St George's

When I was a student I used to spend my Sunday mornings at St George's Cathedral in central Cape Town singing in the choir. I am not Anglican by birth or adoption, but I have always loved music of the English choral tradition - anything from Byrd and Tallis to Hubert Parry to John Taverner - the contemporary one, though I liked the old one too, and I equally love to hear a grand pipe organ well played. Music at the Cathedral was directed by Barry Smith then, in the days before he was Dr Barry Smith. I owe Barry a lot, not least for introducing me to the challenge and joy of part singing and the satisfaction of doing so in one of the most aesthetically and acoustically beautiful buildings in the city and perhaps the world.

The history of the Cathedral and its many attributes and attractions have, I expect, been described elsewhere in great detail and by writers more knowledgeable and talented than I. Apart from anything else, it has a proud place in the struggle history of our country, having been the focus of countless acts of protest during the apartheid years. I cannot and do not wish to try to add to that worthy body of literature. What I want to say is that that church, for me, gave the lie to the often heard statement that environment is immaterial to one's experience of the divine. I am convinced that the time I spent under those soaring rafters and between those towering sandstone walls, in song, in prayer, in meditation, in thought, kept alive for me what at some times was a very feeble and spluttering faith.

One of the carols we sang each Christmas in the Festival of NIne Lessons and Carols stayed with me long after I moved on from Cape Town: It is called "Jesus Christ the Apple Tree.", doesn't appear to have a known author, but dates from the 18th century.

The tree of life my soul hath seen,
Laden with fruit and always green:
The trees of nature fruitless be
Compared with Christ the apple tree.

His beauty doth all things excel:
By faith I know, but ne'er can tell
The glory which I now can see
In Jesus Christ the apple tree.

For happiness I long have sought,
And pleasure dearly I have bought:
I missed of all; but now I see
'Tis found in Christ the apple tree.

I'm weary with my former toil,
Here I will sit and rest awhile:
Under the shadow I will be,
Of Jesus Christ the apple tree.

This fruit doth make my soul to thrive,
It keeps my dying faith alive;
Which makes my soul in haste to be
With Jesus Christ the apple tree.

The last verse in particular has stayed with me - one doesn't hear too many Christian authors writing about their "dying faith" and yet this is the experience of so many, it would seem, including me. It brings to mind the parable of the sower and the seed: "And some fell on stony ground, where it had not much earth; and immediately it sprang up, because it had no depth of earth: But when the sun was up, it was scorched; and because it had no root, it withered away." (Matt 4.5; KJV). My faith, my spirituality, my inner life was withering and dying, and it was the beauty of music, liturgy and architecture which sustained me through those rather bleak years - and much of that was found at St George's.

So it was the other day that when I was asked to attend a meeting in an 11 storey building just across the Queen Victoria Street from St George's, I took the opportunity to step out onto the veranda to have a look at the view. It was an absolutely stunning day, warm, cloudless, bright. On the radio they had been saying it might be our last taste of summer before the winter sets in. I looked down on the cross which is the roof of the Cathedral and remembered. So many memories.

The enthronement of Archbishop Desmond Tutu in 1986 - I probably had the best view in the house, being in the choir stalls. If I remember rightly, I rode my Honda 400cc motorbike 200km from Arniston early that morning to be part of the service - I had been spending the weekend with friends from University. Tutu preached for well over an hour and not a soul budged. I don't recall what he said, though I have the tape somewhere. I do remember him welcoming the visiting archbishops from around the world, who were all seated together somewhere up towards the high altar - in ecclesiastical-speak they are referred to as "primates" - and Tutu, true to form, got very good mileage out of that - "What an unfortunate term!" he said, and loudly laughed that laugh which we have since come to know and love him for. Wonderful stuff.

Many an orchestral High Mass - we had them once a month at 11 a.m. Haydn, Mozart, Gounod, Vaughan Williams occasionally others. The orchestra somehow crammed up in front of the pulpit, the soloists and choir lined up at the edge of the carpeted "stage", Barry somehow managing to marshal the troops and produce a respectable sound, the Dean, Ted King, smiling on benignly. "It will be all-right on the night", we used to say, and somehow it always was. It was a great privilege and pleasure to sing with people who were true amateurs, who enjoyed every minute of "a good sing".

And then the quiet moments. One particularly poignant memory is of hearing the beautiful rounded sound of the verger's gong, thrice struck, and then processing quietly to stand in a semi circle before the high altar and receive the Eucharist (which is what the choir always did), while Christopher Cockburn in the organ loft worked evocative magic with the flutes and soft reeds of the great instrument, and the winter sun broke through the high windows above us, some 60 feet up or more, catching the rising plumes of incense smoke. I can almost smell it as I think back. Peace.

Or the Easter watch-night service. It started at 11 pm on Easter Saturday, in great solemnity, and was timed so that at the stroke of midnight one launched into the hymn "Jesus Christ is risen today, Hallelujah!" in glorious polyphony, with diapasons and tuba's blazing, and the bells in the bell tower creating raucous cacophony, followed by the Easter communion and then the equally wonderful:

Ye choirs of new Jerusalem,
your sweetest notes employ,
the paschal victory to hymn
in strains of holy joy.

How Judah's Lion burst his chains,
and crushed the serpent's head;
and brought with him, from death's domains
the long-imprisoned dead.

I am no judge of poetry but I do think that some of the poetry to be found in our hymnbooks has to rank with the best. I just love those images. I see that the first translation of the 10th century Fulbert of Chartres' words by Campbell were modified and toned down somewhat - presumably they didn't like the references to the harrowing of Hell. I suspect we sang the later words.

For Judah's Lion bursts his chains, crushing the serpent's head; and cries aloud through death's domains to wake the imprisoned dead.

Barry composed an orchestral accompaniment to "Ye Choirs" which made very good use, as I recall, of trumpets. I can still hear them!

I sometimes walk past the Cathedral at lunchtime and I am thrilled to see that Evensong still happens at 7 pm every Sunday, that High Mass is celebrated once a month, that special choral services are held on Ash Wednesday, Good Friday, Easter Sunday and at Christmas. It is a very special place, and for me brings back a very special time.