Prayers Of Grief And Glory

There are prayer books that arrive trumpeting certainty from the rooftops, and then there are books like Prayers Of Grief and Glory by Richard Harries — quiet, thoughtful little paperbacks that seem designed for a world in which people occasionally stare out of rainy kitchen windows wondering what on earth is going on. Originally published by Lutterworth Press and offered here in a good 1987 edition, this is the sort of book that feels less like a sermon and more like someone intelligent sitting beside you on a late train saying, gently, “Yes, life is rather difficult sometimes.” (Amazon)

Richard Harries would later become Bishop of Oxford and one of the Church of England’s more recognisable public intellectuals, but here he is still operating in that particularly British theological register where faith is approached not with fireworks, but with careful understatement and excellent diction. (Wikipedia) The book is a collection of reflections and prayers concerned with sorrow, hope, endurance, and transcendence — which sounds terribly solemn until you remember that the British publishing industry of the 1970s and 1980s produced entire shelves of slim spiritual paperbacks aimed at readers attempting to survive modern existence armed only with tea, cardigans, and moderate Anglicanism.

And honestly, there is something wonderfully touching about that world now. Before wellness influencers told everyone to optimise their inner child with subscription-based mindfulness, there were books like this: compact paperbacks quietly suggesting that grief, uncertainty and joy are all normal parts of being human. No scented candles required. No £95 online course. Just thoughtfulness, prayer, and perhaps a digestive biscuit nearby.

The title itself is magnificent. Prayers Of Grief and Glory sounds simultaneously like a lost BBC religious broadcast and a prog-rock album that sold seventeen copies in 1978 to theology students in sandals. One half expects it to contain either profound meditations on mortality or a twelve-minute flute solo about redemption. Possibly both.

As an object, this copy has survived rather well. Condition is good, which for a paperback of this vintage means it has successfully navigated nearly four decades of shelves, lofts, parish cupboards, house clearances, and perhaps at least one church fete without disintegrating entirely into theological confetti. These old religious paperbacks often lived hard lives: heavily underlined by earnest readers, left beside beds during existential crises, or carried around in bags with boiled sweets and receipts from WHSmith. The survivors possess a certain weary dignity.

Whether you are genuinely interested in Christian reflection, collect vintage theology, enjoy the aesthetics of forgotten religious publishing, or simply appreciate books from the era when even spiritual doubt was conducted politely, this is a charming and unexpectedly atmospheric little volume. It belongs to that disappearing world of intelligent mid-century Anglican writing where nobody shouted, nobody monetised trauma, and everyone seemed faintly apologetic about existing at all.

Crappy Old Books: finding glory in the slightly faded corners of the twentieth century.

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