“What’s friendship, when all’s done, but the giving and taking of wounds?"
Godric, a short novel by Frederick Buechner, is one of the most poignant and memorable books I have ever read. It tells the story of the historical figure, St Godric of Finchdale, a wealthy and successful merchant who became a well-known religious figure and hermit in the 11th and 12th century in north-east England.
Most of the book is set in and around Durham, a small city that features a magnificent cathedral that dates back to the 11th century. Located spectacularly on a promontory above a horseshoe-shaped bend in the River Wear (pronounced "weer"), the cathedral - originally set up as a shrine to St Cuthbert - dominates the surroundings. I spent 5 years in Durham as a student, from 1995 to 2000, and it was where I met my wife, Rachel.
Most of the book is set in and around Durham, a small city that features a magnificent cathedral that dates back to the 11th century. Located spectacularly on a promontory above a horseshoe-shaped bend in the River Wear (pronounced "weer"), the cathedral - originally set up as a shrine to St Cuthbert - dominates the surroundings. I spent 5 years in Durham as a student, from 1995 to 2000, and it was where I met my wife, Rachel.
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| Durham Cathedral, with the River Wear in the foreground, circa 1996. Taken during my freshman year in college. |
Despite the city's renown, Durham County is in a rather bleak and economically depressed part of England. It features place names such as Chester-le-Street, Esh Winning, and Pity Me. The winters see bitterly cold winds, sent seemingly straight from Siberia, sweeping across the landscape. The chafing chill and relentless gray gloom of the winter months prevented me from appreciating the beauty of the place, and Buechner's descriptions of the dreary damp and bone-chilling cold brought back memories of walking down to the library, buffeted by driving wind and desperately trying to keep books and papers dry during a downpour. Reading dredged up memories of playing hockey in the freezing rain, every hit of the ball a jolt of buzzing vibrations through my numb fingertips.
Ever-present in Godric is the River Wear. Personified as an old man, a wild animal, a living, breathing entity, it symbolizes many of the things one would expect of a river: purification, constancy, vitality, an agent of change. I probably crossed the river's stone arch bridges close to a thousand times over the course of my time in Durham. Rachel and I took autumn walks along its banks, shuffling through piles of leaves. In my third year, I lived a Rubeus Hagrid stone's throw from the river and loved standing at its edge, watching its dark waters slide, swirling, silently by.
It is fair to say, then, that Buechner's book resonated with me and even provided me with a nostalgia for Durham I never knew I had.
Strangely, while it is a book that is unashamedly rooted in the Christian faith, it is nonetheless raw and unflinchingly honest in its description of sin. As I read, I found so many lines and passages that resonated deeply - the kinds of lines that you stop and read out loud to your wife who is trying to sleep - that I started keeping track of them. Once I finished reading, I typed them up, and it seemed a shame not to find a way to put them into a blog post.
Ever-present in Godric is the River Wear. Personified as an old man, a wild animal, a living, breathing entity, it symbolizes many of the things one would expect of a river: purification, constancy, vitality, an agent of change. I probably crossed the river's stone arch bridges close to a thousand times over the course of my time in Durham. Rachel and I took autumn walks along its banks, shuffling through piles of leaves. In my third year, I lived a Rubeus Hagrid stone's throw from the river and loved standing at its edge, watching its dark waters slide, swirling, silently by.
It is fair to say, then, that Buechner's book resonated with me and even provided me with a nostalgia for Durham I never knew I had.
Strangely, while it is a book that is unashamedly rooted in the Christian faith, it is nonetheless raw and unflinchingly honest in its description of sin. As I read, I found so many lines and passages that resonated deeply - the kinds of lines that you stop and read out loud to your wife who is trying to sleep - that I started keeping track of them. Once I finished reading, I typed them up, and it seemed a shame not to find a way to put them into a blog post.
One of the subjects that the novel deals with in a profound, direct, and occasionally shockingly salacious way is lust. Godric bemoans the fact that, despite his best efforts, lust springs upon him in the most unlikely and inappropriate places.
“Beware the shadows. Never think they’re not afoot because the day is fair. Scratch fair, find foul...for what’s the blood of Christ to him whose own blood seethes like water in a pot?”
His pleas to God are at times heartbreaking:
“Dear Lord, strew herbs upon my hermit’s dreams to make them sweet. Have daylight’s mercy on my midnight soul."
Even guarding one's thoughts and intentions against sin, he says, is futile, for:
“My skull’s a chapel. So is yours. The thoughts go in and out like godly folk to mass. But what of hands that itch for gold? What of feet that burn to stray down all the soft and leafy paths to Hell, the truant heart that hungers for the love of mortal flesh? A man can’t live his life within his skull.”
And even a holy man can get to a point where guilt and self-pity are replaced with a calloused heart, numbness, and cynicism. I have found no greater or more accurate articulation of the effects of habitual sin than this:
"In sin’s wake there came a kind of drowsy peace so deep I hadn’t even will enough to loathe myself.”
But beautifully, poignantly, Godric remains convinced of his redemption and salvation even through - especially through - tragedy, loss, and his own destructive actions. The following quote may not relevant to many people, but if you have suffered, lost, grieved, and still seen God's place in it all, then perhaps these achingly beautiful sentences will make sense:
“Praise God for all that’s holy, cold, and dark. Praise him for all we lose, for all the river of the years bears off. Praise him for stillness in the wake of pain. Praise him for emptiness…What’s lost is nothing to what’s found, and all the death that ever was, set next to life, would scarcely fill a cup.”
There is a wonderful juxtaposition between the Godric the religious icon who is revered by the community and Godric the mortal, sinful man who cannot understand why he is revered because he is such a wretched sinner. Godric reminds us that sin is a constant companion for even those who are venerated by others. In fact, Buechner may well be pointing out that it is especially in those who are deeply devoted to God that the greatest doubts and frustrations with faith occur. Most of us, after all, have the most acrimonious arguments with those whom we are closest to.
We often try to see the good in those who are bad, but how often do we recognise, acknowledge, and accept the flaws and inherent sinfulness of those whom we look up to, those under whose authority we place ourselves?
And if we are to follow that to its logical conclusion, there is an even more difficult challenge: if we know that even the holiest of men struggle with dark thoughts, then maybe we should all feel a lot better about the idea that we should intentionally expose or confess our own sin, even to - especially to - those who think highly of us.
Any takers? I didn't think so.
But reading Godric might be a good start.
“I speak a word. My friend speaks back. Then I again, then he, and thus we make a bridge of words so each may fetch across the ditch that lies between what’s in his heart.”
