This Wonderful Whitton

It has, for some time, been my 'day-off' custom to accompany the fragrant Mrs Vicarage to an establishment nearby for a weekly fix of pig-meat and baby chickens-in-waiting, served with a mug of coffee whose temperature would melt titanium and a plate of fresh bread and butter to really seal the cholesterol deal. That I am now the shape of a modest beach ball is besides the point - and I blame the medication anyway. But, dear reader, it is not the art of breaking the fast that I have deigned to appear and write this grey day.

The establishment in question is situated in close proximity to the Lesser Whitton Jolly's Gyratory and a hastily claimed window seat provides the perfect vantage point for that greatest of all priestly pastimes - people-watching. Yes, you could claim that I ought to be talking to my ever tolerant wife, but gawping out of the window is such a worthy priestly activity. Why? Because at 9am on a normal weekday morning, I am once again reminded what a splendid place I live in with my family.

Last weekend, the goodly folk of Whitton and its environs turned out to celebrate one of the many St. George's that crop up from time to time, with a focal procession mit dragon and Knight-a-Slaying. The streets are lines with families and well-wishers, but rather than the slightly xenophobic undertones that can beleaguer a good "Let's Celebrate Being English", it provided a very real celebration of Whitton. 

So, back to my cafe pew. I watch the parents returning from the school run in their 4x4s (because speed humps are very steep these days). I observe the first-shift gamblers entering one portion of the great miasma of betting-establishments that have spawned up the High Street. Yes, I see the lady with her 9am Special Brew and I wonder what her story is. The preschoolers are taken to Costa for a baby-cinno with (on the whole) their mothers who take root until the noontime. The deliveries are made to the shops that punctuate the street and the staff arrive for their days in retail. Some faces are lost in thought, others burdened with the stresses and strains of existence. Some faces are concealing the joys of digital music being piped into the head that follows it. Some faces betray the simple fact that they will miss the train that they hurry towards, while others tell the story of a day of arduous labour in the many industries of London Town. 

Each face is a story often untold. Each face represents an account of joys balanced against sorrow, and to sit in my Greasy Spoon of choice is, frankly, one of the best ways to pray for these wonderful people who have had me inflicted upon their spiritual welfare. 

I am encouraged by the closed shop units that are starting to fill up, and I worry intensely about the implicit judgement upon this community that so many gambling firms can invest in so many shops in such a small space - I fear for the gambling problem that must overwhelm so many people in an asset-rich-cash-poor place like ours. I delight in the sense of self that Whitton enjoys and projects, the stability of its resident population, so many of whom have graced these streets for decades. It is a matter of considerable reassurance that I have brought my children to a community that suffers very little violence and where that due sense of neighbourliness is not completely eclipsed by the ever present need of self-preservation. Everyone seems to know everyone else, and as a lad from oopt'North, I find that a compelling thing. 

As I ruminate behind my bacon and eggs, it is my considered view that as a priest and as a vicar, I landed squarely on my feet with this gig. In all its shades of light and dark, this Whitton is a place that I would struggle to leave. 

The Parish I Serve

It gives me pleasure to share a documentary of life at our little church, Ss Philip & James in Whitton. It was created by Sally Lewis and Kezia Newson as part of their undergraduate studies, they themselves being long-term members of the parish. 

If you have 20 minutes to spare, you can enjoy what the parish regards an accurate view of itself. Enjoy! We did. 

Welcome to my parish ...

The Parish Facebook Page

After much dithering, the parish Facebook Page. Much to add as time goes on, so if you fancy a look at the first efforts, click the icon!

Hurrah!

On Being a New Vicar - 18 Months On

Like so many baby-stalking documentaries, so it is that I can babble on about the effect of time upon my frail and largely hairless form.

It is fast approaching a year-and-a-half since I stopped being an Assistant Curate and assumed the mantle of Vicar in this wonderful parish I call Whitton. I can tell you now that it is the best place in the world, and I wouldn't be anywhere else - but I sense that a deeper reflection would be useful at this juncture (and if you wish to have something worth reading, perhaps).

The Buck Stoppeth

The thing that is both the most obvious, yet the last lesson to be learned, is that just about every buck comes to rest with me. That doesn't apply just to the big things (services being planned and the like) but small things. My slightest oversight in one thing can have quite significant effects for others and their 'moment' before God. Decisions that I make, and perhaps those which seem clear to me, have possible and indeed probably far-reaching effects for those who worship in the community that calls me its Vicar. The effects don't just roll back in short order. I have learned that to miss a cue in one month can revisit in another. The same for those 'simple' choices and decisions

My Walk With God

I still don't go to church, but I still 'provide' it. I did something very rare over Christmas, courtesy of the blessing of other priests in the parish - I sat with my family and worshipped with them on Christmas morning. I sat in a pew that was too small, surrounded by the rabble of kids that I endlessly encourage but among whom I have never sat - so I heard very little except the bustle of gift-enhanced childer. And the whole event was different - despite the fact that, lead it or not, I had compiled the Liturgy I felt like a newcomer in my own church. There is an entire ream of blog posts in that experience alone - which wasn't bad, but certainly very interesting. Sitting in The Stall is, I have discovered, not at all the same as sitting in the church - at all sorts of levels.

Rough and Smooth

The manifest joy of parish priesthood is that it is a beautiful chain of micro-chaplaincies. I have a small part to play in the wider ministry directed to so many organisations and communities in this area, and I rate it as one of the finest aspects of my work. It offers me a significant breadth of experience, and also one that has some small measure of 'pollination' among those gatherings.  However, with the many pearls there is always a small measure of sandy sludge - and I have come to realise that God is in all of it. 

The Family Front

A new Vicar is utterly convinced, from the 'off' that, because they march into a parish after a vacancy, that the church is just dying for their ministrations. At one level they are, so we quickly convince ourselves that everything suddenly depends upon us. The net effect of that is that we totally immerse ourselves into everything, and with our proverbial stick, prod life into lots of things which need us all the more (don't they?). The Family suffers, let me tell you. I am over a year in, and I am only now starting to reign in some of this stuff and discovering that some groups, even Christian groups, can do better when The Old Man is out of the picture. Year One seems to be about doing everything, with Year Two being about undoing much of Year One. Without my Family, I am nothing - and I am still trying hard not to forget that. 

The Clever Notions of New Vicars

One lesson I did learn early was, when visiting prospective parishes before interview, to avoid the "well, this is what I would change" tendency. It is folly, and frankly arrogant. But, to my shame, it didn't stop me thinking it. We do arrive with lots of nifty ideas, often massive and always to trump to previous Incumbent (anyone who says otherwise is, my friends, lying). Actually, I am learning that some very simple changes, done well over time can be all a parish needs to thrive. I think that parishes need the new initiative of a new priest because I regard it as one of the new inputs of needful spiritual energy - new season and all that. The fact is, I write things down including my "What to Change This Year" list. The things that happened from my 2012 list have been smaller things that have had a good impact. The Big Stuff didn't happen because it never seemed right. The Big Stuff didn't make it on to 2013s list. The Big Stuff had no correlation to God's 2013 List it seems.

Time

Whoever invented 24 hour days did so to tease priests. A 56 hours day might work, at a push. Parish ministry for the incumbent is ministry in the incomplete. Fact. I get to the end of the week having not done lots of things (in the midst of much completed, I might add - I am not lazy or slack or anything). Indeed, the incompleteness of it all fast becomes a self-preservation matter - a helpful policy together with "To Do" lists and Inbox disciplines. Managing it is the hard bit. There are lots of theorems delivered in neat packages (important/urgent, non-important/non-urgent etc.) and despite that fact that I manage my own diary I am managing something that is bigger than the space and demands more of me than I can give. We call it God's Mission, so it is perhaps as well that I can't contain it into my week! It takes a long time to come to terms with, though. 

Me in The Wider Context

If I am in this job for seven or ten years, it will be but a drop in the ocean of this parish's life. If we take the model of seven years (fitting around the kids' needs and school), i am well over 20% through my time here. I am not the Saviour of Ss Philip & James Whitton (Jesus has that sorted already), but what I mean is, I am not the "Solution" or anything like it. I am here to walk with them for now, and then to walk elsewhere as God determines. Vicars come and go - the Vicar Board reminds me of that. Before I know it, me and my crazy ways will be what others talk about when the subject of the past emerges over coffee ... do you remember him, what was his name, you know - the barmy one who spent too long doing the Notices? This, above many other things, conditions how I work. If I thought I would be here for thirty years, things might be different, but as it is, they are not.

So many lessons are learned with the backdrop of time spent. So many more lay ahead I sense - but for now, I thank God with every fibre of my being that I am here now. 

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!

The Hidden Meaning of Confirmation

There will be those who can cite Hippolytus of Rome at a thousand paces or else give you the stock  Liturgical Commission interpretation of what a Confirmation Service is all about. Yes, it is the moment when someone who was probably baptised as an infant stands before the world to declare their faith for themselves. Yes, it is the time when the Holy Spirit is invoked through the laying-on of hands so that the process begun at baptism is consummated. Yes, those who are in a cynical mood might tell you that it is a neat way of keeping bishops out in parishes, but for me it is far more. 

Tomorrow sees the first Confirmation Service that I have organised as a Vicar. I have put the liturgy together, provided some education and made sure that lemons and rose-water were obtained by a kindly sacristan. I am reliably informed that with twelve candidates it is the  'biggest' confirmation for as many years and we will be celebrating that with our diocesan bishop. It is also, fittingly, our parish harvest festival and just to add more to the mix, the end of a specific period of celebration  for the 150th anniversary of the founding of the parish. 

For the first time since I have been ordained, this confirmation reminds me of my own in 1983. Confirmed by the wonderful (and to this Christian, very special) Peter Ball, it was an occasion not just for my faith, but for everyone else's too. I remember the day, the family celebrations, the parish church's feeling of overwhelming joyfulness, and a whole manner of other things that for this 11 year old, sealed the day firmly in my heart. 

We have a large number of candidates, period - let alone for a small parish church in days when it reputed that church attendance is dwindling (not here, mate). I have a faint concern that we might actually not be able to seat everyone, but I leave that concern un-uttered. We will be a church full of guests and new visitors who will experience a service (I believe) that will rock their socks. Plans are made, rehearsals will happen and the day will arrive - and a 150 people will know how faith in Christ is alive. Twelve wonderful candidates will leave church changed. And so will the rest of us - because I don't believe that anyone who cares enough about the stuff of faith can remain impartial and unchanged when vocations are exposed and blessed. 

In this little church in west London, we celebrate with Leon, Tricia, Quais, Sarah, Miriam, Claire, Heidi, Marie, Roxane, James, Mia and Jeff - for those being confirmed and standing up to be counted as God's Chosen. We celebrate too for our own sake, as this is our day of confirmation too. 

A Year In

I have (and perhaps more significantly they have) survived my first year as the incumbent, Vicar, parish priest, and village idiot! And what a year it has been.

I remember saying, at the bunfight after my Big Service, that I was never called to be at college or else to be the trainee - but that I was called by God (in line with those called to parish ministry) to that moment and to this year - to Vicardom. Whilst I was richly blessed by all the formative experiences, this for me was the job 'for real' and having completed the first year, am utterly convinced that I am doing what I was born to do. 

It is said that the learning curve of curacy is nothing when compared to that of early incumbency. Whoever said that spoke the truth, though I suspect that they may have been thinking about other things - because for this newbie Vicar it has been a year when I have learned not so much about the job but about me. Put it another way, I end a year knowing how the next will be different, for me.

Becoming the Vicar in a parish that had had a long vacancy/interregnum (and in this case a very positive one, I think) is interesting. No-one wants to change anything during that time and the mindset falls into one of 'survival' at all costs. In this parish, some wonderful things came to life in that liminal space and some of those opportunities have gone on to yield much fruit. However, it is also fair to say that the parish I took on was one where the 'systems' were creaking and where the flock were, to a greater or lesser extent, tired.

So, how did I approach my first year? The first thing I did was to fall in love with 'my Whitton'. If you don't love the place you cannot properly serve it, and in loving it you set your heart to doing what you can for it. I am a territorial priest, and my manor is my manor - for me to minister to with those who walk with me. The next thing was to come up with a million inner-resolutions about how I expected to proceed - all of which were disregarded fairly quickly, truth be known. This year has been about the 'packaging' of parish life - the building, its money matters, processes and practices. Are we properly hospitable even in our absence? What does the passer-by experience in us and our buildings? Each of those considerations brought specific change - not for its own sake, but because the answer to the questions begged an action or a new direction. 

What have we achieved in this year? First, we have survived the year! Second, we are a church whose doors are open daily, and have been so for most of the year. It is bearing fruit, much fruit. We have renovated our parish hall from the dismal wreck that it was to the modern venue it now is. We have changed the access arrangements at the front of the church so that prams and wheelchairs can get in without ascending steps. More importantly, I believe truly that we have learned a little about enjoying our worshipping life. That isn't to say that the liturgy is diluted or dumbed-down - quite the opposite, but I think the faces at the door afterwards speak of renewed enjoyment. We have come to a place where we recognise that we need to define ourselves properly and our mission to Whitton. We have broken down some of those minor fiefdoms that seem to populate parish life. The Sunday-Club tendencies are passing and we are now seeing that we are a parish that is open to all - and that when they come, we feel good. 

As for me, I do far too much and in that I fail. This year, having done the work of seed sowing, will be a year of pruning and shaping. Some bits of Operation Cloakey will need staking so that they don't topple in the next storm, but perhaps more importantly, after the weeding and tilling, there will be some feeding. It has been a wonderful year where I feel very much like I have come of age as a disciple. I seem to make a small difference and I don't appear to have wounded anyone permanently. 

May God bless 'my Whitton', this wonderful parish, this gift of priestly ministry placed into these unworthy hands, the family who support me and love me even when I am in my darkest mood, and the dog who eats my arms - often. 

The Bishop Cometh, and That Right Quick

A 600 year old pointy-hat

In the life of this parish, we are fast approaching the day of the confirmations, in a service that also marks Harvest and also the end of our 150 days of celebration marking our 150 anniversary as a parish in Whitton. 

The entire world turns on its axis; the good folk of the parish continue with their lives as ever they did; God is in the heavens and the milk gets delivered - but there is one among us who is stressed. 

Me. 

I have fast recognised that the one primary difference between a suffragan or area bishop and the diocesan one is the amount of stress made manifest in the heart of the incumbent as the day approaches. I respect all bishops equally (and pretty jolly highly too, since you asked), but there is a definite difference in my stress levels when compared to the impending visit of the area bishop earlier this year. I don't know why, but it seems to be a fact. 

I doubt that +Richard would wish for me to be up-tight, and I am sure that the entire day will be as wonderful as I  predict it will be. I think it is also something about this new Vicar welcoming the top-dog of the diocese into the church. As a curate, I got very well used to grunting words about carrying the stick and the hat when men of the episcopate ambled in - also of carrying bags and smiling in the right places - you know, things that all half-decent curates do! This is different. 

For me personally, some stuff from my retailing life is emerging and this present stress is the same as that precipitated by the imminent arrive of senior management who, if they found too much amiss, would geld the store manager with a blunt Stanley.

... and then sack him.

My church is tidy, the booklet nearly made, the catechumens mid-training, the roof water-tight, the safe locked, the cash in the bank, child-protection statement signed and displayed and the cotta ironed. Oddly, for the first time I am sensing a protectiveness on behalf of my 'flock' -will the bishop enjoy them? I am sure he will, as they are warm and wonderful people.  

I think we all seek approval and none less than new Vicars. That my bishop is well known, darned clever, rather tall and knows the Royal Family - it all serves to make this meagre 'young' vicar wonder too whether he will make the grade. Time will tell, I suppose. 

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. 

So The Church is Open ...

I sat, a few minutes ago, in our pocket church praying the Office when I came over all Quakeresque. From the church's position, we hear the buses moving to and from Hounslow, the in-bound planes about to touch down at Heathrow, the clatter of the city-bound trains or else the ones moving out west. When the time and wind is right, we can hear the noise of the kids at the local school and at certain moments that bump-thump of the Zumba class' music in the Hall next door. Above we are blessed by birds - some squawky and green - and the ever present movement of the big tress that are in high number around the church (and indeed the Vicarage). 

So much noise. 

And I have walked back to the house, the noise louder - not necessarily intrusive noise - but noise none the less. I have yet to turn my music on, but almost certainly will, and join the world that is ever immersed in sound of one sort or another. Radio, stereo, TV, telephone, liturgy, traffic, animals, family, interwebs, the noise of internal busy-ness (perhaps the loudest unheard noise of all), and so many other sources of decibels in one form or another. 

We took the recent and courageous step to open the church building during the day. So far (after six or more months) so good - no trouble, no damage, and visitors - lots of passers-by. It struck me, full in the mush, this morning, that our God Shop provides something quite unique in the world - silence. Nothing. Nowt. Even where our homes are quiet, their needs speak to us in the silence of our hearts - but in our little open church, you can find near perfect silence. 

Church folk, good and true, are used to gathering for services. Sunday 10am is a regular and treasured slot in their lives (or its equivalent). Never to be missed - for the weekly dose of prayer and noise. In our tiny church on a Wednesday at 10.42am any Christian who chooses to enter (or the passers-by who actually do) will find stillness and calm. They will discover no radios, no liturgies, no chit-chat, and the noise of life at an appreciable distance. Oddly, they seem not to come in. 

It has struck me in these last few months how few 'regulars' visit the church outside of service times. They pay a fair whack of money for the place but seem ill-equipped to use it beyond those times when a be-cassocked buffoon stands at the pointy end. I am beginning to wonder if this is the next important thing I need to consider - how to encourage those who are members of the community to use their church more. They can only gain from the experience - unless of course silence is too fearful to consider. 

To use the language of the Apprentice and the locales of business - we have our USP and specialised product: silence. Price: taking the time to come in and grab some. 

USP = Unique Selling Point

A Vicar's First Christmas

Ss Philip & James Whitton

And so it came to pass that Christmas came to pass, and that Christmas present fast became Christmas past. The Christmas to which I refer was, as a Vicar, my first and I hope and pray will not become my last. I arrived with hopes and a few more aspirations. The truth is, dear readers, that each was amply surpassed. Of my train of thought you may inquire, and on I get with it, pretty fast. 

As a curate, in many ways the show that is Christmas is laid on by others. One joins an organisation that has its routines and rituals, and it is incumbent upon the curate to slot in, pick up some of the duties, and generally crack on. That changes, subtly, as the Incumbent. Yes, we join an organisation with its routines and rituals, but not a single one would happen without our 'agreement'. 

As September edges into October edges into November, as the New Vicar, it fast becomes apparent that an unspoken expectation develops. What are doing this Christmas, Farv? The response was, this year, along the lines of 'what you did last year is good this, so I can watch and learn'. A pall of relief fell over the community.

Then the great feast arrives, Advent flies past with a pace, and the services start to loom. I confess that threw a few curved balls to see what response I would get - a meditation on the penultimate Saturday before Christmas, opting to sing the Preface at Midnight Mass - things like that. The response was good, though if I am honest the lock-changes occupied people's minds more than my liturgical adaptions. 

Priests will tell you that Christmas is a busy time. Poppycock. Actually, in the great scheme of things, it is about the same as the rest of the year on one level, although the burden of stress seems to increase on another level. We churn out more services, yes; but the meetings abate, the schools close and many aspects of a Vicar's day fall away. Lots of carols, lots of stress. The stress is as a result of knowing that, to a greater or lesser extent, the parish Christmas is in my hands. That is a big thing to absorb. I am blessed with brother priests and readers who were able to look after a few services, and sitting back in a pretty cope was still stressful. What if ... what if ... what if? We want Christmas to be perfect, unique and fit for use and fit for God. Anything less is, to most of us, abject failure. We worry about numbers, collections, musicians arriving on time, all that stuff.

In the end, although I would have sweated every bead whatever I knew the outcome to be, it was a wonderful Christmas. The stress implicit in the 'what ifs' is balanced in the satisfaction of a well attended service, the faces of children engaging with the content, the laughs of typically straight-laced adults, feedback, swollen collections, people coming back already, myriad myriad new faces and returned familiar ones. I didn't make it happen, because I am but one wheel in a very large cog, but that doesn't mean I didn't pat myself on the back on Boxing Day. This Vicar is blessed by a capable, committed and energetic flock, most of whom added to the celebrations in specific ways. The church was full most of the time, and with minimal stress from anyone (apart from the Vicar).

It was everything I had dreamed of and hoped for, several times over. 

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. 

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!

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. 

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. 

An Altogether New View

Well, the eagle has landed - figuratively speaking. 

This is my first post from a new desk in a new house in a new town in a new part of the world. From my new desk in a new house in a new town in a new part of the world I also have a new view of a new street - a view that is absolutely nothing like the view represented in the image supplied. 

The boxes are nearly all emptied and flattened. The twins are safely installed in new bedrooms. The gerbils still gnaw loo-roll cores. The cats are back to soiling cat-litter. All in the world is good. We are blessed with a lovely house which much more space even than the house we have just vacated, though even now we feel like we have run out of space to empty the remaining boxes. 

Stress levels have been high. The first few days have been characterised by skin-stripping arguments, invective, bile and a sense that we may have lost a sense of 'normal' forever. Gladly, that sense is fast abating as routines re-build, old habits of play resume and the kids remove their self-applied red horns. If us adults have found it all a bit much, we must remember that the Twins Aculae must have had it all the worse. Peace begins to reign over the (now) sunny idyll that is Whitton.

I have placed my new desk in such a way as means I can look out of the window of my study. In the last house, this was of little advantage as the window looked out over a fence and a marauding Russian Vine. From my desk I can see who is at the front door, who is driving or walking along the road, which planes are landing at Heathrow; if I turn and look out of the window behind my chair (this is a 'two-windows-one-patio-door' study) I can see the garden (and the twins playing) and the church in-between the large trees that grace my glebe. The profound differences that mark curacy from incumbency are made manifest to me in the change of view I now have.

Curacy, for me, was a blend of working hard and then retreating the anonymous house to be 'normal', to spend time with the family and to shut out the world of the ministry to a certain extent. Getting that blend right was important, but the closed view from the old study window now reminds me of the express limits that existed in that form of ministry. Incumbency will, by definition, be different. I will be more visible to the world and the world more visible to me. I have to have an eye on family life while having a different kind of eye on parish life. Somewhere in there needs to be some 'me' time (and I opt to do that in the garden or kitchen these days). From my vantage point I see the world (and can close it out if I choose), am surrounded by Scriptures and gadgets, can see the kids and the church in the same glance. I feel like I am at home now. 

So far, we have been blessed by the card-sending of the card senders, thew wine-leaving of the wine-leavers, and have received a very wise document from a very wise man that describes and annotates the local facilities (read 'pubs'). A very wise man indeed (not least because he reads this drivel)! In short, we are in, and are settling. Some rooms will get curtains sometime, and others might be painted away from their current pink-all-over state. All in good time. 

Books and Chapters

Well, the time has come. I am trying to fashion a sermon which is very important to me because it is conceivably the last one that I will preach in Aylesbury. I am working on my last draft and contemplating its delivery, which I can be sure will be a shaky affair. We'll see.

This time next week I will be a resident in Whitton. The lorry will probably be emptied by now and I will be left with a boxed-up existence and how to make it fit a new life and house. This week has been characterised by the clumsy daubing of paint on walls (and upon my person), the fitting of the first carpet that I have ever had to pay for and that interesting moment of being in one's new home alone for the first time. To date, we have had to rely on the kindness of the Whitton Clan to let us in, so we have always been on our 'best behaviour'. Yesterday, I poked around my new house properly for the first time, feeling rather naughty. For the first time I considered the wonder of the airing cupboard and pondered the accouterments that had gathered in the garage. Then I did that funny thing that I do whenever I move house (I have done that lots and lots) - and that is to lay on the lounge floor arms and legs out-stretched starfish fashion, looking up at the ceiling. Yes, I know. 

Sunday will be a momentous occasion. The district churches have cancelled all their services so that we can have a Team Eucharist at St. Mary's. That is jolly nice of them, as it means that many of them will be put to considerable inconvenience to get to church (though that said, some will get a lie in). The church will be fairly well full, which in August is no small feat. I will be surrounded by an amazing group of people, all of whom share a characteristic in common - that they really have no idea how wonderful they are.

I feared my first ever sermon - but only half as much as I fear my last in this ministry. I could preach for days on end and not cover all that I wish I could say. Yes, those words would include the odd warning, but delivered that they may have life and have it abundantly. We'll see.

So, in this book that is The Ministry of One David M Cloake, a chapter draws to its conclusion. It has been a happy chapter, blessed and rich in experience and opportunity. I have walked alongside some remarkable people, some of whom have shared their last steps on earth with me. I have celebrated the new life of baptisms and the love-stories of marriages. I have been guided my a man whom I delight in now being able to call my friend, and not simply 'boss'. I have been supported by a wife of such overflowing grace and generosity that I would need more lifetimes to return it - and then there have been the Twins Aculae. Could a man be any more blessed than me? 

I am not sure what more I can say. I might not be able to post much in the next few days, hence this slightly premature post. I will 'sign off' when I prepare to leave this place. Please pray for my family - this is never just about me, after all. 

Envisioning One Vision

Apart from being among my favourite Queen songs, 'one vision' is fast becoming my stalking horse. Actually, the words of the song are helpful for many church communities, but that is besides the point!

I am, as you may have noted already, in a liminal space. I am slowly leaving one ministry while at the same time mentally engaging with the next. Yes, that engagement is more to do with the temporal issues of housing and schools, but in the background a whole array of mental processes are springing to life.

Actually, that is not true. If my 'Whitton' stream of thought were a garden, it would be an overgrown jungle of a mess. I have not enough time left on this planet in the best case scenario to ever see through every idea and passion that is growing like bindweed in my little bonce. If I took the time to write them down they may even extend beyond the realms of the humanly possible over centuries. Call it ecclesial daydreaming, but whatever else, it is a nice thing to do. 

However, there is a danger. The vision for Whitton will only be partly mine, and entirely rooted in the 'then and there'. My daydreams are currently out of context and very probably rooted in the happy idyll of curacy. Whilst this daydreaming is good, it is mostly in vain - mostly. In the end, the vision for my next ministry is mine, and only in that it affects me. Any vision I may have for the parish will need to be based upon much listening and talking. That excites me no end. 

Curates who are (or have been) blessed with the prospect of the next job will know what I mean in all of this. For us our dreams are slowing coming true and the aspirations of many years of religiously based fantasising have but moments to draw close to life and light. The tendency is perhaps for us to seek to run before we can walk, of charging in like bulls in china shops - a tendency that we absolutely must temper. All I know with complete certainty is that the transition will be a bitter-sweet thing from a much loved ministry into the unknown, and that in working towards that Whitton One Vision I must take time, work hard and enjoy the journey. It is also worth noting that the soon-to-move-cleric can probably see the most potential in a church - reason enough that we move around from time to time.

I can't wait. 

Delete

That is not an order, incidentally. Just the title of a blog post, ya hear!

So, the news is out, dates are being carved into the tablets of time, and there is now work to be done. Sadly, I must have been ill when theological college did the 'Buggering Awf' class, because n'ere a book rests within my copious personal library that attends to the 'The Great Scarper'. 

Actually, the truth is that the prospect of dis-entangling myself from so many things is a sad one to me. Leaving a ministry is tough I think (if it has gone well). I doubt I will get away with: "Well, that's me. I've left the files in the study. Speak soon and thanks for all the gin". It might be easier that way, I just don't know.

The funny thing is that stopping one ministry still involves moving forward. I am still engaging in new pastoral encounters with people, organising this and that, thinking ahead. No brown archive box with the picture of the kids and the pot plant for me! Oh no sir-ee. Public ministry means (I believe) involving oneself to a very deep level with the people with whom we engage. That means laughing with them and crying with them (with any luck at the same time that they are doing said things - bad ministry otherwise). It means pouring love into those chance encounters; prayer too. When those engagements conclude, we don't just turn off either. For me, I ponder those whom I have passed along the way and how they may be faring. 

Priests are nomadic. The tied accommodation is something of a paradox, because although vicars are often associated with vicarages, we are always nomads. Our stops might be prolonged, but stops they be, and move on eventually we do. When the time comes to make the next long walk, there is (I am now discovering) an odd period of stasis. We know we are called to leave, but not just yet. It requires some considerable effort not to lose interest and cast eyes forward. I haven't fallen into that trap to date, partly because it will be so hard leaving this place. In a very very small way, this must be how it feels to succeed to a throne. Becoming the next monarch demands (normally) that one's parent has died. A good thing under-written by a very painful thing. The prospect of a new ministry is wildly exciting for me, all the while underpinned by the sure and sad knowledge that I will have to say goodbye to Aylesbury.