Dickinson College Humanities Program in Norwich

     Today I visited the Great Hospital for the last time, for their monthly Coffee Morning, held on the first Saturday of the month. The event took place in the Mackintosh Room, a multi-purpose hall at the heart of the Hospital’s grounds. Having baked a batch of double chocolate biscuits the night before, I presented my offering to the woman manning the bake sale. She immediately recognized me from St. Helen’s and asked if I was “the young woman doing the project on the Hospital.” I told her I was, and she called over a few of her friends to meet me. Edna eagerly asked if she could get me a cup of coffee.
– Yes, that’d be lovely, thank you.
– Do you take sugar?
– No, just black. Thank you. [I thought the English were supposed to be tea drinkers.]
     I shook hands with a few women who remarked how kind it was of me to bring biscuits, and how nice it was to have “a young person” around. I was invited to sit down at a large, rectangular table towards the back of the room, next to the ‘Bring & Buy’ table, a mini tag tale-type affair with donated goods. A woman, seated at the table, who had bought a gold-colored picture frame asked me:
– Are you American or Canadian?
– American. I smiled, nodding.
– Oh, I was just wondering because I’ve just bought this picture frame and it has ‘Canada’ stamped on the back.
– Ah, small world! I wonder how it ended up here. [Cargo ship, probably,] I thought. I wondered how many things on the table had ‘China’ stamped on the bottom.
I sidled up next to Ernie, a spectacle-wearing widower who looked to be in his late seventies. I introduced myself but he was reluctant to shake my outstretched hand, and, in fact, I didn’t get his name until half-way through our conversation. He warmed up enough to grill me on my Hospital knowledge, however.
– My project is on the history of the Hospital: the foundation, the functions it had and the services it provided, what it meant to the community and those types of things.
– So when was the Hospital founded?
– 1249, I reply, feeling absolved. Ernie nodded in quiet approval.
I explain to Ernie that another element of my project includes a modern look at the Hospital. The interrogation continued:
– So what have you found in your research so far?
– Hm, well, one thing in particular that I think is neat is the sense of community here. Since it’s so much larger than most other facilities, it almost feels like a small village, especially with having the parish community, here, too.
– And how do you account for those who don’t take part in the parish?
Thankfully, we are interrupted by Mary, who is struggling to return to her seat, now blocked by my chair. I scoot to allow her passage, thinking that Ernie must be an agnostic, and grateful for an excuse to evade his question. Ernie leans over me, introducing me to Mary. I shake her limp hand. She is disinterested in my presence.
Later, Ernie asks what I think of the male/female ratio at the Great Hospital, explaining that the population is comprised of 90% women.
– Hm, that’s a good question. You know, I hadn’t really thought about it too much. I didn’t think to look at it from a gender aspect. I turn the tables. What do you think, being a man?
Ernie argues it is more difficult for men to find social outlets at the Hospital. His neighbor jumps into the conversation, arguing in opposition.
– You all can go to pubs together and that sort of thing and it would be difficult for a woman to do that alone.
I ask Ernie if he finds social events like this to be helpful.
– Yes and no. He responds. When you talk to people at things like this it all ends being up very chatty. By this point, Ernie has warmed to me, leaning into me when he talks. He has even smiled and laughed a few times, revealing ivory-slick dentures, trying desperately not to display the loneliness he eludes to. I can see that he longs for deep connections, real and intimate conversation.
Mary gets up, brings her chair with her, and relocates to the other side of the table. She leaves behind her coffee and raffle tickets, so I get up to bring them to her. On the other side of the table, a woman seated near Mary grabs my hand.
– Are you the girl doing the project on the Hospital?
– Yes, that’s me. I sit down in an empty chair beside Ruby, putting my right hand atop hers that has already met my left. I explain the project to her and as she listens, I can see her glancing at the tattoos on my forearms. When I’ve finished explaining, and after she remarks at what a nice project it sounds like, she asks me about the tattoo on my right arm.
– It’s a Christian symbol.
– Yes, I know that. What is it?
– It’s called the Cross of Jerusalem.
– Oo.
– These four smaller crosses represent the four Gospels, and this, the Gospel of Luke, is highlighted in red because that’s where the Parable of the Good Samaritan lies within the Bible.
– Right.
– Which is a parable I try to live my life by. And this one is a Judeo-Christian term: Shalom. Peace. I point to my left forearm.
– Well, those are lovely. What kind of church to you attend at home, then?
I tell her Methodist, explain that I was baptized Catholic, refused to be confirmed and ended up at my current church after a bit of “church shopping.”
– Are you Anglican, then? I ask Ruby.
– Oh, no. Salvationist. I only go to St. Helen’s because it is convenient. But, you know, I find the Anglican Church a bit too solid.
– Yes, I’ve found that, too. The services seem more formal, a bit rigid.
– Yes! Ruby retorts and makes me smile at her vivaciousness. Everyone’s sitting there like concrete. I’m not concrete. If, Jesus is alive, then we should be full of life, too!
I smile and tell her that I agree. I notice that her hands are trembling slightly, feel the nerves in her hands firing between mine, see that in her other hand, she clutches a cane. She reminds me of my grandmother, a devout Catholic with a rock-solid faith, despite being crippled by Polio at sixteen, blind, and, at one point, temporarily deaf.
The woman manning the bake sale returns:
– I’ve washed up your plate and put it in the bag for you.
– Oh, thank you!
– Just be careful because it might be a bit wet still.
– Okay, I’ll just leave it in the bag, then, thanks.
I get up, leaving Ruby, to return my plate to my bag. I see a man rising from my previous seat next to Ernie, and he pulls it out for me to sit once more. Feeling obligated to sit, I do, and introduce myself. I find out that he is Chris, Ruby’s husband, and that he and Ernie were once sailors, and had just been reminiscing about old times.
Suddenly, the room becomes quiet, and I become confused. Then, Charlotte, who I later will come to learn is 93 (and doesn’t look it) say:
– 997. Pink. Pink 997. [Ah, the raffle has started,] I realize, and in my absence, Ernie has bought me five raffle tickets.
A woman who wins a bag of chocolates sends the treat around the table to share, and two other ladies who win twice give their tickets to their neighbors who haven’t yet won anything.
– Isn’t this exciting? Ernie jokes with me.
I end up winning an enormous Cadbury bar, and Ernie a bottle of Chardonnay. Chris and Ruby win, too, but I can’t make out their prize from across the table.
After the raffle, at almost exactly 11:15, the room begins to empty and the residents shuffle out. I say my goodbyes to Ernie:
– Best of luck to you.
– Thank you. It was great meeting you, Ernie, take care.
– You, too, dear.
And to Ruby and Chris:
– Enjoy the rest of your stay.
– Will do. Lovely meeting you both. Take care.
– Take care.
– Take good care.

On the 25 back to UEA, I see a man seated two rows in front of me. He has propped his head up against the window and is sleeping. His jacket is dusty and he is wearing checkered chef’s pants and a baseball cap. The cap is ill-fitting, and reveals that his head is scabbed, the hair caked with dried blood and sticking to his flaking scalp. The woman sitting in front of him glances back at him several times, looking him over, sneering.
[Is he only pretending to sleep? Is he homeless? How did his head end up like that?] I think to myself. I wonder if he needs money. I can see that his right hand is open through a gap between the seats. I imagine myself slipping a five pound note into his hand while he is still asleep. [I wonder if I even have a five pound note.] I don’t even bother to look in my wallet. I don’t want him to be offended by my assumption that he needs the money. But I keep staring at his open hand. When the bus reaches my stop, I walk past him, see his closed eyes in my peripheral vision, and go home.

– These four smaller crosses represent the four Gospels, and this, the Gospel of Luke, is highlighted in red because that’s where the Parable of the Good Samaritan lies within the Bible, which is a parable I try to live my life by.

Today, 25 April, I visited the Great Hospital for the third time. I attended the weekly 10:30am church service at St. Helen’s church, which I discussed in my previous post.
This week’s service was again from the Book of Common Prayer, and was therefore nearly identical to the last one I attended, with the exception of new hymns, so I will forgo another discussion of the service. However, one detail of the service which I hadn’t noticed the first time I attended (I must have zoned out; it’s easy to do) I do feel bears sharing. One of the lengthier prayers includes a paragraph which specifically asks God to bless the Queen, her magistrates and other political figures, and to guide them in their civic duties. Perhaps England is not so secular, after all (Divine Right, anyone?).
After the service had ended and the parishioners began to slowly shuffle (literally) out, I stayed behind to speak to the priest, Judith Wilson, as did a dozen or so others. They exchanged “hello”s and “how was your holiday?”s and “how are you feeling?”s, etc, and when it was finally my turn to speak with the priest, I shook her hand, told her how much I enjoyed the sermon (surprisingly, I wasn’t lying, either) and asked if she had a few minutes to sit and chat. She obliged, asked me to wait while she finished her goodbyes and changed out of her formal garb.
I waited in the now empty church as a woman locked up and shut off all the lights. Several minutes later, Judith came from a room at the front of the church dressed in mostly (save for a white clerical collar) casual clothing. She invited me to her home for tea or coffee, and lead me through the hospital grounds to a wooden, gated fence. The gate led to Judith’s garden (which is maintained by the Hospital’s groundskeeper) and the garden led to Judith’s back door. Judith put on the kettle as we discussed pets (cats, specifically), holidays, and how convenient electric kettles really are (very).
After getting settled in the living room, I began our conversation by asking Judith how long she had been preaching, and how long she had been at St. Helen’s. Judith, originally from Tottenham, London, came to the Great Hospital in December of last year, and had previously worked as a chaplain in a nearby prison. She was ordained as an Anglican priest in 1995, but had been preaching in the Free Church since the 1980’s.
She enjoys working at the Great Hospital because it is unique and “forward-thinking”, and offers services that similar care facilities do not. She cited, in particular, the fact that the Hospital will follow its residents to the end: an eldery person can move into general housing for the independent residents, then to Prior Court when s/he becomes older and more frail, and finally to the Elaine Herbert house, which is a nursing house for those nearing the end of their life. This is unique because most other care facilities only offer one of the previously mentioned types of care.
She also mentioned that the Great Hospital is much larger than most other facilities, and because there is a larger population of residents, the Hospital feels more like a small village than an assisted living facility. It is also unique in that it has a spiritual community within St. Helen’s, and about one quarter of the population is a member there.
Having a spiritual element, Judith believes, is essential when caring for others. “Without Christianity, or any other faith, the world is in black and white rather than in color,” she said. She cited St. Augustine, who had said that those without God in their lives have a “God-shaped hole in their hearts.” Judith went on to tell me a story of a friend of hers who is paralyzed, and finds it difficult to maintain her faith in God now that she is “trapped do in a body that won’t do what she wants it to.” The woman was a schoolteacher for many years, who loved reading. “Words were her life, and now she can’t read because she has gone blind and can’t hold a book.” This story contrasts starkly with another one she told me, of a woman who was confined to a chair, and later her bed, but maintained a steadfast faith throughout her life. She was a matriarch of the community who consistently kept a positive attitude and relied on her faith. “That’s the difference,” she said. “Without faith, life is lacking a vital element.”
The conversation shifted, as I asked Judith a question about something she mentioned in her sermon: Judith had shared that her cousin once told her that she had wasted her life and all her opportunities by becoming a priest, and Judith claimed that his values were much more secular than her own. This idea of the shift from a spiritual England to a secular England has always interested me, especially for a country whose monarchical tradition is so deeply rooted in the principle of “Divine Right.” I asked Judith if she believed that England was, indeed, shifting towards the secular, and if she could mark a transition point.
“Yes.” She said. “Absolutely.” The time period which Judith identified as being the transition point was the 1960’s, when there was a “shift in values, outlook.” She also believes that Margaret Thatcher’s term in office exacerbated the effects, and “put the nail in the coffin.” According to Judith, she “bred selfishness and materialism” in the English culture, and led society away from God.
We ended our conversation with a discussion of Christianity’s role in present-day society. “Christianity is being put to the side. We aren’t persecuted, but we are ridiculed or ignored,” she said; an interesting observation.
My time with Judith was informative and interesting. She is a very warm person, and extremely welcoming and easy to talk to, and I look forward to further interactions with her and other parishioners at a Coffee Morning/Bake Sale next weekend.

10:15am – 12:30pm
Time: 2.25 hours

Total Time: 6.25 hours

     This past Sunday, Alli and I attended a service at the Church of St. Helen, which was originally founded as a part of The Great Hospital, and remains closely linked to the Hospital to this day. The Anglican service was from The Book of Common Prayer, and is, I was told by Reverend Judith Wilson, a very similar service to what would have been conducted in the Church over the past few centuries.
     The Book of Common Prayer Communion, as the service is known, is a regular service, and is offered on the second and fourth Sundays of each month, beginning at 10:30 am. Holy Communion is offered on the first and third Sundays of each month, also at 10:30 am, and when a fifth Sunday of the month occurs, a Morning Prayer is offered at 10:30 am. A Holy Communion is offered regularly – 11:00 am each Wednesday – in the Elaine Herbert House or Prior Court, both of which are located on the Hospital grounds. The Church also offers social events and programs, such as bible studies and a Coffee Morning which is held on the first Saturday of each month, from 10:00-11:30 am in the Mackintosh Room. A complete list of these services, events and programs can be found on the Church of St. Helen’s official website.
     It might seem that, when looking at the impressive calendar of events and programs offered, the Church of St. Helen is still very much alive, but a very different story is told by the congregation itself: the body of the Church is made up primarily of the elderly residents of The Great Hospital. Aside from Alli and myself, none of the attendees looked to be much younger than sixty years of age, save for a young mother and her three small children who left halfway through the service. There couldn’t have been more than thirty parishioners total, and the overall emptiness of the Church was noticeable. Despite an impressive calendar of events which might suggest that the Church is thriving, it is obvious upon visiting that the truth is rather the opposite.
     Regardless, those who were in attendance were a cheerful and friendly bunch. One gentleman who walked in, supported by a wooden cane, smiled at Alli and me and said warmly, “Good morning, young ones!” Several minutes later, the Reverend Judith Wilson greeted us personally and welcomed us to the Church. This welcoming atmosphere continues even after the service had ended. A woman who was seated a few ahead of us turned around and struck up conversation, asking us where we were from and what we were studying, etc. Several other women approached us, handed us fliers and leaflets, encouraged us to take a look around the Church and offered information about the building at certain artifacts and relics within it.
     The friendly and personal tone was carried through the service itself, as well, as Reverend Judith Wilson delivered a pleasant, rather colloquial – and even humorous – sermon. This surprised me, as I was expecting – however ignorantly – to bear witness to a more puritanical and lofty oration. My expectations were met, however, by the choice in hymns and the language used in the spoken prayers. Some of the hymns were written as early at the eighteenth century – a far cry from the twentieth century “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey which the band at my Church in New York once performed. The songs were dated and joyless to my ears. The prayers, too, were dated. They were written in Early Modern rather than Modern English. Here, I got my fill of the ‘thee’s, ‘thou’s and ‘thine’s that I was fully expecting to hear.
     Another aspect of the service which I found surprising was Holy Communion. Rather than receiving Communion at the front of the Church where the Reverend preached, Communion was received in the Lady Chapel at the right-hand-side of the Church, in front of a Georgian-style board which listed the Ten Commandments. Additionally, in lieu of forming a queue which advances toward the stationary clergyman, the parishioners lined up and kneeled before the board, and the Reverend moved down the line, offering Communion to each person. When that group had all received Communion, they stood and left, and a second group came, kneeled, and the process repeated.
     A few moments of sheer boredom aside, I did enjoy the service at the Church of St. Helen. It was interesting to observe and participate in the service of a denomination of Christianity which is different from the one in which I normally participate, and it was truly amazing to meditate on the fact that generations upon generations had sought nourishment – spiritual or corporal – within the walls of the Church of St. Helen.

Hours Logged: 1.5

Total Hours Logged: 4