Stand-in Sunday

And so, all round the country, Readers are experiencing that last-thing panic as they wonder whether there's anything new to say about Thomas. Local Preachers are checking the SatNav to ensure they can get to that village they've not visited since Sunday after Easter 2 years ago. And stand-in thurifers look wistfully at inert charcoal and wonder whether lighter fuel is a good idea*

Those of us old enough will still call this "Low Sunday". But I think I prefer a new title - "Stand-in Sunday". Any superintendent minister, incumbent, or Head Holy Honcho with a little financial nous will have stayed "on duty" as long as possible last week, safe in the knowledge that many of the folk in their care will have been dodging hailstones at Hemsby, Skeggy or Minehead. I discount those fellowship leaders, of course, who went to Spring Harvest and so weren't at their home church Easter Day - they have already received their reward. But all the other (child-free) regular post-holders and church officials will be off enjoying the cheap holiday week.

So today it's the faithful substitutes who step in. The visiting organist has been practising "Breathe on me, breath of God" for the last twelve months, just waiting for the call. Unfortunately after all this practice he's got bored with the normal tune, and has found a 9th century plainsong that almost fits. The brass was polished yesterday in a second-best-polisher kind of way. The flowers have been arranged in a "only flower arranger around" fashion. And the job of putting things onto other things has been given to anyone who happens to be passing.

The step-in Door Steward, in a fit of pique at being overlooked for the big gig last week, is handing out copies of the old Methodist Hymn Book. No, not Hymns and Psalms. The old one.

It's a celebration, is Stand-in Sunday, of the fact that the church is a body, not a couple of stars with a load of followers. What will the body do without an eye? A kidney will have to stand in for the week. What if the body were all just a foot?  Well, for one Sunday only, it will have to hop up and down to praise the Lord.
The praise will be just as valuable, for all that the Worship Leader's away wishing he was Vicky Beeching (I've always worried about that worship leader). Not least because we won't get a ten-minute anecdote before each song, and we won't be told how much that song has to lift us up / challenge us / give us the faith as much as a gnat, so we can move camels. [Hnaef, can you check I've got this right?]

The point is that, after a certain amount of doubt and confusion, and despite the odd random explosion because the 3rd Heating Deacon has forgotten the crucial order in which to switch the boiler on; despite the occasional Lay Preacher who's convinced it must be Christmas if she's been asked to step in: despite the panic as it's realised that one acolyte will have to carry two candles and the cross while balancing the Gospel on her head - the show must go on.

You may realise that in fact God's just as pleased if the sermon does not include insights into Platonic Realism: or Anarcho-Syndicalism; or Bristol Rovers or whatever the vicar's favourite method of shedding light is. God doesn't count the altar party and know them all by name (actually, God does - but won't hold that against you when it's just you on your own, meandering down the front with your dodgy knee). If the ciborium's 3" to the left, or the Big Bible is not held up for precisely 17 seconds after the reading; if the worship leader's not given every different sociological sub-group a chance to sing a verse on its own in an attempt to discover the worshipping Weakest Link (Clue: men under 30 and the creche are the worst at singing complex theological love-songs) - God won't worry.

In fact, even if the entire congregation has gone to Bridlington and left you on your own - you may wonder what they've got against you, but God won't have anything. Once you've unlocked, switched the heating on, taught yourself to play the organ, sung a couple of hymns, granted  absolution** to Old Mr Hanwell, who's been missed off the invite list to Brid because of his drunken exploits last year, preached a sermon, made and drunk the coffee and moaned about the sermon - God will be just as pleased as if there'd been 10,000 of you in a borrowed football stadium. And possibly amused, if you tried to get Mr Hanwell to "come forward" at the Altar Call.

So it's a great thing, Stand-in Sunday. And I'll be observing it myself, by taking the morning off. Although, of course, I'm not trusting that shower of Beaker Folk to manage completely without me. Oh no. Android Eileen, the robotic Archdruid, will be leading Pouring Out of Beakers. I've programmed her with one of Wesley's sermons, as well. So they should all have a great time.

---

*No. Really, no.
** Be very careful. In Anglican, Orthodox or Catholic contexts - look down to see if, judging by the clothing, you appear to be a priest of some kind before doing this.

No Doubting Thomas

In the old days, Thomas the Twin was seen as - if not a bad guy - a weak one. The one who didn't really believe.

Or so we're told. I was thinking about it the other day. And I reckon that if I had a penny for every time I'd heard a post-modern sermon explaining how in fact Thomas was the sensible one, the one who had absolutely no reason to believe - how we should all be, in fact, like Thomas - I'd have about 30p.

In fact I'm beginning to think that nobody every really called Thomas "Doubting Thomas". He has always really been "Sensible, Cynical Thomas who is Prepared to go with the Evidence" - and "Doubting" Thomas is the one whom we just claim people believed in, in the same way we claim the people of old thought the Earth was flat (they didn't, for the most part - people didn't laugh at Christopher Columbus and he wasn't any kind of threat to the Catholic Church) - or that the whole Christian church argued with Darwin's Theory of Evolution (it didn't. We didn't invent Fundamentalism for another 50 years after Origin of the Species).

So let's forget the stereotypes, wipe the slate clean, and start again. And you can argue about the historicity
 of the story, or the traditions that led to it, or the discrepancies with Matthew and what-not - but let's not. Let's just take the story as it is.

First thing in the morning, there is a kerfuffle. There is an empty tomb, Peter sees the unoccupied cave. John (assuming he is the Beloved Disciple) believes in the Resurrection. Mary goes one better and sees the Lord. Jesus gives her some instructions - "don't hold onto me" and then leaves her. She rushes off to tell the disciples.

So that evening, we've 10 disciples, some mates and presumably some women (including possibly Our Lady, Salome etc) holed up in a house. They're scared, they're confused and according to Mark only St Mary Mag has seen Our Lord, although John is convinced. And they're scared of the Jewish authorities so they're locked in. Jesus appears among them, pronounces a blessing, gifts them the Holy Spirit, and presumably, after a brief conversation of which John records just a brief summary, melts away in much the way he came.

Thomas turns up. Where's he been? Shopping? Drowning his sorrows? I favour the second answer, as it seems to fit in with his rather expansive remark. "I'll believe it when I can put my hand in his side." So it's not as if Thomas never believes his mates. On the evidence of John and Mary he's believed that Jesus had a spear put in his side - he's believed all the details of the crucifixion. But the details of the Resurrection - that's another matter. Is he being sarcastic? Setting a perfectly reasonable test of evidence? Or is it hyperbole - effectively saying that the Resurrection of Jesus is so unlikely that he'll put his hand in his side if it happens? It seems that Thomas is weighing the reliability of his mates against the unlikelihood of the event. Which is fair enough. If Hnaef tells me that it's raining outside, I'll get my brolly before I go out. If he tells me there's a unicorn in the garden, I'll have a look out before I start rooting around in the cupboard looking for the Unicorn Pellets. They make dreadful holes in your lettuces, do unicorns. But then they're mythical, so you don't automatically assume they're running amok in the garden.

So "Jesus stabbed in side with spear" - friends averagely reliable - Thomas believes.

"Jesus walking through doors, alive and well and breathing the Holy Spirit" - friends still averagely reliable, but dead-beat, frightened, probably seriously short of sleep (like all clergy by Easter Sunday evening) - Thomas doubts. Doesn't disbelieve - just doubts.

He then spends a week as his mates are all going round - "Isn't it great about Jesus being alive again"; "I wonder if he'll turn up again"; "For a day or two there, Jesus had me going." Thomas is in a strange kind of world - wanting to believe, but not quite able to. After all, his friends are going to be pretty consistent, albeit they're not getting any braver.

And so the next Sunday. There they all are. Thomas has not left John' s side for 7 days. That's why Thomas is "the twin". He's been going around hanging on to John, sticking to him like a shadow. He's not slipped out for a quick one this time. It's been a week, a whole week of annoyance and frustration, but he's stuck with it. And he's reckoning that, if ever, this is when Jesus is going to turn up.

Sees Jesus, sums up situation - "My Lord and my God". No bluster, no doubts. Just one of the most heretical things a devout Jew could say - in a perfectly sensible and adequate response to the evidence. Not the evidence of his flaky mates - the evidence of his own eyes. He sums up the evidence perfectly.

I do like Thomas. He's the brave one who says "well we may as well go to Jerusalem and die with him". I say "brave" - "desperate" might be another word; again, "cynical" might be another. But he can reckon up the probabilities of what may happen if they go to Jerusalem - calls it about right, let's face it - and still figure it's worth going with it - because if Jesus goes to Jerusalem without them, after all, what have they got left?

He's the one who effectively says "I'm not saying I don't believe you - I'm just saying give me the evidence". And he's the one who makes the leap that the others couldn't manage in a week. Imagine that week as he's thinking - "If I don't see Jesus, he's just a dead rabbi. If I do see Jesus - there's only one thing he can be. If I don't see Jesus, we just go back to normal. If I do see Jesus - I'm going to have to bow and worship. If I don't see Jesus, things are still what they seem. If I do see Jesus - there's something very different about the world, all of a sudden."

Thomas is our voice. His mates have shared their faith - he's said thank you, that's very interesting. But I need a bit more. He's the perfectly reasonable one who hangs on for a bit more evidence. Of course, he gets a lot more.

Wish we got that much more. We go on Thomas and the others, their lives and particularly their deaths, the conviction that Jesus' nature makes him the best human being there ever was and the wholly improbable way that the church grew, and suffered, and grew. To be honest, it would be a lot easier to believe if Jesus turned up in the Moot House one day and showed us his wounds.

Maybe that's why we're more blessed than Thomas?

Survey Reveals Children's Ignorance About Easter

Stunned by this year's annual crop of reports about ignorance regarding Easter. The most unexpected set of surveys since last year's ones. So I decided to run a survey of my own among the Beaker children's group, the "Little Pebbles". It doesn't make good reading.

95% were unaware that the date of Easter Sunday depends upon the phases of the moon.

The same 95% were unaware that it also depends upon the date of the Spring (or "Vernal") Equinox.

95% possess insufficient astronomical literacy to understand why it couldn't have been a solar eclipse that made the earth go dark on Good Friday.

Given there are 20 Beaker children, 95% reckon that the other 5% is a little creep.

The majority of Beaker Children said Easter makes them feel sick. Although they clarified this. It's actually eating seven eggs in succession that does this.

60% didn't see why we have to watch a Bond film every Bank Holiday.

35% think that Dawn French really is the Easter Bunny.

45% couldn't adequately explain the difference between what happened to Lazarus, and what Jesus did. Although that increased to 98% among the adults.

10% thought the invention of hot-crossed bun toaster bread was the best since that of sliced bread. The others didn't think that was very funny.

45% though that Pontius Pilate let the Easter Bunny go.

65% think that one mention in Bede is an insufficient basis on which to build an entire theology of the goddess Eostre. Although 25% liked her in King Lear.

10% thought that it was wrong to turn the Whitsun Bank Holiday into the Late Spring one, just to be convenient. Although we reckon that's just Aelfride's kids, and she's got a real hatred of secularism.

So you can see that we've a real shallow pool of ignorance out there. Some people blame the schools, some the parents, and others blame me because I'm the leader of their religious community. But personally I blame the kids. They just don't try hard enough. Some of the three-year-olds can't even read yet - so I shudder to think how they'll get on in Runic Studies when they reach Reception.

Egg Throwing

An interesting afternoon's egg throwing.

The rules should be clear by now. The Catchers stand one side of the Moot House. The Throwers go the other side, and lob fresh eggs over it. We charge premium rates for the eggs, and the money goes to the Matilda Smith-Williams Home for the Aged.

Anyone catching an egg without it breaking gets a prize. Anybody catching an egg that does break, gets a face-full of egg.

If anyone asks why we do it, we explain that it's an ancient Beaker tradition, and the eggs flying over the Moot House represent the Sun as it gets higher in the sky each day in spring. In fact, we invented it in 2006 and we do it because it's fun.

Or it was fun. Until Young Keith though he'd use the Community trebuchet. I have absolutely no idea where he got the ostrich eggs from. But it's not happening again.

Very Early in the Morning

And so in the cold dark pre-dawn of that first day, the rumour spreads.

"He isn't there! He has risen!"

Too unlikely to be wish-fulfilment. Too long-lasting to be hallucination.

Peter wonders. John believes. Mary has, it seems, been blessed with hope beyond evidence.

Ignoring the confusion of their friends, Cleophas and his mate are the first to quit Jerusalem. They're at a little place called Emmaus when they decide, let's go back. They go rushing back to tell everyone - "you'll never guess whom we've seen."

"No, we will. We will guess. We know exactly whom you've seen. We've seen him ourselves."
All the spite and all the guards and all the might of Rome, all the jealousy and fear of religious leaders couldn't keep the Nazarene in the grave.

And all the floggings, all the warnings, all the executions, all the power of all the Caesars couldn't stop the message from spreading from Britain to India in the lifespan of that useless Roman Empire - which didn't even have the power to keep one wandering Jewish teacher dead.

And down through the ages, and through the ages to come, the powers and authorities still want him dead. Because a living Christ is still a challenge to their rule in this world, and the light shining from the next. They still hate him, and still want him out the way. And he'll still go on being stubbornly alive, no matter what they do. Because he is risen indeed.

The Waiting Time

Holy Saturday is a waiting time. The time when the Passion has been remembered, but the joy of dawn on Sunday is still ahead. A time for thought and contemplation. A time to consider a life's work done, and a new chapter ahead.

Of course, that's just for us.

For the first disciples it was rather different.

It was an end-time. If the first Easter had happened in the UK, they'd be packing the cars after a disappointing holiday week and heading home. Of course, being in 1st century Judea, they couldn't do even that. It was a Sabbath. Those who lived in Jerusalem, who'd just had, as it were, day tickets - they could just sit at home with the metaphorical blinds down. Go to synagogue, repeat the old words, and reflect that maybe those texts hadn't been fulfilled in this particular Messiah after all. At least Judas had it easy - thrown in the Hinnon Valley, maybe, or the first occupant of the Potter's Field. It was all over for him.

But for the rest - down to Mark's house perhaps? Or the houses of one or another of the apparently wealthy women who'd followed Jesus - on the assumption that the husbands would be wanting to let this defeated, dejected rabble anywhere on the premises. The danger of turning up at someone's house and getting the dogs set on you must have been high. Your belongings could be packed in the evening, when Sabbath was over and you could ready yourself for an early start.

An early start. That was probably the plan. It wasn't like getting away from Spring Harvest a day early, taking in the final Celebration and then legging it up the M5 ahead of the spring holiday traffic. You'd go out at first light and hit the road. It was going to be a long walk home for the Galileans - and a dreary one. Back from a dream. Back from that bright light. Back to the smell of fish.

So it was a waiting time. A shattered, brutal, dark waiting time. A sleepless night with the thought of the start of a long journey in the morning. Not waiting for Easter Sunday - because "Sunday's coming" - waiting for the first day of the week, when you could crawl home.

Of course, it was quite a journey they woke up to. But then it was quite a morning. But that's another day's story.

Jesus Takes Out Death

It was just last Holy Saturday that I wrote "RIP Jesus?" - basically as a response to the #RIPJesus hash tag trending on Twitter. Which it is again.

Well, I wouldn't use that hash tag because it's not true. Jesus didn't rest in peace. Not on Good Friday, not on Holy Saturday, and certainly not after Easter Sunday. Not then, not now, not ever.

The old tradition says (BCP) "he descended into hell"; (CW) "he descended to the dead". That's not to mean Hell the burn-y place with toasting forks and lakes of sulphur we imagine, but Hades/Sheol/The Grave - the damp, dingy place where the dead hang around awaiting - well, awaiting something. And some old traditions say, after the Crucifixion and before the Resurrection, he went down there and trashed the joint. And I like that old tradition - the idea that Jesus went and said "I'm taking the door off the hinges - you can join me if you like" - and the demons screamed as they realised who had come in through that door - the One that death couldn't keep, the one who could let the captives out.

So as I say, I'm not really one for Rest in Peace, Jesus. He didn't, he doesn't, he won't.

Easter Egg-Throwing

The Rationale

The tradition of Easter Egg-Throwing over the Moot House is an ancient Beaker tradition that goes back to at least 2005. It has taken place every year since, with the exception of the year it snowed and the year we couldn't be bothered and last year when we unexpectedly transported across to Thomas Hardy's Wessex in a parallel universe.
It may echo my memories of rolling oranges down Dunstable Downs, unexpectedly transformed into eggs flying through the sky.

The Dubious Spiritual Connection


We throw the eggs from East to West over the Moot House, thus representing the sun in its daily journey across the heavens. At this time when the sun is strengthening, we try to throw the eggs as high as possible, emulating (but not encouraging - that would be sympathetic magic, and wrong) the sun.

The Rules

Only fresh, free-range eggs are to be used. We're not barbarians.
Throwers must stand on the throwing grid.
Eggs must go cleanly over the Moot House, passing between the North and South Stations.
Anyone catching an egg without it breaking can keep it.
A bit of advice - try to catch one-handed to the side of your body. If you try two-handed in front of your face  - well, try not to inhale.
Don't run in front of other people to make a "catch". It is within the rules, once they have wiped themselves down a bit, for them to chase you with a pointy stick in this situation.
Anyone catching the Snitch is in the wrong place entirely.

Conclusion

Hnaef gets a hose and cleans everything down. The rest of us feel a bit guilty about the waste of food and we write a cheque to Christian Aid to make ourselves feel better.

Happy Easter!

RIP Jesus?

And a hush settles on Hades. It's been a funny few days. The one in charge so much busier than usual - rushing about, getting involved in affairs upstairs in a much more direct way than normal.

Of course, he's always been more interested in what goes on up in the daylight.  Down here, he's happy to leave security to the underlings. Not that this is really his domain, of course. This is just the holding camp. The transit station, where they wait to be moved on to the "delights" ahead. Still, the gates still hold firm. And himself was ever so pleased to welcome his latest "guests". Though he's still looking around for a rebel he seems to have mislaid. Not normal, losing them. Still, we're awaiting the heretic rabbi now. The one who's been causing all the fuss. We nailed him in the end.

When there's a knock at the door. No need, mate, it opens inwards fine. Just give it a push.
No, I said a push, not a bash. Someone must be really keen to get in. They normally have to be dragged down.

Well, not a bash a... a smash? A ripping. A splintering. And the sound of the doors being thrown about the place. Ricocheting off the walls. And there's people heading out. Where do they think they're going? Don't they know that's one-way? Or would be, if the doors were still there. What a mess. They're all heading out into that light. Past the "NO EXIT" sign. Can't they read? Why's the boss not doing anything about it? He's gonna be furious. Oh. He's sprawling there with someone's sandal across his throat.  That heretic rabbi's sandal.

An echo dies away, the sound of a billion voices.

"He descended to the dead. On the third day...." 

Peaceful again. Still, the rabbi's gone, and we've still plenty here.
Shame the doors got so smashed. What an utter state. It'll take eternity to patch that up. But, you can stay here if you want to.

But why would you want to? What am I thinking? Wait for me.....

Detail from the Trinity in Glory, St Alban's Holborn.

[In charitable and constructive opposition to this]

Low Tide (a London reflection for Holy Saturday)

It's a long way from the sea here.

Yet you can still feel the pull. That twice-daily drag - in, out as the moon has her say.

And at low tide, so much is revealed. Sand and mud and rubbish. The dregs of Berkshire, washed up on a foreshore in the city.  A new world, changed twice a day.

The river shuffles with the changing tide - glinting silver and blue in a wash of sluggish gray. A can bobs in the water, waiting for something to happen.

Behind the conversions, obscured by banks and insurers, you see glimpses of Wren's treasures. Purveyors of boutique faith for the specialist.

While Mr Pooter struggles across London Bridge in the traffic. Getting nowhere fast, the traffic news from 5 Drive mocking. Another hour till he's home. The Pooters live in Purley now. Well, you'd get your head kicked in if you walked around in Holloway these days, with a name like Lupin. The joggers run past, grinning through the pain.

Once this place thronged with watermen and lightermen. Rough men with rough language, who'd not even let a prince take a trip without a few well-placed words. Men who ran the city, when the river was at high tide. But now, as the traffic creeps over, a few boats troll up and down. River taxis and tourists. That's all.

Old Father Thames sighs, and swirls, and kicks a plastic bottle around. And waits for the tide to come in.

Maundy musings

In response to the rather worried-sounding phone call I received from Hnaef, who was cooking a barbecue when he read my earlier posting  - it was nothing to do with him. I may have the delusions of grandeur to have that kind of Messiah complex, but not the delusions of humility that would have to go with it to do it properly. And I'm sorry about the damage he suffered when he dropped that lamb chop. But at least that will teach him not to barbecue in his swimming costume again.

It takes a certain kind of person to carry out that sort of betrayal. Not Hnaef, who is loyal, trustworthy, reliable, unambitious. If you were wondering about the sort of person that might betray you, you might be looking out for a wild-eyed idealist who thinks that concepts and causes are more important than people. These are the sorts of people that sacrifice friends, family and often their own lives to further the ends of a cause that seems more important than anything. It is possibly no surprise that they tend to be young men.

Or if you looked at Biblical precedent, the sort of person who would let you down might be the one in charge of the purse. An over-interest in matters financial might cause you to objectify people according to what benefit they can bring rather than their innate worth.  Although Burton is dull and unimaginative, this does not apply to all those who deal in financial matters. Maybe Judas thought he was speculating to accumulate - a little push now to bring the Kingdom in more quickly - a theo-martial leveraged buyout, if you will.

Of course, if you were a potential Labour party leader wondering who might be betray you, you'd be looking out for the person who looked most like you, and who you used to kick around when he was younger and smaller than you were. So maybe envy comes into it as well.

The Biblical authors weren't so inclined to philosophise on the matter, of course. Luke puts it down to Satan - the accuser. So does John.  Though it looks like John had it in for Judas in general. But if the Devil made Judas do it, then was it really his fault? Did he have free will in this? Could the Devil have entered any of the disciples, had one of the others agreed to co-operate? Is it a big step from Peter's desertion to Judas's betrayal - or just the change from passive denial to active collaboration?

I wouldn't say he did it for the money.  Annas and Caiaphas may have thought that was all that mattered to him - but when the deed was done the money didn't matter. Maybe, in the end, Judas didn't matter much either. Just a cog. Without the betrayal the authorities would still have got Jesus another way. The Cross would still have loomed, the nails would still have bitten, the Devil would still have had what he thought was his day - and he would still have woken up a loser on Sunday morning.

Betrayal: Psalm 55

 If an enemy were insulting me, 
   I could endure it; 
if a foe were rising against me, 
   I could hide. 
¹³ But it is you, a man like myself, 
   my companion, my close friend, 
¹⁴ with whom I once enjoyed sweet fellowship 
   at the house of God, 
as we walked about 
   among the worshippers.

From the New International Version

Easter Debunked

Over at Always Hope, Charlie Peer does a little debunking of the annual "Council bans Easter" story.  Which is always a seasonal twist on the "Council/Charity/Christian bans Christmas" stories. Although there was less on the "School bans Halloween" story.

And as I mentioned yesterday, we have had our annual "Easter isn't quite right" story from an under-qualified author, which again has its parallel in the "There was no Christmas donkey".

Well, to save you the trouble of trawling the Web looking for spurious debunking stories and dodgy claims made after daft research, here's a whole bunch of untrue stories about Easter. I can guarantee that these stories are completely false, and based on either bad research or none whatsoever. Now you can relax and enjoy Easter knowing it's been thoroughly debunked.

• Caiaphas was elected High Priest under the Alternative Vote system. If they had used First-past-the-post it would have been Joseph of Arimathea.

• Based on his red hair, Judas was probably Welsh.

• Pontius Pilate invented the Pilates system to help him relax after a hard day's haranguing hoi polloi

• Several of Jesus' disciples had a fig allergy, hence his opposition to the trees

• Due to the stupidity of human beings, the press will never run out of stories of people being cruel to animals at religious festivals.

• Contrary to popular belief there were only 12 disciples and no kangaroos at the Last Supper.

• Croydon Council has banned Easter eggs from all council meetings.

• The Hot Cross Bun originated as a food to be eaten from January to April.

• The Easter Bunny was originally the Easter Badger, based on Brockworth the Saxon god of blogging. But had to be changed to the Easter Rat due to tuberculosis fears. Unfortunately the Black Death put paid to that tradition, so they changed it to a rabbit. Then myxomatosis came along, and they gave up trying.

• You can date Easter by identifying the year when a total eclipse of the sun occurred at the same time as Passover¹ ,causing the darkness that fell over the earth.

• The word "Easter" comes from the same Anglo-Saxon root as the word "Easel". In East Anglia they used to dedicate all artistic equipment to the goddess Eostre. 

And don't forget - if 23 April falls in Holy Week, the Church moves St George's Day not Easter Day. One day the newspapers will notice, and denounce the Church as being unpatriotic, in thinking that the Resurrection of Our Lord is more important than being English. It could be this year and, if it is, you read it here first.

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¹This is very bad science, religion and history.

The Stone the builders rejected

The Trinity in Glory - St Alban's Holborn

The Archdruid's Easter Sermon

Yes, the title was chosen deliberately.  It wasn't accidentally defaulted from last Easter.  And in any case I didn't do an Easter message this year.

This week is traditionally the time of year when people all over the civilized world, and even Milton Keynes, complain.  And the complaint they make is the same one.  Ooo the Cadbury's Creme Eggs are in the shops.  Valentine's cards have appeared.  Easter bunnies abound.  And the telly is full of adverts for summer holidays.  I ignore the DFS sale, now into its 40th glorious year and with no sign of abating -the only thing in this world that is longer-running than Last of the Summer Wine.  All around us the world springs into the Spring sales, ignoring the 3 months of winter that remain.  And all of this can be firmly blamed upon one group of people.
You.
Yes, you.  You ignored 2000 years of tradition and put the dancing snowmen on your path on 1 December.  When the tradition of the church and all the voices of nature were crying out for you to batten down the hatches and face a bit of misery as the days shortened, you put a 60 foot singing, ringing tree outside your house.  The inflatable Santa has been in the garden since Advent 2.

And it's Santa that exposes the trouble with your attitude to Christmas.  This is where you blew it.  This is where you left yourself open to Creme Eggs in the shops before the geese were even a-laying.  You idolised Santa.
Let's consider what we know about Santa.  He appears on lots of cards.  He's inflatably glowing in many people's front gardens.  There are signs saying "Santa please stop here" in shrubberies all over suburbia.
And he's redundant on 25 December.

The really devout, the ones that saw Advent as a preparation for the coming of Jesus - they've got until Candlemas (aka Imbolc) to celebrate.  That's 2 February, last time I looked.  All that time to celebrate their God with Them.  But your god had a red coat and went ho-ho-ho.  He substitutes living by faith with a little list that says whether you've been naughty or nice.  He delivers his promises of a better world by the 25th.  And then it's all over.  He's done now.  You might as well pack him, and all the things he stands for, back into the shoebox and stick him in the attic until next year.

You've been eating Xmas dinners since mid-November.  The Office Do was in the first week of December.  You've been playing Christmas carols (the crappy Victorian sentimental ones,  not the decent theological pre-Victorian ones) since about Armistice Day.  So you've had it by now, haven't you?  You don't want any more Christmas.  If you attend Church on Sunday you won't understand why you're still singing carols.  Unless you belong to a Pentecostal church, in which case you're probably already back to Redmanesque introspection by then.  When the Wise Men turn up in a week or so you're going to wonder what they're playing at - weren't they standing by the crib, back in the 2nd week of December, when it was Christmas?

Of course the retailers of this world are selling you Creme Eggs.  What else did you think they were going to sell you?  Stuffed Goose?  That's for Christmas.  Sild?  Quails Eggs?  Blow-up models of the Royle Family? All these things are irrelevant.  You had your Christmas in Advent and before.  It's Lent now.

But of course Lent is like Advent.  You're going to skip that because it's dull and challenging and you don't like it.  And you wouldn't like your faith to be about temptation and challenge and self-discipline and denial.  Not in a world crying out for you to be more restrained in your consumption and simpler in your tastes.  How would that work?  So you'll be down the shops this weekend, New Year's hangover settling down, moaning about the Easter Eggs.  But buying a few packs of hot-cross buns, because they're so nostalgic, aren't they?  And maybe a few fair-trade bars of chocolate because you always feel better about eating that.  It's not that it has less calories - but they're smugger than normal chocolate calories, so they're probably less fattening.

So get your Easter over quickly because January will be on us soon.  And then you'll probably want to dance around a Maypole.