The schedule on Sunday morning allowed for a more leisurely start since the Bath Abbey service wasn’t until the civilized hour of 11:30 a.m. Call time for the choir was at 10 a.m., but even so, this was a boon for many of us still trying to get our bodies onto English time.

My daughters and I, along with others, set off after the hotel breakfast and found ourselves in a torrential downpour, the kind of weather for which Queen Elizabeth is said to have remarked, “Do you think the fine weather will hold?”

It did hold for at least an hour and we found shelter in the Society Cafe, a charming coffee bar which was empty when we arrived but was soon overflowing with damp people. It was a snug, cheerful corner to wait out the storm.

The Abbey Nave was filling with worshippers when we arrived and made our way to the second row. Soon the St. Paul’s Senior Choir, led by a crucifer moving at a stately place, made its way up the aisle and past the free-standing altar. 

Once again, Kevin Jones and his choir displayed prodigious musical chops, singing a challenging Mass setting by Jean Langlais, filled with angular lines and disquieting 20th century chords. The Sanctus, especially, seemed to evoke primal awe.

The sermon was delivered by a university professor and priest at Bath Abbey staff. It was simply outstanding, both learned, yet light in spirit. It was on Luke 10:38-42, the passage in which Mary, sitting at the feet of Jesus, is commended for her quiet attention while Martha is knocking herself out with hosting. The sermon was summed up by the preacher’s opening words: Hit pause, and pray!

A moment which took me by surprise was the Offertory hymn (see picture). Those who read music will instantly recognize the tune as “Danny Boy,” usually crooned by a bar room tenor with tears in his eyes.

The words, however, matched beautifully with the music and resonated deeply with the liturgical themes of the day. It was a privilege to make our Communions at the high altar and to be able to stroll back to our seats, bathed in the light of the stained glass windows. At the intimate St. Mary chapel, I stopped to light a candle in gratitude for my family and communities back home.

For me, the end of the service was jaw-dropping. When the procession reached the back of the church, the clergy asked us to turn around and face them. As he pronounced the dismissal, “Go in Peace to love and serve the Lord,” the West Doors were flung open and there was the world–hundreds of curious tourists and townspeople on the square looking in at us, who were looking out at them.

We were joined as one humanity in one mutual gaze, framed by the Abbey doors. This moment embodied the meaning of the dismissal (“Go out there and care for God’s people!”) better than anything I’ve ever experienced. Walking out of the Abbey to become one with this mass of humanity, the sun broke through, the clouds danced, and the angels seemed to descend their ladders and come along for the fun of it.

Blow up the trumpet

Yes, you read that right! This dramatic phrase was found in tonight’s appointed Psalm 81, which the choir sang in two versions, first as a jubilant baroque Introit by Adrian Batton (1591-1637), then, as a more staid, Anglican chant. Both versions landed!

But this archaic expression “blow up the trumpet”, (i.e., “play your horn”) is a puzzle. It comes to us courtesy of William Tyndale, whose pre-Reformation translation of the Psalter stuck around. It became the standard version, along with Coverdale who borrowed from it, for Psalms in the Anglican Book of Common Prayer.

I warmed to this weird phrase because it reminds us we’re not meant to be sock puppets. We need inspiration, literally, something to “blow us up.” Some energy, some wind in our sails, some Spirit, if we are to live with courage and hope in these sometimes deflating times.

The exquisite beauty of tonight’s Evensong, bathed in the light of a late afternoon sun, filled me up, even overcoming my lingering jet lag. The St. Paul’s choir moved and sang with confidence. They explored a completely different musical idiom in tonight’s Gospel canticles, with the mysterious harmonies and unexpected musical lines of Jean Langlais.

The anthem towards the close of the service was a bold reading of the sometimes-feared Benjamin Britten Te Deum, with its shifting moods and tricky rhythmic changes. Its hymn-like beginning suggests gratitude for the end of World War II in 1945. But there is a jagged eruption in the second part, “Thou, O Christ, art the King of Glory,” perhaps evoking the cruel losses that had scarred Europe during the war. A jaunty, dance-like section rises out of this. This led to the climactic moment in which Sandy, a soprano section leader, brought the piece to a breathtaking close, with a demanding, angular lament, which she sang with tenderness and expressiveness. It was a big “wow” moment. 

The choir gathered in front of the High Altar for a farewell, “job-well-done” photo and again outside the West End doors, along with all the traveling community. The mood was festive but regret was in the air because we would soon be leaving this charming place. What I had thought of as a brief parenthesis before the all-important Salisbury week was, instead, rich with meaning, music, community-building, and good food.

Speaking of food, most of our traveling community met at the Huntsman Pub and enjoyed a traditional British Sunday Roast dinner in a buzzy atmosphere. Strolling home on this cool clear night, I am sure everyone felt, as I did, that this Bath experience would live on in our memories long after this trip is over. My trumpet has been blown up for sure!

Greg+