The Leper Chapel
“You are not here to verify, instruct yourself
Or inform curiosity or carry report,
You are here to kneel,
Where prayer has been valid.”
-T.S. Eliot
My bus slowed to a halt on Newmarket Road in Cambridge, England. I held my breath in anticipation; this was the moment I had been playing over and over in my mind. Twice a day for the previous week the small church had slid past my window on the route to and from the center of town. Each time I felt stirred to look closer at the stone walls, to touch the tall wooden doors. Brief moments of consideration turned into a determination of will; this was my chance. I stepped onto the cracked sidewalk, waked past the bus stop benches and toward the iron entrance gate.
The historical marker outside the church named it The Chapel of St. Mary Magdalene. It was built in the twelfth century under the reign of King Henry I, and it is commonly called the Leper Chapel. The church originally served as a place of worship for a lepers’ hospital that stood far on the outskirts of medieval Cambridge. Although it has been patched and renovated over time, it holds the title of the oldest complete building in the city. Over the last 900 years it has been used primarily as a place of worship, but also as a market house and a horse stable. Through it all the building structure has been relatively unchanged.
The foundation of the walls is a rough, red brick. The grainy texture of the blocks and mortar gives evidence of the chapel’s age. This layer quickly fades into the larger gray stones that compose most Cambridge buildings and a seam of cobblestones lines the top. The church is not much larger than a small house, but it sits in the middle of an undeveloped green field of grass. The path that leads to the door takes visitors through the gate and downhill to the level of the original city.
As I observed the building it struck me that this chapel was built when the Earth was flat. The heavens still revolved around the lepers that attended here; even their isolated community was kept in the center of the universe. Enlightenment science has since changed humanity’s view of our place in the cosmos, but the significance of the Leper Chapel has increased by its physical transcendence through the progression of time.
This chapel exists for those cast away from society. It is named after Mary Magdalene, a woman rejected by her community but embraced by Christ. The lepers that worshipped here knew the significance of that love. As patients in a hospital, this Chapel was seen as necessary part of their therapy. Jesus healed lepers throughout his ministry, thus a chapel devoted to his worship holds that hope. The unclean are made holy and acceptable by the grace of God both spiritually and physically. I have been the unclean one, and this Chapel invited me to worship also.
A sign informed the curious that the Leper Chapel is still used for services on a biweekly basis, but that weekday visitors could find the key at a nearby house. The doors are kept locked to prevent vandalism, but it is still a house of worship for all to use. After some confusion I found the address, and an elderly lady greeted me on the porch. With a cheerful smile she handed me an ancient iron key and showed me where to return it when I was finished. I thanked her and turned back toward the chapel.
There in my hands was the key to the oldest building in Cambridge. It was heavy and cold, but it allowed me the entry that I had been seeking. It gave me access to a church that had stood for nearly a millennium, and it was handed to me without a background check or even an appointed supervisor. I received the responsibility gladly; such freedom felt right in my spirit. It seemed appropriate that a church built for the lepers- the outcasts of society- would still be available to the public. It was built to embrace the outcasts, and I was invited to share that invitation.
As I neared the church my heart fluttered. Expectation threatened to dull reality. The key fit loosely in the old lock. I turned it with one hand while pressing my weight against the heavy wooden panels. A creak shuddered along the hinges; the lock clicked; and the door did not move an inch in its frame. I chuckled to myself and tried again. This time I turned the key and then applied pressure. Again it resisted. Anticipation morphed into anxiety. Three, four, five attempts followed, each with the key at a slightly different angle or the pressure of my weight in a different spot. The traffic lined up alongside the chapel in rush hour delay. Drivers undoubtedly wondered at the woman prying at the old church doors. I shrugged off lingering pride and continued the performance for my commuter audience. After at least fifteen attempts I gave up in frustration. Reluctantly, I turned back toward the key warden’s house.
The pleasant lady greeted me on the walk; she was surprised to see me so soon. I told her of my troubles and she gave me a patient smile. Apparently a few people suffer from the same problem. She offered to escort be back, and I gratefully accepted her offer. The trick, I learned, was to lift and push at the same time. Such a small difference in technique popped the door open immediately. She handed me the key and left me to the company of silence and history.
At first I was frustrated with my own failure. The moment that I had looked forward to had been colored by my own inadequacy and embarrassment. It was humiliating to ask for help in such a simple task as opening a door. Yet as the reality of my situation settled, I realized that my experience held a greater truth than I could have ever planned. How often do we reach our goals unassisted? Does independence truly equal satisfaction? My journey of faith has proved the point. Often I miss the way, ignore the truth, or crumple under pressure when I try to make my own way. But when the journey is consulted, submitted and shared with others, I experience the strength of the Body of Christ and truth that exceeds my personal understanding. My helper reminded me of the truth I would have otherwise missed: even as I took a private journey to the Leper Chapel, it was not a movement into isolation.
The door shut heavily behind me. Evening sun streamed through the small windows onto stone walls painted white. The effect was a soft, yellow light that clung to the dust in the air. The furnishings were the sparse necessities of an occasional church with two rows of wooden chairs facing a wide altar. On my right was a small pulpit with an open Bible on top. The room was largely undecorated save the puckish faces that stared down from the rafters with twisted, friendly grins. A single wooden cross marked the front wall beneath the high, dark beams of the Norman roof. The only noise came from the birds in nearby trees.
The chapel seemed to somehow escape the bounds of age and era. The floors and walls had spots where the stones were indented from generations of feet and hands. The shuffling feet of lepers, priests and parishioners had made a smooth path to the altar. My own visit was simply one more pair of hands and feet that would add to the wear. I was equally a part of the congregation.
There is confidence in the history of Leper Chapel. It is a physical testimony to a culture of faith that finds relevance and resonance in my own life. The history of the lepers is my own history. We are broken, outcast, and incapable. Some cannot even open doors for themselves. Together we form the Church of generations, the Body that Christ heads. The faith experience of lepers blends with my own through the prayers we share and the very chapel in which we worship. The current of their prayers and the depth of faith’s history drew me toward the front.
I knelt and prayed. My knees and palms pressed against the cool floor. Silence surrounded me, and the air was thick with absorbed petitions from generations passed. Mine joined the chorus. The space and the heritage of the Leper Chapel were available to me for a unique moment in time, and I was able to appreciate it with others before me. The climax was in the calm. It was a gift facilitated by others: the twelfth century builders, the community of faith in Cambridge, and the key warden among many others. I felt my prayers shift toward a close, and I stood to face the door.
At the exit was a guest book for visitors to sign. I debated the ramifications of leaving my name. My experience at the Leper Chapel had been intensely personal, and the anonymity of my solitude was part of that encounter. Yet it was the history of people that worshipped there before that gave my time its significance. Now I was one of the past worshippers, my feet and hands had worn away the stone, and the echoes of my prayers lingered in the rafters. I wrote my name.
The Chapel of St. Mary Magdalene is now part of my life story, and I am a part of its 900-year history. The Holy Spirit entwines my soul with the saints that have gone before—with those that built the stone walls and the lepers that were banished from city limits—and that connection will reach the visitors that are yet to come. More feet will glide toward the altar; many hands will hold the heavy key and open the aged door. As I shut and locked the door behind me, I knew that I would always keep the memory of a space that invites outcasts in the name of Christ.
