A new friend, Ian, recently regaled me with the tale of his meeting one of his distant ancestors. At first, I found the story incredible but later discovered it to be, not the product of a fevered imagination, but a narrative solidly based in verifiable fact.
When he was a young boy, Ian took instruction from the vicar of the Anglican parish in the village where he lived. After one of his visits to the recto-ry concluded, the canon asked the boy if he would like to see something un-usual. He then led Ian to another room and brought up from its hiding place a large coffer. Opening this container the vicar lifted out a small box and opened it for the boy to view.
Inside the box was a human head, not merely a skull, but a head with flesh on it. Ian looked quickly at the head and then shrank back in horror. The vicar then explained to him that he had just seen the head of Oliver Cromwell, the famous anti-royalist leader who in mid-17th century England had overthrown King Charles I.
When Ian told his parents about this encounter, they expressed surprise that he did not know his family’s history. They explained that they were directly descended from Cromwell who was Ian’s great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandfather.
How Cromwell’s head came into the vicar’s possession is in itself a complicated story. After the restoration of the monarchy later in the 17th cen-tury, the British parliament decreed that Cromwell’s body be removed from its tomb in Westminster Abbey and hanged. It was then drawn and quartered and the head was cut off and placed on a spike on the top of Westminster Hall. Later it was passed around, sold and resold, until somehow the vicar of the village church received it. Now it is reportedly buried in Sidney Sussex College of Cambridge University, at a location known to only a few people.
I have related this admittedly bizarre tale, not to be ghoulish, but to stir reflection on the experience of time. At age 76, Ian now looks back on four centuries of history brought vividly to life by the encounter with his grandfather to the tenth power. For him, time is a living reality that takes him back to the earlier generations of his family.
No one else known to me can rival this personal story for its sweep and its drama but many people can reach rather far back into history. Out of family archives I recently held in my hands a photo of myself with a relative who was born in the year 1832. She was my grandmother’s Aunt Kate who came from St. Louis to visit her niece in Peabody, Massachusetts and ended up staying for forty years. She died after celebrating her hundredth birthday.
When you consider that this woman with whom I talked as a four-year-old, had grandparents who must have been born around the time of the American Revolution, history seems much shorter than we usually imagine it.
These anecdotes and reflections have been prompted by the turn of the centuries and millennia that we have lived through this month. I find it still hard to believe that I have lasted into this new era. Not so long ago, it seemed almost unimaginably far off, yet here we have arrived.
Of course, our marking of time has something arbitrary about it. You don’t have to keep to the method adopted by the western world. Instead, to cite only two alternatives, you can use the Jewish calendar and the year 5760 or reckon from the birth of the Buddha 563 years before Christ.
But however you observe it, time plays a dominant role in our modern life. Its rhythms give our lives meaning and give us reasons to look both forward and backward. Perhaps most important, these rhythms can prompt us to look more closely at the ways in which we have changed.
One of my favorite writers, Frederick Buechner explains how the pas-sage of time has affected him: “As I grow older, less inhibited, dottier, I find it increasingly easy to move toward being who I truly am, let the chips fall where they may. I also find it easier to relate to others as they truly are too, which is at its heart, I suspect, rather a good deal like the rest of the human race including me. I find myself addressing people I hardly know as though I have known them always and taking the risk of saying things to them that, before I turned seventy, I wouldn’t have dreamed of saying.”
A group of elders to whom I quoted the first part of Buechner’s statement wholeheartedly agreed with it. They, too, have discovered themselves to have moved toward who they really are. And they welcome this unsuspected benefit of time.
Richard Griffin