“GOING TO CHURCH”

Greymouth Evening Star, 23 May 1942, Page 8

“GOING TO CHURCH”

LONDON SERVICE IMPRESSIONS

Howard Marshall recently broadcast in the 8.8.C.’s short-wave overseas services, the following:— I went to church to-day near Waterloo Station—at the Church of St. John’s in Waterloo Roaff, South London. The church, which was built, about 120 years ago to mark our victory at the battle of Waterloo—the church itself is just a shell—on a September night in 1940 it took a direct hit from a German high explosive bomb—and ever since then the vicar, Canon C. W. Hutchinson, has held his services in the crypt directly under the church. And as Canon Hutchinson said to me this morning, "After all, the early Christians were driven underground by persecution—into caves and caverns m the rocks—but they survived and carried on their message of hope to the world —so why shouldn’t, we follow their example?’ Why not, indeed? And if ever I felt the message ol hope, it was in that blitzed church this Winter’s day. The area round Waterloo suffered badly during the raids a year ago. I walked round round with Canon Hutchinson, whole areas devastated—and we met a little group of laughing children, and Canon Hutchinson said: "That’s part of a family of' thirteen—their house was hit—and I cmehow all of them crawled out ofj the ruins alive and unharmed”—and I they certainly didn't look as if they'd; .•ndured that terrible experience. i And a little later I met a sprightly! old gentleman of 80—he used to be ashoemaker, and he’s been bombed’ •nt of his home three times. He was in j the crypt of the church on that September night when one of the bombs which had been whistling down so close at last found its mark—and I asked him how he was, and he said, ‘l’m doing line—and so are all of us —thanks to Father Hutchinson here.” And that’s about the truth of it— Canon Hutchinson is another of those remarkable men who have dedicated their lives to the service of their fellows, and who labour unsparingly, without thought of reward or renown. humbly following in the footsteps of Christ. I know he won’t mind if I quote from a carol he wrote! recently, when he said: : ‘Though we walk many dolorous; roads, j One single thing is plain, J That Christ was born in Bethlehem To bring men home again.” And that's what is happening now in the Waterloo Road—Christ is bringing men home again through the service of one man who is called ’Father” by all his parishioners. The people who live in the battered and dingy streets near Waterloo Station are mostly railwaymen, Covent Garden porters and waiters and the kitchen staff of the West End hotels.' lac man who hands you your soup I at the Savoy Hotel probably goes to j church on Sunday morning in the! crypt of St. John’s Church just across: the river. |

IN THE CRYPT. It isn’t big, the crypt, but somehow it is full of character. I arrived rather early—but my old friend the ■hoemaker was there already, sitting with a tabby cat on his knees, talking to Canon Hutchinson. And at once you felt the friendly, human atmosphere; there was nothing frigidly conventional here, but the sense of a family of people, steering their difficult lives by the light oJ one ideal. Before the blitz the crypt was dark and damp and dusty, with an accumulation of rubbish behind the massive pillars—now the parishioners have swept and cleaned it out —and whitewashed the stone walls, and there’s cleverly concealed lighting which removes all the shadows, I and makes this improvised chapel glow with warmth and welcome. There were soldiers and sailors —an! aircraftman sat next to me—a majorj in the marines was just in front, a| lad from a minesweeper in his sea-, men’s kit sat at the back, and not far away a man with such heavily-1 muscled shoulders and neck that I > felt sure he must be a professional boxer. I

It was a High Church service, with a piano for accompaniment, arid the smell of incense and the chanting of and simple prayers by Canon Hutchinson, tor those of his parishioners who were away on active service, some of them serving abroad, some missing, some prisoners of war or wounded —all mentioned by name — and then a sincere and straightforward sermon by a young priest who had just come to the church, a sermon about Lent and its meaning, about the forgiveness of sins and the spirit of sacrifice which Lent symbolised. And that was very much in keeping with the times: never did the people of this country feel so strongly the need for sacrifice and austerity in the conduct of a war

which becomes more clearly every I day a crusade against the forces of evil. And I felt, sitting there, listening to the earnest voice of that young Scottish priest in the quiet crypt, with the noise of traffic in the Waterloo Road just audible, and the occasional rumble qf a train in the distance, I felt that here, in the conduct of this service, in the spirit which animated it, in the witness which Canon Hutchinson is giving to what John Masefield has called “the hope of the City of God at the other end of the road” here was expressed the true motive power of the struggle against the enemies of freedom — freedom, among other things, to seek the City of God in our own way, and to live' our lives in accordance with our seeking. When the service was over, and we filed out into the cold morning air, and Canon Hutchinson had gone around among his parishioners and shaken them by the hand and spoken to them —for each of them individually he seemed to have some special message—we walked to the vicarage for breakfast, with people calling out “Good morning. 'Father,” as we went along'the street. And the vicarage was full of people —and Canon Hutchinson disappeared. apparently to cook breakfast himself, for he emerged with a plate of fried potatoes and American bacon, while .the lad off the minesweeper made toast at the gas lire, and we sat down in a crowded room to eat and talk, .And the talk was all of what the future would bring out ot the stiff:.ings of the present—talk lull of hope and confidence in God’s nurpvsi h>r We "’orfl. And afterwards we walked back, and stood in the ruins of the church. Just the charred walls remain—most of the roof was gone—but Canon Hutchinson has plans for his church. Last Summer he held s.rvicesl in the ruins—when the weather grows warmer he proposes to do so again—with the flags of the Allies draped on the scarred walls, and flowers in wooden tubs, and the altar set up under the ojren sky. And what’s more, he proposes to turn the mam part of the church into a garden—with flowers everywhere, and seats for those who come in to rest, weary after their day’s work. I shall go there myself to sit in that garden Lowering in a wilderness —in the midst of world destruction that will be an oasis indeed —and more than that, a pledge and a symbol of the better world which we shall build upon the ruins of the old. And in the meanwhile St. John’s is very active, every morning right through the week, from seven o’clock onwards, passers-by come down to the crypt to pray, to be quiet, to gather strength in recollection to the guiding star. And I came away, bicycling over Waterloo Bridge into the Strand, feeling that I had indeed, been in touch with reality. I knew what Canon Hutchinson meant when in his carol he wrote: "Our Lady kneels in a quiet place Beneath her Church in Waterloo: O enter, rest and pray with her And build your life anew.” I realised that in just such quiet places we may find the spirit which now is building anew the life of the whole world.