Read Online Sidney Chambers and the Perils of the Night by James Runcie - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Runcie
Tags: Mystery
Ads: Link
he still could not unravel, and he was far from knowing a sure truth. It was like doubt without the faith. He took a seat in King’s College Chapel as an ordinary member of the congregation, and knelt down to pray. The candles guttered with the breeze that whispered through narrow gaps in stone.
The precentor began the service with a sentence of the Scriptures: ‘When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive.’
Sidney prayed in the darkness. He thought of the unknown author of The Cloud of Unknowing trying to define God through what he was not: how the believer has to ‘unknow’ all human qualities in order to comprehend the divine, just as, he supposed, a spy had to ‘unknow’ all his allegiances. Through this negative theology, the via negativa , came the wisdom of ignorance.
He remembered the definition of God that the same author had written at the end of his mystical theology of St Denis: ‘He is neither darkness nor light, neither error nor truth; nor, all told, can he be affirmed or denied . . . his incomprehensible transcendence is incomprehensibly above all affirmation and denial.’
Perhaps, Sidney wondered, he had to divest himself of all his worldly concerns if he was to become a better priest. He should give up all pretence at being a detective. He should leave behind all perceptions of the senses, and reasonings of the intellect, and enter that cloud of unknowing, that darkness which would, eventually, be illuminated by flashes of light. This was the paradox of faith, the embracing of darkness in order to find light.
He joined in with the prayers of the congregation. ‘Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord,’ he continued. ‘And by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night.’
Outside, the snow began to fall on the chapel once more, across its architraves and buttresses, its grand towers and its gracefully balanced roof, and then further, down on to the hats, coats, scarves and shawls of the saints and sinners of the town as they made their way back to their streets, villages and homes. Still it fell, as if there could be no stopping it, with all its unhurried quiet, covering everything with its fragile white flakes until it found its way, at last, on to the grave of Valentine Lyall, where it softly made its rest.
Love and Arson
It was a warm summer evening in the middle of August and Sidney was in an exceptionally good mood. There had been little to distract him of late, many of his parishioners were enjoying their holidays, and he had time to himself. This was what life would have been like for a Victorian clergyman, he thought, as he walked Dickens across the meadows, along the river and out towards the nearby woodland. He had a manageable list of duties, he could concentrate on one thing at a time and he was untroubled by crime. At that moment, all he had to do was appreciate the gifts that God had given him and the amiable companionship of his Labrador.
A group of schoolboys were playing an impromptu game of cricket on a stretch of newly mown grass. Sidney stayed to watch an over. He even felt like joining in. After all, his schooldays weren’t so very far away in the grand scheme of things, and there were times when he still felt that he hadn’t quite decided on the kind of man he wanted to become.
He remembered a traditional medieval round with its cuckooing chorus that he had learned at school and he sang quietly to himself:
Summer is icumen in,
Loudly sing cuckoo!
The seed grows and the meadow blooms
And the wood springs anew,
Sing, cuckoo!
He couldn’t remember the rest. Amanda would know, he was sure. She was in Scotland for the glorious twelfth and would doubtless return with stories about rich hosts with names like Angus, Hector and Hamish. Each would have a Highland hunting lodge filled with dancing and house parties. It was a
The precentor began the service with a sentence of the Scriptures: ‘When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive.’
Sidney prayed in the darkness. He thought of the unknown author of The Cloud of Unknowing trying to define God through what he was not: how the believer has to ‘unknow’ all human qualities in order to comprehend the divine, just as, he supposed, a spy had to ‘unknow’ all his allegiances. Through this negative theology, the via negativa , came the wisdom of ignorance.
He remembered the definition of God that the same author had written at the end of his mystical theology of St Denis: ‘He is neither darkness nor light, neither error nor truth; nor, all told, can he be affirmed or denied . . . his incomprehensible transcendence is incomprehensibly above all affirmation and denial.’
Perhaps, Sidney wondered, he had to divest himself of all his worldly concerns if he was to become a better priest. He should give up all pretence at being a detective. He should leave behind all perceptions of the senses, and reasonings of the intellect, and enter that cloud of unknowing, that darkness which would, eventually, be illuminated by flashes of light. This was the paradox of faith, the embracing of darkness in order to find light.
He joined in with the prayers of the congregation. ‘Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord,’ he continued. ‘And by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night.’
Outside, the snow began to fall on the chapel once more, across its architraves and buttresses, its grand towers and its gracefully balanced roof, and then further, down on to the hats, coats, scarves and shawls of the saints and sinners of the town as they made their way back to their streets, villages and homes. Still it fell, as if there could be no stopping it, with all its unhurried quiet, covering everything with its fragile white flakes until it found its way, at last, on to the grave of Valentine Lyall, where it softly made its rest.
Love and Arson
It was a warm summer evening in the middle of August and Sidney was in an exceptionally good mood. There had been little to distract him of late, many of his parishioners were enjoying their holidays, and he had time to himself. This was what life would have been like for a Victorian clergyman, he thought, as he walked Dickens across the meadows, along the river and out towards the nearby woodland. He had a manageable list of duties, he could concentrate on one thing at a time and he was untroubled by crime. At that moment, all he had to do was appreciate the gifts that God had given him and the amiable companionship of his Labrador.
A group of schoolboys were playing an impromptu game of cricket on a stretch of newly mown grass. Sidney stayed to watch an over. He even felt like joining in. After all, his schooldays weren’t so very far away in the grand scheme of things, and there were times when he still felt that he hadn’t quite decided on the kind of man he wanted to become.
He remembered a traditional medieval round with its cuckooing chorus that he had learned at school and he sang quietly to himself:
Summer is icumen in,
Loudly sing cuckoo!
The seed grows and the meadow blooms
And the wood springs anew,
Sing, cuckoo!
He couldn’t remember the rest. Amanda would know, he was sure. She was in Scotland for the glorious twelfth and would doubtless return with stories about rich hosts with names like Angus, Hector and Hamish. Each would have a Highland hunting lodge filled with dancing and house parties. It was a
Similar Books
