And so we enter the dark days. The year dies screaming as the sun plunges below the horizon, earlier each evening. The tawny owl quivers, and dreams of the blood of voles.
And we reach the trickiest-pronounced day of the year. The day the Celts wrote as "Samhain". Except of course they didn't, as they have left no written record from the days when they celebrated the occasion. It's worth, however, noting how to pronounce the word. It's not how you would expect. Although written as "Samhain", it's pronounced "Halloween".
This year we've decided to go for an all-embracing feast that celebrates all things light shining in the darkness. The hope that cannot be extinguished. The life in the heart of the most deep-frozen crocus bulb. The pink bow tied around the neck of Fenrir Wolf. And we're combining the whole 3 months from Diwali to the end of January as the time of Brexival.
It's an interval between the Brexit that never was, and the Brexit that may never be. A time of Schrodinger's Brexit, when the benefits are all promised and yet not realised, and yet simultaneously non-existent. Time stands balanced between two years. The Sun descends towards the depths of the earth*. And we look forward in fear, and backwards with more fear. We ask ourselves, as the time of Brexival brings together Diwali, DieInADitchDay, Samhain, Guy Fawkes, All Saints, All Souls, Advent, Yule, Hanukkah, Xmas, New Year, the death of Thomas Hardy, the birth of David Bowie and Burns Night: what on earth are we doing here? Why? And will it ever stop?
And we shudder at the knock on the door. Will it be a bunch of kids dressed as witches and goblins? Or a politician come to tell us how, if we go for their type of Brexit, we will be happy to be much poorer for no reason?
So we carve our punkies and stick them on the spikes on the main gate. Dress up as Nigel Farage and go around scaring kids. Or dress up as Boris Johnson and get chased around the place, like some post-modern Benny Hill, by angry husbands. And we light the fires against the dark. And know the light means something.
* May not apply in New Zealand
Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
Thursday, 31 October 2019
Monday, 28 October 2019
Unlocking the Brexit Box
In many ways, Brexit being delayed to 31 January is both an opportunity and unnerving. Autumn is the time of year when I send the Beaker Folk out to clear out the ditches. And the thought of finding Boris Johnson in one is definitely unnerving.
On the bright side, the delay means I can release the Brexit Stockpile we've been building in the cellar as a provision against No-Deal. Good news for my brother, who lives down there with his guardian, Mrs Rochester. As it means he will get back his space for running around screaming.
And also good news, as we will now be able to serve up all the low-cost, high-energy, long-life food we've been storing down there.
So the menu for each meal, every day in November, will be baked beans and rice.
And in December, rice and baked beans.
Beaker Folk will be glad to hear that we're moving all services outside until Yule.
Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
On the bright side, the delay means I can release the Brexit Stockpile we've been building in the cellar as a provision against No-Deal. Good news for my brother, who lives down there with his guardian, Mrs Rochester. As it means he will get back his space for running around screaming.
And also good news, as we will now be able to serve up all the low-cost, high-energy, long-life food we've been storing down there.
So the menu for each meal, every day in November, will be baked beans and rice.
And in December, rice and baked beans.
Beaker Folk will be glad to hear that we're moving all services outside until Yule.
Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
Sunday, 13 October 2019
The Grateful Leper
And it came to pass, as he went to Jerusalem, that he passed through the midst of Samaria and Galilee. And as he entered into a certain village, there met him ten men that were lepers, which stood afar off: And they lifted up their voices, and said, Jesus, Master, have mercy on us. And when he saw them, he said unto them, Go shew yourselves unto the priests. And it came to pass, that, as they went, they were cleansed. And one of them, when he saw that he was healed, turned back, and with a loud voice glorified God, And fell down on his face at his feet, giving him thanks: and he was a Samaritan. And Jesus answering said, Were there not ten cleansed? but where are the nine? There are not found that returned to give glory to God, save this stranger. And he said unto him, Arise, go thy way: thy faith hath made thee whole. (Luke 17:11-19 King James Version (KJV)So let's start with the normal disclaimer. Leprosy, as the New International Version of the Bible always tells us in the footnotes, does not necessarily mean the disease - otherwise called Hansen's disease - that we call "leprosy". That is a disease that affects the nerves. The disease in the Bible seems more often to mean something that could have been impetigo or maybe eczema. And while impetigo is no fun - I remember being painted purple as a child, to cure it - it's not got the horrors of untreated Hansen's disease. But it does link back to Lazarus and the rich man. When Lazarus was laying outside Dives's gates, with the dogs licking his sores - was that because he was a leper? That would be another reason why the rich man wouldn't want to go near him.
Because Biblical leprosy was bad enough. The rules in Leviticus were pretty clear. If you were a leper you couldn't be a normal member of society. You had to hang outside the town, dress scruffy, and shout "unclean" if anyone came near. You couldn't let your uncleanness affect anyone else. So you couldn't make a proper living. Couldn't be with your family. Couldn't go out for a pint or go to synagogue or go to the Temple. You were an outcast.
So these ten lepers see Jesus. And we're not told why there's only men. Jesus was always very happy to cure women - but maybe the women lepers were outside a different village or behind a hill or maybe, let's face it, there were fewer women "lepers" because women are more likely to wash properly, or less likely to be running through thorns while farming and picking up infections. Anyway. These are ten male lepers. And Jesus - they've heard of Jesus. Maybe he can remove their mark of Cain, they think? And Jesus says go - show yourselves to the priests. And off they go and they are cleansed.
Cleansed. They're not lepers anymore. They're OK to rejoin society. Once they've jumped through a few ceremonial hoops. The priest has to sacrifice a dove for them. Then... in the words of Leviticus...
The person to be cleansed must wash their clothes, shave off all their hair and bathe with water; then they will be ceremonially clean. After this they may come into the camp, but they must stay outside their tent for seven days. On the seventh day they must shave off all their hair; they must shave their head, their beard, their eyebrows and the rest of their hair. They must wash their clothes and bathe themselves with water, and they will be clean.Then the priest has to sacrifice a lamb as a guilt offering for them. Because the illness is presumed to have been their fault. And how often do we still fall for that? It doesn't help that our medical system and our media use guilt as a means to try and educate us in our health. Since the belief of today is that if you eat the right things, drink the right things, do the right things and use a condom you'll live forever - any illness we may acquire can't help but be because we did it wrong. But I know a lovely woman who was struck by cancer. And her words to me were "I must have been an evil git". And she cut her best friend off - not because her friend had done anything wrong - but because she was so embarrassed that she was ill. But the good news for the former lepers is that now they are properly clean and ready to join society.
But they're out in the badlands of the Galilee-Samaria border country. And the temple in Jerusalem - the only place the Jewish lepers could offer their sacrifices - is up in Jerusalem. Now I don't know how well the Jews of the first century stuck to the rituals - when you consider they lived all over the known world and there was only one Temple. You couldn't just set off on a 1,000 mile pilgrimage if you were a Jew in south France and got healed from a boil, I imagine. But then ceremonial uncleanness is less of an issue when it's a major trek to get to the Temple anyway. But let's cut them some slack. Let's suppose they're busy getting together pigeons, lambs and a decent supply of shaving cream, and packing to get to Jerusalem.
But still. There's only one that comes back. And he is a Samaritan. From the race that Jesus's people think are unclean just by existing. The ones they won't eat in the same room as. But he comes back. And Jesus says - look, it's only the Samaritan that said thanks. He glorifies God, while the others are off and running.
Important message from Jesus - it's the despised one that is made totally right with God. Not that the others couldn't. They just didn't. It's often the surprising ones that get to know God. Not the good ones, the clever ones, the self-righteous or talented or well-connected ones. It's the ones that know they need God, who get to know God.
And so nine of the lepers are "cleansed". But the tenth - the Samaritan - is "made whole". Key difference in the Greek, reflected in different ways in our English Bibles. Nine are clean, one is whole. Or, to use the other translation - saved. Or, to use an English comparison. Nine are merely cured. The tenth - the Samaritan, the outcast, the enemy - the tenth, who has given glory to God and not just entered into a medical transaction - who has turned, and without knowing it, looked on the face of God - he is truly healed*.
* With thanks to Wobbly Goose for the inspiration.
Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
Friday, 11 October 2019
In Memoriam : Juliette Kaplan ("Pearl" from Last of the Summer Wine)
(To "Summer Wine")
In golden days down Yorkshire ways
a woman, fond of odd berets
looks for her man - who often strays
in search of summer wine.
"Ah, hello pet. I've hardly met
this lady - whose name I forget.
We've barely got to fumbling yet
nor drinking summer wine."
[bridge]
Now Howard's bike
doesn't roam -
he just stays home.
While all their friends
reached their ends,
taken by Time.
No steak and kidney pie to cook
No checking Howard's shifty look
No need to change his library book
There's just eternal wine.
Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
In golden days down Yorkshire ways
a woman, fond of odd berets
looks for her man - who often strays
in search of summer wine.
"Ah, hello pet. I've hardly met
this lady - whose name I forget.
We've barely got to fumbling yet
nor drinking summer wine."
[bridge]
Now Howard's bike
doesn't roam -
he just stays home.
While all their friends
reached their ends,
taken by Time.
No steak and kidney pie to cook
No checking Howard's shifty look
No need to change his library book
There's just eternal wine.
Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
The Mathematics and Psychology of the Peace
The Telegraph tells us, in amongst its cheerleading for whatever Boris Johnson is making up next, that there is an optimal time for a handshake. Yep, scientists have done their stuff and if you're going to shake someone's hand, it should be no more than three seconds.
Well, no kidding. Any longer than that and you're starting to worry that you've been introduced to Donald Trump, or else Mr Shake Hands Man from the 80s Channel 4 series, Banzai.
But this is crucial information in a church setting. In those Anglican and other churches that have established the Sharing of the Peace, the duration of the handshakes within that Peace are critical to the stability and - for that matter - duration of the service.
Consider the simple, basic, if you will the Lidl of the Peace-sharings. "Peace be with you." I reckon that, with a nod and slight smile in the general direction of the Peace-sharee, that will be 2 seconds. In a typical congregation, with say 3 seconds between each handshake, with a congregation of 30 people plus the minister (to make the sums easy since only weirdoes share the Peace with themselves), the Peace will take roughly 2 minutes 30 seconds.
But maybe somebody goes for the Tesco level Peace. "The peace of the Lord be with you." That's about 4 seconds. 31 people, 30 handshakes each, 3 seconds between handshakes (including the getting back to your seat, so this may be an underestimate) - that's 3 minutes 30 seconds to share the Peace. Remembering that the Peace only moves at the speed of its most verbose sharer so you only need one person to do this. And given we now have people weighing in with 4-second handshakes, there's anxiety starting to be triggered.
Which gets worse if they go for more of your Marks and Spencer level peace. Something like, as recommended in this article, "The peace of the Lord be with you" / "And also with you". Including a suitable liturgical pause, that's maybe 8 seconds. With, presumably, an 8 second handshake. High levels of adrenaline are at this point surging through the bodies of many members of the congregation. Not least because they're all wondering which one says the first half, and which the second. It's like kissing on the cheek - you don't both want to go the same way and end up with an Accidental Snog of Peace.
And not only are stress levels high. Sticking with our assumption that everybody in an assembly of 31 shares the Peace with everyone else - and that's not unreasonable in my experience - we're now up to 5 and a half minutes to share the Peace.
If the same rules apply, and there's sixty people plus the minister in the congregation- well, now we have an 11 minute peace, stress at Bay of Pigs levels and several people hiding under the communion table.
And so, with people on edge, the more introverted out hiding in the church yard, the bloke who thinks you both have to say both bits still only halfway round the church, the organist glad she refused to move from her bench and the acolyte having brained with a candlestick the bloke with BO who wanted a hug, the minister turns to the people and says, "Lift up your hearts".
Starts the most reflective, sacred part of the proceedings off nicely, I reckon.
Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
Well, no kidding. Any longer than that and you're starting to worry that you've been introduced to Donald Trump, or else Mr Shake Hands Man from the 80s Channel 4 series, Banzai.
But this is crucial information in a church setting. In those Anglican and other churches that have established the Sharing of the Peace, the duration of the handshakes within that Peace are critical to the stability and - for that matter - duration of the service.
Consider the simple, basic, if you will the Lidl of the Peace-sharings. "Peace be with you." I reckon that, with a nod and slight smile in the general direction of the Peace-sharee, that will be 2 seconds. In a typical congregation, with say 3 seconds between each handshake, with a congregation of 30 people plus the minister (to make the sums easy since only weirdoes share the Peace with themselves), the Peace will take roughly 2 minutes 30 seconds.
But maybe somebody goes for the Tesco level Peace. "The peace of the Lord be with you." That's about 4 seconds. 31 people, 30 handshakes each, 3 seconds between handshakes (including the getting back to your seat, so this may be an underestimate) - that's 3 minutes 30 seconds to share the Peace. Remembering that the Peace only moves at the speed of its most verbose sharer so you only need one person to do this. And given we now have people weighing in with 4-second handshakes, there's anxiety starting to be triggered.
Which gets worse if they go for more of your Marks and Spencer level peace. Something like, as recommended in this article, "The peace of the Lord be with you" / "And also with you". Including a suitable liturgical pause, that's maybe 8 seconds. With, presumably, an 8 second handshake. High levels of adrenaline are at this point surging through the bodies of many members of the congregation. Not least because they're all wondering which one says the first half, and which the second. It's like kissing on the cheek - you don't both want to go the same way and end up with an Accidental Snog of Peace.
And not only are stress levels high. Sticking with our assumption that everybody in an assembly of 31 shares the Peace with everyone else - and that's not unreasonable in my experience - we're now up to 5 and a half minutes to share the Peace.
If the same rules apply, and there's sixty people plus the minister in the congregation- well, now we have an 11 minute peace, stress at Bay of Pigs levels and several people hiding under the communion table.
And so, with people on edge, the more introverted out hiding in the church yard, the bloke who thinks you both have to say both bits still only halfway round the church, the organist glad she refused to move from her bench and the acolyte having brained with a candlestick the bloke with BO who wanted a hug, the minister turns to the people and says, "Lift up your hearts".
Starts the most reflective, sacred part of the proceedings off nicely, I reckon.
Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
Thursday, 10 October 2019
Service for the Nativity of Kirsty MacColl (1959)
The Beaker Folk gather in La Forêt de Mimosas, disturbing several members of the Beaker Fertility Folk who are getting quite amoureuse dans le parking.
Hymn: In These Shoes?
Confession
Now I don't want to see Caroline
Don't want to see her face when she finds out you're mine
Can't look in her eyes and tell her love is blind
Now I don't want to see Caroline
I don't want to see Caroline
Absolution
Archdruid: You Just Haven't Earned it yet, Baby
Terry: On the whole, I feel I didn't live up to expectations...
All: You were a big boy on a Saturday night.
Sermon - Archdruid: In this perfect day, who'd want to be standing in these shoes? We give thanks for the days when Kirsty showed us a free world - from Croydon to Cuba, from Soho Square to the Amazonians - walking down Madison or in a fairytale in New York. And pray that she's in the place where she can see the sun on the water, flying over the London with the streets on fire or seeing those pigeons fly from that bench in Soho Square on her birthday.
Beaker Folk Dance the Mambo de la Luna
Dismissal
Archdruid: We'll part in the rain so the clouds hide the despair and the sorrow I feel on the inside and...
Burton: Eileen! There's someone hiding in the woods! Is it that guy that works down the chip shop who swears he's Elvis?
Archdruid: No! It's the Real Ripper!
Burton: Right. I'm on my way home....
Hymn: What do Pretty Girls Do?
From the author...
Wednesday, 9 October 2019
The Eve of St.Kirsty
On this Eve of St Kirsty, Beaker Folk are expected to join in our Liturgy of Silence. Please note this does not apply in the Designated Areas. To wit, the Beaker Bar (donations only please - we don't have a licence); the White Horse and the Primal Screaming Sound-proofed Dome.
When the sun disappears, bringing fears that come only at night, we'll be lighting tea lights in the Kirsty Shrine. We've had a disaster trying to be more eco-friendly so are back to standard tea lights. Who would have thought using hand -woven wicker instead of aluminium cases would have burnt the Moot House down like that?
And sadly our plan to melt half-burnt tea lights down to make a statue of Shane and Kirsty went terribly wrong. We cast Shane first, and he walked straight off to get a drink.
Some Beaker Folk are planning an autumn walk through the muddy fields. It should be a spiritual, natural time. But I won't be joining.
In these shoes? I don't think so.
When the sun disappears, bringing fears that come only at night, we'll be lighting tea lights in the Kirsty Shrine. We've had a disaster trying to be more eco-friendly so are back to standard tea lights. Who would have thought using hand -woven wicker instead of aluminium cases would have burnt the Moot House down like that?
And sadly our plan to melt half-burnt tea lights down to make a statue of Shane and Kirsty went terribly wrong. We cast Shane first, and he walked straight off to get a drink.
Some Beaker Folk are planning an autumn walk through the muddy fields. It should be a spiritual, natural time. But I won't be joining.
In these shoes? I don't think so.
Monday, 30 September 2019
And Did Those Feet?
The BBC embraces the "fought in two world wars" zeitgeist by telling us that the nation's most popular hymn, Jerusalem, was composed to encourage the troops in World War 1 - as a friend of Robert Bridges set Blake's vision of a socialist utopia to rousing music.
It fails to draw the irony out, however, that Sir Charles Hubert Hastings Parry died of Spanish Flu just before the war ended.
I hope this is not a portent of Brexit, for which so many people who fought in both the Great War and its tricky sequel voted. The Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918-19 was a direct consequence of the war, as soldiers returned to their home countries from Belgium and spread one of the most lethal pandemics of all time. As we tick down the days towards Boris Johnson's do-or-die deadline (itself a phrase from a poem about a headlong charge into disaster), remember Charlie Parry. The man who wrote a hymn to big up a pointless, damaging battle with our neighbours that left Britain shattered. And then died of it himself.
We should maybe consider getting a new theme song, as we head towards Brexit and more pointless deaths caused this time by our cutting our own supply chains to prove how strong we are. WTO sung to the tune of YMCA, perhaps. Or O Jeremy Corbyn. Or, once the barriers go up on Ireland, how about It's a Long Way to Tipperary? But the risk is that, as British migrants to the EU make the journey back - the Brexit voters among them for the third time, having previously returned in 1919 and 1945 - and as the people who have helped us keep the NHS going pass like the elves in the opposite direction, we reap another healthcare whirlwind.
Still, bring me my sword to cut red tape. And my arrows of desire for the sunlit uplands on which stand those dark, demolished mills. It's gonna be like Jerusalem. Probably about 70 AD.
Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
It fails to draw the irony out, however, that Sir Charles Hubert Hastings Parry died of Spanish Flu just before the war ended.
I hope this is not a portent of Brexit, for which so many people who fought in both the Great War and its tricky sequel voted. The Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918-19 was a direct consequence of the war, as soldiers returned to their home countries from Belgium and spread one of the most lethal pandemics of all time. As we tick down the days towards Boris Johnson's do-or-die deadline (itself a phrase from a poem about a headlong charge into disaster), remember Charlie Parry. The man who wrote a hymn to big up a pointless, damaging battle with our neighbours that left Britain shattered. And then died of it himself.
We should maybe consider getting a new theme song, as we head towards Brexit and more pointless deaths caused this time by our cutting our own supply chains to prove how strong we are. WTO sung to the tune of YMCA, perhaps. Or O Jeremy Corbyn. Or, once the barriers go up on Ireland, how about It's a Long Way to Tipperary? But the risk is that, as British migrants to the EU make the journey back - the Brexit voters among them for the third time, having previously returned in 1919 and 1945 - and as the people who have helped us keep the NHS going pass like the elves in the opposite direction, we reap another healthcare whirlwind.
Still, bring me my sword to cut red tape. And my arrows of desire for the sunlit uplands on which stand those dark, demolished mills. It's gonna be like Jerusalem. Probably about 70 AD.
Want to support this blog? Want a good laugh? (or to shudder at death at any rate? Then here's two ways you can keep the Archdruid in doilies...
If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
Saturday, 21 September 2019
Unrighteous Wealth - The Dishonest Steward
[Jesus] also said to the disciples, “There was a rich man who had a manager, and charges were brought to him that this man was wasting his possessions. And he called him and said to him, ‘What is this that I hear about you? Turn in the account of your management, for you can no longer be manager.’ And the manager said to himself, ‘What shall I do, since my master is taking the management away from me? I am not strong enough to dig, and I am ashamed to beg. I have decided what to do, so that when I am removed from management, people may receive me into their houses.’ So, summoning his master's debtors one by one, he said to the first, ‘How much do you owe my master?’ He said, ‘A hundred measures of oil.’ He said to him, ‘Take your bill, and sit down quickly and write fifty.’ Then he said to another, ‘And how much do you owe?’ He said, ‘A hundred measures of wheat.’ He said to him, ‘Take your bill, and write eighty.’ The master commended the dishonest manager for his shrewdness. For the sons of this world are more shrewd in dealing with their own generation than the sons of light. And I tell you, make friends for yourselves by means of unrighteous wealth, so that when it fails they may receive you into the eternal dwellings. (Luke 16:1-13)I mean, obviously, this parable warms my stony old heart. For who could have amassed more unrighteous wealth than someone who grew rich on the donations of the religious gullible, crashed a doily company having taken all the profits out as dividends, then taken all that unrighteous wealth and dumped it offshore to make sure the gullible can't get their money back and, when they're flat broke and old, won't even get decent state pension because I'm not paying any tax?
And the obvious answer to that is - the people who bankrolled the Leave Vote for Brexit, then shorted the country. Made a killing in currencies and now hope to do it again. When it came to setting up a belief in false vision, then cashing in - I was just an amateur.
But I wonder. Is this unrighteous wealth of which Jesus speaks just a rich person's plaything? Let's take the Church Commissioners' wealth. I mean, they do their best. Don't get me wrong. Their website goes to a lot of trouble to explain the dibblings in potentially unethical stuff that may result from investments - almost whether you like it or not. According to this page, the Church's Ethical Investment Group advises against any company that makes 3% or more of its income from pornography or conventional weapons. Which is oddly specific and gives one visions of someone having the job of having to count to ensure nobody breaches the strict limits imposed on nipples or tanks.
It's all very hard, is what I'm saying, to stay clean in this murky world. If you're a retired C of E Clergyperson, does it linger in your mind that anything up to a 3% limit of your monthly pension could be funded by porn and machine guns? But then - as you stand there in a 12th Century Church, celebrating the Mass as it has been celebrated since the year 2000, does it occur to you that the building was put up with the cash that the local landowner screwed out of the labour of his local peasantry? That the money in the plate might have come from a tobacconist, or a win on the fruities at the local, or a trust fund squirreling money away tax-free in Jersey?
If you're in Liverpool or Bristol, do you reflect that the cities themselves grew rich on human misery? Do you bear in mind that, when Wilberforce (hurrah! Good Christian!) fought and succeeded in terminating slavery in the British Empire, the church - and even and individual bishop - received compensation for the value of the slaves?
So it's a murky world. Even you, the Guardian-reading, ethical-almond-milk-drinking, Beaker Person reading this article will be using some kind of electronic device containing rare earths that may or may not have been mined, processed or engineered in an unethical way. You may have popped to Tesco Express for your guilt-free sugar for your fair-trade coffee, forgetting that Tesco bought Booker Cash and Carry - and that Booker originally made its money exploiting indentured sugar labourers in British Guiana. We are entwined in a world-wide-web of unrighteous wealth. And our employer has noticed, and having notice, has given us notice that we are entitled to what the John Lewis Partnership used to refer to as being "summarily terminated".
So, what are we going to do? We're too useless to work for our salvation and mostly too proud to beg. And Jesus says - see what you can do with that dodgy money you've got laying around.
Not the poor. God's always been very keen on giving the poor a free pass. The rest of us. With our slightly-tainted cash and our up-to-3%-corrupted pensions and our dependence for our whole lifestyles on a web of oppression and profit.
Why not make like the dishonest steward and buy some friends in heaven? Give some of that loot away. Forgive a grudge. Get some tins for the food bank. Sponsor a medical research charity. Sponsor a child. Twin a toilet. Help pay for disaster relief, or a medic in a war zone, or surgery for the victims of war rape.
This doesn't mean just accept the world is unethical and crack on - by all means, examine where what you do does not contribute to human flourishing but instead exploits. Make your choices, campaign for justice. When you buy things, with your dishonest wealth, choose those things that you need, that are good, that you can trace. You'll still be reading this blog on a device made for dishonest wealth, with materials that earned dishonest wealth -that's kind of the world we're in - but work to make it better. You don't live in a cave, and if you did you couldn't earn more dishonest wealth to buy more friends in heaven.
And when God finds out that you've used God's wealth, earned from God's world, to cheat your way into having friends in heaven - God will say well done, faithful servant. You've grasped that most important thing - the earth is God's, and everything in it, and you're using some of God's wealth in the way God approves - by loving the people he created.
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If you want someone to share the terrors of death while making you laugh, we have "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
Thursday, 19 September 2019
Filling-up of Beakers at the Sunset of John Humphrys' "Today Programme" Career
Hymn: It's All about the Balance
Archdruid: And so, we are here.
All: At the sunset of John Humphrys' Today Programme Career.
Archdruid: The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour and sorrow.
All: But though we are glad that John Humphrys is heading towards fourscore, yet we realise that it's been our labour and sorrow.
Archdruid: For in pursuit of balance he has conflated "Christian Voice" with a truly Christian voice...
All: The Taxpayers' Alliance with a genuine alliance of Taxpayers.
Archdruid: Nigel Farage with a real politician.
All: Contempt and interruption with debate and enlightenment.
Archdruid: Nation shall speak peace unto nation.
All: And maybe we'll try Radio 4 in the morning again.
Archdruid: And now "Thought for the Day" with Giles Fraser.
Giles Fraser: Hello everyone. Isn't the EU abominable? [Drones on a bit]
John Humphrys: Thank you very much Giles. That was incredibly boring. But I liked the bit about Brexit.
Hymn: Dear John
Want to support this blog? "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
Archdruid: And so, we are here.
All: At the sunset of John Humphrys' Today Programme Career.
Archdruid: The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour and sorrow.
All: But though we are glad that John Humphrys is heading towards fourscore, yet we realise that it's been our labour and sorrow.
Archdruid: For in pursuit of balance he has conflated "Christian Voice" with a truly Christian voice...
All: The Taxpayers' Alliance with a genuine alliance of Taxpayers.
Archdruid: Nigel Farage with a real politician.
All: Contempt and interruption with debate and enlightenment.
Archdruid: Nation shall speak peace unto nation.
All: And maybe we'll try Radio 4 in the morning again.
Archdruid: And now "Thought for the Day" with Giles Fraser.
Giles Fraser: Hello everyone. Isn't the EU abominable? [Drones on a bit]
John Humphrys: Thank you very much Giles. That was incredibly boring. But I liked the bit about Brexit.
Hymn: Dear John
Want to support this blog? "A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
Sunday, 15 September 2019
All We, Like Sheep
Luke 15: Now the tax collectors and sinners were all gathering around to hear Jesus. But the Pharisees and the teachers of the law muttered, “This man welcomes sinners and eats with them.” Then Jesus told them this parable: “Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbours together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.’ I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent.Friend of mine moved out to a village. He was one of these tele-commuters. And he figured this village - not a highland Scottish village, or Northern England or Wales one - just an hour from London and set between decent sized towns - he thought this village would be full of similar minded people. You know, he an architect and his wife with her line in high-end sculpture. So they joined the local Facebook group to find out where the best coffee was to be sourced and where they all hang out for a sociable time with free wi-fi. First posting on the page: "Does anybody know whose sheep has its head stuck in the railings by the park?"
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| Spot the Lost Sheep |
In Northamptonshire, the sheep farmers are suffering terribly. There are people rounding up sheep, slaughtering them in their fields, and then stealing the meat. The sheep farmers are reported to be "devastated". And with good reason. It's not like having some shirts nicked from a clothes shop. The lives of shepherds are tied up to those of the sheep. They're in it with the sheep - in all weather. Out lambing in some of the darkest, coldest - sometimes snowiest - days. Helping struggling ewes to give birth. Keeping them off the wrong plants. Removing them when they get their heads stuck in fences. Worry they'll work out how to get over cattle grids. Making sure they're all the right way up - because there's no end of ways a sheep can bring itself to danger. Remember Gabriel Oak in Far From the Madding Crowd? When his daft dog drives his flock of sheep over a cliff, Gabriel has lost his livelihood. He's also lost his trade: because which farmer would hire a shepherd whose last sheep farm was his own? The shepherd's life is tied to the flock.
In using the parable of a shepherd, Jesus tells us a couple of very important things about God's relationship to us. He's adopting that Old Testament imagery of God as the good shepherd who cares for the sheep, whereas all the bad rulers are just in it to fleece them. But it's also about the closeness of God to God's people. God is in it with us - in the mud and dag and blood and dark and fears.
Compare it to today's other parable of God finding the lost coin. The woman loses a coin. She searches for that lost coin, and celebrates when she finds it, but the others are nice and safe in the house.
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| Is it me ewe're looking for? |
Whereas this tale of the shepherd. Wouldn't you all, asks Jesus, leave 99 sheep out in the field, and go and find the other one? To which I suspect the answer might be, we don't know. Because the Judean uplands in the 1st Century weren't Dunstable Downs. The wolves and lions on Dunstable Downs are safely caged away in Whipsnade zoo. Whereas the Judean uplands have wild animals wandering around. Things with teeth and muscle. Are you going out in the day time, Shepherd? Or the night? How many ravines and places where wild things can hide are you planning to go through?
David went around with his sling in case he met a wolf, or a gigantic Philistine. What are you going to meet, O rather Lacksadaisical Shepherd, and what do you have to protect you as you try and find that last woolly-minded member of your flock? And how many are you going to lose of the ones you've left behind? What's so special about the lost one when all the good ones are stood there nervous wondering what time you'll be back?
But that's what God is like, Jesus tells his audience. God's not happy to take the 99 that are already safe - like contestants on Bullseye in the 1970s knowing the money's safe to take home but do they want to try and win a motor boat? God's going to take a chance and go and get the other one. The one who is - remember - not rebellious, not evil, just.... lost.
Remember that, O safe sheepy friends, as you enjoy your safeness on this heavenly ewelease, field or downs according to your locality and tradition. As we sing our songs of our heavenly sheepfold and how much we love the Shepherd - and isn't it great to have such a loving Shepherd - the Shepherd knows there's other sheep need finding and bringing home. And we're not to judge them and decide they're goats. We're to love them and accept them into our woolly flock.
So the Shepherd comes to earth, and gathers the lost ones, and they know his name and follow him. And then he turns to the place that should be the best of all fields - where the grass is juiciest - where God's Presence has been enthroned among the cherubim - on and off - since the people of Israel first came across the Jordan. And there, where he should find other shepherds, instead - in the palaces - he finds foxes and wolves. And he is taken outside the walls and crucified.
And there, he finds two more last lost sheep. One who is nailed to the cross next to his is told he'll be with him today in Paradise. And one, a Roman soldier - one of the army that keeps the Jews under oppression. One of the ones who slung him up there. Who turns out to be a lost sheep in wolf's clothing. Who looks up at him and realises who he is. And Jesus calls him home too.
More rejoicing, says Jesus, over one that is found than over 99 that were never lost. But the ones that were never lost - they were always lucky. Always by the side of the Shepherd. Always in green pastures, by still waters. And the ones that are found - we are blessed. We never knew where our true home was. Never knew where our Shepherd was. Scraped around for the blessings we could find. But now our Shepherd has found us, we're safe with the flock - we've finally found our way home.
"A Hint of Death in the Morning Air" - 97 poems to make you wonder, laugh or shake your head sadly. At only £1 on Kindle. Or if you want to know what the people in the pews really think, and you prefer your words printed on paper, why not try "Writes of the Church"? The letters to the Church magazine the vicar really didn't need.
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