Cause for a Little Pride and Optimism

 A little heart-warmer for a brisk but beautiful autumn day ...

Recently, a man came to my door. He was a nice bloke, just one in a certain amount of difficulty. He was quick to reassure me that he wasn't at my door for pocket-change, or a sandwich, or even to propagate some wonky proto-Scriptural sentiment. 

Indeed, the man in question claimed to be at my door to offer me, of all things, some feedback. I confess that I wondered where this may be leading, and as I hadn't recently delivered a seminar to middle-management or else to ordinands, such as demand a crisp white A4 sheet for application of like feedback. No, I was (at that moment) mid-holiday, shabby chic and half asleep! Maybe he had seen into the kitchen window and wanted to invite me to show some pride in my appearance, I don't know!

No - he came bearing feedback of something that made my day.

He was, as I have said, in a certain amount of difficulty - difficulty that manifested itself in his attire and demeanor. He had been sitting on the steps that lead to the back door of the church building, looking like a man in difficulty. He told me all about it. Then it happened. The faithful starting arriving for the early Eucharist when not one, not two, but three of the passing ladies didn't give him a wide berth, but went up to him. They asked if he was alright and if there was anything that they could do to help him. He graciously declined and they went on their way. 

The man wanted me to know that those ladies hadn't gone out of their way to avoid him. They didn't look away and pretend he wasn't there. They approached and they asked. He wanted me to know how touched he was by their kindness. They had gently invited him to the service but didn't push the point. They didn't reprimand him for being where he was, but met him there. They made his day. They made him snap out of the mental anguish that he was enduring at that moment and caused him to realise that life had hope, that people were good. He told me all about it and thanked me for my flock and for what they had done to help him through a very dark day. 

He also told me that once he had gathered his thoughts, and when the service had ended, that he went into the church to play some hymns on the piano that we have. He is a concert pianist apparently. Was that ok, he asked me? I should say!

No Vicar glowed with greater pride than I did that day. We rather boldly claim here that we are "the heart of Christ in the heart of Whitton", a claim it seems that we can make with some justification. 

I am Neither a Catholic Nor a Mum

The perfect storm?

No, but I am a parent and a Christian. 

It's a funny old thing - this business of self-applied labels. 'Momhood' is prevalent in our world, indicating that Moms are either somehow very very organised as a tribe, or else genuinely the better parent in any two-parent-child combo. You will never hear "speaking as a parent ..." and even less often "speaking as a daddy...", but you will regularly hear "speaking as a mother ...". Funny isn't it. It permeates into the interweb and its life too - I am not sure I have seen or heard of DaddySnot, but MumSnot is all the rage. Politicians' entire careers and conglomerated companies' entire fiscal output is mitigated by the pleasure or displeasure of MumSnot. And good for them. Without mums there would be no need for Dads. And that. 

The same applies to church life too. If asked, I am a Christian. Speak to millions of others and they are not Christians they are, without any hesitation, Catholics. In my entire lengthening life I have never heard anyone make the statement: "I am an Anglican ...". I have certainly heard "If you are not a Catholic, what religion are you then?".

I have pondered this over years. To be a Catholic is to be a proud-and-out Catholic. To be from my clan is to be "Christian", and if asked what sort -  "Church of England" as eyes flick left to right. It doesn't effect the Methodists - they seem proud to label themselves so. I wonder sometimes if the world, including its members, regard "Anglican" as a euphemism for "mediocre", or "not really any specific type of Christian, it's just that I do to church and hope not to be spotted too often". 

It is fair to say, to paraphrase the Pub Landlord, that if you want rules where do you go? The Roman Catholic Church. If you don't want rules, it is not France you go to, but the Blessed Cee of Ee. In a world where choice seems to be the choice of choice, it is odd to me that a denomination that is so clear about its rules and limitations, teachings and edicts (and I offer no criticism at that whatsoever), is made up of members so proud to apply the name to themselves. We on this side of the Tiber, unbounded by rules (with the ones we have so easily abandoned if a pulpit and an altar really don't work with a set of speakers) and apparently so free to live as God made us, seem almost fearful of claiming membership to this august body of disciples. 

Some of you may think that it is only a name, and therefore not important. I think that name is hugely important to us - it is our badge, our "who we are", until it comes to our ecclesial badge. In this life, you are either the brick or the mortar - and I would love for a time when "Anglican" didn't still mean "just not Roman Catholic". 

I am not sure what this makes members of the OrdinaryHat - that is too much for my tiny brain

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!