Way Back to Life
Wednesday was a seaside day. Saltburn-by-the-Sea; a town paused in time, with the appearance of an old Victorian postcard and all the nostalgia of an old sweet shop. We hired a beach hut and it came complete with deckchairs from the olden days and a two-bit kettle for making tea. It was overcast and (occasionally) drizzly — it was so British; if I had a hanky on my head I would have turned into a cliche.
After a nice beach day and the obligatory fish and chips, we headed out of the town past the huge C of E church, over-loaded with community notices and the now-familiar ‘temporarily closed’ sign across the front door, down the road to Staithes; another town lost in time. Not Victorian postcard-like though, more a fishing village film set.
Staithes isn’t a village that lets you in easily, you’ve got to earn your visit. There’s only one place to park and it’s miles away from the centre; far enough I suspect to deter many a visitor. Not me however. Though late in the day and accompanied by thoroughly unenthused kids in (what had become) heavy rain, on the promise of a waffle we headed down the steep hill into the fishing village that time had forgotten. Imagine Coronation Street but steep, with poor fishermen and rich, second home owners… but not many of them. It was pretty empty and there were no waffles; it was a dad win.
We walked through the village and I paused outside the Methodist church slap bang in the centre. I don’t think I’d have noticed so much if it was busy, but the emptiness made it look more like a museum piece and allowed my mind to wander. I could almost hear the shouts of the Methodist reformers beckoning people in for a warm, or handing out food.
Then came the shout.
“Retro!” exclaimed one of my kids looking round at the quaint old houses and the church. The word rattled around my head as I tried to make sense of it in this context. What was ‘retro’ about it?
Retro (adj.) - Imitative of a style or fashion from the recent past. (Definition from Oxford Languages)
It wasn’t really ‘retro’ in the strictest sense but the place was being re-imagined. ‘Flats’ I think the notice said on the church door; a modern twist on an old idea. It wasn’t ‘beckoning’ or ‘reaching’ anyone anymore.
We continued to the seafront to not buy waffles or eat in the beautiful gastropub. We walked back up the steep hill to the car, sad and waffle-less. But we weren’t done. The promise of a waffle had become like a noose around my neck… and there were more seaside towns nearby that offered a solution.
Whitby was the next one. We pulled up on the north pier to a Yorkshireman’s dream; free parking and a nice view. The extent to which this gave me pleasure made me realise I’d aged. We left the car and went waffle hunting, down through the whale bones and on into town. I could see very quickly that I wasn’t going to dodge this. There were many waffles and no stories I could come up with as to why we shouldn’t have one! I stopped thinking about how not to buy one and started thinking about what I’d have on mine. Dad win again... We returned to the top and kicked back with our waffles and coffee and admired the view.
Then a shout again.
“Castle! Do you see that castle?” yelped one of the troupe.
The sun had come out for the first time all day and even though it was 8 o’clock, I had committed to sun bathing and ignoring my children. But the ‘castle’ declaration rattled around my mind and wouldn’t leave.
“What castle?” I grumpily shouted back.
My offspring, standing with the pride of an explorer who just located the Americas, shouts “That castle!”
I follow her finger over to the Abbey. It kind of made sense; up on a hill, a bit in ruin. It looks like a structure you’d use to ward off an enemy. Again my mind wandered. I knew a bit about this place and sensing my moment to assert some knowledge over my brood, I piped up.
“This is a famous station for Christianity.” I paused to receive the attention of the group. It was minimal but enough for me to keep going. “This whole coast carried huge significance for the birth of Christianity in Britain. Up the road in Iona, the first Christian monks had settled.” I paused again. There was even less interest now but no competition, so I continued “and here in Whitby Abbey lived the Venerable Bede, one of our foremost and earliest historians, witnessing to the people and chronicling the history of Britain.” I went on a bit with the little I knew about him, staring out to sea, feeling like a TV historian who’s insight and opinions were crucial. I looked back. There was now no one listening. Dad defeat! Waffles were eaten, sugar had stirred physical enthusiasm and a game of tig had begun. Even proper historians can’t compete with tig. The history lesson was over, if indeed it ever began.
I lay back in the sun and my mind wandered again.
The History of God’s people on these shores is so rich; God’s voice has shouted out for hundreds of years, his refuge sought and found by thousands. Buildings declaring his truth, his power, have stood tall like castles to proclaim him to anyone coming in. His people have positioned themselves in the heart of communities and practised his grace, serving the people year after year. My nostalgia had been stirred and directed towards thoughts of church. One huge one closed, one central one flattened (made into flats, allow me this) and one ruined.
To be honest, none of the physical outcomes really bother me. Genuinely, I don’t mind when buildings are repurposed for something else… not really. I don’t mind that Whitby Abbey is a ruin people look round, that brings a bit of money into the local economy. I don’t really pine for a return to past glories or grand buildings. My head didn’t go here. It went somewhere else… As I gazed at the church on the hill with the famous monk inside and thought about the Methodist church in the middle of town and half daydreamed about George Wesley’s preaching and people coming to hear, I was reminded of what church is. Particularly at a time when church is scattered, paused and figuring out what a return will look like, what it needs to be and do.
I half fell asleep in the sun and tried to ignore the kids again. Some of Jesus’ words rattled around in my head and wouldn’t leave. Maybe it was to do with Saltburn, or the fact I had swum in the sea.
Salt. Jesus said be salty.
Like the way salt added to a recipe changes the taste of the whole thing. Not much use when it’s kept in the tub. But awesome when thrown into the mix. Like Wesley, stood in the middle of town, in the mix of life. Being like Jesus to people walking past.
Light. Jesus said be a light on a hill.
Not something to be hidden or covered but seen, bright, relevant, significant; making Jesus and his ways seen!
13 “You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything, except to be thrown out and trampled underfoot.
14 “You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. 15 Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. 16 In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven. (Matthew 5:13-16)
“Time to go” I said. The sun had faded on the north pier and it was feeling cold, but it was still shining on the Abbey, up on the hill.
Times will change. Buildings for gathering will change, close and even ruin, but those words of Jesus will stick around forever. It’s so important that we figure out how to observe them in our current situation. This is the crucial thing. This is the future of the church!
In our next series The Way Back to Life, we’re spending 10 weeks re-exploring the essentials of the faith. What it is that makes his people salty, what makes them light. We’re asking simple, foundational questions to help us stay on track, and find our way back. What is God doing? Who was Jesus? What is the Holy Spirit? What is salvation? What is Heaven?
Join us online or down at Christchurch Xscape for Way Back to Life from September.
Ash Gibson
