Visitors to My Door

I have just been visited by two very nice ladies from the Jehovah's Witnesses. They flinched when I opened my door be-collared and when they recognised that I am something of a religious practitioner. That said, they didn't run, and we talked....

...quite a lot (while they got rained on, sorry)

They were pre-occupied with the question, 'when will the Day of Judgement come?', and clutching a translation of the Bible that I do not recognise, cited verses like so much rat-a-tat tat from an Ouzi 9mm. I said that whilst I couldn't conclusively rule out its possibility today, I rather expect to enjoy my Sunday dinner. They didn't like that, protesting that God would smite sinners from his Beautiful Garden and would introduce His Kingdom. Now. Not in a minute. Now. Got it? Now.

I argued that the beautiful green shoots of the Kingdom were already alive and growing, and indeed yielding fruit, on this Earth this day. So we moved on.

Apparently, in a Noah-esque flood, the following people can expect a little more that a splash across the mush: 'failing human governments', those who pollute the earth, naughty people and those so bad that even God in all his Majesty can't sort them out (or words to that effect). Well, ladies, I said - that's me out. I own a car and wear clothes made in factories (they weren't happy that I said that included them). I asked about murderers or those who were accessory. Nope, the mighty Smiter will issue a far tighter smiting for such blighters. Would such people go to heaven, I asked. No, of course not, they answered. 'Poor old St. Paul' I commented.

This game of theological tennis lasted 45 minutes, and I will say this, they were charming and polite and it was nice to engage in a discussion with them. 

However, I think that for me, the Witness Movement is not for me. I took my copy of The WatchTower, and have pawed through it a little. 

p6: When Will the End Come: now, 'cos the following things are happening ...

 - social upheaval

 - worldwide multi-language preaching campaign (so the end will be the JWs fault then)

p6: What Will Follow the End?

 - 'mild-tempered' people will inherit the Earth (no more Mandelas, Jesuses or Tutus then)

 - The Kingdom will be established - and the subjects will last for eternity in perfect health - in houses, apparently - and only their own houses - no renting in the Kingdom! (Isaac Azimov was right all along - robots will rule)

p7: 'The earth will not end, but those who ruin it will' (me and my kids will be recieve the Heavenly Bug Spray then - for we have a carbon footprint and use electricity)

p13: 'Acknowledge that your husband is now your God-appointed head' - so if a wife rejects her husband's headship, she rejects none less that God himself. (My wife is toast too, as we are equal in our marriage)

p13: if your husband cocks it up 'allow him time to master his new role as head of a family' (even if he beats you after a Stella or twelve?)

More later. As I said to the lovely ladies who knocked at my door, Christians (not sure if they call themselves that, must ask if there is a next time) have a tendency of labelling themselves on the side of good, and of others on the side of bad - like we are safe and sorted. As I pointed out, I believe in a God of love who includes, not a God of Hatred who excludes. 'Be the Damascus Road',  I said, 'so that sinful people may find God, not be told that they, in common with all humanity (us included), have put themselves beyond the hope of the Salvation simply because they are imperfect and make poor choices from time to time'.

Then I needed caffiene ... and a smoke (and I don't even smoke)

What Can I Say?

A

As a blogist, and one who reads the output of other blogists, I have wondered about the appropriateness of some material. 

No - you have a mind like a sewer; I wasn't thinking about material like that!

I was contemplating the propriety of some levels of disclosure in a bloggy. This is bound up in the fact that what is written on this 'ere screen could protentially be viewed by anyone daft enough to log on and read it. 

I think I am approaching this from both perspectives that I bring to this: as reader and as writer.

 - Other people's stories: reportage is OK up to a point, but only, I believe, in more general terms. The disclosing of private narrative or events of someone other than the blogger is unacceptable to me, and as a reader I sometimes find myself feeling like I have my 'eye' at a 'keyhole'. There is a danger too that the subject of the blog may recognise themselves and their story, and I can only guess the scale of the hurt that they would experience. As a priest, this is all the more important; partly to protect those in our past, but also to assure those in our present that their accute pastoral need today isn't going to be the blog fodder of tomorrow. We only have a right over our own stories.

 - Our own stories: This speaks to why we choose to maintain a blog that is read by others. Do we have a perspective on the world and want to share it? Are we seeking to self-counsel using the comments of others as our 'shrink'? Speaking entirely for myself, it seems that there is a brand of blog writer who like to expose past pains, to a fault. They are met by a brand of blog reader who feast on that stuff, doing the cottage psychology thing, or simply relishing the chance to do the 'there there' thing. I read blogs and I study not just them but those who comment on them, and there are those readers who only ever emerge to comment when a difficult skelington has just been outed. It makes me a feel a little like a voyeur, so I stop reading. For myself, I think that you are less interested in me than my thoughts. I am in no hurry to tell my story because frankly that is what it is - my story. My wife and my children, my mum and siblings - they are those who are the right audience, not the anonymous reader, no disrespect meant. My past contains great bits, and crappy bits, mistakes and successes - but only by getting to know me in person will you get to that stuff - then you can be utter underwhelmed by it.

- Biting the hands that feed us: there are blogs that seem to have one aim: to offend and wound the organisation that the blogger works in/for. Case in point are those who poke fun at the church as a sole M.O. all the while doing so anonymously. I won't now read a blog if I don't know who writes it, simple as that. It seems that Mother Church is oft concerned about scurrilous blogs - and in truth, I tend to share their concern.

These are, of course, only my views. I'd be interested to know what you all think. Is this a Counsellor's Couch, a stool at the bar with mates, a spittoon, or a canvas for doodling? I am not sure that I know what this thing we called 'blog' is, but I feel strongly that some serve undisclosed purposes and have the potential to leak too readily.

What a Weekend

My last post described my immersion into the West Indian culture. That was Friday! On Saturday, I was immersed in Zimbabwean culture, presiding over the Blessing of the marriage of two members of their community, taking them into on to the great celebration of the Eucharist.

It went a little like this: a service scheduled to start at noon saw me sipping coffee at five-past as I waited for the congregation and couple to arrive. Worshippers started to arrive by quarter-past and promptly burst in hymns sung Shona-style.

I started the service at half-past twelve (not everyone had arrived even then). I opted to use the 'said' version of the service, but giving the Zimbabwean community the chances to embellish the Rite in their own way. My lot from Zimbabwe know how to be the beating heart of worship. As I said to them, their worship and praise go to my heart! We had two english hymns and two Shona hymns, but whenever there was a hiatus in proceedings, more choruses burst forth! 

I have no idea what they were singing about - but I was all the same connected. I knew  not what the words were, but I knew well what they meant. Amongst maracas, whooping, shreaks and screams, the harmony-perfect music was (and always is, in my opinion) the music made in heaven. Unaccompanied save for the Spirit, it is worship that entrances and intoxicates and adds to my view that in so many cultures there are such wonderful ways to make music to our Lord. The whole thing defied the lines and edges of english liturgy, but actually - in a way that made 'some old said Eucharist' quite the most spectacular act of praise you could witness.

It is of profound importance to me that what I offer as the adminstrator of any Sacrament is that the context of that Sacrament is seemly, fit for use and meaningful. That means (to me at least) that a West-Indian act of worship, a Zimbabwean act of worship or even a kid's act of worship be of them and for them. I know what is important to me in liturgy, but that is only for me - but to deliver Fr David's standard service to all - well, that is just unacceptable. So, as I said at the end of the service yesterday:

Mwari, Mweya Unoyera, ngaakusimbisei muchitendero nerudo, akudzivirirei kumativi ose, akutungamirirei muchokwadi nerunyararo, uye Chikomborero ChaMwari Baba, noMwanakomana, noMweya Mutswene zvigare nemi kubvira zvino dakara narini. Amen

...and apparently I got it right and didn't inadvertantly insult anyone.

In a world where we are all different, only in a world like that can we stand a chance of really knowing God. 


*This image was from my First Mass, a service also greatly enhanced by my friends from Zimbabwe 

Now That's a Send-Off

I have just returned home from a most remarkable experience. I don't normally like to talk of the specific cases of my ministry, but this was something very special.

It was my honour to officiate over a West-Indian funeral, that the family arranged to the smallest detail. For a start, it has been a six-hour affair for me which already makes it unique in my modest experience.

Caribbean funerals are very different to 'standard' white English ceremony, partly because of what goes into the service but also the way that community recieves death.

The body was recieved tby the family this morning at their home, where they paid their final respects. The coffin was without its lid as that community seem at pains not to contain and shroud death. They seek to focus on the deceased, not their coffin. We processed the near mile to the church with a jazz band leading us and accompanying us along the way (similar to the image above); we will have crippled the traffic flow of Aylesbury for nearly 25 minutes, but no-one seemed to mind. The service itself was long by my own standards, lasting well over an hour and a half. The main difference is that the coffin is opened once again and that all the mourners (over three-hundred in this case) undertake the Viewing where they file past the deceased and pay respects to him and to his family who are close at hand. At the graveside, the usual words gave way to the family  filling the grave in themselves while the gathered throng sing Negro spirituals without pausing for breath. In short, the family do just about everything that can be done beyond the minister. Sons carried the coffin, daughters led the tributes, and so on.

This all took approaching six hours. It was six hours of time with a remarkable family who, within the context of their grief, celebrated a life lived well. Such was the outpouring of love for a self-styled simple man that for me it was overwhelming. We white English people tend to be so reserved at our funerals, wanting to be on our best behaviour for who knows who. I learned how to grieve today. I learned how readily hope can be snatched from the jaws of death. 

...Death, where is you sting? Death, where is your victory?

Not in Aylesbury, not this day! Rest in peace, Ken.

What is The Point of Wasps?

This is a question that has fascinated me for years, but is not what I want to talk about today!

I want to talk about stone [not the hamlet on the Oxford-side of Aylesbury; not about the town I once passed on the train to Manchester; not about a powder-induced state of near floaty-lightedness].

I spent a wonderful time as Day Chaplain in Orxford's diminutive but otherwise wonderful cathedral church. My job there was to dither about among the hoards of tourists, pose for umpteen pictures until my cheeks got cramp, lead short prayers on the hour and on that day, to preside at Holy Communion, Cranmer Style! It was a good day, and one that reminded me of a strange phenomenomenomenon. 

Stones, the ones that the builders used to build such edifices as Orxford Cathedral, Lincoln Cathedral and, say Ripon College Cuddesdon (where I trained to be a vicah) - they have selective memories. Yes, dear reader, stones can be contrary (and almost certainly perverse). 

When I have visited great ancient churches (big and small, and the not-so-ancient, come to think about it), I have felt the power of prayer ooze from the stones they comprise. No church is silent, trust me. Even when there is no noise and you are the only person there, churches are not silent. Jubilant choruses, heartfelt hymns, intoned psalms, Great Amens, bustle and chat, applause maybe; and also minor-chord laments, the anguished cries of grieving relatives, the pathos inducing recitations of Psalm 22 as the heart is ripped from the church late on past Maundy Thursdays - every note resonates from the stones. If you think I am mad, work out a way to be alone in a church sometime, and make the journey. The noise is deafening at so many levels.

But then you get other stones that seem to have no memory at all - Teflon coated blocks of absolute silence. My Theological College is like that. Whilst it is a wonderful place and a warm and vibrant place, nothing sticks to it. Maybe because in many ways such colleges are sausage factories, airport lounges. Ordinands enter, pre-Deacons leave - in mere months it seems. It is odd having lived, worshipped and raised a family there, to visit to find it looking like it did before but n'er a note of past parties and lectures hangs in the air. Silence is silent (even in the chapel, oddly). This isn't a criticism, more an observation.

I have no doubt that this behaviour applies to house-bricks too - but in which way I have yet to establish. My manse has seen many things, I am sure - but I am not sure what, if anything, has adhered.

Too Much of A Good Thing

The Full English Breakfast is to me a work of culinary art. It is moorish comfort food and the prospect delights me. 

There are times when such a prospect emerges on life's horizon, and such a prospect every day for a week or so. Hurrah! Nom nom nom!

Something unforseen happened when I was walking the West Highland Way for a week once; by Thursday, I couldn't bear another bite of such a grease-feast. The same thing happened when we were away a few weeks ago - by the end of the week I just had no more capacity for a fried breakfast.

It is not just food that works in me like this. I was once offered a fancy car for a weekend by a friend, as a favour. You may know that this is for me a wonderful thing, and this Mercedes was the mutts nuts. I took mum and dad out in it, The Wife too, and I drove and drove - until in the end it just felt like any other car. I couldn't believe it! 

This probably connects with my views on not achieving all our dreams. It seems that when we get what we think we want, very quickly we get used to it and in the end we realise that perhaps we didn't really want it at all. Sometimes, the idea is better than the thing itself. 

The exception to this is the miraculous in life; the love of one's children, the joy of seeing the person you love most in the world every day, a good experience of prayer, the soaring melody of a piece of music - those things can be soaked up to excess and never lose their valency. Perhaps the exception to this is in the non-material ...

The Might of Women

This is Woman - she is to be feared.

Not because of her mighty claymore sword, not because of her intimidating glare. Not because of her feminine charms and not because she looks acceptably good in a leather skirt.

No, this is Woman and she is to be feared by all who behold her (except for a few days a month when she unclean and should be ignored, and more properly mocked for her weakness).

But I hear you asking 'why?'

I will tell you why: because Woman is mighty even enough to defeat the grace and love of none other than 

...God. 

She touches the matter of communion, and even the power of the Holy Spirit is neutralised by Woman. With her frightening Woman Ray and her alarming Female Photon she will break the connection that holds God and his church together - whatever she touches becomes Godless. The world may only be safe in the hands of none less than Man, the conduit of all the mighty universe-forming powers of God. 

Can Man save the day from Woman? 

Will God be vanquished by this scourge of the known Galaxy?

...tune in next week for 'The Ludicrous Opinions of Some Christians' to find out. If you missed this week's thrilling episode, it will shown again on the Sacramental Assurance Player

[This is a work of irony, by the way - before you comment that I am a 'traditionalist']