ninepins

They're dropping like ninepins. The last Pope, the Dutch Queen, Sir Alex Ferguson, Paul Scholes - and now today the ultimate icon of our age has announced his retirement.

At the age of 38, David Beckham is to retire from football.

I can't remember how many times I wateched him in the red of United at Old Trafford. Even when he left, even when his passion seemed to dim for a while, nothing could take away from the memory of his precision passing, his peerless crossing of the ball, his match-winning free kicks, and the odd wonder goal.


This is a favourite game of mine. I was there with my mate Chris, a West Ham supporter. Being with me in the North Stand (as then was) Chris sat on his hands as Paolo Wanchope scored, and then stood and cheered with the rest of us as United put seven past his own team.

And what a display of United in that period it was: a Scholes hat-trick, a Beckham free kick, an Andy Cole goal and the obligatory strike from super-sub Ole Gunnar Solskjaer. Two of the goals come from Beckham crosses, pinging in bang on target with fearless accuracy from the dead ball line.

It's easy to look at DB and smirk about the voice, the haircuts, the tattoos, the wife, the decline of his powers as he passed thirty.

But I have to question that attitude.

When we require our heroes to be more than they are (so a footballer must be intelligent, but heaven forbid he's an intellectual) don't we make a crucial mistake? Surely we stop enjoying what makes someone so special, looking at what they are and instead we look at what they are not. We fail to see remarkable positives and stare at a void that shouldn't ever take our attention. "Beethoven - I mean, yes, he could play piano, and he wrote some interesting music, but he totally failed to grasp his potential with the Indian market."

No-one wins on that score. The kicks are free, but pointless, and the goal behind them is purely destructive.

David Beckham inspired a million kids - more in all probability. He may not have been quite the greatest footballer ever, but he was right up there. Watching him play was a joy. And I am grateful. I will always value the memories I have of his distinctive style and that red, United no.7 shirt on his back.

He inspired me, gave me great joy, and the world has changed with the end of his playing years. Thanks David. I wish you well for whatever you do next.

treats

Sometimes in life it's good to have treats. I've just had a weekend full of them. 

We had a work event at the House of Lords on Friday night. In all honesty, I went there feeling a bit blase. But with good colleagues, and with the fun of being on the Terrace and helping lead a tour, it was all rather fun. 

Sometimes the things you don't think too much of turn out to be really great.  

Next day I had lunch on Saturday with Tory, my dear friend, and we shared stories and life and insight and joys and frustrations. And treats. He was in London, visiting from DC for a few days. Next weekend, I am in DC, visiting for a few days. We will meet again then.

Sometimes the things you really look forward to are amazing.

I'd made a decision to go to Covent Garden to see the Royal Opera perform Verdi's Don Carlo whilst I was in London. I didn't have a ticket, but there are a few always available on the day, and my wonderful friend Rosy was up for it - so we turned up at 7.30am and waited. I especially love Jonas Kaufmann's voice, and the chance to hear him sing 'live' in the Opera House was something I didn't want to miss. 

I've been to more operas than I can remember. Here are my top three: Aida in Florence in the mid nineties. Turandot at Covent Garden about ten years ago. And Saturday night's Don Carlo. 

Very rarely do you see something so close to perfection that you never want to see it again. David Tennant's Hamlet. Jane Eaglen's Turandot. The whole darn cast on Saturday. It was an immense experience.   

On Sunday morning, after breakfast and conversations and nearly staying too late, I treated myself to a very different experience of church to my usual weekly diet of Calverley parish. I went to Westminster Abbey. I've never really been there before; I mean - I've wandered into the nave. I've never paid the extra and seen the Quire or Poet's Corner. I've never been to a service. To worship feet away from where the Queen was crowned was awe inspiring. To praise the King of kings in this place has a remarkable resonance. I know the double patriotism of the Christian and the earthly belonging is viewed by some as suspect; I see the point, but also find it capable of wonder and value. 

The choir sang beautifully; Vernon White, Canon Theologian, preached superbly. The combination of a really quite touching and emotive sermon and splendid Cathedral style worship was beautiful. 

Then I walked through the cool spring sunshine, and enjoyed the sudden crowds. It had been quiet when I'd arrived. It was quiet no more. London is full of tourists, and that included me. I don't belong there, and have no desire ever so to do. But I do enjoy visiting. I do enjoy the treats. I do enjoy the opportunity to see and hear and marvel at gifts and excellence and beauty. I enjoy stopping and thinking about Churchill as he gazes still at the Houses of Parliament, at the Unknown Soldier alone returned from war, at the statues of once-famous men that pop up unbidden around every corner, at palaces and offices and shops and spaces and people who affect me because I am a person too, being treated to moments shared with those who never knew me.

Hall of Infamy

In February he defended himself to the hilt. He was innocent. He would regain his reputation.

In May he admitted guilt.

Stuart Hall, a man in his eighties, an Icon of broadcasting on these shores, a presenter of It's a Knockout and news and sports, a wordsmith, one of the glories of the BBC.

Guilty of indecent assault against thirteen women. One of them a nine year old girl. No matter that these charges are historic; no matter that the last of these crimes dates from nearly thirty years ago. His sins have found him out.

It's almost too painful a story.

For the victims, the avuncular tea-time TV host turned their lives to secret horror. And fear. And shame.

For his own family, the man they love has betrayed that love with sordid acts & the get-away-scot-free mentality of Celebrity that caused him to deny, deny and deny again.

For the man, his whole working life thrown away by wandering hands. Everything he ever did lost and replaced by a reputation he never sought, but earned as he now signs the sex offenders register.

For the rest of us, bewilderment. There are icons we see smashed and (frankly) something in us doesn't care. Public figures are brought low, and sometimes something in us even enjoys the process. And then occasionally there are those whose demise leaves us bereft. Even though we feel for the victims. Even though they deserve their shame. Even though they have been despicable, and not merely unlucky or foolish.

It's a bereavement. There was something certain - this was a good guy - and now the rug has been pulled, and the memory of his laughter pouring out of our TVs becomes hollow, eerie, creepy. This wasn't a good guy. The certainty was built on sand, like the castles on It's a Knockout.

Now.

Regular readers know my form. This is where I add a spiritual bit, where I turn things slightly and make us think about ourselves and don't let anyone get off lightly but also add some mercy. God is in this somewhere.

God is in this somewhere, for sure. I'll probably read someone else's blog and wish I'd written their words.

All I can add is that many years ago, someone wronged me deeply. They were regarded as a good person, and as far as I know that's still how they are seen. They never apologised to me, though to be fair I've not looked for that. I don't need such an apology, and I don't need anyone else to tell me that what they did was wrong either. What was done hurt me more than I understood at the time, and went deeper than I knew. You can't always choose the hand you are dealt - but sometimes you have to choose how you play that hand.

What did I choose? Slowly, very slowly, I learned to forgive.

It was painful, and it dominated my thinking in ways I hardly spoke of to anyone.

But it actually happened. For real.

Twelve years elapsed before I next saw this person; and in that time I often wondered how I would speak to them, what I would say, what I would ask. In the end, it was a non-event. A chance meeting. Casual. And I realised that I didn't need to say anything because, actually, I had forgiven them. I haven't seen them since.

God had walked me through painful years and together his & my tears had washed me clean. No - that's how it felt; the reality is different. The reality is that this is a broken old world, with a God who loves it so much he shed his own blood as well as his tears. I was as much forgiven as forgiving - if not for that, for other things. This was not a monster with whom I spoke, just another person; I was not a victim anymore, just another person.

I do not think that court cases, judgements and falls from grace end stories from the Halls of Infamy. But I do believe in forgiveness. Forgiveness that transforms victims into more than conquerors, and restores monsters back to humanity.

being Luis Suarez is enough punishment in itself

I'm a Man United fan. So I really dislike Luis Suarez. But the fuss that has surrounded his 'bite' of Chelsea's Branislav Ivanovic last weekend is ridiculous.

If you're not familiar with the story, Suarez, who plays for Liverpool, is supposed to have bitten Ivanovic, who plays for Chelsea, in last Sunday's 2-2 draw. Supposed to? Haven't I seen the footage?

Read this from The Guardian:
"Ivanovic was checked over for injuries by Chelsea after the game - there were none - and the Met police officer who visited the club's training ground also looked for bite marks or bruises. He too saw nothing. The officer, acting with police on Merseyside, asked Ivanovic whether he wanted to press charges. He did not."

Suarez has a screw loose. He's an animal. Unlikeable. A great footballer, not a great person. Even Liverpool fans must struggle to warm to him.

And yesterday, for this 'crime' of not biting Ivanovic he was banned for ten matches.

Brendan Rogers, Liverpool manager, has accused the FA of punishing "the man rather than the incident". Usually, as a United fan, I'd be thinking - typical Scouse whining.

But actually - Rogers is right.

Maybe Suarez meant to bite Ivanovic. Maybe he thought better of it in the nick of time. Maybe Ivanovic shrugged him off. Whatever, no bite happened. You can't punish someone for a thing they didn't quite do.

Well, I guess you can - but not like this, and not with any credibility. Not in a context where racism crimes in football get an 8 match or 4 match ban; where similar 9,10 or 11 week bans have come in the past only for breaking a bloke's jaw or for assaulting the referee.

It may be that more serious bans would generally be a better thing for the game; but that's not the decision here. The decision here is that Suarez gets a ban for biting a player. If he were playing rugby, it wouldn't even have been noticed. There wasn't even any bruising. Most of the other players on the pitch did more damage to each other in this match than Suarez did to Ivanovic. He got a ban for looking bad. And for being Luis Suarez.

Being Luis Suarez is enough punishment in itself some days. Listen carefully, you can hear bouncing; there's a kangaroo court in session. It has nothing to do with justice, and everything to do with self-righteousness.

Mind you, David Cameron disagrees with me - as a parent, not as Prime Minister. To be fair, I'm neither, so perhaps I'm always going to see this differently. Here's a tweet from BBC5Live this morning:
PM @David_Cameron: Luis #Suarez set "the most appalling example". Listen > http://bbc.in/14i8LKk  #LFC

So - Should the Liverpool-loving Bishop of Bradford fight to free Gnasher? Can we suddenly move the goal posts on justice? Or is it enough that he's just a bad sort? There - lock him up; then he can't frighten the children anymore.

What do you think?

Family doesn't always mean Families

I read two articles yesterday about families and single people and how they do and don't work together in the Church.

Firstly, there was a piece in the Independent which said that 40% (or thereabouts) of single people in churches find that they feel 'inadequate', 'ignored', or 'not treated as family members' in their local congregations. Here's a key passage:

"People are incredibly loyal to their church. One of the key findings was that they felt embraced but whilst this should be something warm they said they often felt isolated and lonely. They say they are accepted but they are not included socially. They feel invisible and think about leaving."
"Accepted but not included socially." Goodness me.

The national statistics are interesting, and set a tough context in which to hear those words. More than 500,000 single person households have been created in the past decade with the number of single adults reaching 15.7m

David Pullinger, the researcher who analysed the data behind this report, added: "This is a time bomb for the church. All their natural contact points with the community tend to be with families - people coming forward for marriage, births and through Sunday school and church groups. They have to take seriously singles aged over 30 and think how they can reach out and embrace them and start to make it an attractive place for people to come."

Then I read this blog on friendship from JR Forasteros. He comments on the debunking of the proposed Friends sitcom reunion by co-creator Marta Kaufmann who said, "It’s not happening. Friends was about that time in your life when your friends are your family and once you have a family, there’s no need anymore."

Friends were your family until you grew up, became a real person, and had a real family. Then you didn't need friends anymore. JR talks about the devastating mistake that lies in those words, and how life is robbed by the loss of wider relationships - for married people, for single people, for whole communities.

The Church is a Family; but Family isn't always about families. Family is about belonging, and caring, and home and haven. It's about being accepted unconditionally and included without a second thought. Without a first thought. Just because.

I aimed in Pontypridd to grow a church that was all about Family. We had single people, children, adults, families, single parents, grandparents, widows, widowers, divorced people, young people, old people, women, men, those who came to everything and those who turned up once in a blue moon. Everyone was part of the Family.

There's a myth about churches, and about church leadership: the successful vicar is married with seven kids. Because he understands marriage. He cares about family. Let me say quite bluntly that these days, most people aren't married, but they still belong to the Family of God.

Relationships happen at all sorts of deep levels. Churches should foster every one of these. We should care for people as they start to think of how their adult lives will look, and as they shape those lives with relationships that work and fail, and as some commit in marriage and mutual love, and as some find that path not to be theirs. We should care for people who care for children, and for people who care for parents, and for people who have never been cared for. We should love the bereaved and the depressed and the sick and the unloveable every bit as much as our heroes and role models and pin-ups and those we follow on Twitter. We should love those whose families are perfect and picture-postcard and the envy of everyone else. We should love those who have lost, and those who never knew such a family. We should embrace the lonely; those who have always been lonely, and frankly couldn't be anything else if they tried; and those who find loneliness shocking and unfamiliar and unbearable. We should throw parties for new members as they come into this world; and for heart and soul members as they go on before us to the world to come.

And so what if this is an ideal that seldom really works out in real life? We should have ideals and then live with the demands they make on us and laugh and love in the face of the days when they are just damned impossible.

I'm a single bloke, and any time I have any responsibility in a church I will run a Family Church. I don't know how to do anything else. But if you think that means it's all about 'families', you haven't begun to understand what I'm about.

Much

I had a great trip to the Bradford International Film Festival last weekend & saw this movie - Joss Whedon's take on Much Ado.

I love Brannagh's 1990s version; but this revision has a vitality & rhythm of its own. It matches the comedy & the pathos, the sadness and the joy with a visual wit and style. Much Ado has one of the best lines in all Shakespeare; the top notch ensemble cast delivers everything required of them of them brilliantly. Even Dogberry, surely up there with the unfunniest comedy characters ever written, really hits the mark.

Prejudice alert: normally US accents in Shakespeare plays are enough to make me pay to stay at home; but I was won over. This cast (and this director) just get it right. Oh that every movie this summer might sound so good, flow so well, tell such a story and move my heart so deeply.

It hits general release in June. I'll be seeking it out again. So should you.

And that 'best line' I love so much? Act 2, scene 1; Claudio's beautiful comment on having no words to match his feelings on learning that Hero accepts his love.

Silence is the perfectest herald of joy. I were but little happy if I could say how much. 

We'd all give our right arms to be able to write that stuff.

sticks and stones

Margaret Thatcher became Prime Minister when I was in my first year at grammar school. She left office in my first year at theological college.

Let's just think about that for a moment.

She was PM for almost all of my secondary school education. She was PM all through my Oxford undergraduate years. She was PM while I had my first job after college. She was PM when I moved to the US for six months, and was still PM when I returned. She was PM when I moved back to Oxford and started to train to be a vicar.

It's reasonable to say that that's a fairly formative part of my life.

Twenty three years and a whole world away from where we are now. At the end of the seventies, democracy was in a strange place. In school, we genuinely believed the nuclear bomb might fall. At any time. There was a feeling that some kind of revolution was not impossible. The traditional ruling classes were fleeing from the Unions. Some Unions seemed to want to destroy society every bit as much as those who were hell bent on destroying the Unions. Terrorism stalked the streets in balaclavas and bombs blew innocents to shreds as people fought for their causes through hunger strikes that had no picket lines.

We don't live in that country any more. Is this place perfect? Far from it. Is it better? 1979 is 34 years ago. 34 years before that was 1945. Let's get some perspective.

There is always a tendency to judge one age by the standards of the next. We look back and wonder how people ever did what they did, wore what they wore, thought what they thought. We judge.

So easily.

I happen to think that judgement is a particular curse of the internet age. Comments proliferate with anonymity. There is no responsibility on the webpages of the Guardian or the Independent or the Telegraph (left or right makes no difference) as people let rip and curse the thoughtful and the considered and rush to bring down the generous and the gracious. Let's have a 'Social Media' campaign to offend a grieving family and call Mrs T a Witch! Ding Dong!

Well, Art Garfunkel was no 1 in the charts with Bright Eyes on May 4th 1979. Vanilla Ice was there with Ice Ice Baby on November 28 1990. If the campaigners get their wish today, this is the company they unwittingly join.

Politicians are people. Prick them, they bleed. People go into public life for many reasons - but most of those I know well honestly work from a desire to make things better. They work from different priorities, different ideologies, different backgrounds and understandings of the world. As soon as they open their mouths, they get mis-reported. That's what the press do.

And their families suffer. They see too little of them. They get lonely. Sometimes bullied. Sometimes ostracised or burdened with false friends. Yet they serve on.

And at the end?

Christians should stop and think and understand something. We are to be a people of gratitude. A people who give what we would like to receive. A people of grace and generosity and of seeing and making the best. And where all we can see is hurt, then we are to be forgivers. We don't forgive because it didn't really matter, but because it did; and because when Jesus died, there were those then who threw a party and exulted in his death, and he prayed, 'Father, forgive'.

We honour those who serve, even when we disagree. Because we honour people. God judges. And he judges us as part of that deal.

I'm grateful for a towering political figure who stands over such a vital part of my life. I'm grateful for the memories of debates and conversations and for the years that happened and the pain and the opportunities of those days. I'm grateful we are in these days now, with these debates and opportunities and pains and challenges too. I'm grateful for friends who take the risk of public service. I honour them, and pray for them, and I hope that they might understand that if I sometimes disagree I will always love them and always be grateful for them and to them for what they do.

And I pray that the culture we have of judging without responsibility, of comments with anonymity and bile and no grace or humanity, might fade and be replaced by something kinder.

Sticks and stones and nuclear bombs didn't kill us in the Eighties after all. So neither will the names ultimately hurt us; but we can do better. People are people.

That's not about hagiography. It's just being a decent human being.

garden centre

Picture the scene: a garden; the dark of day; blazing angels on guard; God present, walking, but unseen; a woman (whose name has always been rebellion) in tears; disappointment tinges the air; fear - and a sense that nothing will ever be the same.

I'm painting a picture not of Mary Magdalene in John 20, but Eve in Genesis 3.

Salvation is about putting things right - things that have been wrong for a very long time. There was a garden that ended in tears; on Easter Day we find another that starts that way.

For here the great story changes. We still fail. We still lose. We still disappoint. But Jesus is triumphant. And so the shadow of the Great Garden is finally lifted, and the tombs that have kept humanity locked into a spiral of despair are finally opened.

He is not here! He is not in the past! He is risen!

And when the walking God speaks to the weeping woman this time, there is no shame. No recriminations, no further punishment. Now Mary (the name means 'rebellion') in loving obedience wipes away the memory of Eve and becomes the first witness to the new reality. Her words change the world.

To adapt some words I recently heard from Ben Witherington, Christ's history transforms our destiny. His resurrection reshapes our every day and brings God's reign and rule into play now. The things that have held us down are no longer ultimate. Christ is risen, and we are in Christ. So his story wins, not the things that used to make us less.

For we are raised with Christ - not simply in the glorious future of the Resurrection that will transform all things, but now. Today. As well. His love is beating sin and death and despair and all evil for us  - for you - today.

In Calverley Church this morning, I spoke of a time when my world seemed to fall apart. And yet Christ took hold of me and did not simply give me strength to endure and get through those days - at the end I was more than at the beginning. What I went on to do, I could not have done before. He raised me up.

We are not Christians in order to grit our teeth and get through life, but to hold the hand of the One who is the first fruits of the Resurrection. Holding that Risen hand, we find ourselves lifted up. Today, in a hundred small ways. Eventually, O eventually we too will rise gloriously, eternally, immortally.

He rose in a garden to release the chains that bind us. Salvation is about putting things right - things that have been wrong for a very long time. Resurrection is about allowing Christ's history to transform our destiny - making what is true work for real in our lives. Making it new. Working it out. Seeing it happen.

And it's about feeling the hand that touched Mary, touch our shoulders, and hearing the voice that called her name, call ours. Then we too get up, and run with obedience wherever he asks, with joy; because when the Risen Lord Jesus is around, everything changes.

Passion

WIth almost no reference to Good Friday anywhere visible in the TV listings, I turned to YouTube, and found a complete recording of a concert performance of the Bach St Matthew Passion conducted by Philippe Herreweghe.



I hooked my Macbook up to my hifi & sat entranced for the full two and three quarter hours. The St Matthew is one of the wonders of music, and Herreweghe is a supreme Bach conductor. Watching it all the way through, with only my Gospel text by my side (and not really needing that - it's a very clear performance) was heartrendingly moving. There are moments when a very familiar chorus or aria sweeps in to play, and the context adds layer upon layer of power and emotion.

The tenor aria, Ich will bei meinem Jesu wachen, was such a moment for me. Peter has promised to defend Jesus to the end, Jesus has asked the disciples to pray with him, and in a moment he will beg for the cup of suffering to pass. "I would beside my Lord be watching," sings the tenor, the choir commenting that it is our sins that will fall asleep. Not so. We know the story. We feel the bitter irony, and see what is to come.

Then the beauty of the counter tenor aria Erbame Dich  - Have Mercy - an achingly glorious piece of music, but one that comes shot with pain as it reflects on the betrayal Peter pours upon Jesus so lightly before the cock crows. The harshest failure of friendship; the most beautiful music. Stunning.

I let the music do its work. I let my heart be worked on and touched and opened and broken. From the opening invitation to come and see, to the closing invocation of tears of grief, I sat and watched and listened and felt the glory, the wonder, the pain, the sheer magic of this piece and of the Truth it reveals.

Then I dried my eyes and went to church to continue in worship.

A Good Friday.

Canada

And so the Spring arrives. Holy Week brings in the promise of New Life.

(Though, honestly, it feels like we are stuck in winter-without-Christmas, and Aslan is nowhere to be found.)

Genuinely my bike is frozen to the ground. B-icicles drip off it. Every morning, I conduct my new Spring routine. I open the window shutters and say -
"Oh look, it's snowing."

I'm thinking of moving somewhere milder. Like Canada.

I love the snow, but on the whole, I love it in winter. I didn't expect to be snowed in on March 23rd when I booked a ticket to the St John Passion in York. I missed carols there at Christmas because of the weather; it never occurred to me that Easter would be worse!

That's wrong, of course.

It's not Easter that's worse, just this wretched weather. And the other day, driving up from the south coast I did play the whole of Bach's St John in the car and revelled in its majesty and glory and wonder.

There is a power in hearing the whole story in one sitting, not simply taking a few verses at a time. I'd love to do a modern Passion - to have music and Scripture readings and poetry that took a couple of hours, but led us through the emotions and helped us reflect and feel and hear and left us bewildered and wrung out and in awe.

There. A project for next year. Or for somewhere else.

And though the snow continues to fall, there are rays of sunshine slipping into my mind because I am speaking on Sunday morning, and leading the service in Calverley, and I am beginning to feel the joy of Easter grip me through the remorseless ice of this very long winter.

Truth will out. Sun will rise. Complaints will cease and joy will flow because (hush - it's too soon - but it's unbearably true - ) He is Risen.

We all lose. We all feel the ice and the cold. We all know it.

And yet every year, this week, these days, and the Sunday at the end of it tower over us to declare -

We all win. Because Christ is triumphant. And because Christ is triumphant, so are we. Break the glass upon the pond, smash the stone that stands over the grave, knit together the broken hearts and warm the frozen, despairing hands. Why look for the living amongst the dead?

He is Risen.

(Maybe Canada can wait.)

105

I was in Kent Thursday afternoon, but not (alas) in Canterbury. So I am watching the installation of the 105th Archbishop of Canterbury a day late.

It's a terrifically Anglican event.

The liturgy, the colours, the music, the way the congregation is entering into it with such restraint - glorious.

And then Justin.

Unlike Rowan, whose bearing and voice poured poetry upon us in words we often admired without full comprehension, Justin finds the more direct route. To be fair, Rowan's Celtic heart wasn't English anyway. Justin's prose is more prosaic, but his message comes with a savage directness: no Christ, no point.

Really, I'm sure that's what he just said.

We can't be fully human without Jesus, and society built without him therefore will fail. So - take courage and respond to the One who says - fear not, it is I.

It's OK to fail; Jesus' love is stronger than failure. Fear stops us being human - Jesus' love conquers that.  This was gloriously direct stuff. Of all that happened (and I am including the obligatory African drumming) this was the least expected moment. It seems our new Archbishop has been watching the Queen's "How To Evangelise The Nation" videos which she has been sneaking out for a couple of Christmasses now...

So it's slightly churlish of me to pick a fight so early in #ABC105's tenure, but he allowed a mis-step on the radio earlier in the day. It was, I hope, simply a mis-step.

Pressed (inevitably) on his attitude to the gay question, he spoke warmly of the depth of some gay relationships he knows - and then added that these things were not the same as heterosexual relationships and shouldn't be confused. He went on to say something of the order of, equality is problematic, because not everything is equal. Some things are different and we should rejoice in complimentarity.

This for me was the mis-step.

I think I am becoming a Justin fan. So forgive me for picking this up. Equality & Complimentarity are not alternative qualities. Indeed, when they are allowed to be presented as such, we are always going to hit problems. In terms of gender issues, I think that way of looking at life pretty much went out with the Ark. In employment law now - and in most church life too! - we accept and enjoy differences between men and women. But only in the context of making all equal.

Which of these statements is unacceptable:
* A woman's place is in the wrong.
* A woman's place is in the kitchen.
* A woman's place is in the boardroom, but on less pay than her less talented male colleague.
Answer - all of them, without exception. Obviously!

Yet when women enter leadership they often do so in a very different way to men. Stereotypes exist because there is within them some truth. Those differences are absolutely fine to work through - even enjoy - but only when we have got rid of the inequalities of the insults above and ensured prejudice and sexism have been dealt with.

So too with sexuality issues. Gay people and straight are not the same - that's fair, though (again) we must be careful of stereotypes. But 'difference' only works as a concept in public life if underlying that is a sense of equality. Otherwise, it almost inevitably leads to prejudice and disadvantage. I would very fairly say that I have often been made to feel different, and I'm talking about life in the Church here; I have not often felt equal. A concept of complimentarity without equality can be scary. The church needs to be a place that banishes such fear, as Justin said in his installation sermon, because Jesus is with us, arms stretched out, saying - I'm here, so it's OK. He loves everyone. He makes us equal. Equally loved. Equally human. Different in a hundred ways, but these things must always go together.

Equality is a fundamentally Christian concern. The only people who don't think so are those who already have enough of it.

And Christians should never have enough of it. We should always want to ensure that more and more people are more and more equal. People that we find hard. Just because they are people. Jews & Gentiles. Slave & free. Sinners and saints.

The mistake is to think that when we say people are Equal we say they have no needs, no cause to turn to Christ. That's a confusion: if everyone is equal, everyone stands on a level playing field before Calvary, the cross towering over all of us in exactly the same way. And on it - one Lord, one Judge, one Saviour.

We may be different. But we are equal there. These are not antithetical ideas, and the real dignity of people often depends upon us so melding these concepts together now that come the Day when we stand together before Christ,  we will do so as good and faithful servants surrounded by a cloud of other good and faithful witnesses.

Enough - I said earlier that I think I am a fan of #ABC105 & I meant it.

As Justin said, it's OK to fail. The service, the sermon - huge success; the radio interview - perhaps less so. An archbishop gets a honeymoon period where no-one notices the mis-steps for a while. Mercifully! We should pray that the man who is so impressive in the grand moments & the prepared set-pieces becomes equally brilliant at the off-the-cuff reply.

Equally brilliant. In a different setting...