The Death of The Pragmatist

My time at theological college served many good purposes. The arrival of my children tops that list, of course - but something unexpected happened, and something very welcome indeed. It seems to be the thing to do to mash theological students through a million personality models: Myers-Briggs, Honey & Mumford, Hayes & Finch (spot the impostor) as well as flick our giblets over white-boards with perty pictures like Johari Windows, Praxis Models and some bizarre outpourings from one of the seven-hundred gazillion leadership gurus that now creep across the earth.

In the end, I was pleasantly surprised to note, I learned a little of who I am.

I am not one who benefits from sitting in lecture halls being talked at for an hour. I struggle with making sense of the world through books and handouts. I don't excel at examinations because my brain isn't wired that way and for most of my life until that point, I thought myself politely retarded or else a lazy slob who for some reason just didn't care enough to try harder. Other aspects of theological education fast became an issue in that way too as there are the poppets who can sit and listen to a diatribe on the European Reformation and then argue the toss over semantics. Me - I was lost within five minutes, often emerging from said lecture theatre down-hearted and feeling quite routinely stupid.

What I did learn, though, is that I am a confirmed pragmatist. I am an experiential learner who knows much about computers by smashing a few to pieces and re-assembling them. I learn by mutual exchange - so if I sit with you over a beer for a few hours and talk with you, I will learn the lesson you seek to teach me. I can ask my own questions, approach it in my own way, build mental-models to illustrate your hypothesis, get there in the end. If you knew me well enough, you would know that I have a neat analogy for just about anything - that is how I am wired. While it means I am average academically, it means that I am practical. It means that I see the world in a way that means I can tackle the unexpected in a calm and measured way. I never flap in emergencies, including the motorway pile-up I was one in the middle of. I got out of the car and started to work it out.

In 1987 or thereabouts, the then Tory Government invented a new method of examination - the GCSE. No longer was it a "sit and be excellent for three hours and your life will be sorted" type of qualification, but one that said you had permission to be who you were built to be, and if that meant you were a plodder, good with your hands but over days not minutes, that you stood a chance in life and in getting some half decent grades that assessed years not a small window in time like exams do. For example, I am quite neat with a pencil and used to love to draw. I'd draw good pictures over the course of a year, but under the rarefied confines of an examination would wholly lack the inspiration to draw at all, let alone well. Times that by all the subjects that I took and you see a healthy situation for those like me. The pictures drawn during the year meant something; they had value to the outcome for me. The degree I am currently completing is modelled in the same way.  I am required to submit portfolios not sit exams - which means that instead of sitting in a cold hall for three hours pretending to remember theories on preaching and hermeneutics, I can instead demonstrate an ability in that field by submitting sermons actually preached in front of real people who gave constructive feedback. Is a preacher one who is gifted at exams or one who can preach to people? You decide.

It has been announced recently, by another Tory politician, that the GCSEs are about to go the way of the Dodo. No more modular assessment, just exams. That would be me screwed then - and many like me. Under these new plans, I would not have achieved the grades that would have got me to A Levels that got me to Further Education that helped get me to this desk as a priest this day. Great for those whose gift is exams. Great for those who, therefore, can look at facts and arguments, soak them up, and regurgitate them on demand like so many photocopiers. Does the world need more photocopiers in soft flesh?

Fairly recently, I saw a video of Sir Ken Robinson (see below) who doubled the epiphany of my theological college discovery about my learning styles. I visit schools from time to time and worry - really deeply worry - that the system is breeding competent photocopiers, and not students who can be who they were built to be. Their vibrancy and life seems to be placed in the back seat while grades and results take the front. I leave you with Mr Robinson.

Wishing I Were at School Now

Yesterday was the school sports day at the kid's school and therefore the first sports day that I have had the chance to go to and be a parent. It was a time, therefore, for comparisons. 

Now, those of you who know me, know that I was born without a sport gene. Football means very little (even though will claim Manchester United as my team of choice) and Rugby even less. Grandstand was a time to go out and play and the theme for Match of the Day actually makes my flesh creep even now. 

I now think I have discovered why. It wasn't ever a lack of sport gene, it was that my sport gene was in the hands of the wrong 'Miss'. 

At my children's school (a wonderful place) they have sports coaches who come in and lead physical education. Those coaches were present yesterday and were largely responsible for administering a good and orderly sports day where the little ones balanced eggs on spoons, be-doinged in sacks, balanced bean-bags abonce and bolted between batons. My own two darted like mighty atoms and did so with aplomb - and a smile. The thing is, Mrs Acular is as sporty as me, so why weren't my children scowling like I used to when forced to wear shorts in public? I think the answer is in the way they are taught.

My teachers were good teachers and even despite my tender age, they were teachers best described as older. They were the ones, at primary school, who had to be experts in ritting and drawing and counting and evryfing - and also games. I shan't ever forget seeing one old lady (the very dear and now departed Miss Durnford) trying to run to keep up with us sprogs in a game of rounders. I seem to remember that we all got the giggles, her too. Nowadays, around here anyway, 'Miss' doesn't do games. Specialist coaches come in instead. 

I often think (and without any disrespect to Miss Durnford or anyone else who taught me) that I wish I were a child now. Playgrounds are different - adventuring places. PE is taught by games-type people. Chalk and back-painted boards are now replaced by smart-boards where the world comes alive for the children who gather round. Kids do gardening and the like - I didn't. I seem to remember that we drew lots and lots. My education was very average in the earlier stages and not one other person who was in my school year in primary school got a degree of any sort. I think I would have done better had I been educated today, not that I did too bad as it was. 

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. 

One Virgin, A Sweaty Vicar and the Pursuit of Normal

From 'Cracked Virtue' - another closed blog

Before I start, an apology. Life and its various needs  means that I am scarcely finding time to be a half decent dad, let alone an engaging blogger. I apologise for neglecting you, ever thankful as I am for your continued support. 

Well, the title may have you wondering what is about to emerge before your eyes, but be assured it isn't what you think, so go and wash your minds out with soap and water. 

Several things have come to pass in the last week that have given me cause to consider a line in the sand. Allow me to list those things:

 - Exercise

 - Heat Magazine

 - A kid

There you go; rich blog fodder if there were any. The 'virgin' of the title is the new gymnasium I have joined (Virgin Active Torture Chamber, if you please). Having sold all three of my kidneys to afford to borrow their towels to wipe the sweat from my ontologically changed brow, I can now pootle down there and run a little, sling some iron about, row nowhere and contort my reverential body into to shapes that would amaze you. Do I wish to be some oiled Adonis? Am I the next Iron Man? I am a little overweight, wheezy in the cold, flabby in my cassock and fast approaching 40. What I am pursuing is not excellence - just normality. I am below that standard at the moment, and I will work hard to achieve normal weight and fitness. 

Last week, I languished in a school staff room, not waiting to not be Father Christmas, and taking advantage of the reading material of choice of our educators: Heat Magazine. Scored across the cover of that edition were the semi-clad forms of three Slebs (those younglings who are the love-children of And and Dec, Bruce Forsythe and Obergruppenfuhrer Cowell). That they were half dressed (or half undressed, depending on your perspective) wasn't what drew my eyes (honest), it was that they looked, well, normal. Their 'crime' was that they had stopped dieting. Hold the press, wait a cotton-picking minute, what they are guilty of is enjoying their chow and their penalty is to look, actually, altogether more attractive than Miss Skellington on the next page. Normal shaped women are accused of crimes to femininity these days - shame (and let's face it, normal sized women do more for the feminine curve than a walking rack of ribs). Just saying ...

Then the little lad. After not being Father Christmas at a Christmas Party at the school where I now help out, and after climbing out of the outfit that I wasn't wearing when I wasn't being Father Christmas, I passed a ten year old in the corridor. "I like you", he uttered in passing. "Why is that, fella?" was my interested reply. "You're normal". His mum died a thousand deaths as only the mother of an inveterate heretic could, and apologized for her boy. "No", said I, "his words are a gift to me". And then I cartwheeled home, cock-a-hoop that I had achieved that mystical status after a single assembly.

Normality to some is to be scorned. It speaks, often, of mediocrity and the average. The Gospel, of course, is not one of 'normal', but ministry and life seem often to put some of us behind that line, not ahead of it. Normal? I'll have that!

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. 

How things change

I have opted to work away from the grumpy mood in which I find myself - precipitated by the 4.50am start at the hands of the blessed Jessica. Pity the wee scrap, for I am an utter bar-steward at that time of the day! The missus has naffed orf too, abandoning her post, leaving her husband to fend off the ankle-biters alone. 'A retreat ...', she says - who does she think she is? A retreat indeed. 

So, as the kids are in the limelight I thought I would share an observation that will cause me to be pink and fluffy. I might fail ... so be prepared!

The woman and me have been trawling around Aylesbury Vale looking for schools for the sprogs when they turn four in six odd years time. Given that I am a professional basher of the Bible, a church school seems favourite, so we have taken some in. Interesting stuff ....

When I was at school, which after all wasn't that long ago (certainly post-War), you were the pupil, the teacher the teacher, the playground grey and square, and the field full of poo.  Not today. In all the schools we visited, apart from the barbed wire and gun emplacements, we were greeted by Student Councils, a sixty-point Charter of Golden Rules, colour, vibrancy - and most importantly (to me), hope and opportunity for all. A drift through the playground saw asphalt combined with stimulating areas where kids can gather and chat, in one school a natural area surrounded by trees where mini-beasts could be observed au naturelle, in all of them a place to go and sit if you are hurt, another for when you are without a friend for the day and need company, and so on. In an age of preposterous health and safety legislation, there were things to climb on, run around and play with - and I wish that I was at school today.

This all said, and as I am grumpy at the moment, I must make a comment - about a couple of Church of England Schools that I visited (speaking as a chaplain to another where what I am about to highlight is not the case). When you claim to be a CofE school, don't be telling me within three minutes of my arrival for the tour that if I wanted to exempt my nipper from Christian assembly, that was ok. Wrong Headteacher I thought, ashamed of her school's faith-status I thought. The kids are not going there, not even over my rotting corpse! Another one, again CofE - a 2-inch tall crucifix on a dusty table in the corner of a cluttered hall a church school doesn't make! Enough said? 

Say what you like about the last Administration, but if the evidence of their time in office was made manifest in the schools that we saw, then they can't have been half as bad as the Daily Mail and Mrs Rushton of Lincs would have us believe. It feels to me that my children have a wonderfully hopeful future ahead of them. I do, I wish I were a kid now - I was crap at school, mainly because my learning style doesn't involve any level of listening! I want to be doing, experiencing, touching/feeling/tasting, hurting myself in the process if that was part of the deal - not reciting a rather strange phonetic alphabet (see below - that was how I was taught to read and rit, truly)