glimpses of glory

Inevitably as a parish priest you bury people.

Three years ago on this blog, just as I was stopping doing funerals, I made a comment about Tom Long's superb book Accompany Them With Singing. It is a wonderfully Christian book about death and the things we do around death. I wished I had had it when I was first ordained. Three years ago I didn't know if I would ever put its wisdom to use again.

But now I am grateful for Tom's words, his theology, his understanding of people and the Scriptures and his grasp of God's care of us from our first days to our last - and beyond.

I met Tom, once. Briefly. He has no idea. I heard him preach; simply brilliant. The people who touch us, I suppose, the people who shape us and never know. Tom - thank you. There are folk in my life now, as I resume pastoral ministry, who are profoundly affected by your work and don't know it, as they only get to feel it through my mediating hands and eyes and voice. But I know. And I thank you for the larger sight of God you have given me, and the framework to help others connect with Jesus in fragile times.

I am experiencing a season where all of this is carrying a particular relevance. My prayers and thoughts are filled with dear, dear folk who have lost friends, parents, spouses; I am deeply feeling the sorrow of loss and singing the songs of resurrection.

It's the worst part of the job; it's the deepest privilege. 

merry

So that was Christmas.

My first Christmas back in Oxfordshire.

In Pontypridd, people used to say - "This will be your busy time of year then!" and I would smile a fixed, polite-enough smile and nod. It really wasn't that much busier than any other time of year. There were services to do, sermons to write, people to see, stuff happening. Life. And a few days off afterwards.

Here having three parishes, I got to do Christmas three times over. So yes, it turns out Christmas is my busy time of year. Good job I really enjoy it! (Christmas; and the job, come to think of it.)

From the Christingle in Tackley, where we saw about a fifth of the village pack into the church, to Christmas morning, it has been a real delight to take the Advent journey and see everything that happens here.

In a way it's invidious to pick out highlights, but I guess people will forgive me if I pull out one or two.

That Tackley Christingle was super - in no small part because it was such a surprise. We held it on a Friday afternoon after school as an experiment, and it worked. The school there were totally wonderful to work with, and really supportive - I am only sorry I missed the children singing at the Tackley Carol Service as I was at Steeple at the time. The Steeple Carol Service was fantastic - in no small part to the wonderful musicianship of Jonathan who played organ & ran the choir. North Aston was also a delight; I'm only sorry I had to run from one to the other! Miranda was tremendously prescient & chose music that Kings sang a couple of days later... Again, I am surprised by how good the choirs were in each of the churches. Remember: our largest village has around 1,000 inhabitants, so it's a bit like expecting Portugal to field a football team.

Here is a snippet of the Steeple Carol Service.

And another highlight was hearing the children from the school in Steeple sing a carol I wrote for them at their school Christmas service. Yes, inevitably - here's that too!

Crib Services are new to me. I've never actually done one before in almost 20 years of being ordained. Well, old dogs do learn new tricks. Steeple's was massive, and needed all the crowd control techniques I've learned over the years (never let them see the fear) in order to get to the money moment ("because you matter to God - and you - and you..." and suddenly we have pin-drop quiet) but meanwhile in North Aston...

In North Aston we had the epitome of rural ministry. Steeple has a Crib which can only be described as a mansion. North has a fold out table covered with sawdust, a candle lantern, and knitted figures. Simple and yet stunning. As we all stood around and looked at this naive scene, there was a sudden intimacy which was breathtakingly pure. I loved it.

 I could go on. I should go on. I've not mentioned Carols on the Green, or Midnight, or Christmas Morning -
And I will mention the last of those three, but not for the church services, which were glorious (stunning candles in Tackley, unbelievable attendance in North). No; rather I'm going for earlier in the morning when Harry and I went for our usual woodland path walk, and suddenly heard a noise up ahead. Harry started, and made to move forwards, and then froze to the spot. In front of us, facing away, was a huge deer. For a moment it was still, and then it leapt away - one, two three enormous bounds and it was off. The dog and I had been rooted to the spot as we watched, and only as the deer disappeared did Harry shake himself and set off to follow - but it had gone. A beautiful moment in the early sunlight, a gift.

A gift that sums up this joyful season, for it has all been gift. Gifts of people all around, in song, in worship, in the villages, in the pub, in the choirs, in concerts and gatherings of all sorts, not forgetting lunch with Benyons and Hayns families on Christmas afternoon.

Oh - One more thing.

There are a couple of lovely people here who have been in hospital over Christmas. So I popped across to Witney see them between Christmas morning services and lunch. Just for a few minutes conversation, just to wish them Happy Christmas, to read a little Scripture, and to pray.

And I confess that in that hospital, with the background noise of too-loud TVs and nurses calling down the corridor and the smell of disinfectant and the glare of cheap decorations - I was profoundly and deeply touched by the Lord who was born in a stable in order to be God with us. Always.

Merry Christmas.

Legacy

I am hearing on the radio & reading on Twitter a number of tributes to Nelson Mandela that speak of how, in the 1980s, some people in the UK supported Mandela and the ANC whilst others regarded him as a terrorist.

With respect, Nelson Mandela lived reconciliation.

Isn't the point of the man who wore the Springbok shirt at the Rugby world cup final that sometimes (and this may well be such a fitting time) we forgive one another the past in order to have a chance of writing a different future? Such a man does not belong to the few.

And though he encouraged the remembering, it was to aid reconciliation, not to punish those who had failed him. We honour Mandela with his agenda; even if his great dream for his nation has (for now) only been realised with patchy success, his global legacy is how we all live reconciliation.

If some who got it wrong thirty years ago have since understood and changed, this is a tribute to the generous forgiveness of a true hero of our times. Small-minded reminders of bleaker choices put me in mind of something my grandmother used to say:

"Those who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones."

Or, perhaps, better:

"If you want to make peace with your enemy, you have to work with your enemy. Then he becomes your partner." (The Long Walk to Freedom, 1995)

Reporting Pilling

So the Pilling Report has been published.

The list of those who wrote or spoke to Joe Pilling's working group on human sexuality for the House of Bishops reveals that many conservatives were determined that their voice should be heard, and that many from the differing gay lobby groups also wanted to have a voice.

I'm not entirely clear how many non-interested parties wrote in, which is perhaps an inevitable shame.

The report is careful: it sets out its context very slowly, establishing methodology, its understanding of Anglicanism on several levels, and discussing the differing types of evidence brought before the group. It seeks to be practical and theoretical, and does not deliver any killer new doctrinal statements.

What it does do - importantly - is set out a generous, grace-shaped space for the future. The report understands that there is difficult work to be done, but I think at times instead of describing what the future might look like, it tries to describe what the future might feel like.

In the past, all our discussions on sexuality in Anglicanism have been extraordinarily angst-ridden, as if this was our most precious set of doctrines. But get real; we are about Jesus folks. The Pilling report doesn't say that sentence anywhere - indeed, the Bishop of Runcorn's dissenting statement appeals to Tom Wright's Durham address where he would not put this debate into the 'adiaphora' file. Yet the tone of the whole report gives the Bishop of Runcorn cause for his dissenting statement. All the way through there is a push to lower the angst, to up the grace, to look for the best in those with whom we may disagree and to accept that Christians differ.

That's the key, vital, Anglican nature of this report.

And it doesn't put the Scriptures to one side in order to allow for this. It engages in some debate (throughout; and in the two very lengthy and differing appendices), and has much room for references to more, and clearly shows that freshness and generosity will take us further - if not in changing minds then certainly in how we conduct ourselves as we speak with one another. And that has to be fundamentally Biblical.

I have to admit I am beginning to be saddened by a new popularity of the word 'revisionist'. It gets used when someone doesn't like someone else trying to look at the Scriptures from any fresh angle. 'Revisionist interpretations are to be avoided because the weight of scholarship is against them' is in fact like saying 'New things are to be avoided because there are more old things'. Biblical scholarship is always to be examined; if it handles the Scripture well, it is to be taken seriously whether it fits with our current understanding or not. I love 'revisionism', I thank God for 'revisionism' - in these terms Luther was a 'revisionist'. So was Cranmer. And Hooker. And Calvin. And Aquinas. And Wesley. NT Wright definitely is. These are all people who make us stop and change how we read the Bible. Thank God for these people. To suggest that we ever have everything right is - risking missing out on more. It's not suggesting the truth changes; it's saying that God is wonderful, and still may open our eyes.

But - and this is vital - whilst I don't like the attitude that wants to belittle change, I love the guys that sometimes come out with the attitude. They are vital to the church because their hearts are so good. I want new scholarship; I think the old scholarship doesn't do the Bible justice here because it doesn't work with the bigger picture of God. Yet I want to break bread with the people with whom I disagree - that's Church, that's what Jesus calls us to, and that's the tone I often find in Pilling.

On the day it was published I got sent a link to a new conservative evangelical website supporting gay people. LivingOut is clear: it upholds the trad line; here are a group of gay men who are (somewhat courageously) stating their sexuality very publicly, and adding that they will be celibate or look for a heterosexual relationship.

Honestly, as I read the site, I understand them completely, but disagree with their understanding and application of the Scripture. And I am glad we belong to the same church. It's a big house.

Because that's the other thing I found in Pilling, and this is priceless: nowhere in the findings or recommendations or general tone of the report did I find that it was in any way suggested gay people are sinful or second class. Gay people belong in the big house; there is - at last - officially room.

Even if there is work to be done, even if full equality is a long way off, even if the discipline of the church is still what it always was: there is room. I get that for some 'full equality' is not a goal; I get that for some the current discipline is quite good enough. As I said - I disagree, and with respect, do so because of the Bible.

I am grateful to the Pilling report as I read it for the first time and I hope it will see the Church of England move forward with generosity and grace and care, and perhaps with a few less raised voices along the way.

Advent

It's hard to express my wonder as an Old Mertonian returning to college for this year's Advent Carol Service.

I simply don't have the memory of chairs being put out in the sanctuary so that there was room for everyone who wanted to come to a service. We never had a choir like this. I never saw such spectacle as hundreds of candles flickering and glowing and processing out together. This is Merton College in its 750th year.

And then there is the brand new Dobson Organ, physically dominating the ante chapel, and thundering gloriously through preludes, hymns, anthems and voluntaries.

Mark, the chaplain when I was an undergraduate, is one of my heroes in life. He probably has no idea. I was a fairly unreconstructed evangelical as an undergraduate; vice-president of the OICCU, you name it. The years have added a little nuance for me to the black and white simplicity of those days, the odd grey here and there. And yet, for all that, I was up every morning and attending morning prayer in chapel with Mark and two or three others. He helped me to worship, and the vehicle, the tradition, was not the issue: the reality of the faith and the sight of God was.

These days, I'd be working out how he was using liturgy so well; then I just took it.

And my memory - for what it's worth - is that the life of the chapel ambled on, up and down, and Mark faithfully served us and several found a calling and went forward to ordained ministry, or into different kinds of orders. It was a warm place; he was a good man.

And now: this thing I always loved, watched over by this man I revered, has been transformed and I am truly, truly touched again by what I see and hear and feel today.

My parish here are learning that I am fussy about liturgy. It must be good, but it must be clear: I have no time for liturgy which is only useful to those who are liturgically literate. The in-crowd. Liturgy as a barrier to coming to worship is abhorrent.

Simon, Merton's current chaplain, is a superb liturgist. His materials are concise, readable, intelligent and straightforward to follow for the first-time or occasional visitor. The service booklet for the Advent Carol Service (given that we started in darkness) was excellent as a resource. The basic shape of the service was simple, with readings moving from promise in the Old Testament through the Prophets to the Annunciation in St Luke, surrounded by congregational carols and choir items, with a final procession to the ante chapel where all of us stood, candles in hand, organ blazing, glory descending. The execution of it was awe-inspiring.

The choir: This Christmas, most of us will hear choirs attempt Howells' A Spotless Rose. My heart usually sinks when I see it on a service order. It is a deceptive piece, which should ebb and flow and be like gossamer on the wind, and which more usually ends up like treacle on a spoon. Merton choir under Ben Nicholas' superb direction wove a web that was deliciously light. I can hear it still.

But the highlight was Matthew Martin's O Oriens, a magical, mysterious, breathtaking piece knotted around with glimpses of O Come O Come Emmanuel which quite simply moved me to tears. I didn't want it to end; ended, I wanted to stay in the moment of silence that followed for ever.

The organ: O Mertonians, the old days are gone. The platform, the pseudo-baroque tones that came straight from an early German period instrument recording of the 1960s, all gone. Now here be dragons. Monsters. Angels too - for a Leviathan it can sometimes play with an ethereal sweetness. And at the end, as we all sang out Lo, he comes I stood right by the Dobson and felt its full power, and the earth shook. Wonderful.

It was a real privilege to be with hundreds of others in Merton Chapel on Saturday. It is a real privilege to see what Simon and his team and his vision is achieving there. It was a special privilege to see Mark back for the occasion, and to speak briefly with him. Too briefly; I owe him so much.

It was the best start to Advent I can ever remember.

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?