Late, But Sincerely Meant

or not, in this case

By the time I collapsed after the last Christmas Service, I had forgotten to do something very important. It wasn't that I had forgotten to cook the chipolatas, although I did, and it wasn't that I forgot to put out cranberry sauce, which I also did fail to do - it was to write a post on this thing (and I had turned off the computer).

So, belatedly (but not, at the same time), I would like to wish every one of you a happy and holy Christmas, and hope-filled New Year. I pray that your prayers are answered, but that in any instance 2012 is happy for you all. 

I want, too, to thank you for your support and friendship here. It has been an interesting year to say the least, but that has caused me to be less present here at times. That you come back, engage, and regard this drivel as worthy of a moment of your precious time means the whole world to me. 

Thank you. 

'Tis The Season to Be Grumpy

It's a funny thing, this whole Christmas pavlova. In itself it is a wonderful thing, hope-filled and hope-fuelled. We have Baybee Jeezuss, Lickel Donkay and Mairee and Joziff. We have many pies-a-mincing, much wine-a-mulling, considerable alpine trees-a-dropping, the prospect of a good number of under-cooked turkeys-a-poisoning, and much much  more. I love Christmas, for all the right reasons, for how it makes me feel like a kid again, for the theological and scriptural stuff - Crimbo ticks all the boxes. 

Until I step outside of my front door. 

Only in December do humans turn into slavering animals. Only in December do ordinarily friendly folk turn, as if by magic, into red-eyes fire-starters. The fury in the High Street is palpable, where manners and decency are not, manifestly absent as they seem to be. Smiling folk are now grimacing folk. Oh the pressure we pile upon ourselves ...

But I am not immune, oh no. I was in a card shop in the very deliberate act of making a purchase of, well, a card, when I discovered not a single card with Baybee Jeezuss, or even a Joziff for that matter. I could have bought a ton of cards that celebrate that beast of yuletide - the Robin (not that a day throughout the year passes in my garden when I don't see them - which means that a card featuring a grey squirrel would be just as appropriate). This card shop was in the parish of this here religious blogger, Vicar, eejit. I WANT A BAYBEE JEEZUSS, FOOL! But rather than let those words slip out, I simply asked, in a wan wet English defeated way "Do you have any religious cards for Christmas?" to which the reply from a very solid looking woman was "No, mate". I left, when perhaps I should have jumped up on to her counter and mounted a protest and chained my Adonis body to her Epson till. Instead a frowned like a man retaining flatulence

I ought to say, though, that I have seen another side to Christmas this year, apart from that represented above. I have seen my little church full over and over in recent days. I have welcomed people back who had scarpered years ago. I have welcomed people who have never been before. The locals say that numbers are up, and that is great. But not as great as just sitting on my Throne and just reveling in being the Vicar for the first time at Christmas. I have hardly done a thing, the crowd have - but I am like a pig in mud at the moment. Christmas couldn't be any better than that (until I go home to be with the kids when it then improves even more). 

...sigh

Being Without a Vicar

As before, my actions are constrained by a wife who would prefer not to have her picture all over the internet, so I am going to make do, once again, with this poor substitute. My missus isn't too bad to look at either, so you are going to have to jolly well cope with this image.

My comment sort of gives away who I might be talking about. In the Parish of Ss Philip and James in Whitton, that place where I peddle my ecclesiastical wares like a be-cassocked dementer, I have (apparently) 15,000 souls in my cure. The thing is, only 14,997 of them have a Vicar. The fact oft forgot in parish circles is that Mrs Vicarage and the Baby Vicarages, by virtue of the other relationship they hold with the village dog-collar, do not have the care of the Vicar as everyone else has. 

Now, I can hear those Smilers out there squaring up to tell me that I minister in my home - and to that I say this: rubbish. At home, I am someone very distinct, and it is a role I cherish. The roles of husband and father are wonderful, but I don't think that I can do those and be Vicar while wearing the same pants. Simply put, Vicarage families are the families without a Vicar. 

Whilst there is not a thing I can do about that (and I find that clergy wives, male or female, are normally fairly good about making alternative arrangements), I wanted to stand up and pay my respects both to my own wife and family, and to those in their position. As I have said myriad times, it is our wives who have to cope with us parading around the place with our mini Messiah Complexes. Mrs Acular, a gifted woman with her own career, has put much on hold or aside so that I can do my work. I will be endlessly thankful to her, both for that, but also for living in a home that is semi-open to the public, above 'the shop', across the hall from my office, for providing my lightening conductor when I return seething from something or other and just understanding (most of the time) that what I do is unpredictable and vague. It is my work, and it affects her - directly. Yet she has no Vicar to talk it over with, to take pastoral support from. No, she is disenfranchised from the great Church of England 'presence in every community', together with all the 'wives'.

So I pay tribute to them all. I thank them for propping us up, for taking the hit more often than any partner should, for knowing just the right way of coping when we do not, and for taking on a public role that they didn't choose for themselves or the kids. 

To you all, I wish you a Happy Christmas - we'd be lost without you. 

Trolls and Blogging

I can't speak for all bloggers, only for those who blog in a conspicuous Christian setting, those who speak of their faith and their life's experience. 

As with all activities, there are the Detractors. I think that it is part of life in general, the equal and opposite force that represents the antithesis of what you are doing. One only needs to think of light and dark to know that life is often a selection of two-sided coins.

As is blogging, and all such activities.

I was reminded yesterday (by two friends) of a pernicious breed of human that hides in gloomy sweaty bedrooms, seeking here and seeking there for what in the blogosphere they might devour. In the trade we call them Trolls, and they are very often sallow-skinned, sunken-eyed, fetid Gollom-a-likes who have no appreciable life of their own. So they make themselves a nuisance in the lives of others. Have I laboured the point enough? They really are very slimy and unpleasant (and they reputedly smell of wee). 

Blogging is a form of journalling where the blogger, very often, is exposing him or herself in the act of simply being honest. In our blogs, we lay down our thoughts and fully expect (and hope) that people might react in a constructive and meaningful way. We cherish disagreement where that disagreement is born of a mutual respect and it is, after all, the basis of all good dialogue.

Trolls don't do that. In the temporal world, they would be the window-licking type who hides in a doorway only to jump out and tell you that your nose is too big or your breath smells. In blogging terms, they appear in comments box of our sites and broadly insult us, deride our work and mock the honesty with which it was delivered. Religious folk are, I think, more vulnerable to these Pointless People. We speak of matters that command no tangible proof, of things that we feel over and above what we know - and when Trolls appear to muddy the waters for no appreciable reason, it becomes hurtful. Sadly, these Lumps of Goo are often outspoken and prolific, and when they find a hapless blogger, act as near-stalkers and as bullies. I met one such  pratt yesterday. They are the people who will laugh in the sidelines when you tell your children that you love them, emerging like puffed up comedians to tell them that love is lie. 

Many Trolls will read this post and some might even comment. You know the comment of a Troll, as they often go by the name "Anonymous". You know who you are, silly people, and so do we. 

Fresh Revelation Through the Eyes of Children

'Tis the season to be jolly, fa la la la la, la la la la. In the life of Mr Vicarage, it means the now regular jaunts around the schools to enjoy their Nativity plays. Regular readers of this blog (thank you) will know how deeply moved I am by each one of them, with offered by the youngest of our children moving most of all.

The added dimension this year is that my own children have just completed their first Nativity. One of the Twins Aculae was a Star, the other a Wise Man. It seems only weeks ago that they were Car-seat fodder, little bundles of indiscriminate squirming. 

Now, they are modern day vehicles of the purest revelation - and let me tell you why. 

In the weeks leading up to the Great Day, they have clearly been rehearsing the words to the songs that they are going to offer the world. The great joy of watching all this happening (professionally and personally) is seeing little ones learn, by-heart, the words to anything up to ten songs which they will and do warble out without a moment's coyness. The thing is, when they come home and tell us the songs they they have working on, or even when they offer a rendition, they are mortified when we join in and sing with them. "How do you know that song, Daddy?". There is the right answer and the honest answer: the right answer is that the teachers told us so that we can help them learn at home; the honest (but wrong) answer is that we did the same songs as kids and in every year since. 

My children, at four years of age believe, with ever fibre of their being, that they are the first to tell the story of Jesus. It is their story to tell, not ours. They believe too that every song that they sing is an innovation just for them. That means, to me at least, that every Nativity play offered by Reception age children is as fresh and real as the Gospel account itself. It is in their hearts; they mean it; yes, they even believe it. They are telling it as they feel it, in all the glorious and beautiful chaos that only kids can bring to such a performance. Give me a little child over Luke the Evangelist any day of the week. One is impressive, the other is life changing, if you but let it.

I have said it before, and I will say it many times again: try being cynical about Christmas after you see a Nativity play offered by the young. They 'get' Christmas more than even I do, and they teach me more about the magic of the Incarnation that I could ever hope to teach them.

Malware Warning

I was informed by a friend that a Malware Warning was posted when you tried entering this site. I have found the source of that content (another blog which was on my blog-roll) and removed it. You may now proceed in safety as the warnings seem to have ceased!

Thank you for your patience, and my apologies for any consternation this may have caused. 

David

One Virgin, A Sweaty Vicar and the Pursuit of Normal

From 'Cracked Virtue' - another closed blog

Before I start, an apology. Life and its various needs  means that I am scarcely finding time to be a half decent dad, let alone an engaging blogger. I apologise for neglecting you, ever thankful as I am for your continued support. 

Well, the title may have you wondering what is about to emerge before your eyes, but be assured it isn't what you think, so go and wash your minds out with soap and water. 

Several things have come to pass in the last week that have given me cause to consider a line in the sand. Allow me to list those things:

 - Exercise

 - Heat Magazine

 - A kid

There you go; rich blog fodder if there were any. The 'virgin' of the title is the new gymnasium I have joined (Virgin Active Torture Chamber, if you please). Having sold all three of my kidneys to afford to borrow their towels to wipe the sweat from my ontologically changed brow, I can now pootle down there and run a little, sling some iron about, row nowhere and contort my reverential body into to shapes that would amaze you. Do I wish to be some oiled Adonis? Am I the next Iron Man? I am a little overweight, wheezy in the cold, flabby in my cassock and fast approaching 40. What I am pursuing is not excellence - just normality. I am below that standard at the moment, and I will work hard to achieve normal weight and fitness. 

Last week, I languished in a school staff room, not waiting to not be Father Christmas, and taking advantage of the reading material of choice of our educators: Heat Magazine. Scored across the cover of that edition were the semi-clad forms of three Slebs (those younglings who are the love-children of And and Dec, Bruce Forsythe and Obergruppenfuhrer Cowell). That they were half dressed (or half undressed, depending on your perspective) wasn't what drew my eyes (honest), it was that they looked, well, normal. Their 'crime' was that they had stopped dieting. Hold the press, wait a cotton-picking minute, what they are guilty of is enjoying their chow and their penalty is to look, actually, altogether more attractive than Miss Skellington on the next page. Normal shaped women are accused of crimes to femininity these days - shame (and let's face it, normal sized women do more for the feminine curve than a walking rack of ribs). Just saying ...

Then the little lad. After not being Father Christmas at a Christmas Party at the school where I now help out, and after climbing out of the outfit that I wasn't wearing when I wasn't being Father Christmas, I passed a ten year old in the corridor. "I like you", he uttered in passing. "Why is that, fella?" was my interested reply. "You're normal". His mum died a thousand deaths as only the mother of an inveterate heretic could, and apologized for her boy. "No", said I, "his words are a gift to me". And then I cartwheeled home, cock-a-hoop that I had achieved that mystical status after a single assembly.

Normality to some is to be scorned. It speaks, often, of mediocrity and the average. The Gospel, of course, is not one of 'normal', but ministry and life seem often to put some of us behind that line, not ahead of it. Normal? I'll have that!

What I Miss About Curacy

Before I say anything else I must state, in absolute terms, that I have the best darn job in the world. Whitton, Lundun Tahn, Boeing 747s, charging Stags - love it love it love it. The parish, its people, the community, all of it - love it love it love it.

Yet it is worthy of comment that I miss my curacy and miss it considerably. I think that these two things are not mutually incompatible, so feel able to open these thoughts out - in case they are of use to other folk (professionally or voyeuristically). 

Curacy (in the 'training role' sense) is a specific, once-only gift. I have often been annoyed by those who, without reason, have mumped about their training experience, the free house, the free professional on-site tuition, the willing folk of the parish who entrust some of their life's needs to the Noobie. There are, of course, those who have appalling curacies - but they are the small minority. I am not one such lad - mine was good, very good. 

What I miss about curacy is the envelope that surrounded me as I ministered. Perhaps it was a cocoon but it was a nice place to be. Part of that was found in being part of a Team Benefice, but knowing that one's first ministerial steps were over a soft landing was a specific relief and joy. That ''stableiser" thing in the first weeks and months gave way to simply being able to work alongside someone else who had to do a similar job, someone with whom things could be discussed and dreams dreamt. Being the Vicar changes that, subtly, with the job of incumbent being surround more in a sort of loneliness than the old life. Yes, I miss having a Training Incumbent and all the dimensions such a person brings.  

Having the buck stop with me, as it were, is a two-edged sword. I like to think I am an energetic and creative man, with a comfort for being decisive. I like having the buck stop with me, but it brings its own stresses and strains, as I am not one who is always as convinced by my own rightness as I might convey. In short, I worry, more than I used to as a curate. 

Curacy is a far more pastoral ministry I find. I am blessed indeed by the presence of another priest for whom pastoralia is a clear gift. I remember, as a curate, wondering if I was 'stealing' all the priestly stuff while the Boss dealt with strategy, money and the stones in the walls. He was very graceful, and I think I now know why. Modern incumbents are less about direct pastoral work than perhaps they once were. Mine is, by default (which is to say I didn't opt for a change in focus per se) a more strategic working life, and one where I have to trust much of the pastoral to the care of others. While in hindsight it seems obvious, it has been an unexpected change in my ministry. 

Whilst I am a pratt a lot of the time (or shall we say 'smiling fool'), curacy was a more appropriate platform to be the clerical clown, the funny man, the ball of slightly unhinged energy. Incumbency is marked more by the demands of being strong through changes, resilient in the face of direct criticism that is not found in training. I am the chairman of the board, promoted from marketting and entertainment! I think I look at it as having 'grown up' in ministry (although I am still a nutter from time to time).

Taking the lead is exposing and vulnerable. Hiding behind a leader is safe and comfy. That said, being in the front seat is exciting and nail-bitey and the uncertainties are compelling. People who said that the learning curve from curacy to incumbency is steeper than that from old life to curacy were right. 

But I wouldn't be anywhere else in the world. 

Something for the Weekend II

Brought to my attention by a new but firm friend - the work of the wonderful Richard Stilgoe. Enjoy!!

Wrong Message Wrong Time

You know my feelings on this stuff. I don't like or subscribe to the premis that Christians feel a shame from which they can distance themselves in this initiative. It is a campaign rooted in the negative and more than piggy-backs on the captivating 'not afraid' movement that went viral some time ago. 

However, today is Not Ashamed Day  - December 1st, at St. Paul's Cathedral. Were the campaign called 'Proud' I might have a sympathy, but I know no shame in my God, the Christ, or his Gospel. I am not persecuted and do not believe that any Christian in Britain is persecuted. We might be marginalised in some circumstances, but not persecuted. No. No. No.

Now it might just be me, but this wholly poorly timed. There is a community in Britain who live life knowing a shame that is projected upon them, and that is not of their making or choosing - or deserved. There are those in this country who know persecution in the real sense of the word, not in the sense that in encompassed by the slight infringements of the rights of choice that some Christians feel that they have had violated. I speak of the remarkable community of those who live with HIV. Today is World Aids Day.

I question the need to stand before a cathedral church with pamphlets and proclaim the great 'Woe is Me' when we as Christians should be laying aside our own needs and reaching out to those whose lives have been utterly changed by a disease. That I cannot wear a crucifix over my Tesco uniform will not cost me my sleep or my life. Aids would. Taking the 'shame' and 'persecution' platform on this day of all days seem like a colossal home goal. 

Were we ever ashamed? No. Should we care for those who life hangs in the balance day by day? Yes.