Congregants from across the world came not to show off but to submit themselves to the late monarch.
In life Elizabeth II inspired admiration in the world's most powerful people with almost mysterious ease. In death, under a sunny London sky, she managed the feat one last time. Rarely has one place felt so filled with status and so empty of malice as Westminster Abbey did on Monday.
That much was confirmed a little after 10am when Joe Biden and his wife Jill arrived to take their seats at the state funeral. The US president had insisted on arriving by car, rather than the suggested bus. Once at the Great West Door, however, even he accepted that his privileges ran short: his path was checked by a procession of men and women granted medals for bravery and chivalry. Biden had to wait his turn, and he did so, with gracious smiles.
Around two thousand congregants had come from across the British establishment, the Commonwealth and the world. And they came not to show themselves off, but to submit themselves to the Queen's memory. For all their medals and titles, many seemed as deferential to the late monarch as the members of the public who had queued for hours to see her body lying in state.
If anyone doubted that the funeral would be anything other than British majesty at its finest, their minds were surely soon convinced. There was the sombre spectacle of the Queen's coffin being carried along the nave, laden with the imperial state crown twinkling under the stained glass windows. There was the brass-imbued finale of the first hymn, 'The day Thou gavest, Lord, is ended'. The grandeur was everywhere, and it was irresistible.
It felt natural that the Queen's journey should approach its end at Westminster Abbey. It was here where she was married in 1947 and crowned in 1953. It was also where she was photographed on the black-and-white tiled floor, leading to the affectionate chess meme: 'Beware, she can move in any direction'.
The abbey inspires humility. Its narrow 13th-century transepts, cluttered with the statues of prime ministers and the tombs of poets, push one's gaze upwards to the arches and roofs. (On Monday a hawk had been deployed to ensure there were no stray pigeons in the rafters.)
The congregants had filtered in from 8am, three hours before the service started. They found their way among chairs with such labels as "Governor General + 1". The invitation had offered a choice of morning dress, lounge suit, day dress or "full ceremonial day dress (NO SWORDS)". All options were on display.
There were few celebrities; it was a crowd dominated by leaders and public servants. In all around 100 heads of state and government attended, including the presidents of France, Germany and Brazil, the emperor of Japan, and royals from across Europe. In a sign of the Queen's unifying appeal, Michelle O'Neill, vice-president of Irish republican party Sinn Féin, was also among the mourners.
So many years have passed since the last British state funeral — Winston Churchill's in 1965 — that perhaps the country has forgotten that it is not always quite as grand as this. Neither the US nor French presidents attended King George VI's funeral in 1952.
On Monday, there were some smiles, some furrowed brows — including from William, the Prince of Wales, as he walked behind the coffin. There were nerves: Liz Truss, the prime minister, nearly tripped up on her way to give a reading. Most of all there was the sense of wanting to offer a fitting end.
The centrepiece was a solemn sermon by the Archbishop of Canterbury, Justin Welby, which was sufficiently brief that it would even have pleased the late Duke of Edinburgh. Welby emphasised the Queen's selflessness. "In all cases those who serve will be loved and remembered when those who cling to power and privileges are long forgotten," said the archbishop, who in other moments has not shied from criticising Britain's politicians.
By its nature, the service could not do justice to the Queen's warmth or the sense of humour, which had once led her to film sketches with James Bond and Paddington Bear. There was no eulogy, unlike at Diana, Princess of Wales's funeral, and there was certainly none of the emotional applause that had broken out spontaneously on that occasion. The Queen's children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren sat facing her coffin, but this was a state occasion, more than a family one.
So the ceremony fitted the Queen's outlook: placing the institution before the person. Like her, it was also unashamedly devout. If recent public mourning has at times treated the monarchy as a secular religion, the service that the Queen helped to design reflected the attention back on her actual religion, Christianity. She had chosen the hymns, including her favourite 'Love Divine, All Loves Excelling'. Welby took the words that the Queen had used to console the nation during a Covid lockdown — "We will meet again" — and employed them to emphasise the resurrection and the afterlife to come.
King Charles has spoken of recognising the place of other faiths. On Monday there was a procession including representatives of Judaism, Islam, Sikhism and Buddhism and other religions, although the prayers were all by those from Christian denominations.
Among the most affecting parts of the service was a two-minute silence after the state trumpeters played The Last Post. That then led into the National Anthem. 'God save The King', the congregants sang, with no reluctance. Welby made clear that Charles had the "same faith" and the "same sense of service and duty" as his mother. Mourning moved into transition.
Whether British monarchists will find closure in the funeral is unclear. Over the past 10 days some have spoken of even small changes — such as the appearance of Charles's face on banknotes — with trepidation, a final reminder that their Queen is not coming back. Only the Queen could have inspired the scale of Monday's service. So this funeral, whose music will long resonate in the ears of millions, will become yet another legacy that is hard for anyone to follow.
Written by: Henry Mance
© Financial Times
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