Un-Holy Smoke and Brass Handbags

It is the thing more likely to precipitate a response in church life - one way or the other! I speak not of wearing my underpants over my trousers in a family service, and I speak not of my pious red socks. Having previously mentioned vases of flowers, you can surely set them aside in favour of this red-hot potato. Nothing more than this causes either a sigh of pleasure or the tooth-gritted snarls of Beelzebub and all the Imps of Hades, normally transmitted through the bodies and expressions of good Christian men and women!

I speak of course of incense, the prayerful odours of none less than the smoking handbag - the beloved thurible. 

Be it in theological college, or in parish life - if you lob some flavoured frankincense on a hot charcoal, you get a reaction. There is no middle ground here, but rather two extreme poles of feeling, passing from deep spiritual rapture through the wonderlands of allergy and asthma and all the way to irritating skin conditions. Those who love it, love it a lot. Those who hate, loathe with menaces and blame it for just about every condition known to the medical profession. 

And I don't know why.

It is but one part of worship, like bells, like robes, like hymns, like readings, like flowers, like Gift Aid envelopes - just one small part of the greater whole. You may not be surprised to learn that I am fond of holy smoke, but that isn't to say that I am in mourning when it does not billow. 

What confuses me more and more is the reaction of the 'against' lobby. It borders on (which is to say that it is well past border-control) the irrational. I think there is a part of some human brains that associates incense with some voodoo or child-sacrifice. The reaction is rarely slight - but bombastic and fully vehement. When I am witness to this irrational response, I challenge it - inquiring what kind of hocus-pocus they are afraid of, and the simple fact is that although they HATE it (as distinct from 'dislike', 'not fond', 'marginally irritated by ...'), they don't know why. Ten millenia old it might be; mentioned in the Bible as representing prayer it could be, but when people hate the stuff, it is a formless hatred born of nothing more than silliness, or so it seems. 

Now child-sacrifice; there's a thought!

The Extra-Ordinary Value of The Ordinary

For those of you familiar with the language of Thomas Cranmer, this is not a post extolling the virtues of bishops, though let me state plain here and now, I have no issues with the consecrated Order. 

No this is a post about liturgy delivery.

I have had a part in two services so far today, as the rest of this part of the world melts in the heat of the day. The first was a funky fusion of an All-Age Patronal Festival, the second a baptism where we welcomed a church full of guests and strangers. Both felt like good services, and I certainly enjoyed them - as too did the punters. At both, someone came to me and commended my style of delivery - along the lines of 'you make it so ordinary'.

To begin with, I received them as cutting worlds of insult and what self-respecting Angry-Carflick wouldn't, but after some reflection over my steak-and-kidney pudding lunch, thought perhaps they were meant as compliments. 

I seem blessed with a gift to take the extra-ordinary beauty of our liturgy and mould to the gathering. It is tiring, as I have commented before, but better my exhaustion that the boredom of guests and new acquaintances. At the baptism, as I launched into the first lines as written on the wipe-clean card, I pondered on how many had ever been in a church, let alone taken part in a service. I resolved that that number was very small. I am quite comfortable with having a little fin with our guests, even to the extent of pulling their legs, but I think the best tool that I have (maybe even the only one, who knows) is to be just ordinary. 

It is easy to become lofty and take on the vicar-voice of Dick Emery but I think that, acoustics allowing, an ordinary tone and deportment in gatherings like that does so much good. Sadly for one of the Godfathers, his mobile went off mid-anointing and rather than tutting and making the gathered throng feel like they had pooed on my bed, I made light of it. In fact, I pulled the geezer's leg and that did much to diffuse the implicit tension that accompanies unfamiliar crowds. 

Talking in the ordinary, having a little fun where appropriate, humour in its place, warmth towards the children, warmth with the adults there under duress, sympathy with their discomfort  - these things mean that I can take the Holiness of what I am there to do for God and them, and do it well. No-one would ever quibble about the quality of my liturgy (I don't think), but I deliver it humanly and I hope, with generosity for the newcomer, the young, and the un-believer. 

Some would chase de-loused and un-washed (or something like that) men around with a butterfly net to get them into church. Just treat them as equals and every one else. Treat like as you find them. I believe very strongly in the extra-ordinary value of the ordinary in liturgy, in that it is the means of communicating the most profound Grace and Holiness in most situations. 

Just saying...

To Dad the Spook from Junior

Meet my dad.

This post is going out ahead of time for several reasons - first because I am away all weekend; secondly because I have been given acute grounds for thinking about m'yole dad, and thirdly because Father's Day and Trinity Sunday land like the Perfect Liturgical Storm (and I am thinking that I am glad that I don't have to preach on Sunday).

Anyway, meet my dad. He has been dead a few years now, but I relish opportunities to think about him, more especially in the context that I now find myself, being a dad and Father myself. I love this picture because this represents my enduring memory of the old sod - a jolly, smiling eejit with a plate of food. He wouldn't argue with me if he were here to read this.

Following my post yesterday about the tree, a friend from Twitter suggested that I say a little about dad. I ought to point out, to those of you wondering why I might be calling a man old enough to me my granddad 'dad', that this wonderful chap was my step-dad and also to my brother and sister. He was a child of the nineteen-teens and saw active avoidance tactics in the Second World War. Endlessly and pathologically 'delicate', he cursed Hitler from afar, but all that said, he was a soldier, man and boy - Royal Engineers. He was a Colour Sergeant so despite being only eleven inches high could break rock with his yelling-voice. He raised his own family, though lost his own son to cancer in 1960 when the lad was 18. He lost his wife a few years later, at about the time that my father lost his life - I was about 4 years old. A shared work and church habit meant that he and my mum got to know one another and so it was that they married sometime in the 1970s when Noel Edmonds haircuts on kids my age didn't result in bullying. Dad's other daughter is still alive and kicking - but the charges have been dropped. And so it was that dad took on another family as he turned sixty - three kids of 8, 6, and 4.

Despite his age, he was never an old fart like you might imagine. To be honest, he knew more about the music in the charts than I did. He was just coming to the end of his civil-servant employed days and also laid aside his sideline as a cheap-as-chips electrician - and so took upon the mantle of daddy day-care while mum peddled her trade for the NHS. Dad baked remarkable cakes - pink ones for my sister, green for my brother and blue for me - and why he would ever think of dying a Victoria sponge I shall never know, but he did and we loved him for it. A heart attack turned him into 'grumpy' man for a while until the pills were better balanced - then he chilled in a way that would have made Barry White seem neurotic. He helped to raise three teenagers well into his seventies - trying to reconcile his approach to parenting (born of the fifties and sixties) to the needs and moods of modern nineties grunts like us.

I could go on, and part of me wants to - but space and your patience have to be born in mind. To us all, dad was nothing less than a hero, a saint - and as a dad, I pray I do half as well and am at least half the man (though I am a little taller, if that counts). He never saw me ordained and he never met my children - but I know he would have delighted in them all. He was already an impressive granddad, so at least I can imagine how my girls would have doted on him.

In my relationship with my dad I can have an educated guess at the energy that existed between the Son and the Father. If Augustine's model of the Spirit being the love that passes between them is true, then I know a little of that too. As it is with children and their mothers, so it is with dads and fathers - that there is a unique and necessary relationship. I revere my mother in many ways, but there are things that she did not do that dad did, and that I am formed in part because of that relationship. She would not disagree. In many way it seems to be the perfect time to have a Father's Day. In my love and shared life with the little round fellow in the picture, I know so much more of the God of the Trinity. It wasn't a relationship that floated in the realms of happy-happy either, because Lord knows, me and dad fought - but we always loved and it always mended. The love that we characterise as the Spirit is eternally elastic, always present, and to be trusted. I can say the same for the love I shared (and still share) with my Old Man.

And so I leave you with the song whose words I used in the tribute that I delivered at his funeral. It means little out of context, but I think you will like the song anyway.

Happy Father's Day, and a Blessed Trinity to you all. 

Vicar's Wives

I am writing this post in the light of Vic the Vic's tribute to the Mr(s) Vicarages that support us priestly types in our lives. I promised him that I would take up the cause of his call for Sunday to be declared Mr(s) Vicarage Sunday - though I have broadened this to include the testicular-enabled vicar's wives, those chaps who support their lady vicars too. 

Because my gorgeous wife hates me using her picture on this thing, I am afraid you are going to have to cope with this image, which is as close as I can get. It is a poor substitute, of course, but I just have to have a picture. 

Public ministry is a funny old thing. For us who do it, it is often the very best of lives. We gad here, we gad there, we gad everywhere. We work funny hours and almost certainly more than we have to. We live in 'the office' which is to say that to all intents and purposes, our front door is that of the business address. The telephone rings at odd times, day or night, and rarely for our spouses (who have wisely arranged that all their incoming calls go to their mobile phones). When we have a fit of hospitality, it is on her settee that it takes place, with her cups and drinking her coffee, and without her say-so. Yes, she smiles and yes, she is gracious, but she would have preferred to have got dressed first. 

Then we vicars have a bad day. Only then does the real work begin for our Vicar's Wives, as it is then that they become personal counsellors, motivational therapists, family liaison workers, personal secretaries, firewalls, bouncers, door-keepers - and so much more. We vicars can up-sticks and toddle off to some monastery or other after a bad day and reflect, while our Vicar's Wives become baby-sitter and single-handed child-entertainers. 

Then we go out somewhere, for a nice evening out as a couple - like the old days. Not a moment after we have taken our seats does the procession of goodly local folk who know the vicar start, a queue forms, and an extended form of pastoral ministry is meted out at the table while the spuds go cold. Their vicarly husbands or wives are public property, always working. Or their Vicar partners take them to a nice party, and promptly abandon them while they work the room. 

So, it is with all this in mind that I second Vic the Vic's proposal that this Sunday be known as Mr(s) Vicarage Sunday, and that we in Holy Orders should put aside our absorption of glory and acknowledge that most amazing person who sustains and supports us every moment of every day and tolerates our mini-Messiah Complexes with much grace. Lest we forget, without them we are nothing and as vocations go, that to our spouses trumps all others save for vocations to parenthood. 

And to my beloved Jo, the eminent and faithful Mrs Acular - thank you for just about everything! 

Without Them We are Nothing

As I pondered the fate of Kate Middleton as she prepares to donate her organs, life, hopes and aspirations to a nation that may not always be kind to her, I was reminded of other such figures, closer to home, who do much the same.

This post is a timely acknowledgement of those who could be generically termed 'The Vicar's Wife'. They take many forms, of course: the Curate's wife, the curate's husband, the Incumbent's partner, and so on. You get the idea.

I am blessed with one such Vicar's Wife - the wonderful Mrs Acular. She is from a particular school of Vicar's Wife for whom the life she is caused to lead as a result of my calling to priesthood is the greatest leap from 'before'. Mrs Acular is a woman of quiet diligent faith, confessed only fairly recently, and confirmed shortly before I began theological training. The Godly Squadly life isn't always a familiar one to her, even now, and her personal style and expression of faith means that she isn't one of those partners who are part of the expression of the ministry (I refer to those wonderful partners who are so called to be the other half of the priest in question, in ministerial terms). She is a 'behind the scenes' partner, and without her presence and constancy, there would be no show. 

Vicar's Wives have to contend with so much. Their home, while provided freely, is not their own and is available to invasion by all-comers at all times of the day and night. Old Fr 'Dog Collar' here is called to that and is prepared, but quiet Mrs Acular has to assume the role of ever-polite doorkeeper, Personal Secretary to the Messiah-complex, and most of all - reactive. Ordained ministry is, by very definition, reactive. We are often attending to a circumstance not of our making, of timing not of our choosing. This means that my beloved has to change her plans and very often her working hours to suit. She does this quietly, attentively, diligently and rarely with complaint. 

The same is the case, I am sure, for most Vicar's Wives. The Vicar in question may be blessed that Mr/s Vicar's Wife is an activist, for whom the ministry in question is a means of their own faith expression, and can revel in that lifestyle. I think for the majority of Vicar's Wives this perhaps is not the case. Often, they are professional people in their own right, often from suspended professions so that families can be raised while the 'Redeemer' runs around redeeming. If all runs smoothly and perfectly, both have a chance to realise their dreams, but so often the dedication of the Vicar's Wife is such that the realised dream is not theirs. As I have posted before, they are relegated to the status of single-parents at church as they contend with the progeny alone. They are invariably second in line when retreats and quiet-time is being handed out. There is the implicit and often unstated set of expectations that arrive with a new 'Vicar' with a 'wife' - that s/he will do this or that for the church. This list is endless ...

So, to my wife (who doesn't read this very often) - thank you. Without you, this life couldn't happen. For that and all that you do covering for me and coping without me, I am most deeply endebted to you.

To rest of the 'Vicar's Wives' out there - know that what you do is good and appreciated. Without your tireless efforts and support, often quietly in the background, so many glorious priestly ministries would founder. When vicars leave, they recieve the love and thanks from the people for all that they did - but not a jot of it would ever have happened if our partners weren't raising our families for us, keeping home for us, making tea for guests for us, answering our phones and arranging our lives for us, or just praying for us and loving us. 

To quote Adey Grummet - they are the people who know what pants the vicar is wearing - and we forget that and all these things at our peril.

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 ...

It is not I who live ...

...but Christ who lives in me [Galatians 2: 20]

This cropped up in yesterday's lectionary readings (which meant that my evangelical brothers and sisters missed it) and it is a phrase that rather evocative. Incidentally, this post is dedicated to my brother in Christ, The Revd Tim Treanor - who recited this line of scripture ad nausiam all through College!

It is evocative for good and ill - a misreading of this line could evoke images of The Borg, the Collective from Star Trek. Their strap-line is 'resitance is futile' - not a happy association for this rather electrifying line from yer Bible. Rather than some Asimovian idea of Gaia, or the Star Warsian idea of the Force, we have something presented as rather arbitary, something rather 'we are are coming to get you, so don't even bother running away'.

My own 'image' for this is that of a prism. In itself it is a lump of glass, inert, inactive - but with some potential. That is how I regard humankind without God - 'as having some potential'. Then take Jesus 'I am the Light of the World' Christ, and we have a very different proposition. Shine a light through a prism and we see a glorious array of the spectrum of colours that form the light, but are only brought to life through the prism's intervention. Put another way, I regard God as a light so dazzlingly bright that all we would see is white retina-scorching intensity. Through God's relationship with humankind, we see the wonder of the composite colours, tones and hues. The light doesn't need the prism or the prism the light, but what a combination. Taken a step further, it is clear that a prism in and of itself is a wonderful object, but it not in any way dependent upon light for its existence. However, how pointless would it be to be a prism in the darkness.  How pointless it would be to have the capacity to love God, to refract the light, and not be granted the opportunity to do so. I believe fully that God is augmented in His/Her relationship with us, as to love in a void is also pointless - like being a light that reveals nothing.

All you need is love ...

What a funny world we live in ...

It seems to me, as I sit and try to think of something new and fresh for this Sunday's All-Age Service (that is to say, the Sermon ought not to be boring as the piffle I normally barf out on a bi-weekly basis) - it strikes me that we live in a world where love has gone bonkers. Incidentally, the 'text' is "love one another as I love you".

So, we have a General Election looming - The Tories True-Blues love Britain, the Labour Lefties love Britain, and the LibDem Yellahs love Britain too - so what is the sum of love + love + love? Answer : Smear and name-calling.

On Saturday we have the Grand Visit of the English Defence League. They just love England. Greeting them will my brothers and sisters from the Muslim faith who, quite understandably, love their faith and way of life. The party will be hosted by the Anti-Fascists who just love us all to love. In the mix will be some folk who love football, some who have a love for the pugilistic art and others who love music (but hate racism, according to their posters). So, the formula would be 

=sum(love)*(edl + mdl) + (uaf + lmhr)/TVP : answer - 'potential difficulties of an undisclosed nature'.       TVP = Thames Valley Police

So much for love so far. 

The world often blames religion for many of the wars that have scarred human history - but I think I am discovering the hidden fact. It isn't religion at all, its love that people are fighting for. Religion is but one expression of loving in our world, but not by any means the only one. 

I then wonder how "love your neighbour as yourself" might work - perhaps that is the solution to the mismatch error of love. But lest we forget, dear reader, we overfeed ourselves, over-work ourselves, neglect our spiritual needs, we polute our bodies with alcohol, caffiene or worse. If we loved a neighbour like that, we'd be arrested for an abuse or two I think. 

Maybe my sermon should be focussing on the great benefits to the world of utter indifference - that way none of us would give a toss about anyone else, and drift off to live is splendid isolation. Lovely jubbly, n'er a care anywhere! The EDL wouldn't pay us a visit because they wouldn't care enough to hop on thr train. The General Election would be won by brown envelope of cash and not by polsters and slanging matches. 

Why, though, does that sound worse? I don't know what the answer is, and in truth no-one does I think. I'd sooner love and take the risk that other people will love too. I think that a life without love would be a grey world without colour, and I don't want to live in a world like that. Disregarding those who attack and hurt others behind a facade of false love (and they are lower than a snake's belly), I think I can live in  place where people let their own real love get carried away from time to time. I guess that is the thing with love - it is the most potent force in the Universe - it just needs to be handled carefully and properly.