Living To Tell The Tale > The Online Diary > January - February 2004
I have made much of this date, because it's a 5th Sunday in February doesn't come around all that often! In fact only once every 28 years, providing all the leap years are in place during that time. If a leap year gets missed out, e.g. because there is a change of century which is not a leap year (1900, etc.), the interval is 40 years. So working backwards, the last occasions when there were 5 Sundays in February were in 1976, 1948, 1920 and 1880. The next one will be in 2032.
Naturally we had to celebrate this event, and I had decided on a Bring and Share lunch to mark the occasion anyway, which was especially good because we also had our Eastbourne visitors with us. It was very well attended, almost standing room only.
I coveted Jorj's fedora as he was leaving, and he said, "If it fits, you can have it!" It did fit, so I acquired a very nice new piece of headgear. Who says coveting thy neighbour's hat doesn't pay?"
Waiting for arrival of visitors from St John's, Meads in Eastbourne, where we are going to share in their 'Celebration of Faith at the beginning of May. Two carloads arrive about 4 p.m. for tea in church hall followed by a very cold Evening Prayer (but with singing) in church. Surely the coldest church in Christendom at this moment!
It's good to have Jorj and Maggie staying with us. Maggie, in an act of amazing heroism, has given up alcohol for Lent. Strangely we find that almost everything we consume or offer her feels like an inducement to break her determination. But that doesn't stop us from enjoying a sherry before our meal and a rather nice bottle of 1996 Merlot-Cabernet Sauvignon that Sally and Owen gave us some Christmases back and we have been waiting for a suitable special opportunity to open.
If it's Friday, it must be sermon writing day again. This week it's the story of Jesus' temptation; and yesterday's survey results come as a real gift.
For most of this week I lost SpamAssassin, I don't know how. After some efforts to un-install it, then reinstall it, then update to the latest version, I decided what was happening was that spamd, the spam daemon, wasn't starting up when the system was booted. Don't really know why, but after I started it manually (type spamd -d , only you have to do it as root, naturally) it's working again. The trouble is, once you've got used to having your spam detected and filtered, you don't want to go back to having your inbox full of it again.
If anyone out there reads this :-) and knows how to get it to happen automatically, please let me know, and save me from having to RTFM.
Results of a survey made for a BBC programme show that the UK is among the most secular nations in the world. (Surprise, surprise.) Worse than that, is the statistic that so many people here think believing in God is actually a bad thing, that religion is bad for your (and the world's) health.
43% say Belief in God does not make for a better human being.
(Familiar? "You don't have to go to church to be a good person." In
fact, those who do go to church are all hypocrites, so it actually
makes them worse.)
29% say the world would be a more peaceful place, if people didn't
believe in God.
37% blame people of other religions for much of the trouble in the
world.
All these are far the highest of any of the 10 countries where the
survey was carried out. Even in the USA, the figure for the last of
these was only 15% - the second lowest
'I'm sorry, God. I'm not going to believe in you - even if you do exist - because it only makes me a worse person, and generally causes trouble in the world.' Such is the British credo.
Suddenly it's all bitterly cold again, which rather suits the sombre mood of the day. Lent is a time that forces us (if we let it) to face reality, no reality sharper than that of our mortality. When the priest makes the sign of the cross on the forehead of each worshipper, it's with the words: 'Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. Turn away from sin, and be faithful to Christ.' We come out of church humbled, feeling self-conscious about the dirty marks on our brows, but also strangely joyful because reality doesn't hurt us, it does us good.
And even though I haven't given up alcohol for Lent, I did go without any this evening. Truth be told, I don't try and give up alcohol because I'm afraid it would be too difficult. But here are some ideas for things it would be useful for people to give up, from the March issue of Marston Times. One of the disciplines I plan to try and keep, is missing lunch on Wednesdays and Fridays, and even only drinking water between breakfast and tea on those days. You know fasting is doing something for you (to you?) when you notice the cold even more. Roll on spring!
Walking into town, some memories of yesteryears swim to the surface, asking if perhaps they might be included in my memoirs? (Which memoirs are these?) Memories of 'Potty Training' as POT (Post-Ordination Training) used to be called in the days before everyone was expected to do Continuing Ministerial Education. Memories of the first term at Oxford, which set the tone for all the things I continued not to do throughout my undergraduate years. Missed opportunities! Sometimes I think the first volume of memoirs will be called Weeping For That Little Boy. There are so many wounds a ridiculously over-sensitive nature can bear the scars of, that consume you with fear so that you end up with large chunks of life that are riddled with missed opportunities. There's a ghastly thought: life seen through the perspective of the opportunities you missed. Perhaps the reason you need an eternity of heaven, is to try out all the possibilities you never tried in life?
The annual task of burning last year's palm crosses to make the ash for Ash Wednesday's imposition of ashes. I don't know how the experts do this - and somehow I always assume that, somewhere, there are anglo-catholic experts who know these elements of secret wisdom which we ex-evangelicals have never discovered - but I've found no way of doing it which is not time-consuming, smelly, boring and injurious to the health. I suppose one should do it with prayers and intoning of psalms, rather than banished to the garage, hunched over a candle flame, trying desperately not to breathe in burnt palm smoke and make my cough even worse.
Coming back into the house I wash carefully, trying to suppress guilty memories of those early days of marriage when Alison would sniff suspiciously as I came in: "Have you been smoking?"
It used to be possible, I thought, to purchase commercially burned (and guaranteed) palm ash. But the last time I asked somewhere about this, the person in the shop - now closed down, in any case - and was it even here or back in Swindon - said "Oh no, we can't get it any more." Clearly a gap in the market. New idea for e-business: www.palmash.com
So what does that mean, that this week's sermons were 'taking a story form'? The theme for the Sunday Next Before Lent, in the C of E, is the Transfiguration; so this naturally lent itself to being told (or re-told) to the congregation. Since it was Luke's version ,with reference to Moses and Elijah talking with Jesus about the 'exodus' he would shortly accomplish in Jerusalem, it was also a matter of showing the connections with the Exodus story. It was rather a fun service: Elsfield is always great anyway, but so unpredictable always. Last month there were about 10 of us and one child, today 17 adults and 7 children. Not all of them sat it out through the whole service: some withdrew into the village room at the back. I suppose it's only in small parishes that there is any chance of the congregation doubling from one service to the next? But it does mean having to be quite flexible and slotting in songs for the children - or, songs that we adults think might appeal to the children.
In the evening (back in Marston) I'd had enough of the Transfiguration, which is too weird to tell the story of twice in a day. So instead I told them about Polycarp of Smyrna whose feast day is tomorrow. Most had never heard of him and found it all quite interesting.
Threatened with death unless he denied Christ, he replied, " For eighty-six years I have been his servant, and he has done me no wrong. How can I deny my King who saved me?"
Yay! Getting home from the breakfast meeting of the Outreach Committee, and checking my emails, I find Spamassassin has actually worked! and filtered various mails into the Spam folder. It's true that two of them are commercial emails I really had signed up to in the past. Either I need to increase the spam score, or white list these particular sources, or just unsubscribe. There's still a bit of training to do; but at least it's working! Grand feeling of satisfaction with having achieved a small and insignificant victory over technology. Sometimes it really does serve us.
Another sermon writing day comes round, and this has to be done whatever, and in spite of trying to 'keep my head down'. This week's two efforts seem to be taking a story form also, rather than the conventional exposition.
Some of today also spent updating church website, and trying to get Spamassassin to work. It's another of those brilliant Open Source projects which doesn't always come with the clearest of instructions about how to make it actually function. A lot of knowledge is assumed; and even though I reckon to know a bit more than the average user - a lot more, some would say - I think that assumption may not be altogether well-founded.
A day for Continuing Professional Development, improving my IT skills. (Which is to say, playing with the computer.) But all part of the keeping my head down, taking things easier this week. Although I enjoy conducting funerals and do it well, it's at an emotional, spiritual and psychic cost. The single greatest help has been to come to see a funeral too as a category of Storytelling. We celebrate the life of the person who has died by telling his or her story, and as Ursula Le Guin says in The Telling, it is only when a life or an event ends that its story can be told.
In the book, a funeral itself is something that is 'told':
The two young maz told the funeral. That was how the people spoke of it. Like all the rites, it was a narrative. For two days Siez and Tobadan sat with the man's father and aunt, his sister, his friends, a woman who had been married to him for a while, hearing everybody who wanted to talk about him tell them who he had been, what he had done. Now the two young men retold all that, ceremonially and in formal language, to the soft batt-tabatt of the drum, passing the word one to the other across the body wrapped in white, thin, still-frozen cloth: a praise-song, gathering a life up into words, making it part of the endless telling.
Ursula Le Guin, The Telling, p.176.
Good heavens! From time to time I check on the 'Logs' pages of my website, to see if anyone is actually visiting. Sadly it doesn't tell me who, but it does tell me where from, or how they found their way there. On several occasions recently, the BBC has been one of the main referring sites. Surely I can't be being linked to from that august Presence?! Well, probably not, I assume it must be from the BBC search engine. I guessed it might be something to do with my most visited pages, viz. the ones about the whole sexuality issue. So I typed in 'church and homosexuality' and, lo and behold! there was a link to one of my pages at number 1, pole position. Even ahead of a page on the Daily Telegraph site. Only problem is, it's a page I haven't updated recently, so it needs a bit of tidying up. And a link to that Sermon.
Claire drove over to Church Stretton to confer with Alison about DPhil stuff preparatory to her viva this Thursday. (Good luck, Claire!) So I made myself scarce by going to the library and spending an hour on the People's Net or whatever they call it. Broadband access, though! So it really goes fast compared with what I put up with here at home. One of these days I must really try and find out if and how it might be possible here. Researching some of the Storytelling links, especially to do with the Festival at the Edge in July, which I might be able to attend this year in lieu of going to the NOBS Gathering, which I think is beyond my current means.
And so back to Oxford in the evening.
Near perfect weather. The sun shining, the sky blue, with long and deep shadows and sharp contrast between light and shade. We walked up Townbrook Valley, always a bit of a stiff climb when we are not feeling too fit, then turning south and east again to return over Yearlet and Ashlet and so down to the steps above the Long Mynd Hotel.
Then drove into Shrewsbury for good lunch at the Thai Orchids (set menu at £7.50 a head) and a bit of a shop.
Well, Sunday. Running on reserve tanks a bit, and quite tired. And at last, after the evening service, Alison and I flee to The Flat.
A busy day with family arriving from all points north, south, east and west. In between final preparations for The Party, I also had to get ready for the Valentine's Day wedding. This was true romance: a couple who knew each other many years ago, then went their separate ways, married and had families, on opposite sides of the Atlantic, were both widowed, and later met up again and decided they wanted to be together. A real happiness.
From the Wedding, a quick exit to change out of vicar's dress into a shirt and tie (which I just about remember how to do) and then to The Party. Good job it's all next door in the church hall. The clan had meanwhile gathered so Alison gave a little speech of welcome and introduction, Marjorie said a few words, and we started to eat. The list of those attending and their relationships and attachments is such that it should probably have a page all to itself, when I get around to the genealogical aspect of telling the Family Story(!) In the mean time, suffice it to say They Were All There. And a Good Time was had by all. Really joyful to have a rare, and so complete, family get-together on a happy occasion.
And then, when all had gone home, and we were putting our feet up, calming down, facing the onerous task of finishing the left-over wine, Tom phoned with his Valentine's Day news. His account, and mine. I don't know where he gets all this from?
And so the last of this clutch of funerals ends. I told one of the funeral director's men yesterday: "I've got five funerals this week." He said, "We've had five today!" I guess this wasn't quite the place to play this one-up-manship game.
Marjorie arrives from Dorset for her 80th birthday party tomorrow, which Alison is organising. She claims to be amazed when she hears how many people are coming, and that it's far too many; but secretly I think she's really pleased that there's going to be such a gathering of the clan in her honour - almost all her descendants and their appurtenances, plus some other relatives and old friends - and she is the Matriarch around whom they gather.
In the lull following the funerals, I spend some time bringing this journal up to date, using Amaya, which I haven't used before for editing, and also downloading the latest Firefox browser (fast, cut-down version of Mozilla) which I'm looking forward to trying out.
Today's instalment is Two Funerals and a PCC meeting. The meeting is a bit fraught because of a complaining letter received today, which has a way of hooking on to my paranoia. But I shared some of this with the meeting, and the PCC were very supportive and encouraging about our position and how I proposed to deal with the letter. You've got to love them.
(Still getting positive feedback about the Church Times letter. A postcard from a PCC treasurer in Cambridgeshire, and a colleague from a neighbouring deanery met at the crematorium today. Tony gives a voice to the voiceless!)
Most of today's business was preparing for funerals, writing funeral addresses, meeting families of those who have died to find out what they want said in funeral addresses. So it was a good start to the day, and moment of peace and quiet, to get up to Elsfield Church for Morning Prayer. Must update or rewrite its History some time, maybe for the WWW or perhaps a new little leaflet for church.
Also a wedding rehearsal, and a Deanery Synod meeting: the annual business meeting of Synod, and following refreshments and social. It still feels odd not to be in the driving seat at those punishing events. I missed one Synod because it was on my Day Off, and a second because I had another engagement - and immediately I feel out of touch, as if I have dropped out of the loop and don't know what's going on.
My baby sister is 48 today, and gets a birthday card because she's not actually at home in Houston TX today, but visiting Mum and Dad in Wales. This means that when I remember her birthday (a day or two beforehand) it's not too late to send her a card, as it is all the other years when the card has to go by air mail.
Also my Day Off, carefully hedged about and protected, and all the more so when there is as much to do in the week as this week. I thought I would break from tradition and not buy a Prêt À Manger sandwich for lunch; but they are just so tempting. In any case, it was a nice enough day to walk into town through the University Parks, and buy a couple of things I need in Boots. And Boots is just so near to Prêt À Manger ...
But I did resist buying any books, and came home and watched Monty Python and the Holy Grail: not a patch on the Life of Brian, I reckon.
This was supposed to be a week of Four Funerals and a Wedding. Then (see Feb 4) a fifth funeral got booked in to spoil the symmetry. Ah well. Two of them today, plus two charity meetings.
Waxed political, preaching at Evensong, trying to tease out some of the things that are going on about Hutton Report, etc., in the wider society. I think I'm getting better at touching on these issues in a non-partisan way, teasing out the agonies and the questionings that most people agree on and trying to examine them in a theological way. At least, I had people thinking about things, rather than tutting or walking out halfway through …
A discovery of J. L. Carr, through reading a new biography and How Steeple Sinderby Wanderers Won The F.A. Cup. An entertaining and very funny book, touching too. And he himself is such an interesting, eccentric character. What would he have made of the Internet? Mostly he was resistant to technology, I guess, but the Web would surely have appealed to him, at least in some of its aspects. Not, I suppose, the mind-numbingly stupid bits (like most chat rooms, as far as I've been able to make out.)
National Storytelling Week event: Tell A Bible Story, which I offered to host in Marston. 21 people came, most of them 'home team' but also 7 or so from the Storytelling Society or elsewhere. I introduced, and I think only told 3 stories myself, there were enough other people willing to have a go. The refreshments, including wine and nibbles, helped the evening along too. Generally agreed, a good time had by all and we must do it again. Perhaps next year?
My letter published in the Church Times! In a sudden surge of pique or malice or maybe even crusading zeal last Friday, I penned off a letter about the three strong Evangelical parishes in Oxford that are threatening to withhold part of their Parish Share because they are fed up with subsidising weak, failing or liberal parishes. My letter asks, 'Who is really subsidising whom?' since the 'strength' of these parishes is at the expense of those from whom they draw (I nearly said steal) their congregation. For it's not the case that they have converted all their parishioners, while other churches don't. If all the commuting members of these eclectic congregations were to worship and actually do their Christian discipleship in their own parishes, it would change the face — to say nothing of the health — of the Church of England. In fact, the principle of the mutuality of the body of Christ means that the issue of helping and being helped by others is very complex, because it's spiritual. So refusing material help is out of order and doesn't commend the Gospel — and is a bit rich, coming from those who most claim to care about it.
When you do something like this, and then see it actually published, your first reaction — my first reaction — is to think, 'Oh, no! What's the reaction going to be?' Well, so far so good: 2 emails and one phone call, all favourable and agreeing.
Big treat this evening: the Joan Baez 'Dark Chords' Concert at the Apollo Theatre. Most of the packed audience were 'of a certain age', reliving our youth of protest in the 60's etc. But wow! it was worth it, it was fantastic.
Joan sang for an hour and a half or more, mostly accompanied by four musicians but also a lot to her own guitar accompaniment, and some unaccompanied. It was kind of hard to think that in this country she would qualify for her senior citizen's bus pass (born in 1941). She still has a fine voice, though tiring a little towards the end. She plays a mean guitar. She still burns with radical zeal. She's funny and sparky. And she has such fitness and stamina, it inspires you to take care of your body and voice so that at 63 they will serve you as well.
Something about that sense of the spirit of place, the stability of the generational ministry of the parish priest who stays put for years, the love for parish and people, made me feel proud to be an Anglican. I was suddenly inspired with the idea for a new website called Anglican Pride, to celebrate all the most excellent good things about the Church of England, and the whole Anglican spirit it has generated.
Then I entered Anglican Pride in Google, to make sure such a site didn't already exist, and discovered it was the name of a celebration of lesbian and gay Anglican Christians in the US, on the analogy of Gay Pride. So it's back to the drawing board. What's the alternative title for a site about taking pride in being Anglican, for people of all sexualities?
The funeral season is in full swing. I'm not sure why so many folk are dying just now, unless it's just the general depressingness of January past, or the cold snap last week. Either way, I have five funerals booked in for next week.
Yesterday was also Groundhog Day, and in its Sunday Review, the Observer had an article on the phenomenon that is the 1993 film of that name, starring Bill Murray and Andie McDowell. Murray plays a weatherman, visiting the Pennsylvania town of Punxsutawney for its annual February 2 festival event, when a groundhog emerges from its hole and 'predicts' the weather for the following 6 weeks. For some reason that is never explained, he finds himself repeating this boring day over and over and over and over again, apparently with no possibility of escape from the time loop he alone finds himself in.
At first experimenting with the opportunity to behave as amorally as he pleases, with no fear of consequences, then desperately seeking ways to end his life as the only way he can conceive of escaping, he eventually learns to love Punxsutawney and its people. By getting to know them, and helping them, he is transformed from the arrogant prima donna of the start of the movie, to a fundamentally decent and well-loved guy.
The film, not a great smash hit on first release, has grown to become a part of people's vocabulary, and enormously influential on subsequent cinema: it's been referred to in speeches by Tony Blair, Archbishop Rowan Williams, and in dispatches about the search for weapons of mass destruction.
But what it's about, for me, is the way that if you really attend to life, if you really make an effort to be present, even the most boring and mundane of places and communities can become a source of endless interest. It can literally save you.
It's a good message for a parish priest, or anyone seeking the Benedictine ideal of stability in this world that so much lacks that quality.
Also known as Candlemas. I love it that some of the ancient practices that appeal to the imagination and not just the rational mind, have been rediscovered by the Church. And that erstwhile Evangelicals (maybe even some continuing ones) can enjoy the symbols which earlier, more catholic Christians valued. This evening we passed the light to one another, lighting our candles, and processed at the end of the Eucharist to the font:
Father, here we bring to an end our celebration of the Saviour's
birth.
Help us, in whom he has been born, to live his life that has no
end.
Here we have offered the Church's sacrifice of praise.
Help us, who have received the bread of life, to be thankful for
your gift.
Here we have rejoiced with faithful Simeon and Anna.
Help us, who have found the Lord in his temple, to trust in your
eternal promises.
Here we have greeted the Light of the world.
Help us, who now extinguish these candles, never to forsake the
light of Christ.
All now extinguish their candles
Here we now stand near the place of baptism.
Help us, who are marked with the cross, to share the Lord's
death and resurrection.
Here we turn from Christ's birth to his passion.
Help us, for whom Lent is near, to enter deeply into the Easter
mystery.
Here we bless one another in your name.
Help us, who now go in peace, to shine with your light in the
world.
Thanks be to God! Amen.
Glory! Holy, quiet, glory.
'Jack in Love' worked surprisingly well at the Family Service, in spite of my fears and doubts. Perhaps you can tell children stories with grown-up themes as long as you bring them along with you. In this case, that meant the asides to them based on The Princess Bride: "I know what you're thinking, 'I hope this isn't going to be a kissing story!'"
How much will they remember? The story is 'about' our human loves being ordered aright, so long as we love God first, with all our heart and soul and mind and strength. If any of them remember that when they start dating, it won't be a bad outcome.
Excellent article by John Naughton in the Observer today, about the way Microsoft behaves as if the rules and conventions that govern everyone else just don't apply to it. Carries on like the rebellious, brilliant teenager Bill Gates was. There was also a report about Microsoft supplying software to China, which the Government used to clamp down on civil rights protesters.
Giddy moments! with Naomi away for the weekend, and Esther working all day — Alison and I decided to treat ourselves to lunch out. Used to be more a common treat than it is in this new climate of austerity, or at least financial caution. Went to All Bar One in the High, which has a minimum age limit of 21. No one asked me for ID proof of age, so maybe I'm not wearing quite so well as I used to. We nearly didn't go there, in spite of their interesting menu, because we thought we remembered they don't have a No Smoking section. In fact they do: in a tiny little area jutting out from the main room (with a cigarette vending machine right up against the wall as you enter). By about 10 minutes after they opened for lunch, this area was full up. I felt my grumpy old man persona coming on, being herded and crowded into a corner, just because I prefer not to inhale other people's smoke while I'm eating. Drafted a letter of complaint in my mind, to someone or other, while waiting for the food to arrive. Then added an extra paragraph, when my meal (which the menu described as with tomatoes) came with half a tomato. Then felt so much better after the intake of meat (Meat!) that I decided I wouldn't send the letter of complaint after all. At least, not yet.
Then roamed some bookshops, including the OUP which smelt very strange, and turned out to have a flood in the basement. Bought a cut-price military history of the Civil War on the next floor up, in case that flooded too.
Friday is preparation day for the preaching on Sunday, and this week it's a Family Service. I really wasn't feeling too creative, but a story 'came': called Jack in Love. Trouble is, I'm not sure how the children who make up a key part of the listeners, will take it. It's a bit grown-up for them perhaps, and I'm afraid some of them might think Ugh! This is a kissing story!
Have the courage and confidence of the artistic vision! If this is the story that was 'given', tell it!
Snowfall brings chaos to roads! The usual winter's tale in this country obsessed with weather, yet strangely unable to cope with it. It's days like this that make me glad about all my lifestyle choices to not be a commuter, but follow a vocation which involved living and working in the same place. It has all the problems of 'living over the shop' … the benefits too.
Interment of ashes in the snow. Reminded me of a wonderful burial in snow, back in the good old Stewartby days. Somehow that brought out even more richly the stark, beautiful poignancy of these old and true words: ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life. Every winter burial makes me think of Dr Zhivago.
In the garden, the snow brought in some of the country birds to eat our fallen and still-hanging-on-the-tree apples. A cock pheasant and group of fieldfares were feeding, to the great disgust of the resident blackbirds, who would have liked to see them off but didn't quite have the bottle, or status in the avian pecking order, or whatever.
The Hutton Report, first snow of the winter, for us at any rate,bitterly cold winds, and a funeral at the crematorium, fortunately before any of that(except the bitter winds which were already blowing through the 'wind tunnel' of the crematorium entrance).
Life just isn't long enough to do all the things you want to do: read all the books, watch all the films, visit all the foreign cities (well, OK, there just isn't enough money for that, either), meet all the fascinating people,visit all the worthwhile pages on the Internet. I don't know what Mallarmé was thinking when he said "La chair est triste, hélas! et j'ai lu tous les livres." Maybe they just had fewer livres in those days. Surely the point is that life has to be too short: that way we can't get bored because there are always more things we want to do. (Funny, though, how our minds play tricks with us and there are still times we think we're bored.)
When the children were younger, and used to try the "I'm bored!" routine,we sometimes used to respond, "Lucky you! I wish I had time to be bored." They weren't often impressed.
January has been a hell of a month. Or do I mean, 'January has been a month of hell?' The endless mornings of waking up in the dark and having to get up in the dark. The cold, oh, the cold. Even though it hasn't been a particularly cold winter (because of global warming?) I'm quite sure I have been feeling the cold more this year. I've taken to printing off tables showing the hours of sunrise and sunset, a different version of ticking off the days till the school holidays — so I know for example just how many weeks after the winter solstice it is, before sunrise stops getting later, and then gets back to where it was on the shortest day.
I've certainly been more aware than ever of the psychological toll of these dark, cold days. I've not only been feeling depressed, but definitely there has been an increase in anxiety and paranoia. All the usual friends, but somehow it has felt much worse this January, because there has been good reason for the anxiety at least.
Also, some of the village characters with mental health problems have been behaving even more strangely than usual. Over the last few days, two of them have come to the door talking incoherently about something or other. I would have been ready to believe they were either drunk, or stoned on something. When I pressed my assertions of ignorance: "I really don't know what you're talking about," they both came to the point and asked for money. When I refused to give them any, one became abusive and the other went off muttering; the implication clearly being that I had failed to provide the Christian help expected from a vicar, and wasn't much of a Christian really. (Oops, there's the paranoia again!)
In the old days, when people used to believe in evil spirits, they also knew that said spirits had powers of knowledge or insight that was paranormal. Well, these 'evil spirits' also have knowledge — they know exactly how to hook on to my insecurities and fears ...
Of course, the request for money sounds as if it's only a cry for help. They too don't know what they are really crying out for, and money just feels like a solution to the insoluble problems they have, that no one knows how to solve. But giving money wouldn't help them any either. Just give them the wherewithal to get even more drunk or drugged. And give me more reason for anxiety.
Living To Tell The Tale > The Online Diary > January - February 2004