Storyteller’s World

Will I ever understand these wonderful, baffling, Americans?

A US Commission of Inquiry finds spy agencies were “dead wrong” in most of their findings about WMDs in Iraq, in the run-up to the Iraq War. A spokesman then went on to describe an intelligence “black hole” in their knowledge about North Korea and Iran: “We know disturbingly little about the weapons, or even about the intentions, of some of our most dangerous enemies.” Hmm. But we know they’re our enemies - how, exactly?

Meanwhile, poor Terri Schiavo has died, and Dubya says, “While we grieve, it’s important for us to grow a culture of life in this country.” I seriously wonder if this man ever listens to what he says - maybe there’s no connection between his ears, his brain and his mouth? A culture of life would be a really good idea for a country governed by the world’s self-appointed Grim Reaper, who seems intent on spreading war to more and more parts of the world, and death to their unfortunate citizens.

According to BBC News, what he actually did was: Mr Bush urged those who backed the Schindlers to “continue to work to build a culture of life where all Americans are welcomed and valued and protected, especially those who live at the mercy of others”. All Americans? The poor? Those without medical insurance? Those who can’t afford the hospital bills of life support?

I think some of my American friends have already answered that one for us.

With all this time on my hands, now that Easter is past, I pick up The System of the World, the final volume of Neal Stephenson’s Baroque Cycle. One of the things that makes Stephenson such a pleasure to read, is his language. He uses his large, inventive vocabulary with enthusiasm and wit. In any case, I love reading anything that needs me to have a dictionary close at hand, to check the meanings of words I’m not sure about, or the derivations of ones I thought I knew. And sometimes, occasionally, to have the satisfaction of catching him out in what I think is an inaccuracy. (We pedants live for these small and malicious pleasures.) This isn’t always easy to tell, because Stephenson has researched his novel well, both the events and the language of the period: so sometimes he may just be adopting usages of the period. But it’s also one of his characteristics, to lace his narrative with anachronistic linguistic style - what the Guardian described as ‘marrying geekspeak with riotous action’.

Still, I’m pretty certain it’s his nautical terminology he’s got wrong when he says on page 206, line 2: [Daniel] was facing abaft, looking at a pair of flat-bottomed river boats that followed in their wake.

According to the dictionary, abaft can be used adverbially (in the stern half of the ship) or prepositionally (nearer the stern than; aft of). If you mean “at or towards the stern”, the correct word is aft.

Like I say, pedantry is a small, mean joy: but none the less addictive for all that.

Rich and poor, dance together. Let the austere and the easy-liver alike celebrate this day, let those who have fasted and those who have not fasted take part in its rejoicing. The table is well-furnished, let all take their nourishment. There is no lack of meat, let no one go hungry away. Taste you all of the meal of faith, taste all you of the richness of virtue. Let no one be cast down for his poverty, for the kingdom of all has come. Let no one weep for his sins, for pardon is risen from the grave. Let no one fear death, for the Redeemer’s death has set us free. The Redeemer has cast death out, since he had him in his power … Christ is risen and hell lies in the dust! Christ is risen and the devils are put to flight! Christ is risen and the angels exult! Christ is risen and life is quickened! ..To him be honour and power to all eternity. Amen.

Thanks to Claire (SM Catherine, OSB) for this text!

If you’re of a certain age, you’ll remember where you were when you watched the first episode of Dr Who: you were listening to the news of the assassination of President Kennedy. I have been faithful through the years between, in spite of the disappointments and betrayals, and the fact that the best doctors and companions were never the ones everyone else liked (I mean, I always thought Colin Baker was a pretty good doctor). And I loved, successively, Leela, Nyssa, Tegan Jovanka, Perpugilliam Brown …

So could the resurrected Doctor be anything other than a disappointment? Would all the hype lead to nothing but an anticlimax?

First verdict is: No way! Tonight’s first episode was absolutely fantastic: witty, fast, sexy, decent special effects, obviously had some money spent on it, and not filmed in a quarry! And yes, some real behind-the-sofa moments: the animated child dummies, and even more terrifying, the brides (awful memories of that mad woman in the attic, the first Mrs Rochester.) I’m not sure I can cope with a companion who’s definitely not an ‘older woman’ - but I’ll give Rose a chance. Somehow it feels like a grown-up Dr Who we’re getting, not an insult to our intelligence, but a series that has something for everyone of all ages - even us ‘old faithfuls’.

God bless the Beeb! “This is worth the licence fee on its own.” - Isn’t that what an old fogey’s supposed to say?

Our outdoor service, processions, witness etc. on Good Friday take the form of an ecumenical event in which all the local Churches Together converge on the local centre, carrying crosses, banners and the like. Yesterday’s seemed like a perfect parody (or summary?) of the ecumenical state of the churches.

The whole was co-ordinated by the United Reformed Church minister, so that all was done decently and in good order. The Evangelical Free Church gave the reading from God’s Word. The Roman Catholic priest led some prayers from a printed sheet with congregational participation, and had us all praying to the Blessed Virgin Mary and asking for her prayers. One Anglican gave a talk … about the Resurrection. Some of the other more separatist brothers and sisters had offered reasons why they could or would not take part this year. The music was good, provided by a small group from the Catholic Church. There was a good attendance, and people enjoyed the meeting and the singalong. Some stayed on at the end for informal fellowship and talk, though this was not officially approved of by myself and other ministers as we were heading back to our own place for the rest of the Good Friday devotion At The Foot Of The Cross (or more liturgical stuff).

All in all, it seemed like the perfect ecumenical gem. I’m smiling, and not sure whether it’s because yesterday showed so clearly how well we know and love one another … or how little.

Sun drops in (almost) unexpectedly, to bring a little noise and light into the household just after I crawled back from the Good Friday devotions thinking that a nice cup of tea and snooze in front of the TV would be most welcome.

She brings - among other things - the interesting news that various parents of various daughters’ boyfriends and/or former schoolfriends seem to know quite a lot about their and our doings, because at one time or other they’ve visited this blog.

There’s enough paranoia left to make me think, What have I been giving away that I might not want people to know? before the better thought kicks in: That’s great! A wider readership! If you’re reading this, especially if you’re a first time reader: welcome! Don’t just wander through without introducing yourself, or bookmarking the site. Leave a comment; tell me who you are; come back soon.

And yes, there are the usual temptations to change the style and content of what I write. No, I don’t think I will - either to sensationalise a bit more, or to censor, or to stop altogether. I’m just going to carry on as before, I reckon.

According to today’s Daily Telegraph (Fingers crossed Good Friday does not bring us bad luck), it used to be considered very unlucky for Good Friday to fall on March 25, Lady Day. The saying was: “If Our Lord falls in Our Lady’s lap, England will meet with a great mishap.”

(So, it’s OK for you folks in Wales and Scotland, right?)

I’m not sure whether events that followed 1910, 1921 and 1932 confirmed the superstition, or not. Er… the Great War; the Depression; Hitler’s rise to power…? Could it be that bad things happen most years, or if not, then shortly after most years?

Anyway, I’m quite sure I prefer the blessed Woodbine Willie’s alternative version: that the powers that govern the universe are not out to give us a hell of a bad time, but actually desire our well-being. Our salvation, even.

Because of Him.

Tomorrow’s special in other ways too, in that if it were not Good Friday it would be the Feast of the Annunciation of Our Lord to the Blessed Virgin Mary. This happens about 2 or 3 times in a century: 1910, 1921, 1932, 2005, 2016 are the most recent and the next times.

It was perhaps in 1921 that G. Studdert Kennedy, AKA Woodbine Willie, wrote his poem:

GOOD FRIDAY FALLS ON LADY DAY

AND has our Lady lost Her place?
Does Her white Star burn dim?
Nay, She has lowly veiled Her face
Because of Him.

Men give to Her the jewelled crown,
And robe with broidered rim,
But fain is She to cast them down
Because of Him.

She claims no crown from Christ apart,
Who gave God life and limb,
She only claims a broken heart
Because of Him.

You can find his collected poems in the Unutterable Beauty online.

Paul Foot’s history of British parliamentary democracy, The Vote (subtitled, How it was won and how it was undermined) is a fascinating, provocative and disturbing read. In his introduction, he records something his district nurse said, when he heard about the book Foot was writing: “Yes, my mother used to tell me it was our duty to vote, out of respect for the people who fought for it. I’ve always followed her advice, but now I’m not so sure.” Foot calls this a succinct summary of what the whole book is about.

The first part follows the story of the struggle for universal suffrage, from the time of the English Civil War to the 1920s. Each small progressive step was wrung from an unwilling Parliament by the patient determination, and sometimes the violent protest, of ordinary people. The ruling classes feared that extending the vote to all citizens would threaten not only their power but also their property. Since there were more poor people than rich, if the poor took hold of the reins of power, what would prevent them from taking away the wealth of the former rulers?

The second part tells the sorry story of how those fears were not realised. Though universal suffrage was eventually won, parliamentary democracy proved largely ineffective, because it was not matched by the achievement of economic democracy. As a result, every Labour Government throughout the 20th century was frustrated in its attempts to bring about major change. Sometimes this was the result of simple betrayal: when the common man entered the corridors of power he was so overawed by the experience, that he sold out to the Establishment. This is illustrated by the sad tale of Jimmy Thomas, a former engine cleaner, whose interventions in the Cabinet, as a minister, included strenuously urging his colleagues to hire the court dress they would need to accept their seals of office from the reactionary King George V. Even when Labour ministers were not self-serving, fawning toadies, they were invariably prevented from keeping their election promises, by the combined might of bankers, industrialists, and foreign currency speculators, or by the unelected and unaccountable officials of the World Bank or IMF. The old ruling classes learned faster how to use the power of capital to manipulate parliamentary democracy, and defeat it. By the end of the century, a ‘New’ Labour Government had virtually abandoned everything the Labour movement once stood for, in its haste to make friends with the rich and powerful.

Is it any wonder, then, that so many people are simply disaffected? Their faith in democracy has been destroyed by the inability of politicians to bring about real change, even when they wanted to. In the last General Election of 2001, over 40% of voters expressed what they thought about it all, by not bothering to vote.

Surprisingly, Foot himself concludes on a much more upbeat note than this depressing tale might suggest. He recalls the words of his late friend and mentor Geoff, who said, “If the revolution doesn’t come, there is nothing much we can do about that. Whether it comes or not, there is nothing for us to do but what we are doing now, fight for it, fight for the workers and the poor.”

The Observer last Sunday asked Who would Jesus vote for? Given that I wouldn’t trust a British journalist to get any story with the word ‘Christian’ in it right, I think you’ve got to read this in conjunction with Jim Wallis’ interview (taking account of its American context) in Mother Jones. Hey, why don’t we have any publications like that in the UK?

At last, a political party talking about doing something to make the rich carry a fairer share of the burden of taxation, instead of just parroting the tired and sickening ‘Value for Money; Lower Taxes’ of the Tories. I can’t believe that this would deceive anyone into thinking it benefits anyone but the rich - yet apparently it still does. So thank God for the Liberal Democrats (BBC NEWS | Politics | Lib Dems promoting ‘10 pledges’) proposing a 50p tax rate on those earning (?) over £100,000 a year.

Here’s my dilemma: Do they now represent enough of what I signed up to the Labour Party for, to make me vote for them? Or will a vote for the Lib Dems effectively just put the Tories back in power? That’s the scare talk the Labour Party are putting out. But they would say that, wouldn’t they?

A moving service this morning at the Cathedral (Maundy Thursday comes two days early in the Oxford Diocese): Eucharist with the Blessing of Oils and Renewal of Ministerial Commitment. It’s attended, I should think, by most of the clergy in the diocese. Each group of ministers is asked to renew their commitment. Priests were asked:

Priests, at your ordination, you took authority to watch over and care for God’s people, to absolve and bless them in his name, to proclaim the gospel of salvation, and to minister the sacraments of his New Covenant. Will you continue as faithful stewards of the mysteries of God, preaching the Gospel of Christ, and ministering his holy sacraments?

And we answer:

By the help of God, we will.

This is both awe-inspiring (because it reminds us of the seriousness of our calling) and strangely encouraging (because it cuts through to what it’s really all about, and ignores much of the stuff we so often agonise about because we are or are not doing it.)

The Bishop of Reading preaches, with a similar dichotomy. He prays something to the effect that We are not here because we are especially holy, or gifted, or worthy, or loving: we are here because we are what was available.

Is that one of those ‘God help the Church of England’ thoughts? Or is it, rather, a reminder that we are, after all, no different from the first disciples Jesus chose: those who happened to be there, available, and willing to respond to Jesus’ call?

Thinking a lot about money, today. Well, that’s what clergy are supposed to do, isn’t it?

Recently we have had an increasing number of funerals in church, at which the family of the deceased announce in the order of service, not just that they welcome donations, but that there will be a collection in aid of some favourite charity or other. It’s then presumed that whatever is put in the collection plate at the church door, is intended for that charity.

Now I’m not quite sure where this is coming from, or if it’s a national phenomenon, or just being encouraged (or not discouraged) by the local funeral directors. But if it became general, it would represent a significant loss of income to the church. Not that you’d get rich on most funeral collections, but every little helps. I suppose not many people realise that out of the huge cost of a funeral, the parish church where the service is held gets £39. And the diocese gets £45 towards paying the stipend of the minister conducting the service. You don’t want to be making a fortune out of people’s grief, but it does seem putting something in the collection plate might be a useful way not only of paying respects to a departed loved one, but also expressing some appreciation of the church and minister that have helped give him/her a good send-off.

Am I just being mean? (Probably.) Have other clergy out there noticed this happening? How do you deal with it, if it does?

Now, let’s try and get this straight. ‘Cause I’m really having difficulty understanding this. Apparently (today’s news: BBC NEWS | World | Americas | US judge to review feed-tube case), if you’re an American, you have a right to life. In fact, you’re compelled to exercise that right to life, even if there’s no quality to the life because you’re in a persistent vegetative state.

I just wonder what all those Iraqi citizens, who lost their lives being liberated from an oppressive dictatorship, would make of this. Didn’t they have a right to life? I’d really like Mr Bush to answer that one.

We did it! Judith, Linda, Tess, Alison, John, Terry and I told Matthew’s Passion Gospel (Matthew 26.14 - 27.66) at the Parish Communion this morning. I’d allocated the parts differently from two years ago when we tried it with Mark, and just had one longer section each. This time most of us had two or three shorter sections of between 6 and 15 verses. It helped to give greater variety and variation of voices and styles, and I think it was easier to learn shorter pieces. Last time there was much more nervousness about remembering the words, the whole business of standing up in front of everyone and speaking. This time we are all seasoned pros, and relaxing into our different voices: some dramatic, some much more low key, all contributing to the whole effect. It takes about half an hour: quite a bit longer than just reading it; but you can hear a pin drop. Some visitors to church tell me afterwards they have never heard the Gospel presented so powerfully and movingly. It’s true: you really do hear nuances and meanings that you’ve never noticed before. You don’t need a sermon after it: the word really speaks for itself, the Spirit breathing through it.

We don’t really do alt.worship in Marston. Partly because I don’t know how; partly because I think any kind of worship is pretty alt., or counter-cultural enough. Sometimes what’s called alt. looks more culturally conformist; maybe that’s the point? Anyway, what passed for it with us this evening, was The Way of the Cross using Sieger Köder’s Folly of God paintings. We’re much too Evangelical to be able to call this event the Stations of the Cross; but I’ve been wanting to do something like this ever since I first did the Stations 16 years ago as part of an ecumenical Holy Week, and was just blown away by it. I couldn’t understand how the Catholics could have such an incredible devotion and just do it in such a casual, throw-away manner. It was the kind of dynamite I reckoned would blow a church apart. [One day - I have a dream today! - Prayer Book Evensong will strike someone who has never experienced it before with that kind of force.] People went away kind of quiet, muted. I guess it worked, then.

Nowadays they’re all over the place: there’s even a blog about them called moleskinerie. But when I first came across them - and thought I was an early adopter - I’d never heard of them before. It was July 2001, in Amsterdam, when we were visiting a magical, heavenly stationer’s shop near the Museum of Modern Art. And there they were! The perfect notebook. (And as a connoisseur of notebooks since the age of 3 or 4, I should know.)

As a result of that purchase, I came back to England and read Bruce Chatwin’s The Songlines, which fitted in so well with the theme of the sabbatical I was just then getting towards the end of. He was a great user of the original moleskine notebook which then became impossible to obtain, and has now reappeared and is everywhere. So that I’m torn between joy at a shared enthusiasm, and the “don’t you just hate it when that happens” feeling that comes when your special discovery becomes suddenly fashionable.

I took my first moleskine with me on my first visit to the States to go to the NOBS Festival Gathering, in August 2001. And the first note I made in it was of Tracy Radosevic’s talk on how to do biblical text telling.

I have several moleskines on the go right now; but the Storytelling one is still probably my favourite.

The history of the moleskine notebook

And order them here.

Had a sort of holy ‘fix’ today, attending a day at Harnhill Centre of Christian Healing, where Gerard Hughes was speaking. When I read his books 17 years ago, they probably had a bigger influence on my prayer and my life, than just about any other Christian books I had read. Certainly than any I had read for a long time before that, anyway. I think I may have heard him speak once, back then, but I don’t remember it too clearly.

Today he was great, really helpful, inspiring, encouraging. A man I have a lot of time for and could gladly listen to for a lot longer than a day. He had a bit of trouble with the largely Evangelical audience who didn’t like his critique of the penal substitutionary theory of the Atonement. Not that he critiqued it, exactly; just showed by the way he spoke of the mind of God, that God isn’t that kind of God … which was uncomfortable listening for some, and just the kind of thing Gerard Hughes has always been about: putting a true God in place of the idol-gods we have constructed out of our fear, greed, lust for power, hatred of people who are not like us, etc.

Apart from the address he’d prepared, he was brilliant in his answers to people’s questions. I suppose there are not that many new questions he hasn’t heard before, so he can recycle a lot of answers. But I loved the response to the person who has problems with a sense of their guilt, and that God can surely not forgive them. He recommended visualising Christ on the cross, as in Dali’s Christ of St John of the Cross, and having a conversation with him thus: “Lord, I believe that you died for the sins of the whole world - but do realise you’ve met your match in me …” And see how long you can keep it up.

I’m sure this must have been done before, but I haven’t got a reference for where; and in any case, there must be many different ways of doing it.

I’ve got in mind to get together a programme of stories on the theme: After “Happily Ever After”. So many of the traditional and folk tales end with the prince finding his princess, or the princess her prince, or Jack finding his Jill - or (in Jack’s case) quite often just going home to his old mum - and living happily ever after. But what happened next? Where are the stories about husbands and wives, and how they get on - or don’t?

Two that spring quickly to mind are Bluebeard and its variations, and The Three Wishes. I don’t think I want to include Hansel and Gretel type stories: they include husbands and wives, but are more concerned with the children.

So, what about it? Has anyone got any ideas?

The bigger picture
I’ve often wondered if the main reason for all my hang-ups, neuroses, paranoias, and everything else that has ever gone wrong in my life, isn’t the fact that, as a child, I never had a teddy bear. Back in the 1950s, little boys just didn’t have dolls or cuddly things. I remember there being a sailor doll around the place, who was actually a monkey dressed in a sailor suit, who had belonged to my mother some time before the war. He was called Happle, which was short for Harold Apple. But he wasn’t really mine, and when a younger sister came along I either had to share him or hand him on. So I lived for over 40 years without a teddy bear. (OK, altogether then: Aaah!)

So when, in my 40s, it was revealed to me after deep meditation and therapy that the root of all my problems was teddy bear starvation, Alison bought me one. And here he is, on the left of the picture. His name is Homer, after my two great heroes.

The one in the middle is Attila the Lamb. He comes from Edinburgh, originally, and is a lamb with attitude. In fact, the last time he was in the pulpit here he absolutely refused to answer to Attila, even though that’s clearly his name. Instead, he insisted on everyone calling him Ram-bo.

On the right? Well, that’s Alison’s, and he’s called Barnaby Bear. Apparently I refused to let her call our youngest child Barnaby; which is just as well, since Tui is a girl. So she had to call her new bear Barnaby instead.

All three are quite holy, as you can see. They sit by the prayer board, day and night.

Dr Alison’s first comment on my blog!

I’ve been pondering the knotty question of why some people’s jobs seem specifically designed to hamper, and get in the way of, the people who are actually doing the key work of any organisation or society. Is it just that there is so little real work that needs to be done in the world, that systems have to have checks and balances to prevent efficiency? so as to provide maximum employment for maximum numbers? or to avoid the redundancy that would follow from any job actually being completed?

I’m sure something like this happens in most institutions. So why should the Church be any different?

As a parish priest, my job is set out in the Ordinal. Here those to be ordained as priests are told:

You are to be messengers, watchmen, and stewards of the Lord; you are to teach and to admonish, to feed and to provide for the Lord’s family, to search for his children in the wilderness of this world’s temptations and to guide them through its confusions, so that they may be saved through Christ for ever.

It’s a ministry of prayer, study, teaching, pastoral care and guidance, and enabling the worship and mission of God’s people. You could say, its ultimate intent is to help build the Kingdom of God.

Yet I’ve spent a good bit of today dealing with the work of other people, whose jobs seem carefully designed to slow me down in doing that Kingdom-building. There are the people whose jobs consist of producing glossy magazines about what their organisations are doing, which I’m supposed to read or skim or somehow know about and decide what to do with. Even filing them straight in Bin takes some time, and doesn’t seem a profitable outcome of all those people’s working hours. There are the people who arrange activities and events which they send me details of, and want me to publicise, tell people about, write about in my own community’s communications, persuade people to attend, maybe even attend myself. Then there are those - usually at Diocesan Church House and elsewhere, where they are supposed to be providing ’support’ for the front line workers - whose support consists of asking me to provide information, statistics, answers to questionnaires. There are people employed by other, large, churches - like St EvenBigger’s in this fair city, who pay someone to produce a directory of the different churches’ community work in their areas. Perhaps that is their community work: to produce a directory to ‘help’ others. But you know, if we could afford to employ people to do stuff, we might be able to do some community work. As it is, what we have done over the years is start up a number of community groups: a wives’ group, Over 50s Club, Mums and Toddlers, which we then let go of when they are able to be self-running and -financing. We aren’t doing community work as a church any more (apart from having individuals involved in many of those groups) - we’ve enabled others to do it. But it doesn’t look like we’re doing anything, because we’re getting on with it, instead of getting in the way of what others are trying to do.

I wonder what would happen if - just for a month or two - everyone stopped doing any part of their job which principally made work for others to do, and concentrated on doing something which actually worked towards the goal of the organisation. Doesn’t bear thinking about, does it? I mean, it might even change the world.