We loved you then, as we love you still.
10 October 1959 - 18 December 2000 |
An odd little interlude, Sunday just gone.
It being that legendary beast, a Fifth Sunday, Young Keith had organised a Turkish Restaurant Church. I've never really liked the Moot House smelling of kebab meat, so I left him to it and took the weekend off in Somerset.
On the Sunday, I thought I'd go and take in the morning service at Flakestream Episcopi. I know they put a high emphasis on croissants and tea lights there, so just the kind of place to worship. And so through the misty Mendips I went, from my little cottage in Cottesleigh Owlicide, off to Flakestream Episcopi. Not to be confused with Flaskestream Regis, which is the other side of Big Wood. And some people never come back when they make the trip to Regis.
To remember that it was a Fifth Sunday. When the whole Appleblight Benefice all gets together at a parish church they apparently choose at random. Which on Sunday was Threadnutt Nedwell, as I discovered when I looked at the rota on the notice board.
I've never been to Threadnutt Nedwell before. But I had made sure to leave plenty of time - you do, in those parts, in case you meet a herd of livestock crossing the road. So I set the Satnav for Threadnutt, and off I went.
Turns out Threadnutt Nedwell is not so much a village as a state of mind. As the Satnav triumphantly announced I was there, I could see a traditional red telephone box, repurposed as a Dinky Toy library. And a shed.
Onto A Church Near You. Not enough phone signal. Drove up a narrow Somerset country lane to get to higher ground. Met a combine harvester the size of Saturn coming the other way. Drove half into the hedge to let it through. Finally got to the top. Got a signal. Found a postcode. Put it into the Satnav. Was told I had already arrived.
Turns out the postcode covers an area about 5 miles square. Off to Wikipedia. Which informed me that Threadnutt Nedwell church is in the grounds of Nedwell Manor.
Found a brown sign to Nedwell Manor. Followed the directions down an even narrower country lane. Had to back up half a mile to let an entire travelling funfair through.
Got to Nedwell Manor's stately gates. Sign "to the church" off to the left. Drove the Prius down ever narrower lane where the tarmac turned to gravel. Turned to rubble. Turned to mud. After a mile I got out, waded across the ford, finished the journey by hijacking a donkey.
Church was shut and locked.
Checked A Church Near You for service times. Found the Fifth Sunday service was at Brimbling St Thomas. Swore.
Banged on the Manor Door. Butler drew me a sketch map.
Back on the donkey. Through the ford. Back into the car. Now starting to worry that at the end of the journey I might meet A BEAR. Hoped it might be a real one, if so, and not Russell Brand's friend.
Down the side lane. Out into the big lane. Knew I was going to be late for the service now, but determined, even if I were there by coffee time, I'd give the vicar a piece of my mind for publishing misleading service rotas.
Just for information, as I went back through Flakestream, I double-checked the notice board. To find the service dates on there were for December 2023. Which also had a Fifth Sunday. Opened the board. Pulled out the service rota. Screwed it up. Jumped up and down on it.
Through rolling apple orchards, past numerous yokels and tractors. Getting increasingly stressed as I realised I was probably even gonna miss coffee time.
Arrived at Brimbling. Rushed up to the church. Discovered it was St Henry's. St Thomas's is the other side of the valley, Which they filled to make a reservoir. Which was overflowing because all the rain.
Took the long way round. Just one person, locking up, as I arrived at St Thomas's church.
"Missed the service?" I said.
"You and everyone else," she said.
Turns out the average congregation of St Thomas's is just the church warden. And when the Benefice Fifth Sunday Service rolls round, nobody travels in from the other villages. Even the vicar. the warden had just said Morning Prayer on her own, and was off to put her Sunday roast on. Her husband, she told me, was a Methodist, and hadn't been to church since the chapel closed in 1965.
So I gave up. Went to drive back to Cottesleigh Got stuck behind the funfair. The road I'd come by had been closed due to an infestation of badgers. Followed the detour. 10 miles down winding Somerset lanes, looking at the back of the waltzer. Took advantage of one tiny bit of wide road to get past the waltzer, merry-go-round, and swing boats. And then, the lorry carrying the dodgems broke down.
There I was. In a lane. In the middle of nowhere. In the middle of a funfair. And there's no way the lorry with the waltzer was backing up in a lane that wide.
Still, on the bright side. God provided for lunch while we waited. On this occasion, the Divine was working through the candy-floss stall owner and the burger van. So we were all well fed, if not exactly happy, when the breakdown van arrived at the wrong end of the procession. Backed up, took a six mile detour, and got the dodgems moving.
So I followed the front half of the funfair till we came to a side road. Turned off. Headed back for Cottesleigh Owlicide. And, en route, arrived at Flakewell just in time for Fifth Sunday Benefice Evensong.
Well, I was on a sugar rush from all the candy-floss, toffee apples, and Fanta. So I figured I might as go for it.
It was... an experience.
Flakewell Episcopi is a church that is proud of its high box pews. It's a bit embarrassing to find somewhere to sit - you have to open the door, peek in, then if there's someone already in there you kind of wave in an embarrassed manner and back out.
And that's before what I thought was incense smoke turned out to be from the naked sauna that someone was holding in one of the pews. Apparently the Lord of the Manor of Flakewell has had the right since 1742, and he's not afraid of flaunting it.
Found a pew containing only a sheep and a spider the size of a rabbit. Sat down. Got my phone out to use the camera, so I could read the print in a 1542 edition of the Book of Common Prayer.
The vicar of the Appleblight Benefice is quite a trendy man, it turns out, for the Somerset high country. He likes to wander around while leading the service, in an informal and friendly way.
He's also a diminutive man. About 4'7 I would guess.
And there's nothing wrong with eschewing the pulpit for an informal, all-in-it-together kind of feel.
And there's nothing wrong with being 4'7. It might be inconvenient when your favourite couscous is on the top shelf in Waitrose, but it's a perfectly legitimate height to be.
But combine those two things, with high box pews. And it's a bit weird.
Revd Thrubston has a very deep voice. And as he ambled around the place, offering random thoughts on the fourth chapter of Ephesians, it was like hearing the Creator wandering about the place in the cool of the day, invisible but always audible. When he suddenly shouted "do not sin!" the entire congregation jumped out of their seats, and assorted heads could suddenly be seen for a moment, before gravity returned them to their places.
Still, you've got to hand it them. Fourteen people, plus the Lord of the Manor's party, on a damp Sunday afternoon to worship in their little village. It gives you a sense of the way faith still lingers in this land, even in places out of the reach of electric guitars and inspirational, charismatic, slightly-dodgy leaders.
Mind you. Next time I have a weekend off, I think I'll stay in bed on Sunday morning.
As Church of England congregations across the country woke up to the thunderstorms in the middle of the night, and Church Wardens thought "Oh no" as they remembered the crumbling mortar joints, broken Collyweston, and re-roofing projects that have been crawling through the diocesan approval process all summer, at little advice for worship in times of heavy rainfall.
Try to stick to worshipping in the shallow end.
I feel like we've really done it this time.
I'd been hearing complaints that mince pies are in the supermarkets - even though their "sell by" dates are before Xmas. Which would of course contravene some law in Deuteronomy somewhere. Same every year. In fact, every season.
In the teeth of people moaning that creme eggs, mince pies, and hot cross buns all come out in the stores at the wrong time of year, we were struggling to find a product that could smooth out supply chain fluctuations, while also garnering positive media feedback.
And here we are.
The Mince Cross Egg.
A deep-filled mince pie. Spicy and luxurious like a real mince pie should be. Topped with a spice bun top, marked with a white cross.
And in the middle, a lucious chocolate layer with a creme caramel centre.
The Mince Cross Egg.
Feast or fast, it's the snack that will last. All the way through to the next liturgical year. And without complaints on social media.
Available from the Beaker Bazaar.
Thanks to everyone who attended this evening's Moot Building Committee meeting. The refurbishment of the Moot House (8 years after it was last rebuilt) is going to be an exciting project, and we want to ensure we get it right for the future.
The results of the voting are as follows:
1. Height of new lighting system bulbs for the Moot House
a) 9' (3m) from the ground, convenient for changing bulbs - 1 vote
b) 15' (5m) from the ground, reachable by a long ladder with extreme care - 2 votes
c) 45' (14m) from the ground, only accessible by scaffolding and/or a new generation of drone that has not yet been invented - 27 votes
2. Location of electrical wiring
a) In trunking at the bottom of the wall, easily accessible if slightly clunky - 1 vote
b) Under a raised "office style" floor, easily accessible and flexible - 0 votes
c) Sunk 6' (2m) deep in the concrete floor - 30 votes
3. Treatment of the Greensand stone floor of the Moot House, so as best to reflect its unique geological and aesthetic properties
a) A light buffing to bring up its natural colours - 2 votes
b) Overlay with a sheet of transparent acrylic, to protect its surface while still displaying its natural beauty - 4 votes
c) Araldite a 2nd hand synthetic fibre carpet over it - 27 votes
4. New heating system
a) Ground-source heat pump - 0 votes
b) Air-source heat pump - 0 votes
c) Radiant overhead electric heaters that turn bald men's heads red - 12 votes
d) Wood-burning stove fuelled by cast off pews from church reorderings - 26 votes
5. Seating
a) Old fashioned wooden box pews - 6 votes
b) Bean bags - 4 votes
c) Comfy electrically reclining chairs, which take up three times as much space as alternative seating arrangements - 8 votes
d) Plastic chairs that get moved around all the time and make your back sweat - 15 votes
In the light of these decisions, I have concluded that democracy is a mistake and you're all getting what you're given. If anyone wishes to discuss, my new cricket bat arrived from johnlewis.com this morning and it's in serious need of being "knocked in".
Bit odd today at Mirkoslove's funeral.
I thought it was a typo, when the service sheet referred to the "Condemnation" rather than "Commendation".
But then his widow stood up to deliver it.
And maybe the printers got it right.
He being a near-neighbour of ours, we are very proud of our John. And so we are proud (but not in a proud way) to share our specially-written Collect for St John Bunyan's Day.
In news that has caused the manufacturers of scare quotes to work overtime, there has been "alarm" about what has been claimed to be a parody of the "Last Supper".
The tableau that has caused alarm is from a work by the Oxford mathematician, C L Dodgson, whose cover name is "Lewis Carrol". Although the art itself is by his collaborator, "Sir" John Tenniel.
"I think this is clearly a disgraceful representation of the "Last Supper" by Leonardo da Vinci", said Matthias Victim-Complexe, of the First Church of Cultural Stereotypes. "The dormouse is meant to stand for St John, who is not merely "reclining" but actually falling asleep. The insults include the tea pot representing the Holy Grail. And obviously Alice, pointing vengefully across the table, is Judas.
"To further the insult to a Renaissance work of art - I mean God - two of the characters at the table are traditionally referred to as "mad". And the tag on the Hatter's Hat is a mocking of Mark 10:6, "But from the beginning of the creation God made them male and female.""
It was suggested to Revd Victim-Complexe that being offended by a picture's resemblance to another picture meant he thought the original Da Vinci work in fact included an accurate representation of God. He was asked why he didn't think he was in fact guilty of idolatry, the breaking of the Second Commandment*. But at this point the pastor gradually faded away, until only his expression of quiet martyrdom remained.
* Protestant counting
Keith: I'd like to thank the Archdruid for letting me lead this special Occasion. As we celebrate the Feast of Lammas Day.
All: She's behind you!
Keith: And so we remember that the name, Lammas Day, comes from the tradition of slaughtering all the weakling male lambs before winter arrives, so the ewes and the strong rams become...
Archdruid: No, it's called Lammas from the Anglo-Saxon, "Loaf-Mass". A first harvest celebration of the year.
Keith: Ah..... CHARLII!!!!
(From outside: *thwok* *thwok* *baah* *thwok*)
Charlii: Yes, Keith?
Keith: Never mind.
NOTICES
Archdruid: After this service, turns out we'll be enjoying a Mongolian Barbecue. If anyone is a vegan or vegetarian, please get a grip, and tuck in. I've made some lovely bread, which will come in more handy than I thought.
I remember the 2012 opening ceremony.
Being English, I naturally thought it would be an embarrasment.
I was so wrong. It was so wonderful. It made you happy to belong to this country. In touch with its (decidedly varied) past. Friendly, inclusive, able to make a joke about itself.
I would like particularly to give the credit for the subsequent retreat into a suspicious, mean, cruel, often vicious media environment to the Mayor of London in 2012. A man who put his own brief, ignominious time in power above the good nature of the country. A man who partied while people's grandparents died.
But one day we will be proud of this place again. In a day when we are once again driven by kindness, love of our landscape, an understanding and a reckoning with our past. And not by fear and hate.
We will get there.
"Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises, Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not."
After we had torn ourselves from them we journeyed to Kos. However we could not find the church there, as there was a benefice service at Rhodes.
When we got to Rhodes, we only found the people from that city at church. All the people in Kos had just taken the opportunity to have the week off.
So we went on to Ptolemais. And found out they only had a service on the 3rd Sunday, which was "Celtic Evensong". And it was the 2nd Sunday. So we gave up and went to Jerusalem.
I said to Paul, "do you think this is a good way to organise church resources?" But Paul said, "Listen, Luke. I set up these Mission Areas. It's the most efficient way to manage the available priests. And I'm making you Mission Enabler responsible for Troas and lay workers."
I'd like to apologise to Margherita.
You may remember that we have had an increasingly battered tapestry of the Feeding of the Five Thousand hanging on the wall in the Moot House antechapel. It looked past its best, so I thought it was time it went.
Needless to say, the minute I threw it away, Margherita turned up wondering what had happened to her picture.
And yes, I have broken the rules that say you should only get rid of a "donated" item, however ghastly, once 2 generations of the donor's family have passed away.
And I can only blame poor research. I believed that Margherita wouldn't mind as she was dead.
Turned out she'd just been on holiday in Skegness.
Margherita has been very gracious about the whole thing, and says she could see how I got the two confused.
Jesus left there and went to his hometown, accompanied by his disciples. When the Sabbath came, he began to teach in the synagogue, and many who heard him were amazed.
“Where did this man get these things?” they asked. “What’s this wisdom that has been given him? What are these remarkable miracles he is performing? Isn’t this the carpenter? Isn’t this Mary’s son and the brother of James, Joseph, Judas and Simon? Aren’t his sisters here with us?” And they took offense at him.
Jesus said to them, “A prophet is not without honor except in his own town, among his relatives and in his own home.” He could not do any miracles there, except lay his hands on a few sick people and heal them. He was amazed at their lack of faith. (Mark 6:1-6, NIV)
Jesus has come to Nazareth. And we know from Luke's Gospel that he's reading and preaching from Isaiah 61: "The Spirit of the Lord is upon me. Because the Lord has appointed me to proclaim good news to the poor."
This is exciting news - especially because Jesus is saying it is fulfilled in him. He stands before them with the Good News of God's work in freedom and salvation. And they should be delighted that they are hearing this.
But turns out some people don't actually want to be given the chance to see God's freedom working in the world. Instead they'd rather find excuses to not allow the Spirit to be at work. Calvin put it well in his Commentary on the Synoptic Gospels : “It is not mere ignorance that hinders men, but that, of their own accord, they search after grounds of offense, to prevent them from following the path to which God invites.”
And they didn't come to be changed, to be caught up in God's new work. They came to be people who taste the Scripture - not those who drink God's Spirit. This was a safe place. They could come, worship, be entertained by a little talk, and go away - unchanged. So of course they're going to come up with all the reasons that they are now going to go home, and rehearse over their Sabbath meal, for why this Jesus isn't all that after all.
And don't get me wrong. There's nothing wrong with people first coming to church through belonging. You're part of a group. You get a chat afterwards. People care and ask how you are. There are biscuits.
But there is so much more. The Spirit of the Living God wants to share God's love with us. The scriptures are full of joy and challenge and hope. When we come to worship, we can know that God is really here, joining with us.
Or we can be a critic, list the 7 things we've not liked today, decide which four things about other people we judged, and trot home and go over them at the dinner table. It's lazy. It's less effort than engaging with scripture and hoping to be transformed to be like Jesus. And ultimately it's less fulfilling, of course. It's not even as useful as just coming for the biscuits.
But that's how they reacted to Jesus because they didn't want to change. How do we respond to God's word today?
There was a shepherd who had a hundred sheep. And one went missing.
And the shepherd knew there was some shepherding to be done re number 100. And should have gone out to find her.
But the ninety-nine pointed out that they'd prefer to be moved to some better grass.
And they really wanted to do some in-depth study on what it was like to be a sheep that was safely in the pen.
And a salt lick. Obviously they had a salt lick, but maybe a nicer salt lick?
And they wanted a decent consultation on that collie. Sure, the dog was keen to keep them safe. But all that nipping their back legs, when they just wanted to have a bit of a wander, seemed a bit much. Maybe they could replace the collie with a labrador? Much less nippy.
And grass was a bit dull. Maybe they could be let out on some clover occasionally.
So the shepherd spent a few days settling all the various needs of the 99 sheep.
The hundredth was eaten by a wolf on day 2.
But the other 99 were OK.
So it was all fine.
We left him out there
To drift on the air
The sun cast down its face
The rain will bless his place
The tides will cushion him to sea
Maybe now he is free.
Archdruid: Nights are drawing in.
All: Soon be Christmas.
Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, as clear as crystal, flowing from
the throne of God and of the Lamb down the middle of the great street of the city. On each side of the river stood the tree of life, bearing twelve crops of fruit, yielding its fruit every month. And the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations. No longer will there be any curse. The throne of God and of the Lamb will be in the city, and his servants will serve him. They will see his face, and his name will be on their foreheads. There will be no more night. They will not need the light of a lamp or the light of the sun, for the Lord God will give them light. And they will reign for ever and ever. (Rev 22:1-5)
One thing about the Mustard seed.
And it’s something Jesus mentions in passing. He takes it for
granted.
That when the tree is very large, the birds of the air shelter
in it.
And we can, in our way of making allegories, come up with explanations
as to what the birds represent - the Gentiles,
maybe. And there’s nothing wrong with that.
But also, Jesus is just taking for granted God’s goodness in
creation. God’s generosity. The birds have a place to rest, because God has provided
the mustard seed. We are called to care for God’s world, with its many dependencies,
its web of wonder.
Will there be a quiet place in heaven?
Not that it would be all bad, the feasting and drinking
And the singing Hallelujahs for ever.
I’m sure that’s all fine, as the countless angels wing their flight
And we join the unending hymn of praise.
But will there be a quiet place in heaven?
When the new heaven and new earth are joined in singing
And the tables are laden with the food of eternity
Will there be a place in the corner of the open-gated city
Where you can just be still as the eternal river trickles by
In the shade of the leaves of the tree of life
And dangle your hands in the cool water as it flows
And maybe pick an apple meant for you before time began
And waiting there for you now time is at end
And wonder how – if time is no more – there are still seasons
And water still runs downhill
And listen for the sound of that still small voice
While the brass bands play downtown?
Beaker Folk in hi viz and steel-toed Doctor Martens sadly enter the Moot House
They stomp up to the Worship Focus
*** STOMP STOMP STOMP ***
All: JÃœRGEN MOLTMANN!
They stomp back out of the Moot House
First Yokel: It's that Thomas Hardy's birthday then.
Second Yokel: Aye. That it be.
First Yokel: Him'd be 184 if he were still alive then.
Second Yokel: Aye. That a' would.
First Yokel: Hast finished "Jude the Obscure" yet?
Second Yokel: No, too depressing.
First Yokel: Hast finished "Tess of the D'Urbervilles" yet?
Second Yokel: No, too depressing.
First Yokel: Hast finished "The Woodlanders" yet?
Second Yokel: No, too depressing.
First Yokel: Hast finished "The Return of the Native" yet?
Second Yokel: No, too depressing.
First Yokel: Shall us along to the Peter's Finger in Mixen Lane for a pretty drop o' tipple?
Second Yokel: W' all my heart.
First Yokel: Happy heavenly birthday, Thomas Hardy.
Second Yokel: If he's up there he's gonna be feeling a bit stupid.
In the first of this little series, we considered a simple situation. A man, a woman, a garden, doing the right thing. And we ask ourselves a question - what could possibly go wrong? And the answer is: everything.
Jesus prays in the Garden of Gethsemane - (c) 2024 Sally Coleman |
And back in April, that was a simple situation and if, like us, you're trying to get a wildflower garden to thrive, it was a simpler garden. Primroses and bulbs. With the only complication the slugs eating the flowers. The garden was just awakening - like Eden itself did - and everything was short grass and simplicity.
Now in May, things have changed. Primroses have gone over. But you don't want to cut them just yet as they need to seed. Buttercups spring up and Fox-and-Cubs awaits its chance. But is Fox-and-Cubs an invasive plant? Or pretty in its own right? Forget-me-nots are randomly spread around the place. And round the edge, and springing up just where you might not want it, is keck, or as some know it, cow-parsley. And the great dilemma is, what do you do with keck? It's pretty. It's so good for hoverflies and other nectar-lovers. And yet - it's a right pain, spreading everywhere. I suppose you can just accept its grace for what it is, and thank the good Lord that it's not its big sister, Giant Hogweed. The garden is much more complex. At some point we must mow it to ensure next year's primroses. But when? So many nuances.
Then Jesus went with his disciples to a place called Gethsemane, and he said to them, “Sit here while I go over there and pray.” He took Peter and the two sons of Zebedee along with him, and he began to be sorrowful and troubled. Then he said to them, “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with me.”
Going a little farther, he fell with his face to the ground and prayed, “My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will.”
Then he returned to his disciples and found them sleeping. “Couldn’t you men keep watch with me for one hour?” he asked Peter. “Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.”
He went away a second time and prayed, “My Father, if it is not possible for this cup to be taken away unless I drink it, may your will be done.”
When he came back, he again found them sleeping, because their eyes were heavy. So he left them and went away once more and prayed the third time, saying the same thing.
Then he returned to the disciples and said to them, “Are you still sleeping and resting? Look, the hour has come, and the Son of Man is delivered into the hands of sinners. Rise! Let us go! Here comes my betrayer!” (Matthew 26:36-46, NIV)
The world was simple - one man, one woman, in a garden. The choice was simple.
But now - the world has grown old and complicated. A man in a garden. The ones who should be with him in his prayers and decisions are snoring under an olive tree. And the pressures come in from all angles. The man is at the centre of religious disputes. Is he the Messiah? The Son of God? Is he a blasphemer, a heretic, demon-possessed? And then there's the political ones, overlapping. Is he a rival to the authorities? Is he putting himself up against Caesar? Is a rebellion coming?
The liar in the garden was a snake. Here in the garden, Jesus knows that the liars will be those who bring false accusations.
And what is he going to do? Adam and Eve were told they would be gods. Is Jesus going to use godly powers? Call down a legion of angels to storm the Praetorian? Destroy the Temple and raise it in three days? Create through violence an empire of love instead of the Roman's empire of hatred?
Or go with the ancient prophecy, made in this world's mythical spring-time: "He will crush your head, and you will strike his heel"? The prophecy that his mother half-fulfilled 33 years ago when she said "yes" to God's call to her.
Adam and Eve had to make one, simple decision. This man - one complex one. But let us arise - here comes the betrayer.
Jesus Calls Mary - (c) 2024 Sally Coleman |
It is over.
The decision was made. A battle took place. In a garden dedicated to the dead, in the quiet of the dawn, there is no whisper of the trouble that has been taking place in Hell this weekend. Just the birds, maybe the rustle of a fleeing guard.
Now Mary stood outside the tomb crying. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb and saw two angels in white, seated where Jesus’ body had been, one at the head and the other at the foot.
They asked her, “Woman, why are you crying?”
“They have taken my Lord away,” she said, “and I don’t know where they have put him.” At this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not realize that it was Jesus.
He asked her, “Woman, why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?”
Thinking he was the gardener, she said, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him.”
Jesus said to her, “Mary.”
She turned toward him and cried out in Aramaic, “Rabboni!” (which means “Teacher”).
Jesus said, “Do not hold on to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father. Go instead to my brothers and tell them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’” (John 20:11-18, NIV)
It's just like it was in the beginning. A man, and a woman, in the garden, at the beginning of the world. On the First Day, after God has rested.
And Mary thinks that he's the gardener. Which is logical - in a garden. And in a sense, she's right. He is the gardener. He was the one through whom this world was planned and made. It's only through him that this garden - let alone this world, this universe - exist. He sets the rules of physics that bring the sun's rays from heaven, and defines the biology that means the plants grow.
In the beginning, God said "let there be light". And now God's Word says just one thing - "Mary". And she sees. And she believes. And the decision made, back in our race's mythical morning, is superseded. The one who planted the Tree of Life has, through a Tree of Death, changed everything. And the world starts to be remade.
I blame this edition of The Sportsman.
It was them calling Old Trafford a "cathedral of Sport" that caused the issue. Due to a misunderstanding and a clerical error, it was accidentally redesignated as coming under Church of England faculty rules and the Manchester United board was constituted as a PCC.
And now the roof has sprung a leak.
Historic England asked why the supporters couldn't just stand in the rain like the old days. While the Victorian Society said they'd object to the development unless Dennis Irwin was brought back into the back 4. Which, to be fair, would probably improve the current defence.
Then after a couple of years of consultation, and design changes - some people asked whether the roof could be painted green and gold - the Faculty papers finally went to the Church Warden, Doris. Who promptly forgot to put them up on the notice board.
Two years on, the recommendation from the DAC has expired. And it's all got to go round again.
Except now there are plans to move Old Trafford to a new purpose-built mega-church. So the PCC is hopelessly split. Nobody thinks the Rector is going to last much longer in this post, and they're hoping to get a new incumbent from Holy Trinity Brompton.
Goodness knows, they need the prayers.
And Moses saith unto Pharaoh another plague shall ye endure. For the land will crawl with harlequin ladybirds. They shall creep across every surface, and die on thy hard surfaces and the inside of they windows. And still Pharaoh would not let the people go.
But Moses' aim was out that date. And the plague arrived thirty hundred years later, in the land that is called Ingerland.
And they mostly got stuck in old churches. For they had flourished late in the warm autumn and winter, and awakening in cold churches did they search for the holes through which they had crawled to hibernate.
And vergers, wardens, and clergies throughout the land did wax woeful. And cry out against the little shiny invaders which dropped dead on all their altars, and crawled across their memorial tablets, and clung against the windows seeking the light.
And some saith, it is like unto the year 1976. When we had another plague of ladybirds. And they did crunch under our feet, like unto the rock that is sold in Skegness if thou bash it on a table.
And some saith, they are an alien species from an alien place. And must die to save our native two-spotted and seven-spotted ladybirds.
And others saith, doth the Good Book not tell us to protect the alien? Who thinkest thou that thou art?
And the church cleaners did sweep them up in bushels, and throw them into the darkness that lurkest under the yews in the churchyards.
We've always been a welcoming community. But we're struggling with the increasing numbers of Thals that have taken refuge. They're nice enough. But having them wandering around all day, telling us how violence is bad, can be a bit aggravating when you want to get out and at the more recalcitrant Beaker Folk with a cricket bat.
We had to take action. So the Moot this evening has declared that from now on, Skaro is a safe planet.In common with other great moral and educational institutions, and Magdalen College Oxford, we shall not be celebrating St George’s Day here at the Beaker Folk.
We consider St George to be “stale, pale, male”, the archetypal Englishman who would rather stab a maiden-eating dragon to death with a spear than get it round the table to see whether it can find a compromise – eg only eating old people or something.
As part of our cosmopolitan, forward-looking, eclectic religious oecumenicalism we shall tomorrow instead be celebrating the traditional Catalan feast, La Diada da Sant Jordi. This will feature vegetarian bullfighting, a procession of roses, and a free bottle of San Miguel with a slice of lime in the neck for every Beaker Person.
I know some people will be fuming about this. The St George’s Day dinner is a tradition that goes all the way back to 2018. But you have to move with the times. And the times say goodbye St George. And Hola, Sant Jordi!