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In the last week or so, we have passed through a week dedicated to prayer for Christian Unity. This is good, necessary and always welcome. I am quite convinced that some of the worst Christians are church-goers, so this week is one where differences can be put aside (or denied) and unifying truths embraced (or snarled over, like a fence, depending on context). Where I am situated, we had a wonderful service to mark this week in the church's calendar, one that was moving, simple, and ecumenical (even of the choir from the Church of God didn't infact show up).


Christian unity is founded upon a shared Gospel and relationships, so I have been thinking a little about relationships over the last few days. As often happens when I consider something, the great Grey Demon that resides in the corner of my lounge speaks to me of the matter on my mind. And so it was, an advertisment for an Internet firm that 'won't find you a date, but instead will find you a relationship'. Excellent. So, if I bosh 'a Christian' in the option box that I would find on my internet, I will be given a relationship (and all for the measely sum of a million shekels, sir). Good'o. I have solved the church's problem. 


Don't be daft, of course I haven't. This internet company, noble and legal as I am sure it is, will offer you a detailed questionnaire, upon which you will affix several thousand carefully considered ticks, on matters like 'my favourite colour is ...', 'my choicest species of gerbil is ...', 'when my left leg drops off I will call ...', 'my favoured brand of incense is ...', 'my narcotic of choice ...', 'I last belched the alphabet in ...', 'my excuse for not committing to anything is ...', and of course the old favourite 'my overdraft limit is set at...'. You tick your boxes, press"Enter" and your considered replies are taken by the speed-of-light to the little internet elves, who will compare your ticks to the ticks of another. Bingo, you have yourself a relationship. Bish bash bosh, everyone's a winner! You see the thing is, I think that there might be a problem here ... 


I am not that old (a mere 37 as I write), I might be greying, but I can still see my toes, and I don't grunt when I have to bend at the waist. I can genuflect without help and have no living memories of Elvis Presley (which surely qualifies me to be an Elvis impersonator, but that is for another post). My point is, I am not that old. In my day, when I sought a relationship, I get to know someone, I enjoyed their company, laughed, joked, smooched, talked about every thing in the world - and that was the basis of a relationship when I were a lad. They were based on knowing the other person, the good and the bad, the awkward and the risable. We all have good bits and bad bits, cupboards with skeletons and the equivalent of manky feet that at some point we all have to declare. I wonder if, on the form on the internet where we put our ticks there is one that states 'the most grostesque part of my flabby form is ...' No, of course not. I might have to re-write the Wedding Service to 'Dearly Beloved.com, we are gathered together online to download the upload of N and N. Before God and before this online community, they will (in a chat room) make their solemn vows and press 'enter' together. If any of you know any reason or virus why these two people may not combine accounts, you are to delete now' etc etc


So, I foresee a rot in relationships between human beings. We don't like to mix, we don't seem to like to chat and relate - rather, we like to hide behind a firewall. When we do meet we like to do so behind a haze induced by some Sauvignon or else a London Pride, or we just plain avoid one another because it is easier that way. I believe that Christians should model the way things should be in our world, not exemplarise the opposite as seems so often the case these days.

Advance Notice

For those of you daft enough and kind enough to read this drivel, I will eandeavour to do something 'sensible' throughout Lent. I will be offering a Lent Course (for your eyes only) and given my deep contemplation on the person of Christ, I will look at Jesus' Emotions. I will do a few posts on this theme, as much for my own edification as yours, but you are welcome to hop aboard as I take that journey to Easter.

When I say 'sensible', I mean that it will be thought out and connected to itself. I am me, and I write as I write, so make your own mind up as the time goes.

On being a bloke II

I often ponder how best to explain to you all my 'bloke' status (no, I don't - but it sounds better than the truth of the matter), and I am going ot have another pitch at it.

It comes down to language in many cases, and I know this to be true as other 'blokes' have said the same (imagine, if you dare, a community of interacting blokes). We tend to be pragmatic, so less fussed about frill and silliness. As I have already said, we are the 'so what?' of biblical analysis, and the ''cos I said so' of theological reflection. We are, for better or worse, outcome driven - that is to say, there has to be a a result so 'let's get on with it and stop yacking'. 

Blokes also find acronyms annoying, and just a little (is 'smug' the right word?) flash! Why, for example, would a lovely church in London, dedicated to the sacred mystery of God's most Holy Trinty call itself 'HTB'? The in-crowd will know what an 'HTB' is, but what about the rest of us mortals? Blokes may be left wondering if an 'HTB' might not be the new 'Hips, Tummy, Botty' diet that our Wimmin have adopted as the new craze! My Church in Aylesbury could not follow such trendy trends, for the simple fact that St. Mary's would become a powered milk for babies. One daren't even think what St. Hilda-in-Tottenham would make if it all ....

Blokes also find catchy sloganny names a little narking. What is a 'Messy Church'? Tidy it up! What is 'Godly Play', and does Ian McKellen star? Both these initiative are wonderful and they do such marvellous work, and if I have an idea half as good, i'll be happy - but the name... Why does the world have to work with poppy names that slip off the tongue? My life doesn't need a strap line, thanks! It's a bloke thing, and it is our failing almost certainly, but the world is going a bit daft for this stuff. 

At night, I go to sleep and rest, not 'Revd Regenerates'. When I wake and eat my breakfast, it isn't 'Cornflake Curate'. I am me, not 'DMC' (hey, that rhymes). Blokes are blunt instruments, not tweezers (we are simple folks, called 'geezers') [yay, I am a poet and I didn't knoet]. you get the idea....

Well, that is another facet of 'bloke' covered. I will return to this again, mark my words. 

DMC signing off .... Collecting Curate, Collecting Kids .... yeah!!!!

Metal Wisdom

In case I hadn't mentioned it, I am a fan of the music of Metallica and other metallists. This picture is my poorly effort at trying to capture a moment when I fortunate enough to be stood mere feet away when I went to see them perform last year in London. If you could give me a moment, I will now assume the pose (legs parted like an inverted 'V', Guitar Hero axe in hand, angry look, snarl, grrr). Let's Rock ....

In the circles that I mix in, largely made up of Christians or the mothers of other toddlers, or both (or neither, if I am alone), my taste in music is not fully understood. My old man hated it too, which was a pity when my brother and I still lived home, both of us with stereos, both abusing my dad's human rights by dint of assault by decibel. I love heavy metal, and more obnoxious, the better. Grrrrrr

But rock musicians are, my friends, much misunderstood. Their musical brilliance is overlooked, for example, because the artist is 'inked' (tattoos, dear, do keep up), or that it is better appreciated when the grammophone is turned up above 2. Mr Hetfield et al are, and they may hate me for saying this [like the musicians from Metallica will read this, pah], profound theologicans. Yes, that's what I said, you didn't just dream it.

Their 2009 album, 'Death Magnetic' (no, I don't either), has a song called The Unforgiven III, and in that song is a line that goes: 'How can I be lost, if I've got nowhere to go?' and 'How can I blame you, when it's me I can't forgive?' There is easily a sermon in each of these questions.

In parish life, the whole notion of 'somewhere to go' has become apparent on a number of fronts: outeach, financial, ministerial, spiritual, and others besides - we seek a destination. It seems that we are surrounded in life by so many who have 'nowhere to go', in the spiritual sense. I am among that number often as it seems unclear what the journey ahead is to hold for me. There are some Christians who, if they saw me in the street (out of uniform) would bound up and ask if I am lost, or if I want to be saved. My reply is likely to be 'sod off and leave me alone', but the question isn't wholly wrong.

I guess there is a process here. We need to find out where we are going in our lives. Then we will discover if we are lost or not (we may be pleasantly surprised). If we discover that we are lost, we can seek help and direction (but don't ask a man to ask for directions, of course - they just prefer to drive around for a while until the answer is discovered by accident). I think that the important thing is to recognise that the journey is life long, and maps aren't that big. We need to keep asking, keep checking, reviewing.

The second line in that song, I will just leave in the air. Guilty as charged, mate (speaking for myself...)

Through the eyes of children

As a child of the Seventies, I was very much coming to terms with being in the world at about the time that Bob Geldof called the world to action over the famine in Ethiopia. I just remember Live Aid, the Christmas record with all those popsters from my teenage past, The ITV Telethon, and subsequently Children in Need etc etc. The call to action to correct an ill in the world is as familiar to me as my own nose, and I have discovered that I was immunised to the horror that unfolded on my TV screen with such regularity (my nose is fairly horrific too, but that is another post for later). Even Hurrican Katrine in all its consuming horror and pain felt somehow routine, I am sad to say.

Until Haiti.

Until my two-year old daughter saw the news images of dust-covered children crying. Until she asked me why the baby girl was crying. Until she asked me where her mummy was. Until she asked me why she didn't have any toys. Until she wanted to know why her house had fallen down and broken her bedroom. I hope, for as long as I live, that I never have to explain an earthquake and its effects to a two-year old. They know enough to know when they are being fobbed off. They know enough to know that something bad has happened. To explain 'because she has lost her toys', 'why', 'because her house fell over', 'why', 'because sometimes the floor shakes', 'why', 'because there are big rocks in the floor and some of them fell over', 'so where is her mummy', 'I dont know baby', 'is she still in the house?', 'I thing she might be, yes', 'can she go to the doctor, daddy?', 'no, baby', 'why', 'because the hospital is broken', 'can I give her a cuggle daddy', 'she would like a cuggle, love' - and my heart aches.

I now know what got Bob Geldof. I get it. My immunisation has worn off because I was forced to a view a tragedy through the lens of innocence. Rebekah returned to the same questions all day. She doesn't understand death, but she recognised and empathised with real pain, the pain of one she saw who was of the same age. 

How do I begin to pray for Haiti? My heart and mind isn't big enough, my will strong enough or my prayerfulness sufficient. I can do little else for that dusty little girl than throw money into a hole and hope that somehow, she will gain from my meagre offering. I, like my baby girl, think about that child often. 

May God bless her, and all those caught up in such an accute tragedy.

On being a bloke

I am in the process of pondering a passage of Scripture as I prepare for a sermon to be preached this Sunday. The passage in question is Ephesians 4: 1-16, and is a delightful essay from Paul about unity and the different qualities of person needed in any given organisation. As I sat an watched the girls murder one another this morning (yes, it snowed and yes, the world stopped again [Global Warming is to blame, I tell you]), I wondered about the different types of Christian that make up Mother Church. These are my long considered (ten minutes or so) findings:

Grinning Christians: always happy, at Christmas, at Easter, at funerals. They are full of the Spirit and it burns within them like a lamp burning in the night. They very often have extremely straight teeth that are white as snow (they would be lost today) and floppy black Bibles.

Self-Apologetic Christians: always feeling sorry about anything and everything. They can't take a breath without wanting to say sorry for doing so. They consider themselves worms; unworthy, in need of some serious penitance. The effervescence of their self-apology can become an art form, with even the sinews of the face adopting the 'I am sorry that I am alive, and I am just plain sorry' style. They are often seem wringing handkerchiefs feverishly, in a very apologetic way

Self-Righteous Christians: the 'I am right and so therefore, by definition, you are wrong' types. You are different to me so you must be wrong, because I am right (and God told me so). They are the 'God calls me but doesn't call you because you don't conform' type of Christian. They have been known to snort whilst giggling.

Psuedo-Intellectual Christians: They are often to be heard using meaningless terms like 'powerful' and 'post-modern' in almost every conversation that they have. Often talking with their heads at an angle, they will smile at the rest of us in a pitying way. You will never see one without a copy of 'Silence and Honey Cakes' under their arm, because Rowan (they are always on first-name terms with others they aspire to being as bright as) is so 'powerful in this post-modern age' of ours.

Good Christians: that great army of the faithful who put God and his wounds at the centre of their world. They typically have an on-off relationship with the Lord, trying as hard as they can to fathom it all out, while clinging to their faith in one who knows better than they.

Self-Aggrandising Christians: 'Sorting out the Postcards on this stand is my job and has been for 657 years'. They are rarely seen outside of a clique which comprises six or seven of likeminded territorialists. Often seen frowning on the way to the church ... becuase the postcards will have been messed up by some n'er do well.

Blokey Christians: These are the 'this is all very nice, fella, but so what?' type of believers. They are not silly but typically not highly qualified. They are more likely to be able to name the players in their favourite footballist team than the dates of Paul's imprisonments. They believe in God and that is that. Not sorry, and frankly not too bothered what anyone else thinks, Blokes feel so at ease with their faith that they can still enjoy beer, gadgets and cars without feeling somehow impious. Not given to taking a scriptural truth at face value, they are often heard asking the 'so what' question. They are often hard to find as they are so very rare, but more often than not wear fleeces and know the BHP of their vehicle.

Grumpies: never without a Tonsure Collar (when ordained), they are normally wound up about the quality (or lack thereof) of the liturgy. Lay and ordained Grumpies will lose an entire week to the mysery induced by the wrong incense being used at High Mass and an entire month to the mysery of a poorly performed polyphonic setting. Please note, those who crave apparelled amices are not Grumpies, but rather just a little odd!

I have probably been uncharitable, but I only leave a 'if the cap fits' kind of caviat to this post. I am, without doubt, a Bloke Christian (with a mix of Grumpy). In my peer group at Theological College, there were a couple of us among a whole host of others. Each of the above groups were represented and each will go on to foster and nurture more of the same.

And I say 'good'. God love 'em all, the Church needs every single one of us. Thankfully, Good Christians represent 99.99999998% of all God fearing folks, and the others know who they are. All types are valid, and all types are acceptable (mostly), or else we would all be clones. From my point of view, though, I hold some consolation in the fact that the Disciples were conspicuously Blokes. Cracking!

Spiritual Room

I was reading a fine book (as they all are) by Henri Nouwen, and he introduced me to the idea that a person's spiritual life (and every human has one) is like a room.

Only while I was writing about the state of my wardrobe in the previous post was I reminded about this rather warming idea. I am going to offer my 'take' on it, as I have had cause to do at various funerals and similar such gatherings.

I like this idea because it allows the person to be themselves. I have added my Guitar Hero axe to mine only this last Christmas; why? because I love Heavy Metal and mine isn't a vocation where such a disclosure is fully consonant. I love the committment and musicality of heavy rock music, more especially the music of Metallica. They write and perform many angsty songs about a whole manner of things that speak of things like God, sin and Forgiveness. They attend to war and its futility as well - so lots to cheer an ailing soul! But the thing about it is, I love rock music and my spiritual room is a place of utter safety where I can turn the volume up and just let rip. This room is where I can be me, truly and properly me. A few people have peered inside, but no-one has entered the door, they can't (yet).

I was once assaulted with some piffle of a theory that suggests that a person has their 'front stage' and 'back stage' personae. Meh: I am all one person, but I have facets of me that are important and they can be aired in safety in my spiritual room.

I urge you all to examine your spiritual rooms, or at the least level become acquianted with the fact that you have one. Some may call it the heart, but a room is a place that we can more fully relate to. It is, as I have earlier suggested, that can become cluttered and untidy, or it can be a barren and unfriendly place. It might even have its own Feng Shui, but that is an entirely other post!

The aspect of this that is most applicable at funerals is that the loved-ones of the recently died have leave, for the first time, to step inside the room of the one just gone. The amount of times that I communicate something hitherto unknown to their nearest and dearest is astounding. You think you know someone ... In my spiritual room, I can rest. I dont even need to withdraw from life as that is not often possible, but this room has a window through which I can gaze upon things that are otherwise hidden to me. Kids would know this as daydreaming, but no better theological reflector than a child ever walked this earth. All of us need to go to our Room, sit in the chair that we have put there. It is a place where I can be calm, happy, deeply chuffed off, silly, excitable and a whole other array of the bits of me that normally live in a box! I can take a novel in there or a good spiritual book, either is fine. It is also a place with a table upon which I can lay out the 'cards' of my hopes and dreams; I can order them, re-order them or even disregard them (I have waste bin in there too). The thing is, when I enter, I feel the same and I feel good.

Cabin Fever

It has been snowing, and the fact about English snow is that it is the worst in the world. It is violent and aggressive and it is insidious. It renders whole communities inactive where they have a commonly shared hillock (anything above 10 feet high). It snows and we all go into hibernation. The threat of snow does wonders for the Tesco family kitty as the entire world pile into their nearest store to stock up on, I am told, cat litter and contraceptive (apparently). In the old days when shops closed for Bank Holidays, we retailers would experience a similar panic behaviour in the days before hand, incase people ran out of ketchup or black peppercorns (Heaven forbid). So yes, it has been snowing, and I have largely been confined to barracks for fear of my very life in that Globally Warmed icebox beyond my door. The kids have been great, my missus has been a marvel but I think that we are sick of the sight of one another now. We are all a bit ratty, grumpy, aggressive and unreasonable. Gotta get out, man - cannot breathe .... The walls are a'spinning and I am experiencing nausia. The cat is talking about me with the other cat, I can tell you know, I can. They are looking at me now - I can see you, don't deny it. The gerbils are laughing at me, can't stand it .... gotta .... get ....out!

Sorry about that. I feel better for getting that off my chest.

This enforced period on 'the Mattresses' (cf Mario Puzo) had caused me to become rather eager to tidy. It is like Kim and Aggy had possessed me. I have tidied wardrobes, moved rooms around, purchased a new vacuum cleaner - and I have discovered the 60% of my wardrobe that had become hidden behind the 40% that I only ever wear. I am four fleeces, eleven t-shirts, nine shirts [un-ironed], six pairs of casual trousers and a hat better off for my endeavours. They were there all along, I had simply lost them. In the busy-ness of life, I hadn't just lost them by dint of poor wardrobe discipline, but had forgotten I owned them. It was like a prize shopping spree, free and gratis, and all the clothes were to my taste even if a few didn't fit anymore. What a happy day ...

I know that many people are suffering from a little cabin fever, and my beating heart goes out to them. I hope that you managed to buy your Gritty Kitty Litter and that all is now well.

Life has a habit, I am fast discovering, of enforcing things that I may not necessarily welcome, upon me. I have to reconcile my Spring Clean-cum-early with how magnificent it could be if I did the same with my spiritual life. I am wondering what is hiding in my Spiritual Room, and whether I need to have a tidy. There is so little time, I admit, but I also wonder if the 60% of my spiritual life that is hidden behind the poorly tidied 40% wouldn't just be a useful find. Let's face it, the 40% I work with will surely wear out soon enough ....

Global Warming

It is great to see yet more effects of Global Warming as I peer out of my window this morning. I am no scientist, but I just wonder whether the Good Lord (aka Mother Nature, perhaps) has it all sorted and whether we mere mortals are really capable of frying the planet. I once read that there is a greater weight of ants than humans on this Rock of ours. Perhaps they 'go eco' (to quote CBeebies!)

So, I am imprisoned in my manse, courtesy of Globally warmed snow, which will turn into globally warmed ice. If I step outside, my lungs will be shredded by globally warmed air and my long fingers turn blue and themselves globally warmed. We might step outside later with the girls, and build a Globally Warmed Precipitation Person.

Or maybe we creatures of our God and King put that stinking great big High Pressure just north of Doncaster 'cos we are that capable. No, I am not a scientist. I am cold in a globally warmed world. And I had to tell my girls that Christmas had ended for another year; they cried.

Prayer I (Paragliding)

Happy New Year! I have been suffering from a new disease of the mind, and only fellow-bloggers and blogettes will understand. You see, the thing is this; when one fashions oneself a little weblog, one places upon one's nose a pair of goggles. They are the 'what shall I put in my Blog next' goggles, and like an opportunist thief we start to see the world through these goggles. The theologians would have you believe that this makes us 'reflective practitioners', but I regard it more as a curse of the thinking. Thoughts like 'gotta write some more, man; gotta say summink meaningful, need blog fodder ...' are all that pervade my waking hour. If I see you on the street, beware; you may fodder become!

I have, all that said, a thought. When you gaze upon my expanded post-Christmas belly (which moves with an independance of its own I have noticed recently - no six pack here, just a catering pack), you would find yourself surprised to know that I have me a dalliance with that pastime known as 'sport'. I have a sport, friends; yes I jolly well do. No, I am not a footballist, and I do not chase after odd shaped balls with sweaty men, but rather, I like to jump off mountains. I strap to my flabby body that which can be best described as a duvet cover, and then lurch into the air with gay abandon (by which I mean gladly, not with a pink glider). I fly through the air while maintaining my very survival relying on the wholly invisible.

Those who know me personally know that I liken paragliding to my spirituality. In paragliding, the pilot takes a leap of faith into the unknown, trusting an acquired knowledge of that which is only manifest in the effect it has on other things while remaining invisible all the while. In paragliding, the 'it' is the air, in spirituality the effect of prayer. If I pray effectively I remian aloft, but if i turn away from this invisible source of bouyancy, I career to the ground and a bumpy landing. Paragliding is, at its most effect level, an active form of flight. Pilots need to fly actively and search out bigger and better sources of rising air in order to achieve a greater height. Pilots could also, if they chose to, bimble along in the light winds that deflect off of hillsides and just bob along nicely. The rewards for achieving a greater height far exceed those gained in a bimble.

Trust in the unseen, a leap of faith, practice and and active effort - these things make a good flight and they also make an effective prayer life with God. A paraglider pilot would see God as 'cloudbase', the destination for the flight; Christians have it easier, they can reach their destination the moment they take flight - so long as they wish in their hearts to make that place by their own efforts.

I look splendid in my flying suit too, skin tight and .... no, perhaps not.