Month: July 2017

Irish Famine Memorial, Dublin

We returned earlier this month from a lovely ten-day tour of Ireland, which took us from Dublin through the southern counties of the Republic, to Galway, Connemara, the Burren and the Ring of Kerry, and back through County Cork. It was a smallish tour, with 25 participants among whom Alison and I were the only English people. (Run by My Ireland Tour – highly recommended!) Tony McGoey was a our driver and tour guide, who informed us, told jokes and stories, even sang to us! And of course, there was a lot of information about the history of Ireland.

I knew about quite a bit of it. But most of what I knew was the story the British tell. So, very little about the penalties imposed on Roman Catholics for much of the 17th to 19th centuries, the attempts to eradicate Irish language and culture, the greed and land-grabbing of the Anglo-Irish gentry. We know of the Irish Potato Famine as a huge, terrible ‘humanitarian disaster’ as we term them now. What the British histories don’t tell us is, that while the Irish peasantry were starving and being driven off their land in their millions, the landowners’ fields were producing bumper harvests of grain, which they were exporting very profitably across the Irish Sea. Recent attempts to rebrand the period as not the Irish Famine but the Irish Genocide make more sense now.

Notice to Quit, served on the Widow Mary Campbell in 1849. Derry Bog Village, Ireland

It was a wretched experience to hear these accounts, along with those of the brutality of the British suppression of the protests and uprisings against the system, and know I was one of the race that is guilty of these atrocities. It’s not much consolation to think, “It’s not me that’s responsible. It wasn’t even my ancestors who were the governing classes or the gentry – my ancestors were the people Below Stairs, or if they were lucky, the clerks slaving away at their writing desks, like Bob Cratchit.”

And all this guilt, if it is guilt, came while I’ve also been reading Simon Schama’s History of the Jews, with its catalogue of the persecutions of the Jews by Christians, ever since – well, forever, really. Certainly since Christianity became the State religion under the Emperor Constantine. History is a long, long record of abominable things that powerful groups of people have done to less powerful people, and the English are among the worst offenders. History may, or must, always be written by the victors, but it’s also true that any of us who have survived (so far) are in fact the victors in the human (rat) race. Even if we are only the victors’ running dogs.

Can we atone for our share in what has been done? No. Do we need to atone? I’m hoping that Someone Else has done that, but perhaps atonement can only work for us, if we recognise that survivors’ guilt isn’t an imaginary thing, but is indeed real guilt. And recognising guilt surely means doing all that we can to avoid guilt by association in the evil things that are still being done. What genocides are the British people still complicit in? Maybe by selling arms to despotic regimes like Saudi Arabia, so that they can kill Yemenis or support Islamist terrorism? Maybe by paying the taxes that pay for the bombs killing people in Syria? Maybe by tolerating Governments that continue to make the rich richer, at the expense of the poorest in society?

When we stand before the Great Assize and the only plea we have to offer is Guilty, I hope it really is true that the Bleeding Charity¹ is also greater than anything we have so far imagined.

1. ‘What do you keep on arguing for? I’m only telling you the sort of chap I am. I only want my rights. I’m not asking for anybody’s bleeding charity.’
    ‘Then do. At once. Ask for the Bleeding Charity. Everything is here for the asking and nothing can be bought.’
   C. S. Lewis, The Great Divorce ↩

It’s just over a year since I preached my farewell sermon at St Nicholas Marston, on 17th July 2016. So as I look back, and especially as the blog where I posted it no longer exists, I’m re-posting it here.

Last Sunday morning Alison preached a cracking sermon, didn’t she? I thought it was one of the best I’ve heard her preach. So, she’s set the bar pretty high, and I’m afraid I can’t emulate that, I don’t think this will be one of the best sermons I’ve ever preached (I’m feeling a bit too emotional for that). But with God’s help it will be ‘good enough’. And it will be the Last Sermon I preach from this pulpit – at least, as vicar of this parish.

Richard Baxter, the 17th century Puritan hero who was vicar of Kidderminster for many years during and after the Civil Wars, wrote, “I preached, as never sure to preach again, and as a dying man to dying men.” So, last sermon is good. Any sermon a preacher ever preaches could be their last, whether through personal accident or mishap, an asteroid hitting the earth next week, the Second Coming, whatever. So a preacher should always perhaps have in mind, If this is the last time I can speak to these people I love and have a responsibility for, the last time I can give them some word of encouragement, instruction, admonishment, exhortation, so that they go on growing deeper into the love of God and into all that God wants for them, what should I say?

Not all biblical texts lend themselves equally well to this, but today’s passage from St Paul’s Letter to the Colossians is good enough. And yes, it is one of my favourite passages from St Paul. So, thank you, Lectionary.

It really starts in mid-sentence, because Koine Greek was entirely innocent of full stops. St Paul is speaking about the Son (the One by whom God has rescued us from the power of darkness and brought us over into the Son’s Kingdom) who is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation. It would be great if you would read this chapter yourselves, during the next few days. But for now, just stop and think about how extraordinary this whole passage is. This letter was probably written, to the young church in Colossae, in the early 50s of the 1st century AD, maybe 53 or 54. So it was not much more than 20 years after the death of Jesus. People would still be alive, who remembered and could talk about Jesus, what he was really like, and the impression he made on those who heard him. Paul himself – we don’t actually know that he had seen or heard Jesus while he was alive, but quite possibly he had – had been utterly convinced after the crucifixion that Jesus was not, could not be, the Messiah. He tried to quash the idea that he was, by killing these Jesus people or throwing them in prison. And twenty years on, here he is calling him not only Messiah, Christ, but Son of God. He is making a claim that Jesus of Nazareth, and this divine being, are one and the same. That this Being was pre-existent with God from eternity, was a party to the creation of the universe, is in fact the cohesive principle of everything that exists, the meaning and explanation of everything, the source and goal of all things.

This is A Big Claim. It was for the people of the 1st century, whether Jews or pagan Greeks; you may think it’s even bigger for us who know so much more about the scientific origins and nature of the universe, whether that’s Big Bangs or black holes or Higgs boson particles or all those other things I know nothing more than the names of. (How many of us understand more than the littlest thing about them?) How many of us fully understand what St Paul is talking about? He is not talking science. He is talking Mystery, a mystery we could not work out unless it was revealed to us, but which claims to make sense of everything. We may not grasp it, yet it can so move us that, if we give ourselves to it, our lives will never be the same. And the Mystery is that at the heart of our life and of all things, is love. The great Unknown which we hope or guess at, has a name, and the name is Love. It’s like Dante says, after his journey through Inferno, and Purgatory, and Paradise, and he finally beholds the Reality, and it is

l’Amor che move il sole e l’altre stelle – the Love that moves the sun and the other stars.

Here is the truth: I am loved, and you are loved, by the One who sustains the universe in being. And we are not meaningless blips in infinity, because that One knows us and our names are written on his hands and in his heart.

I stand here today because, some 46 years ago, Christ captivated me. And has not let me go, or let me down, in the years since then. Actually, of course, he was reaching out to me and trying to get my attention all the years before that as well, in fact as the psalmist says For it was you who formed my inward parts; | you knit me together in my mother’s womb. | I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. (Ps.139.13f) It just took me 21 years to catch on. And I think I’m still catching on, because of all those times when life presents us with counter-evidences. When things go wrong, or bad things happen, all the times you really can’t understand what God is doing, the times when even vicars have doubts. You know some of the things that make me most angry, and most doubting. It’s when people hate, and preach hatred, and even kill other people, and claim they are doing all that in the name of God. What kind of religion does that? What kind of God permits a religion to turn into that perverted thing, and (apparently) isn’t doing anything about it? There are other things, as well, that make even a vicar doubt. But it’s precisely in those times, that it is most important for us to know that the Love that moves the sun and the other stars is holding us. Like the shepherd holding the one lamb that wandered off and got lost, like the mother holding her newborn baby.

And this is what I want to leave you with, as my Last Sermon legacy. I want you to know, with even more assurance than you do already, that this is why we are here. Here on this earth, here in this church: to celebrate this Mystery, to know this Mystery more fully, to live the way it teaches us to live and to seek by all means to make this Mystery known to those who don’t yet know it.

Another of my great Christian heroes through the years, my patron saint almost, has been St Benedict. St Benedict of Nursia (480-547), one of the great figures of Western monasticism, author of the Rule of St Benedict which was (is!) foundational for so many of the religious orders that have sustained the Church. The Rule of St Benedict has all the qualities which I treasure in the Anglican way, the Church of England’s way: the daily round of prayer and praise to God; a spirit of moderation and pastoral gentleness; a profoundly healthy work-life balance (as we would call it now) of prayer, work, study and relaxation; the determination that all should be included, no one in the Christian community should be left behind, or lose heart and give up, or feel that they and their gifts and abilities don’t matter; the core values of stability (staying in the place where God has called you), obedience to the Word of God, and conversion of life (even though all of us are only ever beginners, Benedict encourages us to be constantly seeking to grow). The Christian community, whether that is the monastery or the parish, is meant to be ‘a school for the Lord’s service’. (Prol.45) And it is Christ-centred, through and through. St Benedict says, the love of Christ must come before all else (4.21), and (of those who follow his Rule) ‘Let them prefer nothing whatever to Christ. ‘(72.11)

That’s what I have wanted, and want, for this community of our two churches here in Marston and Elsfield. And will continue to pray for, as I pray for you in the years to come.

So. Let the love of Christ come before all else, and prefer nothing whatever to Christ. Because it is Christ who is in you, who is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation, the firstborn from the dead, the One in whom all things hold together. And all this is so, because the Love that moves the sun and the other stars loves you with infinite, unconquerable love.

Alison and I can leave you, sadly but confidently, because you are in good hands. And I don’t mean Rob’s, and the wardens’ (though, indeed, they are not such bad hands, either.) No, you are in good hands, because you are in God’s hands, you are in those hands which flung stars into space, but were also to cruel nails surrendered, hands from which nothing can ever pluck you, or cause you to fall.

Let us pray.

Preached at St Nicholas Marston, 17 July 2016. Tony and Alison Price’s last service before retirement.

I guess lots of average churchgoers struggle, more or less, with the church they attend. Some may have shopped around for a church that was the least worst of options in their locality – or, if they were lucky, perhaps even the best match with what they hope for in a church. Others may not have the luxury of choice, and end up in the only church it’s at all feasible for them to attend. And they end up putting up with whatever’s on offer. I suspect that most lay people assume that, even if they have to compromise and make sacrifices, at least the clergy and other worship leaders have it just the way they want it to be.

Well, it ain’t necessarily so. Even though the clergy may have the greatest influence on what the worship is like, most of them would say there are so many variables, that it’s still never 100% how they would like it. The involvement and enthusiasm of the congregation are never in your control. They don’t sing with enough enthusiasm, they say the congregational bits too fast or too slow, they don’t arrive early enough to get into a suitable prayerful frame of mind. The layout and furnishings of the building may have been fit for purpose 500 years ago, but today!? The quality of the music depends on who is available to provide it, their skills and interest and personal preferences. So the clergy too have to make compromises, and put up with the way things are.

Nevertheless, I was more than happy with the worship at Marston and Elsfield. It wasn’t perfect, but it nourished me and many others during the 25 years and more that I was responsible for it. The music in particular was a joy, thanks to the dedication of the four organists I worked with, the choir(s) and music group. When we started a Junior Choir, it was a huge boost to the whole of our music, and numbers of those lovely young people who started in our choir have gone on to other things, singing in Oxford college choirs and even cathedral choirs. I was proud of the way the music developed during my time as Vicar, even though I had little to do with actually making it happen.

And then, of course, you have to move on, or in my case retire. And suddenly you’re not in the driving seat any more, you’re just another bum on a pew.

The one thing I’m sure I can say without contradiction, to any soon-to-be-retiring clergyperson, is: Wherever you end up in church, they won’t do things properly. I suppose it’s remotely possible you may find yourself in a place where something in the worship is so amazing that you say to yourself, I wonder why I never thought of doing it like that? But it doesn’t happen very often.¹ So there’s a steep learning curve, about Letting Go and Letting Be, and learning either to put up with or love the way it is done in your new place of worship.

There are blessings along the way. We have learned some new things, and learning new things is good when you retire. We’ve found a loving and friendly welcome, from lots of people who are not only nice but good – their compassion and generosity put me to shame. We always preached the importance of being part of one’s local parish church, rather than looking around for something more congenial, and we have been blessed to be able to do that (in spite of some of the niggles). We have been touched by the way that the clergy value us simply being there; as if our mere presence is an encouragement, a support to them.

And so, we are here because this is the place we believe God has called us to be. Which is the best way, and the best place, to be.

1. It happened quite a lot during my last two years in the parish, when I was blessed with a brilliant young colleague and was constantly thinking, I wonder why I’ve never done it like that? ↩

37 years in parish ministry. And I never once wanted to be in any other church or denomination: through all the ups and downs, the changes and chances, of four decades (if you include three years of training beforehand) the Church of England was my chosen and undoubted home. Even when two successive appointments were in Local Ecumenical Projects, as they were called back then, I was never tempted to jump ship and leave the C of E. Quite the reverse: it was ecumenism I lost faith in.

And yet, when those 37 years came to an end in retirement, I found that one of the strongest things I was feeling was just pissed off with the Church of England. I was weary, weary of the endless wrangling about sex, the nonsense of continuing to ordain men who don’t accept the ministry of women, the disobedience of the powerful Evangelical churches and clergy both to the Church and, I would maintain, to the Bible they claim to believe.

When I first came to an active faith, as a student, I took a very ‘traditional’ view of Scripture as well. If the Bible said homosexual practice was wrong, that settled the matter. One of the decisive issues was not just the scriptural prohibitions in Leviticus and elsewhere, but the sense that homosexuality was ‘unnatural’ because it didn’t fit the Genesis account of God creating human beings male and female, so that they would be suitable partners for each other.

So, what changed my mind, over the years? First, life. The experience of getting to know gay Christians, and perhaps even more of knowing Christian parents of gay children, who instead of rejecting them had accepted them and their sexuality. It became clear that they were not rebelling against nature, but that ‘gay’ simply was their nature, it was the way God had created them. Forcing themselves to be other than gay would simply be disobedience to how God willed them to be. And they had just as great a desire and need for love, and to find a helpmate to share their life, as anyone else.

The second thing that changed my mind, was reflection on the way we use Scripture. It’s quite clear that throughout the history of the Church, not every single verse has been understood literally, not every single injunction literally obeyed. So how does the Church decide which bits don’t need to be taken literally, and why? Changed social circumstances, greater scientific understanding of how the created world and human nature actually work, deeper insight into how the Bible came to us, and what it means. Even the deepest-dyed Evangelicals have let go of many beliefs which were once held to be evident from Scripture, usually because it became clear to the body of Christ that a literal interpretation simply didn’t fit with the facts of life, or with the overall sense and direction of the Bible as a whole.

So why are they holding on to their absolute prohibition of homosexual practice, and condemnation of homosexual people, on the strength of a very small number of texts? Texts, moreover, which can all be called in question by

• our deeper scientific and psychological understanding of human sexuality
• the overall sweep of the biblical narrative, in the direction of God’s inclusive love and acceptance of all people, whoever and however they are.

It looks like it’s not about interpreting and obeying Scripture, and it’s not even about knowing and doing what God wants. It looks like what it’s really about, is their own fears, hang-ups, frustrations and desires about sex in general, and their own sexuality in particular. That’s the only way I can account for the irrational passion and the sheer vitriol of the way they express their views and attack those who disagree with them. Or am I missing something?