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....

to be a pilgrim

Here's the thing: I'm feeling pretty relaxed.

There's a difference between being good at something, and having to do it. You see, I really loved being a vicar, but it's a job that comes with no uncertain amount of pressure. I don't mean to compare it with running the economy during a major global recession, but there were always things that weighed on me that if I'm honest I never quite learned to handle. I loved preaching; I always felt the burden of it in advance, and regularly lost sleep over it the night before. I'd say the same for leading worship. It was a real privilege to comfort those in need, the bereaved, the dying, those needing Christ. But there were times I'd dread the phone ringing, or the door bell going because I'd be tired or in need of comfort myself and find that it was time to go and bless others again when it was far from easy so to do.

That's the job.

I think that ministry should be sacrificial. But this has to be held in tension with the knowledge that we serve a God of love who loves us!

So I stopped. Listened. And realised I had come to a place where (if I wasn't careful) I was going to be bigger on my sacrifice than God's love. All in all, that's the wrong way around. How can I show people God's love properly if it seems that (rather than healing me) this love makes me walk with a permanent limp? Blow my words, most people just pick up the vibe.

Even I was beginning to pick up the vibe.

It was time to find a cliff & jump off it. To put away the security blanket of the life I had known in order that I might really live. To let love triumph over sacrifice: and, of course, His love contains within it all the sacrifice I'll ever need. I don't have to earn spiritual kudos by the scars on my soul. It's OK to love myself too, sometimes; how else can I love my neighbour as myself?

And the thing is, I'm feeling pretty relaxed.

Sure, there are the occasional stress related dreams. Some of them still relate to St Catherine's. Most of them, actually. (Please - not that everything there was stressful for me; far from it. The balance had become lost between life and work, that's all.) And I am not so dim as to expect I have now walked into a stress-free life. Calverley's nice, but it's not Heaven...

You see, it would be easy to say that now I have a lovely house & nice neighbours, now that people are treating me far better than when I was a vicar (you have no idea), now that I am settling into a good job I am enjoying getting to grips with, I have all my prayers answered. But that's not the point. Don't get me wrong - I am loving all these things, and all these things are true.

But being a pilgrim is about being on a lifelong journey with Jesus. Knowing him. Holding his hand. Trusting him when it's tough and when it's great. Being grateful when you see the answers and when you don't. Being constant because he is constant. It's not about doctrine, it's about relationship, and walking on in the surety of that great relationship when there is no other certainty anywhere you look.

Some of you know the depth of my questions over the last year, and many do not; and those who do, know that every question I have asked has been asked in the context and truth of that relationship. I commend it. Not because I know the outcome; but because I know the journey is wonderful and unexpected and painful and glorious. And full of love, when the sun shines and when the rain drenches you to the skin.

In that context, it is indeed a precious gift to be feeling pretty relaxed.

There is a hymn I love, not because I can say every word truthfully myself, but because it inspires me and has the ring of reality about it. It feels like the truth. I long to know more of it. The words are Bunyan's, and the tune, Monk's Gate, is one of those English folk melodies that Vaughan Williams spent his life adapting and adding to the hymnody of the English language. It works for me.

Who would true Valour see Let him come hither; One here will Constant be, Come Wind, come Weather. There's no Discouragement, Shall make him once Relent, His first avow'd Intent, To be a Pilgrim. Who so beset him round, With dismal Stories, Do but themselves Confound; His Strength the more is. No Lion can him fright, He'll with a Giant Fight, But he will have a right, To be a Pilgrim. Hobgoblin, nor foul Fiend, Can daunt his Spirit: He knows, he at the end, Shall Life Inherit. Then Fancies fly away, He'll fear not what men say, He'll labour Night and Day, To be a Pilgrim.

rise of the planet of the king's speech

So.

I went to the cinema to see Rise of the Planet of the Apes. I was about to book on line on the Odeon website when, fiddling around in my wallet as I was trying to pay, I found a comp slip.

When I saw the King's Speech in Cardiff, at the Odeon in the Bay, it was a preview screening, and for the first twenty seconds or so the picture had a slight shake. Nothing major. Those of you who use the Nantgarw Showcase live with worse every time you go.

But - at the end, they apologised for the fault at the start and handed out these passes so we could attend another showing for free.

That pass has stayed in my wallet ever since, gradually disintegrating. Till Saturday.

When I found it, I cancelled my online booking, got in the car, drove the five minutes to the Leeds Bradford Odeon, and showed my scrap of paper to the nice Asian guy on duty who very kindly said - Of course it was fine, no problem. Free ticket.

Now, I hadn't really thought about it, but of course this was the perfect companion film to the King's Speech.

After all, both are films with men in monkey suits learning to speak.
Both see the "hero" lead his nation at the start of a war against a seemingly undefeatable foe.
One bears the title "King", the other is named "Caesar".
Both mute heroes find themselves inspired by a teacher who is at times a friend, at times a foe.
Both are breaking out of prisons; one mental, one physical.
Both films feature primates. OK, the primate in the King's Speech is the Primate of All England, but don't you love the English language?

Any other unlikely film pairings out there? The photos above are of Colin Firth & Geoffrey Rush (top) and a monkey with James Franco (below). That monkey deserves an oscar.

what just happened?

Riots? What riots?

I sat and watched people commit crimes on live TV; there they were - kids, really, just teenagers, kicking in shop windows and looting. They weren't afraid. They weren't ashamed. It wasn't as if they were avoiding CCTV - they were doing it in front of Sky News, in glorious HD. You could see their acne.

When my dog does something he shouldn't, he does it, OK, but I point at it & he cowers in shame. Not these kids; they had less moral compass than an animal.

I watched and I simply could not understand what I was seeing. Is this the country in which I live? Are these my fellow people? How did this happen? When did this happen? Why did this happen?

Where are the police? Why aren't they clipping these kids around the ear and sending them home to bed? And straightaway I know the answer to that - because if they did they'd be on the CRB list and would never work again. Simple discipline is now impossible in order to protect children - you'll be prosecuted; well, look what a good job we did, everyone. How well the kids have turned out.

And yet.

And yet, the day after was both bemusing and glorious. The darkness of the night gave for the fight of the day. People bought the kind of T-shirt we normally associate with foreign tourists - the kind that we look at with disdain or irony - and wore them with pride: I ♥ London. Or Manchester. Or Wherever. They brought brushes and bags and through the power of the same social networks that had been so destructive hours earlier took minutes to clean up streets, neighbourhoods, lives. Where there had been despair, hope stormed back.

Are these my fellow people? Is this my country? When did this happen? How?

Throwing perpetrators of crimes out of their homes, locking them up for months, putting them all together to plan their next jamboree - these are stupid, knee-jerk, obvious and understandable responses. But howabout taking some (just some) of those kids and putting them with the army of decent people and showing them that real people care. Look after the person next door. Realise my action has an effect. And that doing good can bring pleasure that has only good consequences. These aren't the lessons of a moment; many we try to teach will sit in class and go away sniggering. But some will get it.

What just happened?

We saw who we are. And it wasn't a great picture; but it had glories within it. So where do you want to focus?

here goes

I guess it's the small, mechanical things that worried me before starting the new job: the commute, where to park, would the car be OK where I left it all day, what time was I due in - things like that. Then again, it's been a while since I had a boss; and there's a lot of people in the office - names to learn, pecking order, relationships, feet to tread on. Plus stuff particularly relevant to my post, people to meet, first impressions to stuff up...

I have been besieged by information. Lots of it. So much of it, that just as I am about to process one piece, the next comes in and prevents that process happening. Haphazard chunks of vital knowledge get thrown at me like a ball around a ring with me in the middle trying to catch it (and constantly rueing being only five foot seven).

New boy syndrome. By the time I've been here six months it'll all be second nature... I keep telling myself this.

The two constant questions of the week: is it very different from what you were used to? Are you enjoying it? Yes, and yes. Will that do? I don't think I have yet done anything stupid... So that's a plus, anyway.

Matt has been in a sulk for days. He's had his whole routine changed - and (like his master) he's a creature of enormous habit, so this came as something of a shock to the poor dog. My wonderful neighbours are taking him out during the day whilst I'm at the university, and that takes the worry off me, but Matt is not best pleased. His meal time has changed, his walk routine has changed, his alarm call has changed, in fact everything is different & he didn't ask for it! He's been pretending to have a bad back to show me how displeased he is. It is a pretence - he doesn't do it all the time, a dead giveaway. And there are just the first signs that he might be accepting the new regime: he is walking up to speed as we leave the house now, rather than imposing an initial 100 yard go-slow.

A couple of cultural highlights, a social moment & a spiritual kick at the end:

The university has an art gallery. I had a wander around during my first lunch break. It's all northern. I mean, all the art is northern; very brown. The subjects all look bored, and you kind of get the feel the artist was too. And then there is a room with an exhibit by Carlos Nadal, last of the Fauvists, and suddenly there is brightness and colour everywhere. It felt like I was being assaulted by life - it was a glorious, physical experience.

Today I took the advice of an FB friend and found the National Media Museum in Bradford & saw a film at the IMAX screen there, Super 8. The film was good, and I enjoyed it, but I enjoyed the venue even more - simply amazing. I loved the place, and look forwards to going back and taking a proper tour of the museum. A decent 3D movie on the IMAX will be wonderful, and the small screen there does great art house stuff; there's a film about referees at the 2008 Euro Championships right now; if I had chance I'd see that.

Last week I had Richard & Sarah over for supper. They are a couple I got to know very slightly in Ponty, and they've also moved up to Leeds. This week I went across to their flat. They really are lovely, and we had a super time - it's a real gift to have found friends to meet up with so quickly here. We laughed a lot - mostly at each other - and I was introduced to Waitrose Salt & Vinegar Crisps With a Twist of Lemon. Seriously. They were excellent. Ah Waitrose; it's so much nicer a shopping experience.

One enormous difference of course between my old routine and this is the space for prayer & worship in the day. Sometimes I used to create clear space and sometimes I knew it would kind of permeate the day in different ways. It doesn't quite permeate the day so clearly in the office now. This does feel different, and I need to get used to it. The drive in & out is a great opportunity. I bought Matt Redman's latest on my iPhone, so I've been listening to that. There are some nice songs there, and they have been tuning my heart to worship as I have started my day. But I want to have to do better, and I don't think I ever foresaw the way in which my old worship life would need to find a new rhythm.

Like everything else, I'm hoping in six months' time, this too will again be second nature. My job may no longer be about worship, but my heart remains so; so I need to make sure in the new regime & through the unfamiliar early mornings, my heart can still sing clearly to its purest beat.

the end of the holidays

As a child, the holidays lasted forever. Long summer days of playing in the sunshine worked their way into long summer evenings on the road, on my bike, in the dirt, in the grass, with my friends. One August we all found ourselves up above town on the moors swimming in the ponds, running in the hills, knowing those times would never end.

Till school called us back.

For ages after I left school I would awake to the nightmare sound of the bell that ran my life through all those years: teachers, I have no idea how you can do it. I suppose it has, however, had a twin effect upon me: I chose a job with no set hours. And a personality type with a pathological attention to the clock.

Well now the holidays are over again. School is calling me back - or, at least, university. No bell (thank God). But a more set routine than I have known since I began my working life, and a commute for the first time since I was eighteen. Strike that, seventeen - my final exam at grammar school (a forty minute bus-ride from home) was the day before my eighteenth birthday.

The problem with memory (of course) is that it only looks back. I cannot remember forwards at this point in time to the friendships ahead, the joys set before, the trials overcome, the triumphs and simple pleasures that await. I cannot reminisce about quiet evenings three years from now, or wax lyrical about friends I have yet to meet, relationships that have not begun, passtimes and priorities that my life will take on in the days locked up beyond tomorrow.

The holidays are over! The resting is done! A key is placed in the living door of my experience which may turn in this way only this time and only this once - and I got to choose to do this! It's happening! I need to snap my head forwards, to bring my mind from remembering things past to being ready to take on all things new.

For, as angels sang on Easter morning - Why do you seek the living among the dead? He is not here - He is risen!

My life was on those hills in Accrington, in that school in Blackburn, at university in Oxford, ordained in South Wales, working in Aberystwyth, writing in Cambridge, being vicar of Pontypridd - but my hand is in the hand of Jesus, and he is the God of the living, not of the dead. Not forgetting what lies behind, I strain forwards to gain the prize, to live the life, to seize the day, to rise on wings and to live the life set out for me. Grateful, and being grateful using all that I have gained with love and for glory here and now.

Here and now.

It's the end of the holidays. A new day is beginning. Hallelujah.

idol

Amongst the many treats on YouTube is a clip of me singing with a certain Big Band. No names, no pack drill. The accompanying photo should in no way be taken as a clue or hint as to the band or song to which I am referring.


Anyway, as usual, I have control over the comments that go up. I vet everything. Of course - I'm a control freak. You may say what you like, but only if I like it. As I sang in my opening number at the St Caths Plus Variety Show recently - 


"The ego of the actor / has the subtlety of a tractor
So comments that are audible / Should always be laudable..."  


Singers, if anything, are even more thin-skinned than their thespian fellows. We just need to be loved, dahling. 


Well. Over the past three days I have been receiving notification of comments for the aforementioned video clip. One thoughtful person has been offering me critiques that sound kind of familiar from somewhere (where?); here's the first they sent:  Not very good at all. Very pitchy.Very Flat at 1:56 and 2:34. 

I think 2:34 is sharp, personally, and worse - distorted by bad microphone technique. But I tell you what - somebody hiding behind a pseudonym on a website doesn't get to say that. And I was left huffing about it all day. The cheek! Of course I didn't approve their comment. No bloody chance. So yesterday they tried again. This time they offered (and again the words are strangely familiar): Who told you you could sing?


Oh I was cross. Cross enough to think that I wished I knew who it was so I could reply - who told you you could listen? Who told you you could be rude on somebody else's website? You'll imagine that this comment also failed to get posted. 


But then today this person surpassed themselves. And it was at this point that the penny finally dropped. At last I recognised the play book my web judge has been using all along. Just one word came on the YouTube Service email this evening: Horrible. 


It's Simon Cowell isn't it? 


I'm being cyber-stalked by a Simon Cowell wannabe who thinks that if they keep being nasty, eventually I'm going to publish their brilliantly witty and insightful comments on my singing! The thing is, the Horrible comment actually made me laugh out loud... So I'm thinking of posting it. Except if I do, will I encourage this mad person, or stop them? And if I stop them, what will I miss out on tomorrow? "That's positively the worst audition I've ever heard. Seriously." 


What do you reckon? Come on, I'd like you to send me votes to post now or suggestions for more Cowell put-downs I should be expecting. I'll publish the best ones - & if crazy stalker actually continues I'll award fictional prizes for the most accurate guesses too! 


This is Cyber-Stalker Idol!

settling in

Every time I have moved, I have been the same. The whirlwind of activity, the emptying of boxes, the establishing of a new home. I have seen others move & seemingly camp out in their new houses for months, and something in me screams out - how can you bear to do this? I cannot. Within two days or so all is sorted.

Kind of. Don't ask me to find everything. That will take longer.

Mind you, Matt & I are already finding our way around the neighbourhood. It turns out my trusty SatNav is a bit, well, selective on local roads. So I do need to buy a map, as well as checking out Googlemaps before setting out. There tend to be better alternatives than my onboard computer wants me to believe! Goodness, it's been a while since I've actually remembered directions...

Take the nearest cinema, the Leeds/Bradford Odeon. As the crow flies it's about a mile and a half, two miles. SatNav wants to take me a five mile journey to get there when there is actually a crow-fly road. And I am finding that several Leeds trips are pretty similar - and not helped by the re-numbering of roads in central Leeds following recent bypass arrangements. In weeks these will be absolutely second nature.

In weeks the house will feel like home too. It still feels like a place where all my stuff finds itself. Finds itself squashed... No - I am genuinely glad of the smaller space. Genuinely glad of the cosiness of the house. Time will make this home - time and the visits of friends and the accumulation of memories. You cannot fake "home". It sneaks up on you.

And, as yet, though I am settling in, I am still in the post-leaving/just-arriving fog of emotions that means I don't quite know where I am or what I feel.

It's good that I have lovely neighbours - on one side they will look after Matt when I'm at work, seeing he gets out during the day and isn't alone all that time. That side also keeps the gardens straight and checks on bins and is wonderfully efficient. On the other side, a couple I have yet to get to know but they are Christians and one of them works in the University.

People. Place. Time. Feel. History. Memory. So many things make up "home". And here am I in a rented house - for here I have no abiding city. I have the outwards sorted, but the inners, the interiors of life - these things cannot be put in their place in two days, no matter how hard I try. And so I am slightly displaced. Neither there nor yet here. But here I am in a place where I have been led. With good people all around. And I am looking forwards to going to church on Sunday in the local parish church, which, by all accounts, may well be a good place for me. So this is a strange, settling in period; and I am grateful that after the whirlwind of the last few days I now have another week before I start work, work which I am looking forwards to. I need to take this time to relax and sit back and prepare, and properly take advantage of a little holiday for body and soul.

For, to misquote the hymn, God has brought me safe thus far, and he shall lead me home.

the final day

Matt & I walked through Ponty park as we always did, him sniffing every darned tree, me calling "Head!" to pull his attention away from burying his face too deep in any especially repugnant odours. A gentle rain spotted the ground and midges thronged under the trees.

We called in on Clare at the newsagents on Mill Street. She went red - she'd meant to come to church yesterday, but had overslept. I told her not to be so silly. And we said our goodbyes.

Barbara came to clean the empty house. Oh, how I have relied upon Barbara. She has cheered me up so many times without knowing it. Made me feel better just by being there, as well as by making my home look and feel and smell nicer week by week. I gave her flowers last week; she brought me wine today. We shared tears.

A trip to the bank saw money into my account - both from my little house sale on Saturday and from the amazing generosity of the church as I left. Wow. And thank you - I know many of you read this. I am overwhelmed, and incredibly grateful.

Then Dan came to help me finish off sorting the house out. I married Dan and Gemma one Christmas a few years back. I'd got to know Gemma's dad through taking funerals for his parents, and when he asked if I'd do his daughter's wedding I was delighted - though if it had been anyone else, I think asking for a Sunday wedding at Christmas might well have got a no from my diary! We have a running joke - I invite them to dinner, and then go to their house to eat. We've been trying to meet up in the run up to my leaving, and it hasn't happened, but they came yesterday & I was delighted to see them & their boys. Dan offered to help me as I finished off the house & did a couple of tip runs. Gemma insisted I then came to lunch. I was thrilled to say yes.

Gill Tuck came to the Vicarage as we were done. She took my keys. Empty, gone, all over. I had feared I would slink out of town without anyone noticing. Gill was aware of this and was making sure that couldn't happen. Dan was there too. The book of these days closed, but friends were all around me as the words on the pages ran out. Indeed, just as I got into the car Kim Howells walked past pushing his granddaughter in the buggy. Many's the day when he has regaled me with stories of meetings with chiefs of staff, spies, wars in foreign parts, chairing the United Nations, facing down the Prime Minister - but now he wears a more relaxed look and his granddaughter gets the attention that previously was demanded by such unimportant matters. A friendly hug, another and fitting final farewell.  

Then the long drive northwards. I crossed the bridge to England. I used to live here. No, I do live here; I used to live in Wales. For seventeen years I stayed in the Principality - almost as long as I lived in Accrington as a kid, before first moving south to University a lifetime ago. And as I drove I thought of my yesteryears, and of my yesterday.

Yesterday was lovely.

The team here had worked hard to make a super occasion. Wardens, staff, musicians, St Catz Kids, St Caths Plus, Stewart as he led the service and the folk who provided the wonderful lunch - though a confession: I spent so much time talking to people over lunch, the only thing I actually ate was a piece of Val's lemon meringue!

Here was a church looking forwards, in good health, celebrating its life. And I enjoyed every minute. Great to see visitors amongst the crowd - including Owen & Liz, Alice, Karsten, Robin, David, a couple who come to the Remembrance events, some of our wider family, and of course lots and lots of us. Just us.

I had great fun preaching - Stewart called it a "tour de force", but he would, showing off his French, (always the class swot!) as I decided to go out on Matthew 22.34ff, the greatest commandment, but got carried away so gave them pretty much all of Matthew 21 & 22, with references to Matthew 4 & Deuteronomy 5-8 thrown in for good measure. Plus quotes from Cecil B deMille and a couple of my favourite little jokes...

The greatest commandment: it is in the way we love one another that the truth of our love for God is revealed. Be the real deal. It isn't easy, it's not supposed to be; it is worth it.

Stewart spoke at the end of the service of our friendship. Of the way I'd come to Cynthia's bedside at 4.30am on the day she died. Of our Bible studies, ranging from exegesis to pole dancing. I assured the congregation we didn't actually do any pole dancing...

I looked out and saw others. Those present like Ashley & Helen with baby James. I remembered visiting them in hospital on Christmas Day when Helen had been confined to bed for months before James' birth. Those absent like John Murphy, who is confined to his bed but who has been to me a true friend. I wouldn't have had these eleven years without him. Or like Dan & Kirsty - and it was lovely to have Matthew Truelove sing a song written by Dan for the occasion. And to sing one of his own, a favourite of mine. Then I saw out there too those gone before, like Gwyneth, whose smile and attention to detail were both very special. And Mac. And Ken. And Gladys, whose final prayer I will remember always.
 

As I missed the buffet I drove to Tesco to grab a sandwich for lunch. And another for supper. And after my final final service, a gentle evening communion (with a few extra in attendance - I should leave more often if it does the numbers so much good) most of us ended up at the Bunch of Grapes.

Actually, right at the end of that evening service, David Carver came forwards & said that he wanted some people to pray with me. I was absolutely thrilled. Just as I had not wanted to leave today by myself (and I guess in part that's a being single thing - a lot of life is by myself you know), I had really wanted somebody at some point before I left to say - "we need to have a good group of people pray for you". And it hadn't happened. Then David did it.

Don't take this the wrong way, please - I have always had great wardens, and the current crop are wonderful & hard working & pulled out all the stops yesterday in making the whole day go off amazingly. I love them to bits. But I will confess to having a very soft spot for David Carver & for Derek Phillips; they were a very special team as wardens. They are very special godly men. David proved it for me again yesterday, and those last few moments of my final service were golden.

So. I got into the car & began to drive. Eleven years, eh? There have been ups & downs, tough times & failures amongst the joys & triumphs. I don't know if I did everything I was supposed to. But as far as I was able I tried to be obedient. And as I sit in the kitchen of what is becoming my new home, I am reminded that for the past few years this blog has had at the top of it something of what I have seen as my job description, a play around Thirteen Words that have always meant a lot to me. Well, I'm going to have to change that soon.

But let me remind you: I have the joy of pastoring a church in South Wales, (and now come the 13 words) my job is to worship Jesus - his job is to grow the church. He is far better at his job that I at mine, but grace is all about how these things come together.  

He is far better at his job than I at mine; but grace means I leave with happy memories, and I can't ask for more than that.

moving day

A very moving day. The dog is all over the place, and frankly so am I. Chris & Carl, my two removal men, have been great. Most of the work has been done now, we'll be off in the morning, and in Leeds for mid-afternoon. (Thanks again to the wonderful efficiency of Clare & David Mac).

One friend was standing by the church gate earlier; a passing elderly gent told her - the vicar is going. Been here Eleven years. They haven't found a replacement yet.

Good to know the grapevine is accurate.

I used to live here. My house is becoming hollow. Clean, warm rooms are looking like tired, musty, damp shells. Echoes of themselves. Memories of laughter sound around them. The kitchen remembers Podcaths & Bible Studies and Alphas and then sighs - and forgets.

The dining room wonders where the piano was.

The study is a repository for unwanted furniture. Not yet wanted furniture. Not yet wanted books. Someone will claim them again. But not me, not here.

I used to live here. I am moved, am moving, am emotional and in motion.

Farewell, vicarage.

And now the end is near...

...but still to come, the final curtain.

Though some fat ladies are singing. The Rejects are done with me. I have feasted with my wonderful quiz team one final time, after one final victory at the Bunch. Steve & I were the only ones who turned up for that quiz - & Steve was nervous. I told him to man up. Winning attitude, that's all it takes.

That's all it took. I shall miss the quizzes, but more the friendships of this group of bearded blokes. Never again do I expect to know so many experts in Sanskrit in so confined a space.

As I prepare to move away from full time parochial ministry, it was both an odd and a pleasurable experience to be a supporting cleric for Clare Hayns as she was ordained at Christ Church Oxford last week. I was best man at John & Clare's wedding many, many moons ago. I am godfather to their eldest. We have had many phone calls discussing theological essays over the past few years. John & Clare's friendship is one of the fixed points of my life. Seeing her ordained (from rather a good seat, I must say) was a total joy. And John will make an excellent vicar's wife - he can make a sponge cake appear out of nowhere in no time flat. No really. He's a member of the magic circle.

And it gives everyone the chance to see that (just occasionally) I do don the odd item of clerical garb myself. Actually, the cassock & scarf are Rob Graham's. I keep them for special occasions.

I was reminded the night before Clare's service of an event three and a half year's back, when being dressed like this had a particularly helpful effect. And also made for one of the funniest occasions of my time here in Ponty. Thanks Chris for bringing that back to mind: Irish scaffolders downing tools on a particularly gloomy morning with the cry "The Father says stop!" will stay with me for a long time. That it was over the construction of the neighbouring car park is even more pleasing... And I managed to use the story this morning in preaching on John 13, which passage was read at Clare's ordination. My usual illustration is of a man with a pepper grinder. Scaffolders & priests made a good alternative. The point held, and was one I wanted to make again before finishing. It's one of the key things I'd like people to remember here.

To remember. When I am gone. In the morning the removal men come. I will be back next weekend for my final services, but in between I am moving up to Leeds. Going, and coming back. A bit like Jesus, only I'm doing a house sale.

And without the help of the megastars who are David & Clare MacInnes it would be impossible to be ready. David & Clare came to stay for a couple of days last week & transformed the house into a state of readiness for the move. I am eternally grateful. More friends who have been a constant in my life for longer than I can recall. More friendship displayed than I could possibly deserve.

So, the list is almost complete. Farewells are being said. It is happening. The future is arriving, pushing its way into the present, making today fade into yesterday. I am touched by the kindness and good wishes I am receiving from many, and can only hope that I may yet have time to bless my friends here as I am still being blessed.

In God's economy, you must always give away what you want to keep.

Though if you are doing a house sale, I think selling books at 50p for soft backs and £1 for hard backs is also fair. Saturday next, 2pm. There's furniture too...

more goodbyes

The last song I played on my old Bentley piano. And I wrote it today at the Bentley, for this evening's service.

In the morning the removal men will come & take my faithful friend away to a new life with Owen & Liz Smith & their kids, and I am glad to pass it on to such a lovely family, and to people who will take enormous pleasure from my old piano.

I learned to play on this. My old Gran bought it. I learned to hear chords and to play scales, I learned Bach and jazz on these keys. I worked out my first choir arrangements, first orchestral parts, first band parts sitting here.

I've written more songs at this piano than I can (or should) remember. I've poured out my heart, and laughed, and worshipped and simply had fun.

I thought it was going on Friday; I sat and played the songs I played when I was 16. The first songs I wrote. The songs I learned for school CU. The first hymn I played in school assembly (I'd been playing about three months when I volunteered to do that...) and which I learned so well I can still mostly remember it now, a million years later.

But the removal men had made a mistake, so I've had an extra weekend with my piano, and instead of leaving with old songs, I sat and wrote something new. Much more fitting. This was what I did here. I sat and wrote. Imagined. Felt. Sang my heart.

Thank you Jesus for such a gift.

And whilst I'm at the goodbyes - the drama group that has emerged from our work with older people at church put on a Variety Show on Saturday afternoon. I added a little piece of my own to surprise them - a Victoria Wood-esque number about theatre etiquette. And at the end they surprised me, with a bit of communal singing to express their feelings towards me as I prepared to leave. And of all the things I am doing right now (so many for the last time - last wedding, last Cafe Church) this one suddenly, surprisingly caught me and in its simple direct emotion brought a tear to me eye. Goodness. Enjoy.

a constant topic of conversation in 1973

I have started throwing out a bin bag of rubbish every day in preparation for my upcoming move to Leeds.  It is surprisingly easy. Or, it was till today.

Today I opened a cupboard, & to my surprise found a bag of stuff I didn't know I had, a bag of distraction. Old school reports. My Oxford Entrance Exam papers. The programme for the Verdi Requiem my school choir put on in April 1979 - the very first thing I ever sang in a choir.

And, gloriously, a note to parents from my junior school headmaster. I record it in full in the hope that some headmaster out there might take heart and still be writing such pieces today.

Dear Parents,

At the beginning of each school year I send out a letter to all parents of first year children. Included in the letter are two paragraphs relating to Personal Appearance from which I quote:-

'In winter girls may wear trousers when travelling to and from school and at playtimes, but we like them to change into skirts or dresses during school hours. Boys may wear long trousers of a sober colour, although in summer short trousers are much to be preferred. Denim jeans are not allowed.'

These rules are of long standing and are responsible for the reputation the school has always had, i.e., of having clean, tidy, well turned-out children.

A constant topic of conversation in 1973 is of the lowering of standards of every facet of life one cares to think of, and it would be only too easy to let our standard of school dress slip.

Recently I have had brought to my attention several breaches of our rules on dress. I will be pleased if parents will take steps to see that the rules are complied with.

Yours sincerely, J Paris, Headmaster.

Notwithstanding the faultless grammar of the letter, please understand that my junior school was in Accrington, Lancashire. It was a common or garden council school. It was not the private establishment that this note would make you believe. I am rather proud to have begun my educational life there, and really quite delighted to discover this note and to find in J Paris, Headmaster a true hero of the anti-Revolution. I say this after taking evening worship wearing my usual jeans, boots & open-necked shirt.

I love - LOVE - the sentence beginning "A constant topic of conversation in 1973..."!

PS - yes, I am the one in the middle of the three amigos enjoying playtime. I'm thinking 1975 or 76. Close enough. I hope you will agree we were clean, tidy, well turned-out children.

beginning to say goodbye

So I had my final gig with the great Byron Jones Big Band, and it was a blast.

It would be easy simply to say lots of nice things about Byron & his band - and they would all be true. It has been a real joy to know these guys and to get to sing with them has been a genuine privilege. But don't tell them. A big band singer has to be able to walk into the room & show no fear or the game's up... If you can't go in there with the attitude "you guys are lucky to have me here", you can't do this job!



Ah yes, Mack the Knife. Filmed on my iPhone from the back of the hall by Malcolm, who has been impresario for these Newport gigs - and another good friend. Tell you what, I'm in a generous mood - here's another video of me in silhouette in front of Byron's band. Who Can I Turn To.



And then on Saturday it was the turn of the Outdoors Fitness leaving party for me.

Twenty-something guys met at the Bunch for a meal, and then we went on to Clwb y Bont for drinks, and more joined us there.

In all honesty, I just felt a bit overwhelmed.

I have loved being part of this group. Loved it. I've never been this fit in my life! And I've loved being a part of the group. To be so blessed by their generosity and kindness & to have a leaving do like this - it made me rather emotional. I'm just one of the group.  And one or two of them said such nice things to me, things I'd love to record here so I don't forget them, but which actually I am going to keep simply in my rather leaky memory.

And it is beginning to seep in that this time is coming to an end. I am beginning to say goodbye. But goodbye is inadequate; when you are me, most of the time you spend your time being blessed by all kinds of people around you, and so "thank you" is far closer to what I mean than "goodbye".

And realising how much you have to be grateful for is - well, overwhelming.

for the love of the game

Football - or at least FIFA, its ruling body - is in chaos. Sepp Blatter, newly re-elected president, refuses to see the crisis. ("Crisis, what is a crisis?" was his quote. Sepp, this is. When you are the reform candidate, this is a crisis.

World leaders from Kim Jong Il to - well, Kim Jong Il, have been congratulating Sepp on the manner of his re-election. Unopposed. Just the way it should be in a democratic institution. Gordon Brown was green with envy. One man one vote, that's FIFA. Shame the one man is Sepp Blatter.

The English FA tried to put it off... but they are hardly the whiter-than-whites here. Still, it was good of Julio Grondona, FIFA's senior Vice-President from Argentina, to make it clear that there was absolutely nothing wrong or corrupt about the voting procedure for this election, or for the selection of the host country in the 2018 & 2022 World Cup bids.

"With the English World Cup bid I said: 'Let us be brief. If you give back the Falkland Islands, which belong to us, you will get my vote'. They then became sad and left.''

Good to know it was all done on footballing matters. Goodness knows what he would've said if he had admitted they had actually let politics into the process. "Yes, I said we had a price - the Falklands, but it was too expensive. Maybe next time?" No hang on, I think he actually did say that. Proudly.

Still, the reforming Mr Blatter will sort that out.

Not.

The beautiful game. Russian oligarchs & Arab billionaires running clubs obsessed with vain playboy moneygrabbing oiks. Thank God we have Sepp Blatter. It could be worse.