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!

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. 

I Am a Pioneer Minister

I am Asparagus

My weekly edition of the Church Times offered me a useful perspective into the lives and future ministries of some younglings who are called by God, apparently, to walk beneath the banner "Pioneer Minister". To my eyes they seem to be funky young people all of whom are younger than me (if such a thing were possible). I wish them every success in their training and in their ministries, and I thank the Lord for their calling as I do for my own.

This is not to say that I came away from that time spend reading without a mite of a niggle in my stone-cold heart. No, dear readers, I had developed something of a low-level temper, a Grade 2 Tantrum (and not one granted by the snarling faces of the ladies on the front cover - and my weren't they snarling).

It's all to do with Fresh Expressions, an initiative of Mother Church to buy up small shops and sell coffee for God.  Don't misunderstand me, I laud the whole idea of 'fresh expressions of Church', even if I can't say it without need of a tissue. It speaks of a real need to re-think what we are and what we do in the light of the cultural changes that ebb and flow. Really, it is a good thing (even though I know you think I am being sarcastic, which I am not). 

Well the article in the Church Times, under the Big Blue Banner of 'How to Blaze a Trail', tells the story of some nice people becoming equipped for this work of Pioneering Ministry. The thing is, it makes two statements either deliberately or not, without stating either:

1. Given that the entire country exists within a parish boundary of some sort, it speaks badly of many church communities who have foundered for economic reasons among other temporal ones. These pioneer ministers will be working in someone's parish - this invites a wealth of commentary and discussion, and quite possibly judgement - which I will avoid here. 

2. That only pioneer ministers have the gift of pioneering ministry. If a pioneer minister is called to exercise a ministry in a new context, with those yet to be exposed to the Gospel (anyone says "un-churched" and I will geld you), what about those who already do? I minister in new contexts and with such people every day of my working life without exception. Yet I am not billed a pioneer minister, just Vicar. 

Summed up, my view is that many (if not all) parish clergy are pioneer ministers by very definition. What we do daily is pioneer ministry - just within existing frameworks - as well as tending Christ's existing and much loved flock. I don't have this badge. I don't work out of a coffee shop. What I do every day is proclaim the Good News of Christ to my parish, walking with them afresh daily. 

I am a pioneer minister. I blaze a trail. My expression of church is fresh. 

Hardcore Calling

If you say "vocation" in a church, chances are people will think priest 'minister'. If someone comes forward claiming a sense of calling, invariably they are saying "I think I want to be a vicar". Vocation and ordained ministry have become synonymous (more often than not).

Oh that it was that simple. 

I don't deal with vocations in the way some of my colleagues do. I don't have to read the fine print and the words between the lines with those who feel that inexorable pull from God. Maybe one day I will, but not now. Now, I regard it as a tough job and one where I would struggle. 

Today we remember Simeon ('the Righteous', for there is a panoply of Simea), the old geezer of Candlemas, the fella who just happened to be stood there when Mary and Joseph carried in that peculiar little bundle of out-of-this-world new life. With Simeon, we then witness a hardcore calling, an extreme vocation. 

The thing with Simeon, is that his calling was there from before his birth, placed within him by God as he was formed in his mother's womb. This is, I believe, where all callings are placed - whether we care to take any notice or not. His calling was not to pop down to the nearest clerical outfitters for an array of Fairtrade poly-cotton tunnel-collar sky-blue shirts. His calling was not to move into a generously proportioned vicarage or take the keys to a marvellous edifice. 

Simeon was called by God to receive that Christ child - and then, basically, to die. For Simeon, his vocation to was wait an entire lifetime for the moment that may or may not happen in his dying days. When we think "vocation", we think beginnings, new directions. For Simeon, "vocation" meant fulfillment, accomplishment and endings. God, having filled the old bloke with the Holy Spirit, had kept him alive so that his eyes may see the child, the Messiah. We know that it all worked out perfectly for Simeon, for our Bible tells us so. But imagine waiting seventy, eighty or ninety years for a single moment that may or may not happen - a moment that you feel called to enter. 

Callings are universal - which is to say that all people have a calling placed upon them from God. Some listen, some can interpret that, many mis-interpret that, but some are the hardest callings of all. May Simeon become your Patron Saint. 

Being Without a Vicar

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

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

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

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

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

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

One Virgin, A Sweaty Vicar and the Pursuit of Normal

From 'Cracked Virtue' - another closed blog

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

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

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

 - Exercise

 - Heat Magazine

 - A kid

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

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

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

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

What I Miss About Curacy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oak Trees and Greenhouses

I existed in a greenhouse, and my friend existed under an oak tree. The presence of the oak tree and the greenhouse have had an effect on us, and quite possibly how we behave on a day to day basis. 

The difference between oak trees and greenhouses is in the experience of those in the space closest to them. The thing is, you have no idea what I am talking about!

Since becoming the 'lead' in a parish, I have been given an opportunity to move from the curacy position of thinking about my own ministry to the incumbency position of thinking about the ministries of others. I have thought hard about this transition over the last few months, and have come to the conclusion that I can characterise ministries in two ways (among the many ways that surely exist) - as oak trees or greenhouses. 

In thinking about oak trees, I think of a something mighty, deeply rooted, long lasting, visually significant. The oak is the focus, the thing that artists paint or picture. It is an iconic plant that speaks of longevity. In thinking about greenhouses, I observe that they are modest buildings that are an important part of the garden, but rarely the focus. These are not the characteristics that I (necessarily) focus on, however. 

What is true to say is that under the wide arms arms of a mature oak, nothing else grows. There is no light and very little nourishment in the soil. What is true to say about greenhouses is that their sole aim is to give life to other things. In its modesty, it is the place of germination and new life. The oak tree is in centre stage; the greenhouse is not, it is the new plants and not the building itself. 

I believe that ministries hold some of these characteristics. They may be individual ministries or wider concerns, but the effect upon the ministries of others is largely the same, I think. The only way you can live in proximity to the oak is in being an oak too. The greenhouse doesn't choose its seedlings, it just gives them the best start. 

If you are a tree, mightiness is a favourable condition. In ministry, I fear that it is not. When a ministry is about a name, a personality - it is an oak tree ministry. If you are a greenhouse, success in the area of horticultural nurture is a favourable condition. In ministry, it is the same if that nurture is of new ministries or the enablement of other ministries within the same space. 

As I reflect upon my training experience as a curate, I learn much about how I must be as a Vicar. I was afforded all the warmth and opportunity that a greenhouse grants a seedling. In other words, I was given a new life often at the expense of the silent effort of another person. It was about me, not him. My friend, sadly, experienced the opposite; it was about his trainer not about him, and so he feels under-developed and weedy in ministry. As a Vicar, I have a duty to be the same as the one who gave me my chances. I can be an oak tree and soak up all the light, or I can be a greenhouse and channel it. 

My experience of Death

What is manifestly the case is that I am not dead (though readers of this blog may have the right to question that assertion). Through my work as a priest I am granted an almost unique place in the moment of the bereaved relatives' lives who have only just lost loved ones, or in the last moments of life for those who have gone before us. It is part of my job to listen as they describe the last moments, and part of my duty, as I see it, is to know how the 'end' was for the one now gone.

These encounters now number many dozen (and in many circumstances and under the auspices of many 'causes'), so I feel qualified to write this, and also in a position to make some observations about some of the frequent consistencies in the accounts that I hear. I place them here because these accounts, in their overwhelming similarity, are interesting - and I think that these words may even give comfort in future times.

1. Seeing the dead - now this may seem like an account taken from a film, but I am struck how often those who  are within hours of their own death seem to see, hear and communicate with long-dead relatives (at times, the 'other' is presumed, and in other cases, conversations between the person dying with "mother" etc are overheard). Very often, this is 'end of the bed' encounters where the dying person engages with those in proximity when the room seems otherwise empty. I am convinced that people do not pass into death alone, and it is through this particular phenomenon that I find my 'evidence'.

2. Choosing - I have listened to the stories of many deaths and a common thread seems to me that we choose when we go, even when we seem beyond consciousness. Accounts of people dying in the scarce moments when loved-ones leave the bedside; accounts of people finishing unfinished business with relatives - these and so many more tell me that whilst we may not choose the year or the month, we can choose the hour and the day. An aspect of this that surprised me was the need that some have had for specific permission to die. I have known people live out of duty when their bodies are struggling on, and in cases where death is the best outcome, not more life. I have had to 'grant permission' on a number of occasions, enabling that person to go with a sense that they are not being a nuisance or failing even. 

3. Being alone - in addition to the above, the overwhelming majority of those who have died have done so when they were alone (and in some cases when vigils of many days length is suspended for a quick visit for the loo or to get food). This often causes great anxiety for relatives who chastise themselves for abandoning someone at precisely the wrong moment. 

4. Peace - I have sat and listened to many people who are confronting their own imminent death. In most cases, a fear of the transition from life to death has been a source of fear and anxiety, with the inevitable questions about what may follow life. Even in cases where this has been most acute and the fears most pronounced, I have noticed that a sense of calm and peace descend upon those who are drawing to their end, before they lose consciousness. In short, the vast majority of the recently departed found a sense that 'everything will be alright' before their end.

These observations are from my own perspective, based on accounts of many families. I accept, freely, that there are many painful, difficult and tortuous deaths, and that I have been fortunate not to have witnessed or ministered to such situations. However, I also believe that the moment of death is, on the whole, gentle. I offer this for those who may be confronting their own death or that of someone close. 

The Jewels of Ministry

A Note to God

Every once in a while, in good times and in bad, the Good Lord presents moments that shine brighter than any light. I am delighted that today provided one such moment for me.

Just as I started preparing lunch for the family, I received a call from a lady who had taken the number from the church notice-board by the road (that she managed to read it was a miracle in and of itself). She and her husband were celebrating their fortieth wedding anniversary, and as they had been married in Ss Philip & James, could they pop by and visit the church as they were in the area?

Yes, of course, said I. When? This afternoon is fine. See ya then! 

They were with me in the church for the first time since they were married, took some pictures, commented on the changes (of which there were few apparently), and reminisced about their wedding day and the guests. Then Vicar Boy had an idea, one that I presented to them tentatively. They agreed

... and so we had a spontaneous Service for the Renewal of Marriage Vows (as I had the right book to hand). Irrespective of whose idea it was, it was a truly magical moment that made a couple older than my own birth parents newly weds all over again, and acted that way too. If this is parish ministry, then it is the best of things. 

Being in A New Diocese

As many of you may have gathered, I am now working in a new Diocese. I was formerly in the Diocese of Oxford, an organisation that sponsored my vocation, trained me, ordained me and gave me my Title - and for all of that I will hold the Diocese, and its people, close to my heart.

Sadly, for priests of my particular breed (more especially those of us at an earlier stage in priestly ministry or those of us with no sense of calling to rural ministry - or both) there are few/no incumbent's jobs to speak of. That is the way of things, whatever my thoughts and feelings - and I was required to make my own luck.

So here I am, happily in place in a new Diocese. It is a strange transition, mostly because it is unexpected. In the context of parochial ministry, one learns the lay of the land, the names of the right people to talk to. This happens by osmosis rather than deliberately, and so it is that a new set of people and processes needs to be learned. 

Yesterday proved to me what a wonderful diverse diocese London is. Within the one working day, I was sat at one point next to a (very amusing and entirely decent) priest from the Cathedral Church of The Holy Trinity in the Archdiocese of Brompton;  later the same day I was seated next to the (equally amusing and entirely decent) Incumbent of All Saints Margaret Street, a liturgical Mecca to those of my disposition. Both were normal things to do in a normal day in the Diocese of London. Furthermore, at one end of the day I was sharing a room with a man whose voice I have heard on Pause for Thought for years; the other end of the day I was exchanging pleasantries with another man whose voice is heard on television and radio (and who has an interest in media, including blogs I was delighted to learn). Just a normal day.

In every sense - be that ministerially, personally, emotionally, socially, geographically and also through the lens of my children's eyes and those of the fragrant Mrs Acular, I am daily reminded of the rightness of moving here to west London. I am surrounded by priests and Christians of such breadth and of all shades of tradition. Frankly, it is breathtaking what a difference it makes to life. The price was paid mostly by my amazing and supportive wife who had to suspend her career, and perhaps in a few decibels of aircraft noise. 

One of my greatest fears for the Church is that it becomes the same - that the monied organisations feed off of the cadavers of the dead (broke) churches and make them all the same. Breadth, variety, difference, dialogue, less corporate image, more quirkiness - all of those things will see the Church live on. A few months ago, I feared becoming a marginal Christian of a bygone age. Now, I am still a marginal Christian of a bygone age, but now I am but one of the necessary shades of priestly expression that makes up the remarkable tapestry that is the Diocese of London. 

Can't Stop Won't Stop

The wider world may perceive priests and/or ministers as those engage in prayerful knee crunching contortion for many long hours of the day and night. In some cases that may well be true. Some may think that professional religious people hide away in book be-decked aeries where we hover in a God-adoring effervescence of self-hypnosis. In some cases that may well be true. 

Then there are priests like me.

With the intra-ministerial sojourn behind me, I must confess a behaviour that surprised me, although not others when I spoke with them about it.

The issue at the heart of this is simple - priests can't stop. I spoke with my good mate and former boss about this, and he stated in alarmingly simple terms - we aren't equipped to stop. Upon pondering this and my inability to stop fidgeting when ensconced in a work-free vacuum, I deduced the following: we are built to to occupy an ungoverned and un-bordered working life where we have to be self-disciplined to the highest degree to get 'the job' done. Our work is vague, ever-changing, always wonderful, intoxicating, rewarding, never-ending and our efforts never see this 'job' done. This means that we keep chipping away, day after day. Stopping does not form a helpful habit for those of us for whom the work ethic is set to Level 10.

I can hear your cries from here. Yes, I know we must replenish. Yes, I know we must devote time to be with God (but we get around that one by believing quite sincerely that we are with God in all that we do, so stopping makes no difference). Yes, this is surely the path to burn-out (but apply faith to that and we have us a God who surely won't let us fail, surely). Even family life is another form of keeping going which is why the rapturous mix of priestly potterings and familial forays (in my case) are great. 

As I say, many of us priests are not equipped to stop. Perhaps we are like sharks who, if we stop, succumb to mortality. Perhaps we have learned to rest and sleep on the move (you only need hear my sermonising). Perhaps we are on a path to an early grave.

Seasonality

The notion of 'season' has been writ large on much on my inner thought of late. It formed part of the language of the appointment process for this new job I have, and  is implicit in the first Gospel of my vicarly ministry. 

For those of you who didn't get to a church today, the story was about a bloke who owned a vineyard, needed some muscle to bring in the grapes, and the transaction therein given. Some geezers worked all day, others some - all were paid the same, a hoo-ha was had and Jesus wrapped it all up as he does. 

I had been pondering the very nature of being the 'new vicar'. This is, by very nature, a place that has had other vicars. They have done their thing and I will in deed do mine. That said, it feels strange as there is always the expectation of progress and development and I was not comfortable with any sense that I was or would be better than my predecessor. 

Seasonality speaks of succession not supercession. Seasons are mitigated by what goes before them. Spring is not an improvement on winter, summer over spring or autumn over summer. They are different and form parts of a whole that expends beyond any of them. This is surely the same with parishes. As for the landowner in the Gospel story this morning, his grapes were those born of labour in earlier months and without which there simply wouldn't be any grapes at all. A fruitful autumn depends on a diligently planted and nurtured spring, the warmth and hopefulness of summer and the labour of the harvest.

So, we enter a new season where I am now called to serve. I think we will have some good fun, face some substantial challenges (some we will prevail over, others not). This season will bring its own fruitfulness all the while we will be planting the seeds for future seasons, and whose fruit we may never see in our time or even life. Vicars come and go, and I have no aspiration to immortality, but the vine needs tending - the same vine. 

A Curate in Vicar's Clothes

As the title change of this blog might suggest, I am now across the line that divides one ministry from another. The line itself was a wonderful and emotional Service, attended by so many friends and friends-to-be, family and well-wishers, filled with (I think, because I chose it all) rousing music that all could sing at the top of their voices. 

Across the line I am now in a new Diocese, working with new people and for a new Bishop. I have a different job with different expectations, facing a different future in a different house and with loved ones who themselves are doing different things in different places. 

I am sort of wondering when the penny will drop and I will have map routed out in front of me. It was in my curacy. I know what I was doing and when, for whom and why. As you know, mine was a richly blessed curacy but one that was crammed full. Each day was full-on - and that in a training role too. Instinct told me that when I crossed the line to the next ministry, it would be even more that way: crammed to capacity.

A few of my friends have recently walked across this line. We were curates and now we are incumbents or the like. Their eyes were once cast towards a mentor for the direction and the plan. All eyes are on us now. It is a very funny feeling, not unpleasant - and so far, all is quiet. Today I prayed in the church alone (and did some nosing around). Today I pootled up the High Street and had some useful chats with people. Today I will complete sermons for the four services that I will be part of. I am secretly hoping that the Guide Book for Incumbents is in the drawer somewhere so I can tick off 'Jobs for the First Week', confident as I am that I have surely forgotten something. 

Ministry is, I suppose, not set in stones (paradoxically). We are rooted in a parish that has a church. Sometimes that church has services that I will have some control of. But that is about it. How I spend the next decade is, broadly, in my own hands and that has the potential to be an alarming thought if laboured too much. For me, I want to be furiously active saving the world for God (often forgetting that God has a part, not just me). For now, I have no specific work-load and I wonder if I am just meant to be wondering. What am I called to do in this parish? What and where are the signs? What do I represent to these hope filled people? What needs changing, if anything? Where are we called to go, together? 

If this post feels a little strange, that is because I am still a Curate in Vicar's clothes. I still yearn to be spoon-fed like before, but know that there is no longer a spoon. I am happy and fearful, overjoyed and worried - all in equal measure. The only thing I know with absolute certainty is that I am meant to be here. The rest will become clearer in the days and weeks ahead.

... I hope!

Here I am Lord; Neon Sign Lord

The next twenty-four hours will be, for my family, as significant as they can be. Tomorrow will be the Twins Aculae's first day at school, and also my Institution as the next Vicar of Ss Philip & James here in Whitton. 

As I write this, I am a former Assistant Curate and kids  pre-schoolers. Mrs Acular is a 'between jobs lawyer'. Tomorrow, we will all acquire new places in the world in which we live. I mention the missus because she, without any choice or say-so, takes on the mantle of "Vicar's Wife" - which brings with it expectations and projections not of her making and for which she received no training. Please remember her in your thoughts and prayers. 

To date, I have done all the stuff you have already known about in the months prior to now. Then I moved house and have been largely hidden away with the family as we come to terms with a new home. A few meetings have happened to give me a briefing of what may lay ahead - and then there is the Big Day (tomorrow 7.30pm). 

Now you might imagine that I favour being in the spot-light. Being a gob-on-a-stick might lead you to conclude that so being makes me fond of being the centre of attention. You'd be mistaken. I am happy getting on with getting on, and although I like to bask in whatever success I might precipitate, I prefer to do so from the sidelines, not in the middle where everyone can see me. I've surprised you, haven't I. The thing is, and my fragrant wife likes to remind me in song: "Here I Am Lord, Neon Sign Lord". We laugh and I inwardly shudder a little. 

Anyway, there is not a thing I can do about any of that except be grateful glad and thankful for every bit of it. Some much loved people are travelling great distances to share the moment with me tomorrow, and I can't wait to see them. I am blessed by some very faithful loving and wonderful friends. I shall miss the ones who can't be there, knowing that they would be had they not been tied up on a prior engagement. 

Then Thursday morning. That dear friends, is a very big matter which you will have to read about then. 

Please pray for this unworthy servant as he begins a new ministry. Pray too for my remarkable family who make all that I do possible. Pray for the people of the parish where I will serve, and those in the wider community. These are exciting times, and I just cannot wait to get going. 

Books and Chapters

Well, the time has come. I am trying to fashion a sermon which is very important to me because it is conceivably the last one that I will preach in Aylesbury. I am working on my last draft and contemplating its delivery, which I can be sure will be a shaky affair. We'll see.

This time next week I will be a resident in Whitton. The lorry will probably be emptied by now and I will be left with a boxed-up existence and how to make it fit a new life and house. This week has been characterised by the clumsy daubing of paint on walls (and upon my person), the fitting of the first carpet that I have ever had to pay for and that interesting moment of being in one's new home alone for the first time. To date, we have had to rely on the kindness of the Whitton Clan to let us in, so we have always been on our 'best behaviour'. Yesterday, I poked around my new house properly for the first time, feeling rather naughty. For the first time I considered the wonder of the airing cupboard and pondered the accouterments that had gathered in the garage. Then I did that funny thing that I do whenever I move house (I have done that lots and lots) - and that is to lay on the lounge floor arms and legs out-stretched starfish fashion, looking up at the ceiling. Yes, I know. 

Sunday will be a momentous occasion. The district churches have cancelled all their services so that we can have a Team Eucharist at St. Mary's. That is jolly nice of them, as it means that many of them will be put to considerable inconvenience to get to church (though that said, some will get a lie in). The church will be fairly well full, which in August is no small feat. I will be surrounded by an amazing group of people, all of whom share a characteristic in common - that they really have no idea how wonderful they are.

I feared my first ever sermon - but only half as much as I fear my last in this ministry. I could preach for days on end and not cover all that I wish I could say. Yes, those words would include the odd warning, but delivered that they may have life and have it abundantly. We'll see.

So, in this book that is The Ministry of One David M Cloake, a chapter draws to its conclusion. It has been a happy chapter, blessed and rich in experience and opportunity. I have walked alongside some remarkable people, some of whom have shared their last steps on earth with me. I have celebrated the new life of baptisms and the love-stories of marriages. I have been guided my a man whom I delight in now being able to call my friend, and not simply 'boss'. I have been supported by a wife of such overflowing grace and generosity that I would need more lifetimes to return it - and then there have been the Twins Aculae. Could a man be any more blessed than me? 

I am not sure what more I can say. I might not be able to post much in the next few days, hence this slightly premature post. I will 'sign off' when I prepare to leave this place. Please pray for my family - this is never just about me, after all. 

Once; Only Once, and Once for All

Today, as I painted walls, my Inbox became home to a couple of emails which, very graciously, thanked me for a funeral that I officiated at earlier this week. I never expect such notes, but would be lying if I didn't claim delight in receiving them. It is the same week when I received a very nice card thanking me for a baptism that I performed. Again, it was unexpected, unsolicited and wonderful. 

I am not writing this as a preface to a post where I tell you all that I am good at Occasional Offices. As I ponder ministry in the light of a very imminent move, it strikes me once again the particular privilege of what we hold in our hands for brief moments.

Life is full of uncertainties. How we live, how that life is manifest in the context of disease or misfortune, success or good luck all go to show that there are a few certainties. We will only have one funeral. We will only have one baptism (if that is the route of our lives). In the most hopeful of circumstances, we will only have one marriage. In the life of a Christian, these are events where they will coincide with a priest - who have but one go at getting it right. 

I 'do' many funerals, a fair number of baptisms and a good few weddings. There is a very real danger of letting them all become the same, habit-formed and routine. When one has four funerals in one week, it is hard to make them distinctive and unique, save for the choices of music. Computer technology helps with this, as I have a pallet of liturgical resources which means I enjoy variety and so does the ceremony and its guests. The danger is also in the mindset. I might have a distinct service in my folder, but I could be in easy peril of turning the deceased into 'just another dead person who needs a nice send off'. I hope I have not fallen into this trap in funerals, or its like in weddings or baptisms - but I still have 30 years for that to potentially happen. 

The paths of priests and people criss-cross in funny ways, but when they coincide, we have a profound opportunity to do good. I wonder if it is not the greatest joy of our ministry, that we can take these 'once only' moments and make them special. That is my perspective at least. I believe too that if we miss a trick when these moments come around that we do immeasurable damage to the people monetarily in our care. We may not get to hear about it, quite possibly, but we may have cost them their faith in our faith. 

I think that the greatest successes of my ministry here in Aylesbury has been in these unique moments. They had the potential of being my greatest undoing too, but I hope not this time around. However, I have to be clear to remind myself every once in a while that what I am entrusted with is so precious that it makes gold and diamonds look like hemp sacking. One 'hello', one 'goodbye' - that is what we are granted as humans, and so we as ministers (as I do accept that other ministers as well as priests share this wonderful ministry) must never for a moment take that part of our job for granted, or take it lightly. 

Announcement

By the time that I publish this post, four or five announcements will have been made, all of the same substance. On this occasion, those announcements will concern me and the next stage of my ministry.

In simple terms, I have been appointed as Vicar of the Parish of Ss. Philip & James in Whitton, Twickenham. It has been an interesting little voyage; first the usual things like adverts, forms and interviews; but then news that the appointment must be made (or at least confirmed) by the Archbishop of Canterbury. His office wrote to me, I wrote back - deal is sealed. Such are the wonders of the Church of England!

This is a wonderful moment for me. Those of us who are called to public ministry are not called to theological college, or indeed to curacy particularly, but to what lays beyond. For some of my friends, that has been a sector or armed-service chaplaincy, for others like me, incumbency. That said, the ministry of curacy is life-forming, whole and complete - it just has the freedom of the 'trainee'. 

This post becomes an interesting one. I have pondered whether this might become the death-knell of the Vernacular Curate. Should an incumbent blog? Should a vicar blog as a the Vernacular Curate? I wonder if the Vernacular Vicar can catch on? The great joy and privilege of a good curacy (and I have had the best that there can ever be), is that we Assistant Curates (our proper titles) have chance to expound on the imponderables of life in some freedom. The life, ministry and expectations of the priest with whom the 'buck stops' is necessarily very different, and I now need to consider long and hard the appropriateness of what I write in the new 'job'. 

Another reason that this post becomes an interesting one is that it may well be the first thing that the good folk of Whitton read. We live in a world of Google-search, and I expect that one or two will do that thing which I always do! If you are from Whitton, welcome to my blog. Have a good read, you'll get a feel for me soon enough! I look forward to getting to know you soon.

Then, of course, there is the prospect of leaving something good, whole and wonderful. Whilst my move to Whitton is a source of absolute joy, the prospect of leaving my beloved Aylesbury currently weighs heavily on my heart. Curacies have to end. The good ones are always too short, the harder ones endlessly long. Mine has lasted but a moment, a snip of time. However, all good books have their separate chapters, and this one is about to move to Chapter II. 

Please pray for my beloved Jo, Jessica and Rebekah. This change is not just mine. 

A Hitchhiker's Guide to A Galaxy

This is not a post about Slartibartfast, Trillian, Ford Prefect, Arthur Dent or the Paranoid Android. More's the pity, you are thinking! I could expound the virtues of 42, 'Life, The Universe and Everything', but I won't. Shame, I hear you cry. Neither will I invoke the wrath of the Vogons - though a Babel Fish is always useful!

No, this is about priestly ministry. Did you just glaze over? Snap out of it, I am busy being meaningful and poignant here. 

You may have gathered, from the flavour of the last few posties that I am considering future ministries and the choices that will place me among them. Part of this is to do with role and what place the Vicar holds in his community. When I was a sprog (not so very long ago, for I am still very youthful), the Vicar was the Head Honcho, the Chief Poobah. He (use of language reflects my experience, nothing more) made the rules and the rest of us followed. Farvah Knows Best! Well, this has manifestly changed. The great comfort of the old model is that at least things were clear - now they are hazy and unclear. There are Uber-mega churches in parts of America who now make money out of defining the leadership of clergy. Yes, yes - path finding, modelling, empowering and aligning (I was listening, see), but what does this actually mean on a Monday morning in February when I have a honking cold, sniffles, a raw throat and a cold coffee awaiting my ministrations? I ponder this often because for priests who seek to lead communities, this is the '42' question.

To me there are several helpful models (not including the 'shepherd' model, that's plagiarizing none less than God, and can't be cool, ever); the conductor of an orchestra [the conductor is not the star, or the person with the skills to do everything - the conductor is a true collaborator with a team whose end product is stunning]; there is the Maitre 'D [not the skilled chef, the adept waiting staff, or the owner, but the one who keeps things going and the punters fed].

Another model of ministry struck me a few days ago, and like any that are not from the mouth of the Lord, it is flawed. However, there is a sense that the incumbent is the hitch hiker. The journey of the parish is well underway. It is going where it is going. It makes that journey in a vehicle that needs love, along a road that is confusing and apt to throw it travellers into uncharted territory. Vicars are hitch hikers. We may know that stretch of the route a little better, we may know how the combustion engine works and can help fix it. We can lend a hand if a tyre needs changing and we may even suggest a better radio station for the music. Then, after a while, we hop out and thumb our next ride to the next destination. In short, it is not the vicar's journey, it is the journey of those already in the car. Ultimately the choices are theirs, but the hiker can of course make helpful suggestions. For those in the car, over the whole journey, they may know lots of hitch hikers. Some will bring fun and excitement to the road ahead, others may bring challenge and admonishment for the quality of the driving, and so forth - so many hitch hikers, one journey. 

I am not suggesting that Douglas Adams is the new Bill Hybels (though thinking about it, it might have been fun but for two important factors*), but as priests try to understand themselves and the ministry with which they are entrusted (and believe me, it is like trying to see shapes in clouds at times), models are helpful. This is mine, and I offer it to you for your consumption. Back to my cold coffee ...

*he is a post-mortem atheist

Unblocking

The last week or so has been interesting. I have been reading Parish Profiles, and dreaming dreams. You may remember that I was planning to write a satirical Profile after my efforts with the Vacancies page in the Church Times, but recognise that they are written by untrained loving people who have a hard job to do for a whole community. They are, therefore, off limits to me.

I come to this post desperate to write. I have agonised over finding words for the last few days, and I am tired with the exertion of trying and failing. The words I need to find are the equivalent of trying to answer questions about why I love someone - you see the problem - you know the answer but no words exist to express it properly. I can write a blog post, though, free the words a little. 

Now, Parish Profiles. If you are unfamiliar with them, they are the statements of particulars of parish churches and their communities - prayer life, community, opportunities, aspirations and so on. Yes, the priest that many of them often seek (the cause of their creation mostly) cries out for no-one less that the Lord - but why not, eh? If it was was my church, I would want Rev J. Christ and no-one else. But they are wonderful documents. They are permission to daydream. This is just as well, as upon them we choose to move our families, their lives and hopes, and plonk them into the middle of p.8 for the next decade. The daydreams are therefore entirely useful! Prayer happens in those times too. To look at the church and imagine ministering within its walls, walking down its paths at Easter, the kids playing on the lawn at the back of vicarage, the summer fair on the green, the news that there is a school with relationships with the parish, a cry for enablement and collaboration, a deep liturgical life, a coffee rota, a treasurer and secretary - what better pastime is there than this for an aspirant parish priest. None, mate - let me tell you. That list is endless!

Now the words are coming. Thank God!

Do you get days like this? Days when you need to express yourself in one form or another and it doesn't or can't flow? I am trying to work out why it is, because in the midst of failing to find words for one thing, also wrote two sermons and a funeral. Those words were not a problem. I think it is when I have to write about myself. A blog is a subterfuge, a hiding place - we get so far and then stop, and in the end say little about ourselves, leaving you wonderful readers to join the dots!

Anyway, I have rambled aimlessly and pointlessly, so will stop for now. I just needed to write, release a little pressure. Job done. Thank you!