Exodus 30:30-35; John 15:1-14
Today we gather in a building shaped by stone to give thanks for man who carved wood into glory.
We have heard a beautiful tribute to Fenwick from Anna, memories of a man who was husband, father, grandfather and great-grandfather. A man of both strength and gentleness, confidence and sensitivity.
Many here will have their own memories of Fenwick as a friend over many years, someone they loved and respected, and who is much missed.
But all of us knew Fenwick. Not as a close friend perhaps but through his art, particularly his sculptures which have blessed and enriched churches and communities across the North East and far beyond – as far indeed as Rome. We touched what he had carved. We appreciated what he brought to life. From wood which could have been thrown away, we received beauty and new insights into life, death and hope.
That so many are gathered here today is testimony to the thanks we want to express for Fenwick’s life and gifts. And as with Bezalel in our first reading, we are invited to express those thanks to God who so filled Fenwick with his spirit that he was skilled to carve in wood and in every kind of craft. For while Fenwick carved wood with his hands, his life was also shaped by the One who said, ‘I am the vine, you are the branches’ — and ‘apart from me you can do nothing’.
Gratitude is certainly what we feel at Durham Cathedral, for we are privileged to be the home of two of Fenwick’s most wonderful sculptures, housed in the Chapel of the Nine Altars at the far end of the Cathedral. Christ in the Tomb and Pieta are works of great intensity and intimacy, and I often find myself lingering by them and considering them afresh.
As I did so this morning, I found them offering me two thoughts on this day of Fenwick’s funeral.
First, they both point to the stark reality of death. There is no getting away from it. Christ in the Tomb, carved with a chain saw from a single elm tree, presents Jesus’ body as laid out after his burial. Straight and still, without life or breath. The Pieta depicts Christ not as held in his mother’s arms but at her feet, and as we consider Mary’s face we experience afresh her grief at the loss of her son, and with it the grief we all carry for those we love but see no longer. Wordless, unspoken, but brutally real.
In a few weeks, on Good Friday, the congregation will gather around the Pieta for our service of Evening Prayer. As we hear Stabat Mater sung, we will reflect on the reality of Christ giving his life for the sins of the world, the one who showed his love by laying down his life for his friends. Indeed, there is no greater love, and all love – including the precious love of husband and wife for 74 years – comes ultimately from the God whose inestimable love was poured out in the death of his Son.
Second, our two sculptures pointed me to the possibility of new life. Fenwick’s art often reflected on the idea of life beyond death. In Christ in the Tomb the head and the hands are in bronze, and when you look at them and touch them you sense that the blood could still flow through this body again. In the Pieta Christ’s left arm is slightly raised, as if to hint that death will not have the final word. And then in a number of churches in the north of England we have beautiful depictions by Fenwick of the Risen Christ, the one who was neither held by death nor trapped by the tomb, but who greeted his disciples and his mother with the words ‘do not be afraid’, and who offers life beyond death to all who turn to and trust in him.
As I sit by the sculptures here in Durham Cathedral, I can’t see the risen Christ clearly shown, but they invite me to have faith that he will rise and has risen, for death did not have the final word.
I want to take us to a final sculpture by Fenwick, possibly his most famous: The Journey, to which I made a pilgrimage in St Mary’s Church on Holy Island this last Saturday and which we can all enjoy cast in bronze in Millennium Square here in Durham.
It depicts six monks carrying the coffin of St Cuthbert on his journey from Holy Island to its eventual resting place here in Durham. And it too highlights the tensions of death and life. For Cuthbert is dead and it is his body, intact of course, that they are seeking to keep safe, as it has been kept here in Durham Cathedral for over 1000 years. The monks are burdened, seeking to protect a body and guard a legacy.
And yet, and yet, while Cuthbert’s body was borne in that coffin, his life was already hidden with Christ in God, for as he had committed in his dying breath his life to the Lord, so he began to live with him in glory. Indeed in Christ he lives even now and in our worship here in the Cathedral and elsewhere we are invited to join our prayers and praise with him before the heavenly throne.
Amidst the sadness and reality of death, we are all offered the hope that with Cuthbert, Bede, Hild and all our saints who trust in Christ, we may, in the words of the old hymn, tread the verge of Jordan and land safe of Canaan’s side.
And so today, as we commend Fenwick to God’s mercy, we do so not in denial of death, but in confidence that the One he carved in wood now holds him in everlasting life.
Perhaps there is no better day than this to visit again Christ in the Tomb and the Pieta. And as we do so, we can give thanks for Fenwick’s life and gifts, which blessed so many, and sense a call to hold fast to the sure and certain hope of the resurrection: death’s sting drawn, the grave’s victory broken, heaven’s morning dawning, and songs of praise rising to the Lord of life, now and for ever. Amen.