At the moment, I'm sitting beneath St. Catherine's Chapel above Abbotsbury. Its a ruin, though remarkably preserved. A pilgrims chapel built in the 1300's. It sits at the top of a pyramidal hill, all alone. There is nothing else on the hill, not even trees. The inside smells like a man made cave I used to play in as a child, musty and earthy. I noticed the floor was strewn with lavender, drifts of purple line the walls, and the faintest hint of it can be smelled mixed in with the dust and age.
I am always surprised at the austerity of old country Christianity. This chapel alone on this hill, overlooking what is most of the year, a rainy and dangerous coastline. Well maybe that isn't so, but in my imagination I see dark clouds and roiling seas, bitter sea winds beating against it. On the other side, in valley protected from the weather by this hill, is the town.
What kind of god inhabited this chapel. One above you always, looking down coldly. Not a warm and inviting presence, an austere one that stands firm in the face of nature. There would have been suffering walking unprotected up this hill in a howling wind, and when you reached the stout, but doubtless chilly interior, you might have felt protected, but not comfortable.
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