Land of miracles

I don’t know how we wound up on Pilgrim’s Way, legendary site of King Arthur and Queen Guenevere’s graves. My wife Harriet and I stopped in Glastonbury last Sunday, intending only to recharge our EV on the way to Stonehenge, but there we were, trudging up Wearyall Hill in the rain.  Joseph of Arimathea is supposed to have traveled the same path 500 years before Arthur, planting his staff and seeing it sprout into a “Holy Thorn” tree (crataegus monogyna), incarnation of Jesus’s crown of thorns. This was a land of miracles, and I wanted one. I looked up at the sky and just that second, saw the sun break through the clouds. I quickly checked my phone for news, hoping the Supreme Court gained a conscience or that lightning struck players on a certain, West Palm Beach Florida golf course.  

Dialogue in Bristol

We travelled to Glastonbury from Bristol earlier that day after meeting for breakfast with our friend Wade Rathke. Wade is head of ACORN (Association of Community Organizations for Reform Now), founded in 1970 by him and Gary Delgado. At its peak, it had some 1200 local chapters and 500,000 members in more than 100 U.S. cities.  ACORN waged successful campaigns in support of minority voter registration, living wage laws, and fair housing, among other things, until a right-wing smear campaign (in addition to some self-goals), nearly destroyed the organization in 2009. Since then, it’s regrouped and re-focused on international work, and is now leading ambitious housing, corporate accountability and environmental health campaigns in Latin America, Eastern Europe and the U.K. It was Wade’s ongoing support for Anthropocene Alliance – the environmental non-profit founded in 2017 by Harriet and me — that led us to meet up in Bristol. 

Wade is an energetic man with a sweep of white hair, prominent nose, and attentive blue eyes. He was born in Laramie, raised in New Orleans and gained his organizing chops in Little Rock. His accent reveals his Southern upbringing, and his speech is peppered with expressions like “that dog don’t hunt” and “all sizzle and no steak.” He’s a great talker but his confidence doesn’t get in the way of his ability to listen. After Harriet and I described some of the challenges of grassroots organizing, including the cost of underwriting it, we all fell into silence. After a little while, I broke it with flattery and a few cliches of my own: 

“Wade, we’re like the fox and you’re like the hedgehog; we have many wiles, but you have one big one. 

Right now, everybody agrees that grassroots organizing is the only way to halt the rise of fascism in the U.S. and U.K. In the U.S., the courts are disinclined to bail us out, Congress sure won’t, and when push comes to shove, the military will salute and follow orders from Trump. In the U.K., Labour seems to have a death-wish. It has cut budgets and services where it should increase them, for example social welfare, and raised them where it should cut them, for example defense. 

Democratic ships of state on both sides of the Atlantic are going down unless people go into the streets and demand change. Wade, you’re one of the people that really knows how to organize. Philanthropies ought to be throwing money at you to help fight this thing!”

Wade took a few beats before replying: “The folks I’ve met at the Malcolm X Community Center here in Bristol have been coming up to me and saying: ‘What are you gonna do about ‘that man’? How are YOU gonna stop him?’ 

I felt like they were blaming me – and why shouldn’t they? We didn’t do enough to prevent Trump’s rise. We just didn’t. And unless the Labour Party gets its act together, the same thing will happen here. Nigel Farage is waiting in the wings with his MAGA cap. 

And as for organizing, there’s never any guarantees. Some people are too tired, beaten, or scared to get organized. Others aren’t mad or hungry enough.  Eventually, they will be, and we need to be ready. But will it happen in time? I just don’t know. We may need a miracle.” 

We chatted some more and then said our goodbyes. Wade was flying back to New Orleans, and we were headed down to Stonehenge, on the Salisbury Plain in Wiltshire. William Blake painted and drew it several times, and I wanted inspiration for my planned monograph on the artist. He thought the builders of Stonehenge were Druids who practiced human sacrifice and cultivated war; their monument, he said, was a “building of eternal death, whose proportions are eternal despair.”  I wanted to see for myself.

Unplanned stop in Glastonbury

Heading south, we decided to stay off the motorways and stick to small roads; rural Somerset and Wiltshire have rolling hills with distant prospects and quaint villages with thatched cottages, and we wanted to see them. Our GPS however, obliged us too well. After about 30 minutes, we realized we’d gone far out of our way and were now approaching Glastonbury. Needing to recharge the car, we decided to stop there. 

The name Glastonbury is familiar because of the music festival held eight miles away in Pilton, and the ruined abbey, originally founded in the 8^th century. After charging the car, we walked up High Street for a cup of tea.  What a silly town! Nearly every other shop sold crystals, charms, herbal remedies, candles and books on witchcraft and paganism. Tourists here are a mix of pensioners (like me), New Age gurus, Wiccans, goths, hippies, dope smokers (in the alleys), Christians, Arthurians, and families with dogs and kids wanting a day out. 

Despite its thriving tourist industry, Glastonbury is a bit shabby, like almost everywhere in the U.K. For more than 15 years, under Tory rule, county budgets across the country were cut while expenses for social care, homelessness, education and environmental protection rose. As a result, most towns and cities are plagued by empty storefronts and decaying infrastructure, and its residents by unemployment or under-employment (“shit jobs”), poverty (especially child poverty), and food insecurity.

Refreshed by our tea, we were ready to see the sights. In a discarded National Trust brochure, I read about the fabled Glastonbury Tor, a nearby, conical hill on top of which sit remains of the 15^th century church of St. Michael. Deep below the church, I also read, there exists a cave (according to legend), leading to the fairy realm of Annwn where lives Gwyn ab Nudd, the lord of the Celtic underworld. Gwyn was renowned for heroic feats, including helping King Arthur seize the comb and scissors belonging to the ferocious boar, Twrch Trwyth. Remembering what Wade told us about needing a miracle to stop Trump (a ferocious bore if ever there was one) we decided to brave the rain squalls and ascend the Tor. 

Part way up, we paused at the gate leading to Chalice Hill, where Joseph of Arimathea is supposed to have buried the Holy Grail, the cup used by Jesus during the last supper, and later by Joseph to catch the savior’s blood during the crucifixion. The legend is of considerable antiquity and much honored, but nobody ever discusses how Joseph is supposed to have gotten to Glastonbury from Jerusalem, circa 33 CE. On reflection, however, I realized it might not have been so hard. He didn’t have to go through airport security or pass a customs inspection. He wouldn’t have had to brave the endless cue to board the Eurostar in Paris. In fact, as a Palestinian from Judea, he wouldn’t be allowed to enter the U.S. or the U.K. at all today! Back then, there were no passports or visas. All he needed to come to Glastonbury was a boat, a donkey cart to pick him up at the harbor, and a few good pairs of sandals.

About 20 minutes into our trek, we approached a fellow pilgrim – a man about 25-year-old, bearded, wearing a daypack and holding a walking stick. He slowed when he heard me telling Harriet that many people believe that Joseph of Arimathea was the possessor of “those feet” in Blake’s famous lyric, but that I wasn’t so sure:

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon Englands mountains green:
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On Englands pleasant pastures seen!

“The Holy Lamb of God,” from the Gospel of St. John, I said, clearly referred to Christ. Was Blake saying that both Joseph and Jesus were on that boat from Palestine? Why, of all the places on earth, I added, did they pick Roman-occupied Britain? That’s like going from the frying pan into the fire. 

That’s when the stranger piped up:  “But it must have been Joseph who came here. There are many, early sources that speak about Christ’s disciples in England, including Eusebius and Hilary of Poitiers. In the 12^th century, Robert de Boron wrote that Joseph sent the Holy Grail to Britain.  Why do you scoff at the idea that Joseph – and maybe his cousin Jesus too — came to England? There’s an 18-year gap in gospel accounts of Christ’s life. What’s to say he didn’t do a bit of traveling?”

I replied: “You mean, he took an extended gap year abroad?” 

My new friend answered: “Exactly! And there are other clues in the poem suggesting Joseph was the owner of “those feet.” He was a tinsmith, a metalworker, and Blake’s poem has refences to metalic weapons:

Bring me my Bow of burning gold:
Bring me my arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my Chariot of fire!

I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand:
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In Englands green & pleasant Land.

I’d clearly met my match and said so. Harriet and I said adieu and departed to finish our climb up Glastonbury Tor – 140 stone steps and a sequence of concrete ramps – to the ruins of the church of St. Michael. When we arrived, I cast my gaze in all directions, looking for more portent or signs. What about the swallowtail kite who seemed forever to hang in the air, held there by the steady rush of wind? I searched the news on my phone again – nothing. Deflated but undaunted, we headed back to town. We went down Chalice Hill, Wearyall Hill, Pilgrim’s Way and the High Street. We brushed past dogs and children, Wiccans and pensioners, dope smokers and Arthurians. This time, I walked more slowly past the New Age tchotchke shops and bookstores; I briefly browsed in one. Then we got back into our fully-charged car and drove back up to our flat in Norwich.

The post Miracle in Glastonbury appeared first on CounterPunch.org.

This post was originally published on CounterPunch.org.