Living on God-Time

Hnaaef has been showing me the page for the Church of England "daily office". He sits there during Pouring out of Beakers sometimes gazing at his Android device and - though he claims he is "tweeting" his reflections on the service and bitching out whoever is leading- I suspect he is actually sneakily using another liturgy.

But I was intrigued by the feed page. It tells us that you can "find time for God", then informs us that all services are GMT. Which sheds new insight into what the "G" stands for - and confirms my suspicions that God is, after all, an Englishwoman. Prepared to cater for all - as long as they toe the line and keep their noses clean.

Bad in-Vestments

Yes, the Bad Vestments blog is one of my favourite. Their strapline "Because Christian worship is not meant to be about you" is right and priceless.

But then I saw this.

And yes - it's a bit bright. And a bit camp in the background, I'd have to agree. But neither camp nor bright are bad of themselves.

But then I saw this....

And do you know - I think I'll go for the shiny and the authentic-camp over the manly-camp. At least you know where you are.

The Virtual Daily Office

It's a fantastic thing, technology.

Up first thing this morning and connected in to the Moot House to discover that Hnaef had replaced Pouring out of Beakers with his Church of England Morning Prayer. I had to override the controls of the music system again and pump some Barclay James Harvest into the Moot House, to remind them all what they were supposed to be doing.

That's two services running. No wonder he was late for what I thought was going to be "Filling up of Beakers" yesterday. Mind you, knowing Hnaef he probably thought it was "Pouring out" last night. At this rate those Beakers are never going to get poured out or filled up.

I've told Hnaef before. I'm not personally opposed to his Anglicanism. But he has to keep quiet about it, and not foist it on others. Some find it quite offensive.

Liturgy for the passing of the great Peter Falk (aka Columbo)

Archdruid: Peace be with you.
All: And also with you.

Archdruid: And now we will ask our guest speaker to read out the "word of power" for today.

Drayton Parslow: "Rosebud?" Why does it say "Rosebud" on the service sheet?

Rosebud the Dog charges into the Moot House, and is dragged out of the South East Door, clamped to Drayton's arm. Archdruid Eileen may slip the dog-owner a tenner.

One of the following may be said:

   Why did that dog get so upset when he said "Rosebud"? Surely... Ow! Ow! Someone get this dog off me!

OR: 

   I must tell Mrs Columbo about this when I get home. She loves dogs.

Archdruid: And may Peace go out with you.

All: And also with you.


Archdruid: Ah.... just one more thing?

Proscribing Processions

I've been having some thoughts about the procession at the start of Acts of Worship.

You see, when we line up and process in with the botsalifers and the acolytes at the front, then the wavers of peacock feathers and then the gladiators, the Ring-Bearer, a zither-player, the junior druids then Hnaef and finally myself - it kind of makes me look important. Which obviously is nice, but is that where the focus should be?

So we have experimented with the idea that Hnaef and I should be at the front. Gives a nice impression - the idea that, as Archdruid and her Executive Assistant, we should be leading from the front. Taking awkward decisions, meeting trouble and danger on your behalf, being the first to approach obstacles... well, you can see why we decided against that. No-brainer.

So then we played around with the "just bimble in and sit down" approach.  But when you did that, nobody every knew whether we'd really started, or whether we'd pick up the tea light, paper clip or sermon notes that we'd come to fetch and go back out again.

So I think we've really cracked it this time. We've put all the equipment in place, and relocated the Druidry Room to a mezzanine in the roof space of the Moot Hall. We're going to be lowered gently down straight onto our thrones while strapped into theatrical flying harnesses. That should combine simplicity, decorum and humility in equal measure. And it's going to be great fun, as well.

Out of the depths I rise

It has been a most challenging day, Dear Readers.

An enjoyable morning - I went along, at Drayton's advice, to hear Bishop Pete talk about worship.  Although Drayton himself went to find something that wasn't being co-led by a woman. And I was most taken by the concept of the "Greeting" - the part where the congregation greets each other - as Eileen sometimes says, when she's in one of her Tridentine moods, "Pax vobiscum", and the congregation responds "et cum spiritu tuo".It's a short life but a varied one, in the Beaker Folk of Husborne Crawley.
And I was musing on the beautiful call and response as I was on my way back from Burgh le Marsh this afternoon on my bike.

I don't know if you know Burgh le Marsh? An interesting place - mounted up on a hill above the fens like Mount Zion. But with less Sanhedrins and general trouble. The Fleece used to sell a nice pint of Olde Trip, but since Hardy & Hanson were taken over by Greene King they've got Speckled Hen instead. Which was still a very nice pint. Slightly sweet, heavy but with a good hop bite. In the Fleece, 9/10 in anyone's money.

And I was heading back to Butlins, swerving along the fen lanes, with the view of Skyline ahead of me in the distance. Like the view of the Celestial City in that book Drayton keeps going on about, or the view of Oxford that Jude the Obscure gets in that book whose name I can't remember, but which the Archdruid likes because there's a nice, pointless and poignant death in in it. Excep in the film with Dr Who in it, where Jude's still alive at the end.

And as I barrelled along the lane, I realised that someone was beeping his horn repeatedly at me. Taking my headphones off (I had been enjoying a nice bit of Kraftwerk) I turned round to see a man driving a Ford Mondeo.

"Whoi don't yew get out o' t'way, you gr't steaming poil o' donkey droppins'?" he asked. (I can't do the accent).
"And also with you," I replied, without thinking much what I was saying.

That ditch was very muddy. And the bike was much harder to ride after I'd dragged it out. And I'm very smelly now. And I'm not totally sure he was into liturgy, now I think about it. It was probably that which upset him.

Mothering Sunday

This is the Sunday in the calendar when other churches in England - I say churches, let us rather call them "fellowships with a mere passing resemblance to authentic Biblical Christianity" - celebrate "Mothering Sunday", "Mother's Day" or, for the ironically pedantic, "Mothers' Day".

But I would not be drawn into their trap. I had seen the readings that the Church of England normally uses on this Sunday. And it is a blatant piece of Mariolatory.  You will notice the way in which Mary is mentioned both by name, and as our Lord's mother.

Clearly this is Scripture, and therefore to be taken as the word of God. And to be read in its right context. But to use the reading on a day called "Mothering Sunday" - clearly the dangers are there to be seen if it is so read.

This I explained to the faithful at our Sabbath gathering today. Using the overwhelming imagery of God's masculinity in  the Good Book - his thundering from heaven, his general designations as "Lord" and "Father". And I expounded for several minutes on why, therefore, at the Bogwulf Baptist Chapel, there would be no such festival as "Mothering Sunday" - it was to be shunned along with the New Moon Festivals and similar legalistic feasts of the unreformed Hebrew religion.  We, as Spirit-filled Baptist Christians living in a state of grace and free from legalism, would continue - of our own free wills, and not expecting reward - to celebrate the Sabbath Day, to keep it holy, and refrain from any unnecessary travel or exertion - except, of course, for the Baptibus's  godly tour around the Bedfordshire, Milton Keynes and Northamptonshire countryside.

Godly Brother (and Sister, with the mysteries of which I speak suitably explained, where required, by an approved close male relative or suitably-chaperoned Pastor) - I have rarely heard the collective intake of breath of 20 mothers expressed with such menace. I realised that I had made the grave mistake of upsetting a score of middle-aged matrons - no laughing matter, as I am sure you realise. Just upsetting Marjorie is bad enough - but 20 at one go? Now, my belief in my cause was deep, strongly-founded as on a rock. But I have already been hounded from one Baptist fellowship in the last twelve months, and for it to happen a second time might suggest I am indeed the "misogynistic halfwit with zero people skills" that Eileen suggests. And I am sure I heard one godly lady muttering under her breath about whether the ban on those with damaged testicles entering the holy place still applies in our Age of Grace. And so - prepared like St Paul to be "All things to all men" (and women, in this instance) I hastily re-introduced Mothering Sunday.

But I must stress - I did not bless those daffodils. I merely said a prayer over them, and if anything else happened, God did it.

8 am Pouring Out of Beakers - Order of Service

Oh right. yes.

May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face;
the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,
may God hold you in the palm of His hand.


And, next year, may someone remind me that the clocks are going forward.

The Day of the Theremin

Is it just me, or can the use of instruments in worship go too far sometimes?

I agreed to Electra organising the music today. She's always been reliable in the past, with a streak of creative unconventionality. Well and fondly I remember the 100-ukulele accompaniment that made such a difference to our rendition of "Just as I am" a few months back. And of all the instruments that might make a spiritual impact on our meetings, the theremin seemed just the thing. How could it go wrong?

Well, to be frank it was just un-nerving. We were halfway through a reading of one of our "Deeply Moving Spiritual Pieces" - I think it was Miss Joan Hunter-Dunn by Betjemann - and suddenly this unearthly noise set up.Yes, it moved us to a new spiritual place but I'm not sure that "freaked" is such a good spiritual place.
And then we got into the more serious processional liturgy - and again, getting the idea that there's a 1960s Cyberman following around as you take part in the Solemn Clockwise Procession is not going to help. Everybody's supposed to keep their eyes forward - in the general way encouraged by Sydney Carter's abysmal "One more step along the world I go" but without the ghastly music. But compared to that spooky howling going on through it all - well, you could almost want Carter back. Until you remember that hitting yourself over the head with a frying pan would be better.

So now the main service is over. And silence falls along with darkness across the Beaker Folk of Husborne Crawley. Except the sound of a few literalists hitting themselves over the heads with frying pans. And somewhere, nagging at the back of your mind, reminding you that Fenris Wolf hasn't let go yet for this winter - the sound of a theremin.

Will you excuse me? I just need to go and put some Brotherhood of Man on the Community PA system. It may just drown out the theremin.

Rainy day Ritual

Our "full of the joys of spring" ritual was, in all senses of the world, a washout.

I blame myself. Once again I applied the Met Office's "global warming determinator" to the weather forecast. Based on which, given that we have seen a warming trend since mid-December, I assessed that it was never going to rain again. How wrong I was.

Turned out the only spring flowers to be seen were the ultra-early daffs, the snowdrops and crocuses.
The liturgical singing of "I'm walking on sunshine" in procession transpired to be one of the wettest experiences we've known since the Moot House flooded.

Gathering Rosebuds has been put off to when we may. It's officially still winter.

Liturgical Fashion

This morning while sulking in the Library and listening to my collection of “Smiths” music, I was pondering again Canon Phil Ritchie’s comments on the fashionable ways of wearing dog collars. And reflecting that, in the Beaker Folk, these issues tend not to apply.

I am very fond of donning my Archdruid’s pointy hat, but this is strictly for important ceremonial occasions. I would never dream of wearing it in public – not because I want to be some kind of “stealth” Archdruid, but because small boys have a habit of pelting it with stones or, according to the weather conditions, snowballs.

Likewise, being the traditionalist that I am, I would prefer to restrict the wearing of the Beaker hi-viz to liturgical purposes only. I note from the Bad Vestments site that some Anglican and Catholic priests and bishops are just a short step from wearing hi-viz themselves at some services, which is why I emphasise the distinctiveness of Beaker liturgical wear. In particular, I’ve had many heated discussions with Burton, as I’ve tried to persuade him not to wear his reflective waistcoat for cycling.  I just feel it is debasing the specialness of the liturgy. Honest.

Steel toe-capped safety shoes are our traditional footwear, but I see no reason why we should always reject the fruits of progress. Kevlar toe-capped shoes are lighter weight and actually stronger. While they are considerably safer and less encumbering to liturgical dance during our annual “Celebration of Strong Electromagnets” festival.

So overall I see no place in Beaker liturgical clothing for fashion or embellishment.  It’s hardworking, reliable and reverent. There are those who say I should declare the specialness of my Archdruidical status – for those I may meet in the street, or wherever, for whom a glimpse of an Archdruid may call them to confession of some covert sin or for spiritual advice and wisdom.  And to those I will point out the motif on my special Archdruid’s Sweatshirt, with its simple and yet discreet identification of my status  - “I’m the Archdruid – don’t mess”.

Woodland Morning Liturgy

A wonderful start to the day. Rushing outside to the Orchard, we washed our faces in the newly-fallen rain, scooping it from the grass. We lit a fire from fallen branches to celebrate the rising of the sun on this newly-given day, and danced round its strengthening flames.

We wove our coloured ribbons through the trees to symbolise the human passage through life - multi-coloured and yet so delicate, fluttering in the wind to show that we are so fragile.

Then we gathered stones from the field, and built them into a cairn to celebrate the permanence of our relationships - as solid as stones and and as permanent as the hills, and yet each as individual as the stones themselves.*

Taking pebbles from the side of the brook, we each cast our own into the water - and reflected on the ripples that tell of the passing of time, sailing away and never coming back.

Then we closed by wending our way through the stony Labyrinth in the Woods, to the point where we reached today's Worship Focus - a beautiful snail, hand-carved in the 70s from the wood of a dying elm. A thing of wonder and beauty and life, rescued from the disaster of Dutch Elm disease.

And so we wandered back, refreshed and yet moved and slightly saddened.

But I have to reflect. We do seem to be veering dangerously close to common modern practice in the Church of England.

---

* for health and safety reasons we've taken it down now, of course. We don't want anyone tripping over it.

Service of Thanksgiving for the return of an accountant

We're going to skip the Pouring out of Beakers this morning, in exchange for our Service of Thanksgiving for Burton's safe return.

As forecast, he had managed to lock himself into the bike compartment on the train. Arriving in London, he panicked when he realised his ticket was only from Ridgmont to Leicester return, raced through the barriers pretending to be "an Accountant on Call", and then pedalled all the way home. Even then it should only have taken three or four hours, but he'd lost all rational sense of direction and went round the M25.

Still, it's nice to have some genuine emotion to celebrate. Saves all that generating spiritual feelings. And though he's been up all night cycling, he's still got all those invoices to lose before he gets off to bed.

Celebration of Roy Clarke's Award

Congratulations to Roy Clarke, writer of "Last of the Summer Wine" and "Open All Hours",  on his lifetime achievement award. A few notes for tonight's celebratory liturgy:

Flat caps are obligatory for men, wrinkled stockings for women. But if you want to do that the other way round, go ahead. I've an open mind and we are an equal-opportunities community.

"Going downhill in a bath-tub" is technically a song of descents, not ascents.

The correct liturgical response to "How do, lads" is "Ee, it's Wesley!".

"Mending Stuart's Leg" is a very crude way of describing a service of attempted healing.

Don't upset the Yorkshire god Earnshaw. He has a filthy temper.

 Mind your fingers on the cash till in the Beaker Souvenir Bazaar. It's got a mind of its own.

Litany of slight guilt for believers at a Sunday Morning Football Match

Although this isn't much fun, and although we're freezing to death out here
and although we are suffering from the other lot's loud mouthed manager, who seems to think he is the Alex Ferguson of the Whitworths U-11 league,

yet we have a slight guilt.
For young Johnny [or, as it may be, Georgia or Ethan] is missing Sunday Club.
And we ourselves should be halfway through the Creed by now [evangelicals may substitute "still halfway through the sermon"].

Therefore we abase ourselves, and yet console ourselves that young Chloe [or, as it may be, Elliot or Ellis] finds the Sunday Club quite dull [we may substitute "Old Revd Grimham is going to be preaching again", or "it's the 'ensemble' playing this week", or another suitable thought to make ourselves feel better]

But we know that as surely as night turns to day, this freezing winter will pass.
And with the summer will come the close season. And we may get a few weeks back at church.

And one day young Alfie [or, as it may be, Sophia or Lucy] will get fed up running around this muddy strip of land getting kicked, and will instead discover girls [/boys/the joys of not getting up in the morning at all] and will probably never go back to church at all.

And then we will reflect that, at least our here in the rain [/snow/sleet/howling gale], we knew something of common purpose and community, of sacrifice and selflessness and endeavour.
And that maybe this wasn't so bad after all.

Naming Service

Can you all please note that Marston is to do no more service preparations.

He persuaded that young couple that we may have banned Lord of the Dance, but Lord of the Rings is similar.

That's the longest Naming Service I have ever sat through.

A celebration of Northern-ness

It being the saints' day of Aelred of Hexham (bp of Rievaulx) and Benedict Biscop of Monkwearmouth, this evening's Occasion is a Celebration of Northern-ness.  

Please note that, Beaker Folk mostly being what may be described as softy southerners, there may be a certain degree of stereotyping, and clumping together all northerners together as if they all speak a mixture of Georgie and Derbyshire, in this liturgy. We assure you that it is done with affection for all you gruff, scary people who seem to feel no shame in talking to strangers on trains and in shops.

Please also note that for Americans who generally think that Edinburgh and Cardiff are both in "England", this may all be meaningless.

Dress code: Hi-viz, flat caps and whippets

Hymn: The Blaydon Races

Archdruid: Eh-oop, Beaker Folk.

All: Eh-oop, Archdruid.

Archdruid: 'appen it's stopped snowin', then.

All: Aye, but it's blowin' a gale.

Archdruid: The fog on the Tyne is mine, all mine. The northern lights are in my mind.

Geordie Confession:


All:  Awee, we've done stuff wrong. We've gang agin our neighbours in thowt an word an deed,
threr negligence, threr weakness, threr wor aan deliberate fault. Wor truly sorry.


Archdruid: Awee, gan an' behaive yerselves.

Yorkshire Offertory


Hear all, see all, say nowt, 
tak' all, keep all, gie nowt, 
and if tha ever does owt for nowt 
do it fer thisen.

Song: On Ilkley Moor Bah't At


Departure

Archdruid: Will yez all stay for a barm cake?

All: We'd loov to but there's trouble at 't mill.

Queuing

Another thing that suggests that we English are the Chosen People is the fact that, like Jesus, we know how to queue. Anyone who has visited Abroad will know that Foreigners don't know how to queue properly.

Jesus, on the other hand, was clearly proto-English, because in all the illustrations I've seen of his baptism, he's been waiting very patiently in line for his turn. No barging to the front. No forming a delta-like huddle and jostling to get forward. No. He was in a queue.

So far my research hasn't thrown one up, but I'm certain that there's an Anglo-Catholic chapel somewhere near Sandwich dedicated to Our Lady of the Queue, and I'm considering asking the Archdruid to research a suitable liturgy for today, based around lines of patient English people.

"Cashier number Three, please."

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Beaker Covenant Service - Cancelled

I'm sorry, but we're going to have to cancel the Beaker Covenant Service, which we had planned for New Year's Day.

Afraid the Worship Planning Group has decided there's nothing we can do with it. In tribute to my former experiences with the Extremely Primitive Methodists, I wanted to base our service on the Methodist Covenant Prayer (traditional version). I thought it would give me a nice, nostalgic feeling.

But the Worship Planning Group made so many changes in the interests of "bringing it up to date" and "making it real" that I don't think we can go forward with it.

For myself, I was concerned about "rank me with whom you will". I'm the blooming Archdruid, and I've got the hat and the house and everything. I'm not going to give up all the things that I've worked for (and many of the things that my ancestors acquired by various wrong-side-of-the-blanket liaisions) just for some start-of-the-year nostalgia.

Mr Woodhouse risked coming all the way out to the Moot House to tell us that he didn't like the sound of "put me to suffering", as that might be dangerous - and neither did Mrs Woodhouse, who was once again unable to join us due to a fit of the vapours.

Many were unhappy with the concept of being "employed by you",  the Divine being notoriously unlikely to respect the Working Hours Directive. While others were terrified by the thought of being "laid aside" as they wondered where they would find their worth in those circumstances. The idea of having "nothing" was regarded as scarily communistic.  And while our Folk frequently feel "empty", we prefer the concept of being able to fill up our spiritual tanks with convenient and efficient ceremonial - rather than being content with our lot.

And so the Beaker Covenant Prayer ended up as "Let me be full, let me have all things". Which I suppose summarises our position quite well, but to be honest I wouldn't like that to be the start-of-year ceremony.

So I guess we'll be letting off the fireworks instead, same as usual.

White Christmas?

The weatherpeople are saying that cold winds, rain, sleet and snow are on the way - maybe even stretching through Yule and to the secular New Year.

The Beaker People are ever so excited. Some are already looking out the window, hoping to see some flurries of snow. Even though I keep telling them that they'll see nothing. But then, some of them are looking out for Santa already, so hope maybe springs eternal.

The cancellation of Advent has required a certain amount of re-juggling of the schedule. I'm going to have to initiate a bit of a holding pattern while we come up with some new creative liturgy, so it's going to be pebbles 'n' tea-lights for the next few days, until I have some bright ideas. That's the trouble with cutting edge alternative worship - you can't just pull a book out, work out what day it is and follow the recipe.