In Flanders fields

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Poppy seeds – natural narcotics

A Vicar is in bother for reportedly banning Onward Christian Soldiers on Remembrance Sunday (he didn’t actually – see here – but why let facts confuse the issue?). Other ministerial bêtes noires include Jerusalem (And did those feet, not the other one), I vow to thee my country, and O valiant hearts.

I won’t ban any of them. I like Onward Christian soldiers. It’s a great tune, and the words and images that so offend the PC brigade don’t offend me. We need to be more assertive—how can others have respect for people if they don’t stand up for what they believe? How can we have meaningful theological dialogue if all we believe in is Jesus is my sentimental lover, chocolate, pet services and holding stones?

I vow to thee is my least favourite of this lot. The words are daft. All very stiff upper lip and Bertie Wooster but meaningless piffle. The tune is not one of Holst’s jewels and its span of over an octave makes it difficult to sing. But if people want it they can have it. Maybe one of the reasons I dislike it is the image it conjures up in my mind’s eye of the horsey set in their Barbours and jodhpurs and Alice bands and jolly hockey sticks. And that’s just the blokes.

And did those feet is wonderful sing. The music is real quality, as you’d expect from Parry. But what about Blake’s words? How to describe them? For starters, they don’t mean what most people think they mean. The dark satanic mills have nothing to do with the mill towns of the north—the poem predates them. They almost certainly refer to the institutions that attempt to brainwash people into being Orwellian slaves of the establishment: anything that keeps the rich man in his castle and the poor man tugging his forelock by the gate. In other words, the Church of England and the degree mills of Oxford and Cambridge. Despite being employed by one and a graduate of the tech college on the edge of the Fens, I’m inclined to think Blake was on to something. Or perhaps on something.

And did those feet in ancient time, walk upon England’s mountains green? No they didn’t. And was the holy Lamb of God on England’s pleasant pastures seen? No he wasn’t. And did the Countenance Divine, shine forth upon our clouded hills? No it didn’t. And was Jerusalem builded here, among these dark Satanic Mills? Absolutely not, so gird up your loins, no point waiting for the powers that be to do it; let’s do it ourselves—and the second verse tells us how.

It’s deeply radical and breathtakingly subversive. We need it at least as much now as they did then. Revolution, Comrades. Next time you see Toby and Tristram and Tasmin and Jocasta with their scrubbed faces and telephone number bonuses belting out Jerusalem, have a good laugh. (In Dublin I suppose it would be Ultan, Fiachna, Fionnula, and Derbhla, but they wouldn’t be belting out that hymn and Remembrance Sunday has an altogether different feel.)*

As for O valiant hearts, it’s incredibly moving. There’s no other hymn that for me expresses the stupidity of war in general and WWI in particular: the stubborn pride of military leaders, their callous duping of recruits, the pointless deaths. Never mind the questionable theology (if I banned hymns for that reason there’d be precious few left). Why does this affect me so? Maybe it’s the time Arkwright’s poem was written, 1919. Maybe it’s Harris’s music, Edwardianism dripping from every note. If you’ve read Vera Brittain’s Testament of Youth you might have seen in the text a piece of music by Vera’s brother Edward written I suppose about 1913 with a similar yearning feel.

I’ve always had O valiant hearts at my Remembrance Day services, and always will. It makes me angry and tearful in equal measure, so I have it as the offertory hymn when I go the altar to receive the gifts—which takes my mind off things. This time of year is difficult enough for Vicars with All Souls and Remembrance, and I really don’t need a blow upon a bruise to remind me of the deaths of young people who had their lives in front of them.

The only hymns I really can’t bear are: (1) There is a green hill – terrible theology; (2) All things B and B – words fail me; (3) the middle two verses of Once in royal – Christian children should never be mild and seldom obedient. I’m more inclined to ban tunes than words. But when our generation is dead and gone, nobody will know hymns at all. They are simply not sung any more at schools, other than some posh ones. Funerals and weddings often opt for canned music. They just want a CD of favourite tunes. I’ve stopped caring I’m afraid.

* thanks to my friend Eric for the names. He’s good at that sort of thing.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

John McCrae, May 1915

Saints and souls

800px-Votive-candlesHomily for All Saints and All Souls

Colossians 1: 15-20. Matthew 5: 1-12

Today’s gospel, the Beatitudes, takes on a startling immediacy in The Message. I shall read it to you.

You’re blessed when you’re at the end of your tether. With less of you there is more of God. You’re blessed when you feel you’ve lost what is most dear to you. Only then can you be embraced by the One most dear to you. You’re blessed when you’re content with just who you are—no more, no less. That’s the moment you find yourselves proud owners of everything that can’t be bought. You’re blessed when you’ve worked up a good appetite for God. He’s food and drink in the best meal you’ll ever eat. You’re blessed when you care. At the moment of being ‘care-full,’ you find yourselves cared for. You’re blessed when you get your inner world—your mind and heart—put right. Then you can see God in the outside world. You’re blessed when you show people how to cooperate instead of compete or fight. That’s when you discover who you really are, and your place in God’s family. You’re blessed when your commitment to God provokes persecution. The persecution drives you even deeper into God’s kingdom. Not only that—count yourselves blessed every time people put you down or spread lies about you to discredit me. It means that the truth is too close for comfort, and they are uncomfortable. Be glad when that happens, for though they don’t like it, I do! And all heaven applauds. And know that you are in good company. My prophets have always been in that kind of trouble.

This is how to be a saint. It’s not about piety and being seen to do the right thing. It’s about persistence, carrying through, determination, self-knowledge. It’s about disturbing the comfortable and not being swayed from the cause of right. It’s about being real and authentic, and giving your self away.

I’m not keen on saints. They’re too perfect. The nearest thing to saints I’ve come across are those who live with the most awful grinding problems day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute, yet still manage to keep their heads above water, if only just, smiling and glad to be alive.

Prophet Micah says do justly, be merciful, walk with humility. Humility is the key. Prophet Stanley says Micah is right, because one day you’ll be dead – and it could be very soon. Live life to the full. Those who do that, who use their gifts and lives to make the world a better place are saints in his book.

If you want to be remembered as a saint, you’ve no chance. If you don’t care how you’re remembered other than as someone who did their best, then you might be—if that matters which it shouldn’t. It’s trite to say that every saint has a past and every sinner a future, but its true. Prophet Stanley goes further and says that you’ve no chance of living life to the full unless you’ve cocked up in the past. Often. And learnt from it. The words of the hymn we shall sing in a few minutes—we feebly struggle, they in glory shine—are wrong. They shine, and we shall shine, because they and we have feebly struggled, and are feebly struggling.

As I say, humility is the key. Humus, earth. Feet planted firmly on the earth, living in the here and now, not in some la-la-land of your imagination, or someone else’s imagination, or of how things used to be when you were young and vicars knew how to be vicars. Earthed. We are creatures of this earth. From the earth we come and to the earth we return.

In Colossians we hear of the cosmic Christ, present at the moment of creation with the creative force. Begotten of his Father before all worlds. The Christ that comes to show us the way, who in the Greek comes to save not just you, not just me, not just humanity, but the cosmos. The Christ, that is the anointed one, the Messiah, who is always and everywhere present.

We are creatures of the cosmos. The Christ is of the cosmos, always and everywhere. We come into being as biology gathers up particles and atoms and molecules into what you see when you stand with no clothes on in front of the mirror. A frightful sight, I know. And when you pop your clogs you disintegrate as molecules and atoms and particles return to the cosmos for reuse. It’s the same for everybody and everything. Always was, always will be.

Think about that. Some might say it’s a kind of reincarnation. Whatever. Certainly, nothing is wasted. But however you look at it, people come, people go, but particles, atoms, molecules remain. Importantly for today, we are never not in the presence of the particles, atoms, and molecules of those we mourn. The particles, atoms and molecules that constituted them are all around us. We are never not in the presence of those whom we remember today.

We are never not in their presence, and they are never not in ours.

Their names will be read out. Candles will be lit. What do we think we’re doing? Praying for their safe crossing across the sea of purgatory? Well, if you like. That doesn’t float my boat though. There might be some kind of reckoning in which we see ourselves for what we really are, naked, rather than as what we in our delusional pride think we are, but I doubt that a few scrappy mutterings on days like today will make much difference.

No. What today’s about is us, not them. Reading out names and lighting candles is about our coming to terms with loss. Today’s ceremonies are intense. And so they jolly well should be. Our love for the dead was—and is—intense. Our grief is—should be—intense and painful.

The grief will of course have different hues. Loss of a spouse, loss of a parent, loss of a son or daughter, loss of a friend: different shades of intensity. Recent loss, distant loss: different shades of intensity. Different people have different feelings today, and cope differently. You can’t judge another person’s grief by the standards of your own. Susan and I know that full well.

As well as all this, there’s something else, and this comment comes from deep within me. When somebody dies we lose not just them, but also part of ourselves. That is particularly so with the loss of someone younger than us. We have had ripped from us the emotions we projected onto that person. In my case, I wish I had been more like Hugh in his fearlessness, so I saw him as making up for my own inadequacy. We have had ripped from us the plans we tentatively made. No chance now of driving with him from Denver to Las Vegas. Loss of potential, waste of life, destruction of dreams. All this we must grieve—for them and for us.

Finally, I ask you particularly today to remember a group of people often forgotten. Remember women who have lost embryos through miscarriage or induced abortion. Pregnancy, however brief, changes a woman. It is not widely known that fetal cells invade the mother in the first week of pregnancy—before she knows—and change her ever so subtly. The notion that her body is the hers to do with as she likes is biologically questionable. The loss of an embryo should never be trivialized, and we should treat women who have suffered such loss with utmost compassion and tenderness. There are countless numbers of them, many of our nearest and dearest.

When you light candles, remember that you’re lighting them for yourself as much as for the dead. And remember that they are never not in our presence.

What’s the church for?

censer-incense-burner-01Having to write something every month for the Church magazine always comes as a shock, even though I’m kind of expecting it. This is for November. There’s nothing new.

Attendance figures published recently show that, despite the emphasis on evangelism and the money thrown at new initiatives, C of E attendance continues in freefall. The Christian message is insufficiently compelling to cause people to stop and think.

Today’s young people see the church as negative. It condemns sex before marriage, for example—an immediate turn off for a huge swathe of the population who think nothing of it (neither do I, but I’m not supposed to say so). It gets its knickers in a twist about sexuality generally, about which the Bible says very little, and yet appears deaf to the plight of the poor, the oppressed, the abused—about which injustices the Bible says a very great deal. It is, let’s face it, a leisure activity for prosperous middle-aged and elderly. “Oh, you go to church on Sundays, do you? We go hiking.”

Modern people increasingly don’t believe Christianity is true. Maybe they are don’t hear a convincing version, even if they bothered to go searching—but why should they? Everything that the church used to provide say 50 years ago—companionship, solidarity, friendships, a sense of self-worth, comfort, a listening ear—are now to be had from hobby groups, sport, counselling, self-help groups, and so on, without having to grovel for being miserable sinners—which is what the church generally has you do as soon as you’ve sat down from a good sing. People don’t see themselves as sinners. They work hard, they love their families, they do their best for their neighbours, they try to stay out of the clutches of the law, and they, entirely understandably, say “I’m not a sinner”. And to cap it all, the church is portrayed as being utterly hypocritical. Just look at the contrast between what it says about child abuse, and what it actually does–or rather doesn’t do if reports are to be believed.

As for the faith, most people see it as life-denying and over-regulated. This is criminal. The mission Jesus gave the apostles was simply to teach others what he taught them. He made few if any statements about how to get to heaven, but rather showed us how to live here on earth, and he said this was heaven. He taught in parables so that listeners could come to their own conclusions. Despite this, neurotic church people have made it all into a school register, good attendance and gold-stars being rewarded with Nectar points for the afterlife. We make his love too narrow by false limits of our own; and we magnify his strictness with a zeal he will not own. No wonder people dismiss church.

In the film Chocolat there are two visions of church. The first is cold, gloomy, repressive, and governed by yesterday’s people who oppress and control. Then, the wind blows open its doors. God the disturber exposes unhappiness and hypocrisy hiding behind judgmental pomposity. ‘Church’ that was an oppressor becomes a liberator.

I think Christianity is really quite simple:

  • Every one of us has the divine light within, a bit of the Divine, like a pilot light on a gas stove.
  • All we need to do is let that inner pilot light grow to fill us from the inside. That’s the incarnation. We don’t need to do anything; we just let it happen. We need to stop resisting. O holy child of Bethlehem … be born in us today.
  • As the flame grows it brings to light our egotistical desires and all the vain things that charm us most, then consumes them, often very painfully – that’s the crucifixion …
  • so that we ascend to the heights, unburdened, unshackled, to light the way for others and lightening their burdens. Light as illumination, and lighten as make less heavy,
  • With Jesus as the model, the example, divine humanity. The Word.

That’s it. All the rest—doctrine, dogma, rituals—is poetic window dressing, some of great beauty, but some well past its sell-by date, fit only to be ditched.

During my training I visited a Hindu Temple in Leicester. It quite took my breath away. Lovely smells, colour, activity, devotions soaking the Temple. A family having a blessing here, people preparing a meal over there. Children playing here, adolescents chatting there. Religious bric-à-brac that knows nothing of middle class good taste or the appalling stifling conservation police. Facilities for hospitality, pastoral care, social action, learning and devotion. No moaning about how things used to be “when I was young,” but rather living in messy reality. It’s life affirming. I hope that heaven—if there is one and I ever see it—will be fragrantly chaotic like that Temple.

Is this an unrealistic dream: life that is fragrantly chaotic, open in every respect? Life that is fun? Not simply beauty of craftsmanship, but beauty of the human spirit, open and saying ‘yes’, like Mary was open, saying ‘yes’? We don’t need church—we need to live. Jesus didn’t come to form a new church, he came to show us how to live. He came to abolish religion.

As we prepare for another Christmas, let’s celebrate life abundant, not life resisting; life enabling, not life denying. Sin is life unlived.

Universal discredit

drainWe now find it impossible to live as we have done for the last three years on a single clergy stipend alone, about 25K a year before tax.

We have no dependants, no dog, no repayments. We have only one car (well actually not at present since the back axle is banjax(l)ed, so that’s a few thousand smackers on a replacement vehicule). The point is—and this is a rhetorical question—how do people manage these days? There’s a lot of people earning less than me, without the house, without the expenses, without the non-contributory pension. Maybe unmarried, sorry unpartnered, clergy can manage, but there must still be some clergy families—yes families, not a couple like us—who have to manage on a single stipend.

Or maybe not. Maybe I’m out of touch and all clergy spouses earn. After all, many of today’s clerics are married to doctors, lawyers, and other professionals, reflecting the fact that only romantic idealists would think of clerical life, and you don’t find many of them lurking in places where people run round like blue-arsed flies* doing several jobs in order to feed the family and pay the bills.

This, of course, says a great deal about the institutional church and its view of those at the sharp end of ministry. It surely can’t be long before parish ministry is entirely in the hands of House-for-Duty or retired clergy. I hear that one diocese in the extreme north west of England is tacitly adopting such a policy. This will allow the smaller number of paid clergy to have jobs in diocesan offices thinking fine thoughts and dreaming up initiatives and wheezes to inflict on the volunteers who actually do the work. Imagine, dear reader, telling volunteers what to do. How long before the volunteers tell the apparatchiks where to stick their wheezes? Still, I suppose with fewer paid clergy, stipends can be raised. Maybe not.

But let’s put clergy aside. After all, there soon won’t be any left and I doubt few will mourn their loss.

What about daily life for a huge number of people, including many here in this parish, as prices rise and inflation gathers momentum, the rich getting phenomenally richer while they do not?

What can we do about it? Will a change of government accomplish anything? I doubt it. Will Obi Wan Korbynbi, sitting in his magic money tree counting his leaves, come to the rescue? I doubt it. St Paul’s is hosting a refuge for the homeless this winter, but that’s like sticking an Elastoplast over an abscess—handy enough, but no substitute for the surgeon’s knife.

Comrades, revolution is called for. The trouble with a revolution, though, is that you end up exactly where you started. That’s what revolutions do.

* does any species of Diptera have a blue arse?

The effects of transmitted stress

4167-newtons-cradle-2SWMBO draws my attention to an article in yesterday’s Church Times (13 October 2017) that explores the effects of clergy stress on clergy spouses.

The background to this is a recent survey in which clergy declare themselves on the whole happy and fulfilled in their jobs. This came as a bit of a surprise to me, knowing what I know and hearing what I hear, and it made me wonder if the clergy who responded to the survey were predominantly those with permanent “I’ve found Jesus” smiles on their faces, rose coloured spectacles, and a complete inability to see reality.

The article is illustrated by a picture of Newton’s cradle—the toy with balls suspended from a frame, the only balls that move are those on the edge, those in the middle remaining motionless but transmitting the considerable resulting forces. That’s the clergy spouse. Susan found it particularly telling because that image describes exactly how it was for her during the three years I was a Rector in the Church of Ireland.

The problem was not in Portlaoise—ministry there was varied and stimulating. It arose in neighbouring Ballyfin out of a Diocesan policy to force groups of parishes into unions. In C of E terms it would be the forced merger of separate Parochial Church Councils into one PCC. I shan’t tell the story here—I reserve that for another day when I have time and energy to work through my detailed diary of events and emails. In short, what I came up against in effecting diocesan policy can be boiled down to:

  • the way Diocesan council ignored local feeling;
  • the meddling of members of Diocesan council without my permission—I suspect this to have been in part Masonic intrigue;
  • what appeared to me to be a sense of entitlement in families who, by design or default, filled the gap in rural society resulting from the departure decades earlier of the Protestant Anglo-Irish aristocracy.

The final straw was when, my having done what was required of me, that Diocesan policy was abandoned.

It was extremely unpleasant for me. But I was only a ball on the edge. On the other edge was Diocesan policy. Poor Susan was all the balls in the middle. Having reflected on that hell, I’ve come seriously to wonder if I’d witnessed a case of possession. Certainly, the word diabolical is not inappropriate, at least in its being an antonym of anabolic. There was splintering caused by behaviour that appeared malicious and malevolent. Read the Prologue to Andersen’s The Snow Queen.

I understand therefore something of the malignant effects of clergy stress on the clergy family. The article tells me how courageous one must be to go public with it. The fear is that by so doing you will mark the card of your spouse who will then be noted unable to cope and/or unfit for preferment—if preferment is your thing (it shouldn’t be, but humans are human).

The combination of Protestant work ethic and a perversion of the suffering servant mindset is insidious and profoundly harmful. The more I think about Jesus and his ministry, the more I think that he came to abolish religion. I’ve heard it said that when Linda Woodhead asks her students to invent a religion, not one of them has ever suggested that clergy are necessary.

KBO

parody-of-the-famous-scene-by-a-basil-lookalike_542319Homily for Proper 22 Year A by Phillip Jefferies

Isaiah 5: 1-7. Philippians 3: 4b-14. Matthew 21: 33-46.

Since the world appears on the whole to work according to reason, it would be logical to expect reasonable outcomes from things. You get in your car, turn the ignition and, if it’s got fuel and the battery’s not flat and it’s not flooded or damp, then it starts. That’s a fairly reasonable expectation – unless you’re Basil Fawlty. If your logic is like that of the owner of Fawlty Towers then when your car doesn’t start, you count to 3 and if still nothing happens you give your car a thorough thrashing.

But that is an unreasonable expectation. In the readings today we’re bracketed by vineyards – it could be a rollicking prospect, but it’s not! The parables of the vineyard in today’s readings from Isaiah and the Gospel of Matthew (and separated by about 800 years) disappoint and confuse.

It would be reasonable to expect good outcomes, perhaps euphoric even. In the first instance Isaiah’s poetic and ballad-like vineyard, against all reason, only produces a barren acidity that stinks. Matthew’s allegory of the vineyard of Israel results in the skewering of their long awaited Messiah, Jesus, by their leaders, the very defenders of the faith.

And then, in between, comes S Paul’s experience. Paul, Hebrew to the core, as to the law, faultless—a good Pharisee, no less! However, against all expectation, Paul seems to have lost everything and, what’s more, finds himself in prison. Now that doesn’t seem fair. Not a reasonable outcome you might think, for either a Roman citizen or a faithful follower of Jesus Christ—nor, within the justice of God, does it appear reasonable either. What is going on?

My Classics master with a crystal-clear mind, with 25 years as a sidesman, who never missed an 8 o’clock, was seriously confused when the frost took all his chrysanths. Stuff happens! Perhaps he’d imbibed too much vintage Greek because Greek philosophy, on the whole, centred on perfection. Greeks loved the circle with its symmetrical completeness. They loved the perfection of the universe swirling round the earth in perfect concentric circles.

They loved mathematics: Pythagoras’ Theorem of the square on the hypotenuse fame was wonderful, perfectly divine when it produced an integer, as with a 3, 4, 5 triangle. But when the answer was not a whole number, as with a 5, 5, 7.0710678 …  triangle, or was expressed as a fraction, Mr P was unhappy. Imperfection and infinity didn’t fit in with the divine.

Mr P couldn’t cope with imperfection; he tried to suppress his discovery. If it’s not whole then it’s not perfect and it’s not divine: there was no closure, no completeness. On top of that, the planets, it was discovered in due course, revolved not in perfect circles, but at best in ellipses. And nor did they go round the earth. What a mess.

We seem to be making an awful mistake expecting perfect outcomes. I don’t know what expletives Paul used: pious Christians would say “none whatsoever”. But Paul was doing all the right things and was in prison. He’d at least say: “This isn’t quite going to plan, my word!” You can say that again! And on top of a pretty blameless life, Paul was a Roman citizen, to boot. “Sod this for a game of soldiers”, as the Vicar might say, would be more appropriate.

But Paul soldiers on. He’s got his feet on the ground—well, to be more accurate, he’s got his feet in prison shackles. He knows stuff happens—stuff that, in all reasonable justice should not. He does, however, have a coping philosophy to see him through: he says, “I press on”. I expect there was a prison mug telling him to Keep calm and carry on. And what else can you do? Stuff happens and you have to get on with it. This is the language of hope, not of assurance, certainly not of certainty.

Paul says something else. He says that he lets go of what has gone before. That is what we are frequently urged to do: to let go—and it is essential from a practical point of view. You can’t withdraw from the track because, now and again, you come a cropper. That, it seems to me, is the awful stupidity of the present hysteria of calling people victims and, even, to expect closure on anything unpleasant from our past. We deal with it by getting on with things. I mean, our historic life is an essential and rich part of our present life.

All of us have a past, with good and bad stuff back there. It is part of the truth of who we are. Sometimes it is less manageable than others – and even the marvellous memories can upset us. That’s life: neither pretend it didn’t happen nor let it stop you dead in your tracks (well not for long, anyway). Press on—not with closure or with perfect or even satisfactory outcomes but in hope.

In the desolation of the dreams for our vineyard, God doesn’t make it all right. Rather, He reminds us who actually owns this vineyard we occupy: first, last and all stations on the line, the landowner is God.

Liturgical dyspepsia

frjack

The ideal pet

There are two occasions in the liturgical year that I heartily dislike.

The first is Mothering Sunday, or Mother’s Day as people call it these days. Its original incarnation as the time for a pilgrimage to the mother church might have been OK. Its modern incarnation, with the gooey stickiness of sentimental femininity, I can hardly bear. No wonder some men find church too girly. And what about women who’d love to have had kids but can’t? It’s an excuse to get a visiting preacher.

The other is harvest. As you know I was brought up in an agricultural community and the farming year mattered greatly. At this time of year there was tatie-picking week, which coincided, deliberately—thanks to Cumberland County Council, Latin motto on school exercise books Perfero, I finish what I start—with school half term. I have some memory of rosehip week when we scoured the hedgerows for the bulbous scarlet objects to take to school for collection—3d/lb. In an urban context I see no point in harvest. In Burton upon Trent wouldn’t we be better off having some festival celebrating beer or Marmite or light engineering or Rolls-Royces or Toyotas or trains?

Harvest festival is a recent invention, 19th century. A Cornish vicar decided that the church was irrelevant to most of his people (nothing changes), and that having a harvest festival to connect church to the lives of his agricultural parishioners might do the trick. It didn’t work.

The thing I really find distasteful about harvest festivals is the sense that because the land has yielded its increase, we are especially favoured by God. One implication is that God looks with disfavour on those people living in places where the land is barren and infertile—as if the people who live there are inferior to us in northern Europe, where the climate is governed by the gulf stream that arises from the same set of phenomena that yield hurricanes in the Caribbean.

Never mind. We bring our packets and boxes and tins for distribution to the homeless by the YMCA and so feel good about ourselves. Bollix to that.

You may think this is just a dyspeptic vicar writing. You may be right. Another excuse for a visiting preacher.