Sermon - All will be thrown down

A sermon given during the Sung Eucharist at St George’s Bloomsbury on Sunday 17th November 2024 (Second before Advent) based on the text of Mark 13.1-8.
One of the disciples marvelled at the scale of the Temple in Jerusalem and Jesus said - “Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.”

At that time, the temple was central to Jewish faith and identity. Jesus’ statement that all will be thrown down – a sign of His coming Kingdom - had a startling and much wider implication that the fate of those foundational blocks of stone.

It must have appeared as though all was being thrown down on 29th December 1940 - the worst night of the Blitz. 120 tonnes of high explosives and 22,000 incendiary bombs rained down upon the City of London. Flames appeared to rise hundreds of feet into the air. A cloud of pinkish-white smoke billowed upwards into a great cloud. Among those who witnessed this apocalyptic scene was 37-year-old Herbert Mason, who was on fire-watch duty on the roof of the Daily Mail building on Carmelite Street. The paper’s chief photographer, he was armed with a Van Neck camera using quarter-plate glass negatives. 

That night he took three photographs, the exposure of which - given the circumstances - was a testament to his considerable technical skill. One of these pictures, captured in a fleeting moment during a short gust of wind, became a defining image of the war. It was printed on the front cover of the six-page edition of the Daily Mail two days later, with the caption: 

“WAR’S GREATEST PICTURE: St Paul’s stands unharmed in the midst of the burning city.”

Herbert Mason’s picture shows the dome of the cathedral framed by a cloud of smoke, the cross on top appearing to glimmer as if from firelight. 

In those days (like the temple in Jerusalem), St Paul’s dominated the skyline - a memorial to the glory of God, the technical achievement of humankind, a symbol not only of the City but the whole country and its Empire. For the British, a symbol of civilisation itself. A building which had emerged, Phoenix-like, from the smouldering wasteland of the City after another Great Fire in 1666.

The image and the short accompanying text in the Daily Mail, which included a quote from the photographer himself, are presented as a story of resilience against godless vandals intent on destroying all that Britain holds dear.

As a result of work by historians Brian Stater and Tom Allbeson, we now know that this iconic image was heavily manipulated prior to publication. Around two thirds of the surface of the photograph had been over-painted, accentuating the brightness of the cross and the iridescence of the dome, adding tongues of fire and obscuring a great deal of the foreground. This, together with the cropping of the picture and the placement of an advert for Horlicks cut in to the body of the image, draws attention to the cathedral and away from the burning rubble of the buildings around it - accentuating what remained rather than what had been destroyed. 

Copies of the negatives of two of Herbert Mason’s shots from that evening were gifted to foreign picture desks in the USA and France. One of these found their way to the editor of the Berlin Illustrated News. A few weeks later, they published the original photograph, showing the dome of the cathedral flat and dull, appearing to be slowly consumed by the clouds of smoke rising from the eerie burned out shells of the buildings below. The photograph is placed above the headline “The City of London Burns”. 

One photograph, two different versions of the truth. 

Different versions of the truth that endure. Decades later. 

In the 1970’s, Tom Harrison published testimony from a mass observation experiment he co-led on “Living through the Blitz” based on interviews with thousands of people who experienced it first hand. He concluded that symbols such as the self-professed - and widely reproduced - “Greatest Image” of the war were as influential as Churchill’s public statements in painting over individual experiences, to create a culturally constructed memory. One so powerful that it trumped the things that people saw, heard and felt for themselves.

Personal recollections of the most extreme suffering and distress were - more often than not - mollified through the lens of a romanticised wartime spirit; bolstered by images such as the gleaming dome of St Paul’s.

Academics like Harrison were dismissed by some as peddling revisionism - fake news - criticism which is just as loud in many quarters today. But their work and its reception shows how susceptible we are to influence, reveals its far-reaching effects and highlights the difficulties that can be faced in challenging a deep-rooted narrative; even one that is proven to have been based on manipulation. 


Jesus knew how easy it is for us to be manipulated by distorted versions of the truth. He warned his disciples: Beware that no one leads you astray.  Many will come in my name and say, “I am he!” and they will lead many astray. 

This week the Archbishop of Canterbury resigned, to take "personal and institutional responsibility" for the cover-up of the abuse of up to 100 boys and young men by John Smythe, who ran bible study classes and summer camps in the UK and Africa.

I am only half way through reading the two hundred and fifty page report - which contains statements from Smythe’s victims about the nature and lasting impact of the abuse they suffered - described as prolific, brutal and horrific. Smythe’s own children were among the victims and his wife knowingly assisted him, helping to dress their wounds. 

The report highlights how the abuse was able to be hidden in plain sight for decades, taking place at summer camps attended by young men from elite public schools and universities and at Smythe’s own home; enabled by a pervasive culture of toxic masculinity and muscular Christianity and a lack of challenge of his exploitative theologies, driven by his coercive and controlling personality.  

Several people - including clergy - were aware of the extent and nature of the abuse and a detailed report on Smyhte’s abuse was compiled in the early 1980’s. But this was kept secret with the consent of at least some parents of the victims, who were concerned about the effect its publication might have on their son’s future careers. Their sons – the victims of this terrible abuse – many of whom were by then young adults, were not consulted, their voices not heard. Others considered that the matter was not worthy of reporting more widely since the abuse was not exceptional in the context of the corporal punishment of the time - an assessment the recent Makin report rejects outright. One clergyman who seemed to think (like Smythe) that he could speak for God, summed up the group-think: 

“I thought it would do the work of God immense damage if this were public.”

The response of the Church of England to the abuse carried out by John Smythe inflicted even more harm on his victims.

Those who knew about his criminal behaviour forty years ago thought it was best to cover it up and those who learned of it later didn’t do enough to bring him to justice. 

Many who had been beaten and tortured by Smythe died in the process of challenging that wall of silence. Those who survived were further damaged by the struggle to make the truth known. 

This is an abhorrent moment in the life of our church – and a dark cloud still hangs over it, despite the Archbishop’s resignation.


Our gospel reading today is the beginning of a passage written in the form of an apocalypse or revelation – a text that aims to bring to light a truth. The truth that Christ and his Kingdom are not found in great temples or cathedrals – or through men who claim to speak in his name (as captivating as these singular expressions of faith can be) - but in the Spirit that dwells within every one of us.

A single truth – The Truth – that defies manipulation when we share it in the manner that it was received; equally abundantly and through the one who gave it. A truth that can be made known here and now only through the many members of this one body – whose voices we must hear.

Jesus explains that all we have built up that prevents us from doing so has to be thrown down. A reality we must accept, no matter how uncomfortable.

A cycle of death and resurrection that is the greatest image of victory – the power of Christ crucified – and our hope that we will one day emerge shining from these clouds of darkness and walk together in his marvellous light. 


Links:

Visualizing Wartime Destruction and Postwar Reconstruction: Herbert Mason’s Photograph of St. Paul’s Reevaluated, Tom Allbeson, Swansea University

“The Makin Report” – Independent Learning Lessons Review, John Smythe QC by Keith Makin, Independent Reviewer, 18th October 2024.