The God of Surprises

Last weekend, a rather wonderful thing happened. No, I am not referring to 

       (all glory laud and honour)
Palm Sunday though that was pretty special as always
        (it never seems to rain on Palm Sunday, either).
This year, our Hosannah-ing was followed by the baptism of two youngsters. It should have been a two-family-four-kid baptism week but one of the families cried off with chicken-pox, which is unfortunate. Our prayers
        (and calamine)
are with them at this time. No, what was wonderful was something that was entirely new to me in my modest professional Christian ministry, and also unheard of in the somewhat longer
        (and levitous)
ministry of my brother priest, now retired and a great asset to the parish! 

The two children being baptised were themselves from a clutch of four, and I was dousing Number Two and Number Four - number one was 'done' already and Number Three resolutely refused to be involved! Number Four was a babe-in-arms and Number Two was a 
        (very well turned out)
lad of about 9 or ten years of age. And so it was: we went Declaring and Promising and we even agreed to fight the devil, corruption and evil
        (no theological dilution needed in Whitton, thank you)
and then anointed Two and Four with the usual aplomb and style. The godparents were resplendent and were duly thanked for their service to the ... well, service and returned to their seats for the Half-Time Entertainment - the Collection. Suitably frisked by two youngsters, the assembled throng
        (as distinct from 'thong' which is something else altogether)
turned on their heels to face The Font for the Main Event - the Baptism of Two and Four. 

Suitable quantities of pre-warmed
        (cold is simply anti-social)
living water was poured, tested and blessed - and so it was that Number Four was gently held under my arm 
        (not unlike a rugby ball)
and received the appropriate aspersion. Number Two, being bigger therefore heavier, was trapped and held
        (rather like a jousting thing at a joust)
over The Font and was granted spiritual and fluid entry into the Faith of Our Fathers. Job done a good'n! 

And then it happened. Number Three
        (formerly agin the whole enterprise)
shimmied up, the way one does in a pew-bound church, and asked if she could be baptised. "Yes" I said, "but I haven't got my diary, so I will have to talk to mummy". No, mister, I meant now - right this minute
        (yes, Revd Imaginationless the Un-Creative, Vicar of Failing to Spot Gift Horses)
while we are here, if you please. Well, thought I to myself, what to do. What would Canon Law make of all of this
        (and should I care?)
so I did the only decent think and press-ganged three new Godparents, sent for the oils and did what any right minded cleric would do, and baptised her before she changed her mind!

A spontaneous baptism! It doesn't much better than that!

The Day the Bishop Came

What a wonderful day!

You may remember me saying that last Sunday was the day we would be welcoming (or not, as it is his church, but you know what I mean) the Bishop of London to our little edifice. It was always going to be a complex piece of liturgy, given that it had baptisms (2), confirmations (12), a flavour of a dedication festival and the mighty Harvest Festival thrown in for good measure. The church comfortably seats 150 but we shoehorned 176 into the wonky pews, and yes, the Sun she shone.

First things first - I was nervous. The Eight O'clockers were probably short-changed as my mind raced forward to the next service, and I get hopelessly tongue-tied with the BCP Rite when my mind wanders. Yes, I was nervous - but no-one told me that +Richard was flippin' huge. I am a tall bloke but he made me feel short and that happens rarely! Slap the pointy titfer on his head and he was in very serious danger of colliding with sanctuary lamps! 

That all said, my nerves weren't really required. He was gracious, encouraging, relaxed and happy to 'be pushed around where he was needed', and from the first encounter was a joy to have around. He was interested in the history of our church (in this its 150th year) and waxed lyrical about it on more than one occasion. Before doing the things that I would normally do when going into a church for the first time (things that involve words, robes and 'where would I stand when ...'), he walked with me to the Parish Hall to meet the candidates. He took the time to speak to each in person, and privately - gave them a letter and a card, and did a remarkable thing - remembered their names from that moment onwards (and made something of a party-trick of it later). I could tell that he had made each of the candidates feel special taking interest in their names and stories. The younger ones loved him!

I needn't have worried. I sense that he knew a little about me, had made an educated guess that I may have been bricking it, and did much to reassure me that all would be well. The sound system failed but he made light of that, and if anyone has a voice to fill our shoe-box of a church, it is him. He preached beautifully on the subject of love ("knowledge puff up, love builds up") and the gathered assembly were rapt. Now, boys and girls - a lesson for you if you write a blog. The bishop not only referred to this blog, but quoted from it, in his sermon (in a good way, I think). If you write a blog, remember the possibilities as regards readers and never presume that someone doesn't! Enough said. 

All went very well indeed. He even whipped up the candidates to re-do a response because they weren't loud enough, and that added a dimension of relaxedness to the occasion that made it work so well. At the end, when it came to candles, he joked that "we will need a production line here, brothers". 

The candidates were confirmed, their guests fed, our local history-buff put in direct contact with 'the right person', approaching 200 people happy, a Vicar relieved and a congregation affirmed. Could I have asked for more? Not one bit. It isn't often that little parishes get to receive the Big Guns, but our day will be one that we treasure for a very long time. 

...and we thank him, most sincerely!

Baptism - Freely Given or Undervalued?

There is a debate raging, in my head at least, concerning the administration of Baptism. It is a debate that has murmured under the surface of a few conversations that I have been part of or privy too in recent years, and never with any sort of resolution.

Argument 1 - We want all people to be disciples of Christ, so of course we must baptize all those who seek it

Argument 2 - If someone asks for their child to be baptized, it would be bad form, rude even, to deny them that which they seek

Argument 3 - Seeds sown now may yield fruit later

... and so on! These are the arguments given by those who think that baptism should be freely granted to all who ask, and fair enough. They are valid views.

I have always wrestled with a sense that baptism seems too readily granted. Someone pops by the Vicarage or church, asks for baptism, gets it and then more often than not they vanish from whence they came. That might be as a result of poor follow-up pastoral care; it might be because that is the very nature of the beast; it might be that people seek baptism (and this debate is more to do with children presented as candidates by their parents and guardians) because it is "what you do". The simple fact is that baptism is less to do with initiation into the worshipping life of the church than other factors.

My instinct is to ask enquirers "and why so you want your child to be baptized?". Part of me fears the answer, but if I administer baptism without a concern for that, what implicit message am I delivering? That baptism doesn't really matter so go ahead, let's book a date. Indeed, the liturgists in their zeal to offer choice have created the Great Euphemism - the Thanksgiving for the Birth of a Child order of service which, although never intended to be, has become 'Baptism Lite' so that we don't frighten people away with all the religious hocus-pocus.

Part of me thinks that if our faith is of life changing and affirming value to us as believers, we should administer its initiation scrupulously. Part of me still thinks that if faith is like that we should cast it far and wide (and hope some of it sticks?). Where does giving something freely become the administration of something that has no value? One is generous, one is insulting (to God, to believers and to those who really do value baptism). If I am honest, part of me thinks that baptism should be first step of a renewed pattern of behaviour that revolves around the community of which the baptized have just become member. Part of me thinks that if I took that view I might struggle for baptisms!

Thoughts, please ... 

Se also Baptism Boosters

The Extra-Ordinary Value of The Ordinary

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

No this is a post about liturgy delivery.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just saying...

Yes, but how?

As it was the last day of my holiday, we went to St Mary Magdalen's in Oxford (see picture). Plonked right in the centre of the city it is my 'church of choice' when I am free to visit somewhere else on a Sunday. It is my 'sending parish', that is to say - I went there before I was ordained. It was like returning to the bosom of the family, and Jo me and kids were recieved warmly as anyone is there. The music was, as ever, out of this world.  They have long paid a professional choir to lead the music of this exemplary High Mass, and yesterday saw them in fine voice (even if the funky organ was sounding more like Ivor the Engine). The girls were on their bestist behaviour, and Jessica (who loves to sing above most other pursuits) was hypnotised by the angelic beauty of the music. She was in my arms for most of the Mass, and she was transfixed by them - not even a chocolate coin broke her gaze at one point. It is also the church in which they were Baptised, so it is to us a profoundly important place.

It was also the day that 'the Ordinand on Placement' offered a sermon as part of his training. This is normally a mixed affair, with some good and some bloody awful sermons. The geezer who preached yesterday did very well, in fact - and it is a tough gig for even the most seasoned preacher. I am pants when I preach there, trust me! He praught on the Beatitudes (Mary Mags follows the Roman lectionary, traditional language if you please), and gave much for us to ponder upon. In essence, he invited us to be as poor people, not fixed on the material things of our world etc etc - and he is right, mate! 

There is always a question that lingers in my mind after hearing such noble sentiments about giving up the things that I have - how do I do it? In truth, in very truth I say unto thee, I would find it nigh on impossible to give up a lot of what I have - not because I need that stuff, but because I like my stuff. I like my car, I like having a few shekels in the bank, and I have worked hard to get that.  I want to be a good Christian (and I think that largely, I am), but I can't just give it all up to be even better! This quandary has never been resolved in my mind. Do I want my cake and to eat it too? The other things that weighs heavily on my heart as a priest, is how I can have the audacity to preach such a message when I fail to heed it myself - or at the very least, fail to understand how best to meet that expectation. Answers on a postcard, please.

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!