Introductions to Paul by EP Sanders

 

When AI took over Wimbledon

There has been concern about poor line calls by computer at Wimbledon. 

But they're barely trying at the moment.

Given the current levels of accuracy in AI, it's only so long before a tennis player receives a call of "offside". Or possibly "knock on", whatever that is (the Beaker Folk have never been in favour of  the game invented by the Revd Webb-Ellis). 

But what is sure is that Wimbledon is under real threat. What happens when their Artificial Intelligence Overlords decide to replace the ball-children with wombles? Wombles are notoriously efficient. But their habit of travelling overground and underground means the integrity of Centre Court is at risk.

And if AI truly takes over then the whole integrity of the history of Wimbledon is at risk. Who is to say that Vinnie Jones didn't win the men's singles in 1986? Who can put their hands on their hearts and say that Tim Henman didn't win the title ten years running? The entire record of this pointless, inexplicable sport, with a scoring system based around the quarter-hours on a clock, is at risk. When we're told that the points are 15, 30, Pi, and 19.45 - who will stand up for the truth versus the convenient lie?

(Image is Virginia Wade as "Girl with Dolphin". It's true that our Jubilee Grand Slam winner was once used as a nude model for a bronze on London's north bank.

Or is it? Maybe AI is just taking over our entire history.

Rural Ministry Studies - Revised Exam

 Two hours. Only use ChatGPT if you're truly desperate.

1) A congregation member has offered you a second-hand bookcase. Not because he's fly-tipping. He just thought it would be useful as he's recently ordered a nice one.

a) How loudly should you shout "no"? (to the nearest decibel)

b) What are you going to do with the three you already have?

2)  You have squeezed in so many services on a Sunday, to ensure everyone gets one, that some are now scheduled to start before the previous one ends. Do you have a TARDIS? Or are you just struggling to please everyone?

3) If Bryan in Little Tipping hates Gervais in Pigwell Magna, and Felix in Chipping St Stephen hates Marjorie in Boswell St Jude - why do you keep sharing the Peace at benefice services?  (bonus points for explaining why you have benefice services)

4) After driving 87 miles on a typical Sunday, you can hear squeaking. Is it you, or the car?

5) You're considering consolidating all your PCCs into one giant PCC. Have you also thought of therapy?

6) All these retired clergy who are apparently keeping the rural church going - have you ever met one? Or is it just me?

7) [Methodist ministers only] On a scale of 9 to 10 - how lonely are you?

8) [Anglican ministers only]  Don't you wish Justin Welby had cared about rural churches as well? Please do not use swear words

9) Explain the latest exciting new strategy to reorganize pastoral care in your diocese / region / county in diagrammatic form. Try to use no more than 4 dimensions.

10) Regarding that exciting new strategy. How soon do you plan to move to a place with a less exciting new strategy?

11) Sir John's income is £4 million pounds per year. The average house in your area is worth £3 million pounds. 10% of the people in the village come to church. How are you struggling to replace a light bulb in the loo?

Extravert / Introvert Church

 Interesting experiment today, as we experimented with the way different worship styles appeal to different personality types. 

Both services started at 11 am. I led the Introverts service in the gym. Some quiet background music, a short "thought" and everyone given some time for quiet reflection. All done by lunch.

The Extraverts are still going. Checking the CCTV recording I see that Hnaef started by asking if anyone had anything to share.  They're currently onto the third hour of the Peace. 

The Friday Night Prayer Gossip Meeting

So we pray for Mabel. That nobody finds out about her gadding about with Chazney. Especially her husband.

And for Drenzil. That he discovers what that worrying rash is.

And for Modric. Who's not been the same since he found out who his dad really is. Obviously it would be indiscreet to reveal who, but the Lord, who knows everything, knows it's Canon Benskins, the former rector.

And that Thelma can find something to cure her flatulence. It's been agony for her holding it in till the end of the service. Last week she managed to blow the tea lights out after the final blessing.

For Marge, who's confided in me that she's not too sure what Bran is up to when he borrows her make up of an evening.

And for Kit, who's been combing over his bald spot. Quite successfully, until he walked past Thelma after a service.

Amen

Release the Mythical Beasts

This is so embarrassing.

And I should have noticed.

Normally on the morning of the Summer Solstice we have problems with the mythical beasts. They try to follow the timetables, but they originated before British Summer Time. So they have a habit of turning up an hour late, thinking that BST is GMT. Or vice versa. Or something.

But this Summer Solstice, I locked Drayton Parslow in the Doily Shed for messing with my orders of service.

I just went to let him out. It's been five days, after all. And nobody's got a bladder that strong. And we needed to sell some doilies.

And found that the Woodwose, the Piper at the Gates of Dawn, and Hern the Hunter, had all followed me in for a laugh. 

Do you have any idea how terrified a Fundamentalist Baptist gets, when locked in a shed for five days with three mythical creatures?

No. More than that.

He's run off screaming to his cottage. And while I realise that, in a very real sense, we are all to blame, I particularly think his wife, Marjory, has let him down. Surely she should have reported his absence by now.

Liturgy for the Day After Summer Solstice

 Archdruid:  Nights are drawing in

All: Soon be Christmas.

Summer Solstice Sunrise Celebration

Archdruid: Hail, mighty Solstice Sun!

All: Risen like a big, orange, hot ball of exploding gas.

Archdruid: That's a bit literalist innit?

All: Yeah. Drayton Parslow thought it was all a bit pagan, and so he  made everything literal and sober.

Archdruid: So the bit about the mighty chariot crossing the depths of the sea beneath the worlds, the horses' fetlocks flowing in the wind?

All: "You were just at the other side of the world but now you're back on this side again," you mean?

Archdruid: And all that stuff about Phoebus Apollo shining in wisdom and bringing life to the earth?

All: "Gonna be a scorcher today, keep hydrated!"

Archdruid: OK. I'm just off to tie Drayton up in the Doily Shed. See you for sunset.

All: Pimm's already on ice!

Archdruid: And can someone get that Rollright Stone back? People are gonna miss it.

Fathering Sunday

 I'd like to wish a happy and profound Fathering Sunday to all those that celebrate it. Fathering Sunday is the day on which all Beaker Folk try desperately not to offend anyone, which coincidentally managing to offend absolutely everyone as we thrash around trying to celebrate good fathers while remembering those with bad fathers, absent fathers, the Godfather, Father Christmas, and on this most Trinity of all Sundays, the Father, Mother and/or Genderfluid Parent of us all. Obviously we give it its traditional English name, not the modern commercial American ripoff name.

Burton Dasset didn't really help, to be honest. He's got caught up in some of kind of "muscular Christianity" thing - a relapse to his days at Public School, I think, though I did catch him watching American wrestling on the telly the other day. Or maybe he's got too inspired by Elon Mush. Or he's having a reaction to a career in stock accounting computer systems.  But I found the following a slightly odd liturgy: 

Burton: Who's the Daddy?

All: God!

Burton: Burton can't hear you!  Who's the Daddy?

All: God! 

They continue for hours

At least that was the planned liturgy. What actually happened was that, underwhelmed by a 7-stone weaking trying to prove his virility, the congregation went off to the Beaker Barista's for a freeform Cafe Church instead.

Next year, Fathering Sunday coincides with Summer Solstice. So we will make another futile attempt to ignore it. Burton's been told if he keeps up this weird macho business any longer, we're going to be looking into exorcism. He's too old for a midlife crisis, and too young to be going senile. So it's gonna be the strappy table and the Slazenger to beat the demons out.

Nativity of Thomas Hardy (1840)

A field gate near Mellstock. Two Yokels lean over the gate, equipped with straws in mouths.

First Yokel: 'tis that Thomas Hardy's birthday again.

Second Yokel: Aye. 

1Y: Odd that. I thought he had one last year.

2Y: That he did.

1Y: He must be mortal sharp, to have a birthday every year.

2Y: That he be.

1Y: Shall us up-along to Peter's Finger in Mixen Lane, for a pretty little drap o' tipple afore nammit-tide?

2Y: Wi' all my heart. But 'Spoons is cheaper.

1Y: 'Tis truth. And 'tis Monday Club.

2Y: Then let us away and fill our empty hearts with cheap Greene King.

A folk tune, played by a mystical fiddler, drifts across the heath. Milkmaids swoon and crows fall from the sky. While, afar off, on Casterbridge gallows, can just be seen the body of a hanged man.

Unexpected Messages in Church Visitors' Books

1 June 1994 Norbert Dranesqueezer, Great Tremlett

Why do you have no Books of Common Prayer? The language is sublime. The theology truly Reformed. The whole of the Christian life can be found in one slim volume. And I like to steal one from every church I visit.

---

4 May 1995 Gilbert O'Gilbert, Dribbling-on-the-Green

Was here for an hour and no sign of the vicar. Where is he?

There are bat droppings on the green cloth covering the altar.

Disappointing.

---

11 June 1996 Jenny Streetweiser, Chipping Corners

After much research, I found out my great-grandparents were married here in 1937. They don't seem to be here now - any ideas where they may have gone?

---

30 September 1997 Rick Roll, Saint Myrtle's Over-the-Hill

Dear God, having seen the beauty of your house, I feel I'm never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down.

---

2 Feb 1998    Angelique Boggs, That London

Most disappointed in the medieval architecture. I feel they could have done better.

---

4 January 1999 Raynswold Grimley, Great Tremlett

If this is God's house why doesn't he do it up a bit? It's not like he doesn't have the staff.

---

1 January 2000    Grayson Drapely, Wyre Drivel

I was struck by the joyful message on your "Wayside Pulpit."

What do you mean, "Happy Millennium"? Do you imagine our Lord was born in 0 AD? Heathens.

---

14 October 2001 Norbert Dranesqueezer, Great Tremlett

Still no BCP? The Alternative Service Book has been consigned to where it belongs. I thought you would have improved. 

---

28  June 2002 Melissa Sparrow (Mrs), Grilsby-on-the-Hill

What a beautiful church! I have been inspired to poetry:

The village churchyard, all serene

Where sleeping mounds of grass so green

Lay over those who've no more breath

They rest there in the sleep of death

Death death death

Death death death

Death death death

---

11 November 2003 Selina Tryclops, Gibbering in-the-Meadow

Anglo-Saxon architecture is so brutal. Yet there is such beauty in its simplicity. Shame yours is all Norman, but you can't have everything.

---

29 February 2004 Lavinia de Strangler, Bleakly on-the-Moor

If you were wondering where the lectern is, I've got it.

Damn. I've given myself away again, haven't I?

---

 Billy Bumbreath

Bums!!!!!!! Hahahahahaha

---

11 June 2008 Rod Pole, Flapping on-the-Hill

Quiet round here, isn't it? You could avoid the police for weeks.

PS stay out of the crypt, if you know what's good for you.

---

8 April 2011    DCI Tom Barnaby. Causton, Midsomer

Called but you were out. Please could you drop in to the station when you get a minute? Nasty affair at "Black Gibbet".

---

25 December 2013 Magnus Grebe, Sagging Baddley

It's 4pm on Christmas Day. I see that there's a benefice service on Sunday at Blooms Green. Which means there's nobody gonna be around for 10 days. And I've found where you hide the Communion wine. Not a bad drop.

Happy Christmas!

---

31 December 2013 Magnus Grebe, Sagging Baddley

How was I to know you'd lock up on Christmas afternoon and not come back?

The door to the ringing tower is locked so I can't raise the alarm. 

I've tried shouting, but it's half a mile to the village.

There's no phone signal - and my phone ran out 4 days ago. 

And I've eaten all the hassocks.

If you read this too late, I'd just like to say - you swines.

---

2 March 2015 DCI John Barnaby, Causton, Midsomer

Called but you weren't here inexplicably moving the hymn books around.

Please can you call in at the station? 

Terrible business at "Hanging Nook".

---

11 June 2017 Jeb Gray-Vdigger, Little  Tremlett

So grateful that you leave this beautiful building open.

It's so good to be able to sit and meditate in a wonderful church in silence.

So I've shot all the crows in the churchyard. Noisy beggars.

---

1 February 2020 Marie Innhaste, Little Stickleback

Just finished having a lovely meeting with Revd Rachel, planning for the wedding in April. It's going to be so lovely.

I'm so excited. What could possibly go wrong?

---

1 May 2024 Eric Derek,Polling Boothby

The Spiders.

The Spiders.

The SPIDERS.

THE SPIDERS.

Left 5p in the wall safe. You deserve it for keeping this lovely building open.

The Primate of All England of the Rings

It has been suggested that the selection process for the Archbishop of Canterbury is what would happen if Peter Jackson remade "Conclave". And, given the length of time it takes, that may be the reason.  Here we preview the exciting three-part movie series that leads to the eventual selection of the Primate of All England and the First Among Equals of the Anglican Communion.

An Unexpected Departure 

In the ancient and legendary kingdom of Albion, something magical has happened. Someone has accepted responsibility for something. The Primate of All England declares that he will step down forthwith, so that his replacement may be selected.

Ages pass, and he is still serving his notice. People start looking meaningfully at their calendars. Eventually he departs, leaving the Table of Foreboding with one chair empty. It is decided that the election of a new Primate will take place without delay. Once they have selected the Selection Panel.

The Panel for Selecting the Selection Panel receive the call via the palantirs they have been using for Zoom calls. Pausing only to canvas the opinions of everyone in their shires, in a year-long round of Moots, they set off for Lambeth. They arrive in Winter, and are told to come back when the weather is nicer.

Eventually the Panel for Selecting the Selection Panel assemble. Over months of painstakingly detailed discussion, they determine the members of the Selection Panel. As is traditional, the messages summoning the Selection Panel are sent on the backs of eagles. Four of which are shot by farmers, two die after catching bird flu, and one unfortunately eats a poisoned rat. Not daunted, the Panel for Selecting the Selection Panel keep sending out plucky eagles. Eventually, the movie closes. In the final scene, we see each member of the Selection Panel as they kiss their loved ones goodbye, and mourn that their children will be grown up before they return.

The Desolation of Smug

Banding together, a bishop, two members of the Diocese of Canterbury, and the representative for the churches of the Middle East fight a horde of angry cockroaches for four days - the decapitation of each beetle shown in great detail, in slow motion. While being chased by an angry PCC, they stumble through a secret door, into the mountain lair of the Church Commissioners. They find the Commissioners, laying on their vast hordes of treasure, and tossing golden coins to see if the stock market will go up or down.

Everyone goes down to the Prancing Pony for a few pints while the CGI is worked on. A few pints turns into four months. After a hobbit won't stop singing comic songs, they throw bread rolls at him.

Eventually the Selection Panel convenes. They decide their name isn't very sexy, and hire a PR company to come up with a better one.  After customer experience testing, consumer panels, and creative freethinking, they ask ChatGPT. Which comes up with "the Council of Elrond". Ignoring the danger of copyright issues, they go with it.

Someone suggests they should ask the Lady Galadriel what she thinks. To get to her new abode, in Chatham, they put a chorister, a half-orc, and a precentor into barrels and float them downstream from Waterloo.

Days later, after adventures with mermaids, sailors, and the new sewage outfall, they arrive in Chatham. Galadriel looks into the Well of Seeing with those eyes that have seen millennia, looks sadly towards them, and says it doesn't really matter. 

The Council of Elrond is not disappointed with this result, but neither do they resolve to get a move on. They schedule two-monthly reviews for the next four years.

The Battle of the Three Armies 

Members of GAFCON and The Society hit each other with cricket bats. For two hours. Then a member of Affirming Catholicism wanders into sight. So they all hit him instead.

The Council of Elrond convenes for the thirty-third time. This time they finally agree on a candidate. They try to light a fire to send white smoke up the Lambeth Palace chimney, while throngs of supporter stand outside. But it requires wizard fuel to produce white smoke, and Filemus the Pyromaniac has passed to the East(ern Orthodox). Bilbo is sent on a three-month journey, encountering pixies, elves, the Black Knight from Monty Python, the congregation of Holy Trinity Brompton, and other magical creatures. 

Stephen Fry, as the Bishop of Bath and Wells, wanders up to Bilbo, says a few self-deprecating comments, makes an allusion to Wilde, and wanders off again.

Eventually Bilbo finds a letter tucked into a secret tome in a desolate chapel formerly belonging to the Countess of Huntingdon's Connexion. The letter is written in Old High Wood Elfish, a language today spoken only by Farage the Dodgy, who lives high on a cliff and spends his time pointing at boats. Bilbo returns to Lambeth, and in despair throws the letter onto the fire. White smoke rises, and everyone groans with apprehension.

The new Archbishop receives the call from the clerical outfitters where he (of course, he) has been trying on new mitres.  He looks suitably humble. We realize that his adventures may well provide another trilogy.

Acts of Oppression

It's 10.45 on a quiet 4th Sunday of Easter.

In a basement under Lambeth Palace, an alarm rings.

Panicked, the Executive Assistant to the Director of Liturgical Compliance unlocks his computer screen. He screams. 

The Assistant Director of Liturgical Compliance runs into the Liturgical Monitoring Room.

ADLC: What’s happening?

AEDLC: There's a church in Leominster that hasn't used the Acts Reading.

ADLC: But haven't they read what it says?  

"The Fourth Sunday of Easter

https://almanac.oremus.org/2025-05-11

Principal Service
The reading from Acts must be used as either the first or second reading.
Acts 9.36-43
Psalm 23
Revelation 7.9-end
John 10.22-30"

AEDLC: I know. And how did you manage to get a hyperlink into what you said there?

ADLC: Just a little trick I picked up at Mirfield. But we must take action. Where is the Director of Liturgical Compliance?

AEDLC: She's on her post-Easter holiday.

ADLC: Still?

AEDLC: She claimed back all those hours she spent monitoring Easter Vigils to make sure they started after sunset.

ADLC: Lot of clergy caught out this year, with Easter being so late.

AEDLC: Yes. But they're all being... re-educated now.

ADLC: So - I'm in charge. And this gross abuse of liturgical precedent has occurred.

AEDLC: Can't you let it go? Could just be an oversight.

ADLC: And have clergy thinking they can just skip the Acts reading?

AEDLC: Well, it is a bit weird. Why do we have all those post-Pentecost passages being read before Pentecost?

ADLC: That is not the point. You've got to have rules! If we didn't have liturgical rules, where would we be?

AEDLC: St Helen's Bishopsgate?

ADLC: There's nothing for it. How far is the nearest Archdeacon from the church?

AEDLC: Just checking on the Archdeaconscope... covering for the Rector at St Brumington-in-the-Hole.

ADLC: Right. Call out the Archdeancopter. Get him down to Leominster and let him kick some acolytes.

AEDLC: Don't you mean... 

ADLC: I know what I mean. When a church misses the Acts reading after Easter, we've gotta be tough. And, Bernard..

AEDLC: Yes?

ADLC: Tell him to confiscate the Hob Nobs. Custard Creams will be good enough for refreshments for that bunch of rebels.

Malclergia the Detroyer of Rest Days

I've made a discovery.  Or, to be exact, my son Keith has. But due to the horrors of what he has found, he's having a lay down. So I've promised to tell you.

Reading in a tome he should never have opened, in a crypt we didn't know was there, underneath St Bogwulf's Chapel - the little estate chapel in the grounds of the community, which Drayton Parslow's Funambulist Baptists rent at a reasonable rate - he discovered the dread secrets of Malclergia the Destroyer of Rest Days.

Now, I've never liked the terminology of "Rest Days". Always sounds a bit pious to me. "Rest Day" is all very "I'm just like God, who rested on the 7th day", whereas "day off" has a bit of working-class honesty, in my opinion. But all the same, I'm not going to annoy Malclergia, for reasons that I hope will become clear, so I'll give her her full title.

Malclergia, it transpires, is one of those spirits that don't quite belong to heaven or hell. A bit like the Woodwose, Herne the Hunter, or the Piper at the Gates of Dawn. Except unlike those others, she doesn't rock up on May Morning an hour late because primordial beings can't cope with British Summer Time.  Rather, she wanders the earth, finding annoying things to do to clergy when they're expecting a break. She's basically just a 12-year-old kid trapped in an eternally ethereal form.

When the heating goes ten minutes before the Old Age Warm Space for the Even More Vulnerable, and the central heating steward is in Bulgaria? That's Malclergia, shoving some dirt in the kerosene.

When at 5am on your day off, someone phones you up screaming that he needs to talk to a clergy in person, now, because he's discovered the vortex that leads to Hades - and you must get to see him immediately - and then you find out he's in another county, and the church just happens to have the same patron saint - that's Malclergia, guiding his eyes to the wrong line on the Google results.

When you're on the beach in Tenerife, and your son who's manse-sitting phones your personal number  to tell you that they're all locked out the church and the only person who still knew the combination to the key-safe has just banged his head and can't remember numbers anymore - that was Malclergia swinging a piece of lead piping.

When there's a knock at the door, and you hide under the couch, but you can see through your Ring doorbell that it's Mavis, and you leave her there for three hours, but she just knocks every five minutes, and then you're desperate for the loo - but the downstairs loo is the other side of the glass front door - so you give up and answer it and make some excuse of being in the back garden - then she says she knows it's your day off, but it'll only take a minute - then spends two hours asking what flowers will be appropriate for her niece's wedding - in a different church, in a different time zone - Mavis may well be personally possessed by Malclergia.

When it's discovered that the treasurer has withdrawn all the money from the fabric fund and put it on  the second favourite in the 4.30 at York, as a way of kick-starting the roof replacement project - Malclergia was the one encouraging the mole that dug the hill that tripped "Bernard's Delight" in the home straight.

Malclergia, the Destroyer of Rest Days. Watch out for her. She knows just when you're starting your second drink in the White Horse. She knows the exact moment just before you set off on holiday. She draws her energy from clergy tears. And she never sleeps.

The Bible: You've Gotta have Standards

American Standard Version

Revised Standard Version

New Revised Standard Version

New Revised Standard Version Updated Edition

Revised New Revised Standard Version Updated Edition

Revised New Revised Standard Version Updated Edition Revisited

Revised New Revised Standard Version Updated Edition Revisited: a New Hope

Amended Revised New Revised Standard Version Improved Updated Edition Revisited: a New Hope

Amended Revised New Revised Standard Version Improved Updated Edition Revisited: a New Hope with Hyaluronic Acid

Wickless Wicker Person

Not the greatest Beltane, I'll be honest.

We were all set to go live with the biggest Wicker Person we'd ever built. The excitement was building. 

Suitable amounts of gunpowder and unspecified home-made explosives packed into its willowy frame.

And then the words you don't want to hear.

"Fire Hazard".

Apparently with no rain in the last fortnight, setting fire to large amounts of dried pallet wood with attached improvised devices was not considered appropriate. "Could have wiped out Marston Gate Business Park" I was told. Like that was in some way an issue.

But hey ho. We baked our potatoes in the air fryers, lit battery-powered tea lights.

And, in homage (or omarge) to Sir Christopher Lee, we played darts with a picture of Edward Woodward.

Just not the same

I bet the Celts did it better.

Faculty for the Creation of a Storage Room for all the Things we Can't Face Raising Faculties For the Removal Of

The vicar and church wardens of St Kelvin the Less petition for the building of a new room, to hold all the things we can't face raising faculties to get rid of.

The church is full of altar frontals, freestanding bench pews, assorted panels that used to be on the wall somewhere, paintings of the Last Supper, random replicas of Flemish altarpieces, and similar detritus either "gifted" by parishioners or procured by obsessive former incumbents.

We don't need them. They're in the way. They're getting on our nerves.

But every time we try to get rid of them, the diocesan bric-a-brac advisor asks for their "provenance".

How should we know? Our predecessors in these jobs were far too busy shooting partridges and chasing foxes to bother themselves with documentation.

And we don't know whether our predecessors put what records they did keep into the diocesan archives, hid them under their beds, or ate them, frankly.

And a fair amount of it seems to have been pretty much fly-tipped over the years. There's rumours that a vicar out in the Fens once hired a removals lorry and dropped off six pews and a lectern he'd removed from his own place to clear some room for a children's corner.

And experts are rare and expensive. And the diocesan archives only hold records written by drunks, so you can't read a word. And then everything takes so many backwards and forwards to get done.

So, since life is too short to do any disposals properly, we propose to build a new room, to the west of the existing north aisle. From local ashlar. With lime mortar, of course. All the right components. From the outside you'd never know it were new.

We will put all the stuff we can't get rid of without too much trouble in there. And close the door - a replica of the south door, in oak, with brass fittings.

And never think about any of it again.

Calling Bunny 17, your time is up

Little thing to remember for next year. 

Don't use an area the size of a football pitch for your Easter Egg Hunt.

All the Little Pebbles went out on the Big Meadow at 3 pm yesterday, eager to fill the Holy Saturday void with sugar highs and chocolatey excitement.

Purswill is still out there.

It's been twenty-five hours now. He knows there are more eggs out there.

And with all that sugar and caffeine in him, nobody can catch him. We can see him scuttling around, but he's like the Duracell Bunny.

I mean, it's not really a safeguarding issue. He's forty-seven, and can look after himself. I've got no idea how he obtained. a set of the official bunny ears to enter the competition.

He's just getting really annoying.

Seemed like Nonsense

 “But they did not believe the women, because their words seemed to them like nonsense.” (Luke 24:11)

Well, it is nonsense, isn’t it?

The idea that a man who has been killed by the Romans – experts at killing people – whose death has been checked by a Centurion – who before crucifixion suffered a flogging that was often severe enough to kill people….

The idea that this dead man would rise was nonsense.
And of course – the message came from women.  And who would listen to women?

Apart from Luke, of course. Who paid attention to the women in Jesus’s story throughout. Surprising to be honest that there’s not some group somewhere trying to remove Luke’s Gospel and Acts from the Bible on the grounds that he’s the Woke Physician, not the Blessed Physician.  And now it’s the whole group of women who’d been to the tomb – led, of course, by Mary Magdalene - who come back with the news. Luke has shown us women as prophets: the Blessed Virgin Mary, Elizabeth, Anna – now he shows us women as apostles – sent out from the tomb to give the apostles the good news.

And I believe that nonsense that the women brought to the apostles, today. Yes, of course it’s impossible.  But then it wouldn’t be worth telling if it weren’t impossible. It wouldn’t make any difference if it weren’t impossible. It wouldn’t be a miracle if it weren’t impossible. If Jesus weren’t raised from the dead, as Paul says – what would the point be?

But on the basis of those women, then of those apostles, of the weird inconsistencies within the Gospel resurrection accounts even while they are so consistent in what really matters – on basis of the message of the church, of the mere existence of a church that should have ceased to exist when Jesus died, and on the work of the Holy Spirit within my heart – this is what I believe. That Mary Magdalene and all the rest went to a tomb, found it empty, told the apostles – and the apostles then had it proved to them that it was true.

And so everything has changed. There is a purpose to this world beyond the world we see. There is a purpose to our lives deeper than the lives we live. Death is not all there is, and we are called by our loving Saviour to follow him – through the death he died like we all do – into the life that he offers. That new life starts now – and goes through death and on in God’s love into eternity.

It's nonsense isn’t it? But it’s beautiful, powerful nonsense. It’s nonsense that makes sense of this life – and makes promises for the next.

And I believe it’s true.

The Long Ash Wednesday

Sometimes you try to be creative in liturgy and it just goes wrong. I'm not afraid to admit it. The important thing is to learn, then move on.

Take last week's Ash Wednesday service.

Just because I ran out of ashes and had to use ink.

How was I to know it was registrar's ink?

It'll all come out in the wash.

Eventually.

Giving thanks for Bald People on Ash Wednesday

Let us give thanks for bald people

On this Ash Wednesday

Those who offer up to the ashing-person

A blank and ready canvas for our cross-drawing

Whether a neat, austere, Puritan kind of cross 

Or something swishy and baroque 

Like the sort of thing you see on a clipart on Facebook.

Not so when confronted by an hairy man

Or those women who pull not back their locks.

For their foreheads are a minefield of artistic and safeguarding danger.

Can one move their hair?

Or must one break the mystery of the event to ask them

Or just plough on regardless?

Their crosses are a mess

Bits of ash on stray tresses

Blobs of black on their foreheads

Of no discernible form.

On the whole, the ideal Ash Wednesday crowd would be woman footballers.

Those ponytails leaving the foreheads clear would be the perfect base.

Stylish black cross beneath dyed-blonde frame.

Simply the best.

Ash Wednesday 

Because you're worth it.

Amazing Grace for Pedants

All:  When we've been there ten thousand years, 

Bright shining as the sun, 

We've no less days to sing God's praise

Pedants: Fewer 

All:  Than when we first begun.

Pedants: Began

Saint Paul Pops Home

"Hi, Hannah, I'm home!"

"Saul, you said you'd gone out to hold some coats. Where have you been?"

"It's quite a story. I went to Damascus, and you'll never believe what happened."

"I will. I've read Galatians."

"And then so many journeys, all the time spreading the Good News: Macedonia, Collossae, Ephesus..."

"And all the time writing letters to all those churches, and not one to your wife?"

"I remembered you."

"I know. Telling the Corinthians, 'oo I wish I could bring my wife along like Peter does.' Well, Peter obviously loves his wife."

"Look, I'm not some unreconstructed dinosaur. I've been raising the status of women: 'In Christ there is no male or female."

"I read what you told the Corinthians. Women should keep quiet, you said. And as for what you instructed Timothy..."

"Ah, but I didn't write to Timothy."

"What do you mean? I saw the letters. They've got your name on. In suspiciously big writing."

"No, in 1900 years, some Germans are going to decide that I didn't write those letters."

"Germans? Those hairy illiterate weirdoes who hang around  the Rhine massacring legions? You think they're going to start adopting source criticism?"

"You obviously aren't going to listen to anything I say. I'm off to Rome tomorrow. And I wouldn't be surprised if I get executed."

"Ah, Paul. You and your martyr complex. Ah well, I won't stay up tomorrow then.

Candlemas

Layer upon layer in the story of the Presentation.

The Holy Family go to Jerusalem. To the Temple. To achieve two things:

Mary must be purified. She has given birth and so she is ritually impure until the priest has made a sacrifice which will make her ritually pure.

Not a curse. She isn't bad because she's had a baby. And the other women down the ages of this ritual law hadn't been bad because they'd had sex. 

It's part of the whole Hebrew law code where the people of Israel had to be super-careful to make themselves distinctly holy before they could worship. Other things could make you impure quite innocently.

But there's a sacrifice set for purification in Leviticus 12. And if she's poor, it's two doves.

And then the visit’s also because Jesus is a firstborn male.

In the Passover, the Angel of Death killed all the Egyptian firstborn sons. But passed over the Hebrew firstborn because of the blood of the lambs on the doorways of the Hebrews.

As a result, the Hebrews had to redeem their firstborn sons - ie pay God the price of getting them back - with a sacrifice. And the cost of getting your firstborn son back was money - five silver coins.

Expensive business, having a firstborn son. Second sons were cheaper. And daughters. Though for daughters, the mother was impure for longer.

So there's a redemption and a purification here. Two sacrifices.

But as well as the Jewish purity laws, and the story of Passover- there's another story of sacrifice underlying this visit. And another sacrifice overlaying it.

There's the story of when Abraham goes to sacrifice his son Isaac on Mount Moriah. And God's angel says “don't do it. The Lord will provide.” And Abraham finds a ram.

According to the 2 Chronicles 3, the place called Mount Moriah is where God appeared to David, and where Solomon built the Temple. 

So the Holy Family are standing- and the sacrifice for purity is being made - where the Lord provided for Abraham and Sarah's firstborn son. And they're paying for Jesus's life in the place where a price was paid for Isaac's.

Layer upon layer of meaning under this little story of the Presentation. And then another layer is added by the author to the Hebrews.

The child lying there in Simeon’s arms isn't just a six-week-old baby.

He's also a sacrifice. God has sent his Son into the world to pay a redemption price for us. Not for angels- for human people. As God provided a ram for Isaac, he's now providing himself for us. 

And he's not just the sacrifice. He's also the high priest who makes the sacrifice. God the Son chooses to come into our world. Given the choice between power and sacrifice, he will choose sacrifice. He will be raised up on a cross and pay the price that brings us back to God.

God the Son becomes fully human to join our lives. Is our sacrifice, our high priest, our representative. He pleads for us with our Father and sends his Spirit on the church.

The Holy Family go to Jerusalem. They're young and poor and apparently nothing out of the ordinary. But through God's Spirit, Simeon and Anna know who they are meeting. They welcome them, they sing the praises of this holy baby. And they fade back out of the story. The baby was safe in Simeon's hands: is safe in Mary's.

Now they know the world is safe, in this baby's hands.

(The Presentation: John Opie, in Norwich Cathedral)

Celebrations for 5 Years of Brexit

 I've been absolutely overwhelmed by demands from a Mrs Trellis of North Crawley, asking me what we are going to do to mark today's auspicious anniversary. And though I generally regard it as the single most damaging self-inflicted wound by a country since the island of Zanzibar declared war on the British Empire, I am by nature a democrat. And the people have spoken.

 So the schedule for celebrating five years of Brexit this afternoon will go as follows:

1 pm - Playing of "Land of Hope and Glory"

1.01 pm - Reading out of all Brexit Benefits

1.02 pm - Going to the pub 

Unifauns on the Lawn

Please could all Beaker Folk be careful around the main lawn. There's a small herd of unifauns grazing there.

We're really pleased to have the wild unifauns here. As such an endangered species - they've never quite found quite the right countryside to inhabit - there have been many failed attempts to breed them in captivity. But here on the edge of the greensand ridge, they get that combination of well-drained heath and boggy lowland that they crave.

Please if you meet a unifaun, walk straight past it. They don't like eye contact, and they will run away quite recklessly, crashing into hedges, walls, and sheep, if you panic them

Please keep squonks on leads.

Death of Thomas Hardy (1928)

Yokel 1: I see that Thomas Hardy have gone 'n died.

Yokel 2: 97 years ago, aye.

Yokel 1: Spose in 3 years, the Thomas Hardy Society will have a big memorial?

Yokel 2: Spose they will, aye.

Yokel 1: Shall us get down to Peter's Finger in Mixen Lane? I hear their latest brew is a pretty drop o' tipple.

Yokel 2: Aye, after I've made these souvenirs.

Yokel 1: Souvenirs, Abel?

Yokel 2: Thomas Hardy 100 years medals, pots, shawls, tea lights, drip maps, dinosaurs, replica tombstones, model cats, little tiny Wessex the Dog to the Households, women being hanged... 

Yokel 1: Thou dost reckon th'art goin' to cash in, Abel?

Yokel 2: That I do, Cain. That I do.

Yokel 1: See ye leanin' over the rail later?

Yokel 2: I' faith. I'll bring a straw.

The Nightmare After Christmas III

How long O Lord until I can do something? Why did I let Charlii talk me into taking a week off?

I went for a walk in Aspley Heath. A very Beaker Folk thing to do, with all the nature completely not happening because it's so cold.

A couple of doggers were complaining that I put them off. But just as really. They were going to catch their death, up there like that in this weather.

This is just a picture of Aspley Heath, not the doggers. So don't waste your time squinting.

But of course I took some other shots, so thanks to my contacts with Keith's uncle, the Police Sergeant, there will a couple of blackmail letters going to their home addresses. Which is all good, light, after-Xmas entertainment. And every little you add to what you've got is a little bit more.

But the one thing that my phone would be useful for, it currently isn't. I always make an exception on weeks off for answering  calls from the local funeral directors. I feel it's a pastoral necessity.

But they have blacklisted me till next week. They said having me phoning up every hour asking if someone's died is putting them under unnecessary pressure.

And they've said if they suspect I'm "drumming up trade", as they put it, this time they're calling the police.

Maybe I'd better learn to knit.

The Nightmare After Christmas II

My post-festive break continues.

I've taken to checking my emails just in case an emergency comes up. I don't know why it should. Nothing ever has.

I thought I'd walk round in case anyone needed spiritual guidance. But everyone taps the side of their noses to show they know the rules, and talks to me about football. Which, given Liverpool's position in the league, isn't so bad. But nobody wants to share any crises with me.

I'm starting to realise why vicars in the Church of England never really retire - just keep coming back in increasingly lower-paid roles.

Maybe I could reorganise the Beaker Common Prayer books in the Moot House.

That's not really work, is it?

The Nightmare After Christmas

Second day genuinely off after all the Yule and Christmas activities.

Day one was fine. Just laying around drinking gin and watching the Last of the Summer Wine CDs that Keith bought me for Christmas.

Day two is rather different.

First up, I've already watched as far as the Seymour years. And I don't need to listen to any more comedy Northern accents.

And I like to deliver things. Occasions, ceremonies, studies, meditations.

Just not delivering is very challenging. I tried reading a book but they're so... booky.

Maybe I could just do a rota?

Burning the Greens

 Apologies for the lack of posting over the Festive Period - such a lot of activity, what with celebrating all the ancient Pagan festivals and the Christian ones.

But we emerge from the tinsel, turkey, and trauma to the wonders of Epiphany and Orthodox Christmas Eve, when we start all over again for another 12 days. It's a short life but a merry one, being a Beaker Person.

There go the baubles

Last night, Dragmir was inspired to recreate the ancient tradition of "Burning the Greens". Thomas Hardy wrote about it in his deeply sad poem, "Burning the Holly": 

" But we still burn the holly
On Twelfth Night; burn the holly
As people do: the holly,
Ivy, and mistletoe."

And you may think burning the dried-up evergreen decs isn't such an environmentally-friendly thing to do.

But I can tell you, it was even worse when Dragmir set fire to all the tinsel, plastic trees, and fairy lights. Things were still exploding in the skip well into the early hours.

Some old traditions can be brought up to date. 

Maybe not this one.