Shaking my fist at the heavens

Julian Barker

(tw: suicide)

 This is the story of an incident which gave a fresh dimension to my understanding of the Christian faith. 

 In the late 1960s I was Chaplain of Clare College.  In place of evensong on the last Sunday of the Lent term, as Passion Sunday and Good Friday approached, I got together with the organ scholar (John Rutter) and we compiled a service of readings and music which led up to the crucifixion.  The structure was a bit like a Carol Service.  Starting in the Old Testament the readings led through to the predictions and finally to the awful reality of the crucifixion.  I chose the Bible passages and John chose the choral pieces and hymns to fit in with them. 

 That Sunday afternoon I felt that all was ready for the evening.  I had rehearsed the readers and John had the choir well prepared.  So I decided to go and call on my very close friends Jock and Pauley Burnet who lived in Selwyn Gardens, just off Grange Road.  Jock was Bursar of Magdalene and Pauley was, among other things, a trainer of Samaritans and churchwarden St Mark’s in Newnham.  On most Sundays in term they would give a lunch for a dozen or so undergraduates and other young people which led to the formation of many friendships. 

 When I arrived at the house it was in complete darkness so I thought they must be out.  However I tried the door anyway and it was unlocked, so I walked in and went into the drawing room where I found them sitting together in silent tears on the sofa as the light faded.  They had been out to lunch with friends and had come back to find that their son Martin had committed suicide.  What is there that anyone can say?  I sat with them, mostly in silence, for an hour or two until the time came when I had to get back to college to take the service. 

 As I walked down Sidgwick Avenue and along the Backs I felt a growing surge of fury at the Almighty.  ‘How could you let something so awful happen to people so good and caring?’  It was an outrage.  As I turned into the avenue up to Clare I was almost literally shaking my fist at the heavens and shouting with anger at the so-called God of love. 

 Then I robed and followed the choir into Chapel with the anger still surging.  It was one of those services in which the priest has little part to play apart from an introduction and saying prayers and a blessing at the end.  This meant that there was nothing at all to distract me from following the pattern of the readings and the music as it led on towards its climax in the crucifixion.  And as that drew nearer I became increasingly aware that the God at whom I was shaking my fist was there in human terms as the figure on the cross, sharing in all the worst that humans can suffer and dying of torture. 

 So my mental fist began to drop as I realised that it was wholly inappropriate.  The free will we have been given can lead to terrible things.  God doesn’t stop them but he shares to the utmost in our suffering.  That is one of the greatest truths we must understand as Passion Sunday and Good Friday confront us.