Five months on

DancingNobody told me about the exhaustion. And if they had, I don’t suppose I’d have believed them, or thought it would ever apply to me.

It’s now almost 5 months since the great catastrophe. After the “excitement” of getting to Texas in a hurry, the emotional events of that week, returning for the Irish funeral and then the dreadful day of doom scattering on the Sugarloaf—after all this comes the daily grind of grief.

Much of the grief is self-serving; did I love him enough? did he know? did he love me? why did I do such and such when he was 10? did he know his time was limited? is that why he said such and such? why did I not pick that up? why did he feel he could not confide in me? … you can imagine the little stories I invented – without any evidence.

The self-pity has more or less worked itself out. Slowly I deal with autopsy findings, intellectual processing, picking up broken ends, revising expectations. I am beginning to sleep through the night thanks to Nytol. And the sparkle has returned to my eyes, people tell me. I begin to recover mischief and iconoclasm.

Four months ago I said that I felt as if I’d been struck with the greatest imaginable physical force. And so I did. But the exhaustion goes on and on and on. I do not wish to leave the nest. I do not want to be in situations where people might ask things of me. I barely have enough energy for myself and certainly none to spare for others. People hammering on the vicarage door at 11 pm swearing and spitting leave me unmoved. Those who claim to need train fares to Birmingham are likely to be dismissed ungraciously. Conserving energy is difficult when people are wanting to touch the hem of my garment in all sorts of ways. They sympathize, they mean well, they don’t mean to steal my energy, they don’t know they are doing it. I need to rethink how I deal with it.

A friend of similar age was discussing getting older with me. He was lamenting the lack of intellectual oomph. But, you know, I rather like that. After a lifetime of living by my intellect and striving to prove myself to parents, to colleagues, and to ego, I find it liberating to renounce the multiple seductions—academia, music, church, to name but three—to which I fell victim. Vanity of vanity, all is vanity.

These last few weeks I’ve been very glad of films on Netflix and YouTube. I’ve been enjoying violence as never before. But the thing that always revives the drooping spirit is—wait for it—Benidorm. As I make the great renunciations I begin to come down where I ought to be …

… the gutter. The valley of love and delight.

Posted in A great future behind me | 7 Comments

Life cycle of crockery

article-1029700-001533AB00000258-694_468x383SWMBO has berated me for taking a bowl from the draining board rather than from the cupboard.

The life cycle of household crockery, a complete mystery to me, is clearly complex, and any disturbance of the natural rhythm is one that, as far as I can judge from the tirade that assaulted me, leads to cosmic disharmony of the most profound order.

It seems that reuse may begin only after an article has resided in the crockery cupboard for an undefined though not inconsiderable period. Before reaching said cupboard, the article must have been ‘dried’ on a tea towel (why tea towel?) despite already having drip dried on the plastic draining yoke, again for an undefined though not inconsiderable period.

To skip these two stages in the cycle by, as I did, reusing a bowl that had just been washed, is a mortal sin.

Posted in A great future behind me | 2 Comments

The state of Albion

pirelli-stadium-2.jpgEast Staffordshire Borough Council has cut its funding to the voluntary sector by over 27%. The Mayor, a member of the Borough Council, has written to ask me to support his chosen charities. Do you see anything odd here?

People who in my opinion need psychiatric care are unable to have it because the resources are not there. Junior doctors feel their voice is ignored by a government intent on spinning for the sake of cheap publicity. But look at the salaries of NHS administrators. Do you see anything odd here?

The Church of England General Synod makes decisions based on grand policy gestures without paying attention to those of us at the coal face. Indeed, it feels as if in order to put them into effect, they must needs hector the likes of me. You elect people to PCCs and they elect people to Deanery Synods and they elect people to Diocesan Synod and they elect people to General Synod. And by the time these darlings get that far up the greasy pole some of them are so intoxicated by being near the source of ‘power’ and influence and titles that they lose sight of where they came from.

Local politics and national politics affect everyone. Church politics affect very few, only those odd people whose Sunday hobby is going to a strange building that reeks of the past and who live in the past. It’s been said of academic politics (universities etc) that they are so vitriolic because they matter so little. How much more is this true of church politics.

As I keep banging on, Lent is an opportunity to take stock and look ahead, ditching what we don’t need any more. Our diocesan apparatchiks call this mission action planning – though I’ve no idea what mission is. I understand the value of assessing strengths, weaknesses, threats, opportunities, so that’s what we’re doing. The archdeacon is coming to check up on us in June. As government checks up on schools through Ofsted, it won’t be long before the Bishops check up on all our activities through OfGod.

I read in a book once that foundations are best built on rock not sand, so here are some rocks for you to consider as we plan for the future of our churches. Remember that I had a life before ordination, so I am not institutionalized. I’ve worked in the big wide world amongst people who know how the big wide world works. I’ve no interest in kow-towing to bishops or archdeacons, and I’m only concerned about my parishioners. Actually, as a cradle Methodist, I don’t know what bishops are for. Here are some of the realities that we’re up against.

  • The vast majority of people under the age of 50 do not know the Lord’s prayer – have never heard of it, even.
  • There are an increasing number of families in which four generations have never set foot in a church.
  • Church funerals have plummeted even in the 10 years I’ve been ordained. No bad thing, less hypocrisy, though dioceses bemoan the drop in fee income.
  • Some people say that there is a reservoir of affection for the church in the local community. I disagree. There may be smidgeon in the over 60s, but it does not result in significant support. Younger people don’t care two hoots.
  • Some people regard the vicar as the means of tracing their family history – and that’s all.
  • Some people expect the vicar – and the church – to pick up those who fall through the net of hard-pressed social services (see above) though who they think will do it, or pay for it, is not clear,

I could go on. And we haven’t even begun to consider buildings, toilets, car parking, let alone God.

Which brings me to football. Football stadia are our cathedrals. They have their own bishops and priests. They have their acolytes, their rituals, their liturgy, their hymns, their swaying charismatics. They provide pleasure and fun and community spirit. They are about living in the present and planning for the future.

Up the Brewers.


Posted in A great future behind me | 1 Comment

Margaret Forster has died

hqdefaultHer work includes stories of her early years in Carlisle in the 1940s and 50s.

In those days, before the M6 and the electrification of the West Coast Main Line, it and its Eden valley hinterland were cut off from the rest of England for much of the year when bad weather blocked the A6 over Shap and the road to Hexham.

It’s a particular part of the world, with the Pennines to the east, Scotland 8 miles to the north, the Solway to the west and the Lake District and Shap fell to the south. It doesn’t belong to the north east and Newcastle, though some would put it there. It doesn’t belong to Lancashire and Manchester, though the BBC thinks it does. It doesn’t feel at home in Scotland, though it was on and off until not that long ago. It is, as I say, particular. And so are its people.

After reading one of her books I wrote to say inter alia that so much of what she described of her childhood in the 1940s resonated with me and mine ten years later. It evidently took a decade for Carlisle attitudes to travel 20 miles upstream along the River Eden. At that time I’d not long moved to Ireland and I told her that this blunt and forthright Cumbrian was having to come to terms with the slantiness of Irish ways.

Her reply was wonderful, and I hope she would not have minded my sharing a bit of it with you. She described the exchange between her father and a visiting nurse bent down dressing his poorly leg. Imagine the flat vowels and properly pronounced consonants.

Yer must find it hard doin a job like yoo-ers.

Why’s that, Mr Forster?

Well, with you bein so stout.

Cumbrian factual straightforwardness with offence neither intended nor taken.

The inhabitants of lesser counties – and they are all lesser – simply don’t get it.

Posted in A great future behind me | Leave a comment

The old man carried the child, but the child governs the old man

dionysiusmonastery_athosEaster is early so Lent is upon us almost before the last of the Christmas chocolate cherry liqueurs disappear ‘down the little red lane’. We turn from crib to cross at the last great feast of Incarnation/Epiphany/childlikeness: Candlemas, or Presentation, or Purification, or whatever you want to call it.

Simeon holds the divine child and says ‘this is enough, I need no more’. Ich habe genug—if you have not heard Bach’s Cantata of the same name, it’s not too late. Find the first movement on YouTube here sung by the glorious Dietrich Fischer-Dishcloth as at least one member of my family calls him. Words can hardly express the satisfied gently swaying longing that Bach conjures up. Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.

euston 030-1The old man carried the child, but the child governs the old man: you might reflect on how spot-on that is psychologically. The child is the father of the man. We are governed by thought patterns laid down in childhood. Childhood innocence, willingness to explore and ability to have fun are, as we grow up, so easily perverted by the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that life throws at us. The supermarket trolley of the psyche becomes more and more wayward, and less and less inclined to head for the target we once thought we were aiming for.

We need the 3Rs: repent, recall and recover the childlikeness we’ve lost. Is the child you once were proud of the adult you have become? Examining that question is worth the Lenten discipline of spiritual spring-cleaning. If the answer is no (and I doubt that anyone can truthfully answer otherwise), what are you going to do about it?

The Orthodox call this great festival The Meeting – Simeon meets the infant that changes everything. We meet again the child we once were in order to change what we are. We are changed by encounters.

Posted in Inner kingdom, Theology | Leave a comment

Seeing clearly now the rain has gone


quote-i-can-see-clearly-now-that-the-rain-is-gone-i-can-see-all-obstacles-in-my-way-gone-are-johnny-nash-106-43-93-1For Paul’s and Aidan’s magazines, January 2016

Christmas is Emmanuel: God with us. Or rather, God within us.

We cannot attain the presence of God because God is already in us. We just don’t realize it. We have nothing new to learn, but an awful lot of things to unlearn, and we need to learn again to see clearly (clair-voyant).

Think about Christmas in our culture. All about more, bigger, better, faster, further, longer, more expensive. We’re hypnotized, sleep-walking, our greed and avarice fed by the narcotics of the evil advertising industry. Have a look at the film They Live! (YouTube again).

“If your eye offend you, pluck it out”, and replace it with one that sees clearly. “If your eye is healthy, your whole body is full of light”. Re-learn to see clearly, as a child. Re-connect with reality. Re-connect in Latin: re ligere. That is what religion is about. Not keeping rules, or gathering brownie points for club class in an afterlife, or asking God to cure your arthritis, or make events suit you, or some other entirely self-obsessed request. But reconnecting with reality. Be awake. Stay watchful. The advent call.

All spiritual disciplines have one purpose: to get rid of illusions so that we can see clearly what is, who we are, and what’s happening. What’s happening is that God is in us. Prayer is not about saying words or thinking thoughts. It is about becoming aware of this: God within and around. The contemplative is not just aware of God’s Loving Presence, but trusts, allows, and delights in it. Let go of trying to control.

When the disciples start jostling for power, Jesus plonks a child in front of them. The only people who can recognize and be ready for what he’s talking about are those who come with the mind and heart of a child—a “beginner’s mind”. The older we grow, the more we’ve been betrayed and hurt and disappointed, the more layers we wrap around ourselves to cover the vulnerable clarity of the childlike mind. Think Russian dolls with all the layers. Or onion skins. We must always be ready to recognize the layers, peel them away and begin to see afresh. To let new life grow in us.

This is the only new year resolution that is worth keeping. Be born in us today and every day and every minute of every day.

Incarnation is the beginning of real-ization.

(Much of this is stolen from that great source of wisdom, Richard Rohr)

Posted in Inner kingdom, Theology | 1 Comment

Requiem aeternam Burton Burbles

55430_largeNo, no, not Hugh. He’s had his requiem.

But his death is causing me to reassess my priorities. No more pussyfooting around. No more wasting time on trivia. And no more Burton Burbles.

It first appeared as Rambling Rector in 2008 as a kind of 3-church benefice leaflet in Derbyshire. In 2011 it moved across the Irish Sea and served the same function for three churches in Ireland. Then I started my blog so when I came to Burton I changed the name of the leaflet to Burton Burbles to reduce confusion.

S Paul’s and S Aidan’s have their own magazines; S Modwen’s does not. S Paul’s and S Modwen’s have weekly news sheets, S Aidan’s does not. I thought there was a need for a vehicle common to all three churches and tried, singlehandedly, to make it such.

At a meeting last night it became clear that I was alone in this view—indeed, there was more than a smidgeon of hostility to the notion that each church might need to know what others were doing. I must therefore be wrong.

Burton Burbles could only serve the intended purpose if information were passed to me, since along with most Vicars who are not seriously deranged I don’t know stuff unless I’m told it. Or it’s written down and handed to me. As it is, or rather was, I wasn’t told it and yet some people still were offended that I hadn’t appropriately stroked their egos.

If people want theological whimsy and provocation, and/or to know what’s in my mind, they can come to church, or log on here to the blog – I write something most weeks. Occasionally there are pieces by me in The Burton Mail, the local daily.

So finally, and not in homage to a writer that does not appeal to me,  IF

If you can start the day without caffeine or pills; If you can wait when loved ones are too busy to give you time; If you can take criticism and blame without resentment; If you can face the world without lies and deceit; If you can relax without booze; If you can sleep without the aid of drugs; If you can love without imposing conditions; If you can do all these things;

… you’re a dog.

Posted in A great future behind me, Ecclesiology | 2 Comments