The Changes in a Vicar's Mind

I am of an age where there was life before and life after. I am not speaking of the children that enhance my existence, or indeed of the noble vehicle of their delivery (known around here as Mrs Acular). I am, of course, speaking of ordination and all things priestly. 

I arrived at the point of Holy Orders in my mid-thirties, so had had some time to formulate some views on life before that momentous day. However, being a priest grants me some fairly unique experiences (among them seeing underneath a high altar, but an event to which I do not refer), and as such have changed my perception of the world in some specific ways. 

1. Human existence: I have now done so many funerals (I have exceeded thirty this year already) that I have a fundamentally altered view of the whole human existence thing. I spend so many hours and days summarising people's whole lives in mere breaths that I realise how briefly we exist and how fragile we are. No sooner do we arrive than we check-out. If I were an atheist (or worse still, by far, a Humanist) I would be quite clear that if this were actually it, that morality could sod right off - that I am going to do the best I can for me and my clan. That we are here so briefly convinces me that there has to be more. God has to exist or else this vast intelligence and eloquence we develop in our brief planetary stop would seem an awfully high achievement just to nourish invertebrates. There has to be a higher greater wider purpose to us, or else what a waste of time talent education and opportunity. Psalm 139 is now a very close friend of mine. 

2. Cynicism - on good days and bad, on grey days and bright - I have to be the paradigm of positivism. I have to be the happy chappy of the parish, the smiling geezer in the black dress, all fired up and ready to go. I have to model the hope I preach, walk in the grace I am bestowed with and always  - always - have that deportment of man with wind in his sails and a Single Malt in his veins. The thing is, there are times (not many) when I am in church in a black mood. There are times when I am taking a proverbial kicking over some triviality when instead of the beneficent smile you see, I am harbouring notions about prolonged death-doing.  Simply put, I am not always in a good mood, dammit. This comes at a price, this Vicar Front thing - it makes me more and more cynical in every season. It would explain why gatherings of priests are either grinning inanely or catty - either one or the other. You ask Mrs Acular, she'll tell you. Of an evening I flake out on my settee and basically slag the telly off for hours at a time. And it gets worse over time. 

3. Children - partly as a result of the fruits of my wife's loins, but also in no small part to the work I do, I am bowled over by the innate theology and abilities of even the smallest children. I am increasing of the the view that we are born with all that we need for life save for some of the logistical abilities, and that we spend the years of our lives disarming ourselves of those things we were once gifted to do. This week's question from one of the Twins Aculae is "daddy, who made God". Give me a theologian who can answer that meaningfully, and let them explain to my five year old. I am guessing that already my daughter will articulate an answer better than I can. Open-mindedness, warm heartedness, lack of coy-ness, directness, clarity of thought-ness: kids have all of these things. I am now of a view that if you are going to expound something or issue a platitude on something else, you should do so in front of a child of three-to-five and see what the response is. I am willing to bet you would not utter any more and that by default, the pages of Facebook would be empty. 

4. I am what I am, and what I am needs no excuses: Early posts on this blog betrayed an inner-panic about my relatively new ordained status. I didn't feel worthy (and I still don't) but I have now learned to live with it. I know how preposterous I am, so I care little that anyone else does too. Actually, I would go further. I believe I was born to do this. I love the life I lead and feel finally like I have arrived where I was destined to arrive. If you don't like me, that is not my problem. If you disagree with me, tell me. If I repel you, then go away. I am finally at peace with myself and I rather like it. 

5. I am ready to own a dog. If I can cope with twins, a dog ought to be a cinch!

Cloake Out

(If you are going to a Belt of Green, have a great time. I can't be there this year so will pray for you all and the quagmire that will unfold beneath your tents this weekend)

What Can I Say II?

Parenthood brings many joys and many challenges. The former outweighs the latter in such measure that the challenges themselves become a privilege. 

One such challenge is questioning - the persistent type you would expect from a reasonably bright 3-yr old. I am not referring to the litany of 'whys' that pour down like so many raindrops during the course of day - no, this is serious stuff, life changing stuff - and I am not referring only to them and their lives!

Some time ago, in a period that now numbers in months, a much loved parishioner lost her much adored dog. The kids were scared of the dog, as seems to be their wont. It was a big labrador, old and doddery - though nonetheless a wonderful hound to have around. Sadly, the dog died but at the end of a long and apparently happy life. 

Without prompt some weeks after that event, one of my daughters asked me if Charlie was 'coming back alive'. I wasn't even aware that she knew that Charlie had died. I told her no, that when we die, we go somewhere else very special. 'Where has Charlie gone, daddy?'; 'doggy heaven darling'. Then the 'why' and the 'how'. Then the matter went quiet.

A month later, completely out of the blue: 'Is Charlie in heaven daddy?' 'Yes, baby, why?', I replied? 'Will he be on his own?' 'No, love, his friends will be there and he will probably be playing there now'. I explained that old and poorly dogs are more like young bouncy puppies when they go to heaven. 'Why did Charlie die?', she asked as she coloured in a penguin on her book. 'Charlie died because he was old and very tired, and so he needed to have a long rest'. 

The subject dropped again, as quickly as it arose - until this weekend. The same questions, without any sense of upset, though large measures of genuine concern, poured forth as I drove us around Yorkshire. 'Is Charlie sad, daddy?' she asked completely out of the blue. 'Why do ask that, love?' I followed. 'He will miss Mavis, won't he?' 'Yes, I think so, but he was very tired and old and his legs were poorly and he needed his rest, so he is feeling much better now'. 

This round ended simply: 'Charlie has a big juicy bone in heaven doesn't he?' 'The biggest bone he has ever seen', I replied.

Once again, a three-year-old hit my theology 'reset button'.