Why We Must Ban the Future

Whitney Houston (may she rest in peace) once recorded a very nice song that largely echoes the sentiments of many adults in the parish life of our church. They are, to be sure, very nice words and tune isn't wholly barf-making either! 

I believe the children are our futureTeach them well and let them lead the way
Show them all the beauty they possess inside
 Give them a sense of pride to make it easier
Let the children's laughter remind us how we used to be

This is from the first verse of a song called "The Greatest Love of All" and it is a song with much merit that doesn't set your teeth on edge when it is played. Only it is precisely wrong. 

Oft have I heard that children are the 'church of tomorrow', that we should steep them in a heady mix of baybee Jesus and high liturgy so that people like me have altar servers and PCC secretaries in the hinterlands of the future. We might even sling them the odd shekel so that a neat little youth club with ping-pong might thrive, allowing us the means by which we can miss a God-given opportunity. 

Mark's Gospel gives us the proper approach to children, and they are words known to many of us God botherers. So well are they known to us that it is our default position to frown and tut when the under-fives maraud around the church between epicleses. We are told (well, to be sure, the disciples were told) to let the children come forward, and not frown and tut for fear of the wrath of a displeased God of volcanoes and dinosaurs and all that. 

I am here, dear Reader, to tell you that children are not the church of tomorrow. They are not our future. They are their own future and they are the church of right now. In the great unspoken hierarchy of Parish Life (largely a matriarchy for anyone labouring still under the misapprehension that the blokes are in charge), we have the Choir in their own appointed seats, the wardens in their stalls, the 'old guard' who occupy their life-right given seats of the last five decades, the adult visitors who get what is left (if they dare) with the small messy space at the back reserved for the nasty noisy ankle-biters to play. Should they feel inclined to cry because that is what small children do from time to time, then they are loving escorted out to stand outside in the rain with the mortified mother and the frustrated father (who will never be seen in the building ever again, ever). 

It is my modest opinion that treating children as the 'church of tomorrow' is among the single biggest cancers in God's Church today. We bolt their derrieres to the spot, enforce silence upon them and expect them to carry on and build a personal and meaningful relationship with Jesus Christ. They are the church of now. Tomorrow, they say, never comes - and it is entirely right. Scripture would even guide us in this, too: This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it. At no point do we learn about tomorrow being a sacrament or the week after next being the grace filled moment. We are taught vigilance in the here and now, to watch and wait and not sit back and fritter the moment. 

In my church, the children are the honoured guests. They are treated as such (even to the extent of concelebrating with me [sort of]). It is their church building, their aisle to walk up and down along. Why is this so important? The answer to that is simple: children get the whole God thing at an instinctive level and the adult are, I truly believe, placed among the children to learn about faith. 

I wonder if the greatest love of all is to let children enjoy the day that they have been given, and not filed away until they start full-time employment. 

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 Toxicity of Sea Air

I don't know whether I should write this or not, but another week has passed when another name known to me has reached the headlines. No, I cannot claim any association to Joey Essex or Steve Davis - this is another priest arrested for offenses against children, known to me personally, who practiced his ministry in the town where I lived and in the parish where a significant number of my own family lived until recently. 

I am fast running out of fingers to count the names of men that I know who have been arrested, charged or convicted for offenses against children - children that are about the same age as I was, and I must confess that each new "story" is another significant blow. 

I write as one who is familiar with this issue, though you will forgive me if I don't (can't) go into specifics. I find myself wondering what it is about Eastbourne that attracts the kind of priest that seem so keen on those who are too small, weak and innocent to defend themselves against those who come armed with the significant power-armour of a minister of religion. Where does a youngster go to find the words to explain that one he trusted undertook acts of such unutterable degradation upon their tender frames? Who would ever believe them? Surely not him? That kid was always trouble, after all. 

I write this post as one who approaches it with a sense of profound sadness. I am realistic enough to know that in every barrel of apples there are one or two that are on the mushy side, but why the barrel that existed in and around my neighbourhood? Why does it seem that half of the sodding thing was steeped in mould? I feel like every one (beyond my blessed family) that I have ever trusted or looked up to is in fact a monster. It makes me feel sad at times to be a priest, more often sad to be an Anglo-Catholic, and daily saddened that my faith and vocation were expressed and explored in this toxic sea air. 

All praise to +Martin, though. The Bishop of Chichester is doing much to repair the damage caused by these toxic tsunamis, even within the midst of evidence that emerges afresh with every single passing week. 

I wrote a post some time ago about being a child of Chichester - a post that was in many ways the sand into which I placed my greying head. It was a post of half-truths and a healthy amount of self-denial, because I have struggled to come to terms with the fact that so many men who have actively nurtured my faith and calling have hands that would cause unutterable pain to children. I look back upon a church-centred childhood and I wonder. Was he? Were they? To tell you the truth, I don't know which way is up any more and that makes me feel afraid. I extrapolate my Eastbourne life onto my wider existence and I am fearful that I am starting to see shadows everywhere, or that I am a shadow in the making and that I just don't know it. Most of all I want to go back to those days when I was a teenager in Eastbourne when so many of my peers were being gently destroyed, and beg it to stop. Oh for the power of hindsight. 

The Question of Consecration

I have, this week, welcomed some local school children into church for their "Service". There will be three such services and all the children will attend. It is a Church School, but home to many (if not most) kids of other faiths and none - with a few practicing Christians in there for completeness. The accepted mode for the "Service" is Holy Communion - which for a priest of my own specific interest and experience shouldn't pose a problem. Wanna Mass? Can do a Mass!

Except is not that simple, and fraught with pitfalls that perhaps don't cross the minds of all hospitable priests when kids show up. 

For most catholic Christians (in both senses of 'catholic') or indeed any with a sacramental awareness, the Eucharist and its Sacraments are profoundly important and life-changingly significant. To partake of the Sacrament of the Eucharist, it is normal and indeed expected that someone would pass through the Rite of Confirmation or, if younger, have celebrated First Communion in some communities. The line that divides those who can or may receive the Body and Blood of Christ is clear, fixed and to many, very important. 

There is a danger, therefore, of welcoming sixty children into the church and giving the very large majority of them their First Communion quite inadvertently. Most wouldn't care or even notice, their parents/carers either - but some would notice that I would had acted very poorly as a priest.

The question is, then, how to celebrate a Eucharist without consecrating anything all the while maintaining the Sacramental dignity of the act of worship and not turning the event into a facade or a 'show and tell' exercise. I gave them an informal Eucharist service with singing, prayers of intercession, scripture a homily and a fair amount of descriptive narrative. The service had a theme and to me at least, it was real and meaningful. I will hope and pray that it was for them too. 

The core question for me, and one that I have never fully resolved, is simply (and yet not simply) at what point or by what means do I as priest consecrate ordinary wine and standard wafers? There is the epliclesis (the invocation of the Holy Spirit). There are the Words of Institution. There is a little arm waving and hand flinging. There is a corporal upon which the elements stand and within whose edges some regard the 'act' to take place. Then there is plain old intention. What consecrates? Can I exclude the Holy Spirit from anything? Do I avoid a corporal so as not to create boundaries? What if I keep my arms by my side? What if I avoid the words that Jesus is said to have uttered? These seem flimsy, but yet I do not wholly know the answer and rather fear that I should. I want to involve these children in something significant and meaningful yet must (and you must forgive the term) protect them from having the Sacraments being imposed upon them without them fully knowing what and why they are.

In the end, and in line with some specific wisdom I received in the past, I left the matter in the court of intention. Simply put, I didn't intend to consecrate but instead to illustrate. Intention, it seems, is key to all that I do as an anointed and ordained priest. I have no 'super powers' at one level yet believe that my Charism is to be able to bless, consecrate and forgive on God's behalf. I leave this post unsure of the answer, but write this to show you that things are often not as simple as they seem. 

Greater Love Hath No Man Than This

To most people this is some scrawl on a piece of 'Hello Kitty' paper, and to most people this is inconsequential. 

The Twins Aculae turned five recently, one of those early milestone birthdays through which children properly pass from toddlerdom to child-dom! The fact that both of my children appear to be taking their genetic makeup from the Masai Tribe is neither here nor there. But they are now, officially, Big Girls. 

You 'hear' me waffle on about my work a lot, and under-pinning much of that is this crew of the wondrous that share this house with me. If you have read this blog for a long time will know how amazing I find my children, and how enraptured I am by the beauty of their growth and development. 

Now it is fair to say that I can count the Ts A as gobby cows with attitude. They show me no respect, are rude to the missis, maul the moggie, crap-up the crib, drop things on the floor without a passing care for my poor back (not that I do any of that stuff, I have a very capable woman for all that tidying and cleaning lark), and act their age not their shoe size - all very difficult stuff. Blessed may it be, for all of that. 

I once pondered their growing hands in this post two-odd years ago. I often wonder how they will grow, into what kinds of people. The picture is the recent and much treasured work of one of those pairs of hands - as scrawl starts to take form, vocabulary increases, splodgy pictures become identifiable things and sense can be made of what must the plethora of thoughts that hitherto could only be expressed through squeal and tantrum. 

Now I am pretty sure that none of you really want to sit here and read how much I love my daughters (and thank you for getting to this point). What you can see was left on my desk one day recently and has fast become my treasured possession. It strikes me that posts about funeral words, utterances about loneliness in ministry, and all other grumps and wheezes that proceed from this keyboard - they all contingent upon what is pure and real. This note is a symbol for me of absolute hope in the world created by God. 

By the way, she is left-handed and writes backwards so you need to read it from the other end to see what she says. Game, set and match - perfect love. 

Mums With Hairy Legs

Fenton?

Yesterday we had a wonderful Mothering Sunday (and once again, sorry for the wrong use of title - I blame my mothering). The whole day was a perfect reminder to pray for family life in all its array of colour, for the Blessed Virgin -  that beguiling teenager who gave herself away for the greater cause, the life of Mother Church in all her work of care and comfort, support and sustenance for the world at large. Flowers were duly distributed to all members of the congregation, without care for their status as parent or indeed gender. Mothering Sunday is a day for all, I think.

One of the great things about being a father to twins is that as a parent couple with two new babies, we both became single parents in tandem. In other words, we were called very often in the early days to one-on-one with a child while the other did the other. For one of the girls I did everything, and for the other, Mrs Acular did likewise. Despite the pressures that brought with it, it also presented a perfect opportunity for me as Dad to also be Mum - or put another way, to do everything, not just dip in and out to pick up the bits the other couldn't manage. I know several mates whose wives did or do the child-rearing while they did the bread-winning, bison-slaughtering and lawn-mowing - only to grasp a few minutes with junior at bath time.

This causes me, often, to think of parents who are left alone with children - through death, through separation, through many factors. More often than not, this arrangement is manifest in single-mums with their kids. Less often do we hear of fathers left to raise their children alone. 

The thing is, it just isn't the same. Arrangements for children (social, medical, educational, societal) are very mum-centric. I know the reasons why and I subscribe to them. However, being a dad with a kid (even if it is as a dad with kids just for the day while mum works) is tough at times. You only need try pitching up to a toddler group and you fast learn that as a testicular creature, you are in a tiny minority of (often) one. Even the toddler group in my last parish where I served as curate had me as the only male parent present. The school playground is another such place although to a lesser extent. You already know of my experiences trying to register my own children with a doctor surgery - "not without mum". Taking babies to clinics is much the same. I know why this is, and I accept it all - but neither is it easy.

And I am a man with a wife. I find it hard to comprehend how hard it must be to be a single-dad in this day and age. When toddler-groups are still familiarly known as "mother and toddler" groups, and many school networks find their genesis in NCT groups, it is easy to see that life doesn't easily provide for single dads without those men feeling like odd-ones out. The church is the same too, in part. The prayer and work for the maintenance of the family exists is whose Union? Not the Father's! 

Anyway, my reasons for writing this post (itself no more than a rumination typed) is not to judge the status quo, but to simply observe. I prayed for many facets more evidently presented in a normal Mothering Sunday, but overlooked to pray for those men who have to be mum too. For them I pray now. 

By The Holy Innocents we Shall be Brought Low

It seems that the only time that you hear about priests in the press these days, they have been arrested for something or have outraged someone. Sadly, it seems to be the case that when priests are in the news following their arrest, that it is for alleged offences against children. 

Sadly, two priests known to me personally were in the news yesterday. They were two priests who ministered in the town where I grew up, and whose ministries had some contact with my own growth and development as a Christian. I cannot say whether or not they are guilty of the allegations made against them, but I pray for all concerned. Neither is this the first time. I have known several priests who have been subject to similar allegation and investigation, and to date the ones that I know have all been cleared of any wrong-doing. The fact is, that if a priest is hauled public, it seems to be for transgressions (alleged or actual) against children. 

I don't believe that the priesthood is the preferred life for those who would act wrongly against children. I accept too that a priest abusing that trust is a very exciting headline for the world who would seek to see us as other-world oddities. I do wonder, though, if there is any such thing as spiritual warfare (and I can offer no real view either way), that the powers of darkness seem to do most of their damage to Christian priests and their ministry through children and young people - by temptation and transgression, or by false allegation many years later. 

The first thing I would say is that if you are reading this and engaged in anything that could haunt you in several decades time, to stop and put matters right now by whatever appropriate means. The second thing is to say that it is becoming harder and harder to work with children because there is an increasing fear of what will be claimed when we are old men and women. Needless to say, those who were cleared of allegations were still left with their ministries (very publicly)  in tatters and their life much the same. I sometime genuinely fear that being a caring human being (priest or not), and one who will offer comfort at a range closer than ten feet, will leave me open to allegation later. 

My last word, though, should be to remember those children who have faced abuse in their lives - be that from priests or anyone else. Whatever happens to priests who are in fact guilty is nothing when compared to the damage, hurt and betrayal experienced and felt by the children. Prayers for them should be our loudest in all of this. 

The fact is, I would prefer it that the Devil used something else (you know, embezzlement or something like that) to knacker priests - not little children. 

Fresh Revelation Through the Eyes of Children

'Tis the season to be jolly, fa la la la la, la la la la. In the life of Mr Vicarage, it means the now regular jaunts around the schools to enjoy their Nativity plays. Regular readers of this blog (thank you) will know how deeply moved I am by each one of them, with offered by the youngest of our children moving most of all.

The added dimension this year is that my own children have just completed their first Nativity. One of the Twins Aculae was a Star, the other a Wise Man. It seems only weeks ago that they were Car-seat fodder, little bundles of indiscriminate squirming. 

Now, they are modern day vehicles of the purest revelation - and let me tell you why. 

In the weeks leading up to the Great Day, they have clearly been rehearsing the words to the songs that they are going to offer the world. The great joy of watching all this happening (professionally and personally) is seeing little ones learn, by-heart, the words to anything up to ten songs which they will and do warble out without a moment's coyness. The thing is, when they come home and tell us the songs they they have working on, or even when they offer a rendition, they are mortified when we join in and sing with them. "How do you know that song, Daddy?". There is the right answer and the honest answer: the right answer is that the teachers told us so that we can help them learn at home; the honest (but wrong) answer is that we did the same songs as kids and in every year since. 

My children, at four years of age believe, with ever fibre of their being, that they are the first to tell the story of Jesus. It is their story to tell, not ours. They believe too that every song that they sing is an innovation just for them. That means, to me at least, that every Nativity play offered by Reception age children is as fresh and real as the Gospel account itself. It is in their hearts; they mean it; yes, they even believe it. They are telling it as they feel it, in all the glorious and beautiful chaos that only kids can bring to such a performance. Give me a little child over Luke the Evangelist any day of the week. One is impressive, the other is life changing, if you but let it.

I have said it before, and I will say it many times again: try being cynical about Christmas after you see a Nativity play offered by the young. They 'get' Christmas more than even I do, and they teach me more about the magic of the Incarnation that I could ever hope to teach them.

Children and Theological Whittling

The difficult events of the last twenty-four hours (and no, I am not referring to last night's PCC meeting, which was good) have left a pall of awkwardness over la Famille d'Aculaire. Me and the missus are feeling sad, and the very visible grief response from the girls is now turning into something altogether more tricky. 

As a priest, some would call me a theologian. Certainly, it was the excuse I used for being rubbish at practical things like decorating, but as for the truth of the matter, the jury is still out. 

Then the loss of the Blessed Stimpy (the Vatican beatified her this morning) precipitated the questions that children ask. They are the questions are that, without any doubt, are deeper than any I have seen or read or have been asked by any adult. They are the questions that expose me not as a theologian, but as something of a fraudulent, clumsy heretic. 

Daddy, how did Stimpy go to Heaven? Did she have to go in a plane?

No love, God took that special part of her that made her Stimpy and took it and is looking after it 

What does it look like?

You can't see it, but you know it is there. It's a bit like the wind, sweetheart. You can't see it but you know it there because the leaves move about. 

Will Stimpy see Dante (our old bunny) in Heaven?

I am not sure. What do you think? I think that they will be playing together with Charlie (Mavis's dog who died a year ago). I hope so too. 

But who will feed Stimpy in Heaven?

Stimpy won't need food like we need food, because she won't be hungry - just really happy all of the time. 

Why did Stimpy have to die?

We all have to die, baby. It is part of being alive, and in the end we go to Heaven.  

Will I see Stimpy when I go to Heaven?

Of course. I think she might be waiting for you like she does when you come home from school. 

...and so it goes. This happens in schools too (the 'what you mean that God calls you to be a Vicar?' type of questions). They are deep and insightful questions, whose answers are important and will be meaningful to those who ask them. It also tells me more about the quality of spirituality that children have - and to be honest, it is breathtakingly deep. It also presses in me the niggling suspicion that we as adults do not receive the spirituality and implicit theology of children half as much as we should. I would go so far as to say that in an ideal world, it should not be the priest or minister who preaches, but a young child who is given the chance to say what they think. How much more would we learn as disciples. 

It is not that adults are incapable of asking those sort of questions - more that they have lost the ability to express themselves so purely and wonderfully (and fearfully at times).

The Limits to Being a Dad (Again)

See also Absent Fathers

The endless round of re-organisation that accompanies a house move is, well, endless. Post needs re-directing, milk people cancelled and new ones hired, utilities cancelled and new ones started, address changing, the acquisition of endless rounds of goods that fit the new house rendering boxes of curtains ill-fitting, painting, cleaning, settling the kids, finding the nearest chippie (I speak of restaurants not trades-people - though please don't disregard the latter either), and so on. The Tinternet is a great boon in these days as we can do much from the sofa in the new lounge. The world is, we have discovered, almost entirely remote controlled.

But not all of it.

As responsible parents to gawjuss kids it is requisite and necessary as well for the mind as for the soul to register the little darlings with a doctor's surgery. I am not worried for myself as I am never ever ill, ever - but needs must when sprogs go splat! To the doctors we all toddled. Of course we had to find proof that we have been actual humans for all of the months that we have breathed air, proved our address, proved our last address and the eight prior to that, offered DNA samples, retina scans, fingerprints and psychometric profiling. With all this information lovingly gathered, we went about our business. 

Me - I was registered in a trice. Excellent. Not Mrs Acular though - she has nothing with her name on it at the same time as our new address. We can sort of understand that. We might be international terrorists (and she looks pretty dodgy it has to be said), but we pleaded our case. Nope. She may not register (but a letter from the bank would help our cause). 

Well, let's do the kids. We have all we need for them, and we are here all together. 

This is where I learned much about our world in 2011, and especially those bits I do not understand or like. The (very nice, incredibly helpful, and a little awkward about what she was about to say) receptionist told us that they couldn't register the kids until the mother was registered ... "in case there are any problems". Let me repeat the scenario: I was there in person, with my wife, already known to be the 'vicar' (not that that makes any substantial difference save perhaps for the fact that I carry a CRB and am professionally nice), with my children and as a member of a family clearly and manifestly working as a unit to do a job together. Mrs Acular and I appeared to be on civil terms, the kids on my lap illustrated that I wasn't a fruit-loop (in their eyes).

But no - they may not receive the care of a doctor until mum was registered. Didn't I feel like the child-beating village pervert all of a sudden! I can only guess that because a small handful of male deviants abuse children that all men are relegated to the place of designated driver in the legal lives of their children. Aren't mothers also found guilty of mistreating their children? Perhaps I just dreamed that. 

Lesson #1: Being a loving Dad to two adoring children is not sufficient any more. 

Not happy. Not happy one little bit.

The Coming of Going

Yesterday, an insightful woman asked my what my inspiration was, quite uninvited. Here is my answer.

Yesterday was a day which I recognise as one that will take place with a regularity for which I should not be surprised. It was a day when the fragrant Mrs Acular and I sat before those who had had the the care of our children for the much of the last three years. Yesterday was their 'Report Day' as they start to make the transition from nursery to school.

Three years ago, we delivered to Aylesbury Day Nursery two nine-month old infants. They had just mastered crawling but not walking, could grasp and hold but not much more. They had yet to acquire their trademark curls or the spirit of partnership which characterises their existence. Then, two fairly immobile blobs spent their first day in 'The Setting' and yesterday we learned something of what the professionals think of our little girls. We sat in near-tearful amazement when we heard of their reasoning, creative and artistic skills. We reveled in their ability to count, to form recognisable letters, to problem-solve, to relate to others, to respond appropriately to strangers, to be warm tender human beings, and most importantly, in them being who they have grown into. Our babies are now little girls, inquisitive, vital, polite, generous, considerate and compassionate. I thank God for the life they have been able to lead so far. 

But things are going to change. Shortly, they will go to school and an entire phase of life changes. This mirrors that changes that are affecting their parents, as I bring to a conclusion something which has been as rich and forming as nursery life has been for them. Mrs Acular, sadly, has to bring something wonderful to an end - her present job. That things end is so hard, and part of all of us senses a slight resistance to the overwhelming changes that await us just around the corner. 

Wider afield, the world of social media is awash with those blessed with new ordained ministries, or the development of an existing one. I send my blessings and prayers to them - and a gentle reminder that they are some of the luckiest people alive. As a reader of this blog said elsewhere over the last few days, there is nothing that amplifies ones own sense of calling more than the affirmation of the callings of others through ordinations. 

So, my nursery days are drawing to their conclusion. There await some wonderful events where my family and I can say our 'goodbyes', and the hardest thing of all to contemplate - my last service in Aylesbury. I need to prepare a sermon for that and I am not sure quite where to start, or if I can ever hope to finish. So much to say, so little time. My wife and I chatted a little about how life is for me now when compared to life before ordination. The world is possible to me in a way that it never was before, and I know in absolute terms that I am doing what I am meant to be doing with my apportioned years. 

So, @Goannatree (the lady from Twitter who asked what had inspired me yesterday), my girls and the grace and excitement with which they are facing their transition - that is my inspiration. It's all in a day's work for them, this life-changing change stuff. I don't want to leave one place and yet I can't wait to start in another. It's a funny old time and so little of it makes sense on an emotional level. 

The Other Royal Wedding

The Day Nursery Royal Wedding (image with permission)

I can disclose this very day that it is remarkably good fun being a priest. You may think that it is all laborious funeralising, PCCing, collar-starching, lace-choosing, sacrament elevating stuff (and for those priests who have no idea what I have just said, I shall be running a course in the autumn - 'Anglo-Catholicism for the Uninterested'). On no - we priests have fun too.

It seems that in my three years here in Aylesbury I have built for myself a reputation for being an idiot relaxed and accessible in my faith and work. It meant that in the run up to the  practice Royal Wedding, I was asked to preside at the real thing. An archbishop I may not be, but preside over a whole Royal Wedding I did, and not just bits of it. At my local day-nursery, that excellent establishment that largely raises my daughters and teaches them manners, we had a proper Royal Wedding with a prince and princess, flower-girls, Royal car, rings, a congregation, vows and declarations (and a blessing too, after a fashion). Being me, I agreed whole-heartedly to help out and acceded to their requests that I wear all my finery. Cassock, lacy cotta, gold/red cope - the works. Their efforts on the day, it must be noted, far exceeded mine and they all looked beautiful. And a wonderful event it was, though more due to the delightful kids than the barmy vicar!

I have posted on numerous occasions on the predisposition to the dour and self-flagellating on the part of many Christians. I have never understood this tendency to take faith and religion so heavily and with such little light-heartedness and fun. I have always regarded it as vital to enjoy worshipping God, and to show that enjoyment to a world where enjoyment is so elusive. Would I join a crowd of the Poe-faced if I didn't have to? Of course not. I have always devoted many hours to my religion and God, so always wanted it to be uplifting time, happy time (even in penitential moments). This stuff can be fun and serious all at the same time, and to have a chance to show that to the under-fours is a gift to me. I am now known, by thirty-odd kiddies as 'The Funny Man Vicar'. 

Is that not evangelism? I hope it is, because it is what I do. 

Where Two or Three (or Four) ...

...groups of children are gathered together in my name, says the Lord, there I am in the midst of them

Yesterday was a remarkable day. For most of you it was incontrovertibly Tuesday, and for me too - but it was not just any Tuesday - is was 'school production Tuesday'. Those of you who read this blog more often than I do may remember the fondness I have for such events. 

During the course of the day, it was my pleasure to witness no less than four schools perform productions, sing songs, play musical instruments, act, narrate, yell incomprehensibly into a microphone and tell stories - including the Passion, death and Resurrection of Our Lord. For the Early Years at St. Mary's CE School, it was the day when they gave us Red Riding Hood, and for the older kids from St. Mary's, the even bigger kids from Mandeville Secondary School, the tiny-weenies from St. Joseph's RC Infant School and the moderately pint-sizeds from Tilehurst Combined School, they all came to the church to read and sing 'Resurrection Rock' (or, as one youngster had written on a flyer that he had designed in class - 'Resuscitation Rock'). They sang their hearts out and read perfectly (and in an 800 year old barn that makes the Tate Modern seem like a garden shed is an achievement in itself for little ones). I should note that this would not have happened at all save for the vision and skill of the excellent Brian Dipple.

I do not care what anyone says about the world, the state of the church, the erosion of respect in the young - where children are able to come together and sing their hearts out, play such wonderful music, read the difficult account of a murder and a miracle - then for my money the world is a happy and hopeful place. Dear readers, it was stunning. Three-hundred children from the ages of 5 to 19, singing with one voice, with passion - that is about as good as it gets for me. The smallest and least inhibited children engaged with the sentiments of the story, and even pulled instinctive sneers at the cries of 'Crucify Him'. The look of joy in their faces in the final reprise when singing 'He's Alive' was enough to move me near to tears, and again as I recall it now. I have said it before; children embody such perfect freedom of worship. They convey emotion in a way I wish that I could by simply the light in their faces. 

I could leave it there, but a couple of things amused me yesterday. The first is the innate comedy timing that the tiniest of children have. The little lad playing the wolf in Red Riding Hood hammed it up perfectly. He had us in stitches. He had no inhibition, and just played to the crowd. I believe that he is still just 4 years old. Secondly, a lesson for us Anglicans when inviting our Roman Catholic friends in - remember their Lord's Prayer is not the same as ours. I lead the prayers for Resurrection Rock, and as is my custom, asked that they be concluded with the Lord's Prayer. The tiny-weenies from St. Joseph's are clearly drilled in this prayer so it was like flicking a switch. 'Our ... Father ... who ... art ... in ... heaven ... hallowed ... be ... thy ... name ... thy ... kingdom ... come ...', and so on. Except they don't do the bit at the end, do they. No embolism for them. Just as I was about to utter (with microphone and ceremonial dignity) 'For thine is the Kingdom', eighty tiny-weenies, as one, yelped their 'Amen' and cut me dead. How I didn't corpse, I shall not know, but it amused the gathering no end. 

Such a wonderful, hopeful, enjoyable day. Watching the creative talents of over 400 kids, and the faces of their parents and supporters - nothing is better than that. Nothing at all. 

Pantsgate

Ho hum - the lessons we learn!

Yesterday was Tuesday for me, as it may have been for many of you. Tuesday is generally Assembly Day. As we are in the season the The Epiphany and given that I hadn't prepared any material (I wasn't down on the rota), and given that no-one else had anything either, I decided that a little Q&A of the Curate might be good - to outwork 'revealing'. 

I have done this before, and it has worked a dream - on to a winner thinks I!

First question: what was my favourite Christmas present? My cookery book said I [cue giggles and screams]

Second Question: What is my favourite game? Well, replied I, I like to play squash or Risk. Did you mean that sort of game? No, said the little mite. What is your favourite computer game. Of course, Cloake - you Luddite, what else would she have meant. I reported that although I am not fond of footy, despite claiming support for Manchester United [cue 'boo', lots and loud - so I rabble-roused the rest - much screaming and yelling - a normal assembly], I said that I like my Football Manager game on my iTouch quite a lot. I asked the same question of her. 

The assembly took this form for a while - part of the 'getting to know Farvah Dayvyd a little better', till the little chap asked the killer question: did I get any underwear for Christmas [cue meltdown of 300-odd kids]. Once order was restored, I commented that we all wear it after all, and that yes, I got socks (not sure if I did having said that, is that bad?) Amusingly (for me and the kids only, it seems), the issue of my undercrackers persisted. The inevitable follow-on questions then arrived like an estate-Mercedes at a rapper's party - with numbing inevitability!

And so it went like that for a few more minutes until I called time and got religious and made my point about the importance of taking an interest in others, asking questions, waiting for the answer - little Epiphanies and all that. Then I said a prayer and bolted. 

It seems that at least one of the kids is being led to the gallows for their crime of asking the vicar about his pants. Heads on sticks will surely greet me as I drive down the lane later. It is a useful lesson about well-meant actions and their consequences, and this clergy-person does sail close to the wind. I do 'noisy' assemblies, I hope fun ones - but my assemblies are generally eagerly anticipated and always theologically underwritten. Does it hurt to be a fool in a collar every once in a while?

If more collars were fools with kids from time to time, methinks our churches would be overrun - just an opinion! 

How Am I Meant To Feel?

I approach this post with two very specific perspectives. The first is as a father to two daughters at a nursery, and the second as a human being who considers childhood to be a particular gift, and a blessing to the rest of the world.

Today has seen me sitting in a classroom doing a little learning about being a school governor. The first thing we saw was a fabulous film of Ken Robinson offering a motivational speech about education. Watch it if you can - parts of it are stunning, but all convey the limitless potential of children and the creativity that exists in limitless measure in all of them. The rest of course was alright, but the film was an early highlight.

When I returned home, I caught up a little on the news articles, only to to see that a person has been charged with sexual offences in a day nursery - charges that include rape. 

Now, I am a human being, a dad, a priest, and I hope a decent person. How am I meant to feel about this news story, or more importantly, that person's alleged acts? Yes, horrified. Yes, sickened. Any human being would - I would hope. But then the dad and the Father fight within me. The Father wants to wonder about cause, whether the man charged with these terrible things was himself damaged. Is there a reason, some mitigation, some way that I, as a priest, can see his humanity. Then the dad part of me rears its head. I firmly believe that if a man raped either of my children, more especially if that man were in a position of trust with them, someone they liked perhaps, then I would become quickly guilty of very terrible sins myself. I cannot promise that I wouldn't want to do terrible things to such a man as that, I cannot. 

Part of the tragedy of such crimes is that they decimate trust and human bonds far beyond the injured precious life of a toddler. Most of us would find it hard to come to terms with how anyone could find sexual gratification from a person so tiny,  so un-sexual, so pure, so vulnerable. Next, it reinforces our view that the world is dangerous for children, especially in the hands of men. No wonder so few men work in primary schools or nurseries. I am angry about those very distant ripples in a deep water of life-shattering hurt and damage that a little one was forced to endure. 

As yet, the case in question hasn't even fully concluded how many victims there are, if it is proved that they are indeed victims. It is a dark, frankly evil situation if proved to have taken place. In my very deepest places, I want to gather up hurt toddlers and protect them - it comes of having like-aged children myself. Then I want to be angry, raging, furious. I want to lash out on behalf of those who cannot - all the while knowing that I cannot. Compared to the pain that these families may yet become exposed to, this thinking of mine is sub-atomic, I know that. At the moment, though, dad is beating Father hands down. 

May God protect his little ones against all who would do them harm, that they may live and live so wonderfully. 

Christmas in the Real II

Further to my earlier post today, I have an additional perspective.

It was my great joy to witness the Early Years Nativity, and this closely on the heels of the Key Stage II carol service last night. The presentation today was raw, about the potential in small children who stepped up the mark, with varying degrees of ability and success. They were surrounded by loving families who willed them on to success, and in the end, all of the little ones were. 

The Christmas story is, after all, a tale of a child, his family and their hopes and fears. It is a story about raw hope to be found in a young life yet to be lived. It is about parents who guide and inspire, but in the end, are passengers on the journey that their child has embarked upon. It is about mistakes and best efforts, about unknowing and blindness to futures - about wondering. It is a story of a child who will make the best of his chance in whatever that direction will take him, who will get it wrong, who will get it right, will do it with eyes open and heart open. It is a story about a child who will give without counting the cost, and of parents who could  not find it possible to love more than they already do.

To me, all of these qualities are embedded in the very presentations that happened before me today. Every facet of the Christmas Story so far as the 'human' is concerned, is a present reality in the eyes and efforts of little children and their pride and joy. No Christmas can ever be complete until it has been seen through the eyes of little children.

Behind Closed Doors

We have now reached that time of year when we wander around our streets as often in the dark as in the light. For me, the sight of houses with their curtains drawn on a crisp starry night is an evocative one. The orange hue in the light that always seem to escape through the windows always grants me that sense of warmth that such light implies. I see these houses, and I instinctively regard them as warm, happy, by default full of kids relaxing by a default crackling fire. I find myself wanting to be inside those houses. Perhaps there is something of the Christmas card about such a sight, but it is nonetheless compelling. 

I was reminded this week that behind the closed doors of some houses it is far from warm and evocative, far from suggestive of Yuletide Joy. I heard this week of the plight of a child not too far from my own home, who had  yet to reach their second birthday when they were recieved into hospital  with a crushed skull. Such was the extent of that little child's injuries, they will not celebrate Christmas and will never be two. As a result of injuries sustained in that same orange glow, that child died a few days ago, and while the other injuries pale into relative insignificance compared to the primary one, they tell the story of that little-one's experience of this life. I suspect that it will be a life that will be measured by a greater number of injuries than months lived.

We will soon leap headlong into the 'Away In a Manger' season. The carols will shortly pipe up and link seamlessly one into the other until the day our Saviour comes. More often than not, those carols will be hollered out by excited children for whom the Little Baby Jesus is still something to be excited about. The priests of our country are already steeling themselves for the onslaught of three weeks of 'Most Highly Flavoured Gravy, Gloriaa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a', but if we let ourselves, we too will be intoxicated by it every time, and for that I thank God.

My reason for writing this was to remember some people. While we wail out our favourite carols, there will be frightened children who will watch what we do from afar. They may even be there, in body if not in spirit. There will be children who will know no love or warmth this Christmas, and I will hold them in my prayers every day. I want also to remember the beleagured people whose work (often thankless) is to discover this pain and suffering and often save these little-ones' lives before it is too late. Often they succeed, but every once in a tragic while, they discover the pain of a child too late to help. May God bless them and all for whom they work so hard.

Suffer the Little Children

My thanks to Mrs Rushton of Lincs, whose difficult experiences have precipitated this post - I pray she finds a resolution in line with so many of my friends!

There is a debate raging in a lot of churches (and far further afield as I will explain later) regarding 'what to do' about a foul curse, a problem of epic proportions, a thorn in the side of all good practicing church-folk, a threat to the very fabric of our spiritual being. No, I am not talking about Prof. Richard Dawkins, he is as nothing compared to this - I refer to, and please sit down if you need to....

...children in church on a Sunday in the service!

I should say from the start that my own church does not labour under such a leaden sky.

When married people are ordained, a useful and un-planned purpose is served. Priests rarely communicate among themselves, we just don't - we claim lack of time among other lofty excuses - but their partners however, they are a useful mine of information about the nature of church life around the country. One theme has recurred over and over and that is how these partners (generally mothers in my own experience) are made to feel when they (and I can hardly bring myself to say it) take their kids to church. There, it is said - I'm ok, thanks. 

The response to a considerable number of my friends and their children has, I am sad to report, been negative. I hear tales of frowning congregations when the kids appear, complaints about noise, murmering about toys, conspiracies about how best to hide the little mites in the room at the back 'where they can play properly'. I know that some of you who may read this might be surprised at this, but I am sad to report that it is altogether more common than you might imagine. The reasons cited are often along the lines that the rampaging toddlers (often this age group is the specific target) impede the quality of prayer, interupt the hymns, get in the way generally, disrupt the sermon or just 'ruin for those of us who come to church to be with God'. 

Let me let them into a little secret, here and now - 

...they are wrong missing the point.

After a weekend when we celebrated the holy saints living and departed, we priests did not say that those saints were the ones who were quiet and obedient, over 18, able to engage with the drivelly sermon, not apt to out-shout a zillion decibel Allen Organ - no, the saints-living are all of us, whether we are 80 or 8 days old. My house is my children's house and they will be at home here. God's house is his children's house and that refers to all his children. They make noise and ALLELUIA. There is nothing more beautiful, stunning and hopeful than the noise of kids relaxing in church during a service. The babbling of babies, the stomping of toddlers, the raging of tantrums - they are all sounds of life and to Tippex them out in favour of one's own need to pray one's own needs in public is just not acceptable to me. I come from a very ceremonially-centred style of worship, and I am delighted ot report that my own children love to come to church - why? Because no-one ever told them to be quiet. They have screamed through Prefaces, hollered through Angeli (plural Angelus?) and even needed carrying out in the procession after the service ended. MARVELLOUS - not because they were my kids, but because they were in God's house with me and my family and we all worshipped together - as is right and proper. 

As an additional comment - for those who would purge the church of the too-young; think about the adults that policy also injures - the parent(s) who is/are with them at church. If you rid your temples of their kids, you force them into you back-rooms too, or worse - much worse; you lose them not for now but for ever. Thinking back to a post a couple of days ago - I would remind those objectors that it is those same toddlers who will be slavvering over in a mere decade, spending thousands tempting them to become a Sunbeam for the Lord Jesus Christ. Too late, by then, I think.

Interestingly, this is not an English Anglican Christian-only problem. When I visited Jerusalem recently, and as I worshipped in a Synagogue there,  a parent stood up and made this same point to the Jewish population to which she belongs - and let me tell you, stonkingly good as worshipping with Jews is, it was ten times better because their children were comfortable in there, did their thing and made whatever noise they made.