply wrong. And I am pleased that I took the
chance, before my ordination actually, of making it clear to my
mother that I think my principal teacher and guide here was her.
Now,
Barbara herself was initially brought up a Methodist. But in Hull at
the time, to get into the Guides, you pretty much had to be an
Anglican (these were days before the ecumenical movement), and that
proved no hardship. It was as an adult that she moved away from the
church as institution, not because of any atheistic argumentation
that 'the hypothesis that there exists at least one supernatural
being cannot be demonstrated' – for Christian faith has never, ever
thought in such terms – but because she did not feel she had the
time. Life, circumstance, intervened. And there came a point when she
seemed to think she had failed God. But of course she had not. As
someone once said: 'There is nothing you can do to make God love you
more; there is nothing you can do to make God love you less.'
When my
father himself became ill and disabled, part of her care for him was
taking him to church – here – and also welcoming Fr Tony Hodge
for home communions. Fr Tony used his spiritual intuition, and gave
her communion as naturally as he did to my father. And Barbara has
become an integrated part of the the St Olave's community. In
worshipping here (until her health scarcely allowed it), she found
much to relish, and others, I have heard, found much to relish in
her, not least in what I have already named as her 'suspicion of
discretion'.
I think
the gentle but persistent care of people here enabled her to relax
into her Christian faith. Like many people, she picked up the idea
that 'real' faith, or 'strong' faith, is what other people have. It
is almost a substance which God injects into some, but not others,
who instead find pretty much all of life ambiguous. All of us find
life ambiguous and - truth to tell, and whatever one makes of natural
theology - it has never been natural to believe that God loves us and
is intimately involved with us, as Lover and Friend. Faith, then, is
rather a discipline we can take on, a pattern of living which seeks
to have all our longings - for love, life and God - shaped by a story
bigger than our own. The longings, though given a certain shape,
remain - as longings. We have no certainty, perhaps not even clarity,
but hope.
We do
have hope for a good consummation of life after death, not because we
have any privileged access into heaven or its coordinates. We don't.
But because that story that is bigger than us is of God, God who has
a certain character:
- is faithful;
- enjoys our company;
- goes on enjoying our company;
- will not forget us;
- who can sustain us by God's own eternal remembering;
- who will not let the absurdity of death (whenever and however it comes) be the last word.
I am as confident
as I can be that Barbara came to see things this way. And in the calm
matter-of-fact way with which she accepted her own dying, she can
give us hope too.
Our
first reading, on the binding up of the wounds of the broken-hearted,
of those who mourn, is a favourite for funerals for obvious reasons.
I am also hoping it might help us honour and reflect on Barbara's own
vocation, as a psychiatric nurse. The second reading is the intimate
account with Mary Magdalene and her risen Lord, a favourite Easter
story. She supposes him to be the gardener, and I have already said
that gardening was much more than a hobby for Barbara, perhaps a
second vocation.
One of
the things I did on Barbara's last day, while she was sleeping more
and more deeply, was play some soothing music. 'Silent Night' was
there, and some Irish ditties. But also the Funeral Ikos of John
Tavener. The text is at the end of your order of service. It contains
these words (with apologies for the gender-exclusive language, for
Barbara was something of a feminist ahead of her time...):
If thou
hast shown mercy unto man, o man,
that
same mercy shall be shown thee there;
and if
on an orphan thou hast shown compassion,
the
same shall there deliver thee from want.
If in
this life the naked thou hast clothed,
the
same shall give thee shelter there,
and
sing the psalm
Alleuia,
alleluia, alleluia!
With
ecstasy are we inflamed if we but hear that
there
is light eternal yonder;
that
there is Paradise, wherein every soul of
Righteous
Ones rejoiceth.
Let us
all, also, enter into Christ, that we may cry
aloud
to God, alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.
Barbara,
though of course not without sin, kept showing -alongside much
Yorkshire grit -
a will to see her fellow humans clothed and sheltered,
and
showed mercy, and showed compassion.
May she
enter into her rest, while we sing, through tears, alleluia,
alleluia, alleluia!
Amen.
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