God in a Box

This is not a post about Aumbries, before you ask!

It is a matter of some mirth in our community that our friends from Zimbabwe always arrive for services late. Once, I was asked to bless the marriage of a wonderful couple, and to perform that ceremony at Noon on a given Saturday. At 12.05pm, I was to be found in the church kitchen making myself a coffee, which I then savoured for the next half an hour in an empty church before even husband and wife arrived, let alone the supporting cast!

On most Sundays, at the point when I have completed my little round of pre-Mass chores and preparations and toddle off to robe, the church looks empty. That would be four minutes before we process in. By the the time the first note of the first hymn thunders forth, the church is half full. By the end of the Collect, it is normally well packed. For us that is normal. 

My Boss and I are invited to a celebration in September, which starts at 2pm I think. He has been invited to given Opening Prayer at 4pm. You get the idea. 

We are all quite open about it. Leg pulling happens on both sides, but I thought I would consider this more fully in preparation for the aforementioned Mass last week. 

I am one for promptness. To be honest, I get the proper hump when someone is late, and I get an ever great cob on if I am the one who is late. On time-keeping, I have a minor OCD (though my Training Incumbent may at times be forgiven for thinking that I perhaps cope rather well with 'cutting it fine' - something I am guilty of all too often). It is another Western thing, added to by the likes of Gina Ford as modern parents are guided to raise their children by absolute meticulous routine (finally, I can blame that woman for something). Same for our faith and its expression.

8am Holy Communion

9.15 Morning Prayer

10am Sung Eucharist

6pm Evensong

We have made our faith a matter of appointment. We give God an hour here and an hour there - though we make sure that we are on time, of course. There is a danger, thereby, of placing God back in his box for the rest of time as we toddle off to the next appointment for which we must of course be on time. It is a Western thing. 

But not an African thing. As I said last week, if we give God time by appointment only, then they give him the time between waking and  ... waking. They are never late for a service, simply because they started their worship and praise many hours before we did. 

A New Perspective on Christianity

This weekend has caused a profound shift in my perspective of my own faith and the organisation to which I claim a long membership. It is a tectonic shift caused by the best of things and the worst of things - the latter being the stuff of global headlines even now. 

I have slowly come to realise that there are very different kinds of Christians: the ones for whom faith is life, and the ones for who whom faith is a soap-box. There are those who let their faith shine through them and their lives, and others who use faith as a Tyndall Beam in order to project their needs upon the world. The latter disposition, at best, yields a few wonky outbursts (perhaps this is one of them). At worst, it results in the death of the innocents. 

In my last post, I shared a moment of Shona praise. In other posts I have talked about the deaf community. Both communities, the deaf and the Zimbabwean, have taught me considerable lessons about my own faith. The deaf community has taught me so much about communication, the Zimbabwean about unbridled and unfettered trust in love. Both cause, I am sorry to say, standard Western Christianity in many of its forms to seem petty, self interested, self-important and as relevant as a Beta Max Video player. 

Some have spoken of Christian persecution, as it is found in Britain. As far as I can see, that amounts to strictures surrounding work-apparel and directives about using faith to impose a theology upon others in their lives. Real persecution is to be found in the lives of Christian men and women from Zimbabwe who, because of their faith, have had to leave homes and family behind, often never seeing those loved ones again. Because of their faith. Where funds were limited, the Christian men of Zimbabwe sent their women and children oversees to safety, and in more than one case that I know of, have died before the reunion. Because of their faith. Only in that context do I see true persecution, not in the affronts to middle-class choice that we bewail in the West. The astonishing thing, though, is that a drop of their worship expresses more joy and gratitude than a bucket of our own worship (in any of the brands it is available in). Some of the British Christians who attended the Shona Mass on Saturday commented upon how "poe-faced" it made us all seem. I couldn't disagree. Exilic Zimbabweans regard their removal and separation from their homes as a new calling from God, and embrace it in those terms. Perhaps this is why I can't get super-heated about pieces of paper, I just don't know.

And then of course we have this man, Anders Behring Breivik, the man responsible for the murder of 85 young people in Norway in a kind of 'social conservation' exercise. He did this, it seems, because of a wildly mis-guided set of views informed, among other things, by ... his faith. His brand of faith is labelled as 'fundamentalist', 'right wing' and 'conservative' - none which is reason enough to end the lives of others. To the best of my knowledge, this is the first such terrorist act in the name of Christ in my lifetime at least in the West. 

In the middle of all of this, I have a a renewed sense of being a bystander. I have also written elsewhere about being a bystander, and the responsibility that we share (the Holocaust is one such arena where the place of the bystander is important). I watch Norway and the events there; I find joy when I am taken from Western 'nice' to the untainted praise of exiles. I put these things together and I gain a new perspective on my faith. On one hand we can abuse and insult our spiritual leaders with impunity. On another, a man is killing on behalf of the Head of our Body. One community would give up everything for the church ... everything. Another community light their bonfires and dance around the glowing embers of a church that they claim to love. There is an impossible imbalance in all of this that I struggle with. 

Today, the Body of Christ is different. We cannot be the same as we were before the Norwegian killings. What we have is a treasure in clay jars - jars that we beat with rods in our own hands, or else we stand by and watch others doing the same. Christians must now stand together and remind the world once again that we are a people of love, tolerance, embracing people of all races, whatever their differences to us - and a people of joy and praise, of song and worship - in all circumstances. If we do not, the consequences are on our heads. 

God is love, and those who live in love live in God, and God lives in them. 

A Shona Mass, a Gift from Zimbabwe

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Today I have had the particular joy of sharing a Mass with my very dear friends from the Zimbabwean community. Not in Britain by choice, they have moved here and made new lives, families often split even now. I asked them to repeat this hymn in their own language which is my favourite. In the best of time and the worst of times (and 'worst' as I could hardly ever imagine), their faith is summed up in the joy and passion of this hymn. As I said to them, as a result of knowing them I am glad and proud to apply the label of Anglo-Catholic Charismatic to myself. Zimbabwean charismatic worship is still very 'catholic' in flavour, and no-one there could deny the presence of the Holy Spirit. 

Another wonderful, painful, joyful, devastating moment of goodbye - though I hope for only a short while. I sense that I will see these wonderful Christians some more. 

Please do watch the video (forgiving my blunt direction to start them off) - this is the beat of my heart. 

What a Weekend

My last post described my immersion into the West Indian culture. That was Friday! On Saturday, I was immersed in Zimbabwean culture, presiding over the Blessing of the marriage of two members of their community, taking them into on to the great celebration of the Eucharist.

It went a little like this: a service scheduled to start at noon saw me sipping coffee at five-past as I waited for the congregation and couple to arrive. Worshippers started to arrive by quarter-past and promptly burst in hymns sung Shona-style.

I started the service at half-past twelve (not everyone had arrived even then). I opted to use the 'said' version of the service, but giving the Zimbabwean community the chances to embellish the Rite in their own way. My lot from Zimbabwe know how to be the beating heart of worship. As I said to them, their worship and praise go to my heart! We had two english hymns and two Shona hymns, but whenever there was a hiatus in proceedings, more choruses burst forth! 

I have no idea what they were singing about - but I was all the same connected. I knew  not what the words were, but I knew well what they meant. Amongst maracas, whooping, shreaks and screams, the harmony-perfect music was (and always is, in my opinion) the music made in heaven. Unaccompanied save for the Spirit, it is worship that entrances and intoxicates and adds to my view that in so many cultures there are such wonderful ways to make music to our Lord. The whole thing defied the lines and edges of english liturgy, but actually - in a way that made 'some old said Eucharist' quite the most spectacular act of praise you could witness.

It is of profound importance to me that what I offer as the adminstrator of any Sacrament is that the context of that Sacrament is seemly, fit for use and meaningful. That means (to me at least) that a West-Indian act of worship, a Zimbabwean act of worship or even a kid's act of worship be of them and for them. I know what is important to me in liturgy, but that is only for me - but to deliver Fr David's standard service to all - well, that is just unacceptable. So, as I said at the end of the service yesterday:

Mwari, Mweya Unoyera, ngaakusimbisei muchitendero nerudo, akudzivirirei kumativi ose, akutungamirirei muchokwadi nerunyararo, uye Chikomborero ChaMwari Baba, noMwanakomana, noMweya Mutswene zvigare nemi kubvira zvino dakara narini. Amen

...and apparently I got it right and didn't inadvertantly insult anyone.

In a world where we are all different, only in a world like that can we stand a chance of really knowing God. 


*This image was from my First Mass, a service also greatly enhanced by my friends from Zimbabwe 

Cap Badge

Today gave me the very great privilege of Baptising four young people, and welcoming them as new Christians in the midst of our community in Aylesbury. I have fast discovered that there is little that exceeds this in terms of ministerial high-points, and I rejoice with Chenai, Tatenda, Tafadzwa and Lamora and their families as they take the courageous step of accepting their rightful place in the Army of Christ. Part of that process of initiation was to anoint them, by signing them with the Cross upon their foreheads with the Oil of Chrism. As I explained in my short preamble, they wear that Cross as a soldier wears his Cap-Badge. A soldier will give up his/her life for the badge he/she wears and for those who wear the same. A soldier wears his/her badge with utter pride, as it marks him/her out as belonging to something worthy, a collective of parts that creates a far more impressive whole. 

Within the context of this service today, we were blessed with the gift of song given to us by the Zimbabwean community, from among whom the baptismal candidates came. They sang a hymn in their own language, wearing the uniform of the Zimbabwean Mother's Union, as they do every Sunday. We Brits had no inkling what the words meant, but we felt good, we felt alive, and we sensed that we got its essence if not its specifics! I thank God for them!

I have been given, therefore, a couple of reasons to consider the whole subject of 'badge and uniform'. We send our children to school in a uniform, and it is often a uniform to which we and they feel much loyalty. Our health-care professionals wear a uniform - and we know that we can trust them and their training, implicit in their attire. The man (fact, not exclusive language) who puts my letters through my door wears the uniform of the Royal Mail - and even if he fell out with his employers, he would man the picket in his uniform. The armed services live and die in the context of their uniform, as I have already described. People in business wear a uniform, the uniform of the business suit, shirt and tie. Retailers are decked in corporate colours. Imagine if the Army went to war in cords, a stripey shirt and a comfy beige jacket from Marks. Imagine of the kids in our school went in everyday in jeans and hoodies! Imagine if the nursing staff in our hospitals tended to their patients in chinos and a fleece. Imagine a person closing a multi-million pound deal in hiking trousers and a wicking t-shirt!  Imagine if the Police on response on a Saturday night arrested their client base whilst in Hawaian Shirt and Bermuda shorts. Imagine a devoted Manchester United fan, a committed lifelong one, turning up to the game in anything other than the team colours. 

  So why are priests the exception to this?

This is not a picture of me, but of the style of collar I prefer to wear. Style is of no real importance beyond the significance of its genus.

It seems to me that a rapidly increasing number of the ordained members of the Church consider the uniform of the 'job' to be optional, or even undesirable. The reasons given are to do with the 'barrier' that a dog-collar presents in encounters with others. Other reasons surround progress and 'moving on'. In one conversation, an ordained person (that person was not comfortable being called a 'priest') said that they 'like to get to know someone before they tell them that they are a minister', in case the disclosure put the other person off. Now I know I am being controversial here, but I feel strongly about this. Yes, the image above comes with some negative connotations, largely to do with gender issues at the moment. When I pitch up to gathering of clergy, I go in my uniform, and this still causes much mirth! Why? I dunno, mate!


To my mind, the collar is akin to a cap-badge. It is our uniform. Priests, whether is palateable or not, are set apart to do a job to which we are called by God. It is a wonderful job, but not always easy. However, when you see someone dressed in a collar, you can make a whole raft of assumptions that set the scene for an encounter. You know that they are Christian, you know that they are (to a greater or lesser extent) trained in their work, on the whole trustworthy, steeped in prayer and in a close relationship with God. I am proud of all of that, and a dog-collar is the only way, short of tattooing it on my face, to declare this to the world around me. I have no appetite or right to be a priest-by-stealth. I have been chosen and sent-out from a community to work in another. I am so proud of my priestly orders that I can't imagine why I wouldn't wear its cap-badge. From my own experience, I have more meaningful encounters in collar than I do out of it. Barrier schmarrier. The people of Aylesbury have an absolute right to know what and who I am when I talk to them, otherwise I am not being straight with them, in my modest opinion. If the removal of our uniform and all that it represents is 'progress', then I pray earnestly that the members of our armed services (who would die for theirs), remain in the Dark Ages!