At first, the virus signalled the end of the world. Now we know it to be neither particularly lethal nor particularly infectious.
We have been led to hysteria.
Opinions differ about the lockdown. Evidence is equivocal: its effects, however, are not. The economic consequences will be felt for generations, and the geopolitical maelstrom is only just beginning.
But whatever about the big picture, the lockdown has been desperately cruel for many, especially the chronically ill, the dying, the grieving, and those in sheltered accommodation and care homes.
The purpose of this piece is not to provoke discussion about the handling of the pandemic or the nature of the lockdown, but rather to let a dear and longstanding friend tell the story of how it has affected him and his wife. They are examples of the heroism that has emerged from this terrible wound that our society has inflicted upon itself.
Over to you, friend.
I already look with horror at the misery caused not by the virus but by our response to it. My wife, sadly, has dementia and Parkinson’s disease, and has lived in a care home for over three years. I was excluded from visiting her altogether from the day lockdown started and left her the day before that wondering if I would ever see her again. Her capacity precludes any meaningful contact by telephone or video calling.
The home has been visited by the virus with proportionate fatalities, but she has not so far been infected as far as I know. But over the first two months she gave up eating and drinking properly, lost more than half a stone in weight and has not been out of doors other than to make two trips to A&E following falls with injuries. Without saying how, I have found my way round the restrictions on visiting though I am limited to one visit per week at present. She is now showing more interest in eating and her mood has lifted at least some of the time.
I am slightly nervous, as lockdown is lifted, that my access may perversely be blocked again for reasons of preventing virus spread in the interests of others. The national policy has been one of panic rather than reasoned risk assessment with measured responses.
The English public, if it thinks of the Church of England at all, assumes it’s phenomenally wealthy, and that the church receives funding from the state or from taxes.
None of this is true.
The church is at a crisis. The history of how it has come to this is long and complex involving mediaeval laws and customs, agricultural and land legislation, economic changes, societal and cultural changes, the impact of scientific endeavour, and more. But though the history is interesting, we must move on from where we are now.
Funds come from:
personal giving by parishioners;
fees from weddings and funerals;
parish rental and investment income, if any; and
subventions from the Church Commissioners whose funds are also dependent on rental and investment income.
As a result of lockdown, church closures and economic effects of government response to the virus:
Giving has plummeted. Although some churchgoers give by standing order or direct debt, more do not, instead putting cash on the collection plate week by week—which of course has completely dried up. Most churchgoers are elderly and many know nothing of online banking.
There are no occasional offices in church at present, and in any case they were in sharp decline before covid.
Church halls are shut, so there is no rental income. Income from residential and commercial property is significantly reduced. Investment income has been decimated by the stock market crash.
Commissioners’ funds have taken a big hit for similar reasons.
Funds from parishes, sources 1, 2 and 3, go to:
Pay, pension and continuing training for all clergy except bishops and cathedral deans.
Diocesan advisers, administrators and secretaries
Churches, parish buildings and their maintenance
Funds from Commissioners, source 4, go to:
National mission initiatives
Central administration (Church House London, Lambeth Palace), large and Byzantine.
Subventions to dioceses to help plug the gap between what comes in from parishes and what goes out in pay and pensions. Such subventions do not close that gap.
Most dioceses are using reserves or are already bust.
Liverpool and St Albans have furloughed some clergy.
Sheffield even before covid was aiming to reduce paid clergy numbers by almost a half in the next few years.
Worcester has asked the public for donations to pay clergy.
Chelmsford has told parishes if they can’t stump up £60K annually, they won’t get a paid parson, and has announced that paid clergy will be cut by a third.
It’s acknowledged or rumoured that Truro, Hereford, Sodor and Man, Blackburn, Manchester, Newcastle, Derby, Leicester, St Edmundsbury & Ipswich, Southwark, Rochester, Portsmouth, and Guildford (Surrey of all places!) are at the edge or just tipping over. Others too possibly.
One source who knows Carlisle diocese said that the only reason it isn’t bust yet is because it doesn’t spend anything – and as a Carliolian by birth and Cumbrian by descent and upbringing, I see this as admirable prudence.
Clergy pay and pensions
Consider these figures.
1 Archbishop of Canterbury £85,070
1 Archbishop of York £72,900
1 Bishop of London £66,820
39 other diocesan bishops £46,180
About 60 suffragan (assistant) bishops £37,670
43 Deans £37,670 (Dean of Oxford not remunerated by the Church)
About 100 Archdeacons £36,100
Ordinary paid parsons £25,265 minimum (about 5000 I guess)
Although the typical parson receives an annual stipend of just over £25K, the cost to the parishes is about £60K since the parish share also funds the parson’s pension and continuing training, parsonage maintenance, and diocesan staff such as mission advisers, safeguarding advisers, vocations advisers, and other advisers, administrators and secretaries. The church collects the money and passes it to the dioceses that then pay the clergy. Wealthy parishes that pay more than £60K in theory subsidise poor parishes that can’t afford to. Some do. Other wealthy parishes resent giving their money to an organisation that they disapprove of and withhold what they are asked to pay as a form of blackmail.
Since income from parishioners (source 1) has now dried up, the Commissioners recently loaned the dioceses £75 million to tide them over the covid crisis. Note: loaned—I’ll return to that. The pension is a significant call on funds, for it is a non-contributory defined benefit pension with a very generous lump sum. Furthermore, for Bishops, Deans and Archdeacons, the pension enhancement that comes from their increased pay is backdated to the year of their entry into clerical orders—this could amount to 20 years’ worth enhanced pension. That is scandalous.
Pensions used to be the responsibility of the Commissioners, but in 1997, after the Commissioners had had their fingers burnt, they were passed to the dioceses, that is the parishes. Parish income having now collapsed, the Commissioners will have to pick up the cost, and this will leave a big hole in their assets—unless of course clergy pay and pensions were to be slashed.
Sources 1, 2 and 3 also fund the building. Think ancient, damp, roof, structure, stained glass, organs, plumbing, electrics, heating, and more. Think of a building the size of a small cathedral, often to be found in inner city deprived areas, sustained by a regular congregation of say 25 people all over the age of 60.
Remember that the vast majority of congregations are numerically tiny, elderly, and on pensions. As a result of the lockdown they have lost the habit of weekly attendance. Lost habits are hard to re-establish. Will they want to return given the anxiety that will persist about catching the virus? How many will still be alive next year? Another issue is that many churchgoers have loyalty not to Christianity, nor to the parson, but to the building and, in rural areas, to the graveyard where they wish to be buried with their ancestors.
Why would these people continue to give to church funds if they’ve stopped attending? And it’s unwise to put any faith in online worship: it brings in no money, it requires web access and equipment, it is yet another task, and it is questionable how well supported it will be when people are able to resume “normal” activities.
The Commissioners fund, in short, cathedrals, bishops, central administration, training institutions and mission initiatives. In 1997 their assets were about £2.5 billion. After they stopped funding clergy pensions, assets grew to about £8 billion. As I said earlier, that’s being eaten into as I write: property prices and rental incomes are slashed, markets are depressed, and with working from home here to stay, rent from commercial properties is in short supply. And now they will have to take back most or all the pensions burden.
So far, then:
Parishes are in the red and reserves are being gobbled up.
Dioceses are in the red and reserves are being gobbled up.
The £75 million loaned to the dioceses some weeks ago won’t last long – it may already have run out. How can dioceses be expected to pay back this loan?
Prospects are gloomy.
You can see why there’s a money problem.
And I hope you can see that the biggest drain on funds is clergy pay and pensions.
What to do?
Closing and selling off churches has been suggested.
Who wants them? Few are amenable to other uses. They wouldn’t raise much cash given present property prices, and once a church is sold, it’s sold.
If they are sold, the heritage brigade will be up in arms: national heritage, part of the landscape. belong to the community, the people’s patrimony – all this they will cry. Morally, selling them to fund the religious activity of a dwindling sect is questionable since the buildings over the centuries were largely funded from taxation or levies and so can indeed be said to belong to the people.
Most significant of all, many—most—people are emotionally and atavistically attached to churches whether they attend or not: churches are community temples and memory deposits; they are often focal points of community cohesion. People care about churches and graveyards, but they don’t care about a resident parson. To them, buildings matter more than clergy or doctrine. Many clergy, and I suspect bishops too, find this difficult to stomach: they regard churches as inconvenient and expensive money pits and would rather worship in a warm industrial unit.
If churches were to be closed and/or sold, how would decisions be made and by whom? Many of the poorest churches are in the most deprived areas—the very areas where the churches do the most valuable work. Will the well scrubbed and well heeled of leafy suburbia be happy to see their money going to needle-strewn inner city parishes?
In summary, selling off churches would be a once-off; it wouldn’t raise much; and it would be hugely unpopular with a substantial and vocal section of the public. It would, truly, strike at the nature of the culture we have inherited.
So how about reducing pay and pension costs?
Since all clergy will in future have to be paid by the Commissioners, change the whole basis. Abolish all differentials. Pay all clergy the same, bishops the same as parsons, and reimburse expenses in full according to the nature of the work. It’s worth noting that clergy in France, including bishops, get less than a half of what a C of E parson gets. Yes, French clerics are unmarried, but then most C of E clerics have earning partners.
Restructure the pension scheme to be more in line with almost every other: contributory, DC, realistic lump sum.
Cull paid clergy
Reduce numbers by at least two thirds, those remaining being sited strategically in accordance with population or geographical factors. Most churches could be served by unpaid clergy living locally, selected by local agreement.
Stop – now – recruitment to paid posts. A few years ago there was a national drive to recruit more young people to the ranks of stipendiary clergy. This was immoral then, and is much more so now. There is no way that the church will be able to fund them for say 40 years, let alone provide a pension.
All other paid clergy to take early retirement, packages funded by the Commissioners.
Ordain nonstipendiary ministers as required on the basis of local recommendation, and after rigorous training.
But: do turkeys vote for Christmas?
Within one hour by road of where I sit there are five, maybe six diocesan offices, finance departments, safeguarding teams, mission teams … and so on. So:
Merge all 42 diocesan administrations into one central body, sited in the midlands or the north. Think of the likely savings and increased efficiency.
Dioceses should retain only pastoral functions.
Ordained diocesan staff now surplus to requirements should serve in parishes or use their skills in other careers.
Bishops don’t need cathedrals (Lutheran style), so cathedrals to become merely churches with historic titles only (Presbyterian Church of Scotland). Deans, chapters, residentiary canonries to be abolished. Musical and other mission activities could – should – survive, appropriately funded.
Fabric and maintenance of large churches and “cathedrals” to be funded centrally, perhaps with the introduction of a voluntary church tax (continental style) to support only the fabric (but not the activities within). Maybe HMRC would deal with this. Or perhaps, French style, fabric could become the responsibility of the state given the payment by the Commissioners of a suitable dowry. Unfortunately, available funds are unlikely to be adequate, and the economic and political circumstances are far from propitious.
All other churches to be run by unpaid clergy and/or lay minsters living in their own homes.
There are too many churches, especially in towns, so churches could be offered to local communities. Unwanted churches should be abandoned or demolished.
Sell all parsonages no longer required.
Bishops and dioceses
Some say we need fewer, some say we need more.
Option 1: reduce the number of dioceses and diocesan bishops from 42 to about 17, and the number of suffragans from about 60 to 14 or so, suggested * below, on the basis of population and/or area and communications.
Durham, Newcastle *
Carlisle, Blackburn, Sodor & Man *
Liverpool, Manchester, Chester *
Lichfield, Coventry, Birmingham *
Hereford, Worcester, Gloucester
Bristol, Bath and Wells, Salisbury *
Exeter, Truro *
Winchester, Portsmouth, Guildford
Southwark, Rochester, Canterbury *
London * *
Norwich, St Edmundsbury & Ipswich *
Ely, St Albans
Peterborough, Leicester *
Sheffield, Southwell. Derby *
This would run the risk of fewer bishops feeling more important with a regrettable further increase in clericalism.
Increase the number of dioceses and bishops from 42 to about 150 – maybe each deanery as at preset becoming a “diocese” (do we need the title?).
No suffragan bishops needed, nor Archdeacons or Deans since a cathedral is now no more than a church with a history.
No fancy titles. No House of Lords. No pay differentials. No purple shirts. No clericalism. No establishment. Perhaps these “bishops” would be the only paid clergy.
Increase the number of unpaid clergy. Ordain on the basis of local recommendation and need,
A difficult business, especially given the shortage of funds. At present there are nine residential institutions and a multiplicity of local part time courses. Some clergy are trained for three years full time, others (like me) for two years part time with a few residential weekends. There is no agreed national curriculum. Some students are grounded in New Testament Greek, some are not. Some are fed the arcane enthusiasms of course staff.
I don’t know what the future of training will be, but online learning and e-resources are essential. We don’t need so many training institutions, but we do need:
Standardisation with agreed curriculum.
Intelligent study of Scripture.
Instruction in basic liturgical history and praxis.
Instruction in church history.
Extensive e–resources in the widest possible sense.
And finally …
This is a great opportunity for radical action. The church does not need a sticking plaster, but rather a scalpel wielded mercilessly to drain the abscesses. “I came not to send peace, but a sword.”
I thank many people for stimulating me to think about this, and am particularly grateful to “Froghole”, Rupert Moreton, Andy Sparrow and Susan Monkhouse.
Coronavirus is the virus. Covid19 is the disease it causes. Coronaviruses have been with us a long time. The flu virus is one of them. Some common colds are caused by coronaviruses. Covid19 is caused by a new strain—hence the adjective novel. I dare say, dear reader, that you knew this. But I’m ashamed to say it hadn’t dawned on me until fairly recently. Now on with the plot.
I don’t see any prospect of controlling this pandemic until herd immunity has been achieved. Herd immunity comes from a combination of immunisation and recovery from infection.
A vaccine is at least a year away and anyway vaccines don’t always work. The first recorded influenza pandemic was in 1510. We haven’t yet fathomed the disease and a flu vaccine is as far away as ever. Furthermore, the common cold, sometimes of coronaviral aetiology, eludes all cures. The polio vaccine took decades to be usable, though we’ve moved on scientifically from then. I’m old enough to remember the polio epidemic of 1957/8. As an asthmatic child often fighting for breath, pictures of children in iron lungs terrified me.
For recovery from infection we need about 60% of the population to be infected, with the inevitable proportion having life threatening disease and dying. The trouble is that this virus has great propensity to mutate. Its mutated forms could be more vicious than the present one, and herd immunity, or vaccines for that matter, for the present strain won’t necessarily work for new ones. So we are faced with the possibility of wave upon wave of epidemic. Epidemics in general are occurring with increasing frequency (Asian flu, polio, SARS, foot & mouth, Ebola, now this … and more).
And of course there’s always the possibility that new viruses will emerge.
Viruses are clever. They use other creatures for reproduction—their only concern—remorselessly. Just as tectonic plates do the “things that come naturally” leading to quakes and tsunamis, so viruses do the “things that come naturally” leading to morbidity and mortality in vulnerable creatures including humans. It is the natural order.
Viruses are as much part of creation as we are. Praying to a sky pixie for delivery from the pestilence of viruses, as religious nutters do, is no more than human arrogance and hubris. We have viruses in our intestines, necessary for digestion, just as we have billions of bacteria living in us and on us, all necessary for an efficient bioeconomy. Are they asking the sky pixie to discern which bugs to zap and which to leave unhindered?
If covid19 were left unchecked, the best option scientifically, it would amount to survival of the fittest. The trouble is that the burden on the health services would soon be catastrophic. The strategy adopted, distancing and such like, spreads the load over a longer period. But no matter how we get there, herd immunity is needed—and may never be achieved. I suspect that governments have been informed of this, but dare not admit it publicly.
This brings me to the reliability of what we are told. Take today’s BBC news item “New data has added to growing evidence that the number of deaths linked to coronavirus in UK care homes may be far higher than those recorded so far.” Note the vagueness. “Deaths linked to coronavirus” – what does that mean? Deaths “may be” linked. They may not. Just because someone with a cough and pneumonia dies, it doesn’t mean they died of covid19, nor does it mean that the virus contributed to their death. Only testing will tell, so we need reliable tests. Not all tests are reliable. If one reads only the headlines, and many of us do just that, it’s easy to panic.
Ultimately—and I wish people would realise this—we’re all going to die, if not of covid19 this month, then something else later. And let me repeat that as someone with a great future behind him, I would expect a younger person who could get back to work to jump the treatment queue before me. I’m ready to die, though I don’t want to yet.
I don’t much care what others think this says about my morality: to me it’s pragmatic necessity. I acknowledge that I have a peculiar, even brutal, attitude to death. It comes from having seen death as welcome in severely ill people especially babies, having handled cadavers in anatomy dissection rooms for 30 years, and having suffered the death of one of my sons.
Turning from biology to economic and political affairs, the consequences of the pandemic could be serious in Europe, and cataclysmic elsewhere.
In the west, an economic slump of staggering magnitude is almost certain: some economic historians have said the worst in 10 generations (400 years), others 200 years, and certainly 100 years. As one commentator put it, it’s almost as if the virus were tailor-made to strike at capitalism. The financial markets are in turmoil. What will happen to the banks? Fewer people will be able to buy houses, house prices will plummet (a good thing you might say), savings wiped out, pensions destroyed. Power cuts, shortages, rubbish uncollected, unemployment, poverty, civil unrest, suicides. Back to the middle ages. Governments won’t be able to bail us out: national economies will be in the doldrums for decades after the financial largesse already being handed out. Taxes will rise. This economic reality is already fuelling demands for the lockdown to be lifted so that people can get back to work.
Elsewhere – a worst-case scenario
China is already buying up commodities now that the prices are rock bottom.
The US sees covid19 as China’s fault and demands reparations. China says no. The US refuses to pay back interest on its substantial loans from China. China sees this as an act of economic war. Then what?
The slump in oil prices destabilises the Middle East, especially Saudi. Oil supplies are cut. Dictators emerge.
The Russian economy being too dependent on oil, Putin invades Ukraine for food and the Baltics for minerals. Will Western Europe fight for the Baltics?
The peace since 1945 has been dependent upon economic prosperity. When that is taken away nationalism rises and fights are picked.
Africa is devastated. Infected migrants hammer at Europe’s doors. Shots are fired to keep them out: many will be killed.
I imagine something similar could happen in South and Central America – poor and populous.
The already creaking EU disintegrates.
Surveillance becomes intrusive (it’s getting that way already).
Totalitarian governments take over. Maybe China takes over. Or Russia.
Now, you may say that this is unduly bleak. But none of it is beyond the bounds of possibility.
I could be wrong. Part of me hopes I am. Part of me thinks that our lifestyle in the West is dissolute and decadent and needs sorting. But events that lead to correction of our lifestyle will likely lead to horrific, in human terms, sequelae for the third world—which now includes much of our inner urban areas.
Life is a terminal disease, its death rate 100%. People are going to die of this and other viruses. Measles is coming back. Polio and Ebola and Foot & Mouth lurk in the shadows ready to erupt unpredictably. The best thing we could do for one another is to help each other come to terms with uncertainty and mortality. I did my best from the pulpit and I do my best through my blog.
The fact is that there are too many people on the planet. There are far too many cooped up. Maybe the planetary ecosystem is resetting itself. I’m not a proponent of the Gaia theory, but I know that we reap what we sow. At present we are reaping. As far as creatures of the earth are concerned, apes like us are vulnerable, impotent and expendable.
But never mind. The sun is shining, the sky is clear, riverbeds visible, air cleaner. The night sky is spectacular. This virus is doing the planet a favour. Perhaps too it’s the scalpel that releases pus from the putrid abscess of aggressive capitalism.
I thank James Drever and others for help with this, but please don’t associate them with my prognostications.
So, girls and boys, out we go for a walk with Bella the Staffy.
As we approach the Trent and Mersey canal, a young man walking purposefully in the same direction overtakes us. We exchange pleasantries. Then, surprisingly, he stops. We catch up with him just as another young man approaches from the opposite direction. With sleight of hand the two guys exchange something. They retreat whence they came.
User and supplier, we mused? Which was which?
What does it take you to get through the day?
Nicotine/tobacco. The sense of calming and release can be blissful, I gather.
Alcohol? At a funeral of a wealthy 40-something year old who died of alcoholic liver disease, I said from the pulpit that anyone who ever encouraged him to “just have one more” was complicit in his death.
Exercise, fitness? The endorphins released are addictive.
Sex? Porn? Likewise.
Golf? I’m not old enough to play golf, but I’m told that it’s quite popular amongst the brain dead.
Other drugs? Cannabis is less dangerous than alcohol. Cannabis rice krispie cakes are delicious.
Religion? Yes. The ecstatic trances of mystics are well known to be comparable to—even equate to—orgasm.
Am I saying that for many people religion is merely a prop to help them get through the day, on a par with smoking or drugs or booze?
Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.
Here are some other things we can be addicted to: money, power, controlling others, pleasing people, wanting to change people, gambling, internet, social media, books, buying stuff you don’t need, gossiping, criticizing, moaning, being miserable.
Some are financially more expensive than others, but there isn’t one that’s any worse than any other. They can all destroy us. It’s as hard for you to let go of your addiction to new clothes, or whatever, as it is for someone else to put down the drink or the syringe.
They’re like demons. They steal our personalities and stop us being ourselves. They deny us our freedom. They make us obsess about ourselves instead of serving others.
We’re all wounded because of stuff that’s happened to us. We all need something to dull the pain. We develop patterns of behaviour to protect us from these hurts. Whatever “pain relief” we choose—substances, attitudes, activities, religion—can be dangerous. We become addicted to them.
We’re all addicted to something—several things in my case. Look at your addictions. If you think you haven’t any, you’re blind.
All the vain things that charm you most—accept that they are part of you. Think of them as controlling different versions of yourself. Then give that version of yourself a cuddle. You begin to love the hell out of yourself. You might have to accept that some will stay with you till you die.
This is not easy. But even beginning the process is a kind of renewal. Nobody is perfect. Nobody has a perfect upbringing.
As is now well known, Church of England bishops have recently covered themselves in glory and ordure by reiterating the church’s teaching that hanky-panky is permitted only between people of contradictory gender that are married to each other.
Polygamy, entirely Biblical by the way, is out. Same-sex sex is out—no question. Opposite-sex sex if you’re civilly partnered rather than married is out. Adolescent fumbles behind the chip shop, or bike sheds if you’re at school, are presumably out, out, out. For heaven’s sake, how is a decent upstanding teenager to learn the ropes? And what about the Archbishop of York who said of a royal couple living together before marriage that people would be wise to “test whether the milk is good before they buy the cow”.
You couldn’t make it up, could you?
Church of England bishops, it seems, have a view on lots of things. People ignore them. They had a view on how we should vote. People, even their groupies, ignored that. They had a view on brexit. People, even their groupies, ignored that. So they changed their view.
It comes as no surprise, then, that at the forthcoming General Synod the agenda include discussion on the carbon footprints of churches. On the blog Thinking Anglicans, a correspondent has recently suggested tongue in cheek that each church should review how its carbon footprint is affected by people travelling to church. He points out that so many people came to one of the large evangelical churches in Bristol by car—Chelsea tractor I expect—that Sunday parking outside his house was a nightmare.
This set me thinking.
I wonder how many people attend services on foot or by public transport, well known to be reliable on Sundays. I see horse and cart soon becoming a necessity and imagine the conversations between the Mrs Proudies and the hapless Archdeacons when a new bishop arrives, to say nothing of discussions on the quality of locks and keys.
This would enable the appointment of diocesan stable-hands, grooms and cleaners-up-after to add to the growing army of diocesan posts—only these people would actually be useful.
There are many other benefits that I can imagine, not the least of which is a general slowing down, for I doubt the horses pulling clerical, nay episcopal, carriages would be capable of running at Ascot (a horse worthy of an episcopal employer would surely not be entered to run at Aintree: do they have champagne that far north?).
Another consequence would be that since it would take longer to travel between palace and parish, bishops would perforce visit the parishes less often. This could be seen as a bad thing, or a good thing.
There would have to be a position paper written on the carbon hoofprint of increased horse dung, but maybe not, for it might be that horses were merely redeployed such that it was not necessary to breed more of the elegant equines.
Having said that, breeding more would benefit the artificial insemination industry and enable bishops to produce episcopal guidelines on what was and was not permissible in that reproductive activity. And if there were more dung, just think how the rose gardens and vegetable patches would benefit—this latter being significant in carbon footprint reduction and “woke” ideas about diet.
Which brings me to a dietary question: why is the fare offered at church events so unhealthy? Chocolate, pastry, flour, sandwiches, cakes. General Synod should discuss this.
There is so much about which the bishops have yet to opine: as Alan Bennett remarked in his monologue Bed Among the Lentils, the role of the church is unclear in so many hitherto uncolonised departments of life—underfloor central heating for example.
But they need to get their fingers out, for soon there won’t be anybody to opine to.
Ethical veganism having been declared a philosophical belief (here) provides me with the new religion I was seeking for retirement.
The onion has more than twelve times as much DNA as you or me, so I shall worship the Holy, Blessed and Glorious Onion. I can set up onion temples with onion domes. I can invent liturgies in which clouds of incense mask onion odours. I can make garlands of onions, wear them, and do with onions what SWMBO does with them when she stuffs a chicken.
I can still eat chicken, of course, because in the US it’s considered a vegetable. Some people are vegetables, so I can eat them too. To quote Jonathan Swift, who proposed eating babies to alleviate Dublin’s poverty problem (A Modest Proposal), “I have been assured by a very knowing American of my acquaintance in London, that a young healthy child well nursed, is, at a year old, a most delicious nourishing and wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled; and I make no doubt that it will equally serve in a fricasee, or a ragoust.” I’m sure that well-cared for adults would be just as succulent.
A vegan was recently reported are saying that he didn’t like using buses because of the possibility that insects would be harmed in the making of the journey. Surely, that’s a certainty, not a possibility? Not only do I feel for the insect collection that develops on the windscreen and bumper, but also the poor dears that are squashed under the tires. I am well-known as holding the view that the only proper place for a cat is under the wheel of a heavy truck, but the possibility of an insect being squashed there is much greater than that of a cat being so flattened. Unfortunately.
Vegans need not only to ensure that they ingest enough protein, but also give serious consideration to what happens should they find themselves with an infection. You see, the things I really feel sorry for are our fellow inhabitants of planet earth, bacteria and viruses. The way that we use antibiotics in the genocide of these poor defenceless creatures is deplorable and indefensible.
This is a bittersweet time of year for Monkhice. October used to be a month of celebration, since all our children were born in October (the rhythm method of conception). There are still birthdays of course, but now with anniversaries of funeral and requiem. The season of mists and mellow fruitfulness comes with unwelcome ambivalence. It will never be otherwise.
And then November.
Remembrance Day brings anger. The stupidity of strutting generals of the Great War, using people as disposable toy soldiers in the pursuit of their family squabbles. Contemporary politics is differently deplorable, with the wholesale telling of porkies to gain the approval of the even more powerful. The words “lying turds” come to mind.
Remember the stupidity of war. Remember how killing never achieves anything other than bitterness. Remember how bashing people on the head to get them to agree with you never works. Never.
Maybe what we really, really want is forgiveness.
We need to forgive the wrongs of others. Let go of them, let go of retribution. Our resentments don’t hurt the person that did us wrong—they hurt us. They grow inside, a cancer of the mind, making us bitter and twisted. More surely and more swiftly than any malignancy, they destroy us. Think of Miss Havisham. Hold your resentments in your hands and throw them over your shoulders. Leave them behind.
Most of all, and most difficult of all, forgive yourself.
In the news today is a man who joined an Iranian group opposed to the Ayatollahs. He has been in exile for 30 years. He is 60 and has never seen his son since infancy. He can’t forgive himself for his decision to join. Poor man. How I sympathize with him, even though my own actions might not have had such sad consequences. And then I hear a voice within say “it’s perverted pride, you know, and a kind of arrogance, to think that your sins are unforgiveable”. Well, be that as it may, it doesn’t help much.
Re-membering. Think of it as putting the members, the pieces, back together again—what all the King’s horses and all the King’s men couldn’t do. Reintegration, restoration, anabolism as opposed to diabolism or catabolism. The rubble cleared away so that new foundations can be laid. I wish this were as easy to do as it is to write.
The poppies of Flanders grew because the machinery of war churned up the ground, provoking dormant seeds to life. We can hope that the turmoil of confronting the past will allow dormant seeds to flower within us. Who knows what wonderful things might result? This is healing—nothing to do with cure, but rather working with the reality of our situation.
I repeat: maybe what we really, really want is forgiveness. Self-acceptance.
So, relax. Celebrate your joys. Acknowledge your mistakes. Cuddle them. Love the hell out of yourself.
Then you might be able to change yourself a bit. You certainly won’t ever change anyone else.
I find his birthday more affecting than the anniversary of his death—in three days’ time. I don’t know why, it just is.
Hardly a day goes by without him cropping up in my thoughts, but then that’s true for Gloria (Victoria) and Ed too. With Hugh, though, it’s not what he might be doing, or hoping that the cold is a bit better, or the marathon training is going well, or whatever, but rather an emptiness.
There was a time when the overwhelming malignancy of loss blotted out any possibility of hope or delight or joy. That is not so now. The loss is there, certainly, the waste of a good and heroic man, father, husband and son, but now mingled with memories of mischief, boldness, pugnacity and perseverance. A smile on the face and a tear on the cheek.
I suppose this is progress. It’s interesting to observe and note my feelings and, as it were, cuddle them. And I do. For months after the catastrophe, maybe even a year, the lament of King David at the death of his son was always with me: O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son! And it still is, but periodically now, not constantly. Unpredictably, but temporarily.
As I’ve written elsewhere, the death of a son affected this particular father in some interesting ways. I no longer waste my time on things I don’t have to or won’t enjoy. The exhaustion that came with the devastation—like being assaulted by the greatest imaginable physical force—has not quite dissipated, and indeed is prolonged by tiredness that comes with the culmination of 43 years of ministry to students and parishioners. But I am hopeful.
I’m still not sure what to do with the rest of life, and as I retire officially in five days’ time, the sense of uncertainty is heightened. It’s a modern disease of course, this quest for purpose. It’s not helped by a society that measures success according to rank, qualifications, wallet, and size—none of which matters when you’re in the coffin.
l’m sick of doing. Maybe it’s time for a bit of being. SWMBO has tended me for forty six years, so now I shall do my best to tend her. I’m free of having to organise and administer and chivvy a bit, so I’ll be better able to think, to write, to spread lovingkindness with eye-twinkling mischief in all the ways I can to all the people I can. Doubtless along the way I’ll continue to provoke and irritate and exasperate.