I rang Carol, one of the church wardens recently about a friend who needed a hamper of food at Xmas. My friend had broken her back (she can walk), and a number of other things had happened. She gained an abused stepchild the day she came out of hospital, in addition to her own two young children. A long year of recovery ahead of her, a husband who’s miraculously survived three heart attacks but is unable to work. Tough times indeed. I first heard about free hampers when my Health Visitor referred me for one. They are a lovely thing to get when you’re facing a skint Christmas. An amazing box of grocery blessings, dropped on your doorstep from heaven. Ok, so mine is actually dropped off by the Rotary Club, but you know what I mean.

So I was on the phone to Carol about the family-in-need and I explained the situation and asked her if there was any help the church might offer them. I was expecting her to say, “how terrible”, or , “of course we’ll do something” or “Jesus Christ! That’s awful”. What she actually said, in a voice like aspartame was, “I was surprised you weren’t in church yesterday”. Really? Why? (I didn’t say that, but I felt like it). I go to church regularly – one visit every year. I go to the children’s “Christingle” Christmas service. It might be said, that some years I’ve been a bit late, but I can assure you that I always get there before the free sweets and oranges are given out at the end. However, I didn’t realise there was a register being taken. I wonder if “He” reads it?

The Christingle service is pure magic – think Derren Brown – not quite what you expect, but strangely fascinating.   The Sunday School put on a play and it’s a strange sort of parody of Christian life. The woman who writes the play has absolutely no idea how subversive her messages are. She is totally innocent. But the rest of us watch with baited breath, wondering what the latest heresy will be. Carol, the church warden, has been trying to have the plays banned for years. Last year they did a remake of The good Samaritan and the play was actually set on Christingle day, in the village. Like in real time. The story was that a passing backpacker was mugged by some hoodies. They took her phone and left her at the side of the road, battered and bruised.

I think I should just put in a little aside here. It’s worth mentioning that if this really happened here, half the village would be out (watching) and they’d point out the hoodies’ houses immediately. Then they’d walk her to the door and tell the hoodie parents what had been going on. The hoodies would have their i-phones confiscated for a week, and the victim would get a glass of sherry in the living room. This would enable the hoodie mum to ring round the other hoodie mums (“I just can’t understand it”) and find the rest of the stolen gear. Shortly after, a couple of fop-haird boys, in ironed striped shirts and M&S pullovers, would appear from the back of a waiting Audi estate. They’d return the stuff and go bright red apologizing, muttering towards the ground, “so sorry”, “stupid mistake” and “never happen again”. Yes, it’s zero tolerance for gangs round here.

Back to the play. So our backpacker victim lies in front of us, having been mugged. The acting “vicar” runs by her, he’s in a hurry to prepare for his Christingle service. Then all the children walk by, dressed as Mary and Joseph, sheep etc. They don’t stop because they want to get to the church in time for the play. Then all the parishoners walk by eager to get to church on time. The first Act ends with the “vicar” smugly announcing the first hymn, Silent Night. Then the real Vicar gets up and tries to distance himself from how he is being portrayed in the play. There is even an uncomfortable resemblance between the two. He announces the “real” hymn, no 176, and it turns out to be, Silent Night. The real vicar laughs uncomfortably. My eyes meet Carol’s, across the pews. I am amused, she clearly is not.

In the second act, our Samaritan play spirals into the unknown. Our traveller is eventually helped out by, wait for it, a Muslim. It’s a very brave attempt at political correctness.  I say “attempt” as our Muslim is actually played by a white boy with a painted brown face. Not really very PC anywhere else, but here in whitest West Witney, it’s a statement of inclusion.  I am actually half Egyptian and half Irish.  In London I’d be considered pale, but out here I’m definitely a racial minority. I wonder if anyone thinks he’s with me?

Our Muslim is a kindly open-minded man, who is coming to visit the Church at Christmas in a spirit of friendly interfaith. On his way, he stumbles across the victim and takes time to helps her. After caring for our hapless traveller, our Muslim hero encourages her to join him and they visit the church together. (Now, he’s expanding the flock?). Once in the church, our traveller-victim sees all the hypocritical bigots who ignored her in distress. One by one, led by the “vicar”, they apologies for their lack of Christian spirit. Even the hoodies are in church and give the phone back, muttering “so sorry”, “terrible mistake”, “won’t happen again”.

Brilliant isn’t it? Makes all those cutting statements about modern Christian life. But actually, none of it is intentional. The woman who wrote the play is in the front pew, smiling proudly.  Her fourteen year old son has his arm round her and kisses her (a lot). Carol, however, is about to blow her top. Maybe she’ll be able to disguise it as the holy spirit coming out of her head instead of steam. The real Vicar stands up and is clearly unsure of the message we’ve just “shared”. He moves quickly on to the nice bubbly thank yous – much safer ground. One by one he calls all the children to the front and thanks them. He gives the children heaps of hearty praise and asks us for a big round of applause. Just then he notices me gesticulating. He stops the applause in mid flow and says

“Someone’s been left out. Who is it? Who is it?”  He looks at me.
“Er, it’s the victim”, I reply and point to the girl who was mugged.  She makes her way to the front. The poor vicar goes red with embarrassment, he’s done it for real. I bow my head in contemplation, but shaking shoulders are a dead give away.

Back on the phone, Carol has asked me for a second time why I wasn’t at the Christingle service. She knows I’m not what she’d call a “Christian”. And that’s why I’m surprised she’s pushing me about my non-appearance in church this year. I’m an idol worshipping Hindu, who’s belief in karma and reincarnation mean I’m gonna be hot, hot, hot, in the afterlife. If I’d realised that one more tick on her Christingle register would have reversed that, then for sure I would have turned up – just in case she’s right, and god is a judgemental, unforgiving parent, who dishes out eternal tough-love for no good reason.  I steer the conversation back towards the hamper for my friend-in-need. She offers to see if there is some help. Then it dawns on me, she is trying to tell me that I should have been in church if I want to ring up looking for help for people. Just as I realise this, someone bangs hard on the front door and I hurriedly put the phone down. I open the door and can’t quite believe my eyes. It’s a man with two heavy boxes and a present wrapped in Xmas paper. It’s an amazing box of grocery blessings, dropped on my doorstep from heaven.  Thank god for the Witney Rotary Club’s hampers.

P.S.  Carol rang a few days later to say she had organised a Sainsburys voucher for the family.

http://www.witneyrotary.co.uk

The fifth Haddenham Nativity lived up to its established reputation – an excellent show with memorable characters, realistic crowd scenes, great live music, an engaging down-to-earth script, fantastic costumes  and effects – the list is endless.

On early arrival at Holy Trinity Church there was hardly a seat to be found. A background of bird calls, an inspiring set in the east end of the Church and a general atmosphere of buzzing expectation indicated that it was going to be a good night’s entertainment.

This show was more than mere ‘entertainment’ – it was a most appropriate presentation for the Christmas season. Under the directorship of Leslie Stewart, The Nativity, the story of the birth of Jesus, usually reduced to a gathering of excited children wearing tea towels, became a highly professional adult presentation of events that entertained and educated the audience and participants.

Storyteller Artaban (Ian Ashmeade) coordinated scenes in a very friendly and approachable manner. All the characters from the era appeared: the much-troubled Joseph (John Shippey), a reluctant Mary (Eppie la Rue), the evil, powerful King Herod (Bruce Pattern), the zealous prophet John the Baptist (Ronan Sheehy) and the alluring but callous Salome (Luci Maltby), Herod’s future wife. Other strongly portrayed characters included the three Magi: Caspar (Paul Smith), Melchior (Rev. Jim Mullins), Balthazar (Rev. Fiona Brampton), Herod’s watchful sister-in-law Herodias (Diana Lock), the all-knowing adviser to Herod, Marcus (Stuart Findlay), The Shepherds played by Roger Pratt, Nick Law and Roy Stubbings, the ever practical Midwife (Christine Battersby), Mary’s friend Rachel (Joanne Flinders) and the adult Jesus (Daniel Walker). No Nativity would be complete without support from centurions (Chris Prescott and Geoff Maton), Roman soldiers (Andy Foster and David Gander), alternative storytellers (Miranda Pratt and Kate Findlay), suitors/scribes (Moti Meroz and Roy Stubbings) and a host of people forming the choir, the crowds, the girls at the Annunciation, the Shepherd Boys and the Children of Bethlehem.   

Producer/writer Sarah Burton knew how to engage to audience. How could the listeners not empathize with the restless soon-to-be father asking: “Is there anything I can do?”, only to be told by the midwife: “I think you have done enough already, don’t you?”? or the Shepherd moaning that his life is nothing but “Eat, sleep, sheep”.

Musical Director Cathy Priestly and Assistant Musical Director Natasha Cox produced sounds that enhanced the atmosphere positively and appropriately throughout the production. The final jazzy “Alleluia” sent the listeners home with a strong sense of elation that the season creates in even the most resilient of citizens.

Vibrant costumes, effective lighting (Robin Emery Theatre Services) and sound (Roy Truman Sound Services), polished performances, attractive choreography and carefully timed dramatic episodes all made this production unique. Issues that complicate our lives today were made very real: such as the stubborn, reluctant teenager; the bewildered new father or the brutality of a jealous, powerful despot.

Another notable highlight was the inclusion of so many local children. The ‘ah’ factor was never lost, one of the most memorable examples being the exotic entourage accompanying the three Magi. The screams of the Children of Bethlehem when Herod’s men came to kill them sent unforgettable shivers down the spine and the powerful spirited wind, eerie music and light that streamed from above made the visions credible contributions to events. 

This community event, created by the community for the community was only made possible by the generous support of local sponsors, the principal of these being Haddenham Charities, ADeC and Hereward Books. It is events like these that highlight the anomalies of Lottery donation criteria. Because an event is a repeated one, this surely should not deny it further support.  

Contact: www.haddenham.org.uk

Ministers of Bourtie from 1199 to the present

between 1190 and 1199 Hugh the Rector, during lairdship of
William de Lamberton of Bowirdin
charter ratified by his son, Alexander Lamberton to the
‘Vicar of Bourdin’ in 1202 along with 12 acres of (glebe) land
renewed 1206 by Pope Innocent III
renewed 1228 by King Alexander and Pope Innocent IV
around 1243 Robert de la Runce, Vicar, with charter renewed by
Pope Innocent IV in 1246 and 1248

on Robert de la Runce’s entry, Radulf, Bishop of Aberdeen added to the charter ‘two pleughs of land, the manse and curtilage in which Hugh the Rector used to live’

around 1268 Thomas de Ludan, Vicar

During the period between the de Lamberton patronage and the early 14th century when Robert the Brus’ supporter Thomas de Longueville is said to have been laird, there are no records of names of rector, vicar.
Thomas de Longueville’s likeness is said to be the carved effigy in the kirk vestry. He supported King Robert I at the battle of Barra 1308.

Last pre-Reformation Vicar:
before April 1566 Sir David Harvie, Vicar

Post-Reformation:
after April 1566 – 1573 Alexander Harvie, M.A. ‘to the vicarage’
before 1574 – 1578 Andrew Drumblec, Reader ‘at the vicarage’
1578 – 1595 James Johnston
1595 – 1596 William Barclay
1596 – 1606 Stephen Masoun, Reader, then Minister
1606 – 1611 Thomas MItchell, Minister, deposed
1611 – 1659 Gilbert Keith, A.M. (Kings College), Rector
in his dotage he was assisted by 1650 George Melvill, A.M.
and 1658 William Gordon, Assistant
1659 – 1666 William Gordon, Minister
1666 – 1675 Robert Browne, A.M. (Kings College), Minister
1678 – 1709 Alexander Sharpe, Rector
1709 – 1717 James Gordon, A.M., Synod Clerk, Moderator
1718 – 1719 John Duncan, M.A. (St. Andrews), Preacher
1720 – 1722 Archibald Napier, A.M., Minister
1723 – 1743 George Gordon, Minister
1744 – 1795 Thomas Shepherd, A.M. (Marischal College), Minister
1790 – 1795 William Smith, A.M. Assistant
1796 – 1825 William Smith, A.M. (Marischal College), Clerk of the Synod
1826 – 1872 James Bisset, A.M., D.D., Minister, Moderator
1873 – 1896 William Leslie Davidson, M.A., LL.D., Minister,
Chair of Logic and Metaphysics, Burnett and Croall Lecturer
1896 – 1932 Michael James Macpherson, M.A. B.D.
1933 – 1938 James Sabiston, B.D.
1939 – 1940 Rev. W. Russell – Union with Meldrum
(1924) – 1944 Rev. John Christopher Nesbitt, B.A.
assisted by Rev. Murdo MacDonald and Rev. Victor Pogue
Post – Union with Meldrum parish
1947 – 1950 Rev. Joseph Gray
1950 – 1951 Rev. Eric Hind
1952 – 1957 Rev. Kenneth Macmillan
1958 – 1980 Rev. Robert Urquhart
1981 – 1986 Rev. Robert Johnstone
1986 – 1999 Rev. Grainger Stoddart
2001 – 2009 Rev. Hugh O’Brien

Day 94 – Ken here (M)
(DEF v.2, ch.17, pp.610-620)

Its a cloudy, rainy day, and looks to be a dark and stormy night. But it’s dry and warm inside, and the perfect weather for forcing yourself to get on with Gibbon’s overly-thorough (although inadvertently interesting) introduction to Constantine.

We will spend another 100 pages on Constantine and his sons, spend a l – o – n – g 140 pages on Christianity and Constantine, and Christianity and Heresy (where, Gibbon will get himself, once again, in hot water), and then onto the (apostate) emperor Julian (whom Gibbon idolizes – and rightly so) for the majority of the remaining part of volume 2.

For now, we have an overview of the new, bloated, efficient Roman empire – one built to WIN WIN WIN the arms/war race with the barbarians, but one which achieved its aims by LOSING the very things it sought to protect itself from in the barbarian world (losing – peace, prosperity, freedom, rule of law) – (not unlike the Vietnam-era phrase (here) “it became necessary to destroy the village in order to save it”).

In the end, the empire becomes a burnt-out shell, which, unsurprisingly, (since nature abhors a vacuum as we all know) gets filled with something completely different (something that looks like the beginnings of modern Europe – Fuedalism).

Gibbon continues with an outline of the NEW government – the Autocracy or Dominate (Dominus = Latin for Lord), started by Diocletian, and fleshed out under Constantine. We look at the Prefects, governors, law profession, and new military.

Feudalism in full flower in Medieval literature - Roland pledging fealty to Charlemagne from a manuscript of Chanson de Geste

Beginning of the 3 Orders – Nobility, Church, Peasants, the end of Antique Prosperity, and the Beginning of the 1000 year Recession
Involuntarily, unconsciously, the later empire undid the work of centuries in dismantling the city-state (and loyalty to one’s native land), and promoted the mega-state (empire). In the process, new castes or classes were created, which tied rich, powerful people first to the emperor, second to the empire, and third to their own lands. Barbarian invasions, civil wars, and the inherent drive for empire to become bigger (either externally into neighboring territory, or internally into citizen’s lives) were a part of it. But, the static 3 Orders – church, nobility, peasant, were put in place on a legal footing in Constantine’s day (early 300’s), and stayed in place until the French Revolution (1789) in Europe, and the Russian Revolution (1917) in Eastern Europe/Asia. That’s a span of 1,400-1,600 years – quite the run.

Seal of the Soviet Union - The (second) longest road from Capitalism to Capitalism (the first being Feudalism, and Constantine's Reforms in the early 300's)

That said, it is Big Corporations and Big Government that strive against the engines that provide new trades/opportunities for economic growth. If the present lies in the core and the large players in a society, then the future lies in the small players and the edges (the littoral) of a society. The Later Romans systematically dismantled and out-lawed individual, small enterprise, and so became strong, but ceased to grow, and eventually evaporated their initial capital over 15 decades, disappearing entirely by the late 400’s. What was left was the skeleton of an economic system – farmer, soldier, and (the new) church-member (priest, monk, bishop) – ie Feudalism. “Feudalism – the longest road between Capitalism and Capitalism“ – to paraphrase (here) a more modern experience of the same.

Feudalism - Medieval illumination - Cleric, Knight, Workman - all 3 Orders are beginning in our current time - the time of Constantine

The net effect was to destroy the economic and political engines (local fame, local political strength, glorification of one’s own city, drive for trade/money/power at the local level), that had made the Mediterranean a place worth conquering for the Romans, and substituting empire-wide, top-down, soviet-style, gulag trade and industry sites. Trade/Shipping became compulsory and a mandatory inherited (from your father) occupation – small tradesmen in the provinces and farmers became city/country serfs – bound to the land, or ( in the case of small landowners) bound to own the land (unable to sell their property, liable for the horrendous taxes of the late empire).

This process had been going on for centuries – since the beginning of the empire – but was regularized and made into law by Diocletian and his successors.

Quotable Gibbon: Once again Gibbon Warns of the Extreme Inadvisability of Letting the Common Man Do Anything of Importance
Gibbon definitely betrays his upper-class prejudice though-out the Decline and Fall. Over and over again, he apologizes for elites that act badly, and places the blame for civilization’s decline at the inappropriate, shocking, dangerous, and irrational behavior of common people, when allowed to act as professionals. This from Gibbon – on the decline of the Law due to the influx of commoners:

“The honour of a liberal profession has indeed been vindicated by ancient and modern advocates, who have filled the most important stations with pure integrity and consummate wisdom; but in the decline of Roman jurisprudence the ordinary promotion of lawyers was pregnant with mischief and disgrace. The noble art, which had once been preserved as the sacred inheritance of the patricians, was fallen into the hands of freedmen and plebeians, who, with cunning rather than with skill, exercised a sordid and pernicious trade. Some of them procured admittance into families for the purpose of fomenting differences, of encouraging suits, and of preparing a harvest of gain for themselves or their brethren. Others, recluse in their chambers, maintained the gravity of legal professors, by furnishing a rich client with subtleties to confound the plainest truth, and with arguments to colour the most unjustifiable pretensions. The splendid and popular class was composed of the advocates, who filled the Forum with the sound of their turgid and loquacious rhetoric. Careless of fame and of justice, they are described for the most part as ignorant and rapacious guides, who conducted their clients through a maze of expense, of delay, and of disappointment from whence, after a tedious series of years, they were at length dismissed, when their patience and fortune were almost exhausted.”
(DEF, v.2, ch.17, p.617).

after a tedious series of years…when their patience and fortune were almost exhausted – sounds like Gibbon has a personal axe to grind – I can’t help thinking there’s much more of 18th century England in his complaints than 4th century Rome. Kind of puts the (very plebeian) American Revolution in perspective from an upper class British elite view. What were those dangerous, childish Americans thinking – trying to make national decisions for themselves?

Gibbon Theses
Separation of Civil and Military a Mistake
It ensured the reigning monarch a civil war-less reign, but slowed or stopped the military machine that had been holding back the Germans/barbarians for centuries – net result: slower response, terrible coordination of materiel in a war effort.

This, per Gibbon:

” The emulation, and sometimes the discord, which reigned between two professions (the Civil and the Military) of opposite interests and incompatible manners, was productive of beneficial and of pernicious consequences. It was seldom to be expected that the general and the civil governor of a province should either conspire for the disturbance, or should unite for the service, of their country. While the one delayed to offer the assistance which the other disdained to solicit, the troops very frequently remained without orders or without supplies, the public safety was betrayed, and the defenceless subjects were left exposed to the fury of the barbarians. The divided administration, which had been formed by Constantine, relaxed the vigour of the state, while it secured the tranquillity of the monarch.” (DEF, v.2, ch.17, p.619).

Strange Note: On Quaint Customs of the English
For some reason (and I remember this from my Graduate History classes) the English like to substitute English-ized names for native foreign names (example: obstinate resolution to call Iran Persia ). They do it even when it doesn’t make much sense, except to give the English historian the satisfaction of being the inventor/creator of a whole new nomenclature (which does NOT have strange un-anglo-saxon words to pronounce). There are a multitude of examples in this chapter alone (in these last 10 pages alone): vicarius (a kind of Roman governor) – Gibbon renames him 1st vicar (which immediately sounds “normal”, but confuses the governor with the Anglican Church official), then calls them vice-prefects – a term found nowhere else in history. The 3 new “castes” or orders created in the later empire – Illustri, Spectabili, Clarissimi, Gibbon renames the Illustrious (OK – that’s not so bad), Respectable, Honorable. It’s hard enough trying to keep track of all these new orders, without having to memorize their new English equivalents.

I know, whine whine complain complain – I’ll get to make serious objections when I write my 1st 3000 page history.

On Thursday 3 Dec, I had the privilege of hearing Canon Andrew White speak.  The simplicity and power of his message is amazing.  He has an uncanny way of shooting straight to the heart of a subject.  When asked about his faith, he said, ‘I love Jesus, and He loves me.’  As a result, he has no fear to go and do what God has called him.

Born to a pentecostal father and fundamentalist mother, he says he became and Anglican to find middle gound.    Yet in his church approaching 4,000 in Baghdad, he is one of only 3 Anglicans.  ‘The label doesn’t matter,’ he says, ‘it’s the heart atittude towards Jesus.’

When told his physical condition will prevent him from fulfilling his duties as an Anglican priest in the UK, he told them he’ll go to Iraq instead, where he felt there was a huge opportunity with the fall of Sadam Hussein for ministry.

In Iraq, he lives on the front lines with an armed body guard following him everywhere.  His church is mostly women as most of the men have been killed for their faith.  93 men from his church had been murdered this year for their beliefs shortly after being baptised as Christians.  This doesn’t count those killed in the bombings a couple of roadside bombs recently went off right outside the church building killing 166.

Why does he stay?  Because that’s where God told him to go, and God hasn’t changed his mind yet!  God’s also given him a tremendous love for the people, especially the Iraqi people.  Where the darkness is darkest, the light burns even brighter.  In the midst of it, he’s seen amazing miracles, angels protecting his armed guards, and so many other things.  Despite the persecution, the church continues to grow stronger.

I got to meet him briefly in a reception before the event.  A tall man, about 6′4″.  I was wearing a red collared shirt, unbuttoned at the top, a loosely tied blue snowman tie, and a santa hat.  Andrew comes in and says, ‘Ah, it’s santa’s biggest elf!’  Words of wisdom I’ll never forget. 

I am the vicar, I am.
I am the pastor, the carer, the listener
the one with the time to drop everything and
I also understand global politics and immigration and
I am the one who knows about Afghanistan
and cares about ‘our boys’
and I care about speed-humps
graffiti
litter
and the positioning of zebra crossings near schools.

I am passionate about school assemblies
council meetings
mums and toddlers and also
I am good at one-to-one and small groups and
I listen and empathise and at the same time
I am the one who plans and strategizes and
I am the one who understands budgets and decides if we can buy any staples
or replace the heating system.
I am the vicar, I am.

I am the quiet reflective prayer and
I am the speaker, the enthuser, the motivator, the learned teacher and
I can engage a room of 10, 50, 300 people with no problem because
I am the one who relates particularly well to children
older people
the middle-aged
the jobless
the employed
the doctors
teenagers and
I am the one who is always one step ahead and
I am the one who is endearingly disorganised.
I am the vicar, I am.

I care passionately about church politics
I care passionately about domestic abuse
I care passionately about the plight of Anglo Catholics
women priests
gay clergy
evangelicals and
I listen to the pope
the archbishop and
Rob Bell.

I am up-to-date with theological developments.
I understand the history of the reformation
the armed forces
the war
the government
the deanery
the Jewish background of Jesus and
I care about the excluded and
I manage my admin and
I know how to access children’s services.
I am the vicar, I am.

I am the one in whom trust is placed
I am the one in whom grumbles are placed
I am the one who is always talking to everyone else
I am the one who models worship
marriage
family
gardening
conversation
baking
prayer
listening
talking
planning.

I often get it wrong.
I am the one who has to keep my doubts under wraps and
I am also the one who is vulnerable and
dependable
stable
trustworthy.

I am the one who chairs meetings
I am the one who manages group discussions
I am the manager of an organisation that employs only me
I am the volunteer co-ordinator
the opinion co-ordinator
the trespasser on the territory of people who have been around a lot longer than me
and will be there after me.
I understand the heating system
the financial system
the rota system.

I love committees.

I drink tea with older people
And coffee with younger people
I listen to stories of bus routes and hospital visits and
I believe in transforming our community through the power of Jesus.

I am the one who is very tired.
I am the one who hates wearing dresses but still smiles
and would love to be muddy all the time.

I am the one who only works one day a week.

I am the one who loves this job.
I am the one who is making it up as I go along.
I am the one who would not swap this for anything.
I am the vicar, I am.

I am muddy. I am prayerful. I am.

After the guest list, next up for consideration for the Vicarage Sunday lunch is the menu. Our Sunday lunches have a few criteria to meet:

• Cheap, otherwise the Vicar’s stipend would be sorely stretched. This means fancy organic meat and any red meat not on special offer is usually off the menu.
• Acceptable for consumption by all the guests. This is why I tend to stick to pretty traditional roasts. We don’t live in an area where we can cook our beef raw or serve the lamb with a fancy salsa verde. And since I cooked roast pork for some dear friends in our last parish and only discovered on serving that one of them couldn’t abide it, I ALWAYS check whether there is anything that people won’t consume. I’ve been surprised by people’s dietary restrictions.
• Possible to cook on the oven timer, or otherwise be worked around our absence at church between about 10.00am and 12.30pm. And we want to eat by 2.30pm at the latest, otherwise the Vicar has indigestion at the Evening Service and the children have consumed so many snacks that they don’t eat the lovely meal I’ve just slaved over.
• I like if possible to make desserts the day before, or have a dessert that’s really speedy to make on a Sunday. There’s enough stress in the Vicarage on a Sunday morning without having to whip cream.
• A few good leftovers always makes a good meal perfect.

1.  Dough

2.  Bread

3.  Darkness and Hail

They wanted to play with the Playdoh, and like a fool I let them.  Son 2 aged 2y 1m plays with it during the week, under Wonder Nanny’s gentle supervision.  Son 1 aged 5y 1m plays with it at school, charming teachers and Tea Club Helpers with the delight he takes in it.  Together, on the little yellow table, they were murderous.  If Son 1 rolled, Son 2 wanted the roller.  If Son 2 squodged, it was the blob Son 1 was going to use. There was snatching and scrapping and shrieking.  And finally there was a lump of blue, trod into the bottom of Son 2’s shoes… and then into the stairs, and the hall carpet, and the lino.  While we were away, the carpet cleaner came and did the lounge, which was looking a bit Jackson Pollock.  ”If one bit of Playdoh gets on the carpet upstairs, I’m throwing it all out,” I said.  We went shopping. “Is it pocket money day?” said Son 1, as I counted out coins in the fishmonger’s. I gave him a £2 coin. We had to go to the toyshop. The only thing he wanted for £2 was a Playdoh toy.  And like a fool, I let him.

We met the Vicar in M and S.  We were trying to control a tantrumming Son 2… he was wandering round with a basket, peering at the ready meals. “Is it your turn to cook?” I asked.   No. The Vicar’s Wife is going on a trip, helping one of their sons move to a town many hundreds of miles away.  “But The Church is full of great cooks,” I said. “Can’t you just work it into a conversation so that someone will arrive carrying a casserole?” “I haven’t told anyone she’s going,” he said. “I don’t like to impose.”  That’s why I like the Vicar.  One of the most imposed-upon people I have ever met… whose flock includes scores of ladies of a certain generation who would rain pies upon him if he asked… but he doesn’t like to impose. He headed off to the check out with a bottle of wine on top of his shopping, so I liked him even more.   I simply don’t have enough life to cook for The Vicar.  But I know someone who might.   I think I’ll mention it…

Son 2 finally fell asleep in The Big Pram; Son 1 and I went to change the library books; The Man strode off home with the shopping.  Son 2 woke up just as we were leaving the library, and picked up his tantrum where he left off. ”I wan’  ge’ ou’!”  “No. It takes too long to get you back in.”  I pushed him up the hill, Son 1 trailing behind us looking at his Playdoh toy.  I suddenly noticed the sky, very, very low, and very, very dark. “Son 1! Will you please hurry! There’s an enormous black cloud up there and I want to get us home now!”  He walked slowly on.  “Son 1, MOVE! That big black cloud is just about to dump everything it has on our heads.” He got the message, but he couldn’t move fast enough.  It started to rain, so I swept him under the handle of the Big Pram onto his nappy bag seat, and pushed them both up the hill so fast my heartbeat pounded in my ears.  We were 300 yards from home when the hail started machine-gunning down on us, hammering onto the road so hard it bounced back hip high.  Son 1 and Son 2 screamed.  The Big Pram is a Big Pram because it’s a three-wheeled, heavy-axled, jogging buggy, bought in the days when I thought I would still run 30 miles a week. Son 1 and I went running with it seven whole times, but Son 2’s reflux meant we never tried.  Until today.  I RAN.  It still does its stuff. We crammed ourselves into the porch, soaking.  “I wet,” said Son 2. “Big back cowd.”  It stopped his tantrum.  But I can’t quite work out if it means I’m supposed to cook something for The Vicar.

Vicarage life was particularly fulltime before half term – one of those frantic seasons that hit you from time to time in ministry. The Vicar was out of the house more than in and even his days off seemed to include aspects of work.

So it was with a great sense of relief that we began our half term holiday with a wedding, followed by a stay with friends – another clergy family who have recently moved to Essex.

When the Vicar family go away I usually write a list of essential activities to be completed and items to be packed before departure. The failure to do this was my first mistake.

A few miles from home I realised that we’d forgotten sleeping bags for the children. These were needed for our stay with our friends. From the wedding reception we called the EssexRectors and they said they could easily find other bedding. Phew.

One lovely wedding and reception later we headed off to Essex, still in our wedding finery, arriving in time for a late dinner. The Vicar unpacked the bags. ‘But where’s your stuff, Vicar’s Wife?’

Then it dawned on me. The pink bag, with all my favourite clothes packed for holiday, was still on our bed at home. Crippled by my wedding shoes I’d come downstairs with only a few lighter items, meaning to ask the Vicar to fetch my bag…

Mrs EssexRector very kindly took me to a localish Tescos for a forage for emergency knickers, socks, jeans and top. I needed something to wear other than my smart but not exactly comfy wedding outfit.

It was only the next day that we realised that the Vicar too had forgotten his socks, and the Joker (having packed his own bag without supervision) had come away with trousers and t-shirts but no underwear. We spent more time shopping this holiday than we were intending.

Don’t let me pack for holiday without a list ever ever ever again.

At Sunday church the local Vicar explains that he must move on to a larger congregation that will pay him more. There is a hush within the congregation. No one wants him to leave because he is so popular.

Fred Smith, who owns several car dealerships in the area, stands up and proclaims: ‘If the Vicar stays, I will provide him with a new car every year and his wife with a Honda mini-van to transport their children!’ The congregation sighs in appreciation and applauds.

Sam Brown, a successful entrepreneur and publican, stands and says, “If the Vicar will stay on here, I’ll personally double his salary and establish a foundation to guarantee private secondary school education of his children!’  More sighs and loud applause.

Agnes Jones, age 88, stands and announces with a smile, ’If the Vicar stays, I will give him sex.’  There is total silence.  The Preacher, blushing, asks her: ’Mrs. Jones, you’re a wonderful and holy lady, whatever possessed you to say that?’ Agnes’s 90-year old husband, Joe, is now trying to hide, holding his forehead with the palm of his hand and shaking his head from side to side, while his wife replies:

‘Well, I just asked my husband how we could help, and he said, ‘Fuck him’.

The Vicar’s day off is looking a bit alternative today. We have a friend coming over to help us with the church website. Which is sort of work, but not really cos the friend is lovely so it’ll be a treat. And another friend is coming for lunch. But we’re not getting a trip out. Unless you count going to fetch a new loo seat.

So whilst we’re waiting to think about Joomla,  here’s a wonderful animation short I was directed to by that terrible timewaster Twitter. I love all the detail in it. [HT India Knight].

There’s also a game and another short at Alan Becker’s gallery site.

The Vicar pointed me to a better picture of his glorious shed, this time taken from the garage door end.

The Vicar is very proud of his handiwork

Now I know that normal men like to retreat to their shed for a bit of peace and quiet out of the house. The Vicar, however, has filled his shed so that retreating to it to sit down or smoke a pipe or something manly like that would be totally impossible. Actually it’s strictly the garage, but it is the largest outbuilding we have. And our car wouldn’t fit in it. Or it would but we couldn’t open a door to get out of the vehicle. The garage is Austin Seven size I’d say.

The good news is that instead the shed is filled with logs for our beloved wood burning stoves. As you can see, I’ve had plenty of opportunities to watch the Vicar chopping wood outside my kitchen window. Not in the last couple of weeks, though – it’s been a bit busy here. Thankfully I think we probably have enough wood to last a few more days.

It's hard to see the scale, but you can just see the top of the garage door at the back

It was all the vicar’s doing.

Let me explain. One of the joys of Twitter is linking up with the kind of people you’d never meet in the normal run of things. A few weeks ago I got a message  saying my tweets were being followed by @stopsleyvicar.

Intrigued, not just at the thought that a vicar might find my views interesting, but by the coincidence of him being based in the part of Luton where I spent the first 12 years of my life, I decided to follow him back.

Since when I’ve been tickled by his efforts to get his creative juices flowing for sermon writing by playing heavy rock; enjoyed his real-time updates as he listened to the Bishop of St Albans speak about making Christianity relevant today; followed his outing to see Mott the Hoople at Hammersmith, and been reminded that this is the time of year when churchgoers everywhere raid their cupboards and veggie patches to put together a harvest offering.

basket cases

How the memories came flooding back, pressing parents to spare a tin of pink salmon or bake a fruit cake to give the shoebox covered in crepe paper a bit more class. All the time knowing that Karen Greenham’s basket overflowing with goodies from Sainsbury’s – the rest of us Stopsleyites shopped at Bishops beneath a concrete monstrosity called Jansel House - would get centre stage at the harvest festival service like it did every year.

It’s no good telling an eight year old that it’s the thought that counts.

Still. I always loved making up a basket and loved the service even more, entranced by each year’s bumper display of fat marrows, perfect carrots, gleaming tins and, best of all,  harvest bread: a perfectly reproduced sheaf of corn complete with field mouse, all glazed to the colour of caramel.

season of mellow fruitfulness

Half a lifetime later I love autumn even more. Not only  have I joined the ranks of folk with soil beneath their nails and homegrown vegetables on their dinner tables (but please, no more runner beans). I’m also lucky enough to have moved from Stopsley to a new city which could rival New England for autumn colour: 20 million trees in Milton Keynes and every single one of them a slightly different shade of fire.

Once I started reading my Stopsley vicar’s messages about harvest festival I wanted to be a part of it again. I wanted the pleasure of packaging up a surprise basket for a stranger, selecting a few treats to hide in among the staples, adding some of my own harvestings from the veggie patch and allotment: plum jam, golden pumpkin and apples fat as footballs.

I wanted to imagine the smile on someone’s face when they received it. Above all, I wanted to say thank you in a very small way for being able to enjoy autumn and growing, picking and eating my own produce. Forget what I said about the runner bean glut a moment ago. I can always go back onto the internet to find a recipe for runner bean chutney, roast runner beans or even bean wine (though if it’s anything like the homemade brussel sprout wine an enterprising neighbour brewed up, the suspiciously green colour will put anyone off drinking it).

closed for business

Talking of suspicious, it wasn’t quite as easy to find a home for my beautiful wicker basket as I’d hoped. The first two churches I tried were locked, and, like them sadly, I had no confidence that if I left my gift outside it would still be there in the morning.

But I recalled walking around Willen with some friends and calling in on St Mary Magdalene, which off the back of a tenuous Christopher Wren connection keeps its doors open to tourists, and was able to leave my basket there, with a note of gratitude.

In a few days someone will be enjoying my pumpkin, swiss chocolates, organic red wine…and the inevitable can of baked beans.

Mind you, I’m certain that somewhere Karen Greenham is browsing the shelves of Waitrose, selecting extra virgin olive oil, macademia stuffed dates and Scottish heather honey for this year’s centrepiece basket.

I’ve just been digging through my blog drafts folder and realised I failed to post this a while back, but I thought you’d all still enjoy this shot of the Vicar, prepared by the Ringmaster at the CPAS Pathfinder summer holiday venture we were on way back in July. The theme was the Circus, and the Vicar’s dorm group were the Lily Livered Lion Tamers.

A lion or a teenager - which is harder to tame?

We had a wonderful week by the sea with 62 young people, aged 11-14, and a talented team of over 30 leaders. Me, I hung out with some other mums who were there with younger kids and were supporting their husbands who were leading. But it was great to be there, praying and having the chance to chat with leaders and youngsters.

The Queen blogged about camp too.

Our local paper has just published a piece about the arrival of Happy, our new ministry trainee. I love the line where the Vicar is described as ‘unlike anyone I’ve ever met’.

As the Express and Star have commented, the diocese is struggling to find clergy for vacant posts. We are praying that God would guide Happy as he explores full time ministry. And we are praying that more folk would come and join us in reaching the lovely people of the Black Country with the good news of Jesus.