Stomach cramps awaken. Approximately half past four. Just too late to be the witching hour, it seems. I wonder did Dad wake at the same time, his mind furiously plotting the next blog post or decanting re-sitting university exam dreams well into his adult life. This is the time that I often wake. Usually with some nonsense from work playing out in my head, or with a wonderful idea that needs to be urgently committed to paper as it contains the nugget of the next ‘Great American Novel’. I’m neither American or F. Scott, so, balderdash!
To my right is a sleepy dog, somewhat perturbed at being woken, but I’d warrant glad for a quick sniff in the garden; no foxes. To my left are two books. I’d thought about picking up the one I am currently reading, but remembered it was in the car. I closed the living room door, turned on the lamp and squinted at the bookcase. I was looking for a certain book on emotional intelligence. Why? Because of aforementioned nonsense in work. Bored of the idea as soon as I picked it up, my hands soon settled on Penelope Lively’s ‘Life in the Garden’. This gem is then placed on the table by the couch. Remembering that my glasses are in the car with the current novel, I crept up the hall and memory tentatively extended my hand in the dark to retrieve a pair of spectacles from the desk in the ‘office’ (a.k.a box room. Notions!). Success. Now, having settled into the corner of couch, I commence the serious act of reading. No sooner have I started to read, than I realise these glasses have some treatment on them to reduce glare and other such vagaries of modernity. Nuts to this, I’m off to the car. Hence the garden sniffs for her ladyship.
Glasses and novel retrieved, I’m only 4 pages into the introduction and I already have one future postal recipient of a copy of the book in mind. It is already amusing and a potential wonder. The other book, by the way, is John Le Carré’s ‘Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy’. First time reader, multiple times viewer. I’m embarrassed to say how long I’ve been reading it, so I shan’t. Lets just say that its been in my pocket at airports & train stations for quite some time. Also, I’ve rewatched Alec Guinness’s Smiley numerous times since Dad died. There are no words to describe the sheer perfection of his Smiley. Yesterday was fabulous, however, as while on the train to Dublin, I finally got to the point in the story where Smiley figures it out. Great!
There are a collection of television adaptations that provide the matrix for the 1990’s. In the years after my parents initial move to Ireland, Dad’s mental health took a nose-dive. I’m contemplating using the adjective ‘severe’ for that. During this time, I think he managed to retain some portion of his sanity with a televisual baseline of familiar narratives. Three things were more or less always on. It will likely take me the rest of my life to unpack these stories, as they became so intertwined in my adolescence (what a peculiar word that is). One TV. Small screened, no remote and second hand. One video player, old and noisy.
‘Jewel in the Crown’, ‘Brideshead Revisited’, and ‘Tinker Tailor’. On repeat. For what seems like an eternity. When you walked in the room, some part of the trilogy would be on. Stay a while, share the space with Dad, try to figure out where you were in which show and try to be quiet. Not necessarily a bad thing, but sometimes you want to watch ‘Animaniacs’, ‘Garfield and Friends’ or that time Nottingham Forest beat Man United at the City Ground and your celebrations of the Forest winner resulted in a dead-arm from your older brother, much to your fathers annoyance. Do you remember that? Of course you don’t! Such is life. However, as the years have passed I’ve managed to get to grips with part of the mixed narrative. ‘Tinker Tailor’ is getting clearer, as is ‘Smiley’s People’. I’m glad I purchased them on DVD and glad that DVD ownership is still possible. I’m not sure if digitally we’ll ever have the same tangible sense of a thing. But now I hear dad’s voice telling me it’s all on you tube, if you can stomach the adverts and the video clip 9 of 413…
‘Brideshead’ is under control, narratively speaking – more of a long game, I feel. I’ve read that one since the nineties. Although the last time I attempted to watch it, was since Dad died, I struggled to get beyond a certain point which escapes me right now. Once I’d got past the Monkhice family staple of “I do think you’d talk to me, Charles” from the sublime John Gielgud, a part of the desire to absorb narrative fled. I’m wondering if it will forever remain in the ether with dad. Time will tell. But the Jewel in the crown of complexity is ‘Jewel in the Crown’. Ho ho. I have dad’s DVD copy in the ‘office’ (Notions). I am scared to even attempt it again at this juncture. It is simply too much. I think I lack the emotional maturity to tackle it’s vast depth and unpack my memory of it while trying to finally understand its chronology.
I’ve gone way off-piste here. Oh dear. Sun is coming up, there is light peeking around the blind. Real life awaits. Stomach is unhappy, still. Big sigh from her ladyship on my right. 4 pages. Yes! What I wanted to share was this:
The mower stalled, twice; kneeling, I found A hedgehog jammed up against the blades, Killed. It had been in the long grass.
I had seen it before, and even fed it, once. Now I had mauled its unobtrusive world Unmendably. Burial was no help:
Next morning I got up and it did not. The first day after a death, the new absence Is always the same; we should be careful
Of each other, we should be kind While there is still time.
Thank you to all who were able to attend Stan’s memorial service last week. Our huge thanks to Rev’d Canon Paul Arbuthnot and all at St. Ann’s for their gracious hosting. We were delighted that Rev Dr. Adrian Empey was able to attend and also to say a few wonderful words of tribute. We are also indebted to Dr. David O’Shea for his exquisite playing of the organ. Finally, our eternal thanks and praise to Eric Clarke for his eulogy.
I’m delighted to say that all have allowed the Monkhice to publish their words so here they are in the order they occurred in the service.
Eulogy for Stanley: St Ann’s Dawson Street
November 9th, 2023
Good evening to you all. My name is Eric Clarke and I have had the great pleasure of knowing Stanley and his family for most of my adult life. I am very grateful to the Monkhice (to use the plural) Susan, Victoria and Ed for asking me to speak at this service, thank you.
Needless to say, I can feel the comforting yet firm hand of the Reverend Professor Doctor William Stanley Monkhouse on my shoulder right now as I speak,…………whispering softly to me “JFDI” and “For Christ’s sake Eric, don’t mess it up”.
I feel I should get some housekeeping issues out of the way first. I would like to assure you all that there will be no colourful language from me this evening. I would also be most grateful if the more excitable guests gathered would refrain from heckling or sharing any mischievous but well intended interruptions until after the service.
So, with that said, I would ask you all just to pause for a moment and consider how utterly impossible it would have been for Stanley to keep his mouth shut right about now.
Ireland
Susan, Victoria, Hugh, Ed and Stanley arrived in Ireland in December 1987. As Ed described it to me recently “it was a very dark and moody early morning when we disembarked from the ferry, the hotel towering over Dun Laoghaire harbour, as one might expect in a Hitchcock movie with a thunderclap and some choice lightning”. A dramatic entrance if ever there was one.
Susan, Victoria, and Stanley moved into their new family home in Kilmacanogue, Ed and Hugh stayed in the UK a while longer as choristers in Ripon Cathedral and Southwell Minister respectively. By 1991, all of the Monkhice were resident in Ireland.
Back in 1987, I first got to know Stanley as he prepared to move to Ireland after he had accepted the post of Professor of Anatomy at the Royal College of Surgeons in Ireland. Stanley was 37 years old, very young for a departmental head, he was ready and more than willing to shake things up.
From the very outset, it was clear to us in the Anatomy department that Stanley was different, more Alan Bennett than James Joyce, and as we quickly learned, a big fan of, and willing to quote the widely acclaimed work of Norman Hudis and Talbot Rothwell.
(As Stanley might advise, you can all google that later).
Soon after he arrived in RCSI, things started to move very quickly indeed. Stanley set about modernising the Anatomy department physically and academically. As members of staff, we were encouraged to travel, to make connections, to visit and learn from other anatomy departments, with Stanley providing travel notes on what churches to visit while away.
Under Stanley’s direction, we became an open and accessible department with a lively beating heart, Tea was drank by the gallon. Students were our top priority we were told, and Stanley advocated on their behalf whenever he could.
Stanley led a basic sciences curriculum review and was responsible for a complete revamp of the anatomy teaching programme and the anatomy room itself.
With a twinkle in his eye, Stanley hung “Soviet styled” posters in the dissection room bought on a family holiday to Moscow. I know rumours that communism was taking hold in an RCSI department filled Stanley with great joy.
Weekly viva exams were part interrogation and part social event for the students. Ever the showman, Stanley would thunder down the wooden stairs into the dissection room to join the fray. It was clear that Stanley loved what he was doing, and the students in turn loved him back.
As we will all know, Stanley had an alarming honesty and direct approach to most things. His RCSI plans were welcomed by most, but perhaps inevitably they also met with some resistance. Stanley’s response to this was to cheekily apply his overruling trade union block vote (over 1 million votes in total, he claimed) and to reassert that he was in charge and whomever didn’t like his ideas had two options, one of which was to get used to it.
To some, his decisions may have appeared to be made on a whim or in a hurry, they were not of course. Care was always taken, plans were made and remade, details were considered and poured over. When something did not go Stanley’s way, he would record his disagreement, at length and in writing, and then move on.
Stanley was also preclinical Vice Dean of the medical faculty, this in a time when there was only one preclinical vice dean, which was just how Stanley liked it. In that role, Stanley often told students that while it appeared he was in charge, they were in fact in charge, as they paid his salary.
Most importantly perhaps, if Stanley was wrong, he would admit it, several times and again at length and in writing, just to be sure. To quote a graduate: “Stanley actually listened to us, he would admit when he had made a mistake or could do something better. Stanley was humble and brave to admit defeat in front of 250 students.”
Stanley cared, it was as simple as that, he could quickly identify where support and connections could and should be made to bring comfort to others. As members of staff, we were encouraged to attend the funerals of those who had donated their remains to the department, providing an opportunity to pay our respects to the donors themselves and to express our gratitude to their families.
Stanley also initiated a regular multifaith service of thanks for those who had donated their remains to RCSI. This provided an opportunity for staff and students alike to connect to donor families and to reflect on the importance of their loved ones’ final wishes. It was a great privilege.
Ahead of his time, Stanley progressed to the role of Professor of Medical Informatics and Chairperson of the College Information Technology Committee, this when online learning was still in it’s infancy and there were no mobile phones. Stanley was instrumental in the development of online learning programs for both undergraduate students and surgical trainees.
While Stanley was in that role, we attended an eLearning conference in Manchester. During one session, I could see Stanley getting bored and restless. By now, I had some insight into of what a bored and restless Professor Monkhouse might do next, and I held my breath wondering how the speaker might react or survive if Stanley chose to make a comment.
Luckily for the speaker, Stanley leaned towards me and whispered, “Bugger this for a game of soldiers, let’s get a train somewhere”.
Soon after, we were at a local train station where I was in awe of Stanley’s knowledge of the architecture of the rail network and his ability to understand the timetable. We travelled to Carlisle and back to Langwathby, a small village in the Eden valley, Northern Cumbria where Stanley grew up. It seemed to me that he knew every inch of the journey.
As Stanley closed the gate of Langwathby station behind us, he set off at a marching pace towards Penrith, 5 miles away. As I kept up, Stanley described how the route from Langwathby to Penrith delivered him to a place of sanctuary in the church. He also recalled his frequent escapes to Carlisle Cathedral for organ lessons. Stanley was clearly in love with the church, organ music, incense, and the vestments which only he could get away with calling “nice frocks”. I will never forget the conviction and honesty Stanley shared with me on that day.
Then one day, out of the blue, with his usual disarming directness, Stanley approached me in RCSI and said “I can’t do anything more here, I am going to resign”. Very like the way Stanley used a telephone, he walked off/hung up just as quickly as he approached me, leaving me to figure out what he had just told me. It all sounded very spontaneous, but I know now it was nothing of the sort.
In 2003, Stanley and Susan returned to the UK. Stanley took the position of foundation anatomist at the graduate medical school in Derby. By that time, Hugh, Edward and Victoria had become honorary Dubliners and there were frequent visits between the UK and Ireland.
In 2004, it may have come as a surprise for many to hear that Stanley had started training with the East Midlands Ministry, to others this was no surprise at all. For me, Stanley was just going to do what he had always loved in the first place.
Stanley was ordained in Derby in 2006, he and his family were all happy and proud, he looked fantastic in his ornate frock. Stanley put his new powers to good use immediately and baptised his Granddaughter Abby on the same weekend that he was ordained. I know he was proud of that. And of course, he was proud to bless Victoria and Shane when they were married.
After his ordination, Stanley went on to become a curate in Wirksworth, Derbyshire. He then moved on to become vicar in Old Brampton, Chesterfield and then later returned to the old sod as vicar in Portlaoise. Sadly, during his last post as vicar in Burton on Trent, in 2015, Stanley’s son Hugh died in Texas, a catastrophe for all of the family and one that Stanley never recovered from.
A week or so ago, as I sat down to write, and in the hope of some inspiration, I listened to a recording of evensong from St Luke’s in Chelsea, London. I should declare it was news to me that Saint Luke is the patron of physicians, but I took that to be a good omen and fond memories of Stanley the gifted musician urged me on. That and him telling me to “JFDI”.
Stanley set up, reassembled, disrupted, directed and lead choirs in all of his parishes and also in RCSI. He played the organ at the weddings of his colleagues, mine own included. Music filled his house, and perhaps sometimes the houses of his neighbours on Neville Road in Rathgar. Wherever Stanley went, there was always a church or church organ to visit, or most likely revisit for a second or third time, such was his passion.
On a trip to we took to Copenhagen, he somehow managed to get the key for a church and locking the door behind us, he played the organ for an hour. Then, Stanley shouted, any requests Eric? I replied and, without missing a beat, he obliged by playing a short excerpt from John H. Glover-Kind’s enduring 1907 classic.
(Once again, as Stanley might advise, you can all google that later).
I think that Stanley might not be happy to hear me use the word legacy, but a legacy there certainly is. Fortunately for me in preparing this eulogy, Stanley’s legacy as a musician, academic, vicar, family man and friend is vast and some of it readily accessible online due to his own innovative methods.
Stanley’s unique, creative, and mischievous mind is readily apparent. Particularly so on his web site, rambling rector, which provides a wonderful archive of his sermons, a peek into parish life and also other matters very dear to his heart.
Indeed, who in the Wirksworth team ministry will ever forget Thursday 18 October 2007 when Stanley posed the question, where is God in sex and lust?
There are 3 “Stanleyisms” I would like to share;
….. The first will be very familiar to all as it provides a clear signal of what was to come.
“The reader will probably detect a whiff of cynicism when I say…….”
The second and third quote belong together and sum Stanley up for me perfectly.
Stanley’s second quote
“Does my zoological mind really accept that humans are more special than any other creature of the earth?
And the third quote
“Does my scientific mind really believe in the miracles that Jesus is claimed to have performed?”
Since Stanley moved on from RCSI, I have had frequent and countless conversations with Stanley’s friends, his students, and his colleagues. All of these conversations are unique but share common themes of fun, bravery, and of course care.
There is a striking similarity between Stanley’s sermons and his open letters to students published in RCSI year books. The tone is direct, mildly risqué of course, funny, disarmingly truthful but most of all they are imbued with caring and great fondness for the intended audience.
In one of his letters to students, Stanley says he feels “singularly ill-equipped to give advice” but nonetheless goes on to advice that the class that …..telling them that…
they should look after themselves, keep the twinkle in their eye, not to believe their own publicity, and, above all, and this bit was in bold text – don’t be boring.”
Stanley looked directly at and engaged with anyone who came close to him, he stopped, he listened. Stanley could spot the disturbed and provide them with comfort and as we all know, he took it as his duty to disturb the comfortable.
It was a wonderful experience and lots of fun to know Stanley while he was in RCSI, and a great privilege to continue a friendship with him and his family over the years. Thank you once again to Susan, Victoria, Edward, Abby and Shane and Dee. I know you will take great comfort in seeing so many old friends here this evening and I am sure Hugh would too.
Thank you.
Eric
—
Thank you, Eric. Next up, the sermon from Rev’d Canon Paul Arbuthnot.
In the name of God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.
We live in an age where it is difficult to know what truth is. Postmodernity encourages you to ‘speak your truth’, rather than speak ‘the’ truth.
This combined with the advancing tide of distortion which the worrying excesses of Artificial Intelligence software has brought to the world, places us in an age of deep confusion.
But we gather here to celebrate the life of a man whose currency was truth.
A man who offered something countercultural to what he saw around himself. I am sorry that I never met him, although I did dip into his wonderful blog, ‘A Rambling Rector’. If you haven’t read it – google it. It’s a beautiful memorial to him and testament to his questioning faith.
From his writing you could easily see that he was propelled by the spirit of truth. This spirit of truth led him into all truth.
Of course, proclaiming the truth requires intellectual and moral bravery. In the church, you need that bravery in abundance to tell the truth.
He had it. And we thank God that he did.
In an interview with the Church Times in 2017, he remarked: ‘Telling the truth is the most serious sin a priest can commit;for many people simply want you to confirm their prejudices while you drink their tea.’
Stanley was right about this – and by his own yardstick he sinned, and he sinned boldly. And he was all the better for it.
If you wanted to hear the truth, Stanley would share it with you. And because of that openness and honesty, he was free to draw people into the mystery of God.
He did not deal in certainty, but in truth. There’s a big difference.
And it was this truthfulness which he possessed which led him to ask hard, but valuable questions of all of us. In, I think, what was his last blog post, he asked the following:
‘Do I actually believe that Jesus was born to what we call a virgin? Or is that simply a reworking of far more ancient myths about the birth of gods and goddesses, used by Matthew and Luke to “big up” Jesus?’
‘Does my zoological mind really accept that humans are more special than any other creature of the earth?’
‘Does my scientific mind really believe in the miracles that Jesus is claimed to have performed? Or are they simply fairy stories expressing profound truths using idioms familiar to the writers and readers of two thousand years ago?’
‘What has kept me hanging on to the Christian story for so long, if only by the skin of my teeth?’
‘The answer is quite simply the psychological authenticity of the gospel. By that I mean Jesus’s teaching displays authentic human psychology and is without doubt the best way to live life. It’s a pity it’s never been tried.’
There can be no doubt – he spoke the truth as he found it.
Unvarnished, plain, shocking, yet stimulating. But above all, rooted in the faith which he clung on to despite all the injustices of the institution to which he was ordained and served.
We now trust and pray that he now abides in the ultimate truth – that of the infinite, unchanging, and glorious God. The God whom he served as a medical professional, church organist, and priest in his church.
May Stanley rest in peace. May he rest in the truth which led him throughout his earthly life.
In the name of God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.
—
Wonderful words from Rev’d Canon Paul Arbuthnot. Thank you. I’m very pleased that Adrian was able to attend the service and we are all very grateful that he was kind enough to share some words of tribute. Which now follow.
STANLEY MONKHOUSE: OBITER DICTA
As a former vicar of St Ann’s, my remit is to say some words about the most unusual Organist and Director of Music this church ever experienced in its 300-year history: Stanley Monkhouse. [I would endorse everything that has already been said about him by Eric: behind all the bravado there lurked a was searingly honest and deeply caring man]
My first encounter with Stanley was in the Dissection Ropom in Surgeons, where as Professor of Anatomy Stanley reigned supreme in a style reminiscent of Richard Gordon’s medical novel, Doctor in the House. My mission was to interview him as a possible candidate for the vacant position of Director of Music. Everyone who knows Stanley knows he loved to shock people, so I imagine the introductory tour of the dissection room was intended to relieve me of my breakfast.
I realised straight away that Stan was my man, because finding the right person to change the culture of the choir was exactly what I needed, regardless of what musical talent that candidate might or might not have possessed. Organists had come and gone, defeated by the pervasive presence of a long-deceased predecessor, who had reigned supreme for fifty years, and whose picture in the choir room looked down disapprovingly on his luckless successors. Our Stan cut the Gordian knot by turning the picture against the wall and announcing – in a not so sotto voce – that he was dead!
Stan was given to be frank in matters concerning the choir’s performance. Among his more literary assessments was: ‘That was S-H-I-T-E.’ Such expressions of disapproval were not always received in the spirit in which they were offered, particularly by the more senior members. Needless to say, they were greeted with glee by the boys and girls, who absolutely loved him.
Apart from his distinctive rhetorical gifts, he was a brilliant organist. He was called upon with a few days notice to perform Fauré’s requiem mass in St Ann’s, accompanied by the Lloyd Weber’s cast from The Phantom of the Opera in the Point Theatre when, tragically, one of the members of the cast died suddenly. This he did with such brilliance that the cast said it was the best performance they had experienced in Europe.
All of which is to say what we all know: he was a man of extraordinary talent, who could have drawn on his intellectual capacity to have done anything he set his mind to. It is good to know that his family share abundantly in his musical gifts. But at the end of the day, we will a remember him simply as ‘Stanley’.
In conclusion his gifts as an Anglican priest were as no less remarkable, despite the fact that his unique take on pastoral theology would probably not have passed clause 1 of the deliberations of the Church fathers assembled in Nicaea in 325 AD. I leave you with one example of his pastoral advice: ‘Neurotics make castles in the air; psychotics live in them, and psychiatrists collect the rent. Have a nice day’
I leave the final words to Catullus: ‘Hail and fare you well, my brother, now and for all time: Atque in perpetuum frater, ave atque vale.
—
Finally, we scattered Dad’s ashes on Sunday (12.11.23). In dad’s own words “…scattering them where I/we scattered Hugh’s seems as good as anything“. So we did. While getting ready to leave the house on a very wet morning, something of the timing occurred to me. After a moments research, the niggling feeling proved right. Eight years ago, on the same Sunday of November (15.11.15), we had scattered Hugh’s ashes in the same spot (or as close as we could fathom). Coincidence? It certainly was not planned. In addition, I could mention the pair of birds swooping around the hillside soon after, or the rainbow that brightened the event, or the fact that dad’s empty urn was singing to us in the wind as we returned to the cars as insights into some greater universal Godly sign, but I can just imagine what dad would say to any of that! Still, lovely touches for us on a bleak day.
Just a quick note that we are having a memorial service for Dad this Thursday in St. Ann’s, Dawson Street, Dublin 2.
We have no expectations, but all are very welcome to attend.
We’ll have some nice readings, solid hymns and another special eulogy.
They’ll be a collection for the Simon Community. The Funeral Collection for Burton YMCA ended up in excess of £ 1,300. Very well done, everyone!
No tea and coffee in the Church afterwards – we’re sure the wardens are busy enough at this time of year – but we shall pop over to the Swan (D02 RW67) afterwards for pizzas and drinks. For old times sake, as it were.
The east window of the Parish Church of St. Mary the Virgin, Wirksworth. (Ed M, 10th Sept 2023)
Just a quick note from Ed on behalf of the family. We were so humbled by the wonderful turnout for dad’s funeral. We all agree that it was a wonderful service and a triumphantly fitting send-off for Stanley. Thank you to all who made it possible. Here, as promised, is the Eulogy for Stanley, written by Rev. Rod Prince. We are forever indebted to him.
How does a disciple bid a fitting farewell to his guru? By following the instructions of his teacher – so, Briefly! Say, if you must what you must, don’t dither! (dithering was a cardinal sin in Stanley’s book) and sit down. In fact, to quote one of Stanley’s oft used acronyms JFDI!
I am not going to give a biography – “you can Google that later” was an interjection from Stanley when it was more important to stick to the theme. As one tribute said “Very few distinguish themselves in more than one field. Some occasionally in two but rarely in three or four”. Stanley was a man of many talents. He was a brilliant academic, a Professor of Anatomy, the author of standard texts in his field, a gifted musician. He was a Fellow of the Royal College of Organists, an exceptional communicator, an inspiring mentor, a firm friend and dedicated pastor.
Stanley sought for others what he quested for himself – fullness of life which he firmly believed was impossible without a spirituality nourished by great art, music, architecture, literature, inspiring liturgy and seemly worship. In one of his comments on “Thinking Anglicans” a blog to which he often contributed, he wrote “I have spent a lifetime nurturing adolescents and young adults, provoking them to think, freeing them to set the world alight in their chosen field. So, it appalls me that some church people use their positions of trust and influence to stifle, to repress, and to maim, rather than to liberate to life abundant. Jesus came to abolish religion. This so affects me that I weep as I type”. Stanley was keen to drill into all the newly ordained that Jesus came to abolish religion. He was clear that a priest’s calling is always first to the divine and only then, a long way behind, to the institution.
It has been remarked that Stanley pricked pomposity. He didn’t, he detonated it wherever he found it. Status, rank, title – as a number of bishops discovered – and wealth accorded no advantage or protection in Stanley’s eyes. Everyone was equally of interest and equally interesting. Central to his calling as a priest was the responsibility of the ordained to “Comfort the disturbed and to disturb the comfortable”. Unfairly, he was more recognised for the latter activity than the former, yet I want share with you part of another tribute to Stan. The writer said” Memories of him are plentiful but the one that remains strongest does not come from his intellectual or academic brilliance, both of which were considerable, but of a passing moment when he was not even aware that he was being observed. Walking down the corridor of a hospital ward, I caught a glimpse of him beside a bed in one of the bays. He was knelt on the floor with his back toward me. The patient in the bed was very ill and he did not drain the patient’s strength by trying to talk to them, instead he just knelt there holding the person’s hand. Once, sometime later, I spoke to him of it. He dismissed it as nothing, as simply a passing whim, but however he might have downplayed the moment, it was something of profound significance. One does not kneel on the floor of a busy hospital ward, with people coming and going, and hold the hand of a person without that moment being imbued with significance. Jesus would have understood that moment. Jesus would have understood the importance of taking someone by the hand.” That said, of course, he was especially gifted at disturbing the comfortable. He took a funeral of a wealthy man in what is considered to be a wealthy parish. There were many “Nice” – the word was damming in Stan’s eyes – people present. Fixing them with his gimlet stare he said “One day we will all end up in a box and looking out it won’t be long for some of you”. They loved it. One elderly gentleman said to Stan that he would have attended church more often if more sermons had been like that. Stanley blamed the poor communication skills of priests for the syndrome of congregations leaving their brains in the porch. If stimulating thought meant abrading the sensitivities especially of Middle Englanders then Stanley deemed it a small price to be paid. In a sermon at Wirksworth he said that as a former Professor of Anatomy he was fascinated to know the biological processes in operation in the uterus of the Blessed Virgin Mary at the moment of the conception of Our Lord. I think we still have a bottle of smelling salts in a cupboard in the back of church against future eventualities. His theological discussion evenings on a range of themes at Wirksworth and in his later parishes were enthusiastically attended even by several declared agnostics and atheists. You were never given “the official line” or a stock answer by Stanley; all questions were welcome and usually met with a question that encouraged you to explore possible solutions for yourself. Through his blog “Rambling Rector” Stanley’s original approach to theology became known well beyond his parishes. The topics were many and various and he gained a wide following for his blog. I am delighted that the family have undertaken to ensure that it does not disappear from general access. Indeed, his blog brought him to the attention of no lesser trade publication than the Church Times who interviewed him for their back-page interview entitled “Stanley Monkhouse, anatomist, vicar, and musician” – “you can Google that later”. The last question of the interview was always “Who would you like to be shut up in a church with?” His response was classic Stanley. “I wouldn’t choose to be locked in a church with Jesus. He’d never give a straight answer, and he’d be saying to me, as he said to his mates, “Good grief, haven’t you got it yet?” I’ll go for the Dalai Lama and Rabbi Jonathan Sacks. Eugene Peterson‘s The Message is fantastic; so perhaps he could join us.” Even in my short time in the Church, even shorter after this eulogy, I have come to realise that there are few things that the Church – embracing all denominations – can be relied upon to do well. One decision the Diocese of Derby got right was to appoint Stanley as a Deputy Director of Ordinands. Stan’s experience in academia nurturing young people was a blessing to many on their path to ordination.
I have briefly touched on the subject of Stanley and his bishops. As I have no plans whatsoever for a career in the church, here goes! Stanley’s bishop in Ireland once remarked that “Every diocese should have a Stanley” note the singular. Presumably thoughts of more than one Stanley per diocese occasioned episcopal visions of ecclesiastical meltdown. I have sometimes daydreamed on what a diocese with Stanley as a bishop would have been like. I find it difficult to know whether to laugh or cry as the scenario develops before me. Rest assured, it would not have been bland. Smelling salts in Church House would certainly have been an essential fixture. Surprisingly, in general, Stanley had respect for the bishops under whom he served unless or until they gave him cause to think otherwise. If you, as a bishop, received regular emails from him, you had his respect. Well, discretion and an instinctive drive for self-preservation bids me stop here on that subject.
Stanley did not do sentimentality, least of all in matters of faith. Always in his target sights was the notion of God as the Sky Pixie who existed solely to hear our shopping list of self-centred prayers and to grant our selfish whims. He firmly believed that the path to the divine required the sacrifice of ego. For him, the agony of Our Lord in the Garden of Gethsemane was a pivotal instruction on the Christian life.
The past was the past with Stanley. As I said, he was not a sentimentalist – a realist certainly – but true to his belief in the achievement of fullness of life was that the past should not be allowed to burden the present. “Eternal life is a state of mind and eternal life is now” He said. One story illustrates this view well. Stanley became the Director of Music for a church in Ireland. It’s previous and much-loved director had died. Several people had tried unsuccessfully to take on the role but the choir were stuck in the past. Enter Stanley. On arriving at a practice, the choir were taken aback to see that the picture of their beloved former director had been turned to the wall. When they had all assembled, Stanley looked up from his music and said “He is dead. It is time to move on”. Hard though it is, brothers and sisters, I believe that is also Stanley’s message to us today.
Stanley loved his family beyond measure and above all else. He never recovered from the catastrophe of the death of Hugh, his elder son, eight years ago. Susan, Ed and Victoria – you were his rock, his strength, his first love. To see Stanley with you and Shane was to see him in the fullness of life, shamelessly witty, hugely funny, truly happy and gloriously outrageous. He loved you deeply.
There was only one area on which Stanley and I differed – it was on the issue of everlasting life. Stanley was to put it mildly, sceptical – he strongly disliked what he saw as a popular notion that attendance at church was an exercise in the accumulation of sky pixie points guaranteeing a seat in the club class of everlasting life. I took a more optimistic view. Just this once, please God, let Stanley be wrong!
It is Thursday, August 31st. I am in mum (& dads) sitting room in Burton, England.
Dad died of a suspected heart attack at approximately 11:30 am on Friday, August 11th, 2023. Gone before his laptop hit the floor. Poor mum had to administer CPR while on the phone to 999.
After approximately 10 minutes, the paramedics arrived and worked on dad for about 30 minutes. Mum sent me a message on Skype at 11:52 that read “Ed. Dad’s had a heart attack. Ambulance here”.
I then received an email from her at 11:53 with the subject line “Dad” and message reading “Heart attack ambulance here now.x”
By the time I got through on Skype, having tried the home phone, mum had to tell me that he had died. I stayed on Skype with her, while she spoke with the Paramedic, with various other voices in the background. Details were confirmed, full name, date of birth, medications, medical history, name of GP & surgery, funeral director etc. So, if you have anyone die and need to know these things, be sure to have sorted out all the details, and learnt verbatim, so that you can regurgitate them in a time of tremendous shock and trauma.
At this juncture, I’d like to strongly recommend that in addition to having a will, and knowing where the original hardcopy actually is, we should all of us leave behind a 2-page summary of things for those left behind. Dad has left a comprehensive list of things we’ll need to know. Dads was called “If Stanley dies before Susan”. This included the following instruction:
“My Funeral
Burn me. Do just as you wish – church or no church, whatever suits you and helps you most. If you want to send me straight to the gas ovens without church and collect the ashes after the party (if you have one), fine. I’m not that fussy what you do with the ashes, but after you’ve finished sticking two fingers up at them, scattering where where I/we scattered Hugh’s seems as good as anything.”
I digress.
The rest of the day was spent contacting people, checking in with mum and making travel plans. Ringing Abby a little after 9:30 am Texas time was not an easy call to make, especially coming 4 days after her 18th birthday. Victoria and I left Dublin that evening on the 20:55 sailing to Holyhead and arrived in Burton at approximately 4 am on Saturday 12th August.
The purpose of this note, dear reader, is to report to you the many mishaps that befell Rev’d Dr. Stanley Monkhouse’s mortal remains in the days thereafter. Please forgive me then, if your own starring role is quickened while I rush through the details.
As I type this on the morning of Thursday 31 August 2023, we are 1 week away from the arranged date of the funeral. The order of service is finalised (I have a physical copy in front of me, which is decidedly odd), many travel plans have been made. Some have made known their desire and plans to attend, while others have expressed their great sorrow at not being able to attend. All of this is lovely, and we have no expectations of anyone. We hope for a suitable send-off for S(a)tan {as He once referred to himself}, our Husband/father/granddad. Or Ex-professor ‘Father’ dad. Or colleague, friend, agitator, radiator, etc. Whichever fits you best.
Without further ado, let’s get to it.
August 11th. Friday. Death called by Paramedics at his home, while he was lying on his couch. A report is sent to Gordon Street Surgery. Mortal remains collected at approx. 3pm and taken to the Mortuary.
August 12th. Saturday. We ring the 24-hour number to arrange an appointment to see Dad’s remains ASAP. I pointed out to the voice on the line, that if they only open at 9am on Monday, then having an appointment for 9am will not give anyone time to prepare. The voice realised this was a good point, but then confirmed they were open from 8:30am.
August 14th. Monday. Gloria and I visit mortal remains at Wellings Funeral Services, Burton-Upon-Trent. We meet our funeral director, Sam, who had worked with dad in his role as Vicar. We have only the best things to say about Wellings and especially Samantha Platt. <Just then, the quiet is broken as 4 more cards are delivered through the door, the dog kicks off. The postman looks decidedly unbothered as his strokes his long beard. Mum has now received in excess of 70 cards. Thank you all.> Before seeing dad, Sam is at pains to point out that has he died on Friday, he is “as is”.
We visit. His face looks peaceful. He is no longer with us. That is certain.
Afterwards, Sam tells us a little about what we can expect in the days and weeks ahead. Some of the information was provided then, some of it later, but in summary; He is likely to need a Post-mortem scan (non-invasive) if the GP is unable or unwilling to sign-off on the cause of death. If the Coroner and the Pathologist are content, the scan will suffice and hopefully prevent the need for an invasive autopsy. If all is in order, this will trigger (A) official release of the remains for cremation, or burial to the Funeral Director, and (B) set the ball rolling on the coroner contacting the registrar so that an appointment can be made (‘in the Library’, as everyone keeps saying) so that mum can register his death.
How does this all work:
Well, if the GP is unable or unwilling to sign-off on the cause of death, then,
The remains must be transported to Queens Hospital by the mortuary / funeral director, when informed, as
The coroner likes to have them ‘ready to go’, so to speak, so as to prevent any unnecessary waiting times in their processing.
The coroner arranges transportation of the remains from the Hospital to the scanning location.
The coroner arranges the return, post scan, to the Hospital.
The funeral director can then return dad to their care and get on with things.
August 16th. Wednesday. Sam rings to confirm that Gordon Street Surgery is dad’s GP. I am unsure. Mum is out. We look for a clue (having been unable to access Dad’s computer as the fall seemingly broke it). I can imagine dad being annoyed at our random approach to things as it turned out all the information was already close to hand. I ring my top suspect for Dad’s GP. I have to answer some questions to confirm his identity before they will confirm that he is indeed a patient. I inform them that he died on Friday. I pass the message on to Sam. Then the phone rings, and Gemma from the practice needs more information as it is the first they are hearing that dad has died. A while later, a GP, rings back to advise us that they had found the paramedics (or hospital – I’m no expert) report from the Friday that advised of his death. I can only assume they missed it as they were getting ready to leave for the weekend. We have lost 2 days in our already long English funeral timeline. The GP informs that the required paperwork has now been dispatched to the coroner. ‘Sorry for the delay..’, etc.
Now things get muddy. We enter a wormhole of administrative blunders and cockups. We are expecting Dad – now on the coroner’s radar – can enter steps 2 and 3 above.
August 21st. Monday. Gloria and I attend an appointment with our Funeral director, to confirm particulars. Can I just say that some of the coffins and flowers that one can purchase when someone dies are hilarious. Also, the fact that brochures for these things even exist is a peculiar necessity of death. We are informed of a delay. The coroner does not have the information they need. We ask should we pop round and sort it out with the GP. Then we receive confirmation that all the required information has been received. We leave the appointment somewhat uplifted by this change in the state of affairs.
August 22nd, Tuesday. Dad has now been in a freezer for 11 nights. It has come to our attention that the coroner does not have all the information they need. Crossed wires yesterday. Pity. It seems they emailed the GP to ask for a reason why the GP was unable/unwilling to sign-off on a cause of death. It seems that if you’ve not been to the GP in the 2 weeks prior then it prevents them from doing so. So, if you don’t expect to die and are not planning to, be sure to visit your GP to get a pre-death check-up. Assuming you can get an appointment, that is. Ba-dum-tisk. So, somewhere an email was either sent, or not sent, sent and not received, sent and received and ignored. Who can say. We’ve just loaded up the car with stuff to take to the skip. Team A (me) is going to empty the car. Team B (mum and Gloria) are going to the GP practice. The boot of my car will not shut – that’s fine. Cars can operate with their boot open. Well, they used to. Not now. The car enters emergency mode while I’m on the roundabout and the smell of burning is horrid. We are all livid. I am raging. I empty the car and make a beeline for the GP surgery. As I arrive, mum and Gloria are getting in the car. Words were said, a promise of a phone call is forthcoming. I am beyond livid. More rage. I park the car. Storm passed the Jags, Mercs and Teslas near the staff door and head for reception. “I don’t care if they arrest me..”
The poor receptionist. I felt terrible for her as I’m holding back the tears while visibly shaking demanding to see the practice manager. Why, she asks? “Why? Dad has been in a freezer for 12 days because this practice is incompetent.” I am informed that the secretary is looking into it and will call us. “That’s not good enough. I am not leaving here until we are seen.” Proper dad move, that. We wait, I sit reluctantly. Patients are seen, Paddington-esque ‘Hard stares’ all over the place. The receptionist pops her head round to see if we are still sitting there. We are. I get up, walk over to see who is now involved in hushed conversations behind the glass. Time passes. Feels like a lifetime. We are seen. The practice manager, no less. Once in the treatment room, we relay the situation, as we understand it. Gloria demands she ring the coroner immediately so that they can clear this up. She points out that we all know it’s a heart attack so let’s stop mucking about. I hear words that are starting to sound like excuses on emails etc. so I shut that down. We do not care who is at fault, we just want dad to have his autopsy and we can move on with his death, and our lives. The practice manager rings the funeral director. We are still in the room. A while later, as pennies start to drop, the practice manager tells us her plan and we reluctantly concede. She apologises. We leave, expecting a phone call within the next few hours. Later, the phone call does occur in the middle of an airport run. We can take a breath. Some order is restored, information is passed, and dad can finally move on to stage 3.
August 23rd, Wednesday. Dad is on his way to the Hospital to join the scanning queue. Hooray. Word is that the scan will be completed before the weekend and the pathologist will review when next in (as they typically attend on Tuesdays and Thursdays).
August 25th, Friday. I place three calls to the coroner without success. It’s a long weekend here – perhaps she’s tied up with other things or on a day off.
August 29th. Tuesday. Dad has now been in various freezers and vans for 18 nights and we are no closer to getting (a) permission or (b) ability to register his death. (A and B as above). I ring the coroner to get an update on the scan and the pathologists report. I am informed that due to transportation issues (a van out of action and was someone off sick? I don’t recall), dad is still in the hospital and the scan has not yet occurred. I am informed that he will be taken for scanning tomorrow.
August 31st. Thursday. Today. Dad freezer time now sitting on 20 days. Cause of death – unofficially, obviously a bloody heart attack. Permission to bury/cremate? Pending results of autopsy and confirmation of cause of death.
I rang the coroner at 9:58. Our chat was a little like this,
C: I was just about to ring you, Mr Monkhouse (Mr Monkhouse?? That’s my father! Wakka wakka). He was taken for the scan in Stoke yesterday, but the machine broke somewhere between the other persons scan, and dad being prepared for his scan. They sent him back to the Hospital unscanned. They apologise and are waiting on some technicians to….
What would we like to do? Would we like to ask the pathologist to see if they were willing to proceed with an invasive post-mortem when they come in tomorrow?
E: <long seething silence> I don’t know. We’re all furious. Everything that could have gone wrong, seemingly has. If the scanner in Stoke is broken, then no one is getting scanned?
C: That’s correct.
E: Does the scanning place perhaps have another scanner they could put him through then?
C: Well, yes – there is another one at Sandwell.
E: Oh, where is that?
C: Near Nottingham.
E. (!!!) Right, well get on to them and see if they can do it – and if you’ve any more issues with your transportation, ask Wellings to do it. The funeral is next Thursday, and we need to get his resolved.
I contact Sam and let her know what is the latest. She kindly confirms that they’ll do whatever they can to help facilitate the scan.
10:55. The coroner rings back to confirm with me who the funeral director is (!).
11:08. The coroner ring back to confirm that Sandwell will do the scan and that Wellings will take him over today, wait with him, and bring him back. 4, 5 and 6! Incredible. I am told that paperwork from the scan will be with the coroner’s office later today. I ask the coroner to please confirm with me when that paperwork has arrived with the coroner.
There are no words! I hope dad is enjoying this maddeningly frustrating comedy of errors from his icebox.
I’d like to say that this was all we were dealing with, aside from the grief that we’re supposed to be processing, whichever guise that presents.
But there has been plenty of other drama, mishaps and modern-day nonsense going on too. But that’s a story for another day.
The Bible tells us not to eat pig or seafood, not to mate different kinds of animals, not to plant a field with two kinds of seed, and not to wear clothing woven of two kinds of material, so polycotton is out. It tells us that women should be silent in church, dress modestly and avoid jewellery. Most of us ignore all this. It says that wives should be subservient to their husbands. Good luck with that.
It condemns most strongly of all the taking of interest on a loan and the financial exploitation of the poor by the rich. Our economic system is built on these sins. Our pensions depend on them.
Yes, I know, these things should be taken in context, and they reflect the culture and mindset of the authors, some of whom, Paul for example, were hardly well-adjusted specimens of Homo sapiens.
I was brought up in a farming village. Cattle from the five working farms were herded between byre and field along the roads holding up traffic that had to pick its way through the steaming residue the cows generously left behind. I came to savour the fragrance. My short-trousered self could see that we were upright cows—head, body with holes at both ends, four limbs. At school I became interested in zoology and the way the animal kingdom could be classified into various groups, single celled amoeba to complex multicellular organism like us, and I began to see evidence for evolution. At Cambridge studying embryology as part of the medical course, my mind was further opened by the fact that in the first few weeks of our intrauterine development each one of us undergoes a kind of speeded-up evolution, and that we still carry with things that other creatures have but that we don’t need any more.
So I’ve always understood that humans are animals like all the rest: we are in fact modified reptiles—not modified enough in some cases.
One of the biggest problems with theology for me, then, is interpreting scripture in the light of this.
Do I actually believe that Jesus was born to what we call a virgin? Or is that simply a reworking of far more ancient myths about the birth of gods and goddesses, used by Matthew and Luke to “big up” Jesus? Such birth stories are still in use, notably in North Korea, where propaganda has elements of the Christian Nativity story to “big-up” the births of Kim family members.
Does my zoological mind really accept that humans are more special than any other creature of the earth?
Does my scientific mind really believe in the miracles that Jesus is claimed to have performed? Or are they simply fairy stories expressing profound truths using idioms familiar to the writers and readers of two thousand years ago? Middle Eastern people used—and use—language and imagery much more colourfully than we do.
Why should we pay heed to the writings of people of long ago who had a different worldview, who thought the earth was flat, who thought that water covered the sky, who thought that natural phenomena were manifestation of an irascible sky pixie’s temper?
I find it exhausting trying to marry these two world views together, that is modern and ancient, and I wonder why I bother. What has kept me hanging on to the Christian story for so long, if only by the skin of my teeth?
The answer is quite simply the psychological authenticity of the gospel. By that I mean Jesus’s teaching displays authentic human psychology and is without doubt the best way to live life. It’s a pity it’s never been tried.
I don’t care about the virgin birth. I don’t care what adults do with their genitals for mutual pleasure. I don’t care whether the miracles are factual or not. I don’t care whether the events recorded in the life of Jesus are historical or not. I don’t care if they were all invented by his followers simply to “big-up” a remarkable man so that his teachings might take root. I don’t care about much Christian doctrine. Some of it is of great poetic beauty, but much of it is pernicious nonsense invented by clergy to keep us proles in our place with the promise of jam tomorrow—when we ‘re dead. Sod that for a game of soldiers.
I see the message of the gospel as the triumph of selflessness over ego-self, the agony in the garden leading to the death of self so that selflessness can rise. The equilibrium between looking after oneself—which is essential—and being selfless for the common good. With such selflessness we are no longer weighed down by guilt and shame and we can metaphorically rise to become like Him. Made like him, like him we rise. The mass is the cosmic drama of self-sacrifice.
Does this mean I’m not fit to be a priest? Does it mean I’m not a Christian?
Many might say so. I think the opposite. I think we need more like me. I think many people today are at best ambivalent about the supernatural, but are interested in the validity of gospel teaching when the penny drops.
I would go so far as to say that Christianity in the west has no future unless it grasps this. Deserves no future, even.
There are so many apparently brain-dead people in today’s increasingly narrow-minded C of E, so it’s hard work swimming against the tide. Maybe I need to stop thinking. But I shall KBO as long as I can.
Last Tuesday three people were killed in Nottingham. One of them was a first year medical student. Her parents had been students of mine in Dublin and her maternal grandparents colleagues. You may have seen her parents on TV. It will not surprise you to know that I found their words and delivery deeply affecting—not only because of the personal connexion, but also because seeing and hearing distraught parents speaking in public vividly brought back to me memories I wish I didn’t have.
The following day I read that in Worcestershire a nine year old boy had been killed by his mother and her partner. His death came after a prolonged months-long period of physical and mental abuse. I want you to imagine that for a moment. A nine-year-old boy. Not a baby, but a nine-year-old boy, kicked, beaten with belts and hard objects, having his head bashed and submerged in the bath as punishment. Imagine what it felt like for that young boy. Can you even begin to imagine what was going through the minds of his mother and her partner?
Yesterday morning I felt yet more impotent rage at UK honours. A few days ago it was Johnson’s jollies for mates, and then in the King’s birthday honours it’s to them that have shall more be given. Compare the vastly wealthy rewarded for charitable work with the people with next to nothing faithfully serving the homeless at shelters, food banks and the like. I seem to remember that a wise man made a similar comparison about two thousand years ago.
You might ask why God allows this evil and corruption?
God has nothing to do with it.
It all comes down to human behaviour. The basic underlying problem is the trinity of greed, avarice, and approval-seeking. In a word, ego. In another, pride.
Because of our egotistical vanity we imagine that our opinions and desires are more important than anyone else’s, and therefore that we have every right to bulldoze and bully our way through life. We see it in international politics, national politics and individual relationships. Be quite sure of this, sisters and brothers: you are no more than a tiny pimple on the face of the earth. Don’t get too big for your boots.
The perpetrator in Nottingham, for whatever reason, felt that his only course of action was to impose his will on people who were in his way. As a result of being at the wrong place at the wrong time, three people were killed and several injured.
The couple in Worcestershire, who were supposed to be looking after the nine-year-old boy were so wrapped up in their egotistical desires that they ignored their responsibilities to a vulnerable human being and performed appalling acts of barbarity on him. It’s the worst example I can recall of parental abuse since 2008 when a man near Doncaster snapped his baby daughter’s spine over his knee to stop her crying.
And now the honours list. “Rabbit’s friends and relations” divvying up the Emperor’s New Clothes among themselves. How they love themselves.
It’s all about egotistical vanity in one way or another. Pride, the root of evil. Unbridled ego, the root of evil.
Don’t imagine for one moment anyone in this church is free from it. Every time you moan at somebody else for being slow you’re putting your own needs before theirs. Every time you sit at the traffic lights behind some old trout who’s apparently waiting for a particular shade of green, you’re putting your own needs before theirs. Every time you are late for a meeting for no good reason you are putting yourself before others. Magnify all that, and you are quite capable in the right circumstances—or the wrong ones—of sticking the knife into someone else.
There is an answer to this abusive behaviour, and it’s called self-sacrifice.
We heard about it not long ago in the garden of Gethsemane story when Jesus wrestled, first saying—and I am putting words into his mouth—take this cup from me, I can’t go through with it, before accepting it, saying resignedly OK, let it be as you say, by the way, echoing Mary’s response to Gabriel at the Annunciation. This is the renunciation of pride and self so that selflessness can flourish for the common good.
I’m not saying that we must always choose the way of self-sacrifice. We are animals and self preservation requires us to be mindful of self for our safety and to avoid becoming food for predators. But we are social animals and that demands a degree of looking out for others—altruism if you like. As with much of life an equilibrium is called for: we must always have an eye on the creatures around us and try to imagine the consequences of our actions for them.
In today’s gospel we hear Jesus giving advice on how to do it: tend the sick, cheer the despairing, feed the hungry. Have an eye on those around you. Put yourself in their position. Ask if there’s anything they’d like you to help them with. Jesus told us to start local—there’s no need to be too ambitious, just deal with what you encounter day by day. There’s plenty to do here in Burton. I said in my Maundy Thursday homily that it is not until we immerse ourselves in serving others that we begin to feel in our guts our own true humanity, for there isn’t room for it to grow until we’ve first shoved out our own self-obsessed wishes.
As a friend said, all any one of us can do is try to neutralize the ego-pride we encounter by doing what we hope is good in our own small spheres. Each of us can only do a little. And as another friend put it, this will help to preserve the timeless values of wisdom, hope and authentic earthed humanity.
Meanwhile, there are grieving people. Perhaps you’re one of them. Remember them.
Rambling Rector Retired 