I’ve been thinking a lot about windows lately as I prepare the write ups and lead the children’s talks on some of our memorial windows. In January and February we celebrated the Town and Channen families for their  contribution to the fabric of our church building and the life of our parish. In March we took a closer looker at the paired Betts windows. And so it will go throughout the anniversary year.

Someone remarked to me how the children will always remember the details of the windows that we have examined. It’s a nice thought, and I do like to imagine them in their own churches in the future or coming back to All Saints’ as adults and looking at a particular window and saying, “I know a story about that…”

I also think about the grown children of the former Incumbents who have visited us already this year and I imagine how it must be for them to return to the church where they spent many youthful years. Were there features of the church building that were comfortingly familiar to them or has it all changed too much? Are there spaces and places they would have liked to explore to bring back more memories? Do they find themselves reliving a memory of a Sunday School lesson, a certain hymn, or a church furnishing and saying, “I know a story about that…”?

We share these stories about the stained glass windows to inspire the present and future members of our parish. The messages found in the memorials of one generation are an invitation to the next, an invitation to focus on our mission, to look to the ways and spaces where God’s light gets in and to the places where we, as a church, can still dispel darkness.

There is still much to come in this sesquicentennial year. I am hopeful old friends, former members, newcomers, and seekers will peek in our windows – both real and digital – and that they will see something that speaks to them and inspires them with a sense of Spirit. And that in years ahead, we’ll all be saying, “I know a story about that…”

~ Arleane Ralph

 

The G# and the A# bells that were added to the tower in 2012 weigh about 91kgs (about 200 lbs) each. They measure approximately 52cm and 45cm (20 and 18 inches) respectively, in diameter.

 

With the warm glow of another successful annual Vestry meeting behind us here at All Saints’, there is no better topic to explore than what we actually mean by the term “Vestry.” Why exactly do we call our annual  meetings a “Vestry?”

The term ‘vestry’ actually relates to the room where clergy put on their vestments prior to a church service. (Latin-speaking readers will, of course, recognize the root, vestire, meaning ‘to clothe.’) Also stored in the church vestry room would be valuable church linens, church communion items such as a chalice or paten, and other important items to be used during the church service. All Saints’ no longer has a formal “vestry room” but we do have smaller dry and wet sacristies (room names that certainly could be fodder for another article at another time!)

In the 19^th century, when the church gained greater powers in local affairs, many decisions that needed to be made by the community at large (hiring a watchman, hiring constables or providing for the poor, etc.) were made by a group of appointed citizens led by the parish priest. Church vestries were known to be investing in fire pumps, weights for markets, whipping posts, stocks, and local burial grounds.

Where would local citizens meet? In many church buildings, the largest room not set aside for worship was likely the vestry. Over time, these meetings in the Vestry became less and less about the needs of the local municipality, though they continued to deal with the non-spiritual needs of the church community. Following the removal of all civil powers in 1894, the Vestry meeting slowly became the meeting as we know it today. It is the meeting where Anglicans consider the parochial needs of their parish. They discuss the cost of running and maintaining their building, they vote on issues of concern to their own parishes, and they elect wardens to represent their needs.

Though we’d be too large a group now to all meet in a parish vestry room, we continue to proudly use the term “Vestry” to describe the membership that conducts these meetings and to remind us of our pivotal role in community governance over the years.                                                                  

~Bertie Weatherbottom, Notes & Queries Reporter for the 150th

 

 

On February 21st, we welcomed members of the Channen family as we acknowledge their contribution to the fabric of the church in the form of the Empty Tomb window, dedicated to the glory of God and the memory of the Rev. Canon A. Gordon Channen (Incumbent 1941-1953). The Rev. Channen is described in archival documents as being ‘infectiously lighthearted’ and having a ‘welcoming sense of humour’ and a ‘kindly spirit.’ We were delighted to have his grown children join us as part of our anniversary year and to be able to honour him and this beautiful window as part of our Lenten observance.

The beauty of the Channen memorial window is how strikingly alive it seems. Iconic symbols of the Resurrection—lilies or the   phoenix—which are typical of Easter windows are not present here. This is not a set or iconographic composition. Rather it is a dramatized depiction of this singular moment of discovery, a glimpse of a narrative in progress.

The women have only just arrived. The spices to prepare Jesus’ body are still in their hands. Of the two women standing, notice the woman in the full white veil. By the tilt of her jaw and the clarity of her profile, we can tell her gaze is intently upon the angel. Her expression shows no doubt. It is beautifully  reposed, almost hopeful. She does not turn away. Her posture and the restraining hand of the other woman suggest a  continuing forward motion. The hem of her gown and her head covering still swing out behind her as if she has only just come to a stop. The woman in blue has dropped to her knees, but here too the attitude of her body suggests she has only just been halted in surprise. She has raised one hand to her face, but in the other she still holds the ewer of spices. Her approach has been abruptly checked by the presence of the angel.

The right-hand panel presents such a contrast to the attitudes in the left-hand panel. Here the angel’s face is neutral and placid. Our eyes are drawn to the empty tomb by the drape of sheets and the angel’s outstretched hand, but the image is essentially without motion. There are no raised arms, clasped hands, no swinging hems, no haste arrested nor faces averted. The angel sits in pacific stillness here.

License has been taken of course in representing a sepulcher instead of a cave, and the empty tomb, trailing sheets, and the bare cobblestones in the foreground occupy a relatively large portion of the panel. Paradoxically this panel is essentially an image of nothing. And yet it is everything.

The empty tomb, abandoned burial cloths, the placid angel are carefully contrasted with the energy of the women’s arrival.       Similarly the mute rocks and dark tomb are balanced by the brilliant blues and whites and the tumultuous glass of the sky above the women’s heads, where we see the effect of clouds rolling away and a new rising sun breaking through.

Finally, in the circular window that tops the two panels, we find the chalice and paten (with the draped corporal echoing the   lines of the women’s dresses and the discarded burial cloths). There, above all else, are the emblems of the Christ who died and     who is resurrected for us.