Giving and Keeping

As ever after a gathering of the deanery clergy, I am left with a few ponderances. This is a good thing, I think. Today we met in sumptuous surroundings, over a glorious meal in regal splendour for a gathering that, in part, was dedicated to a talk from the Church Urban Fund (there are almost certainly some interesting comparisons to be drawn between venue and content, but that is not for here). It has been a good morning, and it is always a joy to chew the fat with other priests and ministers. 

As part of the offering from Kerry of the CUF was the innate plea for dosh, for wonga, for some green, coin if you will. And so it was that we all went around our Anglican circle and said how well (or otherwise) we were doing. 

There were some who were doing sterling charitable work but weren't able to pay their own bills. This is laudable in the extreme but also begs the odd question. Does charity begin at home or not?

My parish is a charity and I bust my reverential buns to make sure that it has a lively income, well invested, appropriate Gift Aided - so that the ministry and purpose of this charity thrives. CUF is a charity and its officers do likewise for its ministry and purpose. Now - how would it be if the Church Urban Fund donated some of the money it is chasing hard from me and gave it to the favoured charity of the CEO, which could be for sake of example, Kalashnikov Anonymous. Would I be happy donating to KA myself? No. It asks the question, therefore, if a charity should donate. 

I believe very strongly that I have a responsibility to my parishioners and the diocese to pay our share of the responsibility. After all, they pay me and they house my family. Paying our 'share' is equivalent of paying the mortgage - it is something that you just must do. Would I, as a private individual, say to my bank - sorry I couldn't pay my mortgage last year, but I helped some puppies find homes. I doubt that would prevent foreclosure.

To be Christian is, by definition, to have a heart to serve. This creates an issue, a conflict therefore in our hearts. Do we serve, or are we the service?  Do we give to charity with  money we have raised charitably or do we receive it as a gift to enable the work we do? Do we donate to charity before we successfully pay all our bills? Do those who give money to us as churches expect that we can do without that money? Do we misrepresent ourselves when we say that we need the money, only then giving to another organisation that is often taking donations from our donors too?

So many question to which I don't have the answer. The only thing I am sure of though is that we must pay our way first - and then choose what to do with the surplus (a nice problem to have, and a source of aspiration for most of us).

Suffrage and the Church

I haven't been a priest for an awfully long time, and I have only been an incumbent for a very short time - but in the years I have existed within parish structures, I have been convinced of the cause of the gentle degradation of that noble body - the parochial church council.

I wrote a while ago about how, here, we will do things a little differently when the next session of the PCC begins. That was not all I believed needed adjustment for the Council to be effective in its work. The other factor, I believe, surrounds the right that the members of the electoral roll possess but rarely ever have a real chance to use - their vote. 

I am not talking of the pack animal arm-in-air type voting. I am referring to a meaningful election where everyone gets a chance to make a difference. The degradation of the valency of the parish council surrounds the following process:

• The PCC is overworked with the minutiae of parish life
• It becomes an unattractive proposition 
• Insufficient people stand for the vacancies at the next session
• To make up numbers arms are twisted
• Just enough people stand for election for the vacancies to be filled
• They get elected en bloc and very much en passant
• No-one remembered who was on the PCC if you ask them after the fact
• The PCC becomes detached from parish life
• ...and a cycle of insufficient nominations for vacancies perpetuates
• Start at the top

My feeling is that an election where, unfortunately, people may lose and not be elected is vital to the health of a PCC and in many ways to the parish. The reasons for this are simple - the people who have the vote are then caused to use it, and become an active part of the process rather than a passive member of the crowd. They get to exercise their responsibilities under that suffrage too. We had an election yesterday here, and yes, people were not elected. I bet that those who were at the meeting will be able to name the new PCC though - and that is a start in itself. 

When I was young (in my teens), the PCC of which I was a member was routinely formed in a contested election. It was, perhaps not by chance, a time of great growth in that parish. Oddly, growth seemed to diminish as the PCC seemed to stop being elected. This may be chance, but there is also a chance that it wasn't. Perhaps winning in an election was an attractive prize (it certainly felt good as a 17 year old), and maybe that sense of satisfaction was enough to get the parish 'heart' pumping - but whatever it was, it seemed to make a very considerable difference. 

Vernacular Venetian Ventures

Please forgive the radio silence of late, but it seems that the economy of God's most holy Kingdom and Mission  is contingent upon us have Annual General Meetings!

Oh, and we have been away.

So, here goes - the Vernacular Guide to three days in Venice. 

1. Arrive in Venice before lunch - eating is a good way of assimilating the cost of things, and an easy way to try out the language and not make too much a Muppet of oneself. If the weather is nice and you have previously resigned yourself to bankruptcy, arrive in style on a river taxi - a speed boat all of your very own. You will feel like the Duke of Earl and you don't have to attain proximity to the armpits of fellow travellers at this early stage. There is no better way to enter Venice the first time!

2. Spend all afternoon walking around every and anywhere. An early ascent up the Campanile is recommended as it will give you a chance to actually come to terms with the fact that you have stepped into a postcard. We didn't queue for long, and again, it is another opportunity to learn that the money you once had is soon to be taken from you like daylight robbery! Time it right and the bells will deafen you! It is also a lot chillier up there, so don't be a fruit-loop like me and cast aside the warmer garments!

3. Explore hither and yon - grab coffee and don't worry about grabbing a seat. Coffee is received on the hoof in Venice and you prop up a bar much like the stubbly geezers at my local. It is, though, good coffee and typically administered short and black. Take in the promenade in front of the Doge's Palace - to be standing before 'that view' is just a little weird at first. The streets that project from St Mark's Square are loaded with the finest boutiques and if, like me, you find masks a little disconcerting, be prepared for a full onslaught of a million of the buggers. Masks everywhere, including those dark ones with beaks. Actually, there are some wonderful things to admire - lots of glass, lots of art, some Dali stuff: browse at leisure. For me, it was no less good time than the paid-for tours - just meandering. 

4. Food - I am not made of money and neither is Mrs Acular, so we entered the food-chain lower down. There are lots and lots of places to eat, many selling very good fish dishes (I am told). I wanted to eat Italian food in Italy to plonked for lasagne and the like - it is really is a lot better than home. Expect to pay around £75-£100 per couple before any volume of booze, and don't forget that a meal in Europe is expected to be paced over a whole evening. Oh, and 'service' (12% for us) is not the tip. 

5. Day Two - an absolute must is a vaporetto ticket (a 12 hr one will suffice). The Vaporetto is the river-bus-boat-thing and a ticket will allow a hop-on hop-off endeavour. Just explore Venice and the Islands at leisure. Murano is worth a stop as it the island where the famous glass industry is based (oddly enough) - oh, and its church has a stunning brand new huge icon of Christ on the Cross. Needless to say, a schlep up and down the Grand Canal is a must. Again, you will enjoy that odd sense of being on a movie set or within an arty text-book again. Questions like: "am I really here looking at this?" will haunt you. Yes. You are. Lunch is cheap if you grab a bread roll and a coffee (take-away), and two such lunches will leave you change from a twenty. For dinner find a new restaurant, and as a rule of thumb (in any place you may care to visit in this world), if the menu is laminated and bears pictures of the dish, it is likely to be questionable. 

5a - Day Two if it is a Sunday - get into as many of the stunning churches as you can, but don't forget that they are mostly active and will have services going on. But they are probably the most beautiful edifices in the world, kept open all the time even with the metal-work on full display. No English fear of robbery there! Sadly, in my visit to many churches, only one church was locked: the Anglican one. 

6. Day three - Tours day. There is a plethora of tours and other means by which the tourist industry of Venice will squeeze you dry. Our choice was between two short tours or a full-day one. The former combination set us back a hundred quid. The latter would have doubled that. In the end, we plonked for a visit of San Marco's Basilica and also of the Doge's Palace (the full day would have added a gondola ride, a tour of the Canal and some other bits and bobs). The Basilica is stunning inside and out, if you can overlook the fact that you are wedged cheek-by-jowel with loud teenage students, rude adults and pongy punters. It really is cattle-class, but it is the only way as every lens-wielding wannabe photographer in the whole of the whole world is also in there with you. You will guided towards the Pala D'Oro, a pretty altar frontal made of gold. It is, apparently, the highlight of the tour and those of you of a Christian disposition will notice that no-one bothers with the body of none other than St Mark of Gospel fame. I stood within feet of his relics the days before his feast day. I was the only one who venerated him or paid any attention to him - everyone else seemed more interested in the medieval frontal. Now - if you are reading this and think it is clever to take pictures in a church, over relics or during a service, know that you are a pratt. Enough Said. The second tour was to the Dodge Palace (as we quickly referred to it). Fascinating. You will stand before art that will blow your mind. Soak it up! Oh - if you like Salvador Dali (and I do, a lot), there is an exhibition in town of the genuine stuff. Visit it. 

6a - A Restaurant to try: we ambled aimlessly between hundreds of places, until we stumbled over a small and apparently modest affair, a jazz restaurant near Rialto Bridge (a bridge that, in itself, didn't do anything for me and I still find myself wondering what the fuss is all about). I am not a fan of jazz, or at least I wasn't until I went in there. The food was good, the service exemplary, the waiter entertaining and gracious (and he kept giving us free drinks), and it was the best evening we had (or have had for some time). Highly recommended: Bacaro Jazz Restaurant and cocktail bar (the limonicello with vodka was nice too)

7. Day Four: Go home - plan well as leaving Venice is either costly by taxi or time consuming by vaporetto. We opted for the latter in driving rain. To breakfast in Venice and lunch in London is a funny thing - but that is for another post. 

George Carey Gets Lairy

Courtesy of paulvallely.com

Those of you who know me know well what I think of anything that smacks of passive-aggression. It is a scourge, a curse and a flim-flammery - the shadow in the blogosphere and the peril that threatens the very credibility of Christianity in this country. There is nothing worse than an individual or organisation licking its non-existent wounds and baying like a wounded puppy in the wake of injuries that just don't exist. 

I am a loyalist, as you know. I respect the place and persons of the episcopacy, and regard myself as duty-bound by my Orders to respect those in ecclesial authority. I am not one who comfortably launches invective at senior bishops! But I will make an exception ...

It is Easter. It is a time of joy, hopefulness, new life, bursts of new faith, and all-round rapturous happiness in the lives of us God-botherers. My church was full this Easter, literally. The God of the Resurrection is all mighty, all powerful, all loving, has the plan sorted, can be trusted, knows what He is doing, built things like mountains and stars and that, and on the whole is not going to be easily supplanted. Oh no - not one bit of it. 

And yet my Lord and sometime Archbishop of Canterbury perceives a threat to it all. From the secularists who seem to want it all their own way, apparently. George says 'no'. Once again, it seems that the entire Missio Dei hinges on whether some lovey wears her crucifix on the outside of her uniform rather than under it. It seems that God's entire universal purpose in the whole of Creation is threatened when people are stopped from unilaterally imposing their own theologies on others. Want to do something? Only if I agree with your moral fibre, sir! Then I will allow you. 

What the world needs is love, love, love. The Christianity in England that will die is a Christianity that imposes its rights before love. The Christianity that will die in England is the Christianity that says 'our way or the highway'. Christianity in England will die when our Gospel message is contingent on one soul wearing a piece of jewelry as a definitive sign of belief and fights tooth and nail when that company or organisation (who pays them a salary , but let's no quibble over details) chooses to disagree (as they do for all such baubles). Whining in public about how hard-done by we are is a sure fire way of saying that God and all God's enormities are somehow threatened by the whiles of Secularists and Dawkins type folk. It is the same, exactly the same, as a heavy-weight champion boxer complaining that a toddler just hurt him with a slap on the shins. 

Jesus Christ is Risen, Alleluia - and His church is as alive, vital and unapologetic as ever it was (save for a few individuals who know not how to pick their fights - who are making us look marginally stupid)

Concerning My Loathing of Stained Glass

Actually, I like stained-glass windows; just not stained-glass Christianity. 

The Passion is a time when the Mrs Alexanders of this world conspire to annoy  me. "There is a green hill far away without a city wall". I ask you - green? Jerusalem? Not the Jerusalem that I visited that was parched and arid. Green Hill? Hardly, love. 

If this were Room 101, I would surely consign Stained-Glass Christianity to that deep pit. Why? Because all glass should be clear or frosted? No. Because it depicts a story in a manifestly sanitized way. 

Windows depicting the events on the Golgotha are a pertinent case in point. You have your cross, all neat and clean. you have your Jesus, all fair and wind-swept - almost dashing. His face is clean, his natty little head-piece set to a jaunty angle. He is often depicted in neat baggy Speedos, wrapped around a muscular, six-pack enhanced physique. It must be that between Gethsemane and Gabbatha, Jesus popped over for an hour at the weights at Gold's Gym. 

The Christmas images are the same. Mary is often a pretty woman in her late twenties, in robes more expensive than Bill Gates could afford. Jesus is always a plumpling, clean and as Caucasian a child as ever there was. The manger is a twee little magazine rack full of my guinea-pig's straw bedding, the donkeys have floppy eyelashes and the moo-cows seem to smile.

It

Was

Not

Like

That

I know that argument for this is artistry, or that the alternative would have wounded sensibilities. Sensibilities Schmensibilities. Artistry Schmartistry. Stained-Glass Shamed Glass.

Now, as a thing to have in ones church I like these windows a great deal, just not the way that they clean up the act, purify the filth, sooth away the agonies, wash the linen, beautify the traumatized. Little wonder people don't 'get' Good Friday let alone a snotty dribble-covered manger stone. If people could be allowed to learn of the horrors implicit in our Gospel stories, they might just start to get the extent and depth of the whole thing. 

"There is a green hill far away ..."

No there bloody well isn't.

And So it Begins

Time to write during the course of this year has been scarce, and even more so as we step closer to the events of the Triduum.

The Lenten journey is epic, if done with any sense of purpose, and brings with it a renewal in the understanding that we have in the stories of our Scripture. Without a good Lent, there is a very real danger that the events we recollect in the days to come will be little more than fancy legends.

Palm Sunday explodes into a Lenten backdrop and having been denuded of our 'Alleluias' of late, find the arrived of our 'Hosannas' to be thrilling. Processing in all the garb and pomp around the church grounds may seem like an eccentricity to a passer-by, but to us who have walked Lent, it truly is a festival day. Barmy we may appear with our floppy palm branches, but joyous we certainly are. Changed too, if the faces on the crowd were anything to go by last Sunday lunchtime.

Today I have wrestled with sermons, devotions, liturgies and paper. Maundy Thursday has arrived, and despite being a feast of celebration, brings with it the roll of clouds on the horizon. We know that we will enter the church in White and Gold, but we try hard not to think about the desecration that will follow. Anyone who experiences the brutality of the Stripping of the Altar in out liturgy will have found it hard not to feel what is happening, as real in our day as in Jesus'. Only for mere moments in a whole year do we find a chance to sit, one-to-one, with Jesus. The perfume of flowers, the semi twilight of candlelight, the near silence of a church in watchful prayer - a sensory treasure if any existed. A pure moment in a faith journey. 

Good Friday is always a funny one. We are left with so little after the robbery of Maundy Thursday, yet we find the most meaning in lots of ways. We are forced, as worshipers, to cope without the beauty and the 'things' of our faith's practice. We are called to look on the agony of one man, almost certainly younger than any of us, as his body is smashed before our eyes. My God, My God, why have you forsaken me? Father, why have you left me here to die? For those of us who will lay face down on ground, there is a sense that would be better if we were spared having to get up and proceed. The hardest thing, for the onlooker, is the lack of reverence. We are a processional people, a well-behaved gathering - yet we leave in disarray, in chaos - as the church doors are bolted fast and we are left with nowhere to go. 

Darkness gives way to light on Holy Saturday. The darkness of death is conquered by the nullifying light of new life. A tiny spark of light on beeswax announces the Resurrection of our Saviour. The light pours across the church and the lullaby of the Exsultet is sung, pronouncing the arrival, finally, of Easter. Light explodes over the entire gathering and life is restored. The journey to new light is complete, accomplished. Dreams have come true. 

The amount of work that we all put in at this time of year is a fit reminder of the real significance of the events that lay ahead. This isn't just another Triduum, it is the Triduum. It is our Triduum. 

And may the betrayed, crucified and Risen Lord bless us all.

Rediscovering Facebook

The one thing that is hard about public ministry as a stipendary priest is that, by definition, we work away from where we grew up and away from circles of friends that we have built over time. It is easier for me in some ways because Mrs Acular and I have been relatively nomadic for over the last decade or so, so friends tend always to be at a distance, geographically speaking. 

This is another way of saying that in the wake of priest's lives is a litany of names of friends long neglected and rarely seen. 

Today I sat for half an hour waiting for the fruits of my loins to learn not to drown.They are achieving this well and so I can withdraw from the Pool of Drowning safe in the knowledge that they will once again prevail. However, half an hour is insufficient time for anything other than idle daydreaming over a caffeine infusion of one sort or another.

Today I sat with my Gadget of Choice and pawed over the Facebook thing, and did something that I have never done before. I opened up my 'Friends' page and scanned down the list. On iPad, the pictures are big (rather that diddly little thumbnail shots) so I was able to see faces as opposed to blurry figures of people that looked vaguely familiar. It was a wonderful thing to have done.

The Facebook detractors would say that we gather 'Friends' from among those who we really have no connection, have never met and would never want to. I am one such detractor. I have claimed, on this blog, that we only really know a fraction of the plethora of folk we claim as Friends on Facebook - that the rest are a kind of statistical stocking filler. I think I was wrong in that assertion.

As I looked down the long list, I saw many faces. They are the faces of people I have either grown up with, people I have worked with, people I have sat behind a pint with, people who I love, people who I respect, people who knew me when I was a boy, as a man, as a retailer, as a theological student, as a worshipping Christian, as a blogger, people I have known all of my life and people who (although I may not have met them at all in person) are those with whom I have connected and remain so. In short, everyone on my Friends list is someone significant to me, someone who has a meaning in the context of my unworthy existence.

As I fast approach my 40th birthday (noting the many of my school friends who have already passed that great and momentous occasion), I often wonder 'where it all went'. I have a wonderful family, beautiful wife and kids, the work I was born to do, a wonderful context in which to do that work - and a Facebook Friends list. If I wondered 'where it all went', I needn't have worried. It isn't about the moments always, but about those faces and the encounters we have shared. 

Disposable Laity

Someone very close to me wrote a blog post recently about the fact that she is, after six years, laying down her role as Churchwarden. If you want an interesting perspective on life in church, please read Doorkeeper's post here. It is a simple post, expressed well and offers a side to parish life that many experience. 

The nice thing about being "the Vicar" is that (Common Tenure allowing) we can hover around in a parish like a bad smell for decades. Because we feel called to? No; because we enjoy it and it works for us or our families to stay. Let there be no illusion there. We stay for us most of the time.

In a well run parish, this is broadly where it ends, unless the small matter of a wage or salary is brought to bear - but again, very often those people stay not because of calling, but because of economic reasons. It is our wonderful laity who step forward to do jobs around church who are called to it. They are there through that calling, with any luck take some pleasure from it, but in all cases do it in the context of their freely given spare time. This is the case for the lovely person who might polish a brass every month, who serves at the Altar on a rota-approved basis, or the kindly person who simply prays for the parish and her life. It is the same for Churchwardens too. 

Churchwardens, in most parishes I think, have a tenure. That is to say that they can hold office for a given period of time, having then to relinquish it and give to the next person. This is a good thing on many levels as we all know of Wardens who were in post six or seven years after they were clinically dead. Accounts of Warden who gripped steadfast to their staffs for decades are not uncommon, and rarely accounts filled with glee and happiness. 

So, dear reader, we have members of our wonderful laity who give their time freely, as a result of their sense of God's calling who - in the end - have to stop that work and give it away. Many have no choice at all in that, including Wardens. 

Reading Doorkeeper's account is helpful because it reminds people like me that such transitions are not painless. When you give your all to something, it is difficult to stop if those years have been good (as they were in Doorkeeper's case). What do they do afterwards? How do they re-integrate back into parish life in a revised way after a period of holding much authority? How do they fill the many hours that they previously gave, not to the parish in question, but to God? Vicar's (myself included) preside over these moments, and I will do so this session with a Warden of my own who ran her own Interregnum. Doorkeeper's post is a timely reminder that it isn't just puffed-up priests who hurt when the job stops or has to change. We forget that to our peril and to the pain and cost to our vital lay volunteers. 

My New Favouritist Thing In the World for Today

While all of you have been sleeping and waking, working and playing, eating and drinking, fighting and loving - a process has been taking place that few people ever see. It is a thing that takes place in deepest darkest secret, emerging complete like a mysterious creation from another world.

Well, sort of.

Today I have been mostly building services - a sort of Liturgy Construction Site where the framework of our worship has taken form. 

And it is the most fun in the world, let me tell you (unless you happen to be my Sacristan [and he reads this] in which case it is a source of much concern).

With all services and liturgies, you could open up a book, start at the beginning and get to the end, doing as directed in a blind way until it becomes just another register entry. Alternatively, you can build a living thing, that has shades of light and dark, periods of noise and silence, spells of great pathos and emotion. And so it is that I have been putting together the big services that regale the Passion, Death and Resurrection of Our Lord. I have completed Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and Holy Saturday, and rather than having formed four distinct liturgies, have crafted one liturgy in four movements. 

Fashioning liturgy is a wonderful thing, and this is the first year I have done it on this scale (for, perhaps, obvious reasons). Until now, I have picked up the book or Order of Service and done what is said. This process gives a depth to that which I finding incredibly helpful. It's in little choreographic moments that so much can be achieved in these services that we all know and love (if we know and love them) - for example, matching the three points where the Cross on Good Friday enters the church to those where the Paschal Candle enters a day later. Another is the use of the Pangue Lingua and its tune - once on Maundy Thursday, and again in echo at the time of the Veneration on Good Friday. The use of bells and their discontinuation - all these things, small and apparently accidental, give so much flavour, so much more meaning. 

Finally, I get liturgy. It is orchestral. It isn't linear as it sometimes appears or is delivered, but a beautiful movement of events that rotate, rise and fall. Needless to say, this Easter will now mean even more to me than I ever thought it could - because I have been granted a rare opportunity to shape worship (not as frequent an event in the life of a Vicar as you might imagine)

Killing the Old PCC

Kum Ba Ya, M'lud

Fret not, I am not about to emerge as the next headline after One Direction have moved aside. I have not strolled into church with my Ouzi Nine Millimeetah and popped caps into asses. No, none of that.

But ... the Old Order is no more. A new dawn breaks over Whitton.

Those of you familiar with the Parochial Church Council as an entity will know that it is a gathering of the willing who gather periodically to be talked at, either by the Vicar or else the Treasurer, or else the wind-bag who always has an argument for every occasion. They are normally constituted by the faithful and willing who, when they are elected are bright-eyes and fluffy-tailed. By the end of their tenure, they are The Haunted - characterised my sallow-eyes and rictus grin. They will have given up many hours of useful life and devoted it to sitting in and among the Windbags (see above), then dutifully getting on with the task in hand - or put another way, everything that needs doing around the place. 

The level of work covered is very distinctive at such meetings. The wattage of the bulb for use over the Decani choir stalls, so that Old Mrs Miggins cataract isn't scorched; the pile gauge and weight of the carpet sample for the littlies to sit on so that their fragile derrieres are not assaulted by the curvature of medieval stone; the correct  brand of nasty powered-coffee for use after parish events with and without liturgy; the colour of the door knob to the parish office up the stairs that no-one can climb without crampons and a rope; oh, and the pre-payment and accrual basis of the accounts in the fiscal year to date (that only a graduate accountant can fathom). Get the idea?

Well, things they are a-changing. I have never enjoyed sit-in-circles PCCs where every minute detail of every irrelevancy is discussed to the Nth degree (by three people while the remaining fourteen lose the will to live). There is much to be learned by the models established by many school Governing Bodies. 

From now on, the members of my next PCC will all belong to a committee. There will be six committees that range across all of parish life (comms, finance, pastoral, hall, buildings and fabric, children and young people). They needn't run those committees, but be critical friends and communicators (in both directions of that). They will submit reports prior to PCC meetings so that we can read them and come armed to fewer meetings, not more. There will be no such person as a PCC member who does not exist on a committee. What would be the point? In the end, it won't be the onerous duty of a dozen or so press-ganged people to run the entire show; with smaller groups working in this way, half the parish will share the fun.

Mums With Hairy Legs

Fenton?

Yesterday we had a wonderful Mothering Sunday (and once again, sorry for the wrong use of title - I blame my mothering). The whole day was a perfect reminder to pray for family life in all its array of colour, for the Blessed Virgin -  that beguiling teenager who gave herself away for the greater cause, the life of Mother Church in all her work of care and comfort, support and sustenance for the world at large. Flowers were duly distributed to all members of the congregation, without care for their status as parent or indeed gender. Mothering Sunday is a day for all, I think.

One of the great things about being a father to twins is that as a parent couple with two new babies, we both became single parents in tandem. In other words, we were called very often in the early days to one-on-one with a child while the other did the other. For one of the girls I did everything, and for the other, Mrs Acular did likewise. Despite the pressures that brought with it, it also presented a perfect opportunity for me as Dad to also be Mum - or put another way, to do everything, not just dip in and out to pick up the bits the other couldn't manage. I know several mates whose wives did or do the child-rearing while they did the bread-winning, bison-slaughtering and lawn-mowing - only to grasp a few minutes with junior at bath time.

This causes me, often, to think of parents who are left alone with children - through death, through separation, through many factors. More often than not, this arrangement is manifest in single-mums with their kids. Less often do we hear of fathers left to raise their children alone. 

The thing is, it just isn't the same. Arrangements for children (social, medical, educational, societal) are very mum-centric. I know the reasons why and I subscribe to them. However, being a dad with a kid (even if it is as a dad with kids just for the day while mum works) is tough at times. You only need try pitching up to a toddler group and you fast learn that as a testicular creature, you are in a tiny minority of (often) one. Even the toddler group in my last parish where I served as curate had me as the only male parent present. The school playground is another such place although to a lesser extent. You already know of my experiences trying to register my own children with a doctor surgery - "not without mum". Taking babies to clinics is much the same. I know why this is, and I accept it all - but neither is it easy.

And I am a man with a wife. I find it hard to comprehend how hard it must be to be a single-dad in this day and age. When toddler-groups are still familiarly known as "mother and toddler" groups, and many school networks find their genesis in NCT groups, it is easy to see that life doesn't easily provide for single dads without those men feeling like odd-ones out. The church is the same too, in part. The prayer and work for the maintenance of the family exists is whose Union? Not the Father's! 

Anyway, my reasons for writing this post (itself no more than a rumination typed) is not to judge the status quo, but to simply observe. I prayed for many facets more evidently presented in a normal Mothering Sunday, but overlooked to pray for those men who have to be mum too. For them I pray now. 

The Death of Prayerfulness

The world will not have failed to note that ++Rowan Williams, the 104th  Archbishop of Canterbury, is to release the poisoned chalice and do something else altogether more pleasant. For many of my own theological and ecclesiological persuasion this news is received with much sadness.

++Rowan, in the many little gobbets of opinion that now span the globe is already being regarded as woolly, detached and other-worldly. Put another way, he hasn't played to the press with snappy one-liners, has always remained a man of holiness and not a headline gatherer. Yes, he looks like a druid, and yes, his bonce is capped off with a barnet from another age, but so what?! I think that ordained people are, in some small way, meant to be other-worldly while ministering to the world in which they live. Are we not meant to embody the common perception of holiness in some small and meagre way? I believe that ++Rowan did and does. I doubt that he will become a back-seat complainer like his predecessor, and for that I thank the Lord, or become an irritating millstone around his successors neck. 

What perhaps saddens me most of all is that void he has now already created is become the cadaver-consuming feeding ground of the Campaigners. The pro-Bishops-with-Boobs are manoeuvering, as are the anti-Bishops-with-Boobs. The pro-Covenantalists and already twitching with the same eye-flickering rapidity with which the anti-Covenantalists are twitching. Pro-gay and anti-gay drum-thumpers alike are starting the blaze a trail for 'their man for the top'. and the Blogosphere ... I see flames even now as keyboards go overtime. 

Put another way, the campaigners are now working to overload so that the best man (and this time it can only be a man) gets the job? No - they want their victory and this change of Primate will seal the deal in minds of many of them. 

I wonder how much praying will be done as the process unfolds? And I mean proper praying and not "God, please give me what I want"  type of prayer. Sadly, my own cynicism compels me to believe that not as much as their should be. 

But Farv, I hear you cry, this is just the way the world is. These causes are important and the right choice of archbishop is important to those causes and those involved in their direction. Don't get me wrong; I am not naive and I know that Primates have much power to do good or ill. People will judge the next man on his record as they do this one - but I hope and pray (fervently, earnestly and often) that every single Christian will pray for an archbishop that will, first and foremost, lead us as a Church towards a more Christ-like life where divisions are attended to with grace on all sides and those whose aspirations are dashed by the choices we are all called to make will still feel that our wonderful Church of England can still be their home and haven of prayer. 

For my part, I pray thankfully for ++Rowan's ministry as our Shepherd. I can't imagine the cost to him and family life (knowing how much a mere priest sacrifices for his/her ministry), but I give thanks that we have been led by a man of conspicuous prayfulness and outwardly, at least, unlimited faithfulness. 

Well, That Was Jolly!

Part of my ministry is teaching. Today I taught Christians how to express themselves creatively. It didn't involve liturgy (hard to comprehend, I know), and it didn't involve prayer as we know it. This act of blessed creativity brought with it a panoply, nay a plethora of Epiphany moments  in the context of the our discussion about the relative merits of arachnids. 

It is fair to say that there was outer and inner cursing. There was modesty and self-reproach. There was some appetite to mechanise. There was considerable example setting, and yes - even the questions about the merit of the creativity in focus were heard.

But we made 200 Palm Crosses and God will see that they are good. 

I was taught how to make a Palm Cross when I was a sprog and I have even had the opportunity to teach the kids to do it (which they managed, remarkably quickly I might add). But a dozen Christians sat together in the beautiful spring sunlight that floods through our Victorian stained-glass, chatted and fashioned these little worship-devices. 

Yes, you can pay through the nose and buy them in pre-made. They look the business, all uniform, all neat and tidy. Ours have character and ours now have a far greater meaning to us. They are the work of our hands, some not as nimble as others. 

To me, moments like these are a precious gift. They are an opportunity to put aside a couple of hours with a purpose and with others (so as not to feel guilty for stopping). They are moments when people who might otherwise have sat alone at home have now sat with friends in their church when only a year ago it was firmly bolted shut. They all learned something new, and the glee that they expressed when they 'got it' was a joy to behold. I now have a dozen flock-members who can (and should) teach others this noble art next year. Saturday is posy-making for Mothering Sunday (you will notice that I got it right that time). Coming together to be and do - perfect. 

Pre-made palm crosses? Why would you!

And the pictures are amusing too, but that is a matter for us - not you!

Struggling for Stability

Sometimes you get weeks when things are busy and then there are weeks like the one I am having at present. It would be fair to say that I am working to absolute capacity this week, simply due to an un-plannable convergence of several factors - largely to do with the Occasional Offices and the needs of Lent and the imminent Passion.

As I sat in London traffic, a few days ago, bang below the landing flight-path to Heathrow, I watched a vast Boeing 747. It was a windy day - the sort you get when weather is fast approaching. It was blustery, so the pedestrians walking up and down West Hounslow's shopping streets were being buffeted all over the place.

And so was the plane. The first thing I noticed as the 600,000lb lump of aluminium descended was that despite appearing to be progressing gracefully in a very straight line (as they all seem to do when they descend), it was in fact flying at a rather odd angle into the wind. It was, to a lesser extent, flying sideways. The next thing I noticed is that as the people on the High Street were being jostled, so was this jet. As it approached my position, the effects of the wind upon it became more noticeable. It was being knocked all over the place. The wing on one side suddenly lifted and the plane made a perceptible slide to the other side. It corrected and the next salvo of invisible air came upon it. In every way, the plane was struggling just to maintain that air of graceful line-drawing to the ground.

As I sat in the car my first reaction was "I know how you feel, plane". The job of ministry is characterised by being very unpredictable. One week has the sense of being "quiet", with time to read and ponder. An hour later and the customary scan of the answer-machine, and a week of abject chaos ensues. In many ways, I have to be seen to be dignified and maintaining course. I don't think that the people of the parish need to be troubled with my wrestling with time and duty - that is not the relationship we have. When the fingertips have the feeling of losing grip in the crumbling edges, I have to look for all the world like I am stood on granite. 

To be sure I am not complaining - simply observing.  There are weeks like this, and all matters squeezed into each one is a privilege. It is just nice to know that at times I am not the only one ... as if I ever was!




As an aside, I have been amused to note that my ditty last week about One Direction has now been viewed in excess of 70,000 times. Such is the unpredictable Interweb!

Get it Right, Farv

It is my sad duty to report, dear readers, that I caused consternation nay upset within the ranks of none less than the Mother's Union. This is a precarious place for a Vicar to be as it is widely known that the Mother's Union wields more real authority in the church than Opus Dei. The Mum's Onion here is a lovely group of the lovely, and to wound them wounds me. 

But I can read your mind. What did Farv do that was so heinous? Surely the incumbent didn't take Mary Sumner's name in vain. Surely the priest didn't propose the formation of a Father's Union? None of the above, friends; none of the above. I just did what I have always done.

I referred to March 18th as Mother's Day and not as Mothering Sunday (Heaven forfend that I should have ventured down the 'Refreshment Sunday' route). No, this was my transgression and during the Lent Course did my folly unfold. I was told. Straight. 

It did raise an interesting debate-ette actually (a debate between the one speaking and the silence of my inner-monologue). I could see her point too, in truth. 

It was claimed, very graciously I must add, that the name Mother's Day diminishes the day in a way that Mothering Sunday does not. That Mothering Sunday speaks of the ministry of all women, be they blessed with children or otherwise. That Mothering Sunday sanctifies the work of motherhood embodied by, yes, Mother Church. The extension of the argument was that "Mother's Day" is a term of the commercialized as "Father's Day" is - a ploy to sell overpriced Daffs and naff cards for Muvva. They are all very valid comments and I don't have an argument against any - and neither do I seek any. 

This post is not really about the essence of debate that exists within the heart of this - but more an observation how the change in language has an impact on others. I didn't want anything to cause aggravation; quite the opposite as I value all that Mothering Sunday stands for - but how easily some things can founder on the detail. 

I won't have a word said against my ladies either - they are lovely. 

By The Holy Innocents we Shall be Brought Low

It seems that the only time that you hear about priests in the press these days, they have been arrested for something or have outraged someone. Sadly, it seems to be the case that when priests are in the news following their arrest, that it is for alleged offences against children. 

Sadly, two priests known to me personally were in the news yesterday. They were two priests who ministered in the town where I grew up, and whose ministries had some contact with my own growth and development as a Christian. I cannot say whether or not they are guilty of the allegations made against them, but I pray for all concerned. Neither is this the first time. I have known several priests who have been subject to similar allegation and investigation, and to date the ones that I know have all been cleared of any wrong-doing. The fact is, that if a priest is hauled public, it seems to be for transgressions (alleged or actual) against children. 

I don't believe that the priesthood is the preferred life for those who would act wrongly against children. I accept too that a priest abusing that trust is a very exciting headline for the world who would seek to see us as other-world oddities. I do wonder, though, if there is any such thing as spiritual warfare (and I can offer no real view either way), that the powers of darkness seem to do most of their damage to Christian priests and their ministry through children and young people - by temptation and transgression, or by false allegation many years later. 

The first thing I would say is that if you are reading this and engaged in anything that could haunt you in several decades time, to stop and put matters right now by whatever appropriate means. The second thing is to say that it is becoming harder and harder to work with children because there is an increasing fear of what will be claimed when we are old men and women. Needless to say, those who were cleared of allegations were still left with their ministries (very publicly)  in tatters and their life much the same. I sometime genuinely fear that being a caring human being (priest or not), and one who will offer comfort at a range closer than ten feet, will leave me open to allegation later. 

My last word, though, should be to remember those children who have faced abuse in their lives - be that from priests or anyone else. Whatever happens to priests who are in fact guilty is nothing when compared to the damage, hurt and betrayal experienced and felt by the children. Prayers for them should be our loudest in all of this. 

The fact is, I would prefer it that the Devil used something else (you know, embezzlement or something like that) to knacker priests - not little children. 

One Direction and the Priesthood

Ladies and Gentlemen, allow me to introduce to you One Direction, a floppy-haired boyette-band of boys who share two common distinctions: the first is that as solo artists they failed to win a singing contest and as a put-together Cowellesque boyette-band, they failed to win a singing contest. Still, lickle ickle girls like them and they do have floppy doppy hair, so that is alright. 

But why are these new princes of disposable muzak adorning this hard hitting theological publication (pah)? 

While I was with the family on our little holiday last week, it came to pass that this conglomeration of the pre-pubescent actually won something - a Brit award. And good for them - truly. They are committed to doing something, they haven't gone Cocozza and they seem to add to the world, not detract. Well done them (I have to take this view now because I fear that their faces will the ones that will adorn my daughter's Anaglypta very soon).

I confess, though, that as I recieved this news from the Brit Awards, I nearly inhaled my Mocha and pebble-dashed the wife's face with it. Why? Because they are a product of the skill of others. They are given a song written by a gifted song-writer that they sing into a computer that filters it for quality - a computer in the hands of a gifted producer who spews the end result into a beautifully well-oiled marketting machine. That song will have been accompanied by qualified and gifted musicians who went to school and college and everything. The song in question is funky and annoyingly catchy - I don't like it one bit, but I was hardly going to - and now a prize-winner. In short, the wife and I concluded that One Direction were not much more than the processing mechanism for the good work of others - a little like a floppy doppy Pentium chip. 

As I supped my very large (and woefully expensive) Mocha, having railed at the news that Pentium Pop had won a prize, I considered how much different One Direction are to your average everyday priest Vicar type bod. Are we not, in some ways, be-collared processors of all that our members offer to God? Unlike a colleague who actually describes himself in terms of being The Big Voice in his community, I regard the role of Vicar to not be the star. I set the scene, conduct the orchestra, move a flock around and sling some hay around the place. What I am not is the virtuoso violinist, or the gifted chef - more the maitre d'. My job is to ensure that everyone else shines - and when it is I who do that first and foremost, it is then that I am getting it wrong. 

Unlike One Direction, I will not receive a Brit for being Vicar - any more than I would with my singing. However, we like them are not stand-alone stars - we are where we are by virtue of the skills and gifts of so many more people, and very often despite our own shortcomings. 

And I would look even dafter than I do now with a hairdo like that! 

Fighting for People over Theology

The world of the Church of England is peppered with great collisions of people, all fighting for a particular corner. Last week I recieved not one, but two questionnaires spammed to me by a Vicar himself a member of the Evangelical Alliance (who are not right set on the issue of 'gay marriage' [sic]). It would be fair to say that they really don't like the idea at all, not one little bit, no. 

Fine. A view is a view and an opinion is an opinion. I have several. 

Flit across to the next table and you will find good people becoming quite narky about a document. It is becoming increasingly important where you stand (or sit) on this issue, and which fancy website you will subscribe to. Many of these people are Vicars. 

On the next table, there is yet another scuffle concerning the consecration of ladies as bishops - and that debate is causing much aggro between people of the two opposing sides. In some ways, you are in or you can sod off - from either side of the proverbial coin. Many of those involved in that debate are Vicars. 

Last year, the whole lady-issue caused many people to re-evaluate their basic sacramental theology in a knee-jerk reaction to breasts in cassocks and change teams. Many of them were Vicars (or bishops), and did what to my mind was a terrible thing, and ripped entire parishes from top to bottom as they did their little flit with half the congregation (sod the remaining lot - they didn't agree with us anyway). 

Once again I say - we all have opinions. We have a right to them and we are free to express them to a level appropriate to our context. But this is where my concern comes to light. When we were ordained, did we agree to fight for causes over people, or were we called and ordained to minister to people despite the causes and opinions that they hold? Were we called to feed all the sheep, or just the ones whose wool we prefer? Before anyone tells me that the differing views of others doesn't mean that they love them any less, let them hold their tongue before they fork it. They may well be telling a porky-pie, if we are deeply and truly honest. 

I sort of wonder whether priests/ministers are not called to rise above all this stuff, just a little, and put personal opinion aside in favour of service. I am sure that in Downton Abbey Mr Carson wouldn't enjoy all the meals he is called to serve - but it is his job to put the food on the table. He is entitled to his view, and to express it - in the right place. Needless to say, he would be ill-advised to refuse to serve it. 

My job, I believe, is to he there for anyone and everyone as they have need for my service. If I am too busy locking thuribles or NIVs with other clergy, I would fail in that. My job is to pray for the debate, that God's will be done - not to pick up a stone and throw it. 

Just saying. 

Humanists Hiding Behind Anglicans (and Children)

As I minded my own business and went to collect the Twins Aculae from school this afternoon, some little chap or other pushed a high-gloss high-price leaflet into my hand. I confess to thinking that he didn't look like the sort to be pushing the next pizza place, so I read the thing. 

What you see here is the front top portion of the 120gsm publication. Wow, I thought, a faith group getting militant. Someone doesn't like Catholics, I mused. Naughty Catholics, I pondered, if this is right. I also thought happy-happy joy-joy thoughts for the kind  non-Catholic group who seemed concerned with the rights of my Anglican flock. 

Brothers and sisters: all is not as it would seem. This publication is from Richmond Inclusive Schools Campaign, and they have a website too: http://www.richmondinclusiveschools.org.uk/ Among the plaudits is just a small amount of anti-Catholic rhetoric and couched in the language of bile and stereotype (in my opinion). Me being me, I wanted to know who RISC were - a faith group? Some disgruntled parents who had failed by get baby Johnny admitted elsewhere? The leaflet and the website were no help whatsoever. The Humanist website was, however. They gave the game away, and blew the cover of our Humanist brothers and sisters who seemed at some pains to avoid their true identity. 

Now - I have no real objection to inclusiveness in our faith schools. Actually, I favour it over a tight admission policy because I don't think that any facet of church life should be that of a private-member's club. What I absolutely do object to is to campaigns that fight for our children and for other faith groups as a subterfuge for the real agenda. To argue a case for what you do want as a front for what you don't want is underhand, in my opinion (and dishonest). Let us be clear - the BHA don't give a rat's derriere for me as an Anglican, any other Protestant, Jew, Muslim, Hindu or Sikh. To them we are all deluded.

For my part, I think that the debate should be open, that we have a meaningful debate about school admissions policies - but in the open, as conspicuous interested parties - not behind campaign slogans and some disingenuous text. There is an increasing sense in some Christian circles that loving our neighbour (you know, that key Christian tenet) doesn't work well with "our neighbour isn't allowed in our school though". There are Christians who will debate this issue without resort to glossy semantic prestidigitation. I confess to being even more disappointed in the Humanists than I was before - and I didn't think that was possible. 

Give me a true atheist any day - at least we can talk properly. 

Marching into the Unknown

By close of play this evening, my Little Church will have undergone not one, not even two, but three significant changes. Each is distinct from the other, each bold, each apt to cause a few problems - but each being the right changes to make.

In my opinion.

The first is the (re) introduction of Evensong

Second is the church being open during daylight hours

Third is the first meeting of a newly formed Communications Group

I am the sort of Christian who has eyes to the future, with a heart rooted in the historic and tested, and with a desire to share what and who we are with the wider world. This seems to be covered well by the changes of this day. 

During my relatively short ministry (which is to say, short enough not to have found the need to write a column for Rupert Murdoch) I have lamented the ever increasing numbers of closed churches, and church communities that exist (with their life-saving good news) behind a shroud of mystifying unknowing. Who really knows what goes on in a church except those who have managed to find the doors open? The answer is simple - very few. 

We live in an age that is fearful of crime, hungry for sustenance and spiritual nourishment, and amply blessed with cheap devices that communicate. Why, then, do we ignore two at the peril of one? My church doors are open at this very moment, and the chances are even that it is empty of regulars. Will the lecturn get snaffled? Maybe. That said, if they wish to steal our brass budgie, it is the PCC who are in greatest peril - from a personal injury claim from the Muppet who tried to lift the thing. Seriously - I weigh the probabilities of theft in one hand with the possibility of a stranger finding God by coming into doors that are open - and there is no real contest. I can buy a new lecturn. 

But why all the secrecy? The funky-monkey churches are all genned up with their Comms - and they grow by virtue of it. Us of a more vested and sacramental bent conceal our life and triumphs under a doily of decency or the antimacassar of polite self-deference. 

Not no longer. 

This church in West London is open for business. We are going to shout about it. We have something that everyone needs and it is our absolute duty to ensure that as many as possible are given the chance to access it. We are going to take a mature, informed, market approach to what we are and what we do and we will not apologise for it. 

And yes, a good Evensong is a fine way to close off a spring Sunday. 

Appendix:

Our Insurers, Ecclesiastical, when asked how we may open our church and remain insured said:

Ecclesiastical does not object to the Church building being left open during daylight hours provided:-

 1.         All valuables are locked away.

2.         The altar is furnished with wooden replica's in place of your silver communion items.

3.         The Church must be locked during the hours of darkness.

4.         Ideally, a person responsible to the Church would check in at intervals during the day to ensure there are no problems. 

If the Church being left open appears to increase the likelihood of claims being made, we may need to review the situation.

 It is not recommended that the building be left open during the night, any Church wishing to be unlocked during the night will be subject to a loaded premium.