As I sit here gazing out my window at a blustery winter mix in Scotland, my thoughts travel back to different memories associated with St Thomas Becket on this the day of his martyrdom in Canterbury cathedral and his feast day. I think I first really thought about him while reading the Canterbury Tales in high school, although my thoughts were probably more on the lovely Middle English than the reason for the pilgrimage. It was around that time that I also became aware of the great film starring Richard Burton and Peter O’Toole, which still resonates with me over time, and whose images have always stuck with me: the great excommunication scene for one, and the estranged archbishop and king meeting forlornly on the beach together.
While at university I first read TS Eliot’s great play Murder in the Cathedral, a text I often return to this time of year for its poetic beauty and brilliant treatment of the psychology of temptation. I have distinct memories of reading the play for the first time in late November, sitting under a tree on the old Emory quadrangle near the then Pitts Divinity library, partly grey sky and the smell of late autumn leaves around me.
From there my memories take me to my junior year abroad at Oxford, an epochal time for me in so many ways. My Christmas vacation was dedicated to touring many of the great cathedrals of England, and I arrived in Canterbury for my very first stop on December 12th, not exactly Becket’s feast day but close enough. Of course the great cathedral did not fail to impress. I was particularly moved standing and praying at the spot where at Vespers the archbishop was murdered, and also felt the poignancy that not too long before Pope John Paul II and Archbishop Runcie had prayed together there.
Besides the great cathedral itself, early in the morning mist I also toured the ruins of St Augustine abbey, before the Reformation one of the country’s great religious houses, whose roots go back to the earliest Benedictine mission to England. As I pondered the loss of so much, I encountered another pilgrim, and remember having a conversation about the vicissitudes of time that one has in these situations with total strangers, and then moves on.
My final stop on this trip down memory lane on that same pilgrimage brings me to the small Catholic church in Canterbury, named for the martyred saint. It is a relatively humble place when compared to the cathedral, of course, but I remember being impressed by a feeling of home in its noble simplicity. I felt keenly the power of the presence of the Blessed Sacrament, and the relics of St Thomas Becket, some of which are gathered here, home again after their dispersal at the destruction of his shrine in the cathedral by Henry VIII centuries ago. As I gazed at the lovely mural of the saints of Canterbury, I felt both the drama of history, its vicissitudes, disruptions and continuities, but also the quiet power of a Presence that is never lacking, unchanging and sustaining through it all. And for that, on this feast of the “blissful martyr” of Canterbury, I am most grateful.
Festina Lente 