The Curate's Egg IV

Egg of the Day: Fayre to Middling

Unaccustomed as I am to raising my meagre head above the parapet and bleating about those things which annoy me en peut, I thought that I would venture forth. One's spleen needs venting ....

Stephen Griffiths: Most of you will be quite unaware to whom I refer. This isn't some bruv of mine but a man almost certainly going to be convicted of some vile murders. However, this fruit-loop is messing with our minds at the same time. When asked his name in court, he declared himself to be the 'Crossbow Cannibal'. Now, we can take several possibilities before us here: either he himself is a naturalised ex-pat crossbow who likes the flavour of his compatriot crossbows. Alternatively, he is a bow canibal who hasn't yet decided how best to dress for a party. Further still, he could be a bow eating bow who is a tad miffed at something. Either way, he seeks notoriety - he wants some attention (as if mutilating and disembowling the daughters of other humans isn't enough). 'Stephen' isn't enough - the boy wants us all to call him the 'Crossbow Cannibal', for he is a pretender to the Crown of none less that The Yorkshire Ripper. So, world - defeat his attempt at fame and never again refer to him as ........ . Let us simly pray that right justice will be done and that in the end, he repents and rehabilitates (somehow).

Politics: The slurry is flying already, and we are only days in. Good grief. 

Family Life: This week is, I believe, the Week of the Family, or something akin to that. 'I ain't getting marrid cos marridge dunt work' - no, the relationships that form the marriages in question have failed - so don't be dissing marriage. Is it me, or is Sunday Trading the key to the demise of the Family? Once upon a time, a Sunday was a time when the shops were shut (exc. B&Q) and families gathered, eat together, perhaps yelled and screamed, but had nowhere else to go at 1.30 on a Sunday, so worked through it. Some of us learned to ride our bikes on the empty supermarket car-parks in the afternoons, with our siblings. As a former Sunday worker (I can hear the cacophany of comments even now) - as a retailer, I wondered if the folks in my shop on that Sunday would permanently overlook the purchase of their 80/20 10 Gauge if I wasn't there, or simply come back when I was open for business next. I can buy milk on a Saturday, so Morrisons can close on a Sunday, thank you. Family life is killed by lack of quality time, and a once good 'family day' was suffocated by the money lust of the corporations. Retailers don't get Bank Holidays off either, so if you have kids and work in a shop, you is knackered mate. Heck, let's all boycott shops on Sundays and do something radical and risky - let's spend some time at home (and maybe even sit in the same room for a bit of that time).

Kids on Reality TV shows - I watched a young teenager being crushed by the weight of defeat in front of millions tonight. She was an ok singer, but in truth, her God given gifts may well lie elsewhere for her. 'Boo Simon Cowell' they all went - no, mate: stop exposing kids to that expectation and pressure. Lord Cowell of the High Belt was right, and is only doing what he is paid to do. She needn' have been there. Remember that sprog last year? You know the one, the kids who forgot her lines and sobbed, and then got another crack at it - she was bloody 8! Her mother should have been read the riot act for exposing the wee scrap to that. The singing was horrid, and she shouldn't have been there in the first place. Leave kids to be kids, you horrid pushy parents - stop using your progeny as your pension. Bah.....

Well, that is another Bank Holiday done for us Brits. I had a good say at a Spring Fayre, and now I slink off to seek rest. I will be awakened in less than six hours, and any sane cleric would have have been asleep hours ago. 

I know what you are thinking, so stoppit .....

Trust a Man to Get it Wrong

Today is a day of mixed emotion for me. On one hand, me ma is enjoying a 'Birthday of Note' (I can't tell you which one, of course, but it starts with a '6' and ends in a '0'). On the other hand, it is the anniversary of the old man's untimely demise. So it is a funny day ... funny peculiar, not funny 'ha ha'.

The thing about having a Blogette such as this, is that in the Early Days (sounding like a pension plan all of a sudden - 'pension', get it?) I am coming up against hitherto untapped events - family stuff, good or ill, things that I have not reflected on in this way - beware dear Reader, I am about to set off on another.

I wrote a little something about the Old Gal a while ago on Mother's Day and declared my admiration for Mrs Brady Old Lady. Well, today is her birthday, and she too of course, has to ally the pleasure of that with the pain of the fact that Dad cocked up big time, and fell off his twig on that day of all days. 'Silly old sod' I said then, and 'Silly old sod' I say now. Only a bloke could could die on his wife's birthday ... silly old sod.

The thing about my old man is that he was a most excellent fella. Built in the image of none less that Humpty Dumpty, he did the rather brave thing and married my freshly be-widowed mother when she had three ankle-biters and he was fast approached his retirement. Yes, that's right - there was a spectacular age gap between mum and dad, thirty-one whole British years. There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth from his own family (dad was freshly be-widowed at the same time as mum - it gets complicated, but his daughter was of a similar age to mum, and her son was my age - keep up). Still, despite all, they remained married for well over 25 years, mostly happily - and dad helped raise a young family when he should have been having late-life crises and fits of the dribbles. He was a grumpy bastard, a red socialist who made Scargill look like a LibDem. He was a Colour Sargeant formerly of the Royal Engineers, so had a very very very loud shouting voice (which, from one who looked like a wheeble, was at times amusing).

But he was kind, insightful, funny, wise and in his own way, beautiful. He was conspicuously proud of us even when we made a mess of things. But he had a wonderful sense of how to be silly - an art lost to so many people. There is nothing better at times than just to be silly. Even into my late twenties and until he died, I could walk up to him, given him a big kiss and hug, and reverse his hair on his head so the ones that covered his baldy-slap fell forward - then I would walk away laughing. He didn't mind. We would then argue simply for the pleasure of arguing. 

I didn't see him for a whole fortnight before he died so suddenly that night. I was still a retailer and was based in Swindon at that time, so visits were less frequent. That hurts, that still winds me, and that still makes me feel ashamed. I could not have asked for a better Dad, and I can't believe my luck that I had the dad I had. The old bastard has, however, let me down. He promised that when I got nice furniture of my own that he would come to my house and jump on it like I did to his. Well, mate, it's here and ready. If you came back just one more time, I'd let you smash it to firewood. Then I'd mess your hair up again, just because I could.

May you rest in the peace that you so richly deserve and with the God that you kept so close to you. If you had met my girls they would have loved you too, and had you lived long enough to see me ordained, you'd have known that so much of my joy was down to you and your prayers for me. Take care, mate, God Bless.

But dying on mum's birthday ....... silly old sod.

Pious Voyeurism

Before you write to the Bishop, let me explain .... Voyeurism can also refer to 'an obsessive observance of sensational subjects'!

I have been thinking about the notion of 'witness' recently, not least of all because it seems to have cropped up in the scripture readings that have featured large in recent weeks. We don't hear of people 'seeing' or 'looking', or 'watching', 'peering', 'staring', 'glaring', 'noticing' or 'overseeing'. No, the term used is 'witness', and this is important, to me at least. 

It strikes me that the term 'witness' is used almost exclusively in the context of the law and its processes. A witness is a person who can demonstrate by their experience of the events in question that those events took place in the ways described, or not. After forensic evidence, a stable witness statement carried much weight in a court. A case against someone that lacks a witness statement is often weakened, even terminally. After a crime has been committed, the police expend much time and effort in seeking witnesses. Witnesses see the event from one perspective, so many witnesses provide many perspectives - and a fuller image is taken from the one to the multi-dimensional. The witness becomes the authority on the event, whatever their circumstance. An aristocrat or a vagrant - both are equal in the 'witness box'. The other aspect of the legal acceptance of the 'witness statement' is that is asks simply for the facts, not for interpretation from the witness. The law holds that a witness is only qualified to say what they saw, but not what it means or its implications after the fact. Those who are qualified to interpret the events are asked to do so, and not the witness. I wonder if the effort of interpretation could potentially cloud the memory of events, but I can only guess ...

So, I have been wondering how it is that this loaded and complicated term has come to be so crucial in the context of the life of Christ and the Church. From the Disciples and beyond, right up to 11.48am in Aylesbury this day, we are witnessing to the events and effects of the Gospel. I am not one with a particular appetite for Christian Testimony, as it as almost exclusively owned by one section the church, and almost exclusively characterized by 'when I gave my life to Jesus .... ' (which us cradle Christians never needed to do), but none the less, a witness statement is part of the life-blood of our Christian existence. If I don't say what I see, in church and out, to those around me, then the case for Christ is weakened. 

The reason that I called this post 'Pious Voyeurism' (apart from grabbing your attention which, if you have reached this part, I succeeded in) was because I think it is important for all Disciples of Jesus Christ to watch obsessively upon this sensational subject, not just in the decent and public places, but in the dark and less savoury places in our world - through the proverbial keyhole. The work of God is happening all over the place at all times of the day and night, and without witnesses, those moments are at risk of being thrown out - no case to answer, insufficient evidence. 

Time to go to our newsdesk ....

Curate's Desk Roundup

1. Sarah Ferguson: why why why why why why why why why, why oh why? Jeremy Vine is on the Radio at the moment and has posed the question about whether we should feel sorry for the Duchess of York?

Should we feel sorry for a woman who sold her family for a hand-full of shekels? Should we feel sorry for a woman who wasn't savvy enough to know that this was probably too good to be true?

No mate - she has acted like a Right Royal Pillock and the got caught. Sympathy to her beautiful daughters and sympathy to her ex-husband who in the spotlight under which he exists may well have thought that the mother of his children might not have been the place of his vulnerability!

2. Spending Cuts: So, we have our coalition. (By the way, didn't the LibDem negotiators do well in the Cabinet?!)  The LibDems have gone back on their election promise not to make cuts this year. Gideon Osborne has cut Child Trust Funds, so I think we have a flavour of how life will be. When all those whose jobs have been costed into obvlion this morning stop spending cash in the shops, how will our economy take to that? Yes, cut waste, but jobs will have been lost this day. Finance bods and Unionists are this day worried about it all.

3. Nose Despite Face? The good folks of British Airways are striking because of pay and conditions, perks and the like. They strike, BA loses hundreds of millions of pounds. I have discovered that one of the perks at the heart of this is an up-to-90% discount on the face value of tickets - but the greater issue is this:

...BA haemmorrhages millions of quid while the folks strike. Perhaps BA collapses, and all the folks are made redundant - and then they all have to pay full price for flights with the pennies that they have left after becoming jobless. Yes, fairness in the workplace - and honest day's pay for an honest day's work - but let us not forget that BA staff are paid appreciably more than any other in the industry, apparently. 

So, Farv, why bother with all this when you could be sat outside with a Pimms? 

It feels that the world is going bonkers at the moment. Maybe it's me, and maybe it is sun spots, but there seems to be an evapourating of sense. I can't shake the feeling either that the news is filled with ways that the Gospel imperatives are being fractured. I get days when I get world-weary, and today is one such day!

....though the bigots who ring in to comment on Radio 2 are a source of some rather macabre entertainment

Titter Ye Not

Just a quickie before I skidaddle and watch Al Murray ....

I needed beer last night, and to acquire beer one needs folding, some green. To the cashpoint I went, in collar and all-blacks. 

At said cashpoint were two chappies, one pissed as a fart the other pissed as several farts. The very drunk man was trying to punch-in, nay remember, his pin number. So far gone was tiddly Tom that he rotated on the spot as he tried to get his hands and fingers to work in a some sort of co-ordinated way. The less drunk, but none-the-less well past it one was with the other man, waiting his turn in some good humour. He wasn't rotating on the spot as he stood, so I felt comfortable that he wasn't apt to blow chunks on my best M&S right there and then.

The second guy clocked me, clocked how I was dressed - and a kernal of an amusing thought entered his be-fogged mind. 

"Ere, Bill, I've heard that if you get too f*cking p*ssed, then God will come down and tell you off, mate", said tiddly man, not awaiting cash. This was said so that I could hear it, but not in my direction. Bill didn't look round.

"Well God can f*uck right off, mate. I don't even believe in f*cking God - it's all a load of b*llocks" retorted the rotating man of alcohol.

"No mate, seriously, someone said that God will come down an b*llock you for getting too p*issed"

"You're talking out of you ar*e, pal - there's not such fing as God .... F*cking cashpoint won't give me my f*cking money"

"You're in deep sh*t now, Bill"

"Oh f*ck off, winding me up"

....then the rotating drunk of the cashpoint turned around and saw all 6' of me, in full clericals, and screamed like a girl.

Never have I laughed, or indeed the other chap, so hard for so long - Bill on the other hand, cursed quite a lot and walked off all the while questioning the paternity of the japist. 

This is a true story, and one of the many shades of ministry that I can now claim to have witnessed.

For Duck Sake

I have just returned from the Mayor Making in Aylesbury, the town where I live and minister. For those unfamiliar with this little bit of quaint English ceremony, it is more formerly known as the Inauguration of the New Aylesbury Mayor and Deputy Town Mayor.

In this country, the mayor is the 'first citizen' of the town, an already elected member of the town council and a resident of the town. To some it is a pointless and quaint role, but I have seen it in a different light through the haze of my red-wine. 

We have just said farewell to the outgoing mayor, a magnificent Hindu lady who, if you cut her in half, would have 'Aylesbury' writ-large through the middle of her. She was replaced by a matey of mine Graham, a mover-and-shaker in the local Scouting Association and a proper top-bloke. But the point of the mayor is more that just the job that they hold (and the preposterous outfit that they are expected to wear in the Civic Centre [languishing as it was at about 100 degrees - it gets pulled down next week, so never mind, poor civic centre).

As a minister of religion, a priest if you will, I am a passing ship in this town. However, witnessing so much of the civic life as I do as part of my particular job has taught me that the place where I live and work now is not just a postcode. Aylesbury has a strong beating heart, and that heart is personified in the person of the mayor. Aylesbury needs its mayor more than its MP - because the mayor is Aylesbury, not just a representative. This is a fine town, with much that is good and a little that can be improved - but I learned tonight that a town is so much more than an accident of geography - it is a living being. I have a passion for the town, and now that I share the chaplaincy to its mayor, I can also be passionate about its figurehead. This is a proud town, self assured. It is in safe and loving hands for another year. He might be called upon to wear the last generation of ferret upon his mantel, but it is counted as important and counted as worthy that he does and that we celebrate this remarkable place.

* and for those wondering what the reference to 'duck' means in the title - the Aylesbury duck is the town mascot

How things change

I have opted to work away from the grumpy mood in which I find myself - precipitated by the 4.50am start at the hands of the blessed Jessica. Pity the wee scrap, for I am an utter bar-steward at that time of the day! The missus has naffed orf too, abandoning her post, leaving her husband to fend off the ankle-biters alone. 'A retreat ...', she says - who does she think she is? A retreat indeed. 

So, as the kids are in the limelight I thought I would share an observation that will cause me to be pink and fluffy. I might fail ... so be prepared!

The woman and me have been trawling around Aylesbury Vale looking for schools for the sprogs when they turn four in six odd years time. Given that I am a professional basher of the Bible, a church school seems favourite, so we have taken some in. Interesting stuff ....

When I was at school, which after all wasn't that long ago (certainly post-War), you were the pupil, the teacher the teacher, the playground grey and square, and the field full of poo.  Not today. In all the schools we visited, apart from the barbed wire and gun emplacements, we were greeted by Student Councils, a sixty-point Charter of Golden Rules, colour, vibrancy - and most importantly (to me), hope and opportunity for all. A drift through the playground saw asphalt combined with stimulating areas where kids can gather and chat, in one school a natural area surrounded by trees where mini-beasts could be observed au naturelle, in all of them a place to go and sit if you are hurt, another for when you are without a friend for the day and need company, and so on. In an age of preposterous health and safety legislation, there were things to climb on, run around and play with - and I wish that I was at school today.

This all said, and as I am grumpy at the moment, I must make a comment - about a couple of Church of England Schools that I visited (speaking as a chaplain to another where what I am about to highlight is not the case). When you claim to be a CofE school, don't be telling me within three minutes of my arrival for the tour that if I wanted to exempt my nipper from Christian assembly, that was ok. Wrong Headteacher I thought, ashamed of her school's faith-status I thought. The kids are not going there, not even over my rotting corpse! Another one, again CofE - a 2-inch tall crucifix on a dusty table in the corner of a cluttered hall a church school doesn't make! Enough said? 

Say what you like about the last Administration, but if the evidence of their time in office was made manifest in the schools that we saw, then they can't have been half as bad as the Daily Mail and Mrs Rushton of Lincs would have us believe. It feels to me that my children have a wonderfully hopeful future ahead of them. I do, I wish I were a kid now - I was crap at school, mainly because my learning style doesn't involve any level of listening! I want to be doing, experiencing, touching/feeling/tasting, hurting myself in the process if that was part of the deal - not reciting a rather strange phonetic alphabet (see below - that was how I was taught to read and rit, truly)

For those who have to preach the Trinity

This fella is very funny here (can't speak for his other stuff, of which there is plenty) - watch this and enjoy!

Note to all priests: when we stand at the front and preach, thinking that we are the mutt's nuts, I kinda sense that this is what is being recieved by our punters.

Compilation

I am sure that everyone would have the own compilation album. 'Desert Island Discs' is this premis made manifest, and every once in while I consider my own. 

Partly because I have just enjoyed a track from that notional album, and partly because it is a very insightful self-reflective tool (oh, how these 'compilations' change from year to year), I have pondered my own again:

As I happen to be logged into this thing again, I am going to sling it all down here - I have never written my 'compilation' down before, so here starts a record, for my own interest later, if nothing else.

1. Telegraph Road - Dire Straits

[A long moody rock song, about the corrupting and disposability of the world in a commercial age (I am not selling well, I know) with an guitar led 8 minute instrumental that is made in heaven. Knopfler rocks]

2. Forever Autumn - Moody Blues

[Haunting and beautful, sad and gloomy - all in equal measure. I don't know why, but this one gets me every time]

3. Easy Lover - Phil Collins and Phil Bailey

[Disco blandness, but released at the very same moment that my hormones fired for the first time - so brings back a whole array of happy reminiscence)

4. Agnus Dei (From the 'Requiem') - Gabriel Faure

[A stunning choral moment, wonderful to listen to and wonderful to sing - and the soaring tenor line at the climax make the hairs on my neck prickle every time]

5.Walk This Way - Aerosmith/Run DMC

[Stonking - the original version by Aerosmith is a little dull for me, but this one is wonderful to drive to, on a wide open, empty, straight road]

6. The Power of Love - Huey Lewis and the News

[mostly 'cos I am perpetually locked in the 80's, and this one is great to catawaul to]

7. Broken, Beat and Scarred - Metallica

[Having seen this performed live, this is my new Metal Anthem - leave no speaker un ruptured - technical excellence of the sort you have to admire whatever your tastes]

8. Bridge Over Troubled Water - Simon and Garfunkel

[Apparently the most covered track of all time - only the orginal cuts it for me]

9. Feel Like Going Home - Notting Hillbillies (Mark Knopfler)

[This track connects me to my dad, was quoted by me at his funeral and has a momemt of Knopfler axework that is simply amazing - even typing this has caused me to shed a tear, sad git that I am]

10. Old One Hundredth - Wesley, Vaughan Williams [All People that on Earth do Dwell]

[No better version of no better hymn exists - when played and sung with conviction]

11. Question! - System of a Down

[A beautfiul mix of hard metal and classical guitar picking - a beautiful song]

12. Shoot me Again - Metallica

[Played loud when life conspires to run me over, and doesn't]

Bonus Tracks:

1. Viscinity of Obscenity - System of a Down

[Bonkers, but satisfying when you can work out how to sing along - this will make you smile]
2. Guitar Solo - Queen (Live Killers Album) - Two links

[Virtually 13 minutes of Brian May and Roger Taylor in guitar or timpani soli. Any ten minute guitar-solo is a winner with me, and this is the Daddy

There, you can all abandon me as a weirdo, or else you can think your own Album through, maybe even burn the disc - you know you want to ....


07.01.11 links to the music added - sorry they are a little late.

Working with Big Bob and the Captain

Something happened last weekend that I am eager to share with you. Something happened that is often so rare that even thinking it is fruitless, but it happened. 

In Aylesbury, something good happened that bucked trends and filled my stoney heart with hope for the future.

No, I didn't speak in tongues, and no, I didn't suddenly develop a sense of romance - much more improbable than that.

Lean forward, dear reader - lean forward so that I can share this modern day miracle ... are you listening?

Christians from across the traditions worked together on a single enterprise, and we all lived to tell the tale.

You heard it here first folks - carflicks and jellies got it together for the good of the community. And man, it felt good. 

The thing is this (get up off the floor and listen, you can worry about the implications later) - me, Big Bob Big Bob Legge, the Curate from our own AitchTee (HT dear,  as in Holy Trinity, keep up), and Cappun Blyth (aka Andrew), the new Area Dean and Big Bob's boss, we got together for the good of the kids of Aylesbury, and we did good. God saw it and saw that it was good too, cos it didn't widdle on us. 

After the tensions that permeated Aylesbury a few Saturdays back, the Town are providing free street entertainment from now until after the Summer holidays, and Saturday was the turn of Aylesbury Churches Together. So, me, Fr Shane (my boss and chair of the Churches Together), the Cappun and my good mate and fellow geezer Big Bob we got some folks together and between us we rocked. The wonderful people of our churches put on so many activities and games, and we saw hundreds of people into and out of the Big Gazebo. So, Christians from across the traditions can work together, and not come out in a rash. Actually, we had a good laff  too, and recognised that for the 'churchies' of Aylesbury, things were looking very hopeful indeed.

...and thanks for the coffee Andrew - I forgot to say on the day!

Disclosure

Every bloke has a hitherto undisclosed passion. Mine emerged as a result of learning to fly my paraglider, and is one that I have always kept closed to my chest. 

Yes, dammit, I love clouds 

I think cloudscapes are stunning, and equal to (if not in excess of) the beauty of landscapes.

Look up dear friends, and marvel at these ever changing, never to be there later wonders of the natural world.

See, I can get away with this late on a Sunday, if I plan to post tomorrow - you will all cast over this!

Tweet Tweet

I have set to thinking about my Study as a result of reading Alan Crawley's blog posted earlier today. With thanks to the ever insightful, Twurch-hating cartoon-monger Dave Walker, I can offer you all a little insight into the midden that is the place of my work. 

This cartoon represents my study on a very tidy day.

Anyway, to the point Cloake. Crawley (and in no way creepy) was ruminating on the community of the social meejya, and Twitter featured as part of that - he isn't a Twit yet, so has yet to sample the delictations of this electronic art.

I am a recently converted Twit (in the past tense, does a Twit become a ... never mind) and have learned that it is a powerful tool. In conjunction with the Bish (as in +Alan, as in Blog), I learned that Twitter allows the Twit a front seat in just about any situation. The visit of the EDL was a case in point - we knew where they were arriving, which pubs they were parking at and when, and so on - I knew what they knew.

The General Election is another case in point, and more especially the terminal moments of the last government. It's all in the hashtags (#ukelection for example) - find one and follow it, and you are in the middle of what is going on. I sat and filled a whole evening (yes, I am one sad degenerate) with my iTouch - with the journos twittering, members of the parties twittering and those of us following the hashtags sensed the events minutes before they became manifest in the media glare.

So, if you have a penchant for peering through keyholes, standing outside bedroom windows in the dark at night, placing glasses against walls, or tapping the phones of acquiantances, become a Twit. You know you want to.

... then kiss goodbye to family life, friends, nutritional meals, sleep, focus, sense ...... whibble

I ought to say that much good can be done with an immediate communicative device as this - read my earlier post to see just how. Having an 'audible' voice in the middle of just about anything can't be a bad thing, in the right hands!

R.E.S.P.E.C.T ... Once again, it is me?

http://www.express.co.uk/posts/view/174780/Pupil-branded-a-truant-for-refusing-to-visit-a-mosque

This link is from the Daily Express - an article I noticed in passing earlier.

- Would the enlightened mother be equally annoyed if a Synagogue has asked little Amy to refrain from bringing ham sammies in for her lunch? Would that be forcing little Amy to be like a Jew?

- Would the enlightened mother scream that I had forced her little Amy to dress like a Christian if I had asked that toplessness in the Sanctuary be avoided?

I think that the visit to the Mosque would have done far more than just teach little Amy about the tenets and practices of Islam - it would have taught her respect for another faith group, some empathy for another way of life, a little tolerance for difference - and maybe even doing something because it was the right thing to do, whether it was appealing or not. Muslims have every right to maintain the levels of decency within their sacred spaces as Carflicks (for they claim to be from that background, in a no-practicing sense, you understand) do. Perhaps little Amy's enlightened mummy should just be open about her islamophobia.

Not good ....

Surely just a coincidence!

I am halfway through writing an homily (actually, it needs to be even shorter than that, so more of an 'omelette') for Ascension Day, tomorrow, and something interesting occurs to me ...

Sit back and listen, and see what you think.

We have the leader, much misunderstood, who has nevertheless ministered across the towns and villages, preaching his message surrounded by his supporters. His love for his people is legendary.

After a few short years of ministry, the dissenting voices get louder and louder until they are insurmountable and overpowering - they demand a trial. There is a betrayal or two mixed in there too, just for good measure.

So we have a trial, and the leader is found to be wanting - not right, unsuitable. He is not wanted anymore, and there must be a ceremonial and terminal removal of that hapless fool, for he has caused too much trouble and the failings of the world are down to him and his erroneous teachings. The public life of the leader is ended in front of the whole assembly - 'it is finished'. 

Then there is a strange time when the leader is both there but not fully gone - his remaining disciples can see him, but he is beyond their grasp. They are uncertain, fearful. After a few days, the leader stood among his disciples one more time, and told them that these things must be fulfilled. Then he left them, and went up ....

When the leader had 'gone up', those who were left behind filled the empty seats with new disciples, gathered in a room together and started to ponder the life that lay ahead of them. None of them had stood in that place before and with such concerns - and a new leader addressed the crowd, seeking to build a new future for all. 

So to 'went up...' add 'to Scotland' and you could be talking about the most honourable and noble Gordon Brown. Add 'to heaven' and you are talking about Our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. 

Is it just me who spotted this uncanny similarity of narratives?  Has the gin worn off? And if anyone says 'God-incidence', I will plight them with a blight or two!

Happy Ascension Day to you all! God is gone up with a Triumphant Shout!

Ok, now what ... ?

Great Britain changed mere minutes ago. I have my views and they are not concealed. 

This has been a strange few weeks in Britain. We have had a General Election that has seemed to pass over substance and focus on photogenic qualities. The world is Twittering at a pace, and Blogs drip with this stuff. We are potentially moving away from the most terrible financial climate in generations and it seems to me, at least, that the nation has now had its scalp, its pound of flesh. 

Gordon Brown was never going to win a General Election, not in the third millenium. Gruff elder-statesmen just don't excite the world like they used to, but then again, neither does the Church. Vince Cable wouldn't have won the election or Ken Clark - not appealing to the eye, not slick enough. We have lost a fine stateman today and I dread to think how life for Britain would be this night had we not had Gordon Brown at the helm as Chancellor and then as Prime Minister in this recession. 

Still, all change at Westminster. 

I am fearful, and I am uncertain. I was two years old when we last had a coalition and my wife wasn't even born. Mssrs Clegg and Cameron (the two C's of the ConDem Nation) were little lads themselves. None of us know what to expect now. 

My fear aside, my politics aside, I now have to stand up and be a Christian first. I am called, as are all Christians, to 'embrace change with enthusiasm'. Give me a day or two. In an election where we had losers but no winners, we have to watch and wait, and pray. In the middle of this, I have to believe that God is present. 

If I can believe that, I don't have to be afraid.

The Father, the Son and the Only Bloke

I was sent a flyer through email last week, inviting me to a seminar dedicated to getting men (back) to church. It is to be called 

Reaching 'Unreached Men'

Perhaps a little perjorative in its titling, as it makes it sound like if you are not a God botherer when you are a lost lamb - men won't thank you for that. But anyway ...

I am unable to go, as 'life' happens, but I would have loved to, for good and healthy reasons as I have a specific interest and a specific perspective:

1. I am a man. The pants-tackle will confirm that, as will the gruff voice, and the fact that films with Hugh Grant make me feel queazy. Yes, dear readers, I am a man, dammit.

2. I am such a bloke as the seminar seeks to reach - and my ordained status only makes me an anomaly to the ordained, not to geezerdom. I have spent many good years working with the 'unreached' geezers in retail, know a little about what makes them tick, and share a heart with them on the whole.

I think men can be (mostly) sub-divided accordingly, each needing a specific 'approach' (sorry, fellas, I am now guilty of treating you like lab-rats too)

Blokus Grunt-Monkeii: Something of a majority state, I am quite clear that I fall into this category. 

  - Pragmatic

  - Family motivated, financially 'hand-to-mouth' on the whole

  - Sports interested

  - Retailing, manual/skilled labour, all that sort of thing, tired and needing of a beer in the evening

 Blokus Hairgeleii: The next largest state of man

  - Mostly graduate, or at least diploma'd, have some saving in the bank and a stonking mortgage

  - IT, Banking, management - all that sort of thing

  - Famly motivated (less likely to have kids that the other lot above, careers first, you see)

  - Sports interested, problem solvers, wine quaffers

Blokus Modernmanicus: An important, but slightly smaller subset

  - Caring professions, teaching, nursing etc etc

  - Almost universally graduate, union minded

  - Family motivated, gin and tonic types (or fancy Lagers)

  - Less sports interested, and less likely footy or wuggah for those who are sports interested

Homo Tweedicus: A small but influential subset

  - Movers and shakers, and often seen with a gold signet on their little finger

  - Sport is a minority interest, and almost always wuggah - brandy or single-malt types

  - Family motivated, but in the wider thirty generations of N and N sense

  - Orxbridge, or Durham if they bummed out

  - Politically minded and financially affluent

There are others, of course (Blokus Shavedheadimus - for those who love extremism; Homo Homo Blokus - for those who like other blokes; Laddus Hoodicoverupus - an intermediate state, sort of like a pupation state before full fledging into manhood and so on and so forth ...)

So, how does the church reach the 'unreached men'? The eternal question ...

My modest offering, born of my own perspective only, are these:

1. Meet men where they are, and in what they love to do. In simple terms, be a visitor to a pub once in a while - most usefully in a dog-collar. Get to know people and do not, and I mean it, do NOT use the 'G' word [God] - game over if you do, unless of course they rasie the subject unprompted. Build relationships with people, enter into chats with them, be interested in them without a heart to convert them - being an infectious Christian will do its own job (and God does the converting, not you)
2. Men want to feel in control of their own lives and more especially those of their family - engage with men at that level. Provide for their children, get to know them. No dad is immune to the goodness that a person shows to their offspring, believe me. 
3. Don't try and save men (in the Christian sense) - respect the caveman side of all blokes. Men don't need saving mate, and that's a fact - they are the hunter gatherers (even if they aren't really) - and to save one who saves others will earn you a poke in the eye. 
4. Talk work - what do they do for a living? We know that Jesus was a carpenter, so there is no failing in being just a little interested in what people do all day. Be interested, get to know thir work, and for God's sake, don't judge them. Binmen are as vital (if not more so) than merchant bankers. 
5. Most blokes have stuff to do on Sundays (I was in 'the wilderness' for two years due to working patterns, so Sundays were a dead loss [and no, I wasn't in the wilderness, just busy, so be careful about terminology) - they will put their family before church every time
6. Do not presume that because someone works in shop, supports Man U, has a tattoo of a spiderweb across their face, owns a Staffy etc etc that they arent committed Christians (just perhaps not a churchgoer) - someone made that mistake with me once and tried to introduce me to the Lord, which is fine, but they didn't ask the right (or any) questions and made some appalling (and offensive) presumptions about me (I was testing my vocation at that time too)
7. Men are interested in their own things. For me, it is fast cars, jet aircraft, rock music, films that expose giblets and gizzards, real ale, etc - I am not the same as my wife in my tastes or most of those who attend any given church on any given Sunday. Talk Aston Martins or Eurofighters with me, or the virtues of Exmoor Gold, and I will quickly become interested in you and what you stand for. The Christian contageon will do its work in proximity, not from a distance.
8. Think flatpack construction - men get there in their own way and prefer to work it out for themselves. Men's Curry Nights, a trip to a beer festival, tickets to the next Air Tattoo - they will do you better than a Service (or other in-church) initiative - to men they represent the Instruction Manual. Give men the opportunity to make their own connections, and they just might  - some might not, so be ready for that too. 

This is a daft brief list. I could batter on for days about this stuff, but for now will call 'Time'. I congratulate the fella from Grove on his initiative with his Seminar, and wish him every success. We need more men in our churches and even with my collar on, I feel like a minority. In St Mary Aylesbury, there are more Zimbabweans than men under 45 - six times as many.   

*Caveat - this is an English/British perspective for those who read this on distant shores!

Legalised hanging ... it could have been worse

It is almost a full day since the polls closed, and those commentators started their tireless work of unpicking every unfolding event. Channel 4 offered a good sanctuary from the machinations of the other channels, all of whom seemed hell-bent on over-kneading the dough, or so it seemed.

And so we have a Hung Parliament.

In the wake of said election, I went to Blenheim Palace (see pic) with my family and had a wonderful day, in draughty cool weather - with the people who I love most in the world. We went on the train, we enjoyed the Palace itself, we avoided the maze and flew through the Butterfly House (Rebekah had a hissy-fit when a gargantuan flutterby landed on her - and the glass in the roof was n'er well shattered with the screams). It has been a wonderful day, and I count my blessings for every moment of it. This all said, in the back of my mind has been the state of the political landscape.

My political prejudices are not shrouded in this Blog, and the prospect of a Tory outright majority filled me with abject dread - partly through my upbringing by a socialist dad, and also because silver-spoons and bums are not in proximity where I come from. However, a Labour government is not possible now, Nick Clegg (the 'impressionist resistant' politician - Channel 4) will probably buddy up with Cam the Man (well they look alike, so why not) - and we will have a hybrid government where the smaller parties will have a greater voice. Interesting times, and I am left hoping some hopes for the future.

Before you wonder why a rumination on politics is being spliced with news of my day - it is the latter that has framed my hopes for the political future:

It seems to me that if we use the family as the plimsol line of what is right and wrong, we won't go far wrong. I doubt any politicians of note will read this, but here goes ...

1. I want my children to be safe; safe from physical harm and safe from the insidious harm generated by hatred manifest in the next cool 'cause'.

2. I want to be a dad that doesn't have to work so hard that I can't see my children before they go to bed, or miss them before they rise the next day. I want some time in every month that I can spend with my family, and the reasonable ability to manage my work-life balance to that end. I don't want a Britain where quality of employment is measured by overtime hours worked for free.

3. When my wife or children need to recieve care, I want them to recieve it in a reasonable timescale.

4. I want my daughters to live in a Britain where the truth is paramount, and where questions are not answered in euphemism and semantic prestidigitation.

5. I want my daughters to grow up in a Britain where rights are not at the expense of responsibilities. (If polling stations close at 10pm, don't pitch up at 9.45pm and complain that your rights have been infringed when you could have used any of the othr 14 hours to vote - by the way)

6. I want my kids to live in a Britain where the level of bank-balances are not held in higher regard than personal qualities and human virtue.

7. I am want my family to exist in a country where it is a valued social unit, and where every step to preserve it are taken by the incumbent government.

8. I want my country run by a government who will deploy troops to defend my children against those who would seek to hurt them - once all else has failed.

9. I want a country for my family that rewards honour more than financial aquisition. I want happiness to be the measure of success, not the 'bottom line'.

10. Whatever potential my children have, I want them to be granted the best chance of realising it, in an environment where they are valued as individuals.

I am now quite clear that 'family' is king, and what hurts 'family' hurts the country. This list is not exhaustive because I am also tired like the politicians. Neither is this list constructed to be open to deep scrutiny. In simple terms, and in whatever measure 'family' is for people, I think we are all entitled to have lives where days like I have enjoyed today are the norm, not the snatched exception*.

*life as a priest is altogether more conducive to family life than than in retail, and it is with that remembrance that I write 

The Curate's Egg III

Egg of the Day: Political

So, May has been a little monochrome in terms of posting, so I figured that a return to form was called for. So, back to those things that chuff me right off ...

General Election: It is always good to see the mechanism of democracy working hard and we now watch fearfully on the events of the next day or so. However, it isn't this that is giving me the rub, it is the effects of said mechanism. I have done a few miles in the Pocket Rocket this last week and there is a factor in the election that needs addressing - the Tory fly-posting of our beautiful countryside. Every sodding field between Aylesbury and anywhere else is peppered with the super-sized, morbidly obese, smacks of 'look how much land we own' and 'what we don't own we can pay off', multi-colour Conservative bill-boards. "Vote for Change" they say - I will vote for my beautiful countryside to be cleared of all this Tory litter. They all seem to be bigger than those from the last election - get orf moi larnd, you parsh townies. Moi lettle larms 'ave banged therrr hehdds on yoh-wer beg ole soins. Meh ...

Moto Wi-Fi: It is 'free, every time you visit' - yeah, what else would it be, free every other time you visit?

Drivers who use mobile phones when driving (at speed in particular) - I confess here and now that, when it was legal, I babbled like a brook on my brain-frazzler all the while I was fracturing other traffic laws, specifically those tailored to moderate speed. But like a reformed smoker, I have become an angry bigot in regard to those who talk on their phones when driving. As I tore past people on the M25 today, I passed loads of them who were yapping on their Nokias. It isn't just themselves that they will kill, it is my kids in the back of my family car that will pay the ultimate price. Bastards (not my kids, the phone-ists). If you are that important that you need to sign into the office while you are driving, then you are important enough to deserve a chauffeur - get a chauffeur, don't kill my babies, my beautiful babies.

Theatrical luvvies: Don't even start me off on that one

I ask you ....

Do you do, or do you don't do .... real life?

And so a little more thought after the events of the weekend; this time, on a broader issue that now presses upon me somewhat!

No, I am not referring to my flagrant mockery of my Rector's now extreme old age during the Eucharist, rather -

- the Church and, well, erm - real life. The stuff that happens outside the doors of the building.

Saturday taught me so much about the rightful place of a Christian in the context of the kind of melee that we were gifted so kindly by the Welsh-flag waving English Defence League. Should we, as Christian God-botherers have been up to our knees in it, or should we have stayed well clear? Then take the answer, multiply it by all the numbers of days, and apply it to each of them. 

To many, and indeed the vast majority of people, the Christian faith says little of interest or relevance. That is sad, and quite mistaken. People of faith have the answers - oh yes we do. We have a duty to declare what we have to say, to stand up and be counted, and sometimes, take daft risks doing it. It is our 'job' to convince the rest of you that you must attend the The Other in your lives - that niggling sense that this all has a greater meaning than sperm-egg-promotion-incontinence-death. People of faith have something to say on the subject - step into my office, I have something that you might need...

Now, we could do that in many ways (and do do it in many ways), but one such way is to be in the thick of it when it's all going a bit Pete Tong. Dishing out the low-down on The Other (who for sake of ease I will refer to as God) on a Sunday only, or on a sunny bank holiday in a park with other like-mindeds - it's all good, but just a fraction of the work that needs to be done. The other six days of the week have their needs and those outside of church-life live them too. In the church as a whole we talk very little about how people make their livings, how they spend their times, personal hopes or fears (aside from their outwatd 'results'). I believe that we-the-Church are missing a trick here. Then we get some unpleasantness. So what do we do? We put ourselves in the middle of where it is kicking-off (figuratively if not physically), that's what. Police, residents, bystanders, displaced traders, and maybe even the protesters who were there because their mates made them and weren't sure about it all - they all need support. Christians offer support and hope, it is what we do, it's our flag - 

... so we get in there and support and we offer our hope using every trick and tool to our grasp. No 'ifs' no 'buts'.

Is it me?

After an interesting 24 hours, I have been reflecting on some things - things I am going to throw into here and where I can leave them. To the myriad new readers to this little Blog, welcome. 

Extremism: So, we have a bunch of folk deriding the Muslim communitee. Why? Because some extremists under the banner of Islam have brought murder to the streets of this and other countries. There are some proper naughty Muslim people out there - not good. Do I support them? No, of course I don't. Do the vast majority of other Muslims support them? No, of course they don't. 

Take football. We have some extremists causing some un-holy ruckus under the banner of football. Football extremists (let's call them 'hooligans') have injured and offended, and may just possibly have caused death when we look back over the news stories over the last few years from across the globe. There are some proper naughty football hooligans out there. Do I support them? No, of course I don't. Do the vast majority of other football fan support them? No, of course they don't. 

So, we throw out all Muslims - do we do the same for all football fans? Although I am really very English, I have brown eyes and brown hair, and my daughters do not fully share my pigmentation as they have red hair - should we be thrown out like those who are deemed to be different from the Arian pigment-perfect dream? I am a Christian - the principal faith of our country. Should I seek to throw out all those of no faith, or those of no confirmed faith. Should I marginalise all those who have a taste for noodles and pupadoms because they have opted not to eat roast-beef with the trimmings tonight? What if I had a child born with Downs' Syndrome? I have 20/20 vision - that makes my eyesight perfect and aspirational - should I jeer at those who wear glasses? Should I shroud the fact of the slight deficiency in my hearing on one side? Dare we even talk gender ...

No, no, no, no, no, no - and no again. 

Why? When we paint a picture of the perfect citizen in any way, we create a rod for our own backs. I am no more perfect than any of the visitors to Aylesbury yesterday, and am as flawed if not more so. (The American and Welsh flags at an English Defence League rally were odd to say the least, but actually, gave me some hope that at least some (teency weency) fraction of open-mindedness existed in Market Square yesterday). No, because we create a line that we are destined never to be able to cross.

So, to all extremists (of any and every brand, including Christian): when one of you can stand up and say that you are the perfectly realised model of humankind, only then will you have a platform (but no right, no-one does) to judge others for being different to you. Look at it another way; every single one of us who breathes the air of our little Rock have reasons why we are to celebrate the generosity of others. We could all be marginalised on one account or another, but others have accepted us (largely) for who we are warts and all. There is a time when that generosity needs paying back. Muslim, Hindu, Jewish, atheist, footballist, red-haired ... it doesn't matter. They are they and we are we ... and we reap what we sow.