This short story is based on the hymn "Through All the Changing Scenes of Life", and is set in the 1960s, shortly after the publication of John A.T. Robinson's "Honest to God".
The Changing Scenes
Margaret Ellison had placed her husband’s prayer book back on the shelf, but her hand lingered on the spine as though it might still be warm. The house felt cavernous without Harold, every clock ticked too loudly, every floorboard creaked like a reminder. She sat at the dining table with the hymnbook open, the familiar words staring up at her: “Through all the changing scenes of life, in trouble and in joy…” She whispered them, though her voice faltered on joy.
The world outside was changing too. The newspapers were full of arguments about Bishop Robinson’s Honest to God. Margaret had read it in the evenings after Harold’s death, the pages trembling slightly in her hands. The first chapter, “Reluctant Revolution”, felt like a description of her own heart. She had not asked for a revolution in her faith, yet grief had thrust her into one.
She made tea, though she barely tasted it. The kettle’s whistle echoed through the empty kitchen. She sat again, pen poised above her journal.
“O magnify the Lord with me…” But how could she magnify anything when her world had shrunk to a single point of loss?
She turned to the next chapter of Robinson’s book, “The End of Theism?”, and felt a shiver. Harold would have hated the title. He had believed with the steady, uncomplicated trust of a man who never doubted the sun would rise. Margaret envied him now. She wondered whether her own faith had been merely borrowed from him, like a coat she had worn without noticing its weight. Images of God from childhood passed through her mind, the old man with a white beard in the sky, angels singing with harps in the clouds, and they seemed so insubstantial in a world in which mankind was heading in rockets to the moon.
The hymn’s next verse drifted through her mind: “The hosts of God encamp around the dwellings of the just.” She tried to picture angels standing guard around her little house, but all she saw was the empty chair by the hearth.
She opened the book again. “Chapter 3: The Ground of Our Being”. The phrase unsettled her. It felt abstract, slippery. But something in it tugged at her, an idea that God might not be “up there” but somehow beneath everything, even beneath her grief. Perhaps beneath Harold’s death too. But where should she find what Robinson called “The Ground of Being”? Nothing seemed solid now, not even the earth beneath her feet.
The next Sunday she went to church for the first time since the funeral. The vicar preached on “Chapter 4: The Man for Others”, speaking of Christ not as a distant figure but as one who walked into the world’s pain. Margaret felt her throat tighten. If Christ truly entered human suffering, then perhaps He had been beside Harold in those final hours. And perhaps he was beside her too. “Blessed are those who mourn” came to mind, and now it seemed to have new meaning. Christ was there in the midst of the mourners, the Jesus who wept at the death of his friend Lazarus. After the service, she lingered in the pew. The hymn returned to her: “O make but trial of His love…” She had always sung it confidently. Now it felt like a challenge.
At home she read “Chapter 5: Worldly Holiness”. The idea that holiness might be found in ordinary life, washing dishes, writing letters, tending a garden, felt strangely comforting. Perhaps she did not need to feel holy to be held by God. Perhaps Martha had the better part after all, and did not Mary Magdalene meet the risen Lord, tending a garden.
Then “Chapter 6: The New Morality”, the one everyone was arguing about. She found it less shocking than expected. It spoke of love as the guiding principle. Harold had lived that way without ever reading a bishop’s book. If there was not love at the heart of the universe, what was there to hope for? The substitutes for love, power, ambition, possessions so often got in the way, and judgement needed mercy, that balance of love.
Finally she reached “Chapter 7: Recasting the Mould”. She closed the book and looked around the quiet room. Perhaps that was what she was doing, recasting the mould of her faith, reshaping it around absence, around longing, around the stubborn hope that God had not abandoned her.
She opened the hymnbook once more. “Fear Him, ye saints, and ye will then have nothing else to fear.” She remembered the words in “A Grief Observed”, that grief can also be like fear, fear of facing life alone without loved ones. She recalled the disciples, mourning the death of their Lord, hidden away inside that upper room, fearful, and even fearful when he appeared before them once more. And yet beyond that fear came peace, renewal, and hope.
The Changing Scenes
Margaret Ellison had placed her husband’s prayer book back on the shelf, but her hand lingered on the spine as though it might still be warm. The house felt cavernous without Harold, every clock ticked too loudly, every floorboard creaked like a reminder. She sat at the dining table with the hymnbook open, the familiar words staring up at her: “Through all the changing scenes of life, in trouble and in joy…” She whispered them, though her voice faltered on joy.
The world outside was changing too. The newspapers were full of arguments about Bishop Robinson’s Honest to God. Margaret had read it in the evenings after Harold’s death, the pages trembling slightly in her hands. The first chapter, “Reluctant Revolution”, felt like a description of her own heart. She had not asked for a revolution in her faith, yet grief had thrust her into one.
She made tea, though she barely tasted it. The kettle’s whistle echoed through the empty kitchen. She sat again, pen poised above her journal.
“O magnify the Lord with me…” But how could she magnify anything when her world had shrunk to a single point of loss?
She turned to the next chapter of Robinson’s book, “The End of Theism?”, and felt a shiver. Harold would have hated the title. He had believed with the steady, uncomplicated trust of a man who never doubted the sun would rise. Margaret envied him now. She wondered whether her own faith had been merely borrowed from him, like a coat she had worn without noticing its weight. Images of God from childhood passed through her mind, the old man with a white beard in the sky, angels singing with harps in the clouds, and they seemed so insubstantial in a world in which mankind was heading in rockets to the moon.
The hymn’s next verse drifted through her mind: “The hosts of God encamp around the dwellings of the just.” She tried to picture angels standing guard around her little house, but all she saw was the empty chair by the hearth.
She opened the book again. “Chapter 3: The Ground of Our Being”. The phrase unsettled her. It felt abstract, slippery. But something in it tugged at her, an idea that God might not be “up there” but somehow beneath everything, even beneath her grief. Perhaps beneath Harold’s death too. But where should she find what Robinson called “The Ground of Being”? Nothing seemed solid now, not even the earth beneath her feet.
The next Sunday she went to church for the first time since the funeral. The vicar preached on “Chapter 4: The Man for Others”, speaking of Christ not as a distant figure but as one who walked into the world’s pain. Margaret felt her throat tighten. If Christ truly entered human suffering, then perhaps He had been beside Harold in those final hours. And perhaps he was beside her too. “Blessed are those who mourn” came to mind, and now it seemed to have new meaning. Christ was there in the midst of the mourners, the Jesus who wept at the death of his friend Lazarus. After the service, she lingered in the pew. The hymn returned to her: “O make but trial of His love…” She had always sung it confidently. Now it felt like a challenge.
At home she read “Chapter 5: Worldly Holiness”. The idea that holiness might be found in ordinary life, washing dishes, writing letters, tending a garden, felt strangely comforting. Perhaps she did not need to feel holy to be held by God. Perhaps Martha had the better part after all, and did not Mary Magdalene meet the risen Lord, tending a garden.
Then “Chapter 6: The New Morality”, the one everyone was arguing about. She found it less shocking than expected. It spoke of love as the guiding principle. Harold had lived that way without ever reading a bishop’s book. If there was not love at the heart of the universe, what was there to hope for? The substitutes for love, power, ambition, possessions so often got in the way, and judgement needed mercy, that balance of love.
Finally she reached “Chapter 7: Recasting the Mould”. She closed the book and looked around the quiet room. Perhaps that was what she was doing, recasting the mould of her faith, reshaping it around absence, around longing, around the stubborn hope that God had not abandoned her.
She opened the hymnbook once more. “Fear Him, ye saints, and ye will then have nothing else to fear.” She remembered the words in “A Grief Observed”, that grief can also be like fear, fear of facing life alone without loved ones. She recalled the disciples, mourning the death of their Lord, hidden away inside that upper room, fearful, and even fearful when he appeared before them once more. And yet beyond that fear came peace, renewal, and hope.
For the first time since Harold’s death, she faintest stirring of peace, and recast, renewed, the old certainties had to die, as a seed in the ground, to bring forth new life, and the acceptance that the one still point in the turning world, amidst all the changing scenes of life, was God.
To Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
The God Whom we adore,
Be glory, as it was, is now,
And shall be evermore. Amen.
To Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
The God Whom we adore,
Be glory, as it was, is now,
And shall be evermore. Amen.
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