Commemoration of Benefactors
On the first Sunday of February, we invite all donors who have given over £10,000 or are in their 10th consecutive year of giving back to College for a service of thanks in the Chapel followed by a dinner in Hall.
“Let us thankfully commemorate our pious Founder and those our Benefactors by whose munificence our College has been adorned with buildings and sustained with liberal endowments, that it may be a place of education, religion, learning and research.”
For 2018, we enjoyed a Chapel address given by Dr Nigel Chancellor DL (1990), former Domus Bursar at Trinity Hall. You can read his address below.
In over 25 years listening to the Address at the Commemoration of Benefactors service, I cannot disassociate the well-fed, robed, bewigged and enthroned portrait of Sir Nathanael Lloyd hanging in its golden glory behind High Table as the archetypal image of the college benefactors we remember to-day. Nathanael Lloyd spent his money beautifying the modest medieval brick facade of Dr Eden’s ‘poor college’. In return, he ordered that his portrait and the largest memorial in this chapel be put up in his honour. In these terms benefaction was a tradition of transactional self-aggrandisement.
Making gifts to the College is a deeply personal issue that reveals much about the donor, as the example of Nathanael Lloyd shows. Others such as Dennis Avery, one of our most significant benefactors in modern times was motivated by his own experience as a student here for one year. His benefactions were full of altruism and empathy. He was motivated by a desire to give back and to encourage. Dennis and Dr Eden, 350 years earlier, both shared a desire to help sustain the College finances and improve the lives of its students, both gave generously and modestly; no self-aggrandisement here. I remember that when the old South Court was changed to Avery Court, Dennis was emotionally overcome because, as he put it, ‘the name of a simple label maker from California would be incorporated into the fabric of this ancient college’. Today, we can give thanks especially for Dennis Avery’s generosity towards worship in this Chapel. His gift of the outstanding Carsten Lund organ, with funds for organ scholarships and our outstanding Director of Music continues to inspire members of the College and students from elsewhere to give their time and singing skills to the choir, adding so much to the quality of our worship in this place.
The motivation for these benefactions remains clear. But, what of other forms of giving where no material exchange is involved yet the College is clearly a substantial beneficiary? I would like to suggest that Henry Fawcett and his wife Millicent Garrett Fawcett are a powerful story of ‘benefaction by example’. Their moving double portrait by Ford Maddox Brown, hangs in the National Portrait Gallery.
Consider our own striking portrait of Henry ‘Blind’ Fawcett which hangs adjacent to Nathaniel Lloyd in the Hall. Gone is the self-congratulatory image of power and wealth, and in its place a representation of heroic achievement in spite of the disability of total blindness. Fawcett was distinguished both as the leading academic in his field of Political Economy but also as a Member of Parliament and senior member of Gladstone’s reforming governments. He supported the Trade Union movement legalised in 1872, and as Post-Master-General, introduced a national savings scheme which provided working families with the means to save for when they could no longer work through age, illness or injury.
Henry Fawcett was a brilliant mathematician who achieved distinction as the 7thWrangler in the finals of 1856. This was followed immediately by the offer of a fellowship at Trinity Hall in the same year; he was 23. But, his life changed irrevocable when he was totally blinded in a shooting accident two years later in 1858. Notwithstanding this disaster, he became a leader in the philosophy of political economy, which the University recognised with a chair in 1863 at the age of thirty. Beyond academia, Fawcett had a driving desire for social reform and was determined to have a political career notwithstanding his disability. In Victorian terms, what he needed was a wife who would run two homes, one in Cambridge and one in London; a wife who would be his domestic manager, secretary, nurse, and mother to his children. What he found, was a woman of fierce independent spirit with a passionate cause equally absorbing as his own, who would also perform all the above. The story of the Fawcett’s and their significance as benefactors was as examples of individual commitment to a moral crusade of human rights no less powerful than their commitment to each other.
For his part, Fawcett had been a supporter of the suffragist movement from its earliest beginnings. Friendship with the political philosopher John Stuart Mill, the MP for Westminster, encouraged him into a career in Parliament. He was elected as MP for Brighton in 1865 and subsequently for Hackney in 1874. Through Mill he was introduced to the remarkable sisters, Elizabeth and Millicent Garrett. He fell in love, and proposed to the eldest, Elizabeth. Fawcett was clearly a charismatic man. His imposing figure, over 6ft 3in with angular features dominated by sightless eyes behind dark glasses that produced a dramatic and romantic appearance; some might say ‘cool’ in today’s idiom. He was an impressive figure when he rose to speak in the House of Commons, with his commanding voice and his stature augmented by a tall, black top hat (it was then the custom for MPs to wear top hats in the Chamber). You will find Fawcett towering over the other Trinity Hall Fellows in Robert Farren’s picture of Degree Morning (1863) which hangs in the Porters’ Lodge. For her part, Elizabeth Garrett was also a strong supporter of women’s suffrage but she was also a passionate student of medical science and practice. After an agonising deliberation, Elizabeth rejected Fawcett’s offer of marriage in order to concentrate her time and energy to be the first woman in Britain to qualify as a doctor, which she did in 1865.
Perhaps no-one other than Elizabeth’s younger sister was more aware of the pain attached to the decision to refuse Henry Fawcett. Perhaps no-one other than Elizabeth’s younger sister was more aware of the pain attached to the decision to refuse Henry Fawcett. But, it was this shared experience that brought Millicent and Henry together into a deep and lasting relationship; their individual achievements were always the result of mutual support and interaction. They never lost sight of each other’s ambitions. Their daughter Philippa was born in 1868.
Brilliant as his academic and reforming record is, Fawcett’s outstanding contribution to the emancipation of women which we celebrate in this centenary year, is of national and international significance. The Representation of the People Act 1918 gave most men and six million women the vote. He gains this accolade through partnership with his wife and their shared beliefs.
Having joined the women’s suffragist movement in 1866 as its secretary at the age of 19, Millicent went on to become President of the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies in 1898 and remained its national leader until after the achievement of qualified women’s suffrage in 1918.
The Fawcett’s had two homes, one in Cambridge which was the centre of their academic work together. Millicent shared her husband’s enthusiasm for Political Economy and together they published two works on the subject. In 1875, Millicent became the joint founder of Newnham College with the political economist Henry Sidgwick, a close colleague of Henry’s at Cambridge. The couple’s second home was in London from where they worked on Henry’s constituency business, first in Brighton and then in the London Borough of Hackney. It was also the centre of Fawcett’s parliamentary activity at Westminster where he used his powerful oratory and political influence to promote women’s suffrage and social reform. In turn, Millicent spoke persuasively on social issues in his constituencies. It was their joint decision to gain support for the suffragist movement through parliamentary and political processes, carefully avoiding the public’s mixed reactions to Emmeline Pankhurst’s street warrior ‘suffragettes’. Their marriage lasted from 1867 until Fawcett became ill and died from pleurisy in November 1884. Doubtless, Dr Elizabeth Garrett Anderson was close by giving advice on his treatment, and as a support to her sister and brother-in-law. Millicent was inconsolable when Henry died. She retired from all public work for a year, before returning to the cause which she and Henry had jointly championed. She became President of the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies and was its leader when, almost one hundred years ago to the day, on 6th February 1918, the Representation of the People Act received Royal Assent, giving most men and six million women the vote. Henry and Millicent Fawcett were a true partnership of reforming minds. Together they are an early example of how professional men and women can successfully combine their public lives within a domestic framework. They joined their unshakeable wills to succeed in spite of physical disability and social prejudice. They are buried together in the cemetery at Trumpington.
In commemorating Trinity Hall’s Benefactors it is hard to find any whose achievements come close to the national significance of women’s suffrage. Clearly, Henry Fawcett is entitled to a substantial share of Millicent Fawcett’s fame as the national suffragist leader. This address suggests that it is the example of mutual love and support between two extraordinary people that informs the ethos of this ‘very friendly’ College and qualifies the Fawcetts as benefactors who gave by example. Tonight we give thanks for all Trinity Hall’s benefactors but especially for the lives and achievements of Henry and Millicent Fawcett.
Giving, Receiving, and Giving Thanks
We have just heard two very different biblical texts. The first, from 1 Samuel, seems to fit the theme of commemorating benefactors very well, with its description of Hannah’s pious dedication of her young son to God’s service. A generous benefaction indeed! And in contrast to the terrors of child sacrifice that mark the Old Testament stories of Abraham and Isaac or Jephthah and his unnamed daughter, the story of Hannah’s gift exudes nothing but cosy, familial warmth. Indeed, if we were to read on a little further, we’d hear how each year Hannah would make for Samuel ‘a little robe and take it to him’ when ‘she went up with her husband to offer the yearly sacrifice’, and how each year, in what we might see as an ancient equivalent to this commemoration service ‘Eli would bless Elkanah and Hannah’, praying that the Lord would repay them both for the gift they had made (2:19-20). It’s a restful story of devout giving and grateful receiving, in which God seems to smile on everyone concerned, and all is well with the world.
By contrast, our lesson from Hebrews has a somewhat harried quality: things seem much more on edge. As the lesson opens God has definitely not been smiling. On the contrary, the verses just before those we’ve heard tell how because of God’s anger at the Israelites’ disobedience after their exodus from Egypt, their ‘bodies fell in the wilderness’ (3:17) instead of finding rest in the promised land. And with this frightening example in mind, the writer urges us to gird up our loins and ‘make every effort to enter [God’s] rest’, lest we, too, fall ‘through such disobedience as theirs’. And just in case we’re tempted to think that it might be possible to sneak in by dissembling or deception, the writer warns us that ‘the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing until it divides soul from spirit, joints from marrow’, judging ‘the thoughts and intentions of the heart’, so that ‘before him no creature is hidden, but all are naked and laid bare’. Here all is evidently not well with the world, and our destiny seems poised precariously on a knife-edge.
Now, one way to handle the tension between these two very different readings would be simply to link them as promise and threat: a message that acts of true generosity will be rewarded (as described in 1 Samuel), while disobedience will lead to sure and swift destruction (following Hebrews). Do well and you will prosper; do wickedly, and you will suffer the consequences. But although this way of putting things may seem at first glance to give us a clear and obvious choice, on a little reflection it’s not evident that the options presented are especially helpful, for when faced with a God who so ‘judges the thoughts and intentions of the heart’ as to leave nothing hidden, can any of us really be confident that any of our efforts are as selfless, and thus as worthy of reward, as Hannah’s? And when applied to the dynamics of benefaction, this worry touches those who receive gifts as much as the benefactors themselves, since the motives of the receiver in such exchanges seem likely to be even less pure than those of the giver.
In this way, the words of Hebrews raise in a disturbing fashion the question of what exactly we’re doing on days of commemoration such as this. Is it the case, perhaps, that solemn expressions of thanks for persons long dead, with little if any attention to the source of their riches or the circumstances surrounding their gifts, serves as rather tenuous and uncertain cover for consciences that should be far more uneasy about the sources of institutional wealth. And when we move to the living, to what extent is it all just a matter of toadying up to the donors of the present day, in the hope of eliciting further gifts? Seen from this perspective, the whole exercise of commemorating benefactors seems a colossal moral hazard on both sides: donors and recipients alike faced with questions of mixed motives and self-seeking in the pursuit of one another’s good will. Do any of us really want to contemplate what it all looks like in the eyes of a God before whom ‘all are naked and laid bare’?
To see how serious the problem is, consider that even the warm glow of Hannah’s benefaction loses much of its lustre upon further investigation. It seems pretty clear from the reading that Elkanah, at least, is initially uneasy about the whole affair – and why shouldn’t he be? For it turns out that Hannah’s ‘offering’ of Samuel isn’t a spontaneous act of generosity after all, but a simple case of tit for tat. For she had been barren and desperate for a child, so wearied by the taunts thrown at her by Peninah, Elkanah’s other wife, over her childlessness that she made a bargain with God: ‘if only,’ she promised, ‘you will…not forget your servant, but will give to your servant a male child, then I will set him before you as a nazirite until the day of his death’ (v. 11). So the offering of Samuel is no benefaction at all, really – just a payment for services rendered.
And what about the priest Eli, the recipient of Hannah’s ‘benefaction’? Well, it turns out that he’s anything but the saintly soul we might imagine from the portion of the narrative that we’ve heard. We first meet him just a little earlier in the chapter, when Hannah, having finally had enough of years of her rival’s insults, flees to the sanctuary to pray. She is so choked with emotion that ‘only her lips moved, but her voice was not heard’. Eli, seeing her ‘thought she was drunk’ and, in an exquisite example of pastoral insensitivity (ordinands take note!), said to her, ‘How long will you make a drunken spectacle of yourself? Put away your wine’ (v 14). And it gets worse. For we soon discover that Eli is not only a self-righteous twit, but also that his ministry is thoroughly corrupt and stands condemned by God, who solemnly declares: ‘I swear to the house of Eli that the iniquity of Eli’s house shall not be expiated by sacrifice or offering for ever’ (3:13-14).
Now, if even Hannah’s offering turns out to be so badly compromised, what hope is there for us in our institutional practices of giving and receiving? ‘Benefaction’ means ‘doing good’, but if even Hannah’s gift is tainted, there would seem ample reason to be doubtful how much good is really to be found in any benefaction, if you scratch a little beneath the surface. Perhaps it would be better quietly to abandon the whole enterprise of commemorating benefactors, to let the dead bury their dead (as someone once suggested), and move on to other matters.
Now, you’ll be relieved to hear that I don’t think this is how we should proceed – and not just because Mrs McFarland didn’t raise any children so impolite as to come as a guest to someone else’s college and trash their Commemoration of Benefactors service. For in addition to considerations of basic civility, there are good evangelical reasons why the rather dismal picture I’ve presented thus far cannot be allowed to be the last word on the commemoration of benefactors.
This isn’t to say that the moral hazards I’ve identified are illusory or inconsequential: there’s plenty of room for frank and honest discussion about the ‘politics’, for lack of a better word, of fundraising on the one hand and charitable giving on the other. Yet such discussion, however important, can’t be the last word, any more than frank and honest acknowledgement of human beings’ propensity for dishonesty should cause us to dismiss the possibility of speaking the truth. Because in a world where national newspapers advocate the elimination of foreign aid, a world in which nations turn their backs on refugees, a world where many of the richest spend fortunes to establish fortified redoubts to protect their wealth in fear of imminent apocalypse, the grateful acknowledgement of those who give away their wealth to benefit others is needed now more than ever.
To be sure, it’s true that the word of God judges ‘the thoughts and intentions of the heart’ so as to leave nothing hidden. And for that reason we dare not trust to our own goodness of heart when giving gifts or receiving them. When ‘all are naked and laid bare’, there is none of us who will be able to give an adequate account of his stewardship, not Hannah, not Eli, not Lady Margaret Beaufort or William Bateman, and not you or I. But our lesson from Hebrews doesn’t end with this stark reminder of our own inabilities and shortcomings, but with the good news of Jesus. For although it’s true that God’s sharp, piercing, living and active word judges until it lays everything bare, it is also true that we have a great high priest who intercedes on our behalf, who, because he has been ‘in every respect tested as we are’, is able ‘to sympathise with our weaknesses’, knowing our faults and forgiving them.
With our mixed and flawed motives, our self-interest, our vanity and our fears, we have no basis for presumption before the throne of God. Quite the contrary. But we are not for that reason to give up, to despair of doing good, to resign ourselves to an existence that is incapable of advancing beyond the narrow confines of calculated self-interest. Far from making us timid or despondent, our neediness, the writer of Hebrews tells us, should inspire us to ‘approach the throne of grace with boldness, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need’. Our giving and our receiving are undoubtedly flawed, but we are nevertheless to give and receive boldly, for it is God and not ourselves who ensures the goodness of our giving and receiving; and although it’s not in our power to ensure that what we do will be to the good, it is in God’s power to do so, and it’s in that power that we should trust.
With that in mind, let’s turn back one last time to the story of Hannah’s gift. As I’ve already noted, it’s a much more ambiguous affair, in terms of the motivations and merits of those giving and receiving, than appears to be the case at first glance. Yet consider that whatever Hannah thought she was giving or Eli thought he was receiving, the gift remained, and its significance turned out to be far greater than either Hannah or Eli could have imagined. For we read that as ‘Samuel grew up, the Lord was with him and let none of his words fall to the ground. And all Israel from Dan to Beer-sheba knew that Samuel was a trustworthy prophet of the Lord’ (3:19-20), so much so, in fact, that it was through Samuel that God called and anointed kings for Israel, first Saul, and then David, the great king, from whose line would come that same high priest through whom we now are called to be bold to do what good we can, not in the presumption that our motives are pure or that we can see the outcome of what we venture, but in faith that the goodness of the gift does not lie with the virtue of the giver or of the receiver, but with the one who is able to ensure beyond the capacity of either that what is given and received both can and will work for the good.
So let us give thanks, before God and this assembly, for all those, present and absent, living and dead, who have been benefactors to this college. Not because either their giving or the institution’s receiving has been perfect, but because all giving is a stepping out on faith, a recognition that one is not in control, that what is given, in the very act of being given, finally eludes the giver’s capacity to know or ensure its outcome. To give is to seek to benefit a recipient, but in the final analysis no one can see at the moment of giving what that benefit will look like: which scholars will be supported by an endowment, how a building will serve the community, what sort of student will on the strength of a gift be sustained in a time of crisis. Against that background, a gift, however small or large, is an act of courage and of hope, whatever else it may also be. And that there are and, by God’s grace, may continue to be persons who, amid the ever-present temptations to selfishness and fear that mark life in this world, are willing to make such gifts, to surrender some portion of their own security to help to secure the well-being of others, is something for which we may and ought to be truly thankful. Amen.
Exodus 3:1-16; John 12:27-36a
From this evening’s Gospel reading: “Believe in the light, so that you may become children of light.” (Jn 12 36a)
As every GCSE physics student knows, light, white light, is actually made up of a range of different colours. “Richard Of York Gave Battle In Vain”: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet – that’s how I learned them.
In our culture, deeply rooted in the Bible and the Classics, “light” also functions as a metaphor for human understanding and wisdom; and the analogy of a spectrum works here too to describe the many sources of our enlightenment. This evening, in accordance the wisdom of College tradition, the spotlight is on benefaction. What kind of illumination might we find here, that we may become children of light?
Those who have responsibility or care for budgets – and who doesn’t these days – might see in this celebration of historic gift-giving an opportunity to inspire the same munificence in the present generation. And why not? Though you would not guess from the modern church’s obsession with sex, Jesus had far more to say about money and possessions, and how to dispose of them: “It is more blessed to give than to receive”, he said (Acts 20.35). Likewise, among the more famous “justice”, “temperance”, “prudence” and “fortitude”, we also find “liberality” listed among the Classical virtues. So if the education on offer at Trinity Hall is about more than just turning out a more profitable workforce, then it could do a lot worse than encourage its members to convert their profit into gift. There is a light of wisdom here, of which your benefactors are a shining example: a beacon of virtue in our prosperous, but acquisitive, age. So, as we give thanks for our benefactors, let us follow their example of liberality, of beneficence.
That’s all very well and good. It is laudable aim, to imitate men and women of generous spirit. But it is surprisingly hard to follow someone’s example, even a paragon of virtue, especially in an age of suspicion, which loves to deconstruct our heroes and saints. In fact, in my experience it is quite hard to be a better person at all, with or without a model of excellence.
Of course there is nothing new in my saying this: the ancient world developed a subtle understanding of the way in which people may grow in virtue and good character. It doesn’t happen automatically: it takes practice. Which brings me back to our celebration today, and what I see as its deeper significance. For in commemorating our benefactors we recognise that we are in receipt of things not earned by our own striving … and so we are thankful. This, I think, is one of ways in which we are drawn into the light and develop a virtuous character.
It may seem rather commonplace to say that we have all been given things which we did not earn for ourselves. Yet so immersed are we in a culture of striving that the foremost question in our minds is much more likely to be about what we can make of whatever has been put into our hands, rather than where it has come from. Of course in a sense this is an entirely appropriate way to honour our benefactors, to put their gifts to good use; for to waste them is to scorn them. But, as the story of Moses and the Burning Bush reminds us, sometimes the illumination that we need only comes when we “turn aside” – turn aside from what we are doing and attend to what has been generated not by us but for us. This is not something I’m very good at, I have to confess: I am too preoccupied with my work, my plans, my goals. It takes some determination and discipline to acknowledge a gift, as anyone who has ever had to supervise children writing their Christmas thank-you letters will know. And it takes even more time and patience to go beyond the conventional terms of gratitude and to be truly thankful. Perhaps somewhere at the back of our minds we do know how much we have been given; but life is just too busy for us to dwell on it. It’s not that we are ungrateful: it’s just more expedient to take things for granted – though it is surprisingly easy to go from taking things for granted to developing a sense of entitlement. In my experience as a pastor it is often only in the face of loss, and most especially of death, that people suddenly start to count their blessings. But today we do count them through this ritual thanksgiving, the commemoration of our benefactors. Here and now we have made some space and time for gratitude.
We tend to invest our rituals with our highest hopes and aspirations, knowing that we often fail to live up to them in everyday life, but all the same wishing to valorise them publicly as a statement of common intent. So your corporate thanksgiving is an important part in the formation of your life together. It says something about the kind of community you want to be: a community in which you try to cultivate a spirit of gratitude. Ritual practice is just that – practice: a rehearsal for living; learning what it means to be human in the fullest possible way … which, among other things, means having a thankful heart.
At the head of your long and illustrious list of benefactors stands Bishop William Bateman. As you will know better than I, Bateman’s motive in founding Trinity Hall was to replenish the stock of clergy and lawyers – often one and the same – which had been decimated by the Black Death. So Bateman’s gift had a significant material end, so to speak. But I venture to suggest that it also had a significant origin, which may be found in its dedication to the Holy Trinity.
Don’t worry, I’m not planning to subject you to an exposition of the doctrine of the Holy Trinity at this hour – I’ve nearly finished! Suffice it to say that deep in the Christian theology of God is the idea of an inner divine life of mutual giving, from which flows the gift of existence to all created things. In other words, Christians believe that giving is part of God’s nature and that the world is God’s gift. So it is that the church’s central ritual is the eucharist, which means thanksgiving. The Christian vision is of a constant flow of divine gifts inspiring human gratitude, issuing in acts of charity. So I believe your founder saw his benefaction as a reflection and expression of God, the Holy Trinity. Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven (Mt.5.16).
Bishop Bateman worked from his God to his giving. Some people make the journey in reverse: their sense of gratitude leads them to the religious sense that – ultimately – everything is a gift. Perhaps we will not all make it so far today. But it is a good start indeed to commemorate our benefactors, to cultivate a spirit of thanksgiving in our midst, that we may learn to give as we have received.