The end of the Reformation... or merely of life in Arbroath?
The end of the Reformation... or merely of life in Arbroath?
April 1, 2013
A Ref21 reader has brought to my attention this story in which Vincent Nichols, Archbishop of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Westminster, claims that the explosion of emotion surrounding the death in 1997 of Diana, Princess of Wales, marked the moment at which the English Reformation died and the spirit of Roman Catholicism returned to Albion's green and pleasant land.
There are so many comments one might make in response but I will restrict myself to just a few. First, adoration of Diana is scarcely Roman Catholic, any more than Presleyterianism can be co-opted for such a cause. I suspect an upsurge in RC baptisms post-1997 would be a more accurate gauge. Second, Diana is not, as far as I know, a saint. One colleague in Aberdeen was rumoured at the time to have expressed the thought that 'there is probably a limbo for bimbos' but I suspect that might be the best for which even the most committed Roman Catholic might hope in this instance.
In fact, the English Reformation was dead in most parts of the Sceptred Isle by the time the Princess died, at least if measured by the ambitions of Cranmer: biblical literacy, gospel preaching, pastors in every parish, reverent and thoughtful worship. But it was not being replaced by Roman Catholicism. The scenes of hysteria and then of unctuous sentimentalism which came in the immediate aftermath of the fateful Parisian car crash were signs that English life was firmly embedded in the celebrity culture which claims intimacy with strangers and, divorcing friendship from personal contact, creates fictional characters out of real, flesh-and-blood human beings. It was a portent of the way things were going. In the world of Facebook, Twitter and life as one long, continual technologically mediated public performance, Diana's life and death -- and the responses to it -- were early signs of the superficiality that was to come. One can, after all, only have a fictional relationship with a fictional character.
The public Diana was a fetish, nothing more. The superficiality of the responses to her death was indicated by the virtual non-event of remembrance on the first anniversary and every year since. The public moves on to the next fictional character, as resilient as those individuals in soap operas who are bereaved today, mourning tomorrow and blithely jumping into bed with somebody else next week, delightfully unhindered by any emotional baggage from the twenty-year loving marriage that tragically and unexpectedly ended just days before.
My own memories of the surreal weeks in the late summer of 1997 boil down to two things. First, my wife banning me from mowing the lawn at the time of the funeral, lest the neighbours thought badly of me or even set about me with a cricket bat. And, second, there was a comment made by a lady to a television camera outside Kensington Palace: 'How can I go back to live in Arbroath after this?' Indeed.
I suspect she did. I suspect the death was no more the end of life in Arbroath than it was of the English Reformation. The latter ended years ago; as to the former, I suppose only the residents of Arbroath have the right to opine on that, one way or the other.
There are so many comments one might make in response but I will restrict myself to just a few. First, adoration of Diana is scarcely Roman Catholic, any more than Presleyterianism can be co-opted for such a cause. I suspect an upsurge in RC baptisms post-1997 would be a more accurate gauge. Second, Diana is not, as far as I know, a saint. One colleague in Aberdeen was rumoured at the time to have expressed the thought that 'there is probably a limbo for bimbos' but I suspect that might be the best for which even the most committed Roman Catholic might hope in this instance.
In fact, the English Reformation was dead in most parts of the Sceptred Isle by the time the Princess died, at least if measured by the ambitions of Cranmer: biblical literacy, gospel preaching, pastors in every parish, reverent and thoughtful worship. But it was not being replaced by Roman Catholicism. The scenes of hysteria and then of unctuous sentimentalism which came in the immediate aftermath of the fateful Parisian car crash were signs that English life was firmly embedded in the celebrity culture which claims intimacy with strangers and, divorcing friendship from personal contact, creates fictional characters out of real, flesh-and-blood human beings. It was a portent of the way things were going. In the world of Facebook, Twitter and life as one long, continual technologically mediated public performance, Diana's life and death -- and the responses to it -- were early signs of the superficiality that was to come. One can, after all, only have a fictional relationship with a fictional character.
The public Diana was a fetish, nothing more. The superficiality of the responses to her death was indicated by the virtual non-event of remembrance on the first anniversary and every year since. The public moves on to the next fictional character, as resilient as those individuals in soap operas who are bereaved today, mourning tomorrow and blithely jumping into bed with somebody else next week, delightfully unhindered by any emotional baggage from the twenty-year loving marriage that tragically and unexpectedly ended just days before.
My own memories of the surreal weeks in the late summer of 1997 boil down to two things. First, my wife banning me from mowing the lawn at the time of the funeral, lest the neighbours thought badly of me or even set about me with a cricket bat. And, second, there was a comment made by a lady to a television camera outside Kensington Palace: 'How can I go back to live in Arbroath after this?' Indeed.
I suspect she did. I suspect the death was no more the end of life in Arbroath than it was of the English Reformation. The latter ended years ago; as to the former, I suppose only the residents of Arbroath have the right to opine on that, one way or the other.
