Archdruid: At least God is more merciful than Mugabe was.
All:
Friday, 6 September 2019
Sunday, 1 September 2019
Liturgy for the First Day of Meteorological Autumn
Hymn: Last Day of Summer (MacColl)
Archdruid: Behold! The first day of Meteorological Autumn!
All: But isn't that a bit arbitrary?
Archdruid: Yeah. Obviously the Autumn actually starts at the Equinox...
All: So why do meteorologists say it's today?
Archdruid: Well, it's the first of the month...
All: And we base a serious weather phenomenon on an arbitrary date?
Archdruid: It's easier to calculate when it's whole months...
All: So this whole "Meteorological Autumn" thing is just because weather forecasters aren't very good at spreadsheets?
Archdruid: See you in three weeks or so?
All: Okey Dokey, Eileen.
Archdruid: Nights are drawing in.
All: Soon be Xmas.
Hymn: Forever Autumn
A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
Archdruid: Behold! The first day of Meteorological Autumn!
All: But isn't that a bit arbitrary?
Archdruid: Yeah. Obviously the Autumn actually starts at the Equinox...
All: So why do meteorologists say it's today?
Archdruid: Well, it's the first of the month...
All: And we base a serious weather phenomenon on an arbitrary date?
Archdruid: It's easier to calculate when it's whole months...
All: So this whole "Meteorological Autumn" thing is just because weather forecasters aren't very good at spreadsheets?
Archdruid: See you in three weeks or so?
All: Okey Dokey, Eileen.
Archdruid: Nights are drawing in.
All: Soon be Xmas.
Hymn: Forever Autumn
A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
Saturday, 24 August 2019
Not Green Belt - Morning 2
And the good news, we're starting the day with poetry from Melissa Sparrow. A lovely one called "The Festival is Nearly Over - on the Feast of St Bartholomew"
The Festival is two days through
And as, excited, we awake
to see what joys are brought today
we know that Time will, greedy, take
the minutes sweet we share today
the resting, glad, in sun-kissed leys
the thoughts, the hopes, the gladdening dreams
soon darkness falls, the daylight flees
and only two days are there left.
For half of one, we'll pack away
the tents, the cooking stoves and pans,
so only one day left, I'd say.
You've from Kettering or Poole
from Edinburgh or from Dover
but never mind how far you've come
this festival will soon be over.
Even a long weekend goes by
then next week, dull September calls
and children will go back to school
and watch outside as harsh rain falls.
Then Autumn circles like a wolf
as leaves go brown and woodlice creep
we'll shuffle through the dreary rain
instead of watching fields of sheep.
So make the most of what you have
and as you think of dark and damp
November morns, enjoy the sun.
Before forever taking down your camp.
Death death death
Death death death
Death death
Death.
"A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
The Festival is two days through
And as, excited, we awake
to see what joys are brought today
we know that Time will, greedy, take
the minutes sweet we share today
the resting, glad, in sun-kissed leys
the thoughts, the hopes, the gladdening dreams
soon darkness falls, the daylight flees
and only two days are there left.
For half of one, we'll pack away
the tents, the cooking stoves and pans,
so only one day left, I'd say.
You've from Kettering or Poole
from Edinburgh or from Dover
but never mind how far you've come
this festival will soon be over.
Even a long weekend goes by
then next week, dull September calls
and children will go back to school
and watch outside as harsh rain falls.
Then Autumn circles like a wolf
as leaves go brown and woodlice creep
we'll shuffle through the dreary rain
instead of watching fields of sheep.
So make the most of what you have
and as you think of dark and damp
November morns, enjoy the sun.
Before forever taking down your camp.
Death death death
Death death death
Death death
Death.
"A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
Friday, 23 August 2019
Not Green Belt - Morning 1
The sun has staggered up over the dew-sodden Midsomershire grass of the #NotGB19 campsite. And once again we ask ourselves - if they must hold this event on a farm, why not one which deals in sheep rather than sewage?
It was, as ever, a fractured night. But then we are all fractured people. Mostly after the disturbances when the contingent from the Norbertine Monks fraternity had a food fight with the Vegan Cheese Collective. There's no better whey to settle an argument.
Burton Dasset has woken to discover that the dew soaked through the blanket that he was so optimistically using as a ground sheet. I think we was inspired by Bill Jo Spiers. But then, Billy Jo had someone to keep her warm, unlike poor Burton. So his tent is flapping on a branch, alongside the Young Adults group after their night asleep under it. They're hoping that by tonight, they'll have drunk enough WKD to be able to sleep in the car.
There's going to be a few good items today. The "We Are All Broken People" stand for instance. Where some straight fundamentalists will be explaining that we're all broken, but they're broken in more acceptable ways. I've heard that they've invited Ann Widdecombe - the poster-person of the "We Are All Broken" movement - to come along and scream about why only weird people love her. But not in that way.
Then "Chesney's Screaming Jelly Babies". The Chesney Hawks tribute band that got fed up just playing the same song over and over. So they migrated to death metal, then Christian Death Metal (better known as the Tuba Mirum Spargens from Berlioz's Requiem). Then ambient trip-jazz, and now they just sing Ralph McTell numbers while throwing jelly babies into liquid nitrogen. It's a gas. Actually, it's not initially. But it ends up as a gas.
But for now, I'm drinking additive-free soy-milk latte from a cup that's so environmental it's already composting in my hand. And munching this fake-bacon organic gluten-free breakfast bap with ethical tomato sauce. Over the hazy hills of Midsomer I can hear the terror of adulterous landlords being murdered by creepy vicars. It's good to be back.
"A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
It was, as ever, a fractured night. But then we are all fractured people. Mostly after the disturbances when the contingent from the Norbertine Monks fraternity had a food fight with the Vegan Cheese Collective. There's no better whey to settle an argument.
Burton Dasset has woken to discover that the dew soaked through the blanket that he was so optimistically using as a ground sheet. I think we was inspired by Bill Jo Spiers. But then, Billy Jo had someone to keep her warm, unlike poor Burton. So his tent is flapping on a branch, alongside the Young Adults group after their night asleep under it. They're hoping that by tonight, they'll have drunk enough WKD to be able to sleep in the car.
There's going to be a few good items today. The "We Are All Broken People" stand for instance. Where some straight fundamentalists will be explaining that we're all broken, but they're broken in more acceptable ways. I've heard that they've invited Ann Widdecombe - the poster-person of the "We Are All Broken" movement - to come along and scream about why only weird people love her. But not in that way.
Then "Chesney's Screaming Jelly Babies". The Chesney Hawks tribute band that got fed up just playing the same song over and over. So they migrated to death metal, then Christian Death Metal (better known as the Tuba Mirum Spargens from Berlioz's Requiem). Then ambient trip-jazz, and now they just sing Ralph McTell numbers while throwing jelly babies into liquid nitrogen. It's a gas. Actually, it's not initially. But it ends up as a gas.
But for now, I'm drinking additive-free soy-milk latte from a cup that's so environmental it's already composting in my hand. And munching this fake-bacon organic gluten-free breakfast bap with ethical tomato sauce. Over the hazy hills of Midsomer I can hear the terror of adulterous landlords being murdered by creepy vicars. It's good to be back.
"A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
Thursday, 22 August 2019
Art, Life, Theology, and Badgers #NotGB19
Every year, the Beaker Folk make a special trip, to a virtual field in Midsomershire, to attend the annual Not Greenbelt festival, run in aid of the Big Issue Foundation by the wonderful Graham Hartland.
As usual, due to a race memory going back to the real Greenbelt in 1985, we are already here. This gives us the chance to set up our tents, get in some early reading the Bible and looking serious, and - most importantly - release the dozen badgers we've brought with us specially to liven up the event.
Early signs are good. All the Beaker Folk, being assorted kinds of stereotype by definition, have fitted neatly into their allotted grooves. To wit:
Burton Dasset's tent has already blown away in a gentle breeze, and he has had to chase it across three barbed wire fences and two fields until it came to rest in a tree.
The Young Adults Group have packed so much alcohol into their borrowed people carrier that they had no room for a tent or food, and are currently begging for a few carrier bags to give them overnight shelter.
Charlii and Young Keith have already spent so much time trying to stop Celestine wandering off, that they've put their dog's satellite tracker on her dungarees strap and connected her to a tree by a length of elastic to be on the safe side.
We've had a row with the First Church of Trump the Redeemer next door, and won the battle by throwing tins of corned beef at them.
The Hnaef family have arrived in their Winnebago, planted a vineyard, built a patio, installed a Jacuzzi and started renting out Internet bandwidth.
Drayton Parslow has come along "for the atmosphere". Made it clear that he will not be attending any events or concerts, as he is merely to be "salt and light" for all the other, inferior, Christians.
Three mates who tagged along, who have no interest in spirituality or art, have been accidentally converted to the Elim Pentecostal tradition and have started an all-night prayer session.
Ranulf and Gerbriza have established a second tent for their larder, and are currently cooking themselves a selection of dim sum and a Mongolian barbecue.
Grinkle has got her guitar well and truly out of tune, ready for singing "Kum By Ah" at 3 am.
And me? Personally, I have been sitting around, looking thoughtful and jotting down some observations in the manner of Adrian Plass. Like I say, we've all very much hit our stereotypes already.
So get over to NotGB19 and support it!
Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
As usual, due to a race memory going back to the real Greenbelt in 1985, we are already here. This gives us the chance to set up our tents, get in some early reading the Bible and looking serious, and - most importantly - release the dozen badgers we've brought with us specially to liven up the event.
Early signs are good. All the Beaker Folk, being assorted kinds of stereotype by definition, have fitted neatly into their allotted grooves. To wit:
Burton Dasset's tent has already blown away in a gentle breeze, and he has had to chase it across three barbed wire fences and two fields until it came to rest in a tree.
The Young Adults Group have packed so much alcohol into their borrowed people carrier that they had no room for a tent or food, and are currently begging for a few carrier bags to give them overnight shelter.
Charlii and Young Keith have already spent so much time trying to stop Celestine wandering off, that they've put their dog's satellite tracker on her dungarees strap and connected her to a tree by a length of elastic to be on the safe side.
We've had a row with the First Church of Trump the Redeemer next door, and won the battle by throwing tins of corned beef at them.
The Hnaef family have arrived in their Winnebago, planted a vineyard, built a patio, installed a Jacuzzi and started renting out Internet bandwidth.
Drayton Parslow has come along "for the atmosphere". Made it clear that he will not be attending any events or concerts, as he is merely to be "salt and light" for all the other, inferior, Christians.
Three mates who tagged along, who have no interest in spirituality or art, have been accidentally converted to the Elim Pentecostal tradition and have started an all-night prayer session.
Ranulf and Gerbriza have established a second tent for their larder, and are currently cooking themselves a selection of dim sum and a Mongolian barbecue.
Grinkle has got her guitar well and truly out of tune, ready for singing "Kum By Ah" at 3 am.
And me? Personally, I have been sitting around, looking thoughtful and jotting down some observations in the manner of Adrian Plass. Like I say, we've all very much hit our stereotypes already.
So get over to NotGB19 and support it!
Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
Wednesday, 21 August 2019
Ritual of Shooting Stars and Hedgehogs
Archdruid: I saw two shooting stars last night.
All: I wished on them. But they were only satellites.
Archdruid: It's wrong to wish on space hardware.
Burton Dasset: I wish, I wish, I wish you'd care.
Archdruid: I'm sorry, Burton. But I don't. You're a soulless get with the interest quotient of a slug.
Burton: One of those nice slugs? Or one of those boring gray ones?
Archdruid: Did we see the wonders of the heavens last night?
All: No, for it was too cloudy.
Archdruid: And shall we wonder at the sight of the heavens tonight?
All: No. We'll all be too tired after last night.
Archdruid: But do you not wonder that a shooting star, born in the furnace of the Big Bang, drawn from the icy womb of its comet by the warmth of the sun, should die screaming in its own heat as it crashes into the atmosphere that blankets our earth?
All: If a meteor burns up above a blanket of cloud, does it really burn up?
Archdruid: This isn't Zen, you post-modern numpties. This is science. Yes. It does. Of course it does. It indubitable does.
All: Did you see it?
Archdruid: OK. I'm off to get the flamethrower. If nobody sees the Beaker Folk burn up, is it really murder at the hands of a heartless religious leader?
All: Ah, yes...
Archdruid: I rest my case. What about the hedgehogs then?
All: No hedgehogs.
Archdruid: All eaten by badgers?
All: We reckon.
Archdruid. OK. Bring me the model badger and giant pins...
All: This is a bit dark for a light-hearted skit on post-modern religion isn't?
Archdruid: You're right. Bring me a very real badger and the flame-thrower.
All: Eileen, you're scaring us.
Archdruid: Then get out there and wonder at the shooting stars.
All: Right you are. It's still light, but we shall wonder at the miracles of the creation in the daylight....
Archdruid: I EXPECT TO SEE PHOTOS
Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
All: I wished on them. But they were only satellites.
Archdruid: It's wrong to wish on space hardware.
Burton Dasset: I wish, I wish, I wish you'd care.
Archdruid: I'm sorry, Burton. But I don't. You're a soulless get with the interest quotient of a slug.
Burton: One of those nice slugs? Or one of those boring gray ones?
Archdruid: Did we see the wonders of the heavens last night?
All: No, for it was too cloudy.
Archdruid: And shall we wonder at the sight of the heavens tonight?
All: No. We'll all be too tired after last night.
Archdruid: But do you not wonder that a shooting star, born in the furnace of the Big Bang, drawn from the icy womb of its comet by the warmth of the sun, should die screaming in its own heat as it crashes into the atmosphere that blankets our earth?
All: If a meteor burns up above a blanket of cloud, does it really burn up?
Archdruid: This isn't Zen, you post-modern numpties. This is science. Yes. It does. Of course it does. It indubitable does.
All: Did you see it?
Archdruid: OK. I'm off to get the flamethrower. If nobody sees the Beaker Folk burn up, is it really murder at the hands of a heartless religious leader?
All: Ah, yes...
Archdruid: I rest my case. What about the hedgehogs then?
All: No hedgehogs.
Archdruid: All eaten by badgers?
All: We reckon.
Archdruid. OK. Bring me the model badger and giant pins...
All: This is a bit dark for a light-hearted skit on post-modern religion isn't?
Archdruid: You're right. Bring me a very real badger and the flame-thrower.
All: Eileen, you're scaring us.
Archdruid: Then get out there and wonder at the shooting stars.
All: Right you are. It's still light, but we shall wonder at the miracles of the creation in the daylight....
Archdruid: I EXPECT TO SEE PHOTOS
Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
Thursday, 15 August 2019
The Assumption of Mary
I blow out the light before the icon of Our Lady, and wonder.
Today, the feast of the Dormition of the Theotokos. Or, as good Catholics put it, the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary.
And I believe in the Virgin Birth. Not because it suits any particular agenda of mine. I don't believe the God-Bearer is eternally virgin. Nor do I deny it. I don't want to say I don't care - because her relationship with Joseph was important to her, and her body was - well, hers. But it's an impertinence for me to demand anything of her - even to think of it. The Bible says she was a virgin when Jesus was born. I don't think that is critical to his being God or not. And because it is not critical - why shouldn't I believe it? But beyond that - that's her affair.
But today belongs to the other side of her pilgrimage. The girl who brought God into the world is now an old woman. She knows this place won't hold her any longer. But that doesn't worry her. Because she has seen beyond the Here and Today. Her womb has encompassed the universe. She has heard the carols of the angels that sang before Time. She has seen Life put to death - held Life's broken body - and then seen Death destroyed as Life broke back into the light.
She has carried the Word, given birth to the Word, held the Word and been filled by his Spirit.
And now, as her breath ebbs away, she sees. The sword that pierced her heart is finally withdrawn. As the apostles wonder, she fails. And, as she does, arms are held out. And she, who held him as a baby, she who held him broken at Golgotha - this time she is held in his arms. She falls, but is held up. She plunges into death, but soars upwards. She breaks through the waters of death, and she is safe on Jordan's shore.
And the arms that were stretched on a cross hold her. The one to whom she gave life, breathes life into her.
And the girl that was born to a broken race, is the Queen of Heaven.
Monday, 12 August 2019
Liturgy in Celebration of a Brexit 50p
This experimental liturgy has now been issued to the Beaker Liturgical Commission, who, after suitable consideration and a period of trial, will recommend it to the Liturgical Synod who may, or may not, recommend alterations and another period of consideration and a trial, before recommending it to the Bardic Bench who may, or may not, recommend alterations and another period of consideration and a trial, before recommending it to the Druidical Council. If all goes well, we may get it authorised before the countries that were formerly the United Kingdom rejoin the European Union.
Hymn: Buddy can you spare a dime? (about 11p at current rates)
Confession: We've no idea what the point of this coin is.
Reading: The story of when Jesus needed 50p to pay the Temple Tax but Peter wasn't allowed to catch a fish because it was in British waters.
Archdruid: Behold! This shiniest of things! The Brexit 50p!
Younger Beaker Folk: What's a 50p?
Archdruid: It's a coin.
Younger Beaker Folk: What's a coin?
Archdruid: It's like contactless, only made of metal...
Younger Beaker Folk: Why?
Archdruid: Why what?
Younger Beaker Folk: Just why?
Drayton Parslow: It is the reversal of the dark times! The hands of friendship of the 1973 coin are now the clenched fists of Brexiters at foreigners and the V-signs of the Conservative Party towards their own people! Rejoice! Rejoice! Truly the fogs of righteousness will sweep down upon the Channel and cut off the Continent! And the song of the turtle will be heard in the land! (Except, since turtles* are foreign, they will have to earn at least £36K per year to sing in the land.) Let us cast off the bonds of friendship and rejoice in loathing and blame-mongering!
Younger Beaker Folk: Isn't friendship a good thing?
Drayton Parslow: This is not about friendship! We are free from the Whore of Babylon - the evil empire with its seat in Rome.
Archdruid: Erm, Brussels?
Drayton Parslow: Good point.
Younger Beaker Folk: What is 1973?
Archdruid: Well, basically, we're going to be given a coin to reverse the message of a coint that nobody under the age of 50 can even remember, and it's all for....
Drayton Parslow: Freedom! Remember our great withdrawal from Europe at Dunkirk! Remember Agincourt! Remember Bannockburn!
Archdruid: Wasn't that a great victory for Scottish independence from England?
Drayton Parslow: Ye may take away my false view of history. But ye cannot take away my freedom!
Younger Beaker Folk: Can you eat freedom?
Drayton Parslow: You cannot measure freedom by its monetary worth. Brexit is the substance of things hoped for and the consistency of porridge.
Younger Beaker Folk: Well, what's a 50p coin worth?
Archdruid: About €0.40.
Offertory: Contactless and notes only. No vulgar silver coins.
Hymn: I fought Delors. And Delors (and all his successors) won
Beaker Folk file out to stockpile Brie
*Yes. We know it's not that kind of turtle.
Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
Hymn: Buddy can you spare a dime? (about 11p at current rates)
Confession: We've no idea what the point of this coin is.
Reading: The story of when Jesus needed 50p to pay the Temple Tax but Peter wasn't allowed to catch a fish because it was in British waters.
Archdruid: Behold! This shiniest of things! The Brexit 50p!
Younger Beaker Folk: What's a 50p?
Archdruid: It's a coin.
Younger Beaker Folk: What's a coin?
Archdruid: It's like contactless, only made of metal...
Younger Beaker Folk: Why?
Archdruid: Why what?
Younger Beaker Folk: Just why?
Drayton Parslow: It is the reversal of the dark times! The hands of friendship of the 1973 coin are now the clenched fists of Brexiters at foreigners and the V-signs of the Conservative Party towards their own people! Rejoice! Rejoice! Truly the fogs of righteousness will sweep down upon the Channel and cut off the Continent! And the song of the turtle will be heard in the land! (Except, since turtles* are foreign, they will have to earn at least £36K per year to sing in the land.) Let us cast off the bonds of friendship and rejoice in loathing and blame-mongering!
Younger Beaker Folk: Isn't friendship a good thing?
Drayton Parslow: This is not about friendship! We are free from the Whore of Babylon - the evil empire with its seat in Rome.
Archdruid: Erm, Brussels?
Drayton Parslow: Good point.
Younger Beaker Folk: What is 1973?
Archdruid: Well, basically, we're going to be given a coin to reverse the message of a coint that nobody under the age of 50 can even remember, and it's all for....
Drayton Parslow: Freedom! Remember our great withdrawal from Europe at Dunkirk! Remember Agincourt! Remember Bannockburn!
Archdruid: Wasn't that a great victory for Scottish independence from England?
Drayton Parslow: Ye may take away my false view of history. But ye cannot take away my freedom!
Younger Beaker Folk: Can you eat freedom?
Drayton Parslow: You cannot measure freedom by its monetary worth. Brexit is the substance of things hoped for and the consistency of porridge.
Younger Beaker Folk: Well, what's a 50p coin worth?
Archdruid: About €0.40.
Offertory: Contactless and notes only. No vulgar silver coins.
Hymn: I fought Delors. And Delors (and all his successors) won
Beaker Folk file out to stockpile Brie
*Yes. We know it's not that kind of turtle.
Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
Sunday, 11 August 2019
The Helter Skelter Church of England
I've been on a weekend away in Liverpool. Had a lovely look at the Catholic Cathedral. From the upper tier of the Main Stand. So I've missed the excitement about the helter skelter in Norwich Cathedral.
As usual, Bishop Gavin Ashenden, former chaplain to the Queen, pops up to tell us it's all terrible. I presume he's the only cleric the BBC religious correspondent has on speed dial. As mentioned previously, although he is indeed a former chaplain to Her Majesty, it's not like he was formerly the only one. Former Chaplains to the Queen are common sights in UK towns and cities, forming their own football leagues and dining societies.
 |
| Liverpool Catholic Cathedral, viewed by squinting over the Kop |
Bishop Ashenden's insight was also revealed when he quoted the fake "Kate Adie" tweet saying Tommy Robinson was only doing what many other "reporters" did when he was arrested. Then left his spurious tweet up, and doubled down on it, even knowing it was fake when "Kate" changed "her" name.
Is there an agenda?Kate Adie demonstrates her own courage & integrity by asking”And when the last law was down,& the Devil turned round on you,where would you hide, Roper?This country's planted thick with laws and if you cut them down —d'you really think you could stand upright?” https://t.co/8sXO6nALTU— Gavin Ashenden (@gavinashenden) July 6, 2019
Which is not to play the man, not the ball - nor to suggest Bp Ashenden is one of the people that go on "Free Tommy" marches. But is just a suggestion that the BBC shouldn't just go asking the nearest celebrity former Bishop to the Queen every time they want a mildly reactionary view on the modern Church.
To Mr Ashenden, there is no evidence that tourists become Christians, and, "For such a place, steeped in mystery and marvel to buy in to sensory pleasure and distraction, is to poison the very medicine it offers the human soul," he said.
Well, you can't have it both ways. If the place is steeped in mystery and marvel then it must mean something to tourists to go into cathedrals. Unless he's just asking that every cathedral in the country stays open on the off chance that a former Chaplain to the Queen should wander in and have his soul distracted. And if you aren't to buy into sensory pleasure and distraction you shouldn't hang out with a church that burns incense to the glory of God, and eats bread and drinks wine to remember what God has done.
The thing with cathedrals is, they are alive, from floor to ceiling, with architectural and artistic interest. These lift up the soul, and bring the faith to life.
And the thing about a helter skelter is, it gets you up really high, and then swings you gradually round as you descend, so you get a really good view of the wonders around you.
The other thing about a helter skelter is that it is easily dismantled when the summer is over. Leaving the cathedral back as it was, with nothing permanently changed. Apart from a few hearts that have seen something lovely from an unexpected angle. And a few children that remember the day a cathedral went from being a lump of stone to a place of wonder and interest.
When I was a child, and a member of the Extremely Strict Methodists, I was terrified of Anglican churches. Their age, the yews, the graves, the half-lights, led me to think they were haunted by ghosts. If I had been down a mat-slide in St Peter's Dunstable, or St Mary's Luton - perhaps I would have thought otherwise.
To Mr Ashenden, there is no evidence that tourists become Christians, and, "For such a place, steeped in mystery and marvel to buy in to sensory pleasure and distraction, is to poison the very medicine it offers the human soul," he said.
Well, you can't have it both ways. If the place is steeped in mystery and marvel then it must mean something to tourists to go into cathedrals. Unless he's just asking that every cathedral in the country stays open on the off chance that a former Chaplain to the Queen should wander in and have his soul distracted. And if you aren't to buy into sensory pleasure and distraction you shouldn't hang out with a church that burns incense to the glory of God, and eats bread and drinks wine to remember what God has done.
The thing with cathedrals is, they are alive, from floor to ceiling, with architectural and artistic interest. These lift up the soul, and bring the faith to life.
And the thing about a helter skelter is, it gets you up really high, and then swings you gradually round as you descend, so you get a really good view of the wonders around you.
The other thing about a helter skelter is that it is easily dismantled when the summer is over. Leaving the cathedral back as it was, with nothing permanently changed. Apart from a few hearts that have seen something lovely from an unexpected angle. And a few children that remember the day a cathedral went from being a lump of stone to a place of wonder and interest.
When I was a child, and a member of the Extremely Strict Methodists, I was terrified of Anglican churches. Their age, the yews, the graves, the half-lights, led me to think they were haunted by ghosts. If I had been down a mat-slide in St Peter's Dunstable, or St Mary's Luton - perhaps I would have thought otherwise.
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