Refiner’s Fire: C. P. Snow: Which Way Is Best?

Walking through Logan International Airport in Boston recently, I heard two people discussing religion and its importance for life. I felt somewhat surprised and wished that I could stop and ask why they were talking about that.

I asked myself why I was surprised. After all, Christians know that making a decision about Christ is the focal point of life. Then I decided that almost everything we read and see, whether on television, in the movies, or in books and magazines, overlooks the importance of Christianity. The media leads us to expect people to ignore Christianity—or at least never seriously think about it. Would I be surprised, I wondered, if I heard two people discussing the merits of lemon fresh Joy or Ban deodorant? If we knew life only from the perspective of film, tape, or print we would never suspect that people long for some kind of religious experience (I am, of course, excluding the recent trend of interest in extra-worldly encounters, which could be short-lived), if not for a surcease of the restless spirit caused in a life without Christ.

Yet there are realistic novels, as contrasted with fantasy, written in this century that take Christianity seriously, though few Christians know of them: in particular, the ambitious eleven-volume series Strangers and Brothers by C. P. Snow. The first novel came out in 1940 and the rest of the volumes were issued periodically for the next twenty or so years. Lewis Eliot, the main character, narrates each of the tales, and though most of the books do not concern him personally, the series is his story.

Snow was educated as a physicist and taught at Cambridge. During World War II he served the British government as advisor on scientific personnel. Eventually he retired from government to devote all his time to writing. The outline of Eliot’s life is similar, though that character was trained as a lawyer.

Lewis Eliot is not a Christian, nor, I suspect, is C. P. Snow. But the question of Christianity enters each of the novels in one way or another. There are believers in the series, and Snow presents them not as odd men out, but as three-dimensional characters. He treats them with respect; he never laughs at their faith. And he carefully distinguishes between nominal Christians, those who attended the Church of England more out of form and tradition and conservatism than out of firm faith in Christ, and those who are, as a friend of mine once called them, activists.

And that is what makes Strangers and Brothers unique in twentieth century literature, at least for me. Other writers use Christianity as a theme; Snow uses Christianity as a world view. His themes are power, politics, the struggles of men to live with their sinfulness. As with Lewis Eliot, who credits his sensitivity and perception to a strong sense of original sin, the way the characters deal with these issues depends on how they view life. Eliot struggles to live a moral life without faith. His friends and acquaintances who are Christians struggle with the same desire but with their faith. Snow presents a clear picture that there are two ways to handle life, either with Christ or without him.

Although Eliot muddles along nicely without faith, Snow never seems to be displaying him as exhibit A for the defense. If anything, Eliot has some rather nasty qualities that he fights, at times unsuccessfully, to overcome. Here is no sentimental approval of agnosticism. Nor are we shown how happy people are without God. On the contrary. Snow has great insight into how empty life is when God is absent.

The Light and the Dark, the fourth novel in the series, deals with just this question. It is perhaps the most powerful—certainly the most memorable—book of the eleven. Roy Calvert, a brilliant young scholar, desperately wants to believe in God. He is shredded with agony at the thought that he will never have the grace to receive faith. He has bouts of insomnia when he struggles with himself. And he envies those people around him who have never lost their faith. Eliot, who is his closest friend, tells us that “he had tasted what it was like to long to believe in God. And that night, while we walked in the winter gale, the Augustinian phrase kept ringing through his mind—‘Thou hast created us for Thyself and our hearts can never rest until they rest in Thee’ ” (Scribner’s, 1947, p. 104).

Eventually Calvert decided that he has been destined by God to remain outside his fellowship. Since he finds life without God intolerable, he volunteers for hazard duty during the war, expecting to be killed. And he is. Although Calvert is a somewhat larger-than-life character, any Christian who has ever felt shut off from God or who has thought that his prayers reach no higher than the ceiling, if that high, understands the pain Calvert experiences. Snow does not glamorize life without God.

In taking Christianity seriously, Snow does something else. He writes about what he knows: the scientific community, government, the politics of power. He anticipated what Roger C. Sider talked about in “The New Biology in Search of a Soul” (see February 10 issue, page 20) and what Saturday Review devoted an issue to in its December 10 number: “God and Science.” Snow deals specifically with physicists and development and deployment of the bomb during the war in The New Men, sixth in the series. But the issues are the same—how scientists could enter areas that were presumed to belong only to God. He also anticipated the cross-over between theology and science, just by presenting Christianity as a world view. Some of his scientists are believers, some aren’t. In fact, one of the most gifted and respected scientists is also one of Snow’s firmest believers.

Snow shows great perception about the human condition, without the psychological trappings too many modern writers bring to their work. Although Strangers and Brothers is no evangelistic tract, few people could read it without deciding that of the two ways of living, the Christian way is best. Snow might not have intended it that way, but it happens.

A Birthday Party for Washington Cathedral

The skies were overcast, the temperature was cool. Rain fell for half an hour, but the inclement weather failed to dampen the spirits of the several thousand people milling about the grounds of the Washington National Cathedral last September 30.

They were there to celebrate the seventieth anniversary of the laying of the cathedral’s cornerstone and they seemed determined to have a good time. Food concessions, flower stalls, and crafts stands abounded; mimes and jugglers performed; helium-filled balloons bobbed in profusion; and an antique merry-go-round was kept busy for the delight of children and adults alike.

Inside the massive Gothic cathedral, guides conducted stonework and stained-glass tours as choirs sang. The hardier visitors took advantage of the rare opportunity to climb to the top of the 350-foot central tower. From there they savored a panoramic view of the city.

Presiding over the festival was the Right Reverend John Walker, newly consecrated bishop of Washington. Bishop Walker is one of a very few black Episcopal bishops and the first to occupy the prestigious office of bishop of Washington. Also present was the Very Reverend Francis B. Sayre, the recently retired dean of the Cathedral. Dean Sayre, a grandson of Woodrow Wilson, is probably the person most closely associated with the cathedral. When he became dean shortly after World War II, the cathedral was only one-sixth completed. In the subsequent three decades he pushed the pace of construction strenuously with the result that the building is nearly finished. Understandably, the cathedral looms large in the life of Dean Sayre. But it also occupies a special place in the lives of the poeple of the District of Columbia—and, indeed, of the whole country.

Washington Cathedral is the nearest thing we have to a national church. It is like a republican Westminster Abbey—an image its chapter seeks energetically to foster. Flags of the fifty states hang in the transepts, bronze state seals are inlaid in the floor of the main entrance, and each Sunday prayers are offered for the people of a particular state. The church is also the setting for such national ceremonies as funerals and memorial services for prominent public figures. Each year the military services observe their anniversaries there with special commemorative services. Numerous famous personages (Woodrow Wilson, Helen Keller, and Admiral Dewey, among others) are interred in the building. Flanking the main entrance are statues of Washington and Lincoln. Many other great Americans are memorialized in one form or another throughout the church. Every year thousands of Americans pass through its doors for a look at what they are told is “your cathedral in the nation’s capital.”

In many ways, the role of Washington Cathedral is similar to that of the great medieval cathedrals. Just as the faithful of Canterbury, Chartres, and Cologne—from the mightiest to the most humble—took a personal interest in the construction of their cathedrals, so do Americans from pensioners in Oshkosh to United States senators labor in behalf of this national church. Also in the manner of its medieval counterparts, Washington Cathedral is the scene of more than religious services. The crossing is the locale for a great variety of concerts, lectures, ballets, and operas, and the grounds are the scene of festivals of every sort.

I have been entranced by this building ever since I saw it as a boy fifteen years ago. On subsequent visits to Washington, I was able to monitor the progress of its construction and, since moving to Washington two years ago, I have been a frequent visitor, watching it take shape at close hand. Crossing the Potomac River bridge you can see it floating above the city skyline in the distance. Driving through the city at night, its lighted central tower is visible from many points. Traveling up Wisconsin Avenue in the early morning, you can see the building looming above the mists.

I have spent many pleasant hours exploring it, always surprised by new details. I also think of the architect William Frohman, who lived with the building for fifty years (he died in 1972). Guides at the cathedral say that in the last years of his life, he was a common sight: a hunched old man in a tattered trench coat scrambling over the scaffolding high above the ground, poking about and cajoling the builders. An unpretentious man in life, Frohman is also something of a historical figure—the last man, in all probability, to design and supervise the construction of a Gothic cathedral. Like Sir Christopher Wren, the architect of St. Paul’s, he lies buried in his cathedral, his monument soaring above him.

According to the guide book, Congress granted the charter for the Cathedral in 1889 and construction began in 1901. The church stands on one of the choicest spots in Washington—sixty acres located atop Mt. St. Alban, the highest point in the city. In addition to the cathedral church itself, the grounds contain St. Albans preparatory school for boys and National Cathedral School for Girls, a college of preachers, St. Albans Episcopal Church, and numerous playing fields, gardens, and auxiliary buildings. Rising above all is the great church itself, its Gloria in Excelsis tower 301 feet tall—the highest point in the capital.

Unlike many medieval cathedrals where the chancel was completely screened off from the nave, Washington Cathedral employs a lace-like oak-carved screen. As a result, a visitor standing at the west entrance has a breathtaking view to the high altar almost 500 feet in the distance. Seemingly hanging in space high above the crossing is a magnificent rood beam of carved oak supporting a large crucifix flanked by carvings of St. Mary and St. John. Unlike many large churches, there is no oppressive darkness here, but rather a light and airy feeling. The arches of the nave rise 101 feet above the floor and much of the space of the walls is taken up in glass. Heightening the airiness is the fact that the windows increase in size as the eye moves upward, beginning with six-foot high lancets in the ground level main arcade, to ten-foot high windows in the triforium and ending with giant thirty-foot high windows in the clerestory. The result is that the highest level of the arches are full of light.

Altogether there are some 120 windows in the building and they are of a remarkably high standard. Although some of the glass is mediocre, there are also some examples of great art, notably several striking modernistic windows, among them the space window (complete with a piece of moon rock) by Andrew Wyeth and the newly installed west rose window designed by Rowan Le Compte. The latter, a huge window twenty-six feet in diameter, is described by Le Compte as an abstract “meditation on the creation.” When hit by the rays of the evening sun, it presents a dazzling kaleidoscope of blues, yellows, and reds.

As might be expected in so large a structure, the quality of the art varies widely. Of particularly high quality are the elaborately carved stone reredos (screen) behind the high altar, the wood carving of the choir, and the wrought iron grill work. Some of the best art is to be found in the cathedral’s eight chapels. Of these, the loveliest is St. Mary’s Chapel with its beautifully carved poly chromed reredos and sixteenth-century Flemish Tapestries.

Fully as outstanding as the cathedral’s visual arts is the music. The cathedral maintains one of the few men and boys’ choirs in the country and it is surely one of the finest choral groups to be found either here or abroad. The boys are selected from all parts of the country and are given scholarships at St. Alban’s school, in return for which they sing at services four days a week. The men are professional musicians from the Washington area. The choir is under the direction of Paul Callaway, a kinetic, gnome-like little man whose vast talents as organist and choirmaster belie his small size. Callaway’s taste in music is truly catholic and the choir’s repertory is correspondingly eclectic, ranging from plainsong to the most contemporary music. The group’s forte, to my mind, is the music of the modern Anglican school, represented by such composers as Vaughn Williams, Benjamin Britten, and Leo Sowerby.

Gazing at the cathedral from his nearby office window, Canon Jeffrey Cave reflected that, “It’s amazing that such a building could be built in the twentieth century.” The cathedral has been built, however, and for that we should be grateful. Only seventy years old and still evolving, it has nevertheless firmly established itself in our national life. The cathedral is ever changing, always intriguing, making every visit unique. Every spot offers a different vista of arches, every hour a different mutation of color in the windows.

As varied as the moods are the memories: the spontaneity of a guitar mass; the echoes of the chanting choir processing from the shadows at a hushed, wintry evensong; the pageantry of a great festival eucharist. A lovingly wrought jewel in a prefab sea of kitsch, an oasis of calm in the surrounding frenzy, the cathedral is, most importantly, a soaring affirmation of faith in a secularist age. Underscoring this fact are the words carved in the frieze around the apse wall. Taken from the angels’ chorus in Revelation, they proclaim the message of the church triumphant: “Alleluia! The Lord God omnipotent reigneth. Alleluia!”

JAMES C. ROBERTS

James C. Roberts is executive director of the American Conservative Union, Washington, D.C.

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