At the present time in England there’s a new Sherlock Holmes series which is the best thing I’ve seen on television since Criminal Justice II was on about a year ago.
In our household we eagerly awaited the second episode, which turned out to be about a Chinese gang of smugglers called the Black Lotus – full of enigmatic oriental intrigue, intricacy and fiendish skill and intelligence. The only loose end in resolving the condundrums presented was that somewhere in north-west London a puzzled delivery man from a Chinese restaurant must have been left on the doorstep in Baker Street wondering why Dr Watson wasn’t home to receive his take-away.
As the story ended we spent some time mulling over the opening scenes about tea ceremonies: we think tea ceremonies belong to Japanese culture not Chinese – but the Chinese do of course create some wonderful teas, so maybe they also have associated rituals.
Conversation moved on from that to the question of the teapots. In the Sherlock Holmes story, attention focused briefly on teapots burnished and kept glossy by keeping them in constant use, having tea poured into them and over them on a regular basis. Left without this any length of time, they became dry and cracked and soon disintegrated. This required patient and faithful vigilance, for the teapots were antique – generations had made tea in them and poured tea over them unfailingly. And we talked about this.
Hebe said that somehow they’d got it the wrong way round. If a teapot must be used constantly or it would dry up and crumble, that implied it had an association with the tea-drinker: as long as it was needed and used by the person it belonged to, it remained in good condition. Left disused, it would atrophy and crumble: and she felt that was right, how it should be. It should be allowed to finish. If the person who drank the tea had died or drank coffee now instead, they no longer had a need of their teapot; it was right that the pot should return to dust. Why, she mused, could they not be content to let it go? Why did people who had no desire to drink tea feel the need to keep making tea in order to maintain the pot in good condition? The pot had been made to hold tea for the people; now the people were making tea for the sake of the pot. It didn’t seem right. The means had become the end, and the end had been lost from sight.
It reminded me of the old Hindu story of Tying Up The Cat. In the temple every evening when the time for devotions came round, a cat starting to feel the call of supper-time would irritate the priest by pestering and miaowing. He gave orders that before the puja began, someone should tie up the cat. So his orders were carried out and tying up the cat before evening prayers happened without fail until it began to feel like part of the ritual: as though prayers could not begin until the cat had been tied up. After a few years the priest died and went to his rest; but they continued to tie up the cat every night before prayers. Then the cat died. So it became a matter of urgency to obtain a replacement cat; because by then everybody knew that evening prayers could not begin without a ceremonial tying-up of a cat; had their priest himself (may he rest in peace) not said so?
I am struggling with this exact dilemma as I hesitate over the Third Order of St Francis – the Anglican Franciscans.
I have been to see the Area Novice Guardian, and must compose a Rule of Life. I have been given the leaflet laying down the principles and requirements of the Order. I must enter as a postulant and attend two meetings in Eastbourne and then become a novice and commence a two-year period of studying and reading and attending meetings, and I must undertake vocational formation supervised by a spiritual director. I must attend retreats and attend to the task of prayer and service, to cultivate within myself the disciplines of joy and service in order to draw closer to Christ.
Hmm.
I acknowledge that when it comes to the practice of the Christian religion I am woefully feral and tend to make everything up as I go along. Some of my beliefs are heretical, and some of my attitudes, words and actions are disappointing. But I know to Whom I owe allegiance and by what tracks He passes through this world. It all sounds suspiciously like becoming the handmaid of the teapot, making time every day to tie up the cat before brewing up for the sake of maintaining a very old vessel that should have been let crumble to dust.
I have watched and listened carefully. The Franciscans I have met have been lovely. They talk of simplicity and humility. I like that talk. But, our area meetings have been suspended because the senior Franciscan person who convenes them is away for the summer in her second home in France. ? We went to visit our area novice guardian to be assessed for suitability, and found ourselves shown into a pleasant home made lovely by lace cloths, antique furniture and a collection of fine china ornaments. ? It reminded me of when a friend of my youth went to stay for a while with the Poor Clares, returning wide-eyed with the report: ‘They live in such poverty. They have only one towel in the bathroom!’
‘Didn’t it get very wet?’ I asked.
‘Oh, no!’ she replied: ‘they have lots of bathrooms!’
Even so I must remind myself that a Franciscan tertiary may be married to someone who tolerates but does not share that path; and that in a household where only some practice simplicity, the choices of those who do will always be obscured by the choices of those who do not.
Simplicity. Community. Joy. Faith. Prayer. Service. Study. The presence of Christ. Does one also need a teapot and a cat? Are they not of themselves enough? Does one really need a rule of life? Might not a way of life be enough?
The Franciscans speak a lot about St Francis, and the spirit of St Francis, and of incorporating his words and approach, the memory of him, into all that we do. This clearly must have relevance in the Third Order of St Francis; only I cannot think Francis himself would be other than dismayed; he meant us to keep our eyes fixed not on Francis but on Jesus; he knew he himself was only the teapot and never the tea.
I am so drawn to the Third Order. And yet… and yet… and yet…
Zen Buddhists have a concept they describe as the Uncarved Block. It’s all there in the name, but in case it isn’t instantly obvious, let me unpack it a little. The idea is that the time before the sculptor gets to work is when the block of stone holds maximum potential. At that point it might be anything. As soon as the sculptor begins, it starts to lose potential. The further the carving work progresses, shaping and forming and delineating, the more limited and diminished is the potential of the block; until in the end it becomes an artefact telling someone else’s story. Zen extols the inchoate mystery of the Uncarved Block; an entity left natural and therefore full of possibility, remaining undefined.
Silence is an Uncarved Block. And it occurs to me that as soon as you lay down a rule of life and express a doctrine or intention, formulate a daily office and recite a prayer, the process of limitation has begun. It was the swan that glided out of the mist that lay on the lake held in the bowl of the valley, the rain that dripped from the dark trees before the blossom buds unfurled, the clouds that shrouded the mountain tops and held the colours of the rising sun, that were so beautiful, pregnant with mystery and wonder; not the wall-painting in the temple that recalled them to mind, when behind closed windows closed doors and closed minds the faithful gathered to recite their daily prayers.
But then again the quiet river of chanting blends with the slow arising of incense smoke through the slanting rays of the sunrise and the calling of the geese as they fly up from the misty lake; so where may we not find the beauty that takes our breath away – even in the dry cracking teapots of old religions, it remains; and they regain their lustre when we remember to pour in fresh tea.
People in every religion speak of commitment and faithfulness to the tradition, and this is always expressed in externals: liturgical forms and dress norms; codes of conduct and prescriptive gender roles; loyalty to definitive creeds and customs. And yet… is there not room for the uncarved block of the nascent life, and of silence? Can that not be enough of itself?
It’s hard to know what to think. I am so often wrong.
I know that I am thirsty, and I would love a cup of tea. I long to sit down with you and drink tea together, and stroke the cat as she winds purring round my ankles. I know how disappointed I shall feel if I end up with a dry cracked teapot that leaks like a sieve and is crumbling to dust and the cat is tied up and silenced in the anteroom of the temple so that the rituals may begin.