Living To Tell The Tale > The Online Diary > March 2004
Went to a 'consultation' about Small Pilgrim Places, which is how I think of Elsfield, and what I'd like to promote it to be. Such a variety of different small churches in the Oxford Diocese represented there. Each one a place, a sacred space, that has been prayed in for years, generations, in most cases many centuries. Elsfield church has been there more than 800 years, with our forerunners on this spot coming and going to pray, to live their lives, to baptise their infants, to marry, to bury their dead. Several vicars, even in the last century or so, have lived and served faithfully here for 40 years or more. That kind of praying leaves a residue in the stones. You can feel the peace, the silence that means God has only just paused in a conversation that will shortly be resumed - if you listen carefully enough.
One of those lovely days when suddenly spring surprises you and it gets warm, and you feel like coming alive again. I went into town for some of the shopping things you can't get anywhere else (Fairtrade muesli from Oxfam), and also released two books into the wild (see BookCrossing). One of them in a red telephone box at Carfax: it was only after I had left it there and come out that I realised what the terrible smell inside had been: someone had been using the box as a urinal. It may be a while before that book is found. The other in a bicycle basket in Brasenose Lane. When I got home I made log entries on the BookCrossing site, and very quickly got a message that someone had picked up the Brasenose Lane book. There are other BookCrossers in Oxford! though I have never yet caught one of the books that others are releasing. I may not be missing too much; I'm not sure I'd want to read many of the ones people let go into the wild.
Watched Love Actually on DVD last night - there was nothing on TV. Enjoyed it very much, after the initial confusion of working out the different storylines and who was who. I love these films that have just about everyone in them: God bless the British acting fraternity, when they turn out in force like this. It's so much like having a party with old friends: Hugh, Emma, Alan, Gregor, Bill and the rest.
Mentioned to a friend that we'd enjoyed it; she said she went to see it at the cinema with a friend and the friend's mother, and both of them were embarrassed about sitting through the 'rude bits' with mum there. We don't actually know what mum thought of the whole thing.
Well, we watched it with Nameless, who is 18; and I don't think any of us were embarrassed, but maybe only because it was so clearly a simulation of a simulation, rather than a simulation of the real thing. So much so, that the first time it occurred I nearly said, "What are they doing?" Meaning, (because it didn't look like the set for a porn movie - not that I would know, you understand) were they making a commercial for Cadbury's Flake? (Which was what the set did look like, and maybe, come to think of it, is actually much more suggestive.)
So here's my vicarly advice for how to cope with the potentially
embarrassing situation of parents and grown-up children viewing sex
scenes together. Just ask, in as innocent a tone as possible, "What
are they doing?"
Memo To Self: It's important for the parent to get this line
in, before the grown-up children do.
"Knock, knock!" "Who's there?" "Clocks go." "Clocks go who?" "No, clocks go forward." Oh, all right, I won't make that joke. It's not even as funny as the "Cows go moo" version. And getting up an hour early isn't funny either, especially when you've been woken up in the night because a certain member of the family (who shall be Nameless) hasn't come home by half past four (in BST time). Gone clubbing, aargh! Beats me why anyone would want to go clubbing more than once in a lifetime, which is certainly more than I would want to. Back in my day, it was the Mecca ballroom and we were glad of it.
One of the few things I like Microsoft Windows doing, which Linux doesn't, is automatically change the clock on your computer when Summer Time begins and ends.
Three hours in the churchyard with a working party trying to clear some of the years' long buildup of rubbish. "How do we know when to stop digging, vicar?" "When you find bones, you've gone too far, OK?" Good work and good fun - lots of hours being put in between us - but so much gardening leaves me uncreative for sermon writing this afternoon. Maybe no one will be listening tomorrow evening.
In between time, managed to build up my hopes that I had found some tips on how to be able to watch DVDs in Linux. Then found they didn't work for me, so I still can't. I can't believe that national governments don't seem to care about doing anything to make the monopolistic practices that mean you can only watch DVDs with Microsoft's OS, illegal.
One of those days when I really couldn't imagine how I was going to get everything done that I needed to do. And sure enough, I didn't get it all done. But we managed anyway. The day ran its course, and came to an end, and the world didn't end because I hadn't made those phone calls, written those sermons, learned those stories I'm going to be telling, etc. Of course, there's still tomorrow, when they will still need to be done, and I still won't have the time to do them, and the actual day when the sermons have to be delivered, etc., is one more day nearer.
The Ship of Fools has a competition to find an Eleventh Commandment to add to the Ten we've had to make do with since Moses. I think I'd propose, 'Thou shalt not take thyself too seriously.'
Yesterday and today: a 24 hour conference for clergy in the two deaneries of this city. "What we have to learn from each other, and what we have to give," - with input from three speakers, one from each of the catholic, evangelical and liberal 'traditions' of the C of E. The liberal was far and away the most interesting, humorous and attractive, (though all three were excellent specimens of their kind), and if I'd been shopping for a brand of Anglican identity, his was the one I would have chosen. Where are the liberal evangelists? I wonder. If this version of the Church and of the Christian faith were more generally on offer, wouldn't it be hugely attractive to people who have been thoroughly put off by the convictions of other varieties?
Liberals not only expect, they welcome difference and diversity of opinion. "If God hadn't wanted people to disagree, he wouldn't have given them minds." Nevertheless, to be a liberal is not to "believe just what you like", but to have an expansive interpretation of faith. And with that, the important thing about what you believe is, Does it change your life? Amen to that, say I.
Had a real 'theological moment' while in Gloucester Cathedral yesterday. We were just lighting prayer candles in the S. transept when 12 noon struck and an officious clergyman bade visitors be silent and join him in saying the Lord's Prayer - and "remembering what the Cathedral is here for", forsooth! In nano-seconds it hooked onto my stroppy nature, and brought back a vivid teenage memory of being taken by a friend to his church youth group, to watch a bad print of the Billy Graham film Wiretapper and then be invited by the curate or minister to join in a prayer asking Jesus into my life. I still remember, with full passion, the furious determination that I would pray when I decided, not when someone else told me to. (Yet, God forgive me, I have done duty stints in cathedrals when I have done just the same to visitors.) Suddenly I realised, I cannot be the only person who is actually alienated by being pressured to pray at another's behest.
So here's the 'theological moment': why is a cathedral like the Internet church? Answer: Because it is just there, offering the Gospel to anyone who is interested, but not insisting that they accept it. It gives people the freedom to take as much of it, and only as much of it, as they want and are ready for. It respects their humanity and freedom, then. Memo to self: Remember this!
Celebrating our 30th Wedding Anniversary today. A bizarre thought, that 30 years ago today, after a strange service at Christ Church, Cockfosters, partly written by the curate, and a strange DIY reception in the church hall there, catered for by Alison's housemates - and she herself got married with purple fingers, from stoning all the cherries in the fruit salad, the night before - we were spending the first night of our honeymoon in Shanklin, on the Isle of Wight. We drove there in the dark, having to stop and peer at signposts in the dark, because there were no street-lights on account of the 3-day week that was operating in that 'winter of discontent' that brought down the Heath Government.
Thirty years on ... and what a lot of things time has changed. Alison had the day off work and we drove to Gloucester, just for an outing really. It was one of those days when the sun came out every time we were indoors, but as soon as we stepped outside it started raining, or hailing if we were going to be out for more than a couple of minutes. At first the city looked seedy and run-down, but it wasn't really that bad; it seemed to improve slightly as the day went on.
I tried to buy some razor blades, but discover that in order to buy the sort I use - Gillette Mach 3 - you have to take a little ticket to the checkout and get given them there, presumably because so many get stolen when they are on the open shelves. I really object to being treated like a criminal, so I refused to buy any from Boots (as I did at our Sainsbury's yesterday). But after all, this is only cutting off my own nose - or rather, not cutting off my own beard - to spite my face. Because in the end I bought some at a 'proper' pharmacy in Burford, where there were shop assistants actually assisting shoppers, instead of setting up ridiculous hoops for them to jump through, and it cost me about 50% more than it would have done if I had jumped through the hoops in Boots.
What I can't understand, is why people would bother to steal razor blades from Boots, where they're so much cheaper, rather than from my real pharmacy, where they're more expensive?
A good bit of the 'mail' these days turns out to be what looks like magazines in see-through wrappers. But not the magazines I have knowingly subscribed to, like Linux Magazine; these are things like 'Your Magazine from Orange', or 'Direct Living' (which is presumably 'my magazine from Direct Line insurance'). I still harbour the optimistic notion that the printed word is precious and holy, and anything in print must be worth reading, so I always skim through these things. And sure enough, there are one or two bits that have the appearance of being potentially interesting. Like an article in which famous people tell us about 'My First Time' (- no, none of them writes about their first time for that); for example, Raymond Blanc about his first crêpe suzettes, and though they were a disaster he wasn't deterred from trying again, so neither should anyone else be; and it turns out to be all about trying things for the first time, like using your Orange mobile phone to make an international call, or get news about new films ...
Suddenly it strikes me that I'm having trouble distinguishing between the articles and the advertisements, they all look so alike. And derr, it's obvious, stupid, the whole magazine is nothing but advertisement. 'You've already bought from us; so buy! buy! buy some more!'
There's always so much tinkering and fine-tuning to do with the website. This evening is no exception. I found out (shock! horror!) that one of the links on my Links page wasn't right, and just needed a tweak. And there were some pages I wanted to put a 'Last modified' script on.
God bless Elsfield! When I got up there for the Mothering Sunday service, there was no electricity: apparently some of the overhead lines had blown twisted in the wind and short-circuited. But unlike those mega-churches that cannot function without technology, and are all hi-tech bells and whistles, Power Point presentations, projected words of hymns and liturgies, etc., we were able to carry on with the worship of God using the good instruments nature provided. Well, OK, we did have a keyboard powered by batteries, which David and Ruth had brought along, to help our voices. Since they live near the church they knew there was a power cut, and came prepared. They also provided an action praise song for the children, a couple of magic tricks, and a puppet dialogue, as well as craft activities for the children in the village room at the back, while the rest of us carried on with the sermon and the prayers. It's not quite what I (purist that I am) would call all-age worship - I kind of think it means we all take part in the same activities throughout. But people certainly seemed to enjoy it. Afterwards, no electricity meant no coffee; but Robert had baked a simnel cake which we washed down with water or squash according to taste.
So this is the first day of spring: alternate sunshine and horizontal rain. Eileen and other Junior Church leaders provided their usual excellent Mothering Sunday lunch for the families, and Alison and I still get invited, though we hardly qualify any more with only one 'child' (18 year old, 5'11" tall Esther) at home today.
Most of the rain cleared up by today, leaving gale force winds causing extensive damage and even loss of life in some places. And loss of earnings! 'cause when we went to Sainsbury's at Kidlington in the afternoon, a youth was turning cars back at the entrance to the car park. 'There's a power cut, and the store is closed.' Technology is a wonderful servant, but when we become that dependent on it, you have to think something's wrong.
Could have been worse: we could have actually got in and started shopping before the power cut started, and had to leave everything, trolleys and all in mid-aisle. (I don't suppose they were expecting everyone to return purchases to the shelves?) The thought of waiting at the checkout while some teenager added up our grocery bill with a pocket calculator, or better yet a pencil and paper, doesn't bear thinking about. Not that this was happening. Even if it could have been, the tills weren't openable, the scanners of credit cards, Nectar cards and what not, couldn't be used.
No food for the coming week. Nothing to eat for tea. Sainsbury's loss was M & S's gain, for we stopped at Summertown on the way home and brought a 'Chinese menu' to stave off the gnawing pangs of hunger. Or something.
Weather even more unsettled; meaning, the intervals of heavy rain were joined up, and the winds even gustier. Needless to say, this was a day for a burial in the churchyard. (The third hole to spring up yesterday was not part of The Dig, but a grave being prepared.) Going along to church and getting well blown and wet, I feared the worst. But by the time we came out at the end of the service - to the strains of Daniel O'Donnell singing 'How great thou art' - the sun had amazingly come out, and we buried cheerfully, saying Goodbye to one of the real old village characters, who used to plough with horses when he started, and sold his motorbike to buy his first cow. He's been part of the backdrop of this parish for over 80 of his 90 years.
Weather today was what the forecasters call 'unsettled'; meaning, steady drizzle alternating with periods of heavy rain, the latter with strong gusts of wind making the use of umbrellas out of the question. However, when I went along to the churchyard about 11.15 I found holes springing up all over the place. The archaeologist and his mate with the digger (and there was me thinking archaeologists dig with toothbrushes!) had excavated two holes, each about 2 metres square and 1 metre deep. At £750 apiece, these are expensive holes! I stood at the edge with the archaeologist and looked in. "There's nothing in this one," says he, "it's all been very well dug over. But in the other one you can see the grave slots from old burials." I looked convinced and knowledgeable. Both holes looked identical to my untrained eye. Must be what you're used to seeing, I guess.
In the evening it was full penguin dress for the Kellogg College Guest Night dinner (Black tie [Optional]). I just love to dress up - can't remember the last time I had the opportunity. Strangely, and contrary to general experience, my trousers seemed too large and I had to keep hoisting them up. No matter how much I ate and drank, they still felt loose by the end of the evening.
Got a message that the archaeologist would be digging a couple of trenches in the churchyard, today and tomorrow. This is a necessary requirement for doing any work on the church - in this case we want to extend the 1977 vestry - that impinges on the churchyard.
(My favourite archaeologist's report from this kind of survey read simply, 'Excavations indicated the presence of human remains in the churchyard.' Not in this diocese! I quickly add - our archaeologists earn their pay, and don't insult us by telling us what we already have a shrewd suspicion of..)
Sauntered along about 2.15 to The Site, to see how things were progressing. An impressive area has been enclosed by one of these temporary plastic fences. One piece of grass has had white lines painted on it. Another spot, about the same size, has had the turf removed. Archaeologist(s) present: None. Possibly on late lunch break in nearby Bricklayer's Arms. Possibly taken the rest of the day off. Watch this space.
Back for another look at the eleventh hour, i.e. 5.30, the end of Evening Prayer. Still no actual holes. Looks as if archaeologist may have been abducted by aliens.
Heard yesterday about some of the international reaction to Boris Yeltsin's landslide election victory in Russia. Many observers have said it fell short of the standards required for a free, democratic election. The United States among them.
Well, is this rich, or what? I seriously wonder, sometimes, whether Americans have got any sense of irony whatsoever. Or perhaps it's that once people get into power they suddenly forget how they got there. If you were a satirist, you couldn't invent this, could you? This from a country whose Government stole its own last presidential election by disenfranchising thousands of people in Florida, poor people, blacks, who would most likely have voted 'the other way'. Who disqualified many other, legitimately cast votes. Who got the Supreme Court (packed with their own cronies, strangely enough) to declare the result legal - well, of course, that makes it legal, doesn't it? Come on, world! Why aren't we just laughing them off the stage?
Trouble is, of course, we're so busy laughing we forget about the substantive other question: Was Yeltsin's result democratic, fair, representative? But then, should we expect it to be? Why should we expect him to be any different from the rest who seize and seek to cling to power? In the 'cradles of democracy'?
Got away to The Flat for a Quiet Day away from the phone, to do some serious thinking, reading, praying. Hmmm. Well, I tried. With John Dominic Crossan's The Dark Interval: Towards a theology of story. I bought this at the NOBS Gathering in 2002, and can't think why I haven't read it before, it looks like good stuff.
A storyteller really needs a Project (or projects) all the time, and one of my problems has been not having one. OK, I suppose this website is a sort of project, but it's not much of one - at least, not in terms of a project for a storyteller. Maybe the most you could claim for it in that sense is that it is about 'gathering materials' for the telling of stories? So I was glad to have the time to get one started today, thinking about and planning the Quiet Day I've been asked to lead at the convent in a couple of weeks' time. They've come to expect that I will lead these days in storytelling mode. So the project is to select stories, suitable for Lent, from Luke's Gospel (because this is the Year of Luke), and that I might like to learn. And then to start the learning process. This is something new; since three of the selected stories are ones I haven't told before. It's been one story at a time before now. The task of learning three together, in less than a fortnight, seems strangely daunting.
It's not good for a man, this having an audience! Unless it's to make you humble, make you feel what a privilege it is to be able to stand in a pulpit and have people listen to what you've got to say. My word! (My words?) No wonder it has gone to people's heads before now, and you've had all these priests and preachers and demagogues abusing the power that the spoken word gives them. No wonder it's better to be just a storyteller, because that always means you know you are under the story, under its authority.
And of course, any preacher who's worth their salt knows that they too are under authority in what they are saying. The Story we preachers tell, is the authority we serve, and so should be the guarantee that we don't become power-crazy, drunk with the authority the Story seems to give us. Why don't I find this a very comforting thought, when I think of some of the other characters who occupy pulpits, even in this city? It seems there are too many who forget that the power of our speaking is a borrowed power. We claim the Story is Truth; but that doesn't mean, shouldn't ever mean, that what I say the Story means is (ultimate, authoritative) Truth, too.
One of the things I love about Linux, is the way there's always more to learn, and more discoveries to make. Yesterday I read something about a Linux HTML editor called Bluefish, and thought I'd see what it looked like. I did a Google search, and found the page to download it from; then I thought, I'll just check to make sure I haven't already got it. Lo and behold! it's there on my distro disc, already available - obviously in a slightly older version. And now it's up and running.
Even though I've been running SuSe 8.2 Professional for nearly a year, I'm still only scratching the surface of its capabilities, its potential, even what I can get to know about it. (And there are some things I guess I'll never know, like - oh, I don't know, but I guess it's pretty unlikely I'll ever think about learning any C++ or whatever. I suppose it's just possible, one day, when I've become thoroughly proficient at Perl, Python, and all the rest.)
In the mean time, Bluefish looks great, possibly even better than Quanta Plus which I've sometimes found a bit clunky.
A sudden cold snap, with snow last evening and overnight, lying this morning a couple of inches deep on the roof of the car. But by the time I went out for prayers, it was already thawing hard. Well, it is the middle of March almost, for heaven's sake.I was glad it wasn't next Friday, when we are to have a burial.
I feel this has suddenly got all solemn and serious, as if all I ever thought about were funerals. Not so! I also spend a lot of time thinking about when my next holiday is due.
A diverse and interesting congregation for a funeral today, with poems, readings and music expressing the deceased's many different interests and experiences: Russian Orthodox music, Romanian music, Messiaen, readings from the Bhagavad Gita and various poets, and the words to an Indian raga:
You have but the right to perform action;
you have no holds on the results thereof.
May you not seek the rewards of action
and may you never engage in wrong action.
A good prayer, or blessing, for a time of leave-taking. We bring nothing into the world, and it is certain we take nothing out ...
Conversation with Esther yesterday, who came in and announced,
"I won't be in for tea today; it's the Chief's birthday." I was
surprised at this because a) it seemed a strange way of describing
the manager where she works, and b) she doesn't like him that much
anyway. So I said, "Whose birthday is it?"
She: "The Teeth's."
I: "That's a strange name for the boss. Why do you call him that?
Has he got sticky out teeth, then?"
She: "No, it's Atif's birthday. I work with him."
I: "No wonder I got confused. It seems a pretty strange world I'm
living in."
She: "I kind of thought you lived in the same world as all the rest
of us."
Well. Yes. Just as I said.
It gets odder by the day, if not the hour or the minute.
An afternoon at the computer, writing two pages on Creating A Website, and bringing this journal up to date. Sometimes I think if you really recorded a life, and spent as much time as it would take to do it, you wouldn't have any time left to actually live the life. I suppose that was Proust's dilemma.
I've really enjoyed Lynne Truss's Eats, Shoots & Leaves. Sub-titled 'The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation', it's a pedant's delight and joy. But, heavens! no dry-as-dust, boring, puritan she: Lynne Truss is witty, passionate, a charming, laugh-a-minute companion. Just as with Ann Fadiman, I fell in love with her even as I read.
And it isn't just punctuation she cares about, but language in general. One of my favourite jokes was the one about the cartoon showing a row of ten Roman soldiers, one of them lying dead on the ground, with the caption (from a survivor of the cull): "Hey! This decimation isn't as bad as they make out!"
It's not rocket science! A report in the Observer today says that many charities are planning to stop the practice of 'chugging', i.e. 'charity mugging', whereby people stop you in the street and solicit donations, usually by credit card or direct debit. Why? Because it puts people's backs up, and makes members of the public less likely to give. Wow! What a brilliant, insightful conclusion! The first time I came across this from a reputable charity, it was people from Dr Barnardo's, to whom I was previously well disposed. I immediately resolved that I would never give to them, or any other charity I saw aggressively soliciting in this way. To add insult to injury, it appears it was private firms who supplied the muggers, and they got a commission for every donation received. I don't suppose many tears will be shed over the demise of this shoddy and offensive practice.
Today's Family Service story was 'Benno the Imitator'. Again, it had not wanted to be prepared, and wasn't 'ready' until it was actually performed. I get a bit scared of this storytelling business. It seems so magical, unpredictable, uncontrollable. As if the spirit is just blowing through vast open spaces.
Diocese of Oxford are talking about setting up an i-church for people who either can't or don't want to attend an actual parish church, and are looking for a web pastor to look after the virtual flock. It's one of their Cutting Edge Ministries that they are very keen on. Sounds crazy, no? But here in our little virtual village in Cyberia, this is the kind of wacky idea that I can't bear not to be involved in. Perhaps even enough to think about applying for the job.
Lunch in town, the monthly treat, and collected photographs of Marjorie's party on February 14. Some nice ones of the family, and yes, I will post some of them on the website.
No great computer discoveries today. Still pottering away trying to learn and understand vi. According to Linux Journal, it was voted most popular text editor last year. Hmmm.
I know it would be a small thing for the real Linux aficionados, but it's a great joy to me: I worked out how to get spamd, the spam filter daemon, turned on when the system boots. I couldn't understand why it wasn't doing it when the script is right there in /etc/init.d Then I realised that what actually happens on boot, is that it runs the scripts in /etc/init.d/rc5.d which applies to run level 5. Does it sound as if I know what any of this means? Well, I created a symbolic link in the rc5.d directory; and when I restarted the computer, lo and behold it launched the daemon.
The other little thing worked out, was solving why kbear wouldn't run in the terminal any more, in the way it used to. I reckoned it must not be 'in the path', suddenly. So, another symbolic link (you can tell, can't you? that I've just discovered symbolic links) from one of the directories that was in the path, to where kbear resides, viz. /opt/kde3/bin/kbear
What I can't understand, is why it used to work and then stopped. And I still haven't found out where the global path variable is stored, that gets loaded when the system starts up. But then, what would still be to find out?
Like I say, these are undoubtedly very small problems to anyone who really knows Linux; but to me they are mysteries that are satisfying to solve. Provided, of course, that you manage to solve them.
Sad situations. They don't always, or often, get me down. Over the years I have become accustomed to weeping with those who weep, and laughing with those who laugh. Not in any sense mechanically or deceitfully, no, genuinely; but there is still a kind of professional detachment. This is about needing to stay slightly uninvolved, emotionally, so as to help people deal with whatever it is they are dealing with. But then from time to time, a new kind of sadness that I haven't seen so much of appears, and it's like starting again to acquire the detachment. My afternoon visits today met with two such situations, where people are really up against it, having to cope with difficult new circumstances that life has dealt them. Times like this make me realise that however 'professional' I'm supposed to become, I can't solve everyone's problems - in fact, I can't solve anyone's - it's always and only down to God.
I realise this paragraph probably doesn't make as much sense as it would if I actually said what the situations were. But I've determined that a public online journal isn't supposed to make everyone's private stories and sufferings public. I can describe how I feel about the things I encounter. I'm not allowing myself to describe the people or situations in such a way that anyone could recognize them.
It's all very well wining and dining at Kellogg, but once again the rich food and plenty of drink take their toll, with me not feeling all that well today. I wouldn't call it a hangover exactly, because it's in the stomach more than the head. No, I blame it on the richness of the food.
A beautiful sunny day, though cold, so I took the bus into town and went shopping for books. I've still got book tokens from Christmas that are desperate to be used. Bought two computer books. I'm trying to learn vi. Why? Well... because it's there? I don't know why: it's the next intellectual challenge, perhaps. Anyway, this page is being revised as I write using vim which stands for vi improved. You can tell, can't you?
So, the Foundation Dinner at Kellogg College, and one of the year's must-attend events, for us. Because of the cold snap, there weren't any open daffodils in the garden, so I tried to 'force' some: picked them early, brought them into the house, put them in a vase, and spent the day moving them around the house, following the sun. They opened, just about, in time to be worn as button holes this evening. Mine however wilted and looked very sad by the end of the evening. I had to discard it before dessert, so as not to bring scorn on Wales and Dewi Sant.
Living To Tell The Tale > The Online Diary > March 2004