Please Don't Panic (Much)

I mostly have me a fum

News is emerging of a possible faith shortage over the critical Easter Season. Reports suggest that priests are preparing for industrial action over plans to make them go to church on Easter Day - a day that the law prohibits most businesses from opening. 

In an effort to assuage the growing sense of concern over possible faith shortages, the Prime Minister, Mr Lord David of Cameron said

"If there's an opportunity to top up your prayers if a strike is potentially on the way, then it's a sensible thing if you're able to do that," 

In an effort to be helpful, lesser known politician Maud Francis commented, that in order to avert a possible situation of shortage in faith that we keep

I mostly have me five fums

"a little Bible in the garage as well"

Commenting outside St. Paul's Cathedral following Humanist Morning Prayers with Vigil and Exposition of the Dawkins Relic, one such Humanist Norbert Wedontbelieve accused Messrs Cameron and Francis of causing a faith panic and driving people in Churches. One woman is said to have been converted to Christianity as she placed a Bible in the garage. 

Meanwhile, Lambeth Palace are preparing to redecorate.

The Truth About Priests

Courtesy of Facebook's very own Mrs Vicarage, Helen Reading. I can't find a single argument against this assertion, so instead I shall go to Evensong.

Culture and Changes to Meaning

I am not a fallen cross

Mrs Acular was sitting with the Twins Aculae reading to them from a book that I was using to help me prepare for Lent (yes, I do pious things like that). It was a book about the Seven Saying of Christ on the Cross (there, I have given away the theme of my Good Friday Devotions) and the kids were interested in my book.

So, the dear woman read to them. I think that she was extracting something out of me, I am not sure, but read she did. She flicked through some pages concerning Eli and Lenny Sabakthany, some others about mother swapping, yet more about needing a drink and some about exercise. Huh?!

Me - I was faffing on my Gadget of Choice (and thrashing AC Milan right royally) and hardly paying any attention. Something didn't seem right, but never mind. I scored another virtual goal, with Rooney being the able  player responsible for my advancing lead. 

"What was that you just said?", I uttered as I peered over my GofC (half time, so I could look away from the screen). She read the line again.

What she read should have meant that Jesus was brought before the Roman Geezer who would wash his hands of him. As it was, in her rendition of the now famous account, Jesus was brought by his friends to an exercise class. (Lk 23: 1)

No - not 'Pilates' I said. It is pronounced 'Pilate'. Oh how we laughed (as I let a goal in).

Still, it goes up there with Pontius Plate the other Roman error.

Watching The World Go By

A little time ago, I was in the house alone. It was quiet, the passing planes seemed a distant memory and the sun poured through many of the windows. The house was suffused with that warm golden light that only morning sun can offer, and all was peaceful. 

As I had a moment to ponder, I sat down and looked out of the window. I watched one of the many squirrels that are resident in our garden busying himself with his nuts (!), the wood pigeons flapping from branch to branch as the parakeets screeched through the relative silence. 

I looked up to see the Airbus 380 ascending in the blue sky above the house (and despite its colossal size and 550 passengers, made its way in the spirit of the peace that was currently prevailing). Up it went, defying the gravity that surely should have prevented it rising! I was reveling in this scarce moment of tranquility, a magical moment when every thing seemed to freeze-frame in a concentrated breathe of perfect grace. 

At the side of my garden and in my direct view is a brick wall, above which passing vans can be seen, or the heads of taller passers-by. As they drove or passed by, I pondered the purpose of their journey - to see friends, to visit the shops, to go to work, to see loved ones, to work off breakfast? I pondered the many many worlds that coincide in every moment and in every place, people passing other people, each with hopes and fears. 

Then one man, as he passed by, looked round as was tall enough to see over the wall. He saw me sat there pondering, yet he looked awkward. I was minding my business and I even smiled broadly in a sort of 'howdy-doody' greeting of sorts. He looked down and scurried off. I wondered if it was the dog-collar, that by some feat of unholy power I was trying to reel him in for the Lord at thirty paces. I had only just moved into the house, so was as yet unknown to people. It's funny how some people are. 

Then to my horror it occurred to me.

I was sat on the toilet and the window was in the room across the hall through the door I had forgotten to shut. New house, new rules!

Playing The Numbers Game

Last week's Church Times does as it always seems to and got me despondent and mildly vexed in equal measure (in other words, it challenges me to think afresh many things). 

Tucked away on p7 was a little article by Ed Thornton covering 'church numbers', a perennial exercise in poor news made amusing by those trying hard to see the good in all things. Gawd blessem.

Church attendance numbers are, gently, going down. That is not good and news that displeases me. This year has, though, offered news that church weddings are 'up' which is alright innit. Oh, and half a dozen more people worship God in a skater-cafe ice-rink so that is good too. 

I am blessed with a particular autism, and that is a fascination for statistics. I used to discover petty larceny by staring for hours at tables of number in Font 4 in my old job. Church-based numbers are no less fascinating to me, for I am one weird saddo who ought to get a life. 

So, what has happened in 2011? Allow me to be uncharitable for a moment. Fifteen or sixteen disgruntled Anglo-Catholics suddenly changed their sacramental theology and became half-cast half-baked Roman catholics, which is not good. Fear of Breasts in Clerical Shirts, otherwise known as Boobincollarphobia, is a debilitating scourge on many 'traditionalists'. So go they went and went they did. But surely we are laughing in the Church of England because we have the pasta-based Gospel marketting machine reeling people in for the Lord. Yet numbers are still tumbling despite gazillions of people who have partaken of Ruarchioli, so either churches of a given flavour do not complete their registers, or something is not as rosy as we would like to pretend. 

Fortunately, the good Lord doesn't worry like we worry. The good Lord probably doesn't become gussett-rotated (if the Ominpresent Omniscient Omnivorous Lord has such an article of clothing) about numbers like we humans do. God has given us faith, and would direct us to, in the words of my wise and most excellent training incumbent - 'avoid the numbers game'. 

Amusingly though, at the foot of p7, my dear friend had posted a very nice advert for a gathering of WATCH folk suggesting (possibly) that they may be in the wilderness. I encourage them to take heart.  Only twenty-four people go to church, so that wilderness is a very very tiny place. 

Still, the good news is that I have tidied my study. There must be a liturgy for that somewhere!

Gherkin

As I ate fois gras with Mrs Acular and the Twins Aculae earlier today, we pondered why the gherkin always appears in certain 'culinary offerings'. Take a bite, spit it out - for a gherkin rests within. Why?

I'll tell you why.

Because the McDonalds Corporation is doing me a favour. And let me explain.

Ronald McDonald doesn't just buy a peck of pickled cucumbers, but rather an entire GDP of pickled cucumbers. They do so in order to enhance the experience of the Big Mac eater. And glad we are too. Except that I have never met a soul who doesn't be-grease his or her fingers in the extraction of the slimy green disc of gammy sludge that resides between the nasty dayglo mustard and the wangy cheese that has no more seen a cow than my gerbils. Such is the accepted architecture of the modern burger, a la McDonalds. We all loathe them, we all pick them out, but yet the Golden Arches clan continues to insinuate gherkins into the heart of the English Burger. 

Better that they are though.

The thing is, if McDonalds stop putting gherkin into my burger, the great Gherkin Conglomerate in deepest Gherkinland would, in a trice, go out of business. That would generate a specific and calculated response from Christian organisations, each desiring to keep the gherkin industry afloat.

With the sweep of a dozen committees and the issuing of a dozen more edicts, we would all become Fair Gherkin Churches, members together of Fair Gherkin Dioceses.

Then, instead of the noble Sunday morning coffee, we'd all be committed to sup gherkin juice ... for God.

So, McDonalds - know now that we delight in you putting gherkins into your food. If you didn't, people like me would have coffee mornings to save the green perils. 

Something for the Weekend II

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

Absolute Moments of Clarity

With thanks to the Highlands of Scotland's answer to holiness and goodness personified - Facebook's very own Andrew Swift - a diagram that replaces '42' as the answer to life, the universe and everything.

Social Networking explained ...

If you cared!

A Fool on Tape

Last Saturday, eminent theologian and all-round good chappesse (Dr Bex Lewis) collared me and placed a recording device under my nose. I am not that spontaneous, sadly - and the following minute of giggle-resisting press-worthy gold is the resultant product. 

Press to Listen

I am not sure whose tongue was more firmly in cheek - hers or mine (and not like that, you smutty person)!

Ricky Gervais Finds Religion

I would like to thank my Honourable Friend from Husborne Crawley for bringing this to my attention. It is a matter of considerable celebration for me and should be for all men and women of faith.

Ricky Gervais has found religion (and I don't refer to the long observed Messiah Complex of his). 

And he is also guilty of an infraction of the Trades Description Act.

Why? Let me explain. Were he an atheist, as his chest proclaims, he would have no business on the cover of The New Humanist magazine. Furthermore, were he still amusing (like the old days of the Eleven O'Clock Show when he was still funny) he wouldn't need to resort to a poor impersonation act. Had he researched in a professional manner, he would have discovered that denim emerged in around 1853, nearly two thousand years after the man he is impersonating. Also, I think that is re-working of Jesus of Nazareth is wholly too camp, and nowhere in the Bible does it suggest that the Palestinian carpenter had a collection of Scissor Sister albums. So, given that he has fallen on hard times and has to busk as a poor impressionist, I shall light a candle and pray earnestly for him and those who depend on him for their daily needs. 

Back to my contention about his place as an atheist on the cover of New Humanist (what happened to the old humanists, did they die of boredom - I wonder what they said when they got to heaven?) Look at the cover. Look at it. These people claim to have no belief in a god and have no time for religious faith - or so you would think. This cover is obsessed with it. In fact, it is a little known fact that Humanists are more concerned about God and Jesus than I am, and I am professional God botherer. Were he an atheist as he claims, he would be no more interested in Jesus than I in Ben 10. I have never appeared on a cover looking like a homoerotic Ben 10. 

The thing is, as a Christian, my time is devoted to God and all that proceeds from that encounter. Same for the Humanists - if only they were honest enough to say so. True atheists, like the ones I know, are generous hearted, open minded people who have made a choice. Then they got on with their lives. 

Yes, Mr Gervais, you have the right to offend us. Only you failed. I haven't laughed at you this much in twenty years. No, I am wrong - now am I laughing at you; I used to laugh with you quite a lot.

Why I Watch Downton Abbey

The Dowager Duchess of Grantham

...and it is not because of the pious sounding name! I was not looking for a prayer based sojourn with the likes of Sister Wendy and Roger Royle, so there has be another reason.

Those nearest and dearest to me know how I feel about costume dramas. I typically find them prissy, self-important and performed by a breed of actor that normally irritates me no end (I am aware that some would have similar opinions of the costume-drama of Anglo-Catholic liturgy, ironically). With the exception of dramas based on historical events (The Tudors, Charles II with Rufus Sewell, Henry VIII with Ray Winstone, Blackadder) and anything with Natalie Dormer in it, I just don't like period dramas. No!

The thing is, I have rather taken to Downton Abbey, a story about the current residents of a very nice pile in Berkshire - the jolly decent but wholly benign Lord Grantham, the malevolent crone played excellently by Dame Maggie Smith and the whole "upstairs, downstairs" thing. I rather like it. I even look forward to it. Yes. 

How has this happened? 

I'll tell you how. Gladiator TV. 

With the exception of Downton Abbey, Soap Operas, the News, Top Gear and Adam's flippin Farm - the only other television available to the British public falls under the heading I like to call "Gladiator TV". The format is very simple:

 - Take a group of unknown but zany people/all-but-forgotten former celebrities

 - Give them a task [singing, dancing, ice-skating, bug-eating, self-flagellation, a time in a camera decked glass domicile]

 - Let us, the willing public, weed them out week by week for a measly £1.03 per call (mobile tariffs may vary) as they compete against one another and outrageous fortune

 - Observe their breakdowns and gel-underwritten hairdos

 - Note, with alarming frequency, how much it 'means everything' to them, or is 'the most important thing in the world' to them (forgetting of course the fruits of their loins who must once have been important)

 - Subsidise Simon Cowell's personal ownership of Earth

 - Forget who won after a fortnight (mostly because the next spectacle has begun or because the individual/group that Lord Cowell favoured got the Golden Goose anyway, sod the winner)

Are you not entertained? Are you NOT entertained!

After a hard day working the land, a man needs to relax in front of his television - I should know! (I have only the right to speak for men, and I am sure that ladies work hard too). The thing is, if you find an overwhelming distaste for Gladiator TV the only avenue open to you is simple: you have to like Downton Abbey or simply burn the TV in a fit of commercialist sacrificing on ones primped lawn. It's a simple fact that  for people like me, it is adapt or die! 

Risk Averse

If Jesus walked the Earth today ...

Mark 1: 16ff

As Jesus passed along the Sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and his brother Andrew casting a net into the sea - for they were ocean-fruits collection operatives. (They were were not bending at the waist, but at the knee as prescribed by the Regulations.)

And Jesus said to them, "Follow me and I will make you fish for people." And immediately they consulted their diaries and their work-place mentors, left their nets and told Jesus that due to the increasing demands of business rates, the needs of the family and lack of formal written notice, that they must decline. Added to this, their nets were not built to EC Net v1.068 standards and therefore not properly constructed to fish for people, or indeed any creature weighing more than 10 kilos. Subject to agreement with their trade union, a ballot and the obligatory thirteen week notice period (and after a full consultation period), they felt that they may be able to agree, but only if the pay rates were above the Minimum National Wage, their pension rights were preserved and their full golf schedule may not be impeded. Jesus sighed and wished he hadn't asked. 

As he went a little farther, he saw James son of Zebedee and his brother John, who were in their boat mending their nets. Immediately he called them but because he was not wearing a high-viz jacket he was ignored. Following a committee meeting, a vote and a further inquiry, they left their father Zebedee in the boat with the hired men (feeling sure that under new Ageism regulations and gender discrimination rules they would lose their business anyway), and followed him. 

Earthworm

Today saw the first proper foray into the glebe. We are lucky here that we have a generous back garden and a substantial plot outside the front of the house upon which to park a nigh-on dozen of your automobiles. The back garden is, for the most part like the Garden of Eden - which is to say almost untouched by human hands. It also has some promise of being the next Garden of Gethsemane - which is to say that sufferings and agonies will unfold there in due course (when I called upon to tame the beast).

Anyway, I didn't come here to speak of gardens. Oh no - I have a far more pressing tale to tell. It concerns a happenstance meeting that I had whilst clearing a drain in the front drive-cum-garden. I met an earthworm.

As with all such things, if I encounter something novel or interesting, I holler for the Twins Aculae to come take a look. And this was a mighty earthworm. He was flourishing in the sodden mud that was blocking my soak-away, so much so that he claimed a private education, a couple of GCSEs and had had its first tattoo. One very satisfied wriggler. 

And so the Twins emerged full-pelt, as is their wont, to inspect the latest marvel. They are less fearful of such things than, say, a year ago when they would run, hysterical, into the arms of their mother who in turn would frown at me. But no - on this day they were all push and grab. Poor earthworm. 

I had to intervene. They were apt to rend the poor oligochaeta in two, with one grabbing the head end, the other the (I assume) arse end - though I concur: it is hard to tell. No girls, be gentle. This is a small mini-beast, soft to the touch and easily harmed. Learn to love little animals, I said. Gentle fingers, I reminded them. We admired the worm's wriggling and inquisitiveness (and possibly dread fear, who knows). They marvelled at how cold it was, how slimy, how fascinating. I had to temper their tendency to prod and poke as I was sure that the poor compost-maker would sustain injury. In the end, I chided the children and told them that if they can't be gentle they would have to go back indoors. They stopped podding, promptly lost interest and went about their business (terrorizing their mother, I think). 

Then I did what we all do with such fragile garden beasts. I lobbed it about 15 feet into the nearest (dry, hardened) flower-bed so that it could escape. That won't have hurt the little blighter one bit, would it. 

You Know You Are Tired When ...

This morning, I had need to visit the tip (dump, place to discard ones unwanted detritus). So, I loaded the car with a whole manner of bags and dead things turned on my music and drove off. Excellent. It was not yet 9am, so a productive day was in the offing. 

Well, the thing is, the music got too loud even for my grunt-like tastes, so I turned it down. The windows of the car were open for two reasons - first, because it is muggy and warm, and the second being the irrational sense that if I have brought a spider in with me, it will cast itself out of the window and not climb on me. With the windows open, vile obnoxious heavy metal is perhaps a little much when it spews forth from  passing car, and I am a decent sort of man. So I turned the music down, as any nice person would.

Only when I turned the knob, the volume remained at the 7000 decibels that it was currently enjoying. I turned the volume button again - nothing. The next song was due any moment and to the best of my failing knowledge, had some rude words (like such music does from time to time) and as a familiar face, really needed the din to not be detected by the lovely folk of Aylesbury. But the volume would not turn down.

So I whacked the button to silence Mr Zombie before his next phase of invective - but to no avail. He had possessed my stereo for it didn't fall silent. Not good; not good at all. So, I hurriedly pulled over so I could sort this issue out. Add to this the ever present stress of advancing spiders, and you might imagine that I was in a little bit of a tizzy.

Well, push the button as I might, over and over, the bawling American bawled and the Axe-wielding geezer wielded on. The music would not stop. The lights did as I wanted when the buttons were pressed - they flicked on and they flicked off. So what was I doing wrong? I bent down to look at the fuses to see if an issue existed there, but they all look alike to me, so I abandoned that notion. I turned off the engine and removed the key - still no silence. I began the curse this four-piece rock combo.

What to do? The key was out of the ignition, the button on the stereo refused to work, the caterwauling crooner was getting more and more irate and his lyrics reflected that fact. The spiders were coming, and I needed to get the car back so that Mrs Acular and Twins Aculae could toddle off and see friends. I was going to make them late ... 

Until it occurred to me that I was wearing my iPod and the music was courtesy of my nice earphones.  

The Biggest Threat to the Church

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

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

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

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

The Primping and Preening of Priests

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

I am not kidding. 

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

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

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

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

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

... too late. 

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

The New Civility of Breakups

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

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

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

 - Your mother is gherkin and your father is a loser

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

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

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

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

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


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

Hackgate: The Movie

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


The genius work of thehandface - brilliant!

An Ode to an iPad2

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


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


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


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


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

Facebook and Google+

Once it was Imhotep and Brendan Fraser. Once, it was Ali G and Michael Gambon. Once, it was Lesley and The Welsh Bishop. Now we have a new Head-to-head of global proportions:

Facebook v. Google+

In simple terms, if you are simple, Google+ is like Facebook, only not Facebook because only Facebook is like Facebook and Google+ like Google+. That said, there are striking similarities between Facebook and Google+ which would give rise to you thinking that Facebook was Google+ and that Google+ was in fact Facebook. Once, the market was monopolised by Facebook, but now it sees a mighty challenger - Google+

Get it? Good. 

Some of you may be wondering what the fuss is all about, that surely 'Google' is Ancient Patagonian for Yahweh, hence its presence in just about everything - but no, Google+ is yet another facet in the social meejya scrum which will now mean that I have even less time for my neglected wife and children. I already need two hands to count fellow bloggists who, this day, have frittered a whole day on getting to know the new technological toy. I have dabbled as I lunched, I admit. So far, it feels a little like the same pub but with a new name over the door. Same beer, same seats, same Jukebox - except you can yap to your mates on webcam love-ins and share You Tube clips. And why wouldn't you? 

It's all jolly, and a bit of fun. The serious side of my frontal lobe does worry that this is yet another step in the Googlisation of Plant Earth which to the ether-world is like the Tescofication of all shops here in Britain. There are many criticisms of Facebook as there are with any successful venture, but I wonder if the world needed a replacement held in the hands of The Great Artificer. We will see. 

I now know, though, in absolutely clear and informed terms, what will save the Church of England from itself ...

...Google. The Church of England must be about the only institution that Google neither owns nor emulates (though Google+ is nearly +Google of the Internet). It is only a matter of time, mark my words

http://gplus.to/FrDavidCloake by the way