Summer delights

Posted on 08/06/2013 by Rambling Rector

Summer’s leaks

The sun is shining. It’s very warm even at 7.30 am. Og the dog and his minders are on their way to Togher woods for their morning constitutional. The woody fragrances are overlaid by those of bovine ordure, not unpleasant. SWMBO asks if I see the pretty flowers. Then she looks at me. Eyes running, nose streaming, chest heaving to force breaths in and out. ‘No, I suppose you don’t’. She’s right. Everything is a blur. So is the screen as I type, now an hour after we’re back, and after antihistamines, salbutamol and whatever it is that’s in the dark brown inhaler. Prickly eyes, prickly skin, it feels as if there’s a wire brush down my trachea. Oh bliss, summer is upon us.

Here is an extract for today from http://www.met.ie/: ‘Grass pollen affects up to about 95% of hay fever sufferers. The early-flowering grasses will be reaching their peak during the warm weather this week.’ What a joy. This, I suppose, is why bread makes me feel prickly inside, why whiskey and I have a fraught relationship (thankfully), why cakes and buns are not good for me. It’s kind of people to offer me them when I visit. A couple of weeks ago I took one, had a bite, then surreptitiously put the bun it in my pocket. Later that day when I was foraging for coins to pay the M7 toll I forgot about the bun so there was a shower of crumbs all over the front passenger seat. Still there I think.

My childhood in agricultural Cumberland was blighted by corn, wheat and hay. Going with my father into his flour mill was just not on, any notion of following in his footsteps unthinkable. Playing among hay bales soon demonstrated the law of cause and effect. Funny, though, I kept doing it. Wasn’t it Einstein who said that insanity was doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results? I knew there was a reason why cold and sunny weather suits me best.

Dear Leinster Express …

Posted on 05/06/2013 by Rambling Rector

The Leinster Express has, without my permission, twice taken pieces from this blog and/or from my letters published elsewhere, and printed them as if they were letters to the paper. Naughty, naughty, I would have thought. It would have been courteous of them to tell me, not to say ask. And I would have appreciated a chance to nuance the text for a different readership. They are welcome to use my writings – but with my permission please. I trust that they’ll choose a variety of material from this blog, and not just publish the potentially controversial stuff. I wonder if they might pay me …..

Being shot, stuffed and put in a glass case

Posted on 05/06/2013 by Rambling Rector

pulled in so many dimensions

One of my readers sent me this comment in response to Church militant? Church irrelevant, the blog about the recent Church of Ireland General Synod: ‘You seem to be carving out a reputation for being the St John the Baptist of the C of I. I admire you for that; though it is a lonely calling. … You are a rare breed and will probably suffer the fate of such species, i.e. being shot, stuffed and put in a glass case for the purposes of mildly diverting amusement!’

St John the Baptist was beheaded. Does that fate await? The church, like many organizations, has another way of dealing with ‘troublemakers’. Promotion. In the Church of Ireland, I suppose this means a bishopric—the equivalent of being stuffed and put in a glass case. The bishopric of Meath and Kildare is still vacant. Perhaps that would keep me out of trouble. The advantage of having me is that I wouldn’t be there too long: I am 63 this week, so death or decrepitude would limit any damage I could do. The C of I already has two courageous bishops so we don’t need any more. The last thing the church—any church—needs is realism. The church thrives on good news only. Read any church or diocesan magazine: churches are always full, people are always charitable, and sun always shines on the tray-bakes. I would wear a mitre that at first covers my eyes that I see not, then my ears that I hear not, then my mouth that I speak not.

Can you imagine how frustrating it must be to be a bishop? Having no spiritual centre, no ‘home’ church and congregation, clergy bothering you morn, noon and night, dealing with complaints from ‘disgusted of Tunbridge Wells’, criticized for being courageous, criticized for not being courageous enough, pulled in infinite dimensions. Responsibility without power. Having to be a focus of unity when what the church cries out for is prophetic disturbance.

We are blessed here with a bishop with courage, integrity and vision. Deo gratias.

Euro and eurinals

Posted on 04/06/2013 by Rambling Rector

One of Alan Bennett’s Talking Heads monologues was about a lonely middle-aged woman who got herself in trouble by writing letters to the papers. I haven’t written many, but one I’m particularly proud of dates from late 1998, just before Ireland adopted the euro. It was addressed to the Irish Times and read:

Sir, since we shall soon have the euro, may I suppose that cash machines will be installed in eurinals, and that furthermore we shall be able to eurinate on banks instead of, as now, banks eurinating on us? Yours etc …

They didn’t publish it. Pity. It was prophetic, given the extent to which they have since eurinated on their customers and on the state.

Medical school & interviews

Posted on 03/06/2013 by Rambling Rector

St Mary’s said no

Interviewing prospective medical students was always interesting in the old days. By old days I mean the days before interviews had to be structured for the sake of introducing what ‘experts’ called ‘objectivity’. Here’s an exchange from the 1980s.

Good afternoon. It’s good to meet you. I hope your journey was comfortable.
It was aw-right.
And how do you like living in XXX?
It’s aw-right.
Can I get you a glass of water before we begin?
I’m aw-right.
You’ve had a tour of the campus, I think. What did you make of it?
It’s aw-right.

And so it went on. Here’s one from the 1990s.

And what do you enjoy in your spare time?
I watch opera.
How lovely. Which opera are you particularly fond of?
Pardon?
Any particular opera?
Sorry?
I thought you said you liked Opera?
Yea, I did. On the TV every afternoon. Oprah Winfrey.

Honest, that’s true. It rather took the wind out of one’s sails, I can tell you. Hard to keep a straight face.

In 1968 I recall a trip on the sleeper from Carlisle to Euston. I arrived in London about 6 am and had to fill in time until the early afternoon for an interview at St Mary’s Medical School, near Paddington station. I thought I’d go to Piccadilly Circus which I’d heard of. I knew nothing of its—let’s say cosmopolitan and relaxed—reputation, and neither was my ignorance challenged that morning. After a breakfast burger at the Wimpy, the height of sophistication, I can’t remember how I filled into the rest of the time but somehow

I did. The only bit of the interview I can remember was the beginning. One of the three interviewers (men, suits, how-now-brown-cow accents) said ‘Tell us, Mr Monkhouse, what are you good at, apart, of course, from passing examinations. haw, haw, haw.’ What. a patronising shit.

They were, it subsequently became evident, mocking the piano and organ exams that I’d taken periodically since 1963. I was not offered a place. Later that year I had an interview at Manchester where we had a good deal of fun. They kindly said they’d have me if Cambridge didn’t. I think they, unlike the rugger-bugger yahoos at St Mary’s, were entertained by my being an organist.

Queens’ said yes …

The admission process for Cambridge was strange. I applied for an ordinary place at Queens’ College as well as an organ scholarship to any college that would give me one, the two processes running in parallel. I was interviewed by the then Senior Tutor of Corpus Christi College, a most urbane chemist (academic, not drug store), who sat me down on the chintz sofa opposite him, gave me a sherry (yes, really) and started a fireside conversation that I recall as glittery and great fun. Though details escape me, Shap fell was mentioned, there was talk of Gilbert and Sullivan and organs (musical), though nothing about medicine. The organ scholarship did not materialize (contemporaries were Stephen Cleobury, Ian Hare, Edward Higginbottom: I was never in that league) and although I never actually had an interview at Queens’, the Corpus one must have been passed across, as it were, for after sitting compulsory entrance exams, I was offered a place at Queens’. Escape from Cumberland.

… and so did King’s

In 1971, it was the normal practice for Cambridge medics to do hospital-based part of the medical course elsewhere. I applied to four London medical schools. I gave St Mary’s the old heave-ho this time. I was turned down without interview by two, turned down after interview by St Bartholomew’s (no recollection other than that it was sticky), and accepted without interview by King’s College Hospital Medical School in Camberwell. So there I went in autumn 1972. Susan and I were married in summer 1973 so I was one of the few married students. I failed the first part of medical finals in 1974, passed them with the second part in summer 1975. Thus ended my days as an unpaid student.

Towards the end of my time as a medical school academic, interviews became more and more structured until in the 2000s we had to ask every candidate the same questions, and were not allowed to follow any leads. This killed the whole process stone dead; there was no room for exploring, no way of probing, just wholesale encouragement of the initiative-stifling tick-box mentality that is rife. As for any quest for objectivity—pish! There is no such thing outside mathematics.

One of the results of structured interviews is that it becomes much easier to advise candidates on what to do and what not to do. If you’d like the benefit of my experience and advice, don’t hesitate to get in touch. My rates are very reasonable, and I could throw in a plenary indulgence or two and an all-purpose blessing.

Being made to think

Posted on 01/06/2013 by Rambling Rector

Watchtower in the Eden Valley

I was doing my sermon. Tring, tring, triiiiiiiiiiing went the door bell. Woof-woof, woof-woof went Og the king of Basan. Og the dog really, but one dreams. I heave my creaking and overweight body out of its groove on the sofa where I do most of my writing with the computer resting on the sofa arm and Og the dog lying beside me. I stomp to the door. I’m greeted by two neatly dressed gentlemen and a young child. They are smiling. I restrain Og the dog who, despite being a good barker, is one of the more timid of things creeping innumerable, both small and great beasts.

‘Good morning, Sir.’

I reciprocate by offering them my heartiest felicitations on this the first day of flaming (hollow laughter) June.

‘Could we interest you in this?’

They proffer a leaflet. I readily accept it with thanks. I quickly look at the back page and see that it’s from Watchtower Publications. Jehovah’s Witnesses are quite numerous in Portlaoise. Seeing the face of one of the men, noting the Watchtower connexion, and putting two and two together makes something in my brain go clunk, clunk, clunk. I’m delighted to say that I know two of his children. They attend Maryborough school. I tell him that they are good fun and little treasures. He demurs somewhat, his diagnosis of their condition being not so much treasures, but more ‘live-wires’. He says this with a somewhat wry expression on his face. The pains of parenthood. We exchange more pleasantries and I say I’d love a chat, but they hoof it, pitter patter, back to Coote Street whence presumably they came.

Not long after, I had time to read the leaflet. You can imagine the content: what does the Bible say, sort of stuff. Nothing to which I took exception.

A number of things about the encounter rather shamed me. Their commitment, their neatness, their smiles, their evident goodness and lack of guile. I wondered how much time they spent having to deal with property and legal issues, with internecine feuds, with leaking roofs, with graveyards and complaints, with church furnishings. I made some personal resolutions. And then I began to fantasize about would happen if we followed the example of my callers and visited every home in our parishes with a leaflet about what we do, and what we offer. I began to wonder what exactly is it that we do offer to those who are not already in the club?

Maybe this is something to think about over the summer. The leaflet is the easy bit.

The centurion’s servant

Posted on 01/06/2013 by Rambling Rector

Homily for 2 June 2013

1 Kings 8:22-23, 41-43. Psalm 96:1-9. Galatians 1:1-12. Luke 7:1-10.

This morning’s reading from Hebrew Scripture commends ministry to outsiders, not just to members of the club. That message also comes across in Paul’s letter to the Galatians. Paul is gravely disappointed that the Galatians should have been foolish enough to listen to people who said that only Jews – that is club members – would be saved. He is very cross – incandescent I’d say – that he has to tell them again that that isn’t the case. And in the Gospel, we see Jesus healing an outsider. An outsider of outsiders, in a way: not a Jew, not even a Roman, but the servant of a Roman. The servant could have been from anywhere. That theme, that Christianity is for all, not just the chosen elite, is something that all churches need to take seriously: as we welcome people, as we give out notices—it’s easy to assume if I say ‘tell the Wardens’ that people will know who the Wardens are, as I’m greeting people before and after services. It’s easy for us to fall into chatting with people we know, and ignore those we don’t. We’ve talked about that before, and doubtless will again. But not today. Today I want to consider healing itself.

We say medicine is about the relief of suffering. In Christianity, and I suspect in many of our childhood experiences, there’s always been something of a suffering-is-good-for-you masochism. It’ll make a man of you. Sportsmen proudly bearing their scars as a token of ‘hardness’. Some Christians seem to glory in suffering. Their aim is not to avoid pain but to embrace it. And I suspect we all know people who make a virtue of enjoying ill health. ‘After all’, they say sanctimoniously, ‘Jesus knowingly goes to the cross, and in this suffering I’m imitating Our Lord, present alongside those who suffer’. This is not a view I’m keen on myself. My idea of suffering is running out of ice cubes. The logical position for these people would be to eschew antibiotics, elastoplasts, pain-killlers, hip replacements. And the rest.

Other faiths are more sensible than some Christians. Members of other Abrahamic faiths have no problem with alleviating suffering, accepting contraception when a pregnancy is likely to threaten a woman’s health, even the killing of the unborn in certain circumstances. Jewish writers denounce the glorification of suffering, and even prefer to forego future reward if it involves present agony. So let’s not kid ourselves that we need to be miserable, despite the emphasis on the suffering servanthood of Christ that is pushed by some branches of Christianity.

Let’s consider healing. As I’ve said before, healing is not about cure. After all, we’re all going to die sooner or later, and there is no cure of that. Medical cure today of one disease simply means that we’ll die tomorrow of something else. Not recognizing that is one reason why so much money is poured into the health services; why doctors are so well-funded by the folly of patients who think that they should live for ever; why people pay for unnecessary plastic surgery and cosmetics; why people obsess about their appearance. This obsession with perfect health and appearance is saying that we are intolerant of imperfection and disability. I speak with some insight here: there was a time when I spent money on gym memberships in the quest for some physical ideal. You can see how far I have fallen short, and how that money was wasted. We are all afflicted to some degree or other. But the quest for perfection and immortality is, I think, a perversion by satanic elements in our culture of a perfectly reasonable spiritual quest for wholeness.

Surely, that’s what healing is about: the quest for wholeness. Here are some other words and ideas that mean the same: salving, restoring integrity, soothing, and the one I like best: coming to terms with the situation we’re in. When we have come to terms with our situation, we do feel better, we know we need to ask for help, and that is itself a form of healing. At the bedside, I often pray that we will have grace to bear what must be borne, and patience to cooperate with the healing process.

In today’s Gospel, it’s easily missed that the centurion and Jesus never actually met. It’s healing from afar. You could say that Jesus did nothing, because by the time he was told of the servant’s condition, the centurion had already sent out messengers to say that the servant was healed, so Jesus needn’t go any further. It seems to indicate that healing began as soon as the need for it was acknowledged. I think this is absolutely true. When I realize that I have a cold, or manflu or whatever, I can relax a bit and accept the fact that I won’t be able to do this or that or the other. And concentrate on resting to allow biological healing processes. It’s as if the healing process is locked away inside us and can’t begin until we consciously realize that we need to let it start working.

We don’t need to hide our broken-ness. At the Eucharist, there’s great significance in one little act immediately after the Lord’s Prayer. The bread which we break is a sharing in the body of Christ. It was the wounds to Jesus’ body that did the healing work. We don’t need to pretend we’re perfect. We are human: we can never be perfect. It’s our imperfections that help us to understand one other. When we see someone else’s faults, and that they acknowledge them, we feel more kindly disposed to them. This is the first stage of healing. This is why people who never acknowledge their mistakes are so scorned. Why spin doctors are reviled. I view it as one of my tasks to make plain my faults for all to see. Some people want their ministers to be perfect. Good luck with that one. Let’s put aside any facade of perfection, and acknowledge that we all need healing from something: childhood hurts; or resentments that we refuse to let go; or addictions to attitudes, to chemicals, to ways of behaving. We need healing from all the things that are thieves of our true selves.

In hospitals, patients tell me their secrets. They whisper them to me, and we talk about them. They smile nervously as they do so. And then I can see them sinking back into their pillows. I can see the relief. This is a coming to terms operation. It’s a setting down the load operation. It’s an acceptance of who they are, and when they see that they are not condemned for being who they are, it’s a healing.

You and I are human. We have no need to pretend to be anything else. In the Christian way of thinking, our humanity was raised to the level of the Divine at the Ascension. Made like him, like him we rise. We begin to be healed when we accept our need for healing. Just like the centurion and his servant.

Medical ‘ethics’?

Posted on 30/05/2013 by Rambling Rector

Recently I’ve posted a few blogs about what some people call medical ethics. The ‘discipline’ is a fairly recent invention, its having grown as the influence of faith and religion in society has diminished. I enclose discipline in quotation marks because for the life of me I can’t see that there is any coherent discipline whatsoever. To my mind, given the infinite variety of medical scenarios, it’s impossible to distil a discipline. There are too many variables.

Perhaps I’m wrong, and lack vision. Perhaps, on the other hand, I see that the Emperor is naked, and that there aren’t any generally applicable principles. Perhaps medical ethics is an illusory codpiece trying to constrain what should hang free. Medical ethicists have increased the number of –isms (if you’ve seen Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, you’ll know that he doesn’t care for -isms. I’m with him there), one of which, coherentism, is a fancy word for taking all things into consideration in the present circumstances, and ignoring what we don’t like. It resonates with the observation I’ve quoted before of Fr Herbert McCabe (1926–2001), a Roman Catholic priest and philosopher, that ‘ethics is entirely concerned with doing what you want.’ Hitler had an ethical code: it just wasn’t one that gains much favour today. I wonder how many ‘medical ethicists’ have been at the sharp end—bedside, operating theatre or surgery. How many have been patients with serious illness, or parents of those with serious illness?

Thomas Merton wrote that the gospel message ‘becomes impertinent and laughable if there is an easy answer to everything in a few external gestures and pious intentions. Christianity is a religion for men who are aware that there is a deep wound, a fissure of sin that strikes down to the very heart of man’s being.’ Rowan Williams writes that ethics ‘is a difficult discovering … of what has already shaped the person you are and is moulding you in this or that direction.’ And there, I think, we have it: whatever ‘ethicists’ say, ultimately the resolution of every dilemma comes down to one or more decisions by an individual. An individual makes decisions not on the basis of texts that someone else has written or –isms that someone else has invented, but on what has shaped and is shaping his or her psyche.

For me, compassionate pastoral action matters more than anything else, and this is as true in ministry as in medical practice. Compassionate pastoral action means prudence and 360˚ watchfulness. It means considering the needs of community. It means self-forgetfulness. It means accepting that I will get things wrong, and this is something the public seems unwilling to tolerate. It means humility—knowing my place on the earth, humus.

Confidence and integrity come not from choosing from someone else’s menu of options, but from sifting out what’s appropriate to the truth of my being, and of the situation in which I find myself. If I call myself a Christian, I must attempt to model my life on Christ’s. That doesn’t mean living a life like his, but rather living my life as authentically for me in my circumstances as he lived his for him in his circumstances. If we could encourage medical professionals along this road, I would be cheered. If we could get people of faith to engage more with those at the sharp-end of medical decision-making, and vice versa, I would be thrilled.