Render Unto Eileen

I've got this idea from Matthew 22. Or possibly Disneyland. Or both. In any case.

I'm pleased to announce the release of Beaker Beads. They're the special currency you can only buy at the Beaker Bureau de Change! Every bead is worth £5.27 and contains a holographic image of Dale Winton in a smock, to eliminate the danger of forgery.

Beaker Beads are now the only form of payment now accepted at the Beaker Bazaar. Except for all major credit cards, of course. Although even then we'd rather you used Beaker Beads, as it gets us round all that unpleasantness with the credit card companies when you try to return something.

What could be more fun than shopping with Beaker Beads? You can use them to buy that pebble you've had your eye on, a soothing pack of scented tea lights or - if you're feeling ironic -  a nice string of Beaker Beads.

And at the end of your pilgrimage, if you've not spent all your beads, you can return them at the Bead Exchange* for real money. Although we will charge a handling charge. And a "returns" charge if you bought them with a credit card - do you think we were born yesterday?

* Beaker Bead Exchange open alternate Tuesdays, 8.00-8.15. Beads exchanged only in whole strings of 10. No change given for part-beads.

Memorial Sermon for the Death of Football

And so, in the light of yesterday's events in the Premiership, we reflect that fings ain't wot they used to be, and that money has ruined football. This time is definitely the end. Just like it was definitely the end a few years ago, when Roman Abramovich bought first Chelsea and then the Premiership.

And in doing so we follow our fore-mothers and fore-fathers, fore-uncles and fore-aunties - who declared money had ruined football when Trevor Francis went for a million quid in  1979. And when Jimmy Greaves went for a quid less than 100,000 in 1961.  And when Alf Common became the first £1,000 player in 1904.

And so we reflect on the immense waste of money involved in the whole thing, the money syphoned out of the pockets of fans and into those of agents and other hangers-on. And in a moment we will light the gigantic pile of Monopoly money we have erected in Lower Paddock. We will watch until all that is left is a little ash blowing in the wind - in the Ceremony that has the strange name "Buying Torres".

And as we reflect on the obscene sums involved in football, we will agree that Arsene Wenger needs to get out and spend big and quick. Because how else can he hope to compete with the Big Boys?

Late score: Manchester 13 - North London 3.

Count in the Crossfire

It's true what they say, in a war zone it's always the accountants that suffer.

The Archdruid has been on holiday less than 48 hours and already it's driving me to distraction. My first problem, Dear Readers, came about on Saturday, less than an hour after Eileen had left the premises. I went to the safe in the Beaker Bazaar to issue the floats for the tills, and there was no money. I went online and checked the Beaker bank account - no money. I can only presume that Eileen has accidentally taken it all with her, as she has a habit of doing.

Then the phone rang, and it was Eileen - giving me a great long list of instructions. I have to count the attendance at each meeting in the Moot House. I have to tally everybody that is in the refectory for dinner. I have to count the Beaker Fertility Folk out when they next decide it's time for a fertility festival - and then wait around for hours to count them all back in again. I have to rate the anxiety levels of the Gibbon Moon Folk - thankfully currently low, as the moon is waxing steadily. Although they are more nervous than generally at this phase of the moon, as they seem to believe that the Perseid Meteor shower is bits of the Gibbon Moon falling off.

The one thing Eileen didn't "help" me with is the cashflow issue. When I told her that we had no float and no Community balance and how was I to pay any bills, she simply told me to "sell more doilies". She has a way with debt reduction that George Osborne must envy. And so I have been tramping the streets of Woburn and Milton Keynes, selling doilies. Returning, exhausted, from my travels I found Hnaef looking at yet another pile of Methodist Worship Books that had been reduced to Papier-mâché by yet another outpouring of the sprinklers in the Moot House. If it were not that we pick them up cheap from Church of England ordinands when they finish their courses, I have no idea how I would make ends meet - buying so many Methodist Worship Books every year.

So I now have enough money to issue a float in the Bazaar. And when the banks open, I will deposit the remainder so we can consider keeping the lights on. I hate it when Eileen goes away.  She keeps such iron control over things normally, that it all goes wrong when she is not paying any attention.

The Road Goes Ever On

In my darker moments - and occasionally I have them, although I know I should not, for perfect love should cast out fear - but in my darker moments I sometimes think that the Baptibus is not such a great idea.

Eileen has been very kind. She not only allows us to borrow the Shuttle from her Community (at a reasonable price) but she has even agreed to us applying temporary transfers to the side each week. They read "Bogwulf Independent Baptist Church - climbing the tightrope to Heaven". But with the price of the transfers, and the rental of the Shuttle and the sheer amount of diesel involved...I am not convinced, Holy Brother (I need not refer to the weaker and more easily swayed sex here, as these are deep matters of accountancy and stewardship of Church money, with which they should not be worrying their heads) - I am not convinced that it's worth the offering we get back in.

Not that we should measure the cost of a soul in the price of the fuel to save it. But by my reckoning it costeth us about £100 each Sunday to collect just seven people, who between them contribute maybe £7 to the coffers. Now, I know what you are saying brethren - again, I refer only to the Brothers, as this is a matter of teaching and exhortation - you are saying, what profiteth a man who saves £93 a week but loseth his soul? And this is a sound question. But I do wonder - in the grey of the morning, when my mind becomes confused - surely there must be some, relatively holy, fairly orthodox Baptist church they could attend, where they might still be saved and we wouldn't have to invest all this time and effort in collecting and returning them.

Still, I can enjoy the rest of this Sabbath in peace. It is over for tonight. I have returned all seven worshippers and come back to the Manse for a refreshing cup of water. It is not easy, driving all over Bedfordshire to deliver people to their houses in many different villages. One could easily lose the path - which is, indeed, often narrow. So often the broad and easy way is the way that leads to Milton Keynes, and then one would be truly lost. I am often ruefully grateful for that insistent voice in the car that tells me repeatedly when to turn to left or right, how far away the destination is and even - quite impressively - can warn me when I am driving too fast - although sometimes you're tempted to tell it to be quiet. But on balance I really don't know what I would do without Marjorie.

The least in the Kingdom

I'm quite intrigued by Reverend Robert's sermon today.
Based on Luke 12, he took the reference to sell what you have "and give alms" and applied it to his own church. He explained how, thanks to the Biblically-inspired giving, sacrificial generosity and souvenir sales of the 15th Hallelujah Church of Glory, he can be sent to spread the Light in the darkness of this green and forsaken land. And in the process go Business class and stay in nice hotels. Whereas if I accept the offer to preach to the Bude Unlikely Grace fellowship in the autumn, I'll be staying in a tent at the "Atlantic Gales" campsite.
What kind of church is it, asked Bob, that allows its pastor to stay in a tent while the pagans are in air-conditioned motor caravans? A fellowship that truly believed the Gospel would be able to send its pastor first-class in the knowledge that, by doing so, they would be declaring the glory of God and their own transparent holiness.

So by giving graciously, they'd be sending a message about what good Christians they are. And yet simultaneously they'd be working for the Kingdom.  And I might have a comfy week in Cornwall into the bargain.

As Archdruid Eileen used to say, in those days when I struggled to keep the Beaker Folk somewhere in contact with Fundamentalist Christianity - this needs some unpacking.

The Rich Fool

And what a reminder that great Parable of the Rich Fool is to us, of the importance of the way we use money.

I reminder when I first came for my interview with the Church Meeting, and to preach with a view to ministry, that I was informed that this was a church which believed in the biblical principle of tithing. I am therefore sad to report that, based on the discussions I have had with Mr Saunders, our Treasurer, the average member of this congregation earns around £27 per week.
I must admit I am shocked. Shocked by the obvious level of poverty by which I am surrounded. Who could have believed that, behind the net curtains of the executive 5-bedroom homes of Grebe Way, people struggle to live on such small incomes? I feel that by drawing my ministerial salary I am letting you all down. Maybe I should go back out to work in my former role as a ball-bearing salesman in the roller-skate industry, in the hope that I can, through giving my own tithe, support you all.

We must look closely at the story of the Rich Fool. For it is a story of priorities.
The Rich Fool had a large harvest. He could have used it to the glory of God - donating a tenth - or even more, for the Law was but a fence around sin, not a wall around goodness. Had he given his share to the synagogue, a rabbi might have been freed to spend more time in study of the Scriptures - in the process coming closer to God.
Or had he given it to the temple - the priests would have been freed to spend more time in prayer, purifying themselves in that Divine Fire for the service which they gave.
Or were the Rich Fool an independent Baptist - he could have granted his share to the minister, who thus  would be able to buy an iPad like all the Anglican priests, or a proper lap-top, instead of having to publish his sermons on Blogger by texting it into his £30 Nokia mobile telephone. And could have spent less time shovelling shire-horse droppings in the back garden, thence to grow vegetables with which to prop up his meagre ministerial income.
Not that I do not enjoy tending my garden, you understand. There is nothing I like better than to spend a long Saturday digging manure into garden beds followed by wasting God's beautiful cleansing water on a half-hour long shower to remove the rather ripe smell I acquire. I am truly working in God's vineyard - even if I am struggling to produce non-alcholic and godly grape-juice.

I should explain, in case you do not know the arrangements - I am unlike the ministers of the Church of England.  They are on a fixed stipend - and therefore earn the same regardless of whether they take any services or marry thousands, whether they save 100 lost souls or none. Where is their incentive? Unless they truly believe the Gospel, why would they work in the holy vineyards when they could sit around all day on Mr Twitter's time-wasting device?

Whereas I am paid - on top of a frugal base salary - a share of all giving. I have incentive to produce fruit that will last. I work every hour that I may gain the lost - and in the process, maybe enough left over to buy a tin of Ambrosia Cream Rice. Which goes very nicely with fruit that lasts, as it happens. I become all things to all men, that by all possible means I might save enough for a holiday.

But I am rambling, and maybe giving the impression that I perform my ministry for the love of filthy lucre, that rots or is stolen. If I build barns to hold my wages - then they would be fairly empty. And even if they were full, the Lord would still say to me - "You fool! This very day your life will be demanded of you!"

Faced with a threat like what else can we do but give graciously - give biblically - give generously - give till a great heap-offering of love is given for the work of the Church and the ministry of its minister. Given until all that is left in our pockets is lint.  For you do not muzzle the ox while it is treading grain, and the workman is worthy of his wages - meagre as they are.

And now we have our hymn - during which we will take an offering. "Silver and gold have I none".