Here goes!

I'm never much good at Remembrance Sunday. Born in 1960, WW2 seemed very close as for my parents it was their first adult reality...My father had served in the Royal Navy, my mother in the WRNS, and neither of them had any romantic illusions about the ways of war. Remembrance Sunday was sad and dark, for all the ranks of old comrades who turned out at church wearing their medals. It frightened me then, and it still does in some ways, as we get swept up in a process of remembering that can never breathe life into dry bones.
This year a series of glitsches and communications failures compounded the problem for me, so it is only to ensure that I don't spend all night sitting editing that I'm posting this here. I'll preach it, if my courage holds, at Remembrance services in both churches. I don't think it's much good, but I know it's all I have in me to say tonight...
I think it's in Perelandra that C.S. Lewis has his protagonist, Ransome, begin an act of courage  thus
"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit - here goes!"
I think that may well be my approach tomorrow morning.


IN July the media was full of comments, thoughts and reflections on the death of the last British soldier who served in the First World War…Harry Patch.
He had reached a remarkable age – 111 years, 1 month, 1 week and 1 day but what he represented was something still more remarkable.

He was, if you like, one of our living war memorials…someone whose own life experience summed up the truth that we still struggle to learn, that though heroism is wonderful, though desperate situations often call forth amazing acts of sacrifice and generosity, in the end it’s hard to find anything positive to say about war.

Here Harry speaks for himself –  voicing an opinion to which he’d surely earned the right. He delivers without hesitation the lesson of the trenches
You used to look between the fire and apertures and all you could see was a couple of stray dogs out there, fighting over a biscuit that they’d found. They were fighting for their lives. And the thought came to me – well, there they are, two animals out there fighting over dog biscuit, the same as we get to live.
I said, ‘We are two civilised nations - British and German - and what were we doing? We were in a lousy, dirty trench fighting for our lives? For what

It wasn’t worth it. No war is worth it. No war is worth the loss of a couple of lives let alone thousands. T’isn’t worth it … the First World War, if you boil it down, what was it? Nothing but a family row. That’s what caused it. The Second World War – Hitler wanted to govern Europe, nothing to it.

The night we caught it, we were in the front line and we were going back. We had to cross what was the old No Man’s Land. It was crossing there that a rocket burst amongst us. It killed my three mates, it wounded me.
September 22nd, half-past ten at night. That’s when I lost them. That’s my Remembrance Day. Armistice Day, you remember the thousands of others who died. For what?

My own father, who saw action with the Royal Navy in Burma, took a similar approach. It wasn’t til after his death that I discovered that he had been awarded the Distinguished Service Cross…I never knew because he fiercely resisted any attempts to persuade him to talk about “his” war. If pressed he would say that the reason he and his friends fought was so that my generation and those that came after would not HAVE to remember. He wanted us to be free of the shadows that had darkened his childhood, adolescence and then his twenties as well…
But the news today tells a sadly familiar story of young men dying violently in a conflict they did not initiate.

This doesn’t in any way reduce the importance of what we are about today.
It has been truly said that those who forget the lessons of history are doomed to repeat them and we need to stop and think, with humble gratitude, of all those who gave their lives and those who are still giving their lives today, because they believe that there are things worth fighting for.

So, though I don’t like to do so, I think I’d disagree with my father.
I believe that remembering matters, because we can’t afford to miss the lessons of the past. But I think we’ll learn more from them if  we look at them in the light of the gospel reading that we’ve just heard
It doesn’t make comfortable reading, but that’s not unusual with Jesus.
He tends to stand back from our human predicaments and speak of another way, and when we’re up to our necks in the current situation, that’s not easy to deal with.
If he’d preached these words standing in No Man’s Land, in the Flanders mud…If he’d offered them to the troops in Helmund province earlier this week…I can’t think it would have ended well. They might even have crucified him.

But for all that, we need to hear him, even if he seems to make no sense.
He says, after all, that people are blessed (that means happy) in the most unlikely situations
Blessed when they mourn…Happy in their grief…
How about that as a contradiction in terms – and not something I would ever dare say to a war widow, as she confronts the pain of her loss
Blessed again when they are persecuted for the sake of what is right.
But it can be so hard to define right in this sort of situation…when it seems to be more a case of “least wrong”
Blessed as the victims of lies and slander, of bullying and persecution…in war, we are told, the truth is often the first victim because it matters that stories are told in the most politically helpful way.
Blessed as the unsung heroes who do all in their power to bring about peace….but who might find themselves ostracised as conscientious objectors, or mocked for promoting compromise at a time when the popular approach is to literally stick to your guns.

Actually experience suggests that these people might not feel very blessed at all…but perhaps that’s the point. Jesus is celebrating the fact that those who dare to step outside our everyday expectations, to look at life in a radically different way are already living with one foot in heaven, and stand as signs of hope to us.
After all, the greatest victory that has ever been won in the world was that moment of complete abandonment that looked very like defeat when Jesus was executed as a political prisoner, a troublemaker who needed to be silenced.
That’s the way to ultimate peace and happiness…but it is not, as Jesus makes clear, a way that the world will easily understand.

So we need to carry on remembering..To wear our scarlet poppies with pride and gratitude but perhaps, also, to consider the message of the white poppy that speaks of peace.
For today pride and pain walk hand in hand.  We would not be human if we did not, like Harry Patch, remember with pain.  We would be sadly ungrateful we did not remember with pride.  
But as we gather, we need another ingredient too…and it’s one that we can recognise in our gospel reading – for here, in that string of blessings, Jesus offers us hope
Those who live according to the unpopular principles that he preaches are already living with one foot in heaven, even as they make their way through life on earth.

So we began with a living war memorial but let’s end with living sign posts..
Sign posts created in the lives of those whom Jesus calls blessed.
Living sign posts to show us a different way, and so offer us hope that one day we will be free of the shadows of war, as we strive to do justly, love mercy and walk humbly with our God.

Rites of Remembering

Today's All Souls Eucharist & Commemoration of the Departed draws a line for me, I think, under the recent tide of death-beds and funerals. I know that at least one more funeral will fall into my diary sometime very soon, since dear I., who fought so long and hard, finally went safely home to God on Saturday, and I know too that others in my church community are engaged in life and death battles of their own, that there will be the need to explore the deepest issues, the four last things before too many weeks are past.

But for the moment, I seem to be standing in a clearing - and that feels good.

Don't mistake me - I love and value this aspect of ministry hugely; sometimes, when fabric and finance seem to be demanding most of my time, I catch myself thinking "I badly need a funeral to remind me of what I'm really for..." but even so, officiating at 12 in 15 working days felt somewhat overwhelming.

I wondered, in the course of that run, whether I was quite mad to offer both "Journey On", and the full All Souls Requiem...Many of the same people would come to both, I thought, but the services work in very different ways. "Journey On" is, really, church for the un-churched. Very early in my curacy I spoke with a widower who told me that the hardest experience of the first few months after his wife's death was the moment when he heard her name remembered among the departed at the Sunday Mass...It seems to me that to ask people who are not habitually at home in church to deal with that extra emotional burden may not always be kind - even leaving aside the question of whether we manage, as I profoundly hope that we do, to make it clear that everyone really IS welcome at the feast. Hence, "Journey On", which gives them the opportunity to do their remembering in silence, or through the comfortable familiarity of lighting a tea- light.

This morning's Requiem for All Souls, on the other hand, has the sharing of Communion at its heart. In my homily I spoke a little about the continuity of love and prayer that allows us to say, like Thomas More
"Pray for me as I will for thee, that we may merrily meet in heaven", and about the presence of the whole church, living and departed in the Lord Jesus, as we break bread and share wine as He commands. It was good to stand before the altar and proclaim Resurrection hope, to offer the Gospel promise
"This is the will of the one who sent me, that I should lose nothing that has been given to me, but raise it up on the last day".
The congregation that appeared was too large for the Lady Chapel, so we moved into the quire and my voice sounded loud to me as I read the long list of names, allowing each one to rest on the air before gathering them all up, with so many countless others, as I prayed the Kontakion with its surprising moment of joy

"weeping o'er the grave we make our song
ALLELUIA!
Give rest, O Lord, to thy servants with thy saints
Where sorrow and pain are no more
Neither sighing, but life everlasting"

So, I'm glad we offer both routes to remembering...but above all I am thankful that as we stand at the altar we are, all together, the Body of Christ - taken, blessed, broken...

A seed is an act of faith...Address for Journey On

A seed is an act of faith…

If I knew I was going to die tomorrow, I should plant a tree today..
So Martin Luther King summed up the faith and hope that is represented by each seed consigned to the earth.

When we look at a single seed it is so ridiculously tiny…really not much to go on to represent the future. Last spring I dropped a seed packet in my kitchen and many individual seeds were quite simply lost, among the dust on the floor –but within themselves, each and every one of them was replete with potential.

We recognise this whenever we place a seed in the soil.
We trust that, though most of us probably don’t understand quite how it works, given a bit of care and reasonable conditions, that seed will germinate and grow to provide new life where there was none before. And we are able to believe this because we’ve seen it happen for us, year after year…but nonetheless, each planting is, truly, an act of faith.

Paul would have us think quite a lot about what happens to the seed as it lies in the ground…but I’m not sure that his analogy is too helpful for us today, any more than when it appears among the suggested readings for use at a funeral or memorial service. After all at that time, most of us are completely focussed on the reality of saying Goodbye to the beloved body that has been put aside by the person we love, the remains we are just then putting into the ground. We don’t need anything else to remind us of just how perishable, how fragile that precious shell the body can be. We wouldn’t be here at a service like this if we weren’t each of us having to live with the consequences of that fragility, day after day after day.

So Paul’s clever analogy with gardening doesn’t necessarily make things much better. We know the science but translating it to another context is a different matter. It can be so hard to visualise any sort of bodily resurrection. Even if we’re sure that we’ll see our loved ones again, it’s very difficult for us, this side of the divide, to imagine quite how that will turn out. Sometimes, not understanding makes it seem simply impossible to believe: I’m afraid I don’t have any sure-fire answers to that one, because, of course faith is never the same as knowledge, and we can’t use the same objective reasoning to confirm our hopes for eternity. It just doesn’t work that way.
It’s one of those times when we can only trust to faith- if we have it - or to the instinct that confirms for us that something, someone we have loved so much cannot simply vanish as if they had never been.
I believe that…
I believe it from my own experience of the death of my parents and other dear dear people…
I believe it because I have Jesus’s own promise that it is so…but I cannot, in all honesty, tell you exactly how it will come to pass in God’s economy, in which nothing and no-one is ever wasted.
So, though I want you to think about seeds I’m not going to explore Paul’s words too much at the moment.
Who can really understand the Resurrection?
But he’s right that we all understand gardening.

I want to think, though, about other seeds…the seeds of faith and hope that lie in each one of you, the seeds that have enabled you to carry on even when grief is sharpest, on the days when the separation is almost too much to endure.
Sometimes, I know, they seem so fragile that you doubt that they will actually grow at all…but each day you get up and engage with life and remember to have breakfast you are saying
“It IS worth it…Death shall have no dominion over me
Writing earlier in this same letter to the Corinthians, Paul reminds us that we carry within us seeds that can bloom and flower in our relationships, the seeds that make us fully human.
“These three remain - faith, hope and love
When we are grieving the loss of someone dear to us, it’s tempting to say
“I’ll give up on love – because that way lies only hurt and desolation…”
but even if we no longer feel ourselves able to give or receive love, love nonetheless surrounds us. The love of our families and friends is a huge comfort – but it’s not something that we are all blessed to enjoy. The love of a community feels rather different – sometimes a little impersonal…but it’s still worth having…And even if we feel ourselves cut off from all these everyday experiences of human love – even then, we are still shaped and held by love…endless love, which is stronger than anything in the whole of creation.

We may not be able to say that we understand what happens next, but we can continue to nurture the seeds of faith, and trust that all shall be well, that the God whose who nature is love did not create anything to be destroyed or wasted.
We can hold onto those split-second reminders of his greater reality, the moments when an unexpected kindness, a child’s smile turns the world bright again for us, however briefly…We can cherish those seeds and keep them warm and close to our hearts, the place where they most need to grow. That growth may take a long time, for after all we’re not planting for the short term, something to spring up and die back in a season, but looking for something to sustain us each day.
So, no quick fixes,no short cuts, but I promise that as we journey on in faith, the glimpses of hope, the hints of love will slowly grow and come to fruition until we can each own for ourselves the promise
'Love is not changed by death and nothing is lost, and all in the end is harvest'

Journey On

Is the annual "service of remembrance & thanksgiving" we offer to those families with whom we have had contact through funeral ministry in the course of the past two years...
In format it is pretty much identical to the service I produced for my training parish, but while their service occupied the Evensong slot at 6.30 on a Sunday night, and was followed by strong drink, ours, reflecting a rather different social context, is an afternoon event - with tea to follow.

This year there were over 80 families on my invitation list, but in the eventabout half that smaller number gathered - whom I devoutly hope were the people who really needed to be there...We sang, we prayed, we lit candles and I talked about the seeds of faith and hope that we carry within us, the seeds that make us carry on, even when it seems an almost insurmountable struggle. I'm never sure if the candle lighting or the tea is the most important aspect of this service; there were some deep and significant conversations as we tried our best to do justice to a bewildering array of cakes...but when I locked the church this evening, it was the cross of tea-lights that nearly undid me.

Always when I invite the congregation to come forward to light a candle, I make it clear that they can use the opportunity to place ANY bereavement, - a broken dream, a lost hope - within the circle of God's healing love. Many chose to light more than one candle, and as I stood in the darkened church, alone at last after such a busy time, those lights shouted to me of untold, unknown stories. But, after all, I don't need to know...Each light stands both as a silent prayer and as a statement of intent. In this place, for these people, death SHALL have no dominion..."It is better to light a candle than to curse the darkness"

In a few minutes we’ll stand to proclaim the faith we share.
We do this week by week, and perhaps the individual clauses begin to blur and run into one another, so that we find ourselves happy to assent to the whole, without focussing unduly on the details. So today, because I really want you to think about what you are saying, we’ll use not the Nicene Creed, as we do most Sundays, but the shorter Apostles’ Creed, familiar at the very least from Evensong.
It’s a good statement of our basic tenets, - more concise and straightforward in some ways than the fulminations of the council of Nicea…and of course it ends with the triumphant declaration
We believe in the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body and the life everlasting.

The communion of saints…that’s our focus today.
The communion of saints, the glorious company of the faithful who stand around God’s throne and cry glory…
We probably think we know what they look like.
They come in two gothic varieties, male, with a page boy hair cut, or female with long flowing tresses. They wear long white robes, carry some incongruous object or other – a wheel, a gridiron, - and can be recognised above all by their haloes.
They are, after all, simply two-dimensional characters, bright in their stained glass shrines…Men and women frozen in perfection, finished products from the beginning of their lives…

If that sounds just a little unlikely to you, I’m profoundly relieved.

If the saints were like that, you see, they’d be no use at all, either to us, or to God. Rather than remembering them with delight, we’d forget them with relief as their only effect would be to discourage us from ever trying to be holy.
But rejoice.
The truth is something quite different.
The saints are real, utterly real…Women and men who tried and failed, and tried again. People whose life experience was the same mix of faith and doubt, of despair and hope that we all recognise.
Ordinary people, in fact.
People just like you.
And me.
The communion of saints.

Ordinary people?
Surely not.
They seem to be extraordinary…and have been adopted as role models by Christians for many generations because they seem to be somehow different, set apart by some distinctive feature of their lives or their faith...
So, what then makes a saint?

A saint is someone who shows God to others.

It’s as simple as that.
We look at the lives of the saints and see God in them
There’s a well worn and apocryphal story of a small boy who was called out from his Sunday school class to explain to an All Age service just what a saint might be.
Casting about desperately for an answer, he caught sight of the stained glass that surrounded him as he stood at the front of the church and blurted out
“A saint is someone that the light shines through”

It might be a funny story, except that it is profoundly true.
A saint IS someone the light shines through…
A flawed, imperfect human being whose life is made beautiful by the presence of God.
On that evaluation, you may not have to think too hard before you realise that you know a few saints yourself…though if you told them, they’d surely be horrified, or amused.

You see, I very much doubt if saints are sufficiently self-conscious to notice their own holiness.
My suspicion is that most real saints struggle day after day with a sense of their own unworthiness.
They would laugh outright to hear themselves described in these terms…
Even the greatest saints struggled constantly with their own failures.
Think of Peter, the founding saint of the church…commissioned by Jesus to be the rock, the firm foundation on which the Church would stand.
Peter the impulsive “have a go hero” who dived in where angels fear to tred, and shed blood among the olives in dark Gethsemane.
Peter, the frightened man who was quick to deny his friend and master.
Peter, who ran headlong to the tomb but couldn’t believe the evidence of his eyes on the morning of the Resurrection.
I very much doubt if he thought he was specially holy!

Or there’s Mary of Bethany…so emotional that she dared even to lay into Jesus for his neglect of her family
“lord, if you had been here my brother would not have died”
and perhaps so blinded by her tears that she didn’t recognise her risen Lord until he called her by name.
Do you think she believed that she might become an example to us, someone to follow, an inspiration through the centuries?

But I see I’m in danger of suggesting that REAL saints lived long go and far away…and that’s far from the case
Let’s reflect on one of the most famous Christians of our time, Mother Theresa of Calcutta.
Recently her diaries have suggested that she had all but lost her faith, that the light of God’s presence was almost obliterated by the troubles and tragedies of the world.
But despite this, there are so many who already revere her as a saint…for though she may have struggled with an overwhelming sense of God’s absence from her life, those around her saw God’s light shining through all that she did and said in his name.

So…that’s the role of the saints alive…People who share our struggles but through them all show us the Father. I know many saints like that, - indeed, I’d rarely make it from one Sunday to the next without their love and their encouragement
But today above all we celebrate the saints in glory…the multitude without number whose hope was in the Word made flesh, those who join with us whenever we sing together
“Holy, holy, holy Lord”
That shining circle who stands around the throne of God is still very much part of our story…for we worship together, our prayers and praises connecting with theirs across time and eternity.
When I first presided at the Eucharist, the day after my ordination as priest, I was completely bowled over by the overwhelming presence of that heavenly company….MY saints. - the people whom I’d known and loved, who had shaped my journey…and those who had died long before I was born, but whose words or deeds had inspired me. They were all there, standing beside me at the altar – and when I’m properly attentive, they are there still, week on week, singing with us, lending power and life to our song. Pause to listen for their voices yourself, this morning, and be thankful….

So, where does this leave us…the people who gather here week after week [under the patronage of All Saints]? Again and again in his letters Paul talks to “the saints in” a particular place…and those saints are neither more nor less than the ordinary body of believers in that place.
You are the saints in Cainscross, the saints in Selsley.
You may not think of yourself as holy in any way…but actually, by virtue of your baptism, holiness IS your calling.
We are, every one of us, set apart for God…called to be saints, just as we are.
Flawed, imperfect people, but people through whom the Light of the World is content to shine.
I believe in the Communion of Saints, the forgiveness of sins,
The resurrection of the body and the life everlasting. AMEN.

Boundaries and borders

On Tuesday I found myself talking about Fair Trade to a small group of local supporters, as part of a chocolate and coffee tasting that had been arranged by the Co-op. Being me, I'd left preparation of the talk til the 11th hour, and rushed off to the Fair Trade Foundation and Christian Aid websites for helpful material...My brief was to cover the human angle, leaving the co-op rep to provide facts and figures, - and the all important chocolate, and both websites were full of great stories about the way Fair Trade really does change lives. The story that struck me most, though, was not told by a struggling cocoa farmer whose world was transformed, but by a visitor to a Fair Trade vineyard in S Africa.
He described the "model village" conditions of the Fair Trade community, with freshly-painted homes, clean playgrounds for the children and the huge pride that the workers had in taking control of their own destinies, and then took us to another corner of the vineyard, close to the boundary with its neighbour.

On their side of that fence were beautifully painted houses and carefully groomed gardens. There was a little school and a play area. There was colour and beauty and all of that freedom and ownership we had just heard about was bursting with life. But on the other side of the fence…was the neighbouring vineyard. There was literally the thinnest breadth of wire dividing. And on that other side there was dirty, faded, paint peeling houses. There were rough dust and dirt paths between them. There was no colour, no energy, no pride and no sense of hopefulness.

It was a stark contrast. It was the most challenging piece of land I had ever stood upon. The choice was clear and stark. Buy into one side of the fence and there is a sense of care and justice for the workers. Buy into the other and there is simply exploitation, disregard and neglect of workers and their children


Literally the thinnest breadth of wire - but absolutely no doubt which side of the fence was which...and nobody would choose to spend time straddling the divide. In a great article, the writer goes on to develop the theme of choice, and of choosing God's justice, choosing the Kingdom. Do read it all - I thoroughly recommend it...

*********

That image of the thin piece of wire has been with me for the whole week, specially in the long hours when I've sat with a the dear soul from our congregation whose earthly journey must surely soon reach its end. Her body is so very weak now, and it has seemed again and again over the past many days, that she must leave it behind with the very next laboured breath...but she lingers on. It's not unlike watching the sea as low tide approaches. There will come a moment when the waves recede no further, when we are officially at Low Tide - but on the way, it's impossible to tell whether this is the final marker. Once the tide has turned, there is of course no mistake - but on the way, there's no such clarity. That's how it is in that hospital room, as she treads the foothills of eternity, without yet crossing the border and finding herself at home.

Everyone welcome

If you've been around here this summer you'll know that I've been pretty busy with baptisms down in the valley, with barely a Sunday in June, July,August or September without at least 2, and often some on Saturday too. I've agonised at times, because it felt rather as if God's hospitality might be being abused.Party after party arrives, to fill the church with the joyful hubub of a family reunion,complete with rampaging todders, bling-wearing god mums and armies of tattood guys, looking deeply uncomfortable in suits.I talk as best I can about the beginning of a life-long journey, about God's unconditional love and our need to respond. I tell them that they are to feel at home in their Father's house,I administer the sacrament, am thanked warmly for a "lovely service" and sometimes told "You made us feel so welcome" and 99 times out of 100 that's it.
Over the next few weeks we may meet in the Co-op, or crossing the park and exchange friendly greetings. I say hopefully "Maybe see you at Messy Church" and they agree that they might try it one day, but we both know that it's very unlikely.

I've wondered and worried and thought and (more productively) prayed. I've listened to colleagues who have more robust demands, and I can see their point, but when it comes down to it, I've had no sense that God wants me to change my practice. At valley church particularly it's all about welcome. We are often chaotic - that's what happens if you're the sort of church that includes learning impaired adults as acolytes and trainee guide-dogs among the choristers, and has a vicar who is last-minute to her core. Sometimes it can be disappointing for one who loves beautiful liturgy (even, or particularly, when she knows that she herself is part of the problem) - but I'm pretty certain that most people who come through the door feel loved, wanted, WELCOME. And we're that way because God is a "come as you are" God, who accepts us first and transforms us afterwards.
So it would seem alien to me to turn away anyone that purported to seek a relationship with God through the Church, - even if I never get to see that relationship develop...

But this past Sunday, the official relationship never got off the ground at all.
I first met the family back in August. Little X was approaching her first birthday . She had, apparently, had serious health problems just after birth and her mum had spoken of her need to engage with God as a thank you for the gift of her daughter...I battled the post-Stroud-half-marathon traffic down from church on the hill, reopened chuch in the valley, turned on lights, lit candles, checked water temperature of font and waited...and waited...and waited some more. Roads were still blocked or busy, so it wasn't til twenty minutes after the time we'd agreed that I phoned the mum
"I thought we were due to be baptising X today"
Silence
"Oh...yeah...Didn't I tell you? We moved house last week and...oh well...I thought I'd told you..."
KF (brightly) "Goodness - you'll have alot on your plate with a move and a toddler. Why don't you get in touch later, when things have calmed down..."
"OK. I could do.."
Finis.
I stood in the empty church and tried to analyse my feelings.
I was very very tired (it takes a while to regain a whole missing night), and the morning hadn't been fantastic - so on one level, it was simply a relief to be able to stop, to take off the kit and the public face and to sit in a weary heap in the Lady Chapel before driving home...But on another and deeper level I was so very disappointed.
Not that I don't understand all too well how easy it is for things to get forgotten amid the chaos of life with a toddler in a small flat, leaving aside the complexities of a house move.Life is a struggle for many of the families I meet, and my priorities and theirs are never likely to match exactly - but all the same, I felt somehow hurt for God, and almost guilty that I'd opened the way for this. Hospitality not just abused, but spurned...

But then I looked at the altar, where only a couple of hours ago Christ's body had been broken and shared once again, and remembered that the God who gives himself to us like that is no stranger to abuse or rejection - and keeps on loving, no matter what.

So, no change in baptism policy then...Everyone welcome.

Synod meets Fresh Expressions

At diocesan synod on Saturday, after the inevitable and painful discussions of the budget, we heard a presentation on Fresh Expressions from +Graham Cray.
I'm rather in favour of Fresh Expressions myself, though it did seem to me that +Graham managed to make them sound a bit like a dodgy form of car insurance...but what really struck me was the force of anti FE feeling that was abroad.

It seemed that some simply could not hear the assurances that we were moving into a "mixed economy" church, where fresh and traditional expressions can and do co-exist happily.A catholic colleague serving a rural benefice was certain that fresh expressions were a purely urban phenomenon, (this was firmly refuted, but it saddened me that he was so instinctively opposed that he hadn't explored the many rural contexts where new ways of being church are being born).Another in a deprived urban parish raised serious and legitimate concerns about network church in the sort of poor communities where no networks seem to exist. That is certainly an issue for the estate part of Church in the Valley, where our current impact is minimal, where we don't have much contact even through occasional offices, where some sort of fresh expression might well need to emerge.

The great blessing of an open-ended committment here is that I don't immediately have to worry that no obvious way in has opened...though I do have to be careful that I'm not so up to my ears in everything else that I can't take it any opportunities, or enable others to do so, if that's part of God's plan for this place.

One tweedy gentleman who was rather older than me claimed that thanks to liturgical revisions and unhelpful publicity, nobody now knew what the C of E was, or why it existed. As he talked, it seemed increasingly possible that he had no expectation that belonging to the church, might imply a relationship with God...His sights were firmly anchored on the institution (not entirely sure if that's a mixed metaphor?) without a recognition of the Church as Body of Christ. He talked about moving too fast, about confused identities, but never paused to recognise that Jesus "is already gone ahead of us into Gallillee", that God "makes all things new". Combined with the reaction of a couple of people to the very mild liturgical revision we tried out at Church on the Hill yesterday, I found this profoundly depressing.

I am utterly committed to the existing ministry of the Church. At a time when I'm so stretched personally, with funerals and death-beds taking up most of the working day, the comfort of knowing that I'm part of an army of faithful priests who have simply spent their lives loving and praying for their people and celebrating the Sacraments is immeasurable,- but I'm passionate too about the Church's calling to be an agent of transformation, - of individuals, congregations, communities.

There is a picture at Holland House, Worcester diocesan retreat house, with swirling circles of energy and colour
"We are followers of the running God, who goes to the periphery to make it a centre of light"
Sometimes keeping up is very hard work, but I know God will wait for us, that we won't be left for long wondering "which way now?"

What sweeter music...a Friday Five

My lovely friend Songbird posted this over at RevGals, and in my current weary state it's absolutely spot on, because nothing, NOTHING, restores and consoles like music. Ever.

When I was a very little girl growing up in Virginia, I never missed a Sunday going to Court Street Baptist Church. But there was something else that made Sundays special, and that was "Davey and Goliath." Every week the opening strains of the theme song would find me lying on the floor, chin on hands, looking up expectantly to watch the adventures of a clay boy and his big dog.

What I didn't realize was who wrote that music, the hymn "A Mighty Fortress is Our God."

It was the same Martin Luther who said:

"I have no use for cranks who despise music, because it is a gift of God. Music drives away the Devil and makes people gay; they forget thereby all wrath, unchastity, arrogance, and the like. Next after theology, I give to music the highest place and the greatest honor."
On this Friday before Reformation Sunday, let's talk about music. Share with us five pieces of music that draw you closer to the Divine, that elevate your mood or take you to your happy place. They might be sung or instrumental, ancient or modern, sacred or popular...whatever touches you.


I spent last night watching with a dear faithful soul, whose earthly pilgrimage is nearly done. As I prayed and thought and prayed some more, my internal soundtrack was Elgar's Dream of Gerontius and "Faire is the Heaven" by William Harris. Both open windows onto the divine in a way that made it easy to visualise her journey home.

Bach - always, always Bach...to restore my sense of meaning and purpose perhaps the Goldberg Variations, or the Largo from the Concerto for 2 Violins....
to express the overwhelming joy of being loved by the God who gives life,
Et Resurrexit from the B Minor Mass...


The first LP (oh how that dates me) I ever bought was Jacqueline du Pres playing the Haydn C Major Cello Concerto. I'm not sure whether I was more in love with the music or the musician at that point, but the work travelled with me to make every house, every student room, and still, every clergy study, a home. It's always part of the way I connect myself with a new environment.

Perfection in worship- Tallis "If ye love me" I've loved this since I first sang it with the Hasting Youth Choir when I was 14. It was the introit at my 1st Mass and never fails to make all things well in my world.

Songbird mentions hymns - again I'll turn to my 1st Mass as a guide to my "2non- negotiable, make-everything-better-at-a-stroke" list
"All my hope on God is founded"(tune by beloved Herbert Howells, whose "Like as the hart" would be in this list if I weren't trying to at least nod in the direction of the "Friday Five" game)
"Eternal Ruler of the Ceaseless Round" (thank you, God, for the music of Orlando Gibbons...How could I fail to mention "This is the record of John"...? Truly fantastic piece!)
"O thou who camest from above" (a "here I stand, I can do no other" expression of my longings in ministry)
"And can it be" - singing it makes it true....
"My chains fell off, my heart was free
I rose, went forth and followed thee.
No condemnation now I dread,
Jesus and all in Him is mine.."

Oh my dears, having had a lovely time hunting those around the internet, I'm now ready to go to bed with a deeply contented smile on my face.
I hope that connecting with your best beloved musical treasures has brought you joy too.