another year

Ryan Giggs is 40. Amazing. And still playing at the highest level, as he showed in leading the charge in this week's 5-0 victory by United over Leverkusen. Goalies last that long, but midfielders die young. Unless they are Ryan Giggs.

Another birthday boy, CS Lewis, had a memorial stone placed in Westminster Abbey last week on the 50th anniversary of his death. It was a great occasion - and I felt privileged to be there. I had a ticket amongst the general populace in the South Aisle but as I arrived I saw my old friend Spud, who had organised the whole thing, and he gave me that most precious of things - a 'friend, come up higher' moment. He decided to find me a 'better seat', which turned out to be on the front row at the east end of the choir. The royal family seats. 'What was my connection with CS Lewis?' I kept being asked. 'We share a birthday,' didn't quite feel like the right answer...

The sound of CS Lewis' voice from a BBC recording during the service was a beautiful moment; as was a new anthem on one of his poems.

And me?

On my birthday this year I am in a grateful frame of mind.

A year ago, I was beginning to ponder a return to full time ordained ministry after my time in Leeds, and now I have a new home and role, the three parishes are just great, and I am back in Oxfordshire amongst the dearest of friends.

I've received all sorts of gifts this week. At that CS Lewis service, someone I haven't seen for ages told me they follow this blog, and have found it a real help from time to time. Well, that encouragement blessed me. Thank you. Meeting a young couple to discuss a baptism, one of them told me that they had heard me preach a couple of times and found things I said to be surprisingly understandable(!): would I speak that way about the baptism? They had even found they had changed something about the way they lived after one of my sermons. I tell you - any preacher who hears that said to them genuinely feels like they are walking on air!

And the photo at the top is from a couple of nights ago, as Clare & David MacInnes invited me over for supper to celebrate my birthday, and Clare & John Hayns were there too. One of the deepest gifts - these friends who mean the world, and now I'm just down the road from them.

Life will have its ups and downs; there were a couple of moments in the last year when I got a bit stressed! There will be a few of those moments in the year ahead, I don't doubt... But this year's birthday is not about accruing new gifts; simply being very, very thankful for the very, very many good gifts that have already come my way.

One extra thought.

In Pontypridd, it was a running joke - and sometimes, to be honest, it did get me down a bit - that I somehow ended up celebrating my birthday each year either by taking a funeral or by sitting at the bedside of someone who was dying.
You will all be glad to know I am not taking a funeral today!

I did take one yesterday, though...

pastoral epistles

I have a new email address as Rector here, and have been doing my best to answer questions and keep up with requests as they have come in. Here is a flavour of rural community life so far.

Dear Rector,
I hear one of your walnut trees has blown down in the storm. This is a sign from God: even so, he is blowing down the Church of England, and especially that awful little man Justin. Justin! What a name.
Would you like to come for tea, some time?
Yours...

Dear Rector,
I am told that one of those dear walnut trees has blown down. It reminds me: I had an old maiden aunt with a dressing table made from walnut veneer. At least, we thought it was veneer, until one Bonfire Night, for a wheeze, we threw my aunt on the bonfire as the 'Guy' - and she took forever to burn, so perhaps she was made from solid walnut?
Yours...

Dear Rector,
Do you intend to castrate your new dog? If not, my daughter would be interested in using him for breeding.
Yours...

Dear Rector,
Do you hunt, or are you a Liberal Democrat? I realise you aren't married, but I could find a horse for you if you would like. Coming from the north I expect you're quite handy with a gun, so you will join our New Year Shoot, won't you?
Yours...

And my replies (in reverse order):

Dear Sir ... ... MP,
I am afraid I will be away at New Year. Perhaps another time?

Dear Churchwarden,
Sadly for your daughter's spaniels, Harry is not long to be entire. But thank you for putting this thought in my mind.

Dear Headteacher,
Bonfire Night does bring back memories, does it not? I had an uncle whose neck was solid brass, I swear.

Dear Bishop,
I would be delighted to come for tea.

wild about Harry

I have a dog fixer. Thirteen years ago Val put me in touch with the couple who bred Matt. And now she has connected me with Dave & Jacky, who had a two year old Springer they have been 'running on'.

However - he was not for me. I had hoped he would be right, but when I saw how he was with Jacky, I knew he wasn't the one.

Fortunately this was not the end of the tale.

Dave & Jacky had been contacted by a couple who had taken one of their pups a couple of months beforehand, and who had decided they couldn't keep him. They have a small baby, and Springer pup & small baby were too much in one house. (Imagine - choosing to give the pup back...) I think the contact had only been made on the day I went to see the breeders, so it was all a bit fresh. With no obligation I drove on to see the five month old dog.

He was a black and white pup. Exactly what I had been looking for. It took me less than ten seconds to say yes. His old owner handed him over with tears and gratitude; I received him in like manner.

He had another name; but I have re-Christened him for his new life. He is now Harry.

Harry is (apart from his colouring) physically very like Matt. Facially he is occasionally scarily similar. But in personality, he's much more like Charlie - a life-and-soul-of-the-party dog. He wants to meet everyone. He barks at stuff, and gets excited, and runs on the wind that blows across the fields.

But he also ambles around the drive at the front of the house, and plays in the garden, and never runs off - so in that respect, he's simply Harry.

I think I need training. I've never had a dog this age before. Having said that, he's already bonded to me. He's brilliant off the lead, and (unless he gets distracted by other dogs) comes back to me whenever I call.

Driving down to the south coast last Friday to see him, I wondered if I should do it. Did I really want another dog?

Perhaps moving here has been the final stage in the grieving process. When Charlie died, I had loads of photos of him put in frames. As I moved into this house, I found them all - and realised I have really only two or three of Matt. When he died, I didn't do the same thing. I decided which photo I wanted, but never got round to actually getting it printed out. Till I got here. It arrived in the post last week.

I'm told Matt & Harry possibly share breeding lines. It's a nice thought. I wonder how the three dogs - Matt, Harry & Charlie - would all get on. Breeding lines or no, they are all part of my family.

Did I really want another dog? As soon as I got him, the answer was clear. Yes. My house has become a home again.

I took a Harvest service for the school in Steeple Aston today, and reminded everyone about how Thanksgiving is so central to Harvest. Well, my heart is fit to bursting with gratitude for this canine addition to my life. A new dog. So different. So the same.

Such a gift. Yep, I'm already wild about Harry.

arrival

I hardly know what to write about the last few days.

When Phil was inducted as vicar at Calverley, I watched with gathering emotion, because I knew deep within that my own time was coming. I listened to the words, and felt the power of the promises, and understood that what was right for Phil in Calverley would soon be mine somewhere else.

At that point (and we're talking mid-May) I hadn't even applied for this post. But I was pretty sure I'd be looking at early autumn as my time - though, to be fair, in part that was because I wasn't clear I could cope with it being much later!

When it came to Wednesday night at St Nicholas' in Tackley, the skies were grey, the air heavy with the promise of rain, and I was both totally thrilled, and slightly disconnected.

It was strange, emotionally speaking. I guess I'd spent a whole week getting the rectory into a liveable state. There we go - classic me. In order to function well, I need my home-space sorted. It had been hard work; it has been worth it. John and Clare were amazing on the first day, and Dad & Lorna were astonishing over the weekend. Their help was phenomenal.

But I'd so focussed there that it wasn't till Wednesday itself that I took time to ready myself in any way for the spiritual side of the challenge ahead. No - I take that back. Building a home for me is all about creating a haven which works in terms of inviting people in for hospitality, and having space in which to pause and relax and breathe for myself. Both of these things are essential in ministry, and it's interesting how that was such an overriding priority during the first week.

But it wasn't till Wednesday itself I consciously prayed; thoughtfully prepared; took time with God and mentally began to realise what lay ahead of me.

During the service there were many highlights: I entered the church early, before anything began, to hear the choir rehearsing my 'Salvation's Songs' hymn. They sounded wonderful, and it was profoundly moving to hear those harmonies being sung in that place as I walked in.  Bishop Colin was lovely (as always) and has subsequently sent me his sermon notes so I can take time to reflect on his words; I am deeply moved by his kindness.

There were amazing people in church (in addition to all the people in the parish whom I am looking forward to getting to know) from pretty much every part of my life. Mum, Dad and Lorna, Pauline & David from the first church I ever attended, Cathryn from the first church I was organist at, my headmaster from grammar school & his wife (where I came to faith), Oxford friends, Aberystwyth friends, a glorious band of folk from Pontypridd, Nigel & Angela whom I met during my first curacy, Ian whom I first met skiing, Ed & George who are such a key part of my jazz life, Sylvia & Brenda from Calverley, too many people to mention, but I can't not mention again John & Clare who through so many years have been such good friends, and Chris & Ruth, whose ability to laugh and cry at the same things has made my life rich beyond telling.

If a person is judged by their friends, you get quite the wrong impression of me. I'm honestly not that good. But I am that blessed. And these folk were only the ones who had made it on the day, and I haven't included the ones who sent cards or best wishes. I thank you all. You are wonderful.

The highlight was singing hymns and seeing your faces and knowing that God is good.

And then...

Today was my first Sunday.

I could get used to this; we had a united Benefice service at Steeple Aston. It was all a bit Anglican and rather lovely. I just about remembered how to do this! (It's been a while...) We'll see what the future holds, but people are super here, and coped with my (probably idiosyncratic) ways well. We sang and prayed and shared the Scriptures and the bread and wine. It was great to be here, to be rector, to be vaguely in charge and totally enthused.

This morning I started with an old Rabbi Lionel Blue joke, then (via an exposition of Luke 15.1-10, but really 15.1-2) gave the congregation the tiny challenge of loving everyone, because that's what Jesus does, and we must do what he does. I apologised for starting with such a small task, and promised I'd raise the bar in future weeks.

Oh well... I guess it's one way to mark an arrival.

future's door

There's a meeting on Monday. A phone meeting. Some academics will talk to possible partners who may be interested in a project, which, if it goes ahead, could have a real impact on the way a major commodity is viewed in the future. An environmental change for good. Pretty much globally. It wasn't my job to set that up; but I saw the opportunity and made it my job.

I was told I shouldn't put all my eggs in one basket.

Well, those of you who know me know what kind of red rag that was to what kind of bull I am.

Anyway, the meeting is on Monday. If all goes well, the project that follows is one of the largest of its kind my office has ever handled. In money terms. In impact. It may yet turned out to have been a pretty big basket of eggs.

Of course, I won't be at the meeting. I've been at every one so far with these academics and this partner, I've set every one up, organised every email, pushed, cajoled, beamed with joy and wonder, and been absolutely privileged to stand alongside an amazing team of people. But I left the University yesterday. Set a thing in motion then found the movement so irresistible it carried me on my way.

Tomorrow morning I preach my last sermon at Calverley, a whistle-stop tour through hospitality in Luke (with a twist in the tale), and on Monday the removal men come.

The revolving door keeps swinging, pushing me through.

Till on Wednesday I land on the other side, and this two year and one month sojourn in Leeds finally ends as I land in Oxfordshire. Indeed, in many ways, it's been a nineteen year trip.

I left Oxfordshire for Wales in 1994. Honestly, a large part of me didn't want to go; but the Lord called me on from friends and home, and so away I went. It's been quite a time. I've learned more than I know how to express. I've felt the hand of Jesus hold me every step of the way. As I look forward to this next stage in life, I am wonderfully excited; and filled with a deep joy to be returning to a part of the world that still feels more like home than anywhere else I know.

So I'm glad that others will handle that meeting on Monday, and take that project forward. It may - it will - do wonderful things. But it's not my calling, my life, my future that will be shaped as those voices speak across phone lines and continents. The lives, hopes, dreams and worlds I will be a part of lie elsewhere.

And my heart, I sense, is already travelling ahead of the rest of me as I walk through future's door.

Salvation's Songs

I was asked to offer four hymns or songs for the Induction in September. It struck me that perhaps I might write something to throw in the mix. As I started to play around with ideas, the mood of the piece and the melody and the chords kind of fell out of my fingers fairly quickly.

A little time and a little polish brought some shape.

Then I wondered what the song was saying: the first verse came simply, as is often the case. In my head, it was living somewhere between a Spiritual and a Welsh Revival hymn, so the repetition of the second line seemed acceptable. The chorus took a while. The rhyme wasn't there to begin with, and I was playing with 'cross and crown' before I found 'thorns and glory'.

What I did find, as I reached the last line, was that I automatically sang 'I will sing Salvation's Songs', and it was just one of those moments. I mean, I've been looking to write a song with that line for years. You'd think, wouldn't you? I have a book by that title. It's at the top of this page and on my Twitter feed. It's an obvious place to go. And I've never done it musically. Never even come close to it. But the other evening, it was just obvious.

So here's a song about following Jesus, about worshipping him and living in his presence. It's a heart song.

And I think we will probably give it a run out this weekend in Calverley, and if I can get through the slight summer cold that's sitting on my voice this week and all goes well, we'll add it to the order of service for September 11th too.

The Rector

This morning, the parishes of Steeple Aston, North Aston and Tackley in Oxfordshire are hearing the name of their new Rector.

It's me.

After two years in Leeds, working at the University and being a part of the parish of St Wilfrid's Calverley, I felt it was time to move on.

As I prayed and talked the possibilities through, it became clear that the ideal would be a move back to the Oxford area, and to finding a good community in which to serve and help develop church life.

I am looking forward to moving to the benefice of Steeple Aston with North Aston and Tackley in early September. The induction date has been set for September 11th, though the exact details of my leaving Leeds have yet to be finalised with the University. The three villages all have their own character, and it will take a while for me to get to know them and enjoy their variety, but I am ready for the challenge and to giving them my all.

This blog used to carry a strap-line: My job is to worship God, his job is to grow the church. I think I'll put that back up soon! People occasionally think a rector can be a magical solution to all sorts of problems; well I am no-one's magical solution. But we have better than magic to offer - we have God with us. So I'll do my job of worshipping him, and know that he will do his work of blessing and healing and comforting and growing his people as he will.

A personal word: churches usually have interregnums between vicars - they offer a period where a congregation can let go emotionally of what has gone before, where they can reflect on what was terrific and what needed to be learned from, and where they can begin to prepare for the future. I guess I have been privileged to have had a personal interregnum over the last two years.

Working as part of the alumni & development team at Leeds has given me personal space to let go of Pontypridd, to reflect at length on that time, and to start to look ahead. More than that, I have worked with some superb colleagues who have offered me real insights into different working methods and academic disciplines. Plus, I have made some great friends, whom I trust will remain friends as I now move on to the next stage of my journey.

I hope I have added value to that team, as this time has added enormously to me. We should all live so that life enlarges us; that's certainly true of this time for me.

Not forgetting Calverley. I came here 'by accident'. Yet in the congregation of St Wilfrid's I found another blessing, an unexpected bonus, a surprising joy. I saw one vicar retire, helped through the vacancy, and now I am having the enormous pleasure of watching a new vicar start to set his mark upon the church with gentle skill and insight. It's just a joy to be part of this parish, and I will leave with great gratitude.

The turnaround will be quite quick. There's a house to be left and another to be moved into. Yes - this is a picture of the rectory I inherit, I know some of you want to see this! - lots of practical things and I am already genuinely humbled by the welcome I am receiving from Oxford diocese and from all the wardens in the benefice.

And above all, there's a terrific sense of the One who has led me all these years leading me on from here. His hand has guided, and holds me when I fall, when I run, when I leap for joy or sit silent in sorrow. He guides me still.

Please pray for me over the next few weeks, and please feel free to come see me in the new place from September on.

privilege

I stood behind him, my hand on his shoulder, praying. He was kneeling. The bishop was seated in front of us, both arms outstretched. Other clergy were gathered around, all part of Karsten's story.

Karsten himself was still, receiving blessing, in a moment that I have seen sometimes be perfunctory but which here was genuinely holy.

It was a privilege to participate in my dear friend Karsten Wedgewood's ordination as a priest in the Church of England last Saturday.

I remember him joining St Catherine's. His English was stilted, his faith almost nowhere to be found. Years of theology in a major German university had all but squeezed the life out of him (it can do that to you; that, or help you fly) and he simply needed time to know Jesus.

We talked about the Resurrection quite a bit, I seem to recall. And we let the love of the people and the honesty of our worship do its work.

I think I always trust in these things because I find them to be so powerful and so true in my own experience. If God is found most clearly anywhere it is in the lives of his people. This is why, when his people fail, it hurts so much. Yet God shines through. For all the let-downs (we all get those - we all give them too, sadly), I have benefitted repeatedly in my life from people who have believed in me when I have forgotten how to do so; those people show me Jesus with a power they have no idea about.

As for worship, it's no surprise I'm going to depend upon the melodies of faith and gain strength from singing repeated promises of love to God based on clear statements of his character which exist in every form of Christian hymnody. All I'd add is that I don't think you need a voice or even an ear for these things to work; just a heart, and eyes to see when truth genuinely sustains and changes people.

Karsten doesn't share my passion for music; and yet as we talk I am impressed how deeply he cares about worship. He's had knocks from some who might have been better examples of faith, and yet it's the love of others that sings louder through his life.

We talked about the Resurrection quite a bit back in the day, and it's the same power that was seen in Jesus when God raised him from the dead that is at work in Karsten now. Is open to all of us. We all have our limits. We all have set-backs and imperfections (of our own and of others foisted upon us) and yet when we see Jesus, there is something amazing that happens:

We too are raised.

Life throws hundreds of little deaths at us. Yet, if we dare trust Jesus, we are raised up to something more by the One who was raised from a tomb in a garden on the third day.

Last Saturday it was a privilege to stand with a man who knows the inside truth of life and faith and who has willingly chosen to serve people and God and to offer this Jesus Resurrection truth. A privilege.

If you don't know Karsten, he's on the far right of the photo. Pray for him, and the parish where he lives. He's come a long way, and his story is far from done.

Which, I'd say with a great degree of gratitude, is probably a fair thing to say for all of us.

before and after

It's the old romantic in me. Or I'm just getting older.

I enjoyed the original, Before Sunrise; I quite liked the follow up, Before Sunset. I have them on DVD, and now that a third movie has come along, Before Midnight, I decided to re-view them before catching the latest instalment at the cinema.  

What beautiful films.

And - how amazing; the story of Celine and Jesse through the three films captures what happens when we age. We are who we always were, but with life added on. It's not just haircuts and lines on our faces, it's grit in our souls too.

Clare, the newsagent in Pontypridd, once asked me a question. A gaggle of arguing old biddies were leaving her shop, and as she stared after them, Clare turned to me and said, "Marcus, when I get old, will I be like that?"

I replied: "I think that when you are old, you are what you always were - but you forget to hide it. If you were always kind and generous, you will be that person in your old age, and it will be obvious to everyone. And if you were always a secretly cantankerous so-and-so - guess what!"

Clare looked at me and laughed. "Oh dear," she said, "I'm not sure if that's good news or not!"

These films follow through two people as they move from early twenties to early thirties to early forties. I hope this isn't the last in the series. They aren't perfectly profound, or absolutely applicable to every life situation - but they are wonderfully human and recognisable and rise to hope and fall to despair and leave questions open and give room for both dreams and failures. They are beautiful.

I sometimes find myself praying - Lord, help me be a good person today. I mean by that - help me love. I think it can feel fairly easy to love God; it feels less easy to 'love my neighbour', the people around me. I guess there's a temptation all of us face - and it's huge in all of these films - so to dwell on our side of the conversation of life that we forget  someone else is speaking too, and that their words come from experience and understanding and a place of value. Love happens when, for a moment, we listen and hear something new. Something beyond us. Something wonderful.  

Watching these films I see magical moments when two people just get that right, and tragic moments when they fail desperately.

I guess Celine & Jesse are just slightly younger than me. They could be people I've met. I feel like I know them; they speak like they know me.

What beautiful films.

anniversary

Twelve months ago today Matt died.

Perhaps I'm beginning to get the hang of this grief thing now.

We talk a lot about 'loss' when someone dies. "I'm sorry for your loss" is the culturally acceptable phrase. And, indeed, when Matt first died, all I could feel was the vacuum, the hole, the absence of the gift that he was in my life.

Well I still miss him. Every day. I think about him, and the things he'd do, the way he'd greet me, the way he'd respond to something or make me think differently because he was there. He made each day better.

But it's not so much about loss any more.

Loss would've been not to have him in the first place. Loss would've been to sit tight when Charlie died and not to go and find him. Loss would've been ten years without his company, his friendship, his love. That would have been loss.

I thank God for every day I had with Matt. And for every memory I have of him. And for every smile that crosses my face as I think of him now.

Yes, there are days it still hurts, one year on. And yet I'm working past the initial shock and pain and beginning to understand that these right and proper and raw emotions can hide deeper things from us if we stay with them too long and don't work our way through. Because why would I think of Matt and be sad? What part of our time together does that represent? Why does the last day get to be so important? We had over three and a half thousand days together; why let just one completely rule my heart, my mind, my remembering, my feelings?

Or if one day must be so important, I should pick a different one. A Christmas Day, opening gifts together, eating too much together, walking in the snow together. A summer's day, watching him running in the forestry, seeing him seek out a brook in which to paddle. A holiday by the beach, where Matt loved to play, even if he never ever dared swim in the sea. A journey in the car, where he would lie content at my side, his head on my hand, just occasionally complaining as I would sing along with songs on the radio. Or any old day, when I would come back from doing whatever it is I do, and he would leap and bark and be delighted I was home.


I thank God because now in my heart all of these days are gaining in weight, and that final day is receding a little. It's not so much about loss.

It's taken a year. But (at last) it's becoming about love and about the joy of ten years. So I do still shed the occasional tear, but don't think these tears come from sorrow - they are far more complex than that. There's a lot of life that wells up inside as I think of Matt, and sometimes it can't help but trickle out.

With great gratitude.

the things we gain

The things we gain in life that really matter are few and far between.

In the small town where my sister lives, someone has won an extraordinary amount of money on the lottery. An extraordinary amount.

Really, you have to feel sorry for them. Their life has just finished. If it was known who they were, their kids would no longer be safe, they would be besieged by needy people asking for help, their families would fall apart as people struggled with the unfairness of their generosity (or perceived lack thereof).

It's a small town. They'd have to leave, quickly and quietly moving out of state to start new lives, gain new friends, hoping all the while that the extent of their wealth was never known.

Gaining that is losing the lottery of life.

Sure, I'd like a bit more cash. I'd like to be able to buy a slightly nicer house than the one I rent, drive a slightly newer car, not worry about affording holidays. The usual things.

And then I count my real wealth.

I was chatting last week to a friend, someone I first met through my current work, and I said - the important thing is the people you meet. He retorted - no, you meet some jerks. The important thing is the friends you make.

He's right.

On this trip I've spent some great time working with friends, talking with friends, catching up and relaxing with friends. Above all - eating with friends. I will need to exercise when I get home; I have been fed like a king by friends and family alike! And I'm talking about the food, and I'm talking about the relationships too.

Like everyone else, there are days I dream about a better bank balance.

And then I see how rich I am. And I'm grateful.

ninepins

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

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

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


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

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

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

But I have to question that attitude.

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

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

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

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

treats

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

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

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

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

Sometimes the things you really look forward to are amazing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hall of Infamy

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

In May he admitted guilt.

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

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

It's almost too painful a story.

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

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

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

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

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

Now.

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

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

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

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

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

But it actually happened. For real.

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

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

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

being Luis Suarez is enough punishment in itself

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

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

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

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

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

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

But actually - Rogers is right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What do you think?

Family doesn't always mean Families

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

sticks and stones

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

Let's just think about that for a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

So easily.

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

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

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

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

And at the end?

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

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

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

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

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

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

garden centre

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Passion

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



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

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

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

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

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

A Good Friday.