wfn.org | Episcopalians: Enthronement in Canterbury is banquet of culture, history and hope

[dmack@episcopalchurch.org]

March 3, 2003

2003-047

Episcopalians: Enthronement in Canterbury is banquet of culture, 
history and hope

by Nan Cobbey

In an irresistable combination of pomp, pride and humility, the 
first Welshman in the last 1,000 years assumed leadership of the 
Anglican Communion on February 27 at historic Canterbury 
Cathedral. 

>From the 900-person processions into the 12th Century cathedral 
to the simple blessing delivered before the chair of St. 
Augustine...from the oath sworn on the hand-lettered Canterbury 
Gospels to the haunting lilt of a Welsh Penillion...from the 
profession of the ancient Creed of Nicaea to the modern--and 
borrowed--"Prayer of Commitment," the Church of England's 
two-hour celebration to present Rowan Douglas Williams to the 
world as 104th archbishop of Canterbury spread a banquet of 
culture, history and hope. 

>From the moment the bespectacled, bearded 52-year-old primate, 
who calls himself  "a hairy leftie,"  rapped three times on the 
great West Door of the Perpendicular Gothic mother church of 
Anglicanism, to the end of the historic service when he greeted 
the Prince of Wales at the same door, Rowan Williams drew all 
eyes to himself. 

His dazzling, daffodil-yellow vestments, caught by sunlight and 
the BBC's high-powered lights, probably had something to do with 
that but the outspoken passion and spirituality of the man who 
recently has been boldly challenging both church and state 
deserves most of the credit.

Present for this tightly scripted ceremony in the southeast 
corner of the United Kingdom were Prince Charles and Prime 
Minister Tony Blair, the nation's home secretary (interior 
minister), the leader of the Conservative Party, the Roman 
Catholic cardinal, top level representatives of every other 
major faith in Britain--Jews, Sikhs, Muslims, Buddhists, Jains, 
Baha'is and Zoroastrians; patriarchs of the Eastern Church from 
Antioch, Moscow, Bulgaria, Serbia and Romania and clergy and 
bishops from across the 70-million-member Anglican Communion 
spread throughout 164 nations around the world.

Tight security

Blocked beyond the cathedral gates by barricades and guards were 
a dozen dour-faced protesters displeased with the liberal 
archbishop and his views on homosexuality. Another group, a 
mildly noisy gathering of several hundred anti-war 
demonstrators, came to hector Blair.

Neither group could dampen spirits on this festive, formal 
occasion, however. Tight security, scores of police and 
carefully controlled, color-coded tickets gave organizers 
confidence. The cobbled lanes and grounds around the cathedral 
had been closed to the public the day before as police set up 
screening tents and X-ray equipment to monitor arriving guests. 

BBC crews erected scaffolding, positioned cameras and lights. 
Technicians laid six miles of cable. Volunteer flower arrangers 
created 10-foot cascades of bright yellow blooms. Oriental 
lilies, mimosa, chrysanthemums, forsythia and foxtail lilies 
tumbled down pillars and decorated pulpits. Over 500 daffodils, 
each stem in an individual tube of water, were carefully 
positioned through the arrangements. 

By 2 o'clock on the big afternoon, nearly 1,500 people had found 
their assigned seats within the 514-foot cathedral. The 
processions began as scheduled at 2:10 precisely, entering from 
a number of doorways. Eleven vergers and 10 marshals led the 
various dignitaries,  politicians, primates, bishops, clergy, 
university faculties, ecumenical representatives, Eastern 
Patriarchs, interfaith guests, wives of priests and primates and 
choirs to their appointed places. The spiral-bound "Ceremonial 
and Rubrics to Order Service" ran 87 pages. 

A Victorian celebration

The traditional enthronement service dates largely from the 
Victorian era. This particular service held several breathtaking 
moments. The first came when the new archbishop took his oath on 
the "Canterbury Gospels."  The ancient book--hand-printed, 
hand-bound, hand-illuminated by Roman monks in the fifth or 
sixth century--was originally a gift of Pope Gregory to St. 
Augustine. It arrived in Canterbury with him in 597 when he came 
to evangelize the peoples of the Isle.

Preserved today, as it has been since the dissolution of St. 
Augustine's Monastery, by Corpus Christi College of Cambridge 
University, the book arrived at the cathedral the morning of the 
ceremony with an armed guard. It is believed to be the oldest 
document in England and is worth 50 million pounds ($85 
million). 

The book was opened in front of the archbishop before the Nave 
Altar. Laying his hand on it, he promised to "inviolably observe 
the ancient and approved customs" of the cathedral and "give 
help and assistance in defending the rights, statutes and 
liberties of this church." As he finished his oath, Williams 
leaned forward and kissed the open pages of the ancient gospels.

Smiles and greetings

The moment the archbishop was "enthroned" in the wide stone 
chair of St. Augustine was another stunning moment. Actually it 
was the second enthronement, coming just after he'd been seated 
in the Quire Throne and presented with a pastoral staff, symbol 
of his role as shepherd of the Diocese of Canterbury. 

The dean of the cathedral led him to St. Augustine's chair and 
by seating him, made him symbolically head of all the Anglican 
Communion. One moment later, Robin Eames, archbishop of Armagh 
and senior primate of the Communion, pronounced a blessing over 
the bowed, un-mitred head of the brightly robed archbishop. 
Immediately, Williams stood and smiled.

"Let us greet our newly enthroned archbishop," said the dean to 
the gathered congregation of 2,400, many of them sitting beyond 
the view-blocking pulpitum screen and watching on television 
monitors. The archbishop, a smile creeping further across his 
face, spread wide his hands in a gesture of openness. The 
already standing crowd burst into applause and continued 
applauding long past any comfortable interval for the man who 
frequently waves to a stop all such recognition. 

When quiet was restored, the bare-headed archbishop circled the 
chamber to be introduced to ecumenical and interfaith guests he 
did not already know. Those he did know received his greetings 
in a variety of forms. To some he offered a hand shake, to 
others a kiss on each cheek, sometimes three. Some he approached 
with arms open for an embrace; others he bowed	before, his 
fingers tented below his face. 

'No one written off'

Then it was the archbishop's turn to address the congregation. 
He did so with a sermon especially poignant because it was so 
clearly directed at the church family, not the world at large, 
nor even the country's leaders, though three of them sat facing 
him at the opposite end of the quire. Prime Minister Blair, Home 
Secretary David Blunkett, and the future king, Charles, Prince 
of Wales, all of them members of the church, heard him say:

"No one can be written off; no group, no nation, no minority can 
just be a scapegoat to resolve our fears and uncertainties. We 
cannot assume that any human face we see has no divine secret to 
disclose: those who are culturally or religiously strange to us; 
those who so often don't count in the world's terms (the old, 
the unborn, the disabled). And this is what unsettles our 
loyalties, conservative and liberal, right wing or left, 
national and international. We have to learn to be human 
alongside all sorts of others, the ones whose company we don't 
greatly like, whom we didn't choose, because Jesus is drawing us 
together into his place, his company."

Peering over his metal-framed glasses, Rowan William's words 
seemed a challenge, simultaneously warm and demanding: "...the 
Christian will engage with passion in the world of our society 
and politics--out of a real hunger and thirst to see God's 
image, the destiny of human beings to become God's sons and 
daughters come to light--and, it must be said, out of a real 
grief and fear of what the human future will be if this does not 
come to light. The church has to warn and to lament as well as 
comfort."

After the Nicene Creed and the sung "Te Deum," the most ancient 
parts of the ceremony, Williams asked the congregation to join 
him in a prayer of commitment. "I am no longer my own but yours. 
Put me to what you will," began the powerful pledge borrowed 
from the Methodist Church Covenant Service.

Moments of grace

The moment seemed full of grace. The liturgists--Williams among 
them--had provided for many such moments.  Throughout the 
service, they wove together themes of Wales and of 17th century 
Welsh poet-priest George Herbert. Herbert was also being 
celebrated on this February 27, his annual day of recognition. 
His poetry had been set to music by a young Scottish composer to 
be sung by the congregation at the enthronement. Another of his 
poems was performed by the St. Woolos Cathedral Choir from the 
Diocese of Monmouth, where Williams served his first episcopate.

A traditional form of Welsh music was performed by the daughters 
of two of Williams' friends, a 15-year-old harpist and a 20-year 
old soprano. The young women offered a Penillion, improvised 
music that is first harped, then sung. The lyric was not 
improvised this time, but was Williams' own translation of a 
poem by 18th Century Welsh poet Ann Griffiths (Yr Arglwydd Iesu, 
 "I Saw Him Standing").  The gentle, clear tones of the harp 
hushed the packed cathedral. 

Wales was made visible throughout the service by the shining 
yellow vestments created for the new archbishop by the region's 
craftsmen and women. Fabric for cope, mitre and rochet, woven on 
hand looms, took months to create and embroider with golden 
Celtic knotwork designs and the cross of Canterbury. 

The vestments, worth an estimated $11,000 and paid for by 
anonymous donors, will be Williams' to wear throughout his term. 
That could be 18 years since he may serve to age 70. When his 
reign ends, the golden cope and mitre and the jeweled morse 
(clasp) will be returned to Wales and displayed at the National 
Museum of Welsh Life in Cardiff. 

As the service concluded, Williams gave a series of blessings to 
the congregation and then processed the length of the cathedral 
to the rousing Welsh hymn Cwm Rhondda, "Guide me, O thou great 
Redeemer" and the sound of the cathedral's peal of 14 bells as 
they rang out over their heads from its twin towers.

In the afterglow of the enthronement, the British press seemed 
to welcome a new national shepherd. The Guardian, for example, 
wrote that "the arrival of Dr. Williams at the center of our 
national life has caught the interest of the public in a way 
that few religious appointments of modern times can equal," 
holding out the possibility that "the church has a more vital 
role to play in the search for community and personal peace than 
has sometimes been allowed recent. For Christian and 
non-Christian alike, the start of Dr. Williams's reign should be 
a moment for happiness and great hope."

------

Photos are available at the Web site of the Anglican Communion 
News Service

-- Nan Cobbey is features editor of Episcopal Life and covered 
the enthronement.