The Loaf of the Lord

After a little sermon blockage at the tail end of last week, I can report a successful day with three distinct and separate sermons preached in three distinct and separate places of worship - or churches as we like to call them. The third sermon was 'written' during a visit to a DIY store after lunch today - it is indeed a wonder how the Good Lord works!

The sermon to which I refer revolved around a gospel reading that will surely be familiar to you, and that is the passage from John's Gospel where Jesus says that He is the "bread of life". It struck me how much the humble loaf teaches us about being 'church'.

The thing about bread is that it is, by very definition a composite of different ingredients. With a lack of either the flour, yeast, water or flour you would not end up with bread. They are ingredients different in volume but equal in importance. This illustrates the need to regard quality of discipleship as distinct from quantity. Distinctiveness of ingredient is important too. In church life, for it to be as God would wish, it needs different people who bring distinctive gifts.

The thing about bread is that it rarely flourishes in its creation without too very important things that move away from the recipe or the ingredients. The first is good old hard work. Kneading bread is physical exertion. Once that labour is done, we then have to set the dough aside and do that thing which is central to our religious life: faith. We have to walk away and have faith that the dough will rise as we hope. This tells us two things about being church - that is requires a very particular effort, that expecting church to come easily is a flawed vision; also that it is acceptable and even desirable to step away and let things happen. In the same way that we cannot knead bread risen, neither can we simply labour the coming of the Kingdom.

The last thing about bread is that is can be quite properly enjoyed in many manifestations. Bread is not always a White bloomer loaf. These days, it possible to find many types of bread that have a place in all manner of different meals. There is a time for a baguette, and also for a ciabatta. If the ingredients are about the inner qualities that we bring to church life, then the manifestations of bread is about the many ways it is possible to be church next to one another. For me, I am probably a traditional white split-tin, and not a funky and new olive-focaccia!

Simple bread, made simply with simple ingredients is the Prince of foods as it is the very food that Jesus chooses to represent his sacrifice. He didn't choose a medium-rare ribeye steak or the finest Beluga Caviar. No. Bread. What more do we need than this profoundly simple model of how to be the Body of Christ - than to fashion ourselves on the Body of Christ.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

The Biggest Threat to the Church

...is not what The Reverend Doctor Patrick Richmond said (him being the Winner of the Daftest Silly Thing to be Said in Public, Ever Contest and slightly ahead of Oinky The Pork Cutlet Pig and her comments on Bovine Eternity). Nor is it the Alpha Course, a front for the black-market trade in poor translations of the Bible and antimacassars  to the unsuspecting. It is ...

... spiders. I am scared to death of them. I can't bear to look at them alive, dead, moving, still, little, large, hairy or pie-bald. I hate spiders almost as much as I hate .... (not telling). The only time in my little life (did I ever mention that I am quite young?) when I fainted was when a spider the size of a Collection Plate emerged, with its boots on and its tattoos and everything, and walked across a ceiling between me and the door. I couldn't escape; it was horrid. I fell down in a dead faint, naked as a the day I was begotten as it happened to be in a small shower room.

Now, you may be wondering what this has to do with the church. Not a lot in truth, but the title got your attention, and it is always good to see you, but there is a small overlap. As a priest, I have a certain amount of my working life that is, shall we say, church-facing. I do 'church' quite a lot. And so do spiders. English churches are, often, quite old. Spiders like old places, and the carcasses of dessicated arachnids that fall to the floor are so old that they are bleached white. One was even carrying a Tyndale translation, he was that old.  So, the thing is this - if I become Archbishop of Canterbury, not only will I have to take on half the bloody bloggers of the world, but I will have to close the medieval spyder-hyders in which we worship. Fainting Graces are not pretty.

Need to grow a beard first, which is something I just cannot do (I speak of the physical, not the moral). 

Twitterquette

The subject of good manners within social media has been written about many times over. Only not here - so here I go.

I am focussing upon Twitter in particular following a rather annoying thing that peeves me just a little bit. In simple terms, I sent a Tweet (a message of 140 characters or less, if by now you are unsure) to a priest who knows me personally and who holds some authority in the church (I lean on the word 'some'). Said priest then ignored me despite being rather active on the site. It wasn't a world-class message that I sent, but did demand a reply. I was ignored.

There are always little rules that accompany social interaction. Were there not, then rudeness and poor behaviour would quickly reign. On the whole, these rules require no printing or formal drafting, because they are the rules of good manners, and are largely innate in most of us. 

I think I was peeved because the priest in question is a conspicuous self-promoter and manifestly ambitious. I have no real concern with that, until they become too levitous to speak to others. Exchanged messages with bishops, even archbishops - that is fine. Just not curates. Grrr

With all things concerning the social media, I believe in absolute terms that you should never utter a word there that you wouldn't be prepared to say in person. It is easy to be one person in the flesh and quite another in the online world. In the real world, when someone addresses me, I respond. In the online world, I am not rude about someone for fun (or even to be serious), though I am happy with being critical in appropriate measure. I am happy to take criticism if it is warranted and the person delivering it has the right or insight so to do. If I borrow something from someone else, I try to ask first and thank them after. If I like something, I tell others, but I remember not to accidentally let that thing become mine. 

And so it is with social media, and especially Twitter and blogging. Ideas are (more or less) property. Interactions are no less real than any that would take place in my lounge over coffee. Equally, that means that I listen as much as I speak and I don't keep repeating myself - frequent offenses in social media, especially Twitter. If I address someone, I fairly well expect a reply. I try hard to afford that behaviour to others and look back on messages received when I have been offline, and reply to them in one form or another. When people propagate my ideas, I like to thank them. It seems obvious to me. 

So, person-in-question - please stop ignoring us mere lesser mortals on the ground. It is rude and it is unacceptable, and after all, you are a priest and that demands even more good behaviour. Enough said. 

But don't just take my word for it ...

With thanks to the ever excellent somegreybloke

Sermon Block

It's alright for you lot sitting in the pews, listening to the sermons of people like me - you just come to church sit down, sing a bit, pray a bit and wait for the preacher to expound and then you go home. 

Which is fine until the preacher in question has a condition that I am now going to diagnose as "Sermon Block". It presents with varying symptoms:

 - Jesus already stated the meaning of the parable in question, so what can I possibly add?

 - I have preached the last 30 Christmases, so what can I say that is new this year?

 - I have no idea what this passage is saying

 - I have no idea where to start

 - I have no idea what to say once I have started

 - I gave up caring and I am now cursed by apathy

 - Good Friday? The under-5s? 

 - or just this

It is an affliction that gets every preacher at some time or other, often several times a year, and it is a hard thing to treat. Instead of anti-inflammatory drugs we reach for enflammatory commentaries, online or printed. I have even heard of people using the sermons of others (though not I, Your Honour).  Once, and not that long ago, I was robing up without a sermon written. It happens and it is not nice (though the resultant 21 minute homilette was well received). 

My solution to this and indeed to the preparation of all my sermons is to "go where called". A word jumps out, sticks to me - and then at least I have something of a launch pad. I am blessed with an extrovert mind so can "wing it" at times. So, this Sunday, we have (in this part of the world at least) the story of the Loaves and Fishes. I know that there is much to say, but I can't trawl a single coherent thought from the abyss of my Vernacular Bonce. 

Whilst this post is written in a light way, it is a real problem when it happens. Bloggers will lament their inability to write a post, and so it is with preachers. For some, a deadline is a good thing, for others a panic-inducing curse. I believe that the value of preaching is not in what is remembered but in what is retained. I am my own example here: I can never remember sermons afterwards. Never could. Yet I have been fashioned by them throughout my life. None remembered, much retained. For the preacher this brings a very specific responsibility - the excuses won't cut it. Our words stick, so when they are un-crafted, unplanned or frankly uninspired, they create a potential problem. No preaching class that I have been to have addressed this. 

I am writing this post in a state of Sermon Blockedness. I am hoping that in so writing, I might dislodge the debris so that fresh thought and new inspiration might pour forth. I have four sermons to preach on Sunday - so it needs to happen in the next 12 minutes. 

Poor Complaining

Speaking only of what I know, I can state unequivocally that most people in my experience cannot complain properly.

Last night, it was my pleasure and my joy to chair a meeting (of a non-ecclesiastical nature) which was characterised by poor complaining. We in Britain just do not know how to complain properly. Simple fact. It is not a secular affliction either - for it certainly exists in Godly circles too. 

Some examples:

 - A man telephoned my emporium in London in response to a message that I left informing him that his mattress would be delayed by a day. He suggested that it would have been better had I too been in the World Trade Centre (for this was the day after 9/11)

 - A man, upon hearing that his carpet would not be lovingly  fitted to his spare bedroom on account of the recent snowfall offered to visit me with a baseball bat unless I hand delivered his nylon purchase in person.

 - A woman in a fast-food outlet, upon the painful discovery that she had been given a curry sauce instead of ketchup, suggested that the poor assistant return from whence he came - in a way that led me to suggest that he was intended to take a considerable overseas journey. 

These are a few of a very very very long list that I could offer after fifteen years retailing. I have been called "stupid", "an idiot" - simply because a lorry had broken down on a motorway somewhere. Brits cannot complain (I cannot speak for other nations). Incidentally, let it also be said that the customer is not always right, but is certainly rude from time to time. 

In church life, it is probably worse, because you don't get to hear of the complaint first hand or at the time. It is quite usual to hear a complaint 64 years afterwards, and eighty-sixth hand. In church life, a complaint is broadly made manifest by way of pout or that vile passive-aggressive stuff that I personally hate with some considerable passion. 

We can't complain well because we hate to be confrontational, and because we hate to be confrontational we overdo the rhetoric. We don't state our complaint, we wrap it up in a thick layer of value-statements, and quite often personalised comments made purely to cause injury to the recipient of the complaint. If it isn't passive-aggression it is over-aggression, and rarely anything in-between. 

I have wondered what the solution is. Partly, I think that we need not fear speaking our mind, so long as we are just stating what we feel and what we know (and not to add interpretations and unfounded opinion). Perspective is also important. Very often we lose perspective when complaining, and over-egg the pudding. Generally, a complaint accompanies a desire for a change in process or a more aggreable and appropriate outcome. Insulting the shop-assistant won't help that at all. Stating the issue soonest, as opposed to letting things fester over weeks or longer is always best. Then say it simply, not explode - people recoil and retreat in the face of explosions.

I think that what we tend to forget is that the person to whom we complain is, even with all due cynicism and realism, minded to want to help us or to work through the issue. We complain badly because we overlook that fact, instead replacing it is bile and shouting. Simply put, when you insult someone, they will stop caring what you think and will therefore not care to help a jot more. 

(and in my experience across 20 years, Christians are the worst offenders - and two of the examples given above we from the mouths of those who I later discovered or already knew to be church-goers)

Changes to This Blog

This is just a quick post to tell you that I am going to tweak this old site a little. As a former retailer, I embrace the effects of a little  re-merchandising.

So, gone is the map telling me where you are from. You know where you live and you don't need me to tell you. Gone is the Twitter box because if you were interested, you would have an account of your own and don't need to eavesdrop here. Gone is the Wordle thing, because it was boring and I am not here to bore you (much).

I have added my Vernacular Video Bar, which I will use to house a new video clip from time to time. It will be what has caught my eye or interests me, or of bits of music that I love. I think it add a dynamism to a site that is characterised by stillness of image. Take it or leave it, of course - but I will keep it mixed and will tell you more about me than most of my words.

Also, as an aside, I thought that I would advocate the place of Apture in this blog. From time to time you will see little symbols besides words. They will be links and the symbol, if you hold your mouse over it, will open a new dialogue box with some extra material in. It means that you don't need to keep flitting. I hate flitting. Do you hate flitting? An example would be Sacrament for links to text or King's College Choir for video (it takes the video symbol a little while to appear after posting, I ought to say)

I am interest to know what you think. Please say if there is anything you would like to see added or removed (any comments that have the word 'delete' will not be treated kindly and there will be tears before bedtime). I am among you as one who serves, after all. 

God in a Box

This is not a post about Aumbries, before you ask!

It is a matter of some mirth in our community that our friends from Zimbabwe always arrive for services late. Once, I was asked to bless the marriage of a wonderful couple, and to perform that ceremony at Noon on a given Saturday. At 12.05pm, I was to be found in the church kitchen making myself a coffee, which I then savoured for the next half an hour in an empty church before even husband and wife arrived, let alone the supporting cast!

On most Sundays, at the point when I have completed my little round of pre-Mass chores and preparations and toddle off to robe, the church looks empty. That would be four minutes before we process in. By the the time the first note of the first hymn thunders forth, the church is half full. By the end of the Collect, it is normally well packed. For us that is normal. 

My Boss and I are invited to a celebration in September, which starts at 2pm I think. He has been invited to given Opening Prayer at 4pm. You get the idea. 

We are all quite open about it. Leg pulling happens on both sides, but I thought I would consider this more fully in preparation for the aforementioned Mass last week. 

I am one for promptness. To be honest, I get the proper hump when someone is late, and I get an ever great cob on if I am the one who is late. On time-keeping, I have a minor OCD (though my Training Incumbent may at times be forgiven for thinking that I perhaps cope rather well with 'cutting it fine' - something I am guilty of all too often). It is another Western thing, added to by the likes of Gina Ford as modern parents are guided to raise their children by absolute meticulous routine (finally, I can blame that woman for something). Same for our faith and its expression.

8am Holy Communion

9.15 Morning Prayer

10am Sung Eucharist

6pm Evensong

We have made our faith a matter of appointment. We give God an hour here and an hour there - though we make sure that we are on time, of course. There is a danger, thereby, of placing God back in his box for the rest of time as we toddle off to the next appointment for which we must of course be on time. It is a Western thing. 

But not an African thing. As I said last week, if we give God time by appointment only, then they give him the time between waking and  ... waking. They are never late for a service, simply because they started their worship and praise many hours before we did. 

The Primping and Preening of Priests

Just when I thought that the world could get no more crazy, a priest-friend of mine told me of the review of her personal appearance on the website Beauty Tips for Ministers - whose strap-line is: Because you are in the public eye, and God knows you need to look good. 

I am not kidding. 

The priest concerned is a very attractive and stylish woman, theology doctorate under her arm, publications to her name and many radio appearances to claim credit for. She is also one of the nicest people in the world and yet despite being a good deal younger even than me (yes, I am rather young), laboured hard to teach me New Testament Greek when I was at theological college. It seems though, that the trivialities of one's achievements and personal qualities pale into insignificance when placed against the needs of:

Don’t fight the collar.
Try not to wear it at all until you’ve come to terms with it.
This isn’t to say that Rev. Helen looks uncomfortable in her collar — she doesn’t. She looks very comfortable, very priestly and very approachable. I just think that she’s being upstaged by her wildly dramatic jacket (which I love and totally want to steal) and I appreciate that her photo has given me a chance to reflect on far more troubling examples of “I chose this outfit ‘cuz I really want to offset the bummer collar situation.”
Let’s see what you think.
Cheers, darlings.

Style first, substance last? I will let you be the judge.

The author of the site, one Rev. Victoria Weinstein, also known as PeaceBang (no, really) is, I am sure a wonderful and delightful person. But I am wondering what this is all about? I confess, I am fighting hard not to launch into my normal Vernacular Invective-with-Rictus-Grin and state in no uncertain terms why this may well be the most preposterous thing I have ever seen in my life, ever. I am trying hard, dear reader - really really hard.

But I will resist. I shall approach this from another direction. The thing with public ministry, priesthood or any other accredited ministry is that the 'office-holder' is second to the office. The idea of priest wearing black, or ministers wearing white albs, or surplices, or whatever - is to make the person invisible and the ministry visible. PeaceBang in her interesting efforts seem to want to reverse that in what I consider an unhelpful way. The minute ministry becomes about the minister ... 

... too late. 

Anyway - for your delectation, a moment of my own primping. Enjoy. I need to go away, find a darkened room and take a brandy to calm my frayed nerves. 

Passed Unnoticed

Anyone familiar with prayers that I lead will attest to the fact that I invariably pray for those "who have died alone and unnoticed, un-mourned or whose faith is known to [God] alone". They are not my words, and I can't remember how I came by them, but it is an important sentiment to me, at least.

Throughout our lives we ponder our demise and wonder not so much what will happen but what our dispatch might be like. What will people say at my funeral? Will there be many there? What music should I have? 

...those sorts of things. 

I doubt that anyone ever thinks that when they die that they will lay undiscovered for weeks, and that when finally sent off from this world will be accompanied solely by a well-meaning priest and the funeral director. Sadly, one such person will leave this life in that way this week, with my role being the well-meaning priest. 

The person concerned lived a long life, will have done many things - some good and some bad. They may have had children and therefore breathed life into a new family that might yet be growing and thriving. They may have given pleasure through kindness to many people, by simple acts of goodness perhaps. They may have given all that they had to charity. They will have made human mistakes, some lesser and some greater. They will have had loves, favoured things. They will have thought myriad thoughts about many things. 

And I do not know about a single bit of any of it. I know his name, that's it. 

It is not un uncommon thing either. There is a lady who works for this Council (and there is one who will work for all other Councils) whose job is to arrange for someone to give a fitting funeral to people who apparently have no-one. My former neighbour was one such recipient of that service. Her family came forward far too late (just in time for the Will, it seems), and all we 'had' was our memories as next-door-neighbours. She died and lay undiscovered for far too long and died in the worst of circumstances - in pain and alone. 

So, this man who I never knew will have a simple funeral without music, without the lyrics of my normal eulogising.  In the end, it will be as if he was never there, and it seems to me such a tragedy. For this if nothing else I give thanks for my belief that God knows him and welcomes him home. For my part, he will get the best that I can possibly offer. 

A New Perspective on Christianity

This weekend has caused a profound shift in my perspective of my own faith and the organisation to which I claim a long membership. It is a tectonic shift caused by the best of things and the worst of things - the latter being the stuff of global headlines even now. 

I have slowly come to realise that there are very different kinds of Christians: the ones for whom faith is life, and the ones for who whom faith is a soap-box. There are those who let their faith shine through them and their lives, and others who use faith as a Tyndall Beam in order to project their needs upon the world. The latter disposition, at best, yields a few wonky outbursts (perhaps this is one of them). At worst, it results in the death of the innocents. 

In my last post, I shared a moment of Shona praise. In other posts I have talked about the deaf community. Both communities, the deaf and the Zimbabwean, have taught me considerable lessons about my own faith. The deaf community has taught me so much about communication, the Zimbabwean about unbridled and unfettered trust in love. Both cause, I am sorry to say, standard Western Christianity in many of its forms to seem petty, self interested, self-important and as relevant as a Beta Max Video player. 

Some have spoken of Christian persecution, as it is found in Britain. As far as I can see, that amounts to strictures surrounding work-apparel and directives about using faith to impose a theology upon others in their lives. Real persecution is to be found in the lives of Christian men and women from Zimbabwe who, because of their faith, have had to leave homes and family behind, often never seeing those loved ones again. Because of their faith. Where funds were limited, the Christian men of Zimbabwe sent their women and children oversees to safety, and in more than one case that I know of, have died before the reunion. Because of their faith. Only in that context do I see true persecution, not in the affronts to middle-class choice that we bewail in the West. The astonishing thing, though, is that a drop of their worship expresses more joy and gratitude than a bucket of our own worship (in any of the brands it is available in). Some of the British Christians who attended the Shona Mass on Saturday commented upon how "poe-faced" it made us all seem. I couldn't disagree. Exilic Zimbabweans regard their removal and separation from their homes as a new calling from God, and embrace it in those terms. Perhaps this is why I can't get super-heated about pieces of paper, I just don't know.

And then of course we have this man, Anders Behring Breivik, the man responsible for the murder of 85 young people in Norway in a kind of 'social conservation' exercise. He did this, it seems, because of a wildly mis-guided set of views informed, among other things, by ... his faith. His brand of faith is labelled as 'fundamentalist', 'right wing' and 'conservative' - none which is reason enough to end the lives of others. To the best of my knowledge, this is the first such terrorist act in the name of Christ in my lifetime at least in the West. 

In the middle of all of this, I have a a renewed sense of being a bystander. I have also written elsewhere about being a bystander, and the responsibility that we share (the Holocaust is one such arena where the place of the bystander is important). I watch Norway and the events there; I find joy when I am taken from Western 'nice' to the untainted praise of exiles. I put these things together and I gain a new perspective on my faith. On one hand we can abuse and insult our spiritual leaders with impunity. On another, a man is killing on behalf of the Head of our Body. One community would give up everything for the church ... everything. Another community light their bonfires and dance around the glowing embers of a church that they claim to love. There is an impossible imbalance in all of this that I struggle with. 

Today, the Body of Christ is different. We cannot be the same as we were before the Norwegian killings. What we have is a treasure in clay jars - jars that we beat with rods in our own hands, or else we stand by and watch others doing the same. Christians must now stand together and remind the world once again that we are a people of love, tolerance, embracing people of all races, whatever their differences to us - and a people of joy and praise, of song and worship - in all circumstances. If we do not, the consequences are on our heads. 

God is love, and those who live in love live in God, and God lives in them. 

A Shona Mass, a Gift from Zimbabwe

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Today I have had the particular joy of sharing a Mass with my very dear friends from the Zimbabwean community. Not in Britain by choice, they have moved here and made new lives, families often split even now. I asked them to repeat this hymn in their own language which is my favourite. In the best of time and the worst of times (and 'worst' as I could hardly ever imagine), their faith is summed up in the joy and passion of this hymn. As I said to them, as a result of knowing them I am glad and proud to apply the label of Anglo-Catholic Charismatic to myself. Zimbabwean charismatic worship is still very 'catholic' in flavour, and no-one there could deny the presence of the Holy Spirit. 

Another wonderful, painful, joyful, devastating moment of goodbye - though I hope for only a short while. I sense that I will see these wonderful Christians some more. 

Please do watch the video (forgiving my blunt direction to start them off) - this is the beat of my heart. 

Too Full To Think

It's a funny time, is this. No; that's not right. It is a very arduous time that I find myself in, and which my beloved family find themselves in. The reason for this is we are, in many ways, in another 'airport departure lounge' - but this one is the long wait for the flight out of Aylesbury. 

Leaving is a strange thing I am fast discovering. The kids know that things are on the brink of complete change but do not fully understand or grasp that this home of theirs will soon become part of their past. To be honest, they have turned into little monsters of late, and I blame the impending move and its effects on Jo and I. 

The thing about airport lounges, is that you are in no hurry to conclude your holiday, but you are in a hurry to get home. It's a funny paradoxical place that forces you to confront the need to leave one place and arrive at another. No-one enjoys that 'airport' experience very much, either. 

This last week and the weeks to come have been and are characterised by 'goodbye'. We were treated to a party last week, I made my last assembly to the kids at school, today sees their Leaver's Service and Sunday the last time I shall visit one of the churches in the Team. So much 'goodbye', and to tell you the truth, I hate it. I am not good at 'byes'. People will see me weepy and messy for the first time. 

Of course, this isn't to say that I am not deeply excited about the new place, because I am. The problem I have is that my head is just too full to think any more. I lay on the settee in the evening and stare vacantly at the TV, or fiddle with my new gadget. I have no space in my head to think about the new place, hard as I try. 

How do I begin to say goodbye to all these wonderful people, into whose lives I have gently insinuated myself? How do I say goodbye to hundreds of children? I just don't know. I have to trust that the words will come and I will not make too much of a fool myself. What I do know is that all this notwithstanding, I want to climb on the 'plane' with my family and fly away. It's time to go and I want it over with. 

Curacy ... a Guide

The Oxford Diocese Beauties - June 2008

For what are, I hope, obvious reasons (if you are more than a passing acquaintance to this blog), I have been thinking a considerable amount about the last three years and the profound honour of the ministry entrusted to my care. I can confidently claim my curacy as being a success - perhaps one of the most successful, not a claim I make lightly or carelessly.Within a breath of time, I will be a curate in a vicar's clothes, and a new and very different ministry will have started. I want, therefore, to consign some thought for posterity, as a tool of reflection for me, and maybe as a helpful tool for someone else later.

So, my Vernacular Top Ten Tips for a Kicking Curacy. 

1. Reaping and Sowing - the absolute truth of this ministry in training is that we get out in direct proportion to what we put in. We are called to work hard, to graft. A finicky over-focus on time off or study-time is not, I believe, what it is about. Those who have had the better curacies are the priests who have had to be reminded on many occasions about life/work balance. After all, ours is the best job in the world. We are not in sole charge of anything except perhaps our diaries, but get to go out do some vicaring and enjoying the rich blessings of ministry without some of the stresses and responsibilities of incumbency. 

2. Loving them into the Kingdom - the phrase taught to me by my Incumbent, this just about sums up every moment of any ministry. In this case, I refer to the level with which curates must fall in love with our ministerial field, its people and its life. I am passionate about Aylesbury and I have set my heart to do whatever is in my power to add to its life. Our communities (parish or wider afield) are the greatest gift in the world to us. Any lesser a view means you can't fully embrace them as brothers and sisters. 

3. The grace to learn - curacies are training posts. We are always fledglings to one level or another, and a heart to learn and the grace to accept a lesson can only be the winning ways in this life we lead. We may arrive good at some things (by God's  grace), but the minute we forget that we are beginners is a moment of great peril. Only someone with a heart to learn can be taught. 

4. The Boss - I have spoken of this elsewhere, but it is still worthy of note here. To my mind, and in all normal circumstances (there are always exceptions, of course), our Training Incumbents know best. Even when they don't (and it is conceivable), their choices and directions are made for our development. Graciousness is about the best way of showing appreciation for that person who has or will devote a considerable proportion of three years to our specific personal growth. Rarely in any walk of life are any trainees so blessed by the experience, time and prayer of one person in such a complete way. If they seem to act like they know best, it is probably because they do. 

5. The people - often passive or unknowing in this, they are much of the source of our learning. Our first clumsy bedside encounters, the first funeral, the first assembly, passing comments that stick to us, feedback (there is a little in curacy) - all of these things improve us. Even conflicts (as there are in churches) are a source of a rich education, all the while remembering that we are part of the encounter. This speaks, I think, of loving the people into the Kingdom with a grateful heart. Even the most talented Training Incumbent can do nothing with their curate in an empty room or field. 

6. The unexpected - three years I would have stated confidently that I was not cut out for ministry in schools. I would have done an assembly a month as a box-ticking exercise and let those who I perceived to be better than me do that bit of the job. God knows better than us, and I thanks God for that because I couldn't have been more wrong about that first assessment. This is but one of a myriad examples that I could give you. Conversely, some things that I thought were "my thing" have become the things I gain least pleasure from now. A heart to accept the unexpected will, I believe, be regularly surprised. 

7. Pecking Order - the 'Curate in Ministerial Raptures' will always get this wrong: (1) Family (2) Self (3) Ministry. The second speaks not of the very thing I denounced in Point 1, but of a need to ensure that the battery is charged before it energises others. This is place for retreats, prayer, reading, study, or just a little of that elusive thing in a ministerial life - sofa time. However, the lesson it has taken longest to learn (if indeed I ever did), is that my family overwhelmingly trump every other thing. Yes, of course there are exceptions and missing meetings or key services in favour of baby-sitting just speaks of poor organisation. This Point refers to taking them as seriously as the work, and both need careful organising to exist (or even stand a chance of existing) side by side. 

8. Have Fun - I have known some curacies to founder, or to remain stunted and never to fully grow. They were all characterised by a lack of fun and enjoyment (that is not to say that such a thing was the cause of the 'issues'). Laugh with people, laugh at yourself, even laugh at and with you Incumbent - it's allowed. Ministry is not an opportunity to be professional poe-faced, because that is as attractive to the world as flatulence. Yes, some of the things we do or witness are just ridiculous, as are we at times - largely because this is a theatre of human-beings doing our best together. 

9. Trust God - perhaps the one that should have gone at the top, but the statement of the obvious that is often the obvious understatement. Those of us blessed with an ordained ministry will know how many hurdles we have hopped through to get to this point. If we think for a moment that we got here by own efforts alone, and not within the calling that carries us in our lives, then we are stupid and conceited. God got us here, and God will guide us on, if we let Him.

10. Ministry is Us, but different - emerging from three years of this, I can see that I am fairly well the same bloke that was trained, but that I have a few tool more to help me along the way. I have not turned into some Angel, become a better man, acquired a more robust conscience or made me any less able to make mistakes than I was before I took this collar. If anything, I am 'me', but in the right place. What I was good at before I am still good at, and what I knew I was poor at, I am still poor at (notwithstanding Point 6). I put this here because I wish I had known that at the start. Early ministry was, for me, characterised by a deep sense that I was failing to meet a standard that I had always assigned to priests. Early blogs posts here will confirm that. Now I am, finally, at peace that I was formed in a greater part by the life I lived before all this started, and that I must embrace that formation accordingly (and not shun it as I had been tended to do). 

There is so much more that can be written and the experiences of others will vary, of course. I fail to see how I could have been more blessed, by the life, company, training and experience that I have had here in Aylesbury. More specific thoughts and thanks will be written later. 

Wanky

Humour (or 'humor' if you are in the US) is a funny thing! I have always marvelled that what is funny to one person is not at all funny to another. 

Last week I went to see the wonderful (and weepingly funny) Jimmy Carr at a gig he did here in Aylesbury. His style of comedy (a mix, I guess, of observational and semantic humour) is, to me, the funniest in the world. Mrs Acular isn't quite the same, though I could appreciate why some of the jokes may not appeal to a person in her line of work. There were times when I couldn't breathe for laughing while she sat there stony faced. 

Another person that makes me laugh a huge amount is Billy Connolly. His humour revolves around diatribes and stories, and his punch-lines are normally one level or another of invective, but cry I do. Bill Bailey is also very funny, but for different reasons. At the gig I once saw, he used music to comedy effect and it was hilarious. 

As I sat, a couple of lagers on board, suffocating in my full appreciation of Jimmy Carr, I did have a moment of conscience. You may have gathered that I am something of a Christian, a church-goer if you like. I do the whole God thing and I know a little bit of the Bible. Some of Jimmy's jokes were cruel and not suitable for this blog, but I still found them funny. There topics of humour in his performance that, were I sitting behind this computer, I would be upset by, and would be writing strong words - yet in a theatre with a comedian, they were the stuff of my laughter. (I ought to confess here and now, that Acts 20: 9 causes me to laugh out loud every time I hear it - it is about the funniest thing in print). I am not a bad person. In fact I think I am a good person. I think the same of Jimmy, Billy and Bill - nice people the lot of them. It is interesting what makes us laugh. What is appropriate for a Christian to laugh at?

I partly worry that a little of the Christian psyche is to shun humour. There are times when churches feel like the edifices of the Venerable Jorge of Burgos (he thought laughter to be a sin, a 'devilish wind'). If only Christians could laugh at themselves just a little more, I am sure that the church would live longer (note to Doc Richmond of press fame).

The world is a very funny place if you let that side of life in. No greater source of fun and laughter is to be found in our household than the children. Only yesterday, when looking at a napkin, one of the Twins Aculae comments that it was a "large wanky" (we knew what she meant, of course). The wife and I died thrice, and our laughter only fuelled the girls' mirth. That amused us all for an hour, with a little staged repetition from daddy to stoke that fire. The girls laughed at our amusement, we laughed at a funny word. Only the day before (and given the end of term), the same Acularic Twin tried to pronounce "certificate" - the best effort resulting in "squiffy fuck" (no, really). I nearly crashed the car. Indeed, if one of the cherubs is in mid tantrum, I need only say a Rowan Atkinson-esque "bottom" and the moment is neutralised unto smirks and giggle. 

For me, life would be nothing without humour. Life without near-400 children yelling "GOOD AFTERNOON FARVAH DAVID" at assembly is as naught. I understand that laughter induces a chemical release which does us good. Perhaps churches should add themselves to the comedy tour circuits, who knows. 

The New Civility of Breakups

In the olden days, when a man (allegedly) philanders with another woman and is caught, in flagrante delicto - they could reasonably expect the untimely relocation of their genitalia, the swift removal of arms from suits, the emptying of bank accounts and a whole manner of other painful and often public reprisals including some well deserved name calling, article writing and other such nastiness.

Some would say that such primal revenges were borne of a instinctive response on the part of the (allegedly) wronged woman. Add to that the very public dimension proffered by said man and said woman locked into a similar such circumstance and you have the makings of a real firework party. Bad Ashley (allegedly); poor Cheryl (allegedly). That he (allegedly) wronged the divine Mrs Cole on a number of (alleged) occasions is, if nothing else, a sign that he is (allegedly) pathologically stupid. 

So, we have the headlines of none other that the (allegedly) tolerant and (allegedly) balanced Daily Mail which give us an insight to the very nature of the dark scene about to be played out in the arena of the world's meejya. You may be expecting recrimination. You may be expecting bile. You may be expecting a part on a realty TV show for the (alleged) philanderer concerned. Me, I was expecting some good old-fashioned insults:

 - Your mother is gherkin and your father is a loser

 - You are the lowest of the low, and even lower than Lowy the lowly worm's low bits

I expected that. I want Cheryl to be angry and vitriolic. I want to see interviews on my television that are 60% 'beep'. Why? Because that is what I am conditioned to expect when such events take place in the glare of the world's meejya. 

But not this time. We have a new standard. We can regard it as the 'text speak' of breakups. Ashley Cole, my son, you are now measured against a new scale that makes manifest the place of our social media and gadgetry. No black-eyes; no dented wind-pipes; no ruptured spleens:

No Ashley Cole, you must "delete her number".

The shame.  Does it get any worse? Surely not. 


[Does this render the crime of 'unfollowing' in the social media akin to moidah?]

Hackgate: The Movie

With thanks to Lucy Mills for pointing this out. Hilarious. 


The genius work of thehandface - brilliant!

A Statement of The Manifestly Obvious

One of the few helpful things about this process of packing up and leaving is that I have to remove myself, in part, from the warp and weft of the Church of England Merry-go-Round. My attention to Synod was fleeting, by reading of others' blogs criminally sparse, and my view of the Church Times cursory. This removes me from a depth of knowledge, but also grants me an insight into the wider macro-perspective. 

It may be a blogosphere thing, or it might just be how it is for everyone, but it seems that in the present, Anglicans can do nothing but fight among themselves. I have touched on this already. 

To be be a member of the Church of England, to the passer-by, entails the following:

 - Carping on about the Archbishop of Canterbury

 - Carping on about people carping on about the Archbishop of Canterbury

 - Carping on about people carping on about the Archbishop of Canterbury after carping on about the Archbishop of Canterbury

 - Carping on about the Anglican Covenant

 - Carping on about those who defend and/or condemn the Anglican Covenant

 - Carping on about whether women are equal in the Church

 - Carping on about those who have a view about whether women are equal in the Church

 - Carping on about the place of homosexual people in the Church (or in life)

 - Carping on about those who have a view about whether homosexual people have an equal place in the Church (or in life)

 - Carping on about being at Synod

 - Carping on about those who are at Synod

 - Carping on about the decisions made

 - Carping on about the lack of decisions made

 - Carping on about staying in the Church or running off to form another

 - Carping on about those who are running off to form another church somewhere else

...and so the list goes on. Let me be clear, though. I accept that I write this a carper, and have no illusions that I am above or outside of the carping. Yet carping seems to have well overtaken prayer as the conversation of the Church of England. 

We seem not to be able to celebrate the Paschal Mystery, only become fixated on how we regard that Mystery differently. 'God is Love plc' seems not to be struggling for extreme old age, but by a basic lack of graciousness. I sense, though, that some will throw their arms up in disgust saying: No Farv, you are wrong. I just care! 

I wonder if it is time to celebrate our common humanity. There is too little gratitude for the gift of faith, our place in the great family of the Church. Instead, we sound more like disaffected teenagers who are convinced that they know better and are the pioneers of all things. Yes, the Church of England is a messy gaggle of faith-holders. Yes, it often groping in the dark for a direction and its leader, Rowan, doing only what one person can to make things better. But it is our Church, our family - and just a scintilla of pride and defensiveness for this family would go a long way to healing the many hurts that are meted out almost daily in the written word. 

Is it time to stop carping? I hope that time comes soon. 

An Ode to an iPad2

To the tune: "I, The Lord of Sea and Sky",


I now own an iPad 2;
And for asking, I thank you. 
I can write my blog on it,
If you give a sh...
It is shiny, black and thin;
I can make the picture spin!
I need never get my scrawny butt
Out of bed!


It is mine, Lord! iPad2, Lord!
The world will never be the same.
Not let go, Lord, of this Apple
It is mine, all mine; for no-one else!


I now own an iPad2.
Not one, but cameras two;
Downloading many an App,
Lots of cr..
Apps for playing games all day;
Let the people never say
That this toy will change my life;
Hated by my wife!


It is mine, Lord! iPad2 Lord!
The world will never be the same.
The prince of Gadgets; none to match it.
Forgive the smugness of my verse.