Tuesday 31 December 2019

Drayton Parslow's New Year Message

Hello! Hello! Is this thing working? I know it is important to keep up to date with modern technology, and that we communicate with a new generation with such cutting-edge techniques as Blogs, Myspace and Google Plus. On the other hand, never forget God's warnings to those who went
whoring with their own inventions - surely a prophecy of certain dating apps on mobile phones?

 But nevertheless I am willing, as was Tyndale with the printing press, to make use of new technology to spread God's word. In association with other of the more godly preachers of this land, I developed a dating app for the faithful - "Believr". It matched up different people - of the opposite sexes, of course - on the basis of their agreement on 96 key principles on which the Godly may differ. Adult baptism, for instance, the Rapture, prelapsarianism, the consumption of low-alcohol beer, whether to use wholemeal or white bread at the Lord's Supper, the ideal number of hymns, how large a hat women should wear, the correct hemline height for skirts, and a selection of images of beards with the option to identify them as either "hipster" or prophetic.

We may have been a little too granular in our selection criteria. After a massive 32 downloads from across the world, there were no matches at all. And half of the young ladies that signed up seem to wear clothes that are unsuitable for any Baptist chapel that I know of. 

It has been quite a year for Husborne Crawley and the Bogwulf Funambulist Baptists. I think, when I consider the continuing raging heresy of the so-called Archdruid, that we have certainly won the argument. People were broadly in favour of our promises of eternal life, lots of rousing hymns and 2-hour sermons. However, we have to balance this against the way our congregation numbers have halved. And that some people, hearing about our Camp Revival meetings, assumed it was something to do with the B52s tour and started attending worship dressed up as Ru Paul. In other news, we need to raise some money for the tin roof, which is rusted.

Speaking of which, thank you to those who've asked me about my struggles with O'Vienna Syndrome, where you inadvertently use lyrics from 1980s songs in your everyday speech. It has often been the case that in the morning I awake, my arms and legs and body ache. But when the going gets tough, I depend on the power of love and even when I feel I'm better off dead, and so unstable - I remember that this church is like a city on a rock. And we built this city. I am no longer a small-town boy.

But I digress. If our numbers become any smaller we will need to resort to a schism. We will therefore take our arguments to the streets - to be exact by standing in Dunstable town centre, shouting at people that they are Satan's spawn, foul loathsome creatures, who should clear off to the Anglicans. Oddly, despite our encouragement, they never join us.

Wishing all God's elect a peaceful, godly new year and a terrible, gnawing vengeance for the rest of you. We are another year nearer the end, albeit we did have those six false alarms during the last twelve months. I hope those of our fellowship who sold all they had and gave to the poor, are somehow able to rebuild their lives and careers.

Yours in utter confidence for what lies ahead

Revd Drayton Parslow



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.

Monday 30 December 2019

Archdruid's Sermon on the Death of Neil Innes

We remember that Neil Innes sang "How Sweet to be an Idiot".

We didn't realise British politics would adopt it as a motto.

You're the Urban Spaceman baby.
 Here comes the twist.
We need more intelligent, funny people in the world : not fewer.
(Sorry that didn't rhyme).

Sunday 29 December 2019

Rachel Weeping for Her Children

“A voice is heard in Ramah, weeping and great mourning,
Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted,
    because they are no more.” (Matt 2:18 / Jer 31:15)
It's not all sweetness and light at Christmas.

When we look at the feast days after Christmas Day we remember :
  • Boxing Day - St Stephen, the first Christian martyr
  • 27th - St John the Apostle, who was exiled for his faith
  • 28th - Holy Innocents, who we remember in this reading.
  • 29th - Thomas Beckett, murdered for standing up to a king
Which isn't the list of happiness you might expect at the most wonderful time of the year. The Christmas story is barely five minutes in and we get this break-up of the manger scene. No wonder nativity plays like to stop with Mary, Joseph, shepherds, sheep, wise people and perhaps the odd Pokemon gathered round the manger in worship. This turns into a darker story. A story of murder and escape.

Fra Bartolomeo,- Rest on the flight into Egypt
Matthew's quoting from Jeremiah, and Jeremiah is looking at the exile to Babylon. He imagines Rachel - the mother of Benjamin and Joseph - weeping as her descendants are rounded up to be sent away from their homes. The tomb of Rachel is said to be just north of Bethlehem - sealed off from Bethlehem, which is now a Palestinian town, by a wall. The state of Israel says this is for protection, the Palestinian authorities say it is an apartheid wall. And so the world turns. There is a Christmas poem that Thomas Hardy wrote in 1924, while the Great War was still fresh in people's minds and bodies:
'Peace upon earth!' was said. We sing it,
And pay a million priests to bring it.
After two thousand years of mass
We've got as far as poison-gas.

Millions of Rachels mourning their children in that first world war. In the 2nd world war - once again it was the Jewish people that suffered terrible state-sponsored murder, persecution and displacement.

And today the mothers of Syria, the Rohingya people, minority Christians, members of other religions, and many atheists throughout the world suffer. As the carol puts it (and got there before Hardy)


Beneath the angel-strain have rolled
Two thousand years of wrong;
And man, at war with man, hears not
The love-song which they bring;

It's easy to focus on the Holy Innocents and say - why didn't the angel warn their parents like Joseph was warned? But the murder of innocents continues every day that this world endures. Every day innocent people are harmed by the evil actions of others. And so the world rolls on, awaiting something better.

Jesus may have slipped away from danger, like Moses before him, on this occasion. But the forces of this world caught up with him in the end. 30 or so years later, having told everybody to love one another and forgive one another, he was killed by the State like his former neighbours those little Bethlehem boys. God knows what it means to be a refugee, the victim of injustice, a murder victim.

Methodists at this time of year are preparing for their Covenant service, with its amazing words:
I am no longer my own, but Yours.
Put me to what You will;
rank me with whom You will;
put me to doing, put me to suffering;
let me be employed for You or laid aside for You;
exalted for You, or brought low for you;
let me be full; let me be empty;
let me have all things; let me have nothing... 
It's not a prayer of passive acceptance, it's a wilful entry into the life of God. A renewal of the expectation that we share our life with the God who suffered on the earth.

If we enter into that life, we have to accept that we are lifting the cross. But we also enter into the life of the God who rose from the dead and who will come again. In the belief that though there are a billion pains in this life, yet it will all be made new. Through the One who came as a child, fled as a refugee, died as a criminal - but will return as a judge and bring justice for those he suffered with.
When peace shall over all the earth
Its ancient splendours fling,
And the whole world give back the song
Which now the angels sing.
One day, all injustice will be overturned. One day, all the exiles will return. One day, Rachel's tears will be dried.


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.

Monday 23 December 2019

Nativity Re-imagined

Now the sun has safely set after the Solstice, it was good to put Yule behind us and get onto Christmas. At least, so I thought until I saw the Little Pebbles' "Nativity Re-imagined."

I mean, yes. Obviously setting the manger scene in a lock-up garage in a Kentish Town back street made perfect sense. Joseph was an Amazon warehouse operative rather than a carpenter, and the donkey was replaced by a 20-year-old Fiat Panda. All completely conventional.

The shepherds being converted into a group of playwrights, who were on Primrose Hill abiding, seemed a bit jarring. If the Gospel is good news for the poor, then a bunch of kids doing Alan Bennett impressions isn't necessarily what we're aiming for.

But the Wise People. OK, having seven Magi and not of them all male is fair enough. But when they hear Herod is coming for the child. I just think that tooling-up and putting armour on a Ford Transit like a Cockney A-Team seemed a bit incongruous. Herod dying in a hail of bullets while Mary and Joseph are told they're safe where they are. Not true to the spirit of the piece? There is literally no shoot-out in the original.

But then... Herod being rebuilt by the evil Roman Legion into a cyborg king? And the angel having to take him out with a bazooka? Where does an angel get a bazooka in 1st century Palestine? Many critics commented that this was straining the narrative.

Still, by the end, the robo-Herod is lying dead - again - in the remains of the stable while Mary, Joseph, Magi and Pokemon sing that traditional Christmas anthem, "Stay Another Day". So all in all, the spirit of the season has been kept intact. Well done to all the children and leaders, and I've made a mental note to move Kylie on to more adult-focused ministry in the new year.


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.

The Pagan Origins of Christmas Customs

The great thing about pagan origins is that there's always more to "discover". And at this most wonderful time of the year, it's always good to find some more.
In the week before Christmas, all British people take a bull terrier to Wetherspoons

Christmas Hyacinths

The British like to buy bowls of hyacinth bulbs in August, which they gently try to coax into flower at Christmas. When they eventually do bloom in January, the people of the household cry out: "What's that terrible smell? For goodness' sake get them in the garden" and then throw the bowls outside.

Hermes

Although the Norse and Saxon peoples believed that Odin was the great gift-giver, the Beaker Folk adopted the Greek belief in the god Hermes. Unfortunately due to a misunderstanding, they believed that the messenger god was in fact the god of throwing parcels over fences. To this day, British children look in dustbins, on garage roofs, in trees and behind gates to find out where Hermes has left this year's presents.

Elf on the Shelf

One of Hermes' assistants is believed to be a very lazy elf. Instead of being out hiding presents like Hermes' other elves, he sits on the shelf and makes everybody hate him.

Blair

Blair is a strange creature of mixed fortune. While said to bring success to those that adopt him, he curses those those that reject him with eternal failure - which they blame him for. Like a European equivalent of the squonk, he leaves a trail of tears behind him as he flies around the world on his jet.

Breaking the Transport System

At the time of year when British people like to go and visit relatives, they prepare by digging up all the railway lines and flooding the roads. It is believed this is an ancient memory of when the  fens were underwater and the East Anglians clung to trees on the few scraps of land and shouted to their relatives that they'd see them in the summer when things were less hectic.

The Corbyn

Another gift-giving creature, those that believe in him say he travels the world sitting on the floor of his magical train, promising wonderful gifts that never materialise and then blaming the lack of gifts on  Blair. He may have the same mythical origins as Hermes.

Fairytale  of New York

A traditional Celtic ballad which is believed to pre-date Shane MacGowan's teeth. It is discovered each year that a song about two unpleasant losers shouting insults at each other is simultaneously not very nice, and the most Christmassy thing possible. Some people make instrumental versions of the song, to keep the Christmassy feel  but without the nastiness. That this is not a crime carrying a long prison sentence is a constant source of wonder.

Klopp

In many houses in the Liverpool area, Klopp is seen as a wise man from the East who performs miracles, brings many gifts and is generally wonderful. Unless Liverpool blow up in the second half of the season.

Killing the Poinsettia

It is said that the Poinsettia gets its colour from the blood of Captain Cook when he was killed on Hawaii. In revenge, British people kill a Poinsettia every year, and then act like it was unintentional.

The Unbelieving Vicar

Each Christmas, a member of clergy in England is elected to deny the Virgin Birth. The Daily Mail, which spends the rest of the year openly advocating punishing the poor and foreigners, will suddenly become all Christian and get a bit upset about it. Sometimes the vicar will then adopt the Daily Mail's attitudes to Europe, and start voting Conservative, confusing everyone.

Black Eye Friday

This is celebrated on the last Friday before Christmas. Many British people go into their towns, drink too much, and then end up fighting. Nobody can see why this is different to any other Friday.

The Banning of Christmas

A tradition that has now spread to the United States, where loud-mouthed, red-faced people say they are not allowed to say "Merry Christmas" anymore, thus proving themselves wrong. 

Father Boris

On Boris Night, little children spill bottles of wine on sofas and pray that it doesn't turn out that the Boris is their father. Like the Corbyn, he makes lots of promises of gifts. Except he keeps them all to himself.

The Invention of the Pagan Origins of Christmas

This ritual, often celebrated by the mysterious "Guardian", consists of making up "facts" about the pagan origins of Christmas, based on falsehoods, wishful thinking, and Internet lore. The Guardian itself is an interesting character. It is said that the Guardian was once an inhabitant of northern climes (Manchester) but moved south to Islington for better tapas.


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 22 December 2019

God Enters the God-Made World

Mary was pledged to be married to Joseph, but before they came together, she was found to be pregnant through the Holy Spirit.  Because Joseph her husband was faithful to the law, and yet did not want to expose her to public disgrace, he had in mind to divorce her quietly.
But after he had considered this, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, “Joseph son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife, because what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins.” Matt 1:18b-21 
God enters the God-made world. Through a tiny, tiny miracle. Nothing like the size of loaves and fishes or walking on water. Just one tiny, tiny life nestled in the Virgin's womb. But the Spirit that breathed life into the first Adam now brings into life the new one. Stirring like the first shoots of a spring bulb in a December day. Destined, over the next nine months, to go through those transformations we all undergo in the womb. As he grows, encapsulating the very evolution of human beings. When God entered the world, for a little while God looked like a tiny fish.


Dawn
But while the God-child goes through his dramatic development, he has fired off a few radical developments outside the womb as well. An engaged couple have their wedding plans thrown in the air. Mary has her first sorrow -  one not included in the traditional seven sorrowful mysteries - as she looks into the baffled face of her fiance.

Because here's a thing about the Virgin Birth. You get people saying of course people in a pre-scientific world would believe in this kind of thing. They were superstitious and gullible. But Joseph knows how babies are made. He doesn't think they're found under cabbage plants. And he's not going to want to bring up anyone else's child. But he's a decent bloke. He doesn't want to bring Mary disgrace. So he tries to find a quiet way out. And it takes a message from God to tell him what's going on.

Of course, you could argue that it might have been easier just bringing up someone else's kid that having God's son around the house. You're never gonna want to upset his dad, are you?

But Joseph is a holy man, and a good man. He hears God's words and he obeys.

They're to call him "Jesus" - "The LORD saves". And before he's got round to saving the world, he's going to bring God's love right into the middle of this little family. This otherwise ordinary family - a carpenter and his young wife.

Of course, being God's love, that's going to involve quite some excitement - strange visitors, a room-full of shepherds, an escape to Egypt and a child going AWOL in the temple.

But for the time being, the Word is made flesh and dwells among the two of them. And they obey God's will, scary as it might be, and prepare for what lays ahead.


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.

Saturday 21 December 2019

Solstice Sunset

A Nice View of the Sun
Archdruid: Right. Is it the right day this time?

Burton Dasset: No. According to my Star Gazing book, it's Summer Solstice.

Charlii: You're holding it upside down, you idiot. We're good to go, Eileen.

Archdruid: The sun sets before the longest night. We sing the Sad Solstice Song.

All: Raise your banners high. Don't die, sun, don't die.

Archdruid: We light the Solstice Candle to rage against the dying of the light.

All: Ooooh

Young Keith: And behold as the drizzle and wind blow it out.

All: Aaaah.

Archdruid: Behold the glory of the setting sun!

All: We can't. It's behind all the clouds again...

Archdruid: Then ring out, wild solstice bells!

Hnaef: They can't. The....

Archdruid: The clappers still rusted?

Hnaef: Indeed.

Archdruid: And I smashed all the vuvuzelas this morning...

Hnaef: Mouth organ?

Archdruid: Yeah crack on. Liverpool are on soon.

Dry Out, Solstice Bells

Archdruid: The sun rises before the darkest day.

All: Well I can't see it...

Archdruid: Have faith, little ones.

All: Like you told us we wouldn't need coats?

Archdruid: Truly I tell you, if you had faith as much as a raindrop the clouds would break and the solstice sun would reveal itself in all its glory.

All: Where's your faith then? Archdruid, prove thyself.

Archdruid: Frankly it's being dragged back by yours. 

All: And also with you!

Archdruid: Now ring out, wild solstice bells!

Hnaef: They won't. The clappers have rusted in all the rain.

Archdruid: Any alternatives?

Hnaef: We brought the kazoos and vuvuzelas.

Archdruid: Then ring out, wild solstice kazoos and vuvuzelas!

Hnaef: Or is it vuvuzelae?

Archdruid: Who cares? Just give us one verse of "You'll Never Walk Alone" and we can get in the dry.

Charlii: Hang on! I just checked and it's Solstice tomorrow.

Archdruid: Ah. OK, see you at 4 for a repeat of the "Solstice Sunset" ritual.

Wednesday 18 December 2019

In Memoriam, Kirsty MacColl (2000)

A song drifts along from a bar where a jukebox plays
And triggers the memory of happier summer days
Drive to the beach, sun on the water
Love was in reach and you never saw that
The sun was sinking and love was fading away.




Tuesday 17 December 2019

Needing a Wee on the First Day of the Week

Imagine the situation. You're a minister, in your riper years (as many of us are) and your ability to get between rest-stops isn't as great as it used to be. Or you may not be in your riper years, but you have other reasons why 5 hours on the road out of sight of a loo ain't a great idea.

But God and the Church of England, in their infinite jest, have decided that you shall minister at 7 churches, over an area of 100 square miles, none of which have a loo. And no matter how determined you've been in pruning the worship rota, you're still going to have an 8am, 9.30am and 11am service at three of your churches each Sunday.

And you'll love having Evensong. Because that's just the one. And you can go before you.... go.

But in the morning, sure you can get an early pit-stop in at 7.30. But then you'll be on the go (so to speak) until around about 12.30. And nature is inexorable and human flesh is weak.

So here's the hints.
  1. First up - make sure that in any benefice you take on, your parsonage is roughly in the middle. This means you can, time permitting, race into the house and back on your way between gigs. Depending on the precise reasons you may need to get to some facilities in a hurry, this may be a must-have. 
  2. Ideally, discuss with the bishop whether you can trade the vicarage in for a motor caravan. It's much better for maintaining a presence in each parish, you can take your loo with you, and in the unlikely event you get a weekend off, you can go to Somerset.
  3. Find out whether there are any public-spirited parishioners who are happy to offer their facilities as a rest stop.
  4. Then ensure they tell you when they're away. You don't want to be caught out.
  5. Avoid highly spiced food on Saturday nights. Or this whole blog post could be far more nightmarish.
  6. Keep the sermons short and the post-service mingling likewise, to enhance the possibilities of number 1 (so to speak)
  7. Refuse all offers of cups of tea, coffee or other beverages. Biscuits are OK. And if you're on the last leg, then whatever you like.
  8. There's a reason why churchyards have so many yew trees. And it's got nothing to do pagan mysteries. All that evergreen foliage can be mighty handy as a screen in extremis.
  9. Going in a churchyard, no matter how planted with yew trees, is not easy with an arthritic hip.
  10. Also, people get grumpy if you've just relieved yourself on Uncle Arnold.  Whether he's a long-term inhabitant of the graveyard, so to speak, or he's just sunning himself. So check the territory in advance.
  11. And watch out for newly-dug, not-yet-occupied, graves.
  12. There's one building project all clergy should embrace whole-heartedly. It's a loo in the bell tower.
  13. Or at least, surely, God's mercy and the treasurer's budget might stretch to a portaloo in the graveyard?
  14. Or a hole in some unconsecrated spot with a plank over it?
    Luxury
  15. I don't mean over the bell ringers, no matter how tempting you think that is.
  16. When you think about it - NASA managed to come up with a spacesuit that could cope with an astronaut meeting a call of nature in deep space. Surely Whipples could come up with something similar in a cassock alb.

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 15 December 2019

The Martyrdom of St Jeremy

Once in Islington there was a holy man called Jeremy. And as a young man, Jeremy wished he could run a whelk stall, or organise parties in breweries. But the local brewers and shellfish wholesalers doubted his abilities, and would not allow him access to their facilities. And so poor Jeremy gave all his belongings to the poor except  his shell suit, and ate a frugal diet of parsnips and home-made jam. And he spent much time talking to the friends of terrorists. Because Jeremy believed that he could bring everyone to live in peace.

But the time arose when there was a great dispute over who should be Pope. And the supporters of Jeremy said that he should be Pope because nobody was as wise, holy and miraculous as Jeremy. And the people had a great synod where everyone should choose who should be Pope. And Jeremy won the arguments. But nobody believed he should be Pope, except a few disciples. And Alexander de Pfeffel became Pope Boris I, and failed to live up to his vow of chastity, although he helped everyone else to achieve poverty.  Jeremy told everyone he was sorry they had not been able to understand his arguments, and eat the fruit of his magic money tree, but although he took responsibility, none of it was his fault. And so Jeremy retreated to the desert allotment. While some of Jeremy's followers said that everyone else was too stupid to understand St Jeremy's teaching.

But his disciples marvelled at Jeremy's holiness. "Surely he is like St Francis of Assisi, or even Chairman Mao" they said. "Behold his miraculous ability to sit on the floor in trains that have vacant seats." While others said "who else has won so many peace prizes that nobody has ever heard of?"

And his disciples schemed to see who should succeed Jeremy - whether it should be Dianne the Abbot, or Rebecca of the Long Bailey. And everyone knew that the only one who would be any use would be Jess of Birmingham. But they feared she might have a mind of her own. And if the next Pope were to be a woman, they wanted one they could keep under control.

 But Jeremy did not worry. He sat under his fig tree, and made chutney, and wondered at his own righteousness, all the rest of his life.

And there was a great wailing and gnashing of teeth. But not in the more comfortable parts of Islington.


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.

Saturday 14 December 2019

Ritual of Lighting the Pink Advent Candle

Archdruid: The sun sets.
3 lilac? We've no idea

All: The moon rises.

Archdruid: Like the golden yin

All: And the silver yang.

Archdruid: On this Eve of Gaudete Sunday...

Steeleye Span: Gaudete, Gaudete... 

Hnaef: Can someone please shut the Steeleye Span cupboard?

Maddy Prior: No! Don't shut us back in the.... <slam>

Archdruid: We light the pink third candle.

All: Ahhh! Pink for Mary.

Archdruid: No, not for Mary.

All: Yeah, because she's a girl.

Archdruid: Did you miss the full explanation?

All: Yes. But we don't like it so it's not true.

Archdruid: Do you really think that's how truth works?

All: If you're asking us whether we think that, then clearly it does...

Archdruid: Pink is not for Mary. Even if she was a girl. Pink is for...

Hnaef: Luke?

Charlii: The Angels?

Daphne: Paul on his scooter?

Young Keith: Beeping his hooter?

Little Pebbles: The donkey?

Stacey Bushes: Gin?

Burton Dasset: John Wesley?

Chesney Wold: Famine?

Archdruid: No. Pink is for John the Baptist.

All: JOHN THE BAPTIST? Why's he get pink?

Archdruid: Nah, forget it. Let's go for Mary shall we?

All: Yeah, because she's a girl.

Person who knows what they're talking about: Actually, I think you'll find it's called rose.

Steeleye Span: All Around My Hat....

All: SHUT THAT CUPBOARD DOOR!


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.

Friday 13 December 2019

You Say Posada

Apologies to those who were upset at what happened when the Posada was handed over yesterday evening.

The ritual every year since time immemorial (2017) is that the Posada - a set of figures carved from coconut shells in the Aztec tradition - is passed from each resident Beaker Family to the next, at 8pm on the nights in Advent.

Last night, it seems that Hargnett had been at the Pina Colada in expectation of receiving the Posada. But became confused and assumed he had to treat it like a Piñata. 

The sight of an overwrought bloke attacking statues of saints with a large stick hasn't been seen since Cromwell's men arrived to suppress idolatry. And a lot of children were very upset.

Unfortunately, due to Brexit it seems it's not as easy as it was to get Aztec coconut carvers at short notice. So the Beaker Knitting Circle are currently purling as fast as they can to get a new Posada ready for tonight's handover. When someone other than Hargnett (who's currently locked in the Doily Shed charged with heresy and iconoclasm) will be handing it over to Ragnalf and her family. 

Ah, the peaceful Advent days! When we meditate on the things to come. And cut our bare feet on pieces of shattered coconut that formerly represented holy people. 


Please note supper will be limited tonight as we've found Jacob Rees Mogg hiding in the freezer.  We need to thaw him out as apparently he's wanted again. Although not by us. 

And Hargnett still wants to know where his sweets are.


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 11 December 2019

Order for the Interring of a Prime Minister in a Fridge

HYMN: "VIEW FROM A FRIDGE"

Archdruid: Dearly beloved, we gather here to mark this solemn rite. The insertion of a Prime Minister into a fridge.

All: We bet it's not even the first time he's had to hide in an item of household furniture.

Archdruid: And we don't even need to mention that he's been doing a milk round.

All: This stuff writes itself. 

Archdruid: Man that is born of woman is not necessarily one of Boris Johnson's illegitimate offspring.

All: But there's always that chance.

Archdruid: And so it is that Boris Johnson, faced with a stressful experience, reverted to his deepest instincts.

All: And called upon the mountains to fall upon him.

Archdruid: But being there were no mountains handy 

All: He jumped in a fridge instead.

Archdruid: All men are as grass.

All: Which lieth all around.

Archdruid: They are as a puff of smoke

All: Which gets in your eyes, stinks and is really irritating.

Archdruid: And we know the next PM will have to stand up to Putin, the EU and Trump.

All: So lucky we've got someone who knows where his fridge is. 

Archdruid: And so we join in the sacred chant.

All: Come out, Boris! We know where you're hiding!

HYMN: Love Theme from the Fridges of Madison County

Tuesday 10 December 2019

Beaker Folk Prayer for the General Election

Oh God, we pray for the General Election and that through it your will be done.

Albeit we're a bit concerned that if we explicitly associate your will with the results of the election, there's kind of an impression given that the winners have God on their side.

Which given the potential leaders we're looking at currently seems, frankly, a bit worrying. We mean, we know you've worked through Cyrus, Potiphar's wife, Joseph's brothers selling him into slavery and a talking donkey. But, you know, that was back in Biblical times when it was all a lot simpler.

And we're a bit worried that if we say your will is equivalent to the results of a democratic election, then it's arguable your will made a right mess of it in 2015, 2016 and 2017. Not to take party political sides, but we've not been a terribly high-performing country after any of those votes. Was that your will?

As if it was, we can only conclude that in fact your will is to punish us for something. Maybe the Empire, or making hot pants trendy in the 60s, or Strictly Come Dancing. Don't get us wrong, we can understand the punishment is deeply appropriate. But shorter and sharper would probably be better than this slow death by lies and fantasy we've been going through lately. Just a plague of frogs, maybe?

Votes without end

Amen


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 8 December 2019

Prepare the Way

"This was the man spoken of by the prophet Isaiah when he said: A voice of one that cries in the desert, 'Prepare a way for the Lord, make his paths straight.'" Matthew, 3 - Bíblia Católica Online

Solstice sunrise over Cranfield airfield

Words are powerful things, but slippery. They're ambiguous, imprecise, can carry multiple meanings. Which is why it takes a certain kind of brain to be a computer programmer. If you're the sort of person that says, "but that's not what I meant to say", who likes to use language that is powerful but ambiguous, which if taken the "wrong" way, can do terrible harm - try not to be a programmer. Go for Prime Minister instead. If you're wanting to be a politician you can say all sorts of things which can mean terrible stuff, but claim that all along you were quoted out of context, or meant something different. If you're a computer programmer your language means just what it says - regardless of what you meant. Computers aren't impressed that you went to Eton, or spend your spare time at the allotment. And if you've ever had to deal with a whole evening of Burton Dasset telling you about the time he spent a month looking for a full stop in the wrong place in a Cobol program in an accounts payable package, you'll know exactly what I mean.

But real human language - as opposed to that used by programmers - isn't like that. It's nuanced, it lives in context. It has a background, a genre, a sub-text. You have to know what you're dealing with. As Paul Merton said about reading the telephone directory (and I'm glad I can count on half my readership knowing what a telephone directory is,  still): the plot's terrible. But the people - they seem so real! Which is why reading human language - especially something as multi-layered as the Bible - is not something we should do like we're computers, following the apparently obvious instructions in front of us.

All of which thoughts, in reference to the Bible passage above, come out of the most controversial tweet of the week in Christian Twitter, from Miranda Threlfall-Jones. Asked to give her most controversial liturgical opinion she tweeted:
I mean, obviously she's right. It was controversial. And she's right that we need to stop and think about what we're doing with these words. There's good reasons we can't just use them without reflecting what the words mean in our language - and what they're trying to grasp for. But she got a lot of abuse and was accused, among other things, of heresy and idolizing feminism. But let's look at the word "Lord", for Jesus or God.

"Lord" in the Bible is an interesting word. Or words. The Greek word is Kurios. Which in Greek can equate to the English words "lord", "master" or even, in the sort of phrase Alf Garnett would have used, "head of the household". The English word of course means "male member of the nobility", and is only used in this context by people who don't actually live on the Woburn or Althorp estates by people referring to the House of Lords. A chamber of government populated in England by some people we didn't vote for, many of whom are actually experts in their fields, but some of  whom are simply the friends of current or former Prime Ministers.

So far so obvious. It appears that Matthew is telling us that the Lord of the Manor is coming back to pay a visit. And that's certainly a reasonable analogy. One Jesus does use himself. Consider Jesus's parable about the ruler going away on a long journey.

Albeit worth remembering that, in days gone by in Great Brington and surrounding villages, it was Raine Spencer who is remembered as having wielded the real power in the Althorp estate. But is it problematic, the idea of Jesus as a ruler who will come back, put things to right and deal dreadfully with his enemies? I guess it depends who you think God's enemies are. If you're the american or English middle class, sitting comfortably, you're going to be thinking God will be dealing with those who don't behave in your particular way. People who put their milk in the tea first, or call their kids after favourite lager brand or something. If you're the First Century Church, running into hiding places as the other one who calls himself "Lord", who has power over life and death in the here and now hunts you down and demands you swear allegiance - you might have a different idea of how God's Lordship will sort things out. The Book of Revelation sounds terrifying unless you're on the bottom of the pile.

The early Church took the term "Lord" and applied it,  not to Herod - the kingling whose power ultimately depended totally on Caesar - not to Caesar, whose power he claimed came from God but who so often actually derived power from a fragile truce with his own army. The Church gave the term to a refugee baby, to a crucified man. Against the power base of the Roman Empire, the Church said real lordship lies with the homeless and dispossessed.

But - and this is why the Bible is many-layered - that's the Greek word we use for "Lord". John the Baptist almost certainly wasn't speaking Greek out in the desert. And the phrase that Matthew quotes from Isaiah definitely wasn't written in Greek. It was in Hebrew. And there are a number of Hebrew words that you can translate as "lord".

"Baal", for instance. Which is normally left untranslated in English translations. Because it became the name of a god of the tribes the Israelites fought against. And it would be confusing to translate as "the lord", particularly when Elijah's in that miracle fight with the prophets of Baal.   Then the Hebrew word "adonai" - meaning "sir" or "my lord" - as you might refer to the boss or the squire. And that's used about God as well, and Jewish people would say it when referring to God rather than use the holy name of God - which is the word that Isaiah actually does use - the one Bible scholars write as YHWH, and the New Jerusalem transcribes as Yahweh, and the Jehovah's Witnesses write as Jehovah and claim is God's real name though it's not because we don't know what the vowels should be.

But that other word we translate as "The Lord" (with little caps in many Bibles) isn't about land ownership or feudalism or who's the boss in the same way. It's more about God as being - it's a derivative of the verb "to be". It's why God can be referred to as the "I am". Why when Jesus says, "Before Abraham was, I am" (John 8:58), he nearly suffers a stoning. John the Baptist isn't paving the way for a super-charged land-owner. John is anticipating that the very one who writes the words of the world's story is going to be turning up.

This is way beyond emperors, Pharaohs, kings and squires. This is the eternity of God in the space of one - short - human life. This is the one through whom and for whom everything was made, turning up on site.

And that concept is really hard to grasp - which is why I struggle to put things into human words, with my severely limited human imagination, even with this wonderfully flexible and powerful and slippery thing, the English language - which is why we are limited down to words like "king" and "lord". And "shepherd" and "servant" and "father", "mother hen", "creator" and "saviour".   Each one is a word that tells a facet of God, each an image - and we know what happens when we take an image and make it represent the whole of God.

That first Advent is when the architect and builder of the universe becomes part of the building materials, made up of the stuff that God first made, subject to its physical limitations - but also of infinite love and creativity. In a world of petty kings and short-lived emperors, God is revealed as the child of a beaten-down nation, a refugee, a prisoner and a condemned criminal.

We remember his coming, at this darkest time of year in our Northern latitudes, as the spark of hope in despair, the first glint of light in the darkness. And prepare for when Jesus comes again - and the broken-down, yet so beautiful world we inhabit is caught up forever into the wonder of the God who came down so far for us.





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.

Tuesday 3 December 2019

Advent Candles Explained

Congratulations to Skaldwell, whose arrangement won this year's Advent Candle prize.

It's certainly generated a lot of strong reactions. But I don't think that anyone can doubt that "The Pointlessness of Hope in a Decaying World" is a powerful statement.

A scattered arrangement of burnt-down and crushed tea lights
The Pointlessness of Hope in a Decaying World

The astonishing Fegus Butler-Gallie, a cleric whom all should follow on Twitter, has come up with a wonderful thread of tweets on the subject of Advent Candles.  But left people asking - what actually is the significance given to each of the candles?

Well, obviously in an ordinary Advent ring, there's the big white one in the middle that actually represents Christmas itself. But the other four have very specific meanings.

Sometimes there will be four red candles (this one is under construction).


In this case, as in all Advent rings, the clues are in the iconography of the colours. The red represents Liverpool, and the four candles represent the "4 lads of Liverpool" from the old hymn: John in a taxi, George in a car. Paul on his scooter, beeping his hooter, following Ringo Star.

Sometimes however the candles will be 3 purple and one pink. Please don't go thinking the pink one is for Mary, and should be lit on the fourth Sunday in Advent because that's her Sunday. No, the candles stand for each of the four Sundays in Advent and represent, as follows:

1. The Sunday when everybody wonders why we're not singing Christmas carols yet. But maybe that's because it's in the Octave of Black Friday and you need a nice purple candle to stand for not as black as Friday, but still a long way to the white one. But surely "Away in a Manger" wouldn't be out of place? And the vicar does the 4 Candles joke from the Two Ronnies but nobody under 50 understands it but that doesn't matter because apart from little Scirocco, who's there with her gran, there's nobody under 50 in the church. But then someone points out there's five candles anyway. And that falls as flat as a counter-tenor on a day of above-average humidity.

2. The Sunday when everyone thinks "does she know it's Christmas", as the vicar's picked a load of stuff about John the Baptist for no apparent reason and isn't that next week? Or maybe last week? Does anyone know why the readings don't match the Collect, only the latter's all about the Bible and what's that got to do with Christmas anyway? And the quire's asking why are there no bars in the music for O Come O Come Immanuel? And the organist doesn't care because he plays it in a minor key in 11/8 time because that was a thing he saw on Youtube.

3. The Sunday when it's the Nativity and in the evening it's the Church Carol Service and why are we still going on about John the Baptist? Surely he should be in the New Year some time when it's all about repentance and Jesus going out into the wilderness? Traditionally the Sunday when the vicar lights the pink candle and everybody says you can't because pink stands for Mary because she's a girl and that's next week. Or possibly last week. Or is it Matthew, Mark, Luke and John? Or is that the names of the Bootleg Beatles? And is it this week or last week for the jumpers where Santa's nose glows? Only St Luke wasn't clear.

4. The Sunday when even the vicar's given up and picked some Christmas carols and there's not many people at Church because it's not long till Christmas Day so you've got to go and do some physical shopping. And the vicar lights the fourth candle and everybody says can you light the white one, only we'll be away over Christmas so we never see that one lit till it's all burned down in January and we're saying can we get rid of the crib and someone's saying YOU CAN'T BECAUSE IT'S GOT TO STAY TILL FEBRUARY BECAUSE CANDLEMASS. And everyone's going the tree will never last that long. It's already gone brown and the needles have fallen off because the Brownies insisted we had to hold the Christmas Tree Festival in November, at the same time as the Scarecrow Festival, because that's when people like to come to church - when they're feeling all Christmassy. And then the bare, dried out tree gets too near the five candles dancing in a ring and everyone legs it out and calls the fire brigade.

And that's what the four candles of the Advent Ring are all about.


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.

Monday 2 December 2019

Advent Imagined and Advent As It Is


Advent ImaginedAdvent As It Is
Gazing at the sunriseGazing at Amazon
O Come, O Come ImmanuelStep into Xmas
A quiet meditationTurkey and Tinsel
The Four Last ThingsThe 5th Works Do
A chapter of Luke Each DayRetweeting a meme about Boris Johnson and the rear end of a donkey
Looking meaningfully at the darkling skyScreaming inside in Morrisons
And is it true?Which present isn't too dodgy for the Secret Santa?
How will the end be?The dog's eaten the tinsel
Making space for thoughtWhat rough beast, its hour come at last, slouches to the Rose and Crown?
Repentance and FastingFear and Loathing
"I am coming soon"Next-day delivery
Walking around a lake in the gathering gloom, imagining how our ancestors would have gathered themselves around the fire.Defrosting the car prior to a 100 mile trip to see an uncle who hates you
A Spaceman came travellingA woman unravelling
"O" AntiphonsOh what now?
The deep past, when ploughing was over for the year and all there was to do was wait until spring.The present day, when you still have to go to work till Xmas Eve even though you mentally checked out in November
A Time to ThinkMaking 104 Christingles
MindfulnessFretfulness


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 27 November 2019

Looking After Little Jacob

Don't know if anyone can help here.

I've been doing a favour for someone I was at college with. Said they'd a bit of an embarrassing situation and could I help. And of course, I said yes. Well, you do, don't you? You never know when you might be  needing a favour back. I mean, after the election one wants to ensure one's tax-free status is maintained.

And it's been three weeks now and this is becoming a real problem. I mean, I understand the Tories want to hide Jacob Rees Mogg away from humankind. And the tunnel between the Great House and the Abbey is obviously an excellent hiding place. Apart from my brother, Mrs Rochester his keeper, a few ghost nuns, and a random selection of legendary Pokémon, nobody has needed to hear any of his gaffs. He's not embarrassed his party in public all that time.

But it's a real problem now. He's been down there these three long weeks, and it's New Moon, and  the preternatural lusts are rising. And if he should find a way to separate his soul from his body and slip through the bars - a double-breasted phantom swooping through the glades of Aspley Heath - who knows what might happen? We really need an answer.

Does anyone know what to feed a Rees Mogg?


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.

The Traditional Pre-Advent Advertising Extravaganza

Just a reminder to all happy Beaker Folk out there that Advent starts on Sunday.  And what could be more Adventy than the Kindle book that contains so many haunting thoughts on morality than the works of Melissa Sparrow? Just a quid for umpteen poems on the subject - guaranteed to make the gloomiest December morning just that bit gloomier.

And for that Xmas present - why not give the joy of "Writes of the Church"? As a work of ecclesiology it sadly fails badly. But just the sort of book to take up very little space in a stocking, but bring some light relief after a big Xmas dinner. 

Monday 25 November 2019

Vexmas

What a special time of the year! As Stir-Up Sunday falls in the Octave of Black Friday, we move into that phase of the Brexival period called "Vexmas".

A curious, liminal, half-tinted time. Each one has their own way of marking Vexmas. Some are complaining that Black Friday lasts a week - ignoring the massive benefits to Retail logistics of not having to shift 10% of your online sales in a day. 

Some, such as the Beaker Festive Folk, are already decking the halls with tacky tinsel. While the John Lewis ad is being skipped past just like in the good old days, by families gathered together round the Sky Q.

But the real traditionalists, harking back to the old days, are still complaining about the sound system at the Remembrance Parade. And that one of the cubs was wearing the wrong colour socks.

Ah, it's the most wonderful time of the year.

Sunday 24 November 2019

Bling When You're Winning

The Beaker Folk are on at me today. Is it right, they ask, to have your Yule decorations up today - Stir Up Sunday - or is it better to wait till it's proper Christmas next week?

To which I reply, as I do every year, that they don't need to come to me for such liturgical insight. They put them up in mid-October regardless.

Justice, Rare Earths and Mammatus Clouds

The Son is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation. For in him all things were created: things in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or powers or rulers or authorities; all things have been created through him and for him. He is before all things, and in him all things hold together. And he is the head of the body, the church; he is the beginning and the firstborn from among the dead, so that in everything he might have the supremacy.  For God was pleased to have all his fullness dwell in him, and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether things on earth or things in heaven, by making peace through his blood, shed on the cross. (Col 1:15-20) 
I mean, Husborne Crawley is lovely. The countryside, the babbling brook, the soothing rumble of the M1.  But sometimes you've just got to get up and go somewhere else. And sometimes that somewhere else - contrary to all that is good and natural and apparently obvious - isn't London. And so I found myself walking through Northampton. And, with Paul in Athens, I had to  reflect that the people of Northampton are a very religious lot.

St Peters Northampton
In an odd way. Northampton has its lovely All Saints Church, from whose roof Charles II gazes down on the town that did so much on the other side in the Civil War. And then it has Holy Sepulchre, that wondrously historical and yet oddly ignored church to the north side of the town centre. But where St Katharine's Church was - and St Katharine is the patron of that traditional Northampton trade, lace-making - there is just a quiet patch of park frequented by drug users and the drinkers of oddly-named lagers. While out towards the Railway Station, the gorgeous St Peter's is redundant.

Yet religion teems from the side-streets. There are churches in alley ways and lock-up garages and even the wondrously named "Holy Ghost Zone" - which does sound like the most inspiring part of the Crystal Maze - just along from the cinema that was owned by the now-dismembered Jesus Army. And although they have a statue to Charles Bradlaugh - humanist, atheist, reformer and MP - they figured the best place for him is a roundabout near a Free Church Chapel that has been converted into a strip club. I'm not sure he would totally have approved.
"Holy Ghost Zone" (from Google Maps)

And so it was that, walking past the rows of boarded up shops between All Saints and the Holy Ghost Zone, I was accosted by an elderly man who gave me a leaflet about God's wonderful creation. And people who have followed this blog will be well aware that I do indeed believe in the terrifying wonders of God's creation - of the blue skies, green fields and hideously dismembered swans when the feral killer -wallaby of Aspley Guise has been on the prowl. That Mammatus clouds are both beautiful and yet reminders of the terrible powers of electricity. And also have the sort of name that makes schoolchildren snigger.

And I'm sure the chap was hoping that I would either ignore him - like everyone else - or take the leaflet, go away and be quietly converted without causing too much trouble.

Mammatus Clouds

So I stood there and read the leaflet. And swiftly found its appallingly-constructed attempt to dismiss the Theory of Evolution (which I shall not bother you with now, dear readers. But you will guess that it probably was appalling) and I explained why its argument made no sense. And said there were good evidential reasons for believing in the Theory of Evolution. And he told me he didn't know about that but he had Jesus in his heart. To which I responded that I, too, knew the indwelling reality of our incarnate redeemer - that my heart is indeed, I hope, a Holy Ghost Zone - but I also had respect for the works of science.  To which he replied "ah, scientists" . And I, a Master of Arts in Chemistry from The King's Hall and College of Brazen -Nose, in the University of Oxford - decided it were best it were left there.

But it matters. Because the man who can raise his eyebrows and say "ah, scientists" about the Theory of Evolution no doubt wakes up in the morning and tells the time using a device that depends upon an understanding of science. If he switches on the lights in his church, he depends upon sub-atomic level physics. He stood there on the pavement, confident in the knowledge that, due to the Laws of Gravity, he would not suddenly float off from Abington Square into the sky. Not, that is, unless the Rapture came.

Quite a nice evening for a rapture

Why is it that religious believers who so ardently believe in nuclear power, the internal combustion engine and even smartphones, yet refuse to believe in the Theory of Evolution? It's down to a foolish division among the idle pondering classes of the 19th Century, I believe. Professional scientists rebelled against the idea that the fruits of their trade was something a part-timer like Lemaître, Mendel or Newton could just knock up in their garage in between considering the eternal verities. You needed proper, paid, scientists. Not these amateurs.

And this artificial war between science and religion - whose dubious cassus belli was swallowed like a particularly juicy worm by those extreme believers who wanted to prove they were more believing than the rest of us - has done terrible things.  If it were not for this phoney war, Richard Dawkins would be a retired zoology don doing a bit of gardening after a mediocre career, and Ricky Gervais would be on the 81st series of The Office. And in my opinion, a world without Derek would be worth paying a lot for.

But I want to say that in this world where we have experts in small fields - and I'm not just talking about Weird Alan's nocturnal habits down in Middle Acre - we need people who know in great detail the workings of the chemistry of the rare earth metals that mean the smartphone or tablet you are reading this on functions. We need environmentalists to tell us that mining all those rare earth metals is not necessarily a great idea. We want people who can understand the way that genes work, or don't. The way that fossil strata can tell us of the unimaginable wonders of evolution - the brutality of life's struggles and the remarkable flexibility of life itself. That is good. And we also need dreamers and poets and philosophers and - I believe - theologians. And I know the chap who sneered at my use of the word "scientists" would likely do so about the word "theologian". Even though his poorly -argued leaflet was an exercise in (poor-quality) theology. And his belief in the Rapture is down to the theology of Dispensationalism evolved by John Nelson Darby. And he'd be unimpressed by my firm belief that I'd rather spend an evening down the pub with Georges LeMâitre than John Nelson Darby. But you just get the feeling that Darby wouldn't buy a round.

But we need some people who can stand back and take a wider view. And maybe that's the job sometimes of we non-experts. I'm not much of a scientist or a theologian. But when I read Paul, trying to drag the Colossians onside by telling them the uniqueness of Jesus, I reckon I can see him on both sides of the War Between Science and Religion - or possibly in No Person's Land in the middle - waving a white flag and getting shot at by both sides.

He tells us about the human Jesus who is also the eternally-firstborn of God - through whom all things were created, by whom all things were made, and the one who holds them all together.

In Romans he tells us that God is the one in whom we live, and move, and have our being. John 1 tells us that Jesus is the Logos - the Word - the one who gives existence and meaning and logic to the universe. And Genesis 1 doesn't tell us that God literally spent 6 terrestrial days making everything. It ain't like God had a week off, and was trying to get a patio laid in the garden by Friday so as to have a barbecue on it at the weekend. Genesis tells us that this world is trustworthy, ordered and predictable - qualities without which Science is nothing.  It also tells us that the Universe's ordered and yet awesome nature means it has meaning - about which good Science has no opinion.

So I believe that the Jesus whom I try to follow is also the eternal Word that defines the curvature of space, the speed of light and the gravitational constant. I believe that Word sees the germ spring to life in a seed, defines the explosion of a supernova in far-off place, planned the relentless beating of pulsars and the first beats of an infant's heart - and yet also keeps an eye on the traffic on the Westway.

And I also believe that the Word that gave every being its being - angels, humans, earthworms and devils - also defines the meaning and moral laws of the universe. I won't claim I could derive moral laws from scientific laws. But I think of that quote of Martin Luther King, quoting Theodore Parker - about the arc of the universe bending towards justice. I don't think of this as a fixed law about how history will work. Because I can see how often history does not go forward as if predetermined to get better. But I do believe that this reasonable, predictable universe gives us the structure in which we can do good, and can work for good. If we want to be in line with the one who made the universe, we need to be working for justice.

And the Colossians are told - how does this God of the laws of physics and of justice behave with respect to God's creation? Is it a matter of "job well done", and a beer and burger on that heavenly, metaphysical patio? Standing back, admiring the way the 1/r2 law keeps everything going round in circles? Smirking about the way all those fine-tuned constants just keep the place going? Spotting the justice and injustice and marking them in a book, like God's got VAR and is checking what we do in case - unknown to the observers on the pitch - we were actually offside when we scored our goals?

No, because this Christ was sent into the world. Took all God's fullness and planted them in the body of a young woman. Was pushed out into the world kicking and screaming. And who would have more right to kick and scream, knowing how things could be and how they would be? Spent thirty-three years facing the same happinesses, hardships, uncertainties, pains, griefs, love and rejections that we all do. Spent those years subject to the same physical laws that we do - made from the same stuff as stars and earthworms.

And then showed up all of the earth's empires for what they really are. Because if the empire famous for its laws murdered the creator of the universe - just what do human ambition, the lust for power, the desire to rule over others, the need to have someone to blame - just what do they achieve? The emptiness of all the world's empires and oppressors is shown up, as the one in whom all the fullness of God is emptied of lifeblood on a a cross.

And so the moral law of this universe is that all the weakness of a murdered carpenter is all the power of the ever-living One who keeps the planets in their orbit. That God dies, deserted by his friends and surrounded by those that nobody would believe - if they said he rose to life again.


That if you want to see God, you look up at the stars, but bow down with the poor and refugees and victims of violence and unjustly accused.That empires will pass away. And that this whole world is the throne where the king is seen in glory. God came to earth to draw all people up. Look up and see that bloodied face on the cross - because there is the true ruler of the world.


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.