Living To Tell The Tale > The Online Diary > May 2004
Very good to be able to enjoy a lie-in this morning. In spite of not great weather forecasts (we were supposed to have rain; but then I'm forgetting, the forecasters often are only talking about London and the South-East - maybe they did have rain there) it was dry and for the most part sunny. Drove to Snailbeach - interesting industrial archaeology, the remains of one of the most important lead mines in Britain - and walked up onto the Stiperstones - a steep climb! - as far as Shepherd's Rock, then back by a more easterly path returning past Lordshill Chapel to Snailbeach. Drove to Stiperstones village for late lunch at the Inn, then home, stopping along the way at The Bog for coffee and cake. A good walk.
Festival of the Holy Spirit: such a mysterious aspect of the Godhead that I sometimes feel like I don't know anything about the Holy Spirit. That's not true, of course: I know as much as the next vicar. It's just I'm not confident enough to be so arrogant as to talk a whole lot about him (or her, as many people nowadays would have it.) But I reckon that whole mysterious buzz and power that happens in storytelling is something to do with the Holy Spirit. The Spirit dwells in the spaces between the Thought and the Word, the Lover and the Beloved, the Father and the Son, the Teller and the Hearer. The Spirit dwells in me, in the spaces between myself and the Christ who dwells in me, so that there are no spaces but we are united in one.
Preached one of those sermons today in which you can hear a pin drop. I had dreaded saying it, because it seemed full of doubts and questions after some of the recent more up-beat ones. It was about the paradoxes of power: that we believe in the power of God to do things, change people and situations, but all too often, what we wish for seems not to happen. So I suppose the 'pin-dropping' silence was because it was real and heart- felt and spoke to where people are. Gill said I was anointed, so that's OK. Others said it was a good service. It seems strange that they are more encouraged and cheered by hearing something doubtful, yet true, than by hearing something full of Evangelical conviction, yet which no one really believes. (But we would all be very far from owning up to not believing it.)
After Evensong, drove to The Flat in 2½ hours. Alison here already; she came up yesterday evening.
Big day in London, to meet Jane and Moy, Tom's future parents-in-law. I always dread the prospect of travelling to the Big City, but often when I get there I find it so exciting I can't imagine why I don't go every week. We met at The Fire Station - bar next to Waterloo Underground - for a drink before lunch at Chez Gérard near the Hayward Gallery. A most excellent and expensive (but Tom was paying) lunch. If you've never tried pineapple cutlets with black pepper icecream for dessert, hurry out now and grab yourself some! And then a 'flight' on the London Eye which really was a thrilling experience. Very popular, fully booked up. Tickets had to be bought in advance, and then the flight queued up for, just like boarding at an airport. Well worth it.
Jane and Moy are a lovely couple and you can see why Annie is such a lovely daughter-in-law to be. I don't think there is a word for the relations we are to be with them, but there should be. And we're proud to have them for it.
Finding some interesting and entertaining new places on the
Web:
Trepanning: 21st century
Pagan Cornish village. (thanks to Telsa for
this!)
Social Scrutiny:
Political Satire and Humour.
Slightly Foxed: The
Real Literary Quarterly. Book reviews of other books than
the ones the big publishing interests want to hype and sell you.
Great stuff!
Meeting tonight of the Oxford Storytelling Society (now trading under the name of Oxford Storytelling Circle). Well attended (17 people there), and a number of seriously good tellers. Some others who told more than one, but who I thought weren't really any better than me ... But actually, I'm pretty good myself. I only told one: Joseph Jacobs' 'Master of all Masters'.
I'm thinking of working The Hobyahs up into a topical, satirical story. For I suddenly realise that the Hobyahs (nasty, aggressive, violent creatures, intent on terrorising and attacking those who want to live innocently in peace) are actually close relatives of the Dubyas. When you reflect that the little old man and the little old woman and the little girl live in a house made of hemp-stalks, it becomes clear that the Hobyahs' attack is part of the war on drugs, and probably also on terrorism. The Hobyahs would not normally be frightened of little dog Turpy, because they have a poodle of their own, called Tony, but maybe he just isn't with them tonight?
And today is different again, mostly at the computer keeping the church website up to date (not all priests do this!), making phone calls, printing off lists of weddings for organist, choir, bell-ringers, reading and praying about next Sunday's sermon, and making a start at writing it.
And in the evening, to Kellogg College guest night dinner. Good food and wine, not many people we knew there, but a good conversation with a young woman lawyer about how we can help people learn how to die. Most of us have no idea (including me) and I feel awed by those in the HIV/AIDS community who are streets ahead of us in pioneering new Rules and Exercises for Holy Dying.
"What does a priest do?" asked one of the 6 and 7 year-old girls visiting the church this morning from the local primary school.
Well, he (or she) does the kind of things I'm doing today. Goes into church twice a day, morning and evening, to pray for the parish and its people, for the church and the world, for the strength and courage to do the work. Talks to children and tells them about church and what goes on there, trying to commend this strange unworldly activity to small people who may never have heard of this kind of thing. Sits at the computer dealing with weeks' worth of emails. Opens the post and answers letters. Makes plans for future services and events in the life of the church. Talks to people on the telephone about whether (and how) they can get married in the church. Meets people in the street who are on the margins of the local community, and carrying all the suffering of the world on their shoulders: (someone who's that sensitive to all the world's suffering must be mad - or is he the only one who is actually sane? A kind of crazy prophet, showing what God really thinks about our voyeuristic watching of news disasters and walking away from them - passing by on the other side.) Walks the streets of the parish to call on people who haven't been in church for a while, and often finds them not at home and wonders what is the point of it. Then gets invited into a home where a young mum is out of hospital after a life-threatening illness, still a long way from complete recovery but grateful for all the prayers that have been said for her, and glad to be prayed for right now. Eats with the vicarage family and does the washing up and other chores. Meets a couple who want to celebrate 29 years of marriage with a Service of Thanksgiving in church, and renew their vows before God, having been married all those years ago in the registry office.
Yes, that's what a priest does. It doesn't make a lot of money, doesn't create wealth like the City men and women. But perhaps we don't have a big enough view of what wealth, true wealth, is.
Oh, and often feels inundated, drowning under the volume of paper that arrives on the desk. Forms to fill in and return, notices to put up, letters from missions and charities asking for financial support, reports to read. Why is it that so many people's 'work' seems specifically designed to make work for others, who feel they have more important things they should be doing? Something isn't balanced right. We need to pray more and produce less paper.
Another glorious day, though with more cloud, and just a little cooler. It seemed like a day for climbing Caer Caradoc again, and this time I tackled the South Face from the footbridge over the stream, straight up to Three Fingers Rock. If aerobic exercise is supposed to be good for you, then climbing Caer Caradoc meets the requirement. It's a steep climb to get this far; and discouraging, then, when you reach the rocks to find there is still a good way to walk, and a good way still to climb, to reach the Iron Age hill-fort and the summit.
Looking out from the ramparts or battlements or whatever, I wondered what our Iron Age forebears would have seen and thought. Was the Long Mynd bare heath then? Or would it have been wooded, with the valley in between marshy and full of infection, with many other dangers. Surely, if they had iron, they would fear nothing? Or maybe they would fear everything?
Descended the steep path at the NE end, and returned by the path along the base of the hill on the W side, cutting across to the A49 and so back via All Stretton.
And drove home late afternoon, catching the congestion round Worcester. I thought I was pretty damn clever, taking the detour to Pershore via Upton-on-Severn ... till I found the bridge at Upton-on-Severn was being repaired and there were traffic lights to negotiate, driving between huge blocks of concrete to restrict traffic to cars only. The journey took 3 hours 20 minutes.
A nearly perfect day at The Flat, the first visit here for a long time because of Eastbourne and the rest of work. Naturally it's supposed to be a Quiet Day for reading, prayer, reflection; so I decided the place I most needed to meet my Maker was on the Long Mynd. The sky was just so blue - what else could I think? Set off for one of the usual favourite walks, up Townbrook Valley.
Rectory Wood is green now. The splendour of the bluebells is past - we have missed it this year - only the tired remains are still there among the trees. But the rhododendrons are coming into magnificent blossom. The Mynd is quite dry already, there has been little rain for some time, and I fear for what it may be like in high August, if this continues. The lambs are well grown, and have lost their earlier gambolling ways. They still bleat and run for mother as I pass, but now their heads look small for their bodies, and the seeming stupidity of the species hangs upon them. The hawthorn is in dazzling blossom, and from the heights the scattered trees on the far slope look like overgrown unkempt ewes. Flocks of black crows wheeling over the heath. Amidst the ruin of last year's bracken, the new shoots stand up straight, not yet unfolded. The new growth of bilberry (or whinberry or wimberry) is fresh green with that red edge and underside of the leaves that makes them look orange from a distance.
Reached the 'summit', Pole Bank, having seen hardly a soul, just one passing car, on the way. Then back over Round Hill and Callow, down to Little Stretton. Too early for lunch at the Ragleth Inn, so back home and bought a sandwich from Van Doesburg's. And in the afternoon, yes, I did some reading and study: John Dominic Crossan's The Dark Interval (subtitled: Towards a Theology of Story). Some good stuff there, about Jesus as parabler - and Parable. And what have we done with his luminous words? I saw a book in Blackwells recently - a great thick tome - on Jesus' parables, that was subtitled: What Jesus meant in the parables. Like tearing the wings off butterflies, I should think.
After church and lunch, up to Elsfield again where people are flagging but elated about what has been a successful Plant Sale. I'm greeted by one of the young mums saying, "This is just so perfectly English: a lovely summer afternoon, the village fête going on, people sitting drinking tea, and then the vicar turns up to cap it all!" Ah yes, but if this were the TV, that would be the cue for people to start getting murdered. Fortunately I've never known a parish where the vicar, or the villagers, are quite so unpleasant and in need of being murdered as they are, say, in Midsomer. So we may end the day without blood on the lawn.
And in the mean time, I'm getting all the credit for having 'arranged' the good weather with the Boss. If the parishioners really think this, it's another example of how the laity - even the non-churchgoing ones - have more faith in the power of prayer than their clergy. But it is as brilliant as an answer to prayer should be. So thanks, Boss!
A beautiful weekend of weather for the Elsfield Plant Sale. As usual the serious gardeners and buyers are queueing up early on the first morning, quick to snap up the best of the plants and make off with their spoils. As usual I am not able to witness this, because we have a wedding at Marston. So by the time Alison and I get to Elsfield, after lunch, all is quiet and we are able to sit and enjoy coffee and cake in the sunshine. What a life, eh?
In the evening to Tess's (belated) 40th birthday party with a few other friends from church (so, a privilege to be invited) as well as family, friends from work and other bits of her life. A wall exhibit has a photo of her for each of her 40 years. It's a really good idea, but makes me wonder if we could do that for my life. Photos always tend to cluster in great clumps when you get a new camera or a new baby; and then there are fallow years that seem to bear none at all.
Sermon day: writing about this 10 days of tension, waiting, anticipation, between Ascension and Pentecost. The equivalent of that moment in storytelling when you dare to pause and be silent, without saying anything. How long can you hold that moment? In the Book of Revelation, there is silence in heaven, for half an hour, and it seems uncanny. Like yesterday afternoon when I walked back from church after Evening Prayer and not a single car passed between the church and home, and it felt as if the whole world had stopped.
'Thin places' (like Iona, Lindisfarne) remind us that heaven is very near. What about being 'thin people': through whom other people can see the light of Christ shining?
So anyway, I filled in that questionnaire on prostate cancer, feeling really quite pleased about the 'None of the above' kind of answers to most of the questions about what symptoms I had observed during the past month or so. Blow me if I didn't spend most of the rest of the afternoon feeling most of the symptoms I had just said I didn't have.
I subscribe pretty much to the Victor Meldrew school of medical self-diagnosis. In one episode he's reading about some particularly virulent form of brain tumour. "No symptoms in the early stages", he reads. "My God! That's exactly what I've got!"
Much of today spent providing hospitality for my clergy colleagues of the Deanery Chapter who came for a lunchtime meeting. When I was Area Dean, I used to make them bring their own sandwiches. Since I handed over to Elaine, there's been a perfectly correct view that the Christian way is a way of hospitality, and some hosts have wanted to provide such hospitality to others. The trouble is it quickly becomes the expected norm and is burdensome to those who are 'differently resourced' i.e. haven't got teams of ladies (yes, it always is ladies) to do the work. Because of Eastbourne I hadn't thought far enough ahead to procure 'volunteers' to do this, so ended up doing it myself, although with some most welcome help from a couple of neighbouring clergy.
So US congressional inquiries have been probing into which top military officials must ultimately bear responsibility for the abuse of Iraqi prisoners in Abu Ghraib. Durr... the commander-in-chief? Dubya himself is the one whose policies have all along determined the ways and means in which the war on terrorism has been fought. Or did I miss something?
Spring shades into summer, with beautiful green warm days, and everyone seems to glow with satisfaction as if their life is suddenly dipped in chocolate (or whisky, or beer, or the waters of the Mediterranean, or whatever your taste). I sometimes wonder on such days: How long before people start complaining about the heat, or drought, or dust? Never mind; for now, we just enjoy each blissful moment. Like sitting out eating lunch on the patio. Just long enough since the last time to have forgotten where we put the seat cushions and parasol. In a safe place, naturally - but which one, exactly?
Yesterday I had a letter from my GP inviting me to take part in a survey about prostate cancer - now, there's a nice thought - or specifically about what men think and know about the PSA test for prostate cancer. "You have been randomly selected, from a list of men aged 40-75 in the practice, to receive an invitation to participate in the study." So, here's a moral and ethical question: Do I do some online research on the topic before I fill in the form? or do it from my present state of virtually complete ignorance? And is it really a disinterested inquiry? Or a way of 'accidentally' finding out if I have any symptoms that need looking at? I'd rather they did find out, if there were any. "Over the past month, how many times did you most typically get up to urinate in the night?" Well, actually, none. I'm much too lazy, I'd rather just lie there. I suppose that's good news, is it, doctor?
Spent a couple of hours this morning with my soul-friend C (a role that used to be called that of 'spiritual director'). The deep things of the soul don't need to be published in the Online Diary, so we draw a veil over them. As we do, also, over C's identity.
Why should I feel like this about it? I don't know. All sorts of other stuff, it doesn't matter if my aged mother or bishop read. But I'm going to keep this to myself. So there.
Telling the Story for most of last week, meant talking about Eastbourne and the Celebration of Faith, and trying to just give some impression of what it was all about. And so it was with today's two main services. I preached this morning on What Is Christianity All About?, and the evening's service was Evening Praise, with testimonies from members of the team on what it was like, what they felt they had learned, etc. Sang some good hymns and songs, too.
A day of wedding and party. The wedding reminds me of how the things that really make life special are these celebrations of two people in love, and making a public declaration that they are going to give their lives to each other; 'till death us do part'. And this radically changes the whole balance of their families. Something new comes into being, that was not there when they were just living together. And all this is in prospect for us as our own children move towards choosing life partners to make that commitment to. I think how naive and selfish Alison and I were, when we took this step thirty years ago - yet something sincere was there, which God has honoured and given us the strength to persevere in. May our children be similarly blessed.
The party is for some friends celebrating multiple birthdays in their family this year: Brian's 50th, Sue's 40th, Anna's 15th, Peter's 10th, Daniel's 2nd, Joel's christening. They go in for huge parties out in one of the villages, to which they invite 250 people or thereabouts. Such hospitality, such generosity, such a gift for friendship. God bless them too.
Something of the fire and fervour survive, in the form of wanting to keep prayer valid not just where prayer has been valid - the special, holy places T.S.Eliot writes about - but wherever I am or we are: in all the events and activities of life. Of course this is what we pay lip service to the whole time - doesn't St Paul say Pray constantly? - but we don't always remember to actually do it. So, what about doing it when talking with Alison about our plans and problems of the day, when writing a sermon, or (as I did today) before going round Sainsbury's? Always an adventure in which prayer is more than usually needful.
Was one of the Mister Men called Mister Irritable? Should have been - and that would be me this week, coping with the tiredness of re-entry into normal life and work, and finding it hard to keep alive the fire and fervour of last week. Maybe this is part of what Exodus means about Moses' face shining when he came down from the mountain after talking with God, and then the shining begins to fade. I'm sure Moses didn't break his favourite wineglass out of pique because a serving hatch hadn't been closed properly, and then get annoyed about dropping stuff all over the place.
What kind of a person has a favourite wineglass?
Driving up to Elsfield for morning prayers in the church: it's that time of year when all the grass and weeds on the verges have grown so tall you can't see anything round the bend, shorter than a furniture lorry (and there was one of them coming up the hill.) It's Gerard Manley Hopkins' poem come to abundant life:
Nothing is so beautiful as Spring -
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush
I find that Tom who does our garden has put fertiliser on the lawn, which seems unnecessary under the circumstances. The churchyard grass also is shooting up, providing many hours of extra-curricular activity for the heroic volunteers who mow it. Not many people know that the grass in the churchyard belongs to the vicar. I have, however, relinquished my rights to it and do not require that the mowings be delivered to my door - still less that I should do the mowing. If I owned sheep, it might be different, and they could be pastured in the churchyard. Or better still, a goat. Genetically modified so that it would only eat the artificial flowers left on graves and leave the real ones.
Oxford in May takes me by surprise, year in year out. Suddenly the dreaming spires nestle in a sea of green, like galleons setting sail, hull-down and heavy-laden, on an ocean of dreams. The dreams of the young, and those who have been young.
And on the corner of Turl Street and Ship Street is this blazing horse chestnut tree I have known for so many years, and loved each spring I've seen it. In 1968 was the first time, though it didn't spread right across the Turl back then, scraping the windows of Exeter.
And another thing about 1968 was that Oxford wasn't a perpetual building-site back then; a photo of the Turl wouldn't have been full of skips and white vans. I always maintain Oxford will be quite a nice place when it's finished; if it's ever finished.
So, back to work. I thought a day off might be a good idea, especially with another tomorrow; but there was too much post to be opened, too many ends to tie up, returns of fees and expenses due last week, and so it goes. I guess it's not possible really to sustain the immediacy. But still worth the try. Familiar passages in the Bible seem to speak directly, when you've been living the work of godspelling the faith, that Paul talks about in so many of his letters.
Great final day of the Celebration of Faith, with Michael preaching at both morning services at St John's. As almost the high point of his 10 a.m. service address, Tess and I perform a mime called 'The Sin Jacket' we have been practising. Immensely powerful and moving, showing Jesus bearing our sins in his body on the tree, and giving his righteousness to those for whom he died. We don't always preach this enough. Rightly, there isn't a dry eye in the house, and many (including us, I may say) stand to pray our renewal of our commitment to Christ using the words of St Ignatius Loyola:
Take, Lord, and receive all my liberty, my memory, my understanding, and my entire will, all that I have and possess. Thou hast given all to me. To Thee, O Lord, I return it. All is Thine, dispose of it according to Thy will. Give me Thy love and Thy grace, for this is sufficient for me. Amen.
After this, it's all pretty flat and a struggle: lunch, some debriefing, a thanksgiving Eucharist, emotional partings, a long, tiring drive home on congested M23, M25 and M40 motorways. We got home by 7, but Clemency and Rosemary, not far behind, were held up by accidents.
For all this week; for our joy and success (and whatever fruit God may bring forth); for our growth in faith and love; for safe homecomings: Thanks Be To God.
Breakfast at the Sprinters Restaurant, attended by 70+. Full
English! (And why not? Tomorrow Next week we
diet!) Michael, who has arrived to 'finish them off' gives an
inspirational and enthusiastic talk.
A lengthy team meeting follows, with lots of weeping and hugging. We are all tired and have grown together this week, and the emotional and mental intensity of this experience is phenomenal. Would it be possible to sustain this level of faith, and sense of God's reality and presence, for much more than a week, I wonder?
Rehearsals before lunch, which we take at the pub up on Beachy Head. Only the second of two meals today, so that's all right.
Then a break, just long enough for a couple of hours' snooze, before the concert. I get the spot at the end of the first half to tell 'The Unluckiest Man in the World'; probably the best I have told it, so to great acclaim. It's heady stuff, all this: not only the telling but the praise as well.
Jane's violin piece was excellent. She's been hiding her light under a bushel ... And the sketches accompanying Michael's talk were a lot of fun too: two of them by local folk.
The team is thinning out as one or two have to leave for home, so this morning I am on my own for a PARCHE visit to Hazelwood residential home. Sheila, from the parish, leads the service; I provide the story, thought for the day, absolution and blessing. Also, it turns out I am required to provide (vocally) the accompaniment for the four hymns. Hmmm. Might not make the Eurovision Song Contest.
In the afternoon to a Celebration Tea at another Sheila's house, where she reads a couple of stories including a monologue she has written (à la Kossoff) and I do a bit about storytelling (many of them heard me on Monday at Eat 'n' Speak, so I had to do something different) about Baal Shem Tov, and the Juggler of Notre Dame / Little Drummer Boy, which has been running through my head much this week. "When I tell stories, I feel God's pleasure."
Evening off, to dine out with our hosts at Ridgway's restaurant in Meads village, also with Clemency, Katie and Geoffrey. Nice, but pricey. There's an end of term feeling about things as the week draws to a close. A most remarkable thing happens. In spite of having got used to 4 or 5 meals a day, I feel unprepared for another; and when asked if we want starters or dessert I opt for neither. Even a single (main) course seems almost beyond my strength, ashamed though I am to admit it. But it was an excellent one course: sirloin steak, with Diane sauce.
Eastbourne has a wonderful thing called PARCHE, which stands for Pastoral Action for Residential Care Homes for the Elderly. Nearly 70 teams from the churches visit care homes regularly and conduct services. I went on one such visit this morning with Valerie. Told Jairus' daughter and gave a brief thought, while Valerie led prayers. A livelier group, this. One of them, a 96-year old former actress and singer, took a shine to me. I said, "I expect you all remember that story from Sunday School that I've just told.." and she piped up, "And you told it very well too, if I may say so." She started her working life after the Great War, singing the songs that her boss was selling the sheet music for, so that prospective customers could get a taste of what they were buying. Now, in Borders, we wave the bar-code of a CD under a bar-code reader and hear snippets of the track. All in just 80 years ...
Afternoon off and went shopping with Alison. Both tired, but resisted recouping our strength with retail therapy. Unlike Tess, who turned up at this evening's event, an evening at the Townhouse Bistro, in a new skirt. The bistro was good: I told Water Into Wine and Rosemary spoke, and there was a lot of mingling and chatting. Good for the local people to meet and get to know each other too.
The Tony and Tess Team in action again this morning, to go to the Ravelston Care Home and tell Bible stories to the elderly residents. These ladies were in various conditions of presence, deafness and blindness. We told about five stories (Luke's nativity; Water into wine; Jesus calls the disciples; Peter walks on the water; Jairus' daughter). Some time during the first of these we became aware of a curious noise and presently realised it was one of the ladies clacking her false teeth, which she then began to take out, examine and replace throughout. It was probably a mistake to hand round the chocolates (in lieu of late Easter eggs) beforehand, especially as some of them may have contained nuts. The telling was consequently slightly disrupted.
Then talked individually to the ladies. Tess, who is a GP and very compassionate, had more than one of them in tears as they recalled late husbands etc., and did them good this way. I, on the other hand, let them imagine I was a nice young man, and flirt outrageously with me. Let's hope this did them a bit of good too.
Afternoon: With Clemency to the garden party at the Mynotts'. Made some of them laugh, told them about God being full of surprises (as he is), and managed to help my partner win Mike's excellent quiz. The fact that I won it too is merely coincidental.
Evening off at Jorj and Maggie's; watched a bit of the DVD of Equilibrium with Jorj until Alison came in. Why wasn't I called to be that kind of kick-ass cleric?
The team is gelling in a marvellous way. It's quite unusual for a team to know each other beforehand, so that usually a lot of time initially is taken in getting to know and trust one another. We are already friends, and love one another; but the experience of praying, working, eating together is deepening those relationships.
Tess and I are a double bill today at two events: at Alf and Beryl's in the morning, where we each tell our learned-for-this-week Bible stories to our hosts' neighbours, and then Tess speaks about how she comes to be here when it is so improbable. In the afternoon we go to May and Jack's (our wonderful lunchtime providers) where they have invited numbers of young mums before or after they collect children from school. Jack and I sit on the sofa, and Jack - a retired tugboat captain - says, 'It's good this, isn't it, sitting here with all these attractive young women.'
The conversation turns to faith, and how you can have it; some of the women think it's like the 'thunderbolt from the blue' kind of falling in love, while I try to argue it's like the being able to choose kind of falling in love. What would it take, to make you fall in love with me? or, what would it take, to make you believe in God? If you can't answer these questions, it's not surprising you don't or can't believe. But in fact, if you want to believe you can ask God for it, and you will be given the gift of faith. It's there, it's free, for anyone who wants it. "Behold, I stand at the door and knock: if anyone hears my voice and opens to me, I will come in and eat with him, and he with me.
Bank Holiday Monday, and a fine morning for 'beating the bounds': in this case, a symbolic variety of the same, walking round a version of the parish boundary and praying over the place. We start with Beachy Head, a place of such awesome natural beauty, yet such tragedy, where dozens of people each year come to throw themselves off and end their lives. We pray against this, that God will put up a spiritual fence at the cliff edge to deter people from jumping over. A sea mist covers the whole headland, so that we can't even see the edge or the sea; but as we start to return it clears, giving a view over the parish that we can pray over as we come down.
And so to the Eat 'n' Speak Lunch in the Meads Parish Hall. Not the 'Eton Speak' Lunch, which some people claim they had heard it as, and which is clearly a dialect I don't speak. This was a royal feast prepared by former chef Mark and wife Susan for 70 people, mostly seniors I guess, at which I was then billed as the speaker, as 'Storyteller'. Supposed to speak for 25 minutes, I'm told I actually spoke for 40 or 45: good grief!
The moral? Don't give a storyteller a microphone: it's like handing a full syringe to a heroin addict. Or alternatively: If you see a man stand up to speak without notes, especially if he's a clergyman, it's time to leave the room at once. But have a heart, people: they were still listening, so I just carried on speaking. And I think they enjoyed it. At least, some of them said so ...
With Jorj and Maggie in the evening. It's kind of hard to get to bed at a reasonable time, we're so engaged in conversation the whole time. We learn, to everyone's astonishment, that Jorj's best friend Jim was at Manchester University with Alison, and was indeed instrumental in getting her to go to Christ Church Cockfosters where she and I met. Is this a small world, or what?
Up early - as we will be for all this week, I guess - to go to the 8 o'clock (Book of Common Prayer Communion Service), where Alison preaches her first sermon ever. Watch out, Tony! she's pretty good at this, thanks to the experience of speaking in public. I then preached at 9.15 (Morning Worship) and 11.15 (Common Worship Holy Communion): the same sermon at both services, on Acts 9, Peter raising Tabitha to life, telling the story of Jairus' daughter as part of the sermon. Seemed well received.
Then lunch for the 'Sunday Club', meaning some of the children who come to church and their parents. Didn't have to give any talks, just mingle.
Home for supper with our excellent hosts Jorj and Maggie.
Great day for the beginning of the Faith Sharing Team visit to Eastbourne for Celebration of Faith week. Up and ready to pack the car; just as we were carrying out open baskets of books and stuff, the heavens opened, whereupon it rained and carried on raining most of the way to Eastbourne. It was still grey and overcast as we neared the last bit of the South Downs. Then the sun came through, and as we came down into the town we realised why this is the favoured climate of thousands of the retired: the California of Southern England, the micro-climate that adds years to the span of lives.
The first real event of the week, after arrival, team meeting, dropping off suitcases at hosts' houses, was a boat trip from Sovereign Harbour, on the William Allchorn boat owned by a member of St John's Meads. This marina is the largest in Northern Europe, with major new building of expensive luxury flats, and berths for thousands of boats. You sail out through the sea lock which takes you down (in the present case) to sea level, and then round Beachy Head to the lighthouse there.
All the local people rejoicing that the sea was wonderfully calm, like glass. The Oxford visitors, meanwhile, who live further from the sea than anyone else in the whole British Isles, just about, and are frightful landlubbers, were some of them complaining of queasiness in the slight swell. I have been not a good sailor in my time, but coped with the situation by stuffing myself with the excellent picnic of wine and sandwiches, prepared for us by our generous hosts. What would have happened if the food and drink ran out, I don't know, but happily the boat trip was not long enough for that.
We stopped at the lighthouse, where Tess told the story of Jesus walking on the water and calling Peter to do the same. What a setting! I was so envious. Tess had been one of the possibly / nearly seasick, but she felt better when she'd told the story, and we turned the boat around and began to head back to harbour.
The excitement wasn't over, however. On the way we were hailed by a marooned jet-skier whose engine had died, leaving him several hundred yards from the beach, with night falling. The code of the sea meant we had to stop and radio for assistance. He declined the offer of a tow into harbour, because his car and trailer were there on the beach. So instead, the inshore lifeboat was called into action. We sat in our boat and watched as the crew arrived at the lifeboat station, ran from their cars, opened the door and ran the boat down to the water, and raced out to us. Sadly we don't get any salvage for this; but we do get the satisfaction of maybe having saved a life, and the bonus of a beautiful sea sunset we were able to enjoy for longer than would otherwise have been.
Living To Tell The Tale > The Online Diary > May 2004