by Frank Brazell
During Manna University’s study tour to London and Southeast England, there were numerous opportunities for academic exploration as we sprinted through seven centuries of history in just a few days moving from Trafalgar Square to the Tower of London to the British Museum and Shakespeare’s Globe. After so many high-speed adventures, the ninety-minute van ride to Canterbury offered a welcome respite. It was what I imagined a quintessential English morning looked like: chilly, misty, mysterious. I imagined William the Conqueror’s Norman forces making their way northward to London after defeating the English under Harold Godwinson at the Battle of Hastings in 1066, pushing through the mist on narrow roads far less convenient than the M2, and without the benefit of GPS navigation.
We arrived at Canterbury and began our trek into town. Again, I was startled by the complete Englishness of it all. A series of steel footbridges took us across the narrow Stour River, where waterwheels churned much as they have for the last millennium, though there was no mill remaining for them to power. As we walked through the damp grass of a park, the cathedral came into view in the distance. We were ahead of schedule, so we paused for a few minutes to take in the sights of the cathedral and greenery, the sounds of the waterwheels and ducks, and the feeling of the cool morning breeze. I wanted to stay in that moment all day, but if I’d had any idea of what we were about to encounter, I would have sprinted through the city to reach the cathedral.
We met our local guide on High Street, where the medieval western gatehouse still stands, cars driving beneath murder holes designed to repel invaders. She took us through a town that has been hosting pilgrims for more than one thousand years, even before the Cult of St. Thomas Becket emerged. As we discussed pilgrims and the prominence of Canterbury as a site of pilgrimage, our guide showed us a small metal pin in the likeness of Becket, and an idea was born. I realized then that we weren’t just sightseeing, but were following in the footsteps of thousands of Christians over the last thousand years. It wasn’t that we were going to receive absolution from proximity to so many saints and church leaders, but that we were intentionally going to an active house of worship to behold a testament to the glory of God. I felt in that moment that I too was on a sort of pilgrimage, though of course not in the traditional sense.
After the external tour concluded, we grabbed a quick bite to eat and set off to explore the inside of the cathedral on our own. I’ve been in European cathedrals before in Germany and France, but I did not feel so small in these as I did at Canterbury. It just seemed to go on and on, three churches stacked end to end, with countless chapels to each side, some of which could not be explored as they are still in active use. I was able to stand in the room where St. Thomas Becket was killed, thinking of all the times I’ve taught students about the event. That was an experience, but it was not until I reached the Corona Tower, the easternmost portion of the cathedral, that I had a pilgrim experience. Completely missing the signage that requested I pray for the marginalized, oppressed, or downtrodden, I found myself unable to take pictures as I had a moment of reflection. While it might seem self-seeking or braggadocious to talk about my time, I think it’s necessary to convey the experience, so please forgive me.
I’ve felt the presence of God many times, and in many degrees, feeling a variety of emotions. Yet as I stood there at the far end of Canterbury Cathedral, I found myself only capable of feeling one thing: Gratitude. In that moment, looking on more than one-thousand years of history, standing on the same stones that some of the greatest Christian thinkers and leaders have stood upon, my thoughts turned to what God has done in my life, and they stayed there. It was like I was incapable of any other thought or prayer other than those praising God for His faithfulness and for His blessings. I stayed as long as I dared– aware of the eyes of the helpful volunteer who likely wanted to tell me about the windows or the altar. I moved on but didn’t realize that my pilgrimage still had not ended.
I moved down the stairs past the bones of Edward the Black Prince and turned aside into a small chapel half-filled with construction scaffolding. It was St. Anselm’s Chapel, and for some reason, I was drawn to it. You have to understand, I had to read his Monologion and Proslogion years ago as a college student and can’t remember much of them aside from the fact that they were difficult to get through. Yet for some reason I felt like hanging out in this chapel. What drew my attention first was a small plaque beneath the stained-glass window, which read:
BRADWARDIN
teacher of teachers lies here in the urn,
A praiseworthy and enduring standard for pastors.
He bore no ill will; he lived his life without reproach;
And from his mouth flowed whatever can be known.
No man beneath the sun knew all things as he did,
Grieve now, O Kent and all England be sad.
All you who pass by here and you who return,
Pray that the love of Christ is the more readily open to him.
What better words for a Bible college professor to read? What a high standard to strive towards! I immediately turned and sat down in one of the chairs facing the altar of the Chapel and away from the plaque on the ledge. At my feet in all capital letters was the name ANSELM. Now the bones of St. Anselm are long since gone from Canterbury, removed as Protestantism swept through England as the collateral damage of a world-changing movement. Yet the memory of this man remains, this leader and scholar and pastor and teacher, with his works still being read by Christian scholars today. I found myself crying once more, not in gratitude, but in realizing just what heights of service leaders of the Church can aspire to. It’s not about having chapels named after us or having our names carved in stone. It’s about the things leaders do that make people want to remember them; it’s about the lives that God changes, and the fact that he lets us participate in that life change. At that moment, I felt very small and underqualified, not in a self-abasing way, but in a way that challenged me to live and work with faithfulness and excellence.
I continued through the cathedral and had a few other key moments of reflection and prayer but none so powerful as those at the Corona and in St. Anselm’s Chapel. As I stepped out into the sunshine, such as it was, I felt like I had completed a sort of pilgrimage. I’d had an encounter with God in an ancient place, and I’d be forever shaped by it.
