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. 

Pleasing the Invisible Man

Once upon a time, the world was like a scene from Mary Poppins, when the people that you worried about were those stood before you, towards whom you extended the highest courtesy and manners. Men would open doors for ladies, or even give up their seat. Children could step out on to the street and fly their kites with the grandees of society looking benignly on with their waxed walrus 'taches and pot-bellies. 

The Bible tells us to love our neighbours, and I am happy to take that as Gospel (get it?) and so it is that we should extend the highest regard to those among whom we live and breathe and have our being. 

But then the world got all strange. Actually, it sort of turned over on its peculiar head and we live in a world that Mary Poppins and Dyke Van Dick would struggle to comprehend - and me too if I am honest. 

It seems to me that society lives for, and is afraid of, The Invisible Man. Let me explain:

 - Our kids cannot play freely in the great outdoors because of the risk and threat projected upon them by the Invisible Man

 - Christians can't have Christmas in a (largely, but not exclusively) Christian country because of the projected offense on the part of The Muslim Invisible Man

 - We can't say entirely lumps of our language for fear of offending the feminist scruples of Lady Invisible

 - We can't observe the dark grey quality of something's colour because of the offense it might cause West-Indian, African-American or African Invisible Man

- Our language is completely short-circuited because the Invisible Man will bring a lawsuit upon you

- We are in danger of neglecting our own because of what the Invisible Man (often referred to as "other people") might think

- We stop starting things because the Invisible Man would find fault and throw books at us

In simple terms, we have stopped so much worrying about those we can see in favour of those we cannot. And we are doing it often and obsessively. More is the case that the Invisible Man that governs and conditions all that we do and are is an entity that we may never meet, and so often at the expense of those near at hand. I see this all around me - people poleaxed by a guilt projected upon themselves by someone who never lived, or else so afraid to live because a non-existent person would become injured in some measure by their life-choices. Christians are good at this stuff.

I think it fair to say that life is a gift, and one we are called in vocational terms to embrace and live as fully as we are able. It may be that the Devil (or whatever entity you run from in life) is entirely Invisible and plagues us with our good will and best intentions. 

Just saying. 

(The use of the word 'man' is not intended to offend Invisible Women - but mirrors the song I used at the top of this)

Equal Blessings, Differently Distributed

This post is, for me, some of my own medicine - and one that I have wanted to write for some time. I have written some grumpy posts recently, mostly compelling people to stop being grumpy. 

From time to time, in among so many people with whom I have a fairly close contact, I become party to the lives of those who may be regarded as having specific difficulties; those people we who regard ourselves as able-bodied and 'normal' feel inclined to feel sympathy for. I am often touching a life lived as I collate memories and meanings so that a meagre token of esteem at a funeral can be compiled. 

It seems to me, having made this small collation so often that we are all equally blessed in this life. The simple fact is that for some, that blessing is differently distributed. 

I have two examples that emerge first in my mind - two people who suffered with Down's Syndrome. In each case they lived beyond their expected years, although they left this world far too soon. I compare them with some who lives I reflected upon who were otherwise unfettered by such a condition and wound on well beyond the four-score years and ten. Both the people to whom I refer, each with a condition that today would be cause to question the progression of a pregnancy, lived a life that I can only dream of and envy. 

Both these wonderful people were loved, and gave more love in return. Both visited the four corners of the world and enjoyed experiences which I can only aspire to. Both knew joy, felt happiness more often than not, and knew the real meaning of living well. No, their blessing was not raise families of their own. In one case, their blessing was not to be able to do some of the mundane things I take for granted like using a tin-opener or drive a car. Their blessing wasn't in high grade qualification or a career offering such status and wealth as would be the joy of many. None of those things was their blessing. Their blessing was in living a life so richly, joyfully, open-mindedly and unreservedly, that the Testimony to their years would need to be as long as the years lived to cover all the experiences. 

I saw the picture I have used here somewhere else. Her face and her smile lights me up. I am guessing she is about 18 months old, possibly 2 years. Yes, she will need help with many things and many others will be beyond her. But I am sure that when the chips are down, the world that mourns her eventual passing will feel more pain than any who will mourn mine or the Chief Executives of some of our greatest corporations because this face seems to me a brighter light. The smile you see at the top of this page is her blessing. It will mirror her heart and she will (and already will be) radiating such light and warmth that we have to question whether some people are sent directly from Heaven. 

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).