pride & prejudice

The wonderfully exuberant Archbishop of York has a couple of pieces in today's Telegraph. I was alerted to them by his twitter feed:

Gave Telegraph a wide ranging interview http://tinyurl.com/7jlekdm & http://tinyurl.com/83222dm Hope people read full interview not just the headlines.

One of them is about the church's response to the government's proposals for gay marriage, & the other is about his current trip to the West Indies. In the second there is a comment which I feel reflects on the first, though they are not ostensibly linked.

Let's do this bit by bit. The first piece tells us that the Archbishop is against changing the law on marriage; it isn't the State's job to interfere here. Marriage is between a man and a woman. For a prime minister to think he can alter this is for that man to become like a moral dictator. Not that he's against change - he points out that the bishops in the House of Lords did not try to stop Labour introducing civil partnerships in 2004, giving homosexual couples improved legal rights, and adds that his stance on marriage doesn't mean he wishes to "diminish, condemn, criticise, patronise any same-sex relationships because that is not what the debate is about".

In the other article we read: 

The Archbishop said he never encountered racism from fellow clergy in his rise through the ranks of the Church of England. 

Here's my reflection.

I am quite astounded Dr Sentamu never experienced open racism from clergy in the C of E. I'm sure it exists. I'm sure of this not because I think clergy are evil, but because bad attitudes are carried by good people. We fail unexpectedly. Without realising what we just said. That he never suffered from such prejudice is amazing. Wonderful.

Unfortunately, I worry that his article & the views he expresses within it means that any gay clergy reading it couldn't offer the same life story "I've never experienced any homophobia from clergy in the C of E". Not because I think the Archbishop is evil or bad, but because bad attitudes are carried by good people. We fail unexpectedly. Without realising what we just said. 

You see: I have to differ with Dr Sentamu - it is absolutely the State's job to set the rules around what constitutes marriage. It always has been. For us in Britain, this has been confused by a remarkably strong Christian heritage and a remarkably strong National Established Church. But the State sets the rules. The current rules around marriage are set by Parliament, and have been for - well, pretty much for ever. Even the bits that reflect what we do in church, including the C of E are set by Parliament, though the exact liturgies are brought through denominational committees. Still, they have very strict rules surrounding them. C of E (and bizarrely Church in Wales, disestablished Anglican ministers!) are public registrars for the purposes of marriage, according to law as established not just by Synod but by Parliament. This has always led to tensions: for example, when the church doesn't know how to deal with divorced people, but the State says they may re-marry, what do we do? Answer - eventually go the State's way. In flat contradiction to the plain reading of the Bible & hundreds of years of history, to which the Archbishop appeals in the Telegraph.

Marriage may well be ordained by God. But it is governed by the State, and if he doesn't understand that, he needs to go back to college. This is a compromise situation, and always has been for the C of E. If you don't like it - tough.

Given that, I'm afraid the next step in the argument is frighteningly simple. Are gay people people? Are they as human as straight people? Or do we live in Nazi Germany and have second class humans wandering around after all? Because if everyone is actually human, then everyone gets the same deal whether we like it or not. The same rights, the same taxes, the same vote. And, actually, this is FUNDAMENTALLY CHRISTIAN. God loves people. Sinners as much as saints. Jews as much as Gentiles. Women as much as men. Slaves as much as free. Straight as much as gay. There are no second class human beings.

Christians should be at the front of any queue where there are human rights of equality being fought for. Even if we don't like what the results of that fight will bring. We do it because we love people, because Jesus died for all. Even for me. To do anything less is to fail in the great command - Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and your neighbour as yourself. 

To read "the bishops in the House of Lords did not try to stop Labour introducing civil partnerships in 2004, giving homosexual couples improved legal rights" as a positive should stick in any Christian's heart as total failure. If people have poor rights, we don't STOP THEM BEING IMPROVED. We fight for them until they have everything they could possibly want, until they are truly equal - even if we don't like the results of the fight. We do it because we are called to love. Presenting the sentence at the top of this paragraph as a positive is, I am afraid, being guilty of casual, unintentional, but definite homophobia. It is precisely to "diminish, condemn, criticise, patronise any same-sex relationships" and that is exactly what the current proposed change in legislation is looking at putting right - because the status quo fails to take seriously that here are people not being treated as equal people. As less-than. 

I don't care if the church has gay bishops. Couldn't be less bothered. But I do care that her leadership understand that all people are people, all are loved by God, and that whatever our doctrine and standards are, we have a God who loves all and who has charged us to do the same. Offhand remarks that build cast-iron policies which confirm the reduction of some people to a less-than status when placed next to their neighbours will not do. Will not do. 

I am sure the Archbishop will never read this, but here's what I would say to him: genuinely I am thrilled you were spared being subjected to racist prejudice as you worked through the C of E. Now, please understand there are others who suffer prejudice and are treated as second rate in our churches and in our land because of their sexuality, and for many other reasons, and please don't merely 'not stop them' having a better lot. Please, with your history, please be at the forefront of fighting for their equality, even if you don't always understand them, just because they are people. 

I can't help feeling that if we truly do this as a church, we will make so many friends that our doors will be beaten down by people wanting to know why we care so much.

gratitude

So I am in Wengen for a week, enjoying perfect snow and now wonderful blue, sunlit skies. My gold skis are shining brightly as they speed over the white expanse, and I am having a great time.

Today was especially wonderful.

I spent the day with Sheridan & a group from the DHO (Downhill Only Club) as we explored the Murren side of the resort. In all honesty, I have never really enjoyed skiing on this side of the mountain, but I'm prepared to accept that this prejudice comes from my early days on skis and bears no relation to rationality. Now, I simply don't know these parts, and so I avoid them.

However, a day with Sheridan guiding us around is always a pleasure, and although the first couple of runs made me go, "Oh yes, I remember - DHO speed. Fast;" I soon forgot that I'd had to find an extra gear and just enjoyed the flow.

Of course, the highlight of this side of the mountain is the Schilthorn, famous as Blofeld's lare in On Her Majesty's Secret Service. I've often been up on the cable car, enjoyed the view from the restaurant at the top - and caught the cable car down. I've never skiied it before. But today was the day. Dressed in black, with my trusty Volants on my feet, I was ready. Ready as I'd ever be.

Of course, I had no idea that the top of the run, the scary bit, was not simply very long and very steep - but also in the current conditions covered in moguls. Bumps. Requiring a particular skill some of you will have, but which is only occasionally something I possess... and then seldom beyond a certain degree slope. This was way beyond that degree. Mercifully I had amazing friends from the DHO to guide me down, and though I took a couple of tumbles (one rather spectacular) and would score zero points for style, I made it. There was a moment I felt I'd lost my head battle and could have cried when I looked down and felt that I'd travelled miles and there seemed to be the whole slope still ahead of me, but then I actually started to enjoy the experience. Earlier, I'd been working my hardest to appear to be a decent skier as I was travelling with everyone and thus not quite relaxing; now I really could not pretend, I failed again & again & began to just be and be myself and enjoy the whole darned show. It was - exhilarating. Totally beyond me, and totally wonderful. Stuck on a mountain with no option but to keep going, I guess I had to trust the skill I had (small measure) and the people I was with (wonderful, just wonderful) and I suddenly loved it. Amazing. All my natural reserve let go for a moment. The sun, the beauty, the wonder - the stillness of the Spirit holding me and keeping me safe. Awesome.

I should have been exhausted. I was. I am. But I kept going & we skiied for ages afterwards, and actually I felt like I could have carried on.

Perhaps it was the remnants of a dream I had last night still easing their way into my subconscious.

Is it a human condition to doubt that we are loved, or does no-one else struggle with this? In my former life as a vicar, people often told me how much I was loved. I never believed it. I felt I was loved for my role, for what I brought to the parochial table. For gifts (gladly) offered, and for time (gladly) spent. The confusion of the professional & personal "me" is always a difficulty for a pastor. It is easy to accept the good one does (and also the good one does not do) and to acknowledge it as service. It is hard to feel loved simply for being oneself, as it is so hard to divorce the actions of the role from the simple person inside. So (I am guessing like many people do) I chose to accept the kind wishes given as professional regard. And park it as such under "not quite personally relevant".

And yet last night, from nowhere, indeed if anything against my experiences of the previous day where I had received an email whilst on holiday which had stressed me and which had made me feel small and unloved at first, before trying to respond in a way which might be more helpful (though didn't deal with my own feelings) - from this place I had a dream where someone I do not know, a person called Paul, offered to do a small task and did it to show me I was loved. The task was inconsequential. My reaction in the dream to being told why it was happening was extraordinarily emotional.

Because - I felt loved. Genuinely. Not for what I do, or for a role I inhabit, or a task I fulfil, but I felt loved. Me. This was done for me. I awoke and wondered at the power of this thing. This simple act revealed a love I talk about all the time - how God loves us, me you, each and every one of us; and yet I have seldom felt the truth of that love as I felt it in that moment. A person I had never seen did a small act that made the power of God's love overwhelm me. I was loved.

And then I had a glorious day. A gift. An exhilarating time. Safety in extremis. Beauty and majesty all around me and kind people and glory.

So perhaps the remnant of the dream took away fear, and replaced it with something else -

Gratitude. Felt in my sleep, deeply, and on the mountainside, wonderfully.

something true

I’ve been considering my New Year’s Resolutions. And, knowing myself to be as frail as the next man, and as liable to failure as to success, this is more of a prayer, but - 

Lord, you say “Don’t judge lest you be judged, and that by the same standard you foist on others”. Well then, make me more judgmental this year. 

Make me judge people kindly, that when they come to judge me I might receive a bit of undeserved generosity from time to time.

And when people sin against me, let me judge them with forgiveness. Just in case, when I make a mess, they might make the same call over me.

When people are wasting my time Lord, let me judge them worthy of grace. Worth a bit more time, just because. It’s a gift. And whenever I presume upon somebody else too much, may this gift come home to roost.

When I’ve had enough of someone Lord, may I grant them another chance. Chances are, I’ll need to feel the merits of this one pointed back my way more than once in the twelve months ahead.

And when I see someone whom I don’t like, may I judge them worthy of being loved. Goodness knows I don’t like myself sometimes, and I pray that others may find me lovable when I am being particularly - you know, me.

When the temptation arises to use people and love things, so that life is easier & I can get on and do well, may I judge people to be priceless and things inconsequential. May I judge my path to be no greater than anyone else’s. May I weigh truth and eternity in a moment and remember that you are always here so that I can rest easy and never worry - and in doing so remember always to love my neighbour. For then perhaps I will have been someone who has seen something true with your eyes, and just maybe I too may be judged a human being, for a moment reflecting what it is to be made in your image, loving you with my heart, soul & strength.   

Yes Lord. This year, make me more judgmental. And may I remember this prayer and dare to live it out.

preach it, ma'am!

It's been an interesting Christmas on TV! Obviously I loved Doctor Who, but something else remarkable happened: The Queen has been asserting herself as Supreme Governor of the Church of England, and giving her clergy at large a fine example of how to preach on major festivals. The Christmas Day royal broadcast has been a staple of our national diet since 1932 when Rudyard Kipling (who of course is most famous for such immortal lines as "I want to be like you-oo-oo, oobidoo") wrote the first one for George V which began with the words "I speak to you from my home and from my heart".

The Queen this year grabbed Christmas by the throat, clearly being irritated by the media spotlight on the new-atheist front & the general smugness of the Guardianista set, and told us quite clearly that:
1. Christmas is a Christian festival
2. We all need saving - from ourselves sometimes
3. Christianity is about forgiveness
3. Philosophers are all very well but God sent us a Saviour which is better (goodness, was that her obit for Christopher Hitchens?)
4. We can have the life he came to offer us right now
5. Here's a prayer from a carol - pray it with me
6. I wish you all would, because it's what life is all about.

Of course, she did it in a wonderfully gracious & Queeny way, and it starts at about 4'55'' on this video:



In many ways, just reading the text makes it even more clear. Preach it, ma'am, preach it. As Greg Downes wrote on his Facebook page:

"When I heard this I thought Her Majesty should lead a church -then I remembered she did! Would that all her Vicars could communicate with her gracious conviction, loving faith and gentle boldness..."

The BBC also broadcast a lovely musical offering, A Musical Nativity with John Rutter. That link probably only works in the UK, and I expect for a limited time. It's a programme of JR's music & other Christmas carols tracing the Christmas story, and it is beautiful. Do take the time, it is well worth it. The presenter at one point tries to get Rutter to admit he's something of an agnostic (a reasonable well-known fact, despite the words of his carols which are beautiful and often very faithful). Rutter deflects her admirably. There may be a current trend for everyone in the media to poo-poo faith, but he does nothing of the sort. The Church has nurtured him, and he cannot imagine life without its services and liturgies and traditions. He "struggles signing on dotted lines" was his rather gracious way of putting his position forwards.

John, I think HMQ might be ringing you...

In case you can't watch the whole of the programme, here's a clip of King's Cambridge singing the first carol he wrote, at age 16 (spit):

Merry Christmas

I don't know if you've caught the second season of Rev, the BBC2 comedy? The first season, it seemed to me, often went for the easy joke; the second season has gone for the longer reach, the character situation, and has felt much better for it. Earlier in the run I posted about the hilariously unrealistic vision of the uber-pastoral bishop who swept in to sort out a meta-crisis. Just when he was needed. Unasked. With perfect insight.

Not exactly my experience of reality, though it's what we all hope happens - and I think I've had excellent bishops.

The series finished this week with a seasonal episode looking at the bleaker side of Christmas. Adam, the vicar, does his best to do good to all, whilst all around him everyone else does their best to confound him. The resident alcoholic gives him a black eye; the midnight mass crowd go wild; the old lady he wants to visit dies whilst the archdeacon delays him, pointlessly, again; his father in law bullies him and his wife with no regard for the work he is doing or the stresses he faces.

And at the end, something wonderful occurs. As he gathers a disparate group of people around a table for Christmas lunch, ostensibly for the poor and needy, but infact seemingly for everyone we have seen in the series (all poor & needy?) it turns, briefly, ever so briefly, into a glorious tableau of the Last Supper around the enormous turkey ready before them.

All that pain, all that struggle, all that effort and service - becomes beautiful. A masterpiece. And seen and noticed by nobody there. Only by us, the observers granted, for a moment, God's-eye-view of what is happening.

Matt, my faithful Springer, sitting on the chair by the tree in the photo for you at the top of this piece, is, I expect, enjoying his last Christmas with me this year.

Today we went to see Roger, our new vet.

Matt has been shivering a lot at night; he's been restless in the evenings; and he has started to have the occasional little accident indoors. Wetting the floor a little. This happened about a year ago, and it was an infection; a few tablets & it cleared up. I took him to the vet in the hope that this was what we were seeing again; another infection. Instead, I received what no pet owner wants to receive - that sad look that medical practitioners give when they have no good news left.

Matt's kidney disease has progressed. There is no infection. There is no further treatment. He is being brave. We are not quite at the end. We are on the road there. There are further signs to watch out for. Who knows what happens next?

Merry Christmas.

Yet in the pain, the struggle, the effort perhaps there can still be something beautiful, a work of art. God's-eye-view, if I may be granted sight of it. The incarnation, Christmas, the way God enters this world and takes on every painful, glorious, earthly part of our experience speaks of him owning every bit of this. Fear. Loss. Grief. And with them, love, hope, trust. Gratitude for time together not bitterness for its ending, however and whenever that may come.

Life is a gift, and its fulness brings joys and sadnesses, but what is the alternative? Inaction, stultification, fear of leaving the room for what may happen next, the closed heart that never feels in case what it feels is painful. We should not be so foolish as to seek nor as to relish pain; but when it comes, Christmas tells us we have a Saviour who knows its bite as well as we do, and more. And he holds our hands, wipes our tears, speaks his peace until we rest within. To live is to love is to trust is to believe is to hope is to look up when we have been cast down and know - know - the whole picture beyond our seeing may yet be somehow beautiful. After all the pictures point us to an innocent young girl bearing the Messiah. A carpenter raising a King. Shepherds greeting a Saviour. Wise men worshipping the Author of all wisdom. Creation gathered in a stable. Truths beyond mystery, things seen but not understood, known but not fully recognised.

And the echoes of it in my small corner, with tears reminding me that the colours of this day will also work their way into that greater, living masterpiece. God with us: even here, even now.

Merry Christmas.

ever rolling stream

So here he is. My successor. The future unveiled! Peter Lewis, vicar of the Vale of Neath parish in Llandaff Diocese has been appointed to St Catherine's in Pontypridd.

An excellent appointment! Peter & I were contemporaries in Oxford as undergraduates, I think have both enjoyed time in Aberystwyth, and I have seen his work in the Vale of Neath and been impressed by it no end. He is a deeply committed man of God, and he and Martine will be wonderful servants for the community of Pontypridd.

I left for all sorts of reasons. High on that list was the very strong sense that I had done what I was supposed to do, and that I needed to go so that someone else could come and take the church on in ways that I could not. Peter is such a "someone else". He will build on what has happened over the last eleven years, but will take things as the Lord leads him, and will bless both the church and the community as he does so. He has an enormous heart to reach out and draw people to faith, and the way he stood up and spoke out for a community this year during the Gleision Colliery tragedy showed his calibre.

His involvement with New Wine Wales has been excellent, and I am glad of that too. I remember him as a fine flautist - and I am sure he will encourage the growing band of enthusiastic musicians who are gathering together at St Catherine's.

I did not speak to anyone, suggesting they should apply for the job, after I left or whilst I was preparing to leave. If I had done so, Peter would have been at the top of my list. Not because he would copy me - far from it. But because he is strong, godly, obedient and faithful. Such a man will bless any community. I am thrilled he is going to Pontypridd. Praise God!

501

A hospital appointment, a road trip, a funeral, a pint in the Bunch, supper with the Shadow Treasury Secretary and lots of Beethoven. It's been an eventful day or two.

The road trip was, of course, 500 miles there & home to John Murphy's funeral, which saw me back in Pontypridd, back at St Catherine's, back in a dog collar in front of a congregation. That in itself would have made the old man smile his quiet, knowing smile.

I spoke at the service, and really I'm not going to go over what I said. It was lovely to see all kinds of people there, and to say brief hellos. There were all kinds of people not there in a way that reminded me of an old preacher's tale. The question goes, "Have you heard of Albert McMakin?" and unless you know how the story works out, the answer is usually no. So then there's a second question: "Have you heard of Billy Graham?" and here, even these days, the answer is usually yes. Albert McMakin was the guy who drove Billy Graham to the tent meeting where he was converted. The guy who invited him to go there. No Albert, no Billy.

When I left in July I received so many public thank yous. But the families who benefit from the children's work at St Catherine's should know - without John Murphy, that wouldn't be happening. The older people enjoying St Caths Plus should know - without John Murphy, that wouldn't be happening. The members of the congregation who have joined the church since 2000 all ought to understand - without John Murphy, St Catherine's would be very, very different. He's the guy who made sure I went there in the first place. Who made sure I stayed. Who encouraged me, gave me ideas, smoothed the way with everyone so that every early change took root. He prayed and he enabled and he listened to God so that what we did worked. It was nice that people said nice things about me; but without John, I couldn't have begun to enjoy eleven of the best years of my life or help St Catherine's live a little.

Every vicar needs a John Murphy. And every John deserves to be remembered. Part of me saw all those who had come, and part of me was very aware of all those who hadn't - because they didn't know him, or know how much they owed him. No matter. Least of all to John - he is with those who have gone before, and many will join him, and he has his eyes full of the Saviour he longed to see.

Road, trip, - Hospital appointment? Oh yes, I have this thing on my back which needs sorting out; the consultant was very encouraging. The appointment was on Thursday morning, before I set out. "There are 200 ways of dealing with this; which means none of them work. We can do it, but it will come back. Does it hurt?" Stupid question. I've had it for ages. I'm only bothering him now because it has got past the live with it stage. "OK, I'll sort it then." So an op, and a general anaesthetic to boot in late January. Hooray. It's good to have something to look forwards to in the New Year...

A pint in the Bunch of Grapes with Mark. He tweeted rather nicely - Beer, and desserts, and nothing has changed. @salvationssongs http://twitpic.com/7u2ics 
Indeed, nothing. General, gentle chat over a fine pint. Though I'd forgotten that this close to Christmas the normal quiet of a Friday afternoon in the Bunch is replaced by the aftermatch gatherings of office party lunches.

And supper with Owen & Liz Smith & family. Even simple food on their table tastes like heaven. Jack & Issy are well on their way to becoming fine pianists, and are making excellent use of my old Bentley. Owen & I may have also found his local and enjoyed a pint or two there... I am thrilled he is enjoying life in Parliament, and am sure he will make his mark on the Shadow Treasury team. If only he could find someone as left wing as he is...

And lots of Beethoven. Following a review in the Telegraph, I downloaded a complete set of Beethoven symphonies by the Gewandhausorchester Leipzig & Riccardo Chailly. There are moments I would like a touch more hushed awe, but this is Beethoven with added wow factor. It is probably twenty years since I last bought a complete symphony set (and that was a CD release of an old George Szell set to go with my Beethoven-light Richard Hickox discs that I recently discovered don't play anymore) and I have to say - I don't remember Ludwig being this exciting. Who knew? I am listening out of order (one, two, three, four, seven, nine so far) and Nine is awesome. But all have been exhilarating. Genuinely awesome musicmaking, with a wonderful resonance in the recorded sound. Ah but then it's Decca. Good old Decca; they know how to do these things properly.

And they have made a nice contrast with the Christmas music I always have on - lots of John Rutter (either singing John Rutter carols, or doing nice a capella stuff), and a mix of Diana Krall & Harry Connick Jr who both have bothered to put some of their very best material on their Christmas albums. Who would do that? Why? DK's Christmas album may be her very best; HCJ's Jingle Bells is a jazz joy. And both contrast with the awesomely awful Michael Buble's Christmas album. Oh my word. I am a Buble fan. But words fail me here... Who is responsible for the car-crash recording of Santa Baby? Who failed to say, "Err, Michael, there's a really good reason this song is only ever sung by a girl..."? And for sheer ineptitude of diction, technique & audible insincerity his Ave Maria is possible even worse. Mr Buble might possible 'ave Maria, along with Mandy, Martha, and many of the other girls waiting outside in the queue; as for singing the Ave, I'm not so convinced from listening that he does this so often. This disc rates right down there with Kiri Te Kanawa singing Michel le Grand. Though, to be fair, I am judging both against their own standards; if it was released by a pub singer in Otley, I'd be raving about it. Oh buy it for yourself. You'll probably love it more than the Beethoven.

501? Did I hear someone ask?

My last post was my 500th. Now onwards towards the 1000 mark. You know I can do it.

farewell, old friend

I have just heard that my old friend, John Murphy, has died.

John was warden at St Catherine's back in 2000 when they were last looking for a vicar, and it was he who chose me to fill that post. He had turned down various worthy contenders, men of age & reputation, telling the bishop he "wanted a young man who won't change anything".

I remember Barry (the then bishop, now archbishop) telling me this at the time with his usual exasperation. "Doesn't he realise the Gospel is about change?" he asked me. Well, I thought to myself, if he gets me, my guess is he'll get change-a-plenty... And I think that knowing this, Barry sent me off to see John as something of a 'teach you a lesson' candidate. A little joke.

Which backfired.

Because John & I hit it off immediately. John, for reasons known only to the Lord (given the church St Catherine's was in those days), was acutely aware that without some remarkable intervention, his beloved St Catherine's was going to go the way of all the congregations around and fizzle out. He was desperate before God that this should not happen; it wasn't that he didn't want change - that was just his language; what he actually meant was that it wouldn't be changed into a High Church Anglican parish like everything else for miles around.

I assured him that wouldn't be our direction of travel.

We managed to find a Bible (eventually) in the church, and I read him a passage of Isaiah about the Lord restoring the fortunes of his people, and John was sold. He rang the bishop - we'll have him. The bishop was, understandably, taken aback. And pleased. And so it came to pass.

I hope John won't mind me sharing this next story.

On my first Sunday at St Catherine's - and you have to understand, St Catherine's was text-book "civic Anglican": two candles and a surplice. Not evangelical. Certainly not charismatic. Goodness, the very thought of it... They still had a robed choir, organ & chanted psalms back then. Anyway. On my first Sunday, John was walking to church from his home on the Common, when he got as far as the park gates and suddenly he heard a voice.

There was no-one there, and he was not given to flights of fancy, but he heard a voice, and he knew who it was.

And the voice said, clear as day: "You did not choose Marcus, and the bishop did not choose Marcus, but I have chosen him for St Catherine's."

In all honesty, for a new vicar with a million ideas and all of them totally radical and off the scale in terms of anything his church has ever experienced, that kind of backing is pretty much gold-dust. And John backed me 100% from that moment on. Even when he disagreed with me. Even when he was right to disagree with me.

He was more than a friend. I could trust him with anything. Every vicar needs a John Murphy.

When he became house-bound, I used to call on him & tell him what was on my mind. The plans I had, the things I wanted to do, the stuff that troubled me. He would listen and advise, and usually his advice was sound. Rarely would I walk away and not act as we had agreed. He was old-school Anglican, and I don't recall hearing him pray out loud much, though he would sometimes offer a few words, yet he was a deeply, profoundly prayerful man with a rich relationship with his Lord.

Some people just have a habit of listening to God; somehow John had it. And of speaking what he heard, though he might not have put it in those terms.

He loved golf. I played him once - on the Wii. He was proudly displaying his skills to me (in his eighties), and I'd never done it, and after two holes I hit something on the control & it reset. Generously, because I had been awful, he said, "Don't worry, we'll start again, you'll get the hang of it." Of course, for a moment my competitive edge had simply slipped his mind. Poor John. I beat him hollow. It took him ages to forgive me...

There was a time when we made a decision together - I think he may even have talked me into it - which turned out bad. It made things difficult for me, and actually became quite painful. He agonised over it; I told him off, gently. The responsibility had been mine. And if it had gone wrong, so what? We stood together through the good & the bad. He helped me cope with the aftermath and gave me a shoulder to lean on. We did it together.

Ken Hayward would make merciless fun of John's foghorn tenor; John would play his own tricks on Ken. I never met Walt, the third member of their life-long gang. When one hears of friendships that go back decades, there is real pleasure in the strength of the bonds of human kindness and love. When one finds friendship with surprising people, across the decades, there is also remarkable joy.

My world is brighter, bigger, better for my friendship with John. He has gone before me to his Joan, to his friends who are already waiting in his & their Lord's company. My eyes are filled with tears as I type, but they are confused tears, mixing the natural sadness of hearing this news with the ongoing simple, true joy of what Christian fellowship & the communion of saints is all about. He is not gone. He is gone before.

After John's health stopped him coming to church on Sundays, I placed his kneeler in my vicar's stall. So I could keep it warm for him. Now John, keep a place warm for me. Till we meet again.

something old, something new

I am enjoying the church I am settling into here. I am enjoying the people, and the fact that I have no responsibility here. If the boiler goes (and it hasn't) it's not my fault. Glory.

I am slowly making friends. And taking on occasional tasks. I'm running a singing group for the Carol Service. Oh yes, some old habits die hard.

The clergy are caring & faithful, and the worship is slightly chaotic in a general village Anglican way. Especially given there are no musicians, so everything is on CD. (I have played a couple of times, and will do more in the new year, but not every week.) The choice of songs occasionally delights me, and sometimes completely bemuses me - and that's a wonderful experience for a control freak like me. I am actually enjoying the powerlessness of it!

The sermon today, and the reading of Scripture in the service, made me stop and think. I expect the way it gave me pause is fairly commonplace, and I could have been almost anywhere & had the same experience. I enjoyed the sermon - I think the preaching team here does a great & faithful job. But we do seem to omit a large chunk of the Bible in our worship...

Personally, I don't think it's possible to understand the New Testament without a good working knowledge of the Old. I certainly don't think you get any of the detail, but more than that - I don't think you get much of the bigger picture. I am, and this increases as I get older, a fan of the Lectionary: for all its faults (and they are very many) it presents people with a good mix of Bible in their regular worship, and that good mix has a wonderful power to open up hearts & prepare the way for truth and love.

When I was first going to church, as a fifteen or sixteen year old kid, I picked this up from somewhere: I understood that the general plan of Salvation went like this - God created the Universe & it was good, and put people in it whom he loved; but the people sinned & everything went bad. So because God loved the people he formed a plan to bring the people back to himself - and the plan was the Law as found in the Old Testament. Only, because people were so sinful, they couldn't help themselves, and even when given this wonderful gift, they still sinned, and no-one could keep it & be good enough to get back to God. So because he loved us so much, God thought again - and came up with another plan: Jesus and the cross. And this time, because the plan didn't depend on us, but on himself, it worked.

I may have been taught this outright, or I may just have picked this up. With respect it is utter bunkum and if you have ever believed it or passed it on to anyone, please desist right now & engage in serious repentance. No wonder you ignore the Old Testament.

Let me just point out what that theology says: God's plan A failed; Jesus is plan B.

Jesus is no afterthought. Jesus is not plan B. Jesus is God's plan for us from all eternity. Always and forever plan A. Jesus is no-one's version of "second best". Please. I mean.

So why the Old Testament? Why the Patriarchs, the Law, the Prophets?

The Old Testament is God's gift to us so that, when the fulness of his plan of salvation came to pass, we might understand it. The Law creates the world-view which enables the gift of Jesus to be understood. Without it, we are whistling in the dark, making notes on the cold night air, sometimes finding snatches of melody, but missing the harmonies, the depth of accompaniment, the symphonic sweep of the grand music of life that God has for us.

You cannot understand the cross without understanding why the Temple was based around sacrifice, and without an understanding of what those sacrifices represented. Or you will end up thinking God was angry with people and needed appeasing; which is simply not a Biblical concept.

This morning we had Mark 1. And, as I said, a lovely, reflective sermon on it, which I enjoyed very much.

Yet I longed for - those colours of the Old that make the New shimmer with life. The hopes of Malachi & Isaiah were touched upon, but they are not our common language in this church, and so it is hard to build upon them. And as for Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and the wonderful Elijah morsel (2 Kings 1.8-9 is the reference, from Mark 1.6; it's a beautiful drop-in, overflowing with moments of meaning) - we went in other directions. I guess Mark's announcement of the end of Exile only happens if you know there has been an Exile.

Does it matter?

I'm not helping to put up the church Christmas tree here. I did my own yesterday. I'm not organising the running order for the Carol Service. I'm not worried one little bit about the budget matching the beginning of year forecast.

No, it doesn't matter. It's just an observation. It's not my concern, is it? Yes it does matter, because you can take the preacher out of the pulpit, but I still love the word, and I still love being under it, in it, immersed & humbled by it. And when the sun shines through a stained glass window and the colours are awash with glory, I love to feel the range of hues play across my heart & soul, and in the grace of such moments wonder at which ones match up with me today. Colour me Biblical. Throw at me something old, something new, something surprising, something true.

How can you hear the tune if all you are given is a note or two from somewhere near the end? How can you read the book if all you have is the final page? I just miss the more. The stuff that makes me sit up and go - Oh goodness, look at that! God is amazing! And that's what the Old Testament provides. Wonder. Fulness. Beauty beyond words. And something understood.

Another year

So. Another year - which is frankly unbelievable. I think that birthdays get more far-fetched the more of them I collect. I have no plans today, beyond working & then going home & walking the dog. It seems silly to celebrate something so ridiculous. Though if anyone fancies calling round - I can't have a beer, I'm on antibiotics that are messing with me, so I'm a cheap date!

Looking back, I wrote this a year ago:

Age is a reminder: we are granted one life. Live it well. Don't waste it. Make good choices, and (in the words of Winston Churchill that I have on a fridge magnet) - "Never, never, never give up". 

I guess last year was a lot better than the one before. I find myself now more relaxed and at ease with myself, and the recipient of much grace and kindness. I am grateful for the surprises of the last year, and mindful of them cannot but expect more ahead. Life, even the fast passing, quickly advancing sort that I seem to have stumbled upon simply by getting older, is for living. And for that, much gratitude.

Beyond Words

In the prime of life. Married with two boys. Leading his country's football team to new-found success & nose-bleed heights in the FIFA rankings. Universally liked, it seems. On the TV the day before, laughing & cheerful. On the phone to his mates hours before, talking of meeting up & making future plans.

It's beyond words to hear of the news of the suicide of Gary Speed, one of the Premiership's most successful players, and now a rising international manager. Beyond words. What happened? What on earth happened?

I guess we may find out. I guess we may never know. I kind of hope we may never know. Some things deserve privacy, whatever our thirst for information & gossip may be.

He was a man. A human being. We are all of us complicated, and more than we seem. We all let some people in when life is great and others in when it is not. We have defence mechanisms that are healthy and unhealthy and we are far, far from perfect.

Gary Speed deserves to have the reputation he had in life survive him in death. His family deserve this too.

One (rather disgraced) celebrity once commented to a journalist who was trying to dig up dirt on him, "Don't fish in an empty lake". People are people. We are not machines. We all have moments we are proud of, and the odd slip-up. Some of our actions are pure and totally well-intentioned and yet others in the same room at the same time may (with or without any particular malice) ascribe completely other motives and swear they know our hearts.

Christianity speaks of One Judge. One Judgement. One Justice. And in the Bible we are given a remarkable picture of it: a picture of God dying in shame upon a cross of hatred, that we might be spared such shame & hatred and instead of these words of scorn and condemnation we might hear hear Jesus' voice asking, "Father, forgive".

This is why it is called Good News. And it is for everyone. Judgement (in God's hands) is about love. He protects the widow & the fatherless, and the reputation of he who cannot defend himself. And we who are Christians should do the same, and stand with those who mourn, that they may be comforted.

It is what we would hope for ourselves. God grant us the answer to our prayers, and make us the answer for others. And bless Gary Speed's family & friends, and his name and memory.

real life

Random snippets of life:

I saw a woman walking a ferret the other day. On a lead. (The ferret, not the woman. She was wearing wellies & a fur coat. But then so was the ferret. Well, not wellies.) It was dark, so I expect she thought she'd see no-one. (Again, I refer to the woman, I have no idea what gender the ferret was, or the state of its night vision.)

At the time, I was walking down a lane to meet up with Steve, the trombonist in the jazz band I sang with the other week. So my mind was full of the lyrics I didn't know. The gig went really well - I mean, I didn't know any of their arrangements, so I had no idea how the songs started, finished or what happened in between, and only a passing acquainance with the words, but I think I got away with it.

Today I spent two hours learning how to use a credit card - I know, who knew it was so complicated? But that's a University for you. To be fair, it's their money I'll be spending, so if they want me to take a couple of hours first in order to sit in front of a screen & be indoctrinated into not buying alcohol on their dime, fair enough. (Really. I can pay £200 for a train ticket to London, but woe betide me if I splash out £2 on a beer. Well, actually, the card will magically simply refuse to let me do this, one imagines by issuing me with some kind of moral electric shock.) (I'll let you know.)

I am about to go downstairs with Rob, one of the guys in the office in order to pick up a white board. The delivery guy left it at ground level - which is level 6 in this building, obviously. We're on level 11. The white board is too big to fit in the service lift. We're hoping the stairs will be wide enough...

This Sunday I am playing organ at the local Remembrance Day service. For years I have wished I had musicians who would step in & allow me just to be the vicar on that day, so that I wouldn't have to multi-task when there was so much going on. This year, I get to be the answer to my prayers for somebody else - and so I volunteered to John, the vicar here, and said I'd play simply cos I know what a relief that will be for him to not have to worry about this. I am a bit rusty... And he has chosen one hymn I have never played successfully anywhere, ever. No, this will not be the first time. Again, I will get away with it if I can. For the rest, hopefully they will remember the words the are singing & forgive my foolish ways.

Next Tuesday I will meet the Bishop of Bradford. I have done almost no public ministry since leaving St Catherine's. At times I have felt guilty about this - not for my own part; but because I know keenly, and have always been aware that people who give time to be involved actively in church life do so by making great sacrifices sometimes; and when we put on activities for them they must be spiritually refreshing or the commitment they give exhausts them and does not empower them. Life is tiring enough without the church making it worse. I have watched people who are giving time and energy to church life and been aware that, for the moment, I am not doing the same. And yes, there have been moments of guilt.

And moments of grace. It's been important to establish myself here, to learn what this new life is, to discover place and position and to let go of what is not my life now. That's not easy. I still refer to St Catherine's as "we" in conversation. ("We had this... We are doing a... We always...") It's not "we" for me anymore; and my calling is different. This time, with its moments of guilt as I have looked at others has also caused me moments of grace because it has brought me freshly to recall why I am here:

Because I am following Jesus.

As with Peter at the end of St John's Gospel, we are so ready to compare ourselves with others ("What about him?"), and to find ourselves better or worse than those around us, to load up the blame or the glory. This is life. But real life, life to the full, life beyond the ferrets and the credit cards, life where the songs are more than half-remembered words and melodies imperfectly harmonised, this life is gift and joy and comes from eyes looking upwards, heart set firmly on following Jesus. Whatever. Whenever.

So I'm seeing the local Bishop. With a view to sorting out my license here so I have permission to officiate and can help out in my non-work hours, and we'll see about doing more ministry from Christmas time. That seems right.

twenty-two months

In December 2009, twenty-two months ago, I wrote two posts on this site about Matt, my Springer. He was nine, and had been given a death sentence. Chronic renal failure. Early stage, but incurable.

I wrote at the time:

On the down side (it's some down side) there's no cure - dogs don't get transplants. On the upside, we have caught it very early, and first we will try some medication, then we'll try to get his blood pressure down, and maybe then we'll see a specialist to see if there's anything else to be done. We may change his diet. He's nine. He might live really well for years - a presumptive diagnosis isn't written in stone on a memorial tablet. 

 He has lived really well. Really well. But time is passing, and things have not remained static. I have felt that his eyesight has been getting much worse recently, and the new Vets surgery where we now live asked that we did some tests. I asked for a specific vet to take Matt on - it's a large surgery and you can see a different person each time. I didn't want that. So I asked for someone who would be good with Matt given his kidney problems, and I saw Roger - who was excellent.

But the test results were not so good. Matt is pretty much blind; there seems to be a small amount of residual sight, but not a lot. Most of the time you wouldn't know it. I can tell. He has lost some confidence. He panics if I'm not right with him in the park. And as for blood pressure, it's way too high. His blood tests weren't catastrophic, but showed him to be in stage three of kidney failure (stage three of four).

Twenty-two months. So far. And he is living well. A presumptive diagnosis isn't written on a memorial tablet.

And there was good news too.

Whilst he can no longer have lean meat, he can have fatty food: buttered toast is back on the menu! Chicken skin! Lots of things he loves.

My Matt, my dog, is a great gift, an enormous blessing to me. I thank God for this creature that shares my life. And I will bless my dog as much as I can as long as I can. Twenty-two months have passed in the blink of an eye; knowing how the truly valuable things pass so swiftly helps me to treasure each moment, with gladness & gratitude.

And again - thankfully, we have no crystal balls. Who knows what time we have? So this is always the most precious moment.

an occasional taste of heaven

I blame that Owen & Liz Smith I do. If they hadn't moved next to me in Pontypridd I'd never have known. And now I've bought a bottle of wine I can't open for a decade.

They used to cook late. I'm guessing they still do. Even though he's working his way up the political ladder. They used to land food on the the table, fresh from the Aga, about 9pm. I could sense it from my house, my lonely house, my poor unstocked kitchen.

Who am I kidding? I'd already eaten well, but I loved their company & their food - the best cooking in South Wales, and I'm including the Bunch. And my taste for wine was slowly educated. I mean, who wouldn't like a bottle of St Emilion that cost his usual weekly food budget?

 So that's where it happened.

And now, here, today, I finally made it to the place behind the label. Kirsty, Sam & I drove down from St Meard to St Emilion, exchanging one unheard of French saint for another, one slant on paradise for the source of that taste I have loved this last decade...

St Emilion, the village, is a regular tourist trap. San Gimignano with even more wine shops and less ice cream. But beautiful is a very similar way. We parked by a chateau just to the north of the town & dived in. Took the tour. Wandered through vineyards & winemaking facilities & caves and tasting sessions. Dined in a cafe by the church carved out of the limestone.

I bought a bottle I can't open for a decade - a bottle of the good stuff. 2009. From Chateau Villemaurine. And then I added a bottle of their easy drinking 2007 that Dan & Kirsty & I enjoyed this evening.

It is dangerous to play with dreams. They can disappoint you. They can turn around and bite you. Or they can simply come true. Tastes can be all you hoped for. Places can be divine. Heaven touches earth and your soul sings for joy at the wonders life throws at you. You feel that on days like these you could ask for anything. Anything. Your heart's desire. There's a little magic in the air, so why not? God is good, and today is going to be a good, good day.

And after the hard times, times when you have simply trusted because you know who God is despite all that life throws at you, these days are priceless. They are worth recording, setting in stone and remembering. These are the days I say "Thank you" for bringing me through all the days when all I could say was "please".

This is earth; there may be troubles ahead. And yet - and yet we are granted an occasional taste of heaven, and it is glorious.

relaxing

Holidays are such a gift.

So here I am enjoying the home & hospitality of Dan & Kirsty Jones, in St Meard de Drone, in the heart of the Dordogne. It's mid evening and the sun is still beating down, although the heat of four O'clock is well past and the shadows have consumed the front garden. Dan is just coming back from an afternoon's teaching, carrying a guitar under each arm, and I am on the patio writing this in anticipation of another lazy evening meal and a bottle of the local wine. There will be cakes.

Life is good.

But then, it is good. Two and a half months on from moving, I get the chance to look back & to realise I am in such a wonderful place. All is gift. Yes, there are challenges, yes there are things that are pushing me, yes, there are concerns on the horizon. But when I compare these days with a year ago, these are good days indeed.

Let's stick with the holiday for a moment.

Friends are precious. Dan and Kirsty are, and have been for some years, precious friends to me. I value their kindness and generosity and thoughtfulness and humanity. The way they see the world, and live within it. To be their friend is to be fortunate. To talk, to think, to laugh, to consider, to share & be a part of their wider lives - this is the joy of friendship. And though we have hardly spent much time maintaining that friendship since last time I was here, falling back into it has been a joy. A gift. A grace.

There is a stillness here that blesses my soul. A restfulness, a peace.

But then, right now, that peace creeps up on me surprisingly often. A week to enjoy it taking first place is a splendid pleasure. And a reminder that when we do the right thing, it can live alongside us. Their decision to move out here has not been entirely trouble free (O Lord, grant them the sale of their house in Ponty) but it surely has been the right thing for them. Rightness brings peace. And my move also has carried that sense to me.

I've been chatting via email to another friend, and as part of that, going into some of the things that took me into deciding the time was right to take the decision to look beyond simply choosing another parochial post. He replied by referring to another vicar he knew who did a similar things and is working in a university & was asked by people why he had given up the ministry. I've been asked why I have left the church - which is a ridiculous question; I simply wouldn't know how to do that! I love the church. My decision to change career is precisely that: my employment has altered; not my heart. Indeed, I have altered my employment in many ways so that my heart might be freer to express itself. That's a thing of joy, not sadness, a thing of rightness, not loss, a thing of peace not turmoil.

The light is slowly fading. Flo, my god-daughter, is ready for bed. I have been reading to her from The Enchanted Wood, a book I loved at that age. Life is good when you get to pass on old memories and start to work on living out new dreams.

Tomorrow I head off to St Emilion; if you've ever read my profile on this site, that should ring a bell. I've never been. I'm ridiculously pleased to be going there & am looking forwards to touring round a chateau. And, in the midst of a holiday, to reaching out and touching a little physical reminder of heaven.

home

Have you ever been somewhere you've never been before, with people you've never met, and felt like you'd come home?

It's an emotional experience. I don't think you can plan for it or reasonably expect such a thing to happen.

I had something very like it happen to me tonight, and the context is unusual enough to bear a little examining. I mean, I guess I have been hoping since I arrived here that I would walk into some church somewhere & have that magical sense. It hasn't occurred. Well, not really; there was one service that was kind of close in some ways, but not in others. And as I settle into the village church here, I really am not feeling that at all. But still, there you go. Some things are worth the work. It seems right to be there.

The job isn't the context either - though I am enjoying it enormously. As I am beginning to get used to it, and find my feet, I think it will do very nicely, and I will be able to serve the University well - as well as to develop new skills and find new pathways forwards for myself.

No - tonight I went to Bradford. Bradford BMF. British Military Fitness.

Regulars know I was part of the Outdoors Fitness group that met in Pontypridd park, and how that group became a really important friendship group for me, as well as rather transforming my fitness. So when I moved here I looked for an equivalent & found the BMF website. I've been going to the group that meets in Horsforth park - it's a huge group, sometimes with 60 people in it. That's easily more than double the biggest I ever remember Ponty being. And we get split off into different abilities - beginners, intermediates, advanced; in Ponty that was blue, reds & yellows, here it's blue, red & greens. We have coloured bibs here so there's no hiding. In Horsforth you need the bibs (they have numbers) as the group is so large it's hard to know people's names. It's very focussed - not a lot of chat, not a lot of socialising, and yet it's good because you work hard. I do mean hard: in Ponty I was a yellow; in Horsforth I'm a red. The greens (equivalent of yellows) are way beyond me - far too much running. And all that whole social side, the banter & the friendships were really important in Ponty. It kept you going when the weather was bad: you wanted to be there alongside everyone else.

Like Ponty, Horsforth meets Tuesday & Thursday evenings, & Saturday mornings - well, it's more like lunchtime here.

This week I can't do Thursday. And I do want to fit two sessions in; I'm off on holiday next week & you always feel it if you miss too many times. So I looked & saw that the Bradford park (about the same distance from my house as Horsforth, in the opposite direction) meets on Mondays & Wednesdays. I Google Earthed it so I knew where I was going, & set off.

The group was about twenty people. They were chatting & joking in advance. Phil, who works in my office was there. I wondered if it was all a bit closed & cliquey at first - but no, really not. I soon got working with some of the other blokes - Keith, Mick, Steve - and our instructor, Mark, was great. We were all in it together, across the ability range (unlike at Horsforth, but just like Ponty) and I soon had more muck on my hands, legs, arms & shorts than I'd had in weeks of the very clinical Horsforth set up. I loved every minute of it.

I especially loved discovering that I was keeping up with the top of the reds here, even pushing the greens. You can't keep a competitive spirit down for long.

The whole thing was a blast. It felt like being home again. With new people, in a new place. It was great.

Now - I know I've taken my time here, but let me pause for a second. A military fitness class in a Bradford park felt like being at home. Jeff Webb, what have you done to me?

Isn't "home" a strange concept?

The familiar, the place where we belong, where we fit. I think it is one of the most powerful ideas out there because so much of the time so many of us actually don't quite fit, or live or work or play or worship somewhere that we almost fit. And then you hit paydirt. That precious, precious, unexpected golden moment when everything works & you feel - real. No pretence. Happy.

And it went dark, and we carried on, and my spirit soared, and my body worked harder, and I smiled through the physical pain with genuine pleasure and deep felt gratitude.  

devastating

I took myself off to the Grand Theatre last night to see how Opera North is doing. Having been spoiled for years on the riches of Welsh National Opera, I was somewhat cautious of trying the local fare here. Many, many moons ago I did attend a Butterfly at this very theatre by this very company; it was OK. No more.

This Butterfly was far more than OK. At the end you should be so emotionally devastated you are almost unable to applaud, and indeed that is how I found myself. Yes, there were faults (I'll come on to those) but there were glories I shall not forget for a long time, and they deserve the lion's share.

Tim Alberry's production, receiving a first revival, is almost without qualification excellent. Beautiful colours, a simple design, different levels, no tricks, a beautiful backdrop and a well-thought through orchestral interlude between Acts II and III. I could have done without Goro's return at the very end. A quibble.

The principles were superb. The seconds - Ann Taylor's wonderful Suzuki and Peter Savidge's world-weary and world-class Sharpless were amongst the very best I have ever seen. Anne Sophie Duprels was a Butterfly of two halves for me; in Act I I found her voice too old, and I didn't warm to her. In Acts II & III I found her transformed. The stubborn-ness of her hope, her joy at the sighting of Pinkerton's ship, her weariness at the end of the night, her despair in the morning, her realisation of the truth - this was magnificent.

And in Noah Stewart's Pinkerton I felt I was watching the best actor I have ever seen on an opera stage. A beautiful voice & a devastatingly handsome man, he was everything Pinkerton should be (unlike the standard roly-poly naval officers we are so often subjected to). He drew my eye constantly because he was so very natural. His smile, his surprise, his impatience for his bride - if this was simply theatre, rather than opera, I would have felt I had seen a great actor. This is his website. Click onto the video (there may be an ad at the beginning to endure) and enjoy his singing. Signed by Decca, I hope to see more of him.  

Faults? Apart from that re-appearance of Goro at the end to stare at the dead Butterfly (as if we needed the comment; we didn't, we felt it all), I was not entirely convinced by the orchestra & the conducting of Italian wunderkind Daniele Rustioni. OK, I have been spoiled by the orchestra of WNO, which I believe to be something rather special. It has a "sound": you can recognise a recording of the WNO orchestra, because they have that priceless commodity, a definable musical identity. They have a perfect opera orchestra sound: deep, rich & full, but never overwhelming for the singers. Here at Opera North, Rustioni did lose control occasionally for me: both in terms of some ragged edges (I wasn't always convinced the celli got him, though I must say that the opening of Act II was very tight) and also I mean this simply in terms of volume. Sometimes I couldn't hear the singers, who, in the big moments, were forcing the notes out over a band that was just banging it out. Not being able to hear the singers at an opera is not a good thing, especially when they were this good. Mr Rustioni - as you do more of this, please remember the voices on stage matter. Be kind to them. Making the band in the pit sound loud without actually being as loud as they possibly can be is a real art, and it allows the singers to flourish which means everyone comes across at their best.

Butterfly is about love. The perception of love. About falling madly in love with someone else who is merely using you, and how that ruins lives. Most (if not all) of us have been in that place to some degree, it's why art is so powerful. We recognise Butterfly not as social commentary on Imperialism as Americans abuse poor naive natives in "less advanced" cultures, but as personal history. We have all been Butterfly or Pinkerton or both. We have all (well, most of us) been used and dropped, or have used someone & dropped them, we have all know unequal relationships, we have all sat at the end of the rainbow and found not gold but broken dreams. Butterfly reminds us - with gut-wrenching beauty - that each person is a person, and that the cost of selfishly forgetting this truth is sometimes unacceptably high. If Pinkerton hears Sharpless' plea "Be careful" early on, there is no tragedy. But he wants his fun, and in his youthful enthusiasm thinks pleasure has no human cost.

Grand emotions in small moments. Grand betrayals unseen by anyone. Beauty & tragedy vying for pre-eminence. I love this opera, and I loved this performance.

a gift

One of the gifts of this time for me is, of course, that I still often think like a vicar even though I am one no more.

I say "gift", because it's not always a present one would pay to have!

I do realise just how Christian you have to be when you have to be a Christian professionally. People know who you are; you can't get past that, nor should you, but there are days when it would be nice just to be able to be grumpy without worrying about it.

Now that I can be grumpy occasionally without worrying about it, I worry about it.

I mean - was the only reason I tried to live like I meant it because I had to? Because people would see me fail, name me a hypocrite and utter those infamous words, "Call yourself a Christian"? Clearly not. Yet such motivation was an encouragement, I'll admit it, to a better standard than my lazy self might otherwise have managed.

There was one occasion when someone at St Caths was cross with me, and for whatever (probably excellent) reason had built up a series of things to throw in my face. The one that hurt was when I was accused of speaking very dismissively to another of our members on a couple of occasions; it was a real "Thou hypocrite" swipe. And it was perfectly fair, which made it all the worse.

But I mean, who's perfect, hey?

However; I had spoken badly to this other church member, and now it was being thrown back at me, and I had no answer. So I went quiet; and afterwards went to see the person in question. To apologise. Not because anyone would know, not because I had to look good, but because a million times I say faith is about loving God, and from that place it is then about loving those around us. And if I say those words a million times, they actually catch my heart too. Here I had failed; there's only one thing you can do when you fail - well I guess there's two: you can bluff it out. But instead, I took the better path; I went to apologise.

And that saint of God graciously received my apology but then turned the whole situation it on its head by talking of how much the Lord had blessed him through me, time & time again. He never felt an unkind word from me because he had received so many words of blessing.

If ever I received a gift from anyone it was that day. Feeling miserable, and made so by the (perfectly fair) accusations of a friend, my tears of sorrow became tears of gratitude as I was lifted up and turned around by the saint at my side to whom I had gone simply to make an apology.

Who's perfect? The one who is forgiven. The one who is so forgiven they may forgive others, freely. And receive more forgiveness themselves.

So I tell you what, here's the gift of these days: no professional pretence.

I need to stop worrying about motivation and spiritual laziness, about appearance and perception and not offending any who watch & judge. I will be me, and you should be you. Do you know what - there will be awkward moments. Imperfections. Rough edges. We are but people. O yes, we are gloriously human. And in that glory we will have the gift of being able to give and receive forgiveness, free from false expectations, sometimes chased by worries it is true, yet filled with hope.

advantages of moving north #1

I just booked my first ticket to see United at Old Trafford in ages. Ages. Oh the advantages of living in the North.

And of not working on Sundays.

Not that the game is on a Sunday - but I no longer have to work on Saturdays in order to be ready to work on Sundays too. I get weekends these days. (Weekends - you gotta love 'em. Who knew?)

Sorry Prof Hackett, honoured friend of Durham, it's to see your beloved unlucky Black Cats suffer again. I'll send you a photo.

Glory Glory Man Uniiiited....