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. 

Funerals

Before I embarked upon this marvellous ministry of mine, I would have told you that the happy bits would have been found in the planning of weddings and baptisms, with the sad times confined to the planning and delivery of funerals. 

During my House-Move-Sojourn, the thing I missed a lot was delivering funerals. I am something of a fan of the pastime - not because I am morbid, and not because it suits my dark attire. I gain no particular pleasure from witnessing the agonies of the grieving relatives - although at all times it is a treasured privilege to be trusted with it. 

The simple fact, quite unexpectedly, is that in the planning of funerals, I do most of my laughing (in the work arena).

Typically, my means of bring such a service together is to visit the home of the nearest and dearest. The framework of the conversation is set by the need to formulate an order of service, confirm choices of music and 'performers' plus the most important - and often unsaid - thing: that I render the deceased no longer a complete stranger to me. I have to be a sponge for every little anecdote, sentiment (expressed or implied), biographical tidbit. In many ways, I need to get a feel for the person if I am to do justice to their final journey. 

The plain and simple fact is that these meetings are more often than not permeated by much laughter. I have been trying to think why this may be, as I am in all senses very respectful of the family's bereavement at all times. That is to say, I don't walk in and launch into a Stand-Up routine. The laughter comes quite spontaneously, and think it is born of several factors: relief (that the service is now organised), permission (to think about the person who has died without coyness, as that is what I have to ask them to do), the joy born of love (people tend to remember the joyful and the amusing, not the dark and painful), that humans are generally perverse creatures and this is manifest in our testimonials, and most importantly - when we talk about someone who has died (and I mean really talk about them), we re-enliven them. It might be all of those things, or none. 

So Your Church Wants Social Media ...

My firm belief is that every church needs to engage with social media and start to use it. To not engage with social media is about the same as not making use of email, telephones or the combustion-engine motor-car simply because they seem to be modern irrelevances. The simple fact is that more and more people in the West are engaging in dialogue moderated and delivered through social media. 

I also acknowledge that it isn't as simple as just wanting to engage with and harness the benefits of social media, because our congregations and parish councils are often populated by those unaccustomed to the electronic, regard their advent as suspect at best and who may in turn become isolated by its introduction. This said, if we took the same view over history, people wouldn't have Bibles in their personal possession and the art of reading would remain the province of the landed gentry. Progress is necessary and indeed vital, so long as it is tailored to bring with it those who are vulnerable to its effects (usually by immediate isolation).

With this in mind, and following on from conversations already had on the subject, I though I would jot down my thoughts as to the process that parishes could use to bring this development to life. I am mindful that parishes already have varying degrees of involvement with social media, though they may not use that label!

What Is It? Social Media is the overarching title for direct communication by way of the internet. Any parish with a website of any capacity or capability is already engaged with social media, albeit passively. The current understanding of social media is more specifically concerned with actions of communication, often in real-time and often solely over the internet - be those actions in the form of 'chat', instant message, blogging or micro-blogging. A parish community unfamiliar with this mode of communicating would need to appreciate the subtleties and drawbacks (as well as the great opportunities) of this form of faceless communication. 

Who? This may seem an odd consideration for a parish, but this is a decision not to be taken lightly. The one doing the communicating is placed in a position of considerable power, often speaking on behalf of the entire community to a very wide and unpredictable audience. Someone with some experience of social media (and its nuances and its vernacular), supported and moderated by at least one other person would be advisable. This ensures that the 'output' is broad and balanced, and not rooted in the aspirations and 'hobby-horses' of the operator. Needless to day, the person concerned should always hold in their mind that they always speak for their community, and anything that emerges in the social media is hard to remove. 

Planning - If a parish is to engage in social media, it would make all sorts of sense to have the agreement of the parish council (or its equivalent). To do something positive and new can be a risk-laden proposition and it is easy for the operator to be left high-and-dry if any problems arise later. The organisation as a whole should take ownership of the initiative, even if at the hands of one or two specific individuals (operators). They should also be familiar with the output as a matter of course. 

Planning 2 - Boundary setting is very important. What is off-limits to the wider world? What is the core message? How does the community preserve the operator? What happens if things go wrong? Do you discuss services or acts of worship? Do you comment on sermons or talks? What about images? Recordings and audio capture? How is orthodoxy maintained?These are all clear decisions that need to be made and probably a myriad more. 

Accountability - who is accountable - The operator? The council or leadership team? Someone needs to be, after all. If accountability is given, can it be taken back later? Who hold passwords and where? With accountability comes responsibility and the same questions need to be settled.

Document - to my mind, a document stating who does what and under what terms, on what media forum and to what purpose - all need to be documented. I would go so far as to state that they need to be filed with official papers like Minutes and votes taken. They are all layers of protection either for the operator or the organisation. 

Review - the leadership team/council should review the output in conjunction with the appointed operator, and on a regular basis. When someone speaks on their behalf in front of possibly millions of people (in the case of Twitter and blogs), the community needs to be aware of the essence of that commentary and respond accordingly. 

If there are substantial doubts - then don't do it until those doubts are assuaged or gone. Engines such as Facebook has caused concerns for many people, regarding secrecy and the dissemination of information to third parties. Because things cannot be unsaid or easily un-published, it is better to be positive about such a venture before launching forth on it, rather than stepping tentatively into a perceived minefield. One is a pleasure, the other a constant source of stress. 

These are my own thoughts. There is nothing to stop anyone doing anything, but 'in whose name' makes a considerable difference. In simple terms, the greater number of people who are involved in the evolution of such a development the better - given that in the early days, its outworking is in the hands of a small minority. 

Lastly, let social media not become the first word and the last. There are always people in our communities for whom this activity is exclusive and into which they could ever venture. Make social media but one means of communicating with the wider world, and certainly never at the expense of inter-personal or tangible means which grant access to all. 

Why I Watch Downton Abbey

The Dowager Duchess of Grantham

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

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

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

How has this happened? 

I'll tell you how. Gladiator TV. 

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

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

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

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

 - Observe their breakdowns and gel-underwritten hairdos

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

 - Subsidise Simon Cowell's personal ownership of Earth

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

Are you not entertained? Are you NOT entertained!

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

Authority

Today we were thinking about 'authority' (which is to say that I was thinking about 'authority' and hoping that others were listening!) as a result of the Gospel passage given to us today  - Matt 21: 23ff.

The episode of South Park which gave us the clip I have placed here always made me laugh. It also reminded me of much authority exercised in churchy circles. I am not here to talk about what authority is and its sources, but I wonder sometimes if we don't use it in odd ways or even wrong ways. The "it has been like this years so we will do it like that for ever" is one such way that the authority of time and tradition is used. Needless to say, it is the axiom of all anti-women dogma in church life. 

Then you get the Cartman style of authority (see above) - exerted by coercion. It is the "I have authority because I say so and you can't stop me". We see this in church life in the hands of the passive-aggressives who rather than being overtly strong, are self-weakened so that we can keep our distance. This is a very significant source of much authority wielded in churches. 

The thing about authority is that it is in larger part granted us by others. Be can't really take authority upon ourselves, but rather receive affirmation from others that authorises us to act or behave in given ways. Even us vicars are in danger when we start the "we are the boss so you will respect my authoritah" and it long since not been the case that Father is Always Right. So often mistaken for power, authority is granted not taken [apologies for the typo that inverted that statement]

Just saying ...

The Thing That Excites Clergy

I grant you that it is the only day in the week that we work, and I grant you that in normal circumstances the work that we do fills only some of the day. It is properly hard being a cleric - such arduous lives. 

Some of you who are reading this and are ordained, or indeed any of you might know what I am referring to. It is that sense of excitement as Sunday approaches. Whether we are leading worship, partaking in it or just observing (itself a useful pastime) - Sundays approach withe a sense of happy anticipation for many of us. 

Perhaps it is just me!

It is often that time when our whole (or a larger part of) community gathers together. Yes, it is a time for gossip and that can often permeate the first verse of the first hymn, but it is a time when we gather as the faithful children of Christ to worship and adore. Some of us, if we are of that tradition, may find renewed sustenance in the Holy Matter of the Eucharist, or simply the release of happy chemicals in the blood when we sing for all we are worth. Compelling times, mostly always happy, with friends and those of a like mind - so why wouldn't we look forward to it. 

Enjoy your Saturday wherever you are reading this - tomorrow is our day once more. 

Beautiful Day

There is one thing more likely to erode than a chalk cliff face in Sussex. It is more flexible than the spine of a liturgical dancer (you know, the ones who fling ribbons around). It is often more displaced than a farm full of travellers ...

...the Vicar's day off. 

Today is my first ever Vicar's Day off, which to be sure is manifestly different to Curate's Days Off and only begins to aspire to becoming a Rector's Days Off. Today is that day, ladies and gentlemen, and it is a truly beautiful day. The picture that you see is of my to-be-tamed back yard, soon to be in the full adornment of autumn russets and burnished golds. The Sun she shines in motes of light that dance in the soft-swaying leaves, the planes they fly like planes, the birds they squawk (they are parakeets after all) and the light breeze sends the leaves in little eddies around my to-be-mown grass (as distinct from Paul Eddys - he is a very different animal, and a nice bloke too). Do you get the idea? Can you hear the sound of Dvorak's New World Symphony in the background? Good, me too. 

Well, The Twins Aculae are at school, the wife occupied with the things that Vicar's Wives do (don't ask, or I would have to tell you, then kill you) and the doors and windows have been cast wide to let the scene flood in. Today was the day I was going to do what I had promised myself for the last couple of weeks. So do it I did. I flopped on the settee, and watched You Tube clips on my new very large (very very large) TV. I will be tending the Glebe this afternoon, before you cast aspersions about my wasting a beautiful day. 

I didn't feel guilty about frittering a couple of hours knocking back coffee and surfing through Rock Metal clips on the Large Telly. I work hard, I do all (read 'most') of the cooking, I deserved it. I thought I might feel bad, and indeed I can name ten things that I could usefully do today, but they would be 'work' and I am trying to start as I mean to go on. Every once in a while, a lazy morning is OK. I appear not to have shuffled off my mortal coil, and there have been no calls from the Court of Arches asking me to atone for my sin. I haven't even brushed my hair - that is how slovenly I have been today. 

Well, this was only ever going to be a post about how beautiful today is. Sometimes it really does pay to talk about the weather because in about eight or nine metric seconds it will be Christmas Eve and a foot deep in snow, like every Christmas. Mark my words. 

I hope that having read this (and good luck to you, a Counselling Pack is in the post), that you will have as nice a day as I am having so far. What a beautiful world we inhabit. 

...and for your edification (Paul Eddyfication? Is a theme developing? Should I have gone out today to seek the unchurched testosterone carriers?), a wonderful fusion of two of my favourite songs. It is a remarkable thing ... 

When Family is not Family but is Still Family

A Typical English Family

It might be a British thing, or it might just be a Christian thing. It might even just be a British Christian thing, and possibly even a Christian British thing, but a thing it is and I intend fully to speak about it now. 

Liturgies, Services, Acts of Worship, Praise Sessions - or whatever label you may wish to apply, have different stylings and those stylings tell the trained observer a great deal about what to expect. 

They are also a euphemism.

A High Mass will be one of sacrament, music, vestments and choreographed ceremonial. Mattins is a non-sacramental service of hymns, readings and prayers, as distinct from Morning Prayer that is more rooted in reading and prayer (with the odd spoken song [canticle] interspersed). Evensong is likely to be in language older than your grandmother, a little singing and hymn-based mirth. Compline is not a slimming product but one of the Hours (that array of liturgies that those in the religious life did or still do throughout the day and night), typically observed in the late evening - a short and gentle act of worship rooted in Psalmody and Responsory. Get the idea? If you know the name, you know what to expect. 

Then you get the Family Service. We who provide such things want them to be regarded as accessible, family friendly (read 'not boring to kids') that is perhaps a little shorter than the normal offering. We would want you be know that the music might be a little less 'specialist' (which is to say short, punchy and not according to the four-part harmony structure so loved by church choirs). With any luck, that is the message received bu the passer-by, the seeker, the enquirer. It is a liturgical styling not without its issues, however.

If the Family Service is for the young, the un-initiated perhaps, then the Sung Eucharist must surely deserve the title 'The Grown Up Child-free Specialist Not for Beginners Service for those Who Pay Their Subs and Are on The Electoral Roll Service'. No, of course not. To my mind, every act of worship in the church's life deserves the title 'Family Service'. We are, after all, family in Christ. This is partly the reason why in many churches (though not where I have worked or worshipped, gladly), on the other Sundays when there isn't a Family Service, children are little higher that vermin - a noise curse to be chased out of the building. No dear, you belong at the Family Service. This is partly the reason why in many churches (though not where I have worked or worshipped, gladly) the "main service" is a specialist affair where strangers fear to tread, or if they do they are gathered up, hidden in a darkened room and converted to within an inch of their lives (before they get a chance to escape). 'Family Services' have become Eucharist-Lite, theologically and  qualitatively, or they have become Praise Service Dumbed Down, musically and spiritually. They are shorter in duration, because only true proper Christians can cope with a full-length service, surely. 

The thing is, children are pure theologians. As early-speaking toddlers they are wrestling with the deepest truths of life and existence. As young school-age kids they are working out what life is in the context of death. They grasp the facts and the meaning of Good Friday all the while us adults euphemise and fret. They, like us all, want to be enlivened, not patronized and condescended to. Half of me wants to ban Family Services as a curse to all liturgy. The other half wants to ban all other liturgy and work on getting Family Services right for all people. 

An Atheist and an Anglo-Catholic at Greenbelt

I was at Greenbelt this year, for a day - to be helpful. That I was nearly refused entry is a tale for another day, but I have to confess to having enjoyed the whole experience. I was able to draw some conclusions about how Christians ought to look, and I have resolved to think about buying a hoody in due course. The tie-dye patchwork dungaree things won't trouble my inner-monologue, but they too were much in evidence. 

But this, kids, is not what I sat here to write about. A mate of mine, known to many of you as Gurdur (on Twitter and other places), known to me as Tim - a finer antipodean resident of the German state you will not find, was also there. The thing is, he is an atheist. He styles himself as 'extremely' atheistic, which is to say that he not only doesn't believe in God, but that he really seriously doesn't believe in God. Hold in your thoughts that I do, of course. 

We spent a good amount of time on that day wandering together talking about many things, approaching stall-holders and taking interest in their 'product'. This followed one of those embarrassing social-media moments when, thinking you know someone really well because you have 'chatted' many times, meant that upon seeing him in the flesh for the first time, I greeted him as an old friend, embrace and all. He thanked me very sincerely and then asked who the hell I was. How we laughed ...

Tim is a remarkable man. He, like I, had experienced painful times at such gatherings in our pasts (though not Greenbelt, I should state). Be both felt like fish out of water, for similar yet wholly dissimilar reasons. In fact that sense galvanised us in our encounter, Christian to Atheist, as we moved about the place looking and watching. It generated, I thought, some rather helpful discussions - and I think helpful for us both. What aided us in this endeavour was a the fact that he is about the most open-minded man I have ever encountered, and I wasn't remotely interested in converting him. We were simply two humans, talking about levels of existence within our frameworks of reference. 

My day at Greenbelt was a source of much pleasure. Helping people work forwards in their vision to engage with Social Media was a particular honour for me. Time spent walking with my friend the atheist just about capped it off perfectly. 

The beer wasn't bad either...

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.

Brave or Hospitable?

It was my joy to be asked to officiate at the Royal Airforce Association Battle of Britain Day service here in Whitton yesterday. In the early days of my engagement with the parish, just after my appointment, the kind and generous people who had a care for my mortal being expressed concern that such a service might be too much of an ask on what would be my first Sunday in post. Fortunately, services for the Armed Services, their veterans and cadets featured a great deal in my last role, so no worries! 

The church was full, and although the RAFA is largely a membership by association (only a very small handful are Airforce veterans), we were able to welcome well over a hundred air cadets who gave up time to show their commitment to the uniform and organisation of which they are members. They did themselves proud, as did the band, as did the talented young bugler who played the Last Post and Reveille in front of us all (including the Mayor of Richmond). 

What was distinct this time from others that I have had a part in is that the cadets numbered those conspicuously from other faiths. There were Sikh, Jewish and Muslim cadets (and Veterans), all together in the church. I didn't want to ignore their presence and so made a very quick decision about how to proceed. 

First, the welcome. I made a point of welcoming my brothers and sisters of other faiths along with the dignitaries, veterans, members etc. I wanted to acknowledge them formally. Secondly, at the point when we reached the time for prayer, I further acknowledged that I would be (obviously) using Christian prayers [the Lord's Prayer, for example], and that those who followed a different guiding light (the use of the word 'god' excludes some) may take the opportunity to pray in their own way. To be honest, it seemed like the only polite thing to do.

Afterwards, a veteran approached me and said how grateful he was for that 'permission'. He is an observant Jew and appreciated that a time for prayer was made available for him as a member of a sibling faith. He also commented that he thought it a very brave thing for me to have done!

I have thought about this over and over. Why 'brave'? I am comfortable in my faith sufficiently that I am happy to acknowledge that of others. They were there to celebrate an affiliation to an ideal that is human and not purely Christian, and that is the ideal of defending the poor and weak and their freedom. He was a former pilot who knew what that ideal looked like in practice, so rather than 'brave', it now seems to me that it was the only truly right thing to do!

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. 

More Good News

I was delighted and humbled to open an email that told me that I am one of the Finalists in the 'Best Christian Blogs' category in the Christian New Media Awards 2011. Who'd have thought that this drivel would get so far in a competition graced by some remarkable good entries (for the full list, follow this link)?

I do this because I enjoy it and because I am supported by reader, commenters and other friends. Without you there really isn't any point. So I thank you most sincerely. 

What a week!

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!

Risk Averse

If Jesus walked the Earth today ...

Mark 1: 16ff

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

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

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

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. 

Remembering 9/11

The answer is: in a carpet shop in Staines, UK. 

The question has been posed on at least three media forums this week - the 'where were you when ...'. A man called Barry (whom I had not met before and not seen since, as I was only in Staines for the day), came into the shop to tell us all that two planes had flown into the World Trade Centre. Our response was in the perhaps understandable vein - "don't be stupid". People just didn't do things like that. 

But they did. 

By the time I had driven from Staines back to Crawley, the Towers has fallen on top of the rescue services and had vapourised many hundreds of innocent people. In the aftermath, a mere ten percent of the bodies were recovered. Oddly, at the time, the terrorist attack on New York's financial heart was too great to take in so, so I received the images like so many Schwarzenegger films. I took it in a little and never really absorbed it. The image above was the first of the hours of news-fed imagery that I saw of the terrible events unfolding. 

As a decade turns fully, I find myself more affected by the event than I did on the day itself. 9/11 did change the world and many many thousands of people have died in its wake, with declarations of war, their reprisals, and the ripple-effects that accompany them. The planes that were flown full speed into the WTC are the same as pass by my house now, so close to my home and my children. I have found myself wondering what must have passed as thought for the poor souls unto whose windows those planes were directed. Then there were those who, so desperate as they were, threw themselves over a hundred stories to their deaths - falling for countless seconds, seeing their end approach them at terminal velocity. 

So many innocent people. So many innocent rescuers caught up and killed by their duty and their love for their fellow humans. So many families left to grieve. 

I once stood at the foot of one of the Towers and looked up. They touched heaven, I thought. Tomorrow is the tenth anniversary of the day when the world turned differently. It seems that Bin Laden did his work well as it is quite clear to me that this catastrophe was merely the Overture. Ours is, in many ways, a frightened and suspicious world where people's visible differences are cause for concern. Ours is a world where anything is now possible - even terrible and audacious things. Without doubt, ours is a more violent world where the near-three thousand deaths of 9/11 will eventually (if not already) seem small by comparison with the continuing deaths that happen in the name of the events all those years ago.

I pray earnestly that we can take the example of the fire-fighters, the ambulance crews, the sole chaplain, the passers-by - and remember that even in the darkest of moments, light can be found. It is the light that will, in the annals of history, be the remarkable story to tell. 

May God bless those who died on that darkest of days, or in the days that followed. I pray for their families too, for whom the next few hours may be among the worst - again. Amen

Earthworm

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

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

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

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

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

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