Storyteller's World

Many, many years ago, when I was a new curate in a different part of the country, my training incumbent had a daughter of 11 or 12, who used to come and play with or look after our two pre-school age children. At that time I had lived a sheltered life and had little experience of daughters of the vicarage. True, I had dated one (the youngest of four sisters) very briefly, before I started going out with Alison. But it was such a busy church and vicarage, that you had to book her up about three months in advance, and I found I hadn't the patience or stamina to try and woo vicars' daughters.

(Brief aside, as I contemplate the existence of my own three daughters: How do we know that God loves vicars' daughters? Well, he must do, else he wouldn't have made so many of them.)

So in our inexperience, we were not a little surprised and even shocked when we asked this Li how she was one day, and she answered, 'I'm knackered!' Was this an expression that was permissible in clergy households? Clearly it was OK, if the boss's daughter said it; yet for years afterwards, whenever we wanted to say 'I'm knackered,' we would quickly add, 'as they say at the vicarage', to legitimise it. In fact, it became a catch-all saying whenever any of us or our children uttered something slightly dubious or off-colour. 'As they say at the vicarage ...'

Since becoming a vicar myself I know that the language used in vicarages - if this one is at all typical - can be just as florid and purple as anywhere else. It's not the vicar's daughters, but their father, who is the usual offender. As James says, no one can tame the tongue; it's a restless evil, full of deadly poison; so he obviously knew a thing or two about vicars, too.

I was reminded of this a couple of weeks ago when a young mum in the congregation said to another one, who had said she was knackered, 'We don't use words like that in our family.' I think I was being appealed to as a referee: 'There's nothing wrong with it, is there?' Well, does it come from the reputable term for a person who disposes of dead or unwanted animals? (I feel like a worn-out horse being disposed of?) Or from the vulgar slang meaning testicles? (I feel like I've had them unsurgically removed?) Clearly I was the wrong person to ask.

Me, an arbiter of the language it's proper for good Christian people to use? B****r me! (As they say at the vicarage)

Putting things back after the decorators produces experiences like those freak seismic upheavals which bring to light small treasure troves from years long past. Thus, I find a small pile of slim booklets, roughly 10cm by 14cm in size, on the bottom shelf of our mostly still empty bookcase.

- Good Lord, Alison - where did you find my I-Spy books?

- Oh, in Tom's room.

- What on earth were they doing there? I didn't know they even still existed!

Well, that's the mystery. These little books, some of which actually belonged to my sister (at least, she wrote her name in them, which may or may not be proof) are relics of the 1950s and 1960s. I'm quite sure I didn't 'bring them into the marriage', so the likelihood is that they were somehow preserved, as in aspic, by my parents, and at some stage given by them to Tom, when he was younger. This may, as it happens, be the only way parents can get their grown-up children to take back the stuff they left 'at home' when they moved out.

For those who haven't come across or don't remember the I-Spy books, they were published by the News Chronicle, and later the Daily Mail which took it over. They were designed to encourage children's curiosity by getting them to take an interest in the things they saw in the world around them, by scoring points for what they saw. The complete list of what we have here is:

No.2 On the Farm
No.3 History
No.4 On a Train Journey
No.6 In the Country
No.7 At the Zoo: Animals
No.9 In the Street
No.10 On the Road
No.11 The Sights of London
No.16 Cars
No.19 Sport
No.21 Musical Instruments
No.25 Road Transport
No.29 People in Uniform
No.32 Sports Cars
No.34 The Land
No.38 On the Pavement
No.39 Churches
These all cost sixpence each - that's 6d, folks, not 6p - except for the single volume in colour - Wild Flowers - which cost one shilling.

And then a clue: one book looks much more recent in style. I-Spy Trees, price 35p, which tells us in childish writing and pencil, that the Lombardy poplar was seen 'In front of Broadmead Lower School'. This is the equivalent of carbon dating, for Broadmead Lower School in Stewartby, Bedfordshire, was indeed the school Tom first attended at the age of 4. This confirms that he had this book as a child, and Nanny or Grandad told him, 'Your daddy used to have lots of I-Spy books: here they are!'

These are wondrous nuggets of the ancient history that is still within living memory. Whether it's the possibility of seeing a chair mender or a knife-grinder (On the Pavement), or the latest in Cars: Riley Elf ('A more luxurious version of the Austin Mini and Morris Mini-Minor'), NSU Prinz 4, Hillman Husky or Goggomobil Royal 700, it conjures up a world of childhood which the TV-fed children of today could only wonder at. 'Did they have dinosaurs too, when you were young, daddy?'

Of all the principles I organise my life by, the Vicar's Day Off is one of the highest and holiest. It's sacrosanct; I don't pick up the phone, I even have a second answering machine message which says it's my day off, and please leave a message or call again tomorrow; and if at all possible I try and be out of the house for a large part of the day.

So the very occasional times when I swerve from this principle are worthy of special note. Like today, when I was invited to be a parish rep on the interviewing panel involved in an appointment to a senior post in the diocese. I won't comment on what happened (this comes under the Rules for Blogging, I would say); but just on how I felt. I realised that it's been years since I was last involved in the interview and appointment process; I remembered that interviewing can be more nerve-wracking than being interviewed - because you feel so much more responsible; and I felt pretty much an amateur compared with the other members of the panel with all their professional expertise and knowledge of the jargon. Yet I was pleased to find that my 'intuition' and 'gut feeling' seemed to be just as effective, and valued, as the expert knowledge of the others. I suppose that was why I was invited, and why I thought it was important enough to give up a day off for. So I shall be using that other answering machine message tomorrow, instead.

The New Testament reading set for Evening Prayer today was Acts 15.1-21, the account of that first Council of Jerusalem at which the apostolic church decided the terms on which Gentiles could be admitted to the church. There would be no requirement that They, the different ones, the aliens, would first have to become like Us, the blessed, holy, normal ones, before they could be considered part of God's people.

I fell to wondering why this Council hasn't been used more as a model in the argument about sexuality, and the place of gays and lesbians in the church. Perhaps it's because it would probably undermine the position of the traditionalists, the anti-gays, who tend to appeal so much to Scripture, when it suits them.

For what we have here is a three-pronged argument in favour of admitting the Others on equal terms. First Peter describes how the Lord directed him to preach the Gospel to Them, and how They responded in a way that clearly showed it was the work of the Holy Spirit bringing Them to faith and new life in Christ. Then Barnabas and Paul report all that God had done through them, in their work in many parts of Asia Minor. Then James uses Scripture positively, as a word filled with the grace of God, to give an account of how the events and experiences they have witnessed, fit in to God's continuing and developing revelation of a plan of love that embraces every person.

In our Councils too, what we sorely need is for people on all sides of the debate - but especially the anti-gays - to hear how God brings gay people to faith, and a desire for God, in spite of all the hatred and opposition of those who want to shut them out. Then we want testimonies of how God has worked with grace and power in the lives of gay people. Then comes the use of the positive, inclusive scriptures that underline how what we actually see in the experience of gay people of real faith, fits in with God's plan for an inclusive church for people of all kinds in this diverse, rainbow people.

But I suppose this is all too much to wish for. For the very idea of a continuing and developing revelation of God's plan is anathema to the 'traditionalists', for whom revelation is a fixed, locked, once-for-all and never-to-be-added-to-or-changed body of truths. Much more like a mausoleum, than a botanical garden.

From time to time I get curious about how visitors arrive at my website, and actually look at the lists on my hosting log. There I discover that I have just been added to the directory of DiamondWeddings.com: The wedding portal. Under the heading:

Home : Resources (Additional) : more world resources : Anything Goes : Blogs :

I'm not sure that I relish the idea of users of the Wedding Portal coming to my site thinking that 'anything goes' as far as arranging their wedding here is concerned. This might lead to some challenging conversations. On the other hand, if people are looking for a highly-skilled and highly-paid (I wish) performer, specifically a storyteller, to entertain at their wedding - well, I'm the man. No offer will be considered too obscenely large; while at the same time I can promise to undercut Mrs Thatcher, Bill Clinton and the like.

The main story right now is still the one about getting things back to 'normal' - or the nearest that things ever get to it, in this household - after the decorators. I've got a rough estimate in my head that this will take six weeks, mainly because we want to take advantage of all the upheaval, to get rid of old unwanted stuff and buy some new, before we put things back.

And of course, clean up a bit. The first expense involved in this, followed the discovery that the vacuum cleaner had died, even though it was only ten years old (a Dyson prototype, I think). So we had to go out and buy a new one. Looks like we may not eat till after Christmas, now.

I'm also trying to organise things in the study, chiefly so that I can find the carpet and the desktop again, which I haven't seen for several years. This will take longer than six weeks.

OxTales is the new name for storytelling in Oxford, and held a storytelling circle meeting this evening. Attended by 17 people, with some interesting and well-told stories, and considerable enthusiasm. I told Grimms' 'Godfather Death', to cheer them up, like.

I could blog at some length about the fissiparous nature of storytelling groups in Oxford, but as a relative newcomer I don't know the half of it. Suffice it to say it has its moments when the Reformation and its aftermath look like a teddy bears' picnic. Different 'sides' have been appealing to me to legitimise them; as if, being a vicar, I'm an expert on divisions and vain attempts at reconciliation. Ummm.

I've spent quite a bit of time this week thinking about Jesus' story of the Dishonest Steward in Luke 16, last Sunday's Gospel. Let's give due credit to the fact that it is a quite brilliant story: concise, gripping, and utterly memorable. As preachers we too often take this for granted. Jesus was the Storyteller. But various people during the course of this week have told me they find the story difficult, puzzling, confusing; even after I explained it all to them in last Sunday's sermon! So I've been trying to think out why?

And surely one of the reasons is, that like so many of Jesus' other parables about money - most of which Luke alone records - it seems to be something that looks very like salvation by works that is being announced. This goes right against our Reformed or evangelical doctrine. Imagine, the very idea that we can buy our way into heaven by giving our money to the poor. Perhaps the reason we haven't heard much about this gospel was that for quite a bit of its history the Church and its leaders were among the rich of this world. They were more likely to end up with Dives in the tormenting fires, if stories like this were true, than with Lazarus in the peace and comfort of Abraham's bosom. And of course, it goes right against the doctrine and world-view by which we live in our capitalist system. You just don't do this kind of thing with rich men's money, whether they are your employer or not.

This leads to the second main reason for our puzzlement. It all depends on point of view: where am I in this parable? Far too often, if we were honest, we would see we were actually viewing the situation from the point of view of the rich landowner who is first defrauded and then outsmarted by his inefficient manager. Or just possibly, from the position of an employee who might want to keep his job, and therefore is desperate to be seen to be honest, above reproach.

But what about if we are the debtors, getting their debts reduced? What about if we are the man about to lose his livelihood - with no redundancy payments or pensions or social security to fall back on? What about if Jesus is saying to us: 'Listen, buddy: you are those people. Don't deceive yourselves: none of the money you have is yours, all the wealth you possess is someone else's (God's!) and you are about to lose the use of it real soon. Do something with it that will gain you some credit when you no longer have the use of it.'

Like I said, if we find this story difficult, it says far more about us and our assumptions and world-view, than it does about the story. And chiefly, it says we actually are probably devotees of Mammon rather than the God of the poor and the debtor.

I love Slightly Foxed - subtitled The real reader's quarterly - which was launched with the Spring 2004 edition.

It describes itself as,

a journal for non-conformists, for people who don’t want to read only what the big publishers are hyping and the newspapers are reviewing. There are thousands of good books in print that are never mentioned in the literary pages, but most people have no way of knowing what they are or which ones may appeal to them.

Slightly Foxed fills this gap, introducing, or reintroducing, its readers to all those wonderful books that languish on publishers’ backlists but have too often disappeared from bookshops, and to interesting new books published by small presses that rarely get reviewed or stocked by the chains.

Now that's my kind of literary magazine, bound to appeal to the man who prefers Linux or Mac OS to Microsoft, or just about anything at all to Alpha. The only trouble is, it could work out expensive wanting to get hold of all the wonderful books its contributors mention.

At last the decorators have finished and gone, leaving us feeling like beached whales amidst the jetsam of our rearranged possessions, which not content with filling the 'temporary' shed in the garden (I fear this may be rather like the wartime prefabs that people were still living in 50 years later) have overflowed into every room in the house. You can't move without stepping over a pile of books, yet the books can't be returned to their proper homes till the shelves have been dusted. The books also need dusting, to say nothing of serious weeding to throw away duplicates and those that have just become terminally grotty and unreadable.

It will probably take weeks to get back to 'normal', or any state that passes for it. In the mean time, it's impossible to find anything because it will certainly have been moved. This looks like becoming the most promising excuse that has come my way for a decade or more.

Naturally the very first image that had to be scanned with the new toy was this one, from 1973.

I love these period portraits: you just marvel at the hair! the beard! the tinted spectacles! (and the droopy shape of them!) the slenderness! the gorgeous young woman on my arm!

This was, indeed, the storyteller that was to be, and his Muse.

When I showed it to Alison, she said, "But that doesn't look anything like us, now!" Not so, mea cara amicula, corculum meum: we still are those beautiful people, even 30 and more years later. But it's strange to think that in the picture, we are younger than most of our children are now.

The upshot of trying to prepare and print that prophetic sermon, was that the printer - which I have probably only had for 8 years - has definitely turned up its toes and expired like the proverbial parrot. Just as I had bought a whole set of replacement ink cartridges, goes without saying.

In a fit of need - who can live without a printer in this day and age? - and heedlessness about our penury, I went to PC World (wash my mouth out!) and bought an all-in-one printer, scanner and copier, which set me back £129. Except, with the cable and spare ink cartridges and other stuff you then discover it needs to function, it came to nearer £180.

With sacrifice and folly like that, I'm jolly well going to enjoy playing with it and learning its capabilities. Like scanning in all those favourite photos and putting them on the Web; and printing lots of unnecessary stuff. You've got to have some fun, before the credit card bill arrives and you realise you probably won't eat again till Christmas.

In the midst of the euphoria over a new toy, it turns out I can't get it to work with my Linux desktop. It's too new a model, and I haven't yet found a suitable driver. I probably need to 'rebuild the kernel'; but since this sounds like something only God can do, I'm putting it on hold for a while. Thank goodness for the iBook, which will work with it.

Driving to the flat through the darkening evening, I find myself enjoying a pleasure I seldom have time for: listening to Radio 4. It's the Nature programme about the migration of insects. And isn't this the magic of Radio 4, that time and again it gets you hooked, listening to programmes about subjects you've never thought about and never knew you could possibly be interested in?

One of the main centres for research on insect migration is Cardington in Bedfordshire, where the huge hangars for airships were built early in the last century. We used to see them from Stewartby, and were amazed when we first noticed them. They are so big, that even though they are six miles away, they look about the same size as the garages over the road, between which you can see them. Apparently Cardington is an aircraft exclusion zone, because of the airships being flown there. So what the insect researchers do is put up balloons with nets hanging from them to catch insects flying at that height. From the insects caught in a space about one metre wide, they can reach accurate figures of the total number, and mix of species, flying over. Something in the millions.

From this I learn that many of the common insects we see: butterflies, lacewings, aphids, have travelled vast distances from North Africa and elsewhere, following the spring, in order to breed in the British Isles. These creatures that look too frail to travel more than a quarter of a mile, are international travellers! Because of global warming, more and more species are colonising Britain, and some like the Red Admiral butterfly are even year-long residents now. It's an astonishing world.

A chance comparison on the radio with the migrations of human beings makes me reflect on the difference between this drive to the flat, and those we made in the summer. Now that the nights draw in, there is much less traffic. People don't drive out in the country when it's too dark to sit outside in the pub garden enjoying a balmy evening pint. So outside the towns: Evesham, Worcester, Bromyard etc., I meet few other vehicles. Except, coming in the opposite direction, large numbers of juggernauts out of the west. Thundering towards Oxford and the rest of the civilised world, like something out of Tolkien. Or maybe, the revenge of the Celt.

I haven't a clue why all the lorries travel east at night, when I didn't have to overtake (or be overtaken by) a single one driving west.

I'm not often paranoid in the 'Whoopee! I'm being persecuted by the principalities and powers!' sense; but that was certainly how I was beginning to feel about this morning's sermon on The Dishonest Steward.

In the first place, I'd had hardly any time to prepare and write it, because of having the decorators in during the week, and having to prepare for the big gig on Friday night. Apart from that, it was proving singularly resistant to being written. Then when I got back yesterday from Up North, I was just too weary to write sermon (so I wrote blog instead - a true indicator of the difference?)

Slept badly because after the initial knockout such that I'd sleep through an earthquake, I came near the surface with the knowledge that I had to preach this morning and didn't have a complete sermon. Came back from the 8 o'clock, sat down, had a brain wave, finished the sermon, told the computer to print it off, went to put two slices of bread in the toaster, came back and found the printer was happily printing away, but without passing any paper through to print on. Aargh!

Quick! save it to a floppy and transfer it to one of the other computers in the house. Then remembered that all the other computers have been more or less disabled by being moved for the decorators. Managed to plug in Alison's and switch it on, only to find it wasn't reading my floppy (b**@*y Micro$oft machines!) Transferred it by data stick instead. Finally got it printed. By now I was determined I was going to preach that sermon come hell or high water. I hadn't actually thought it was all that threatening to anybody (or bodies), but I was beginning to wonder.

In retrospect I think it was more in prophetic mode than I usually preach: though I include myself in those who need to hear the word of the Lord here. Anyway, here's the sermon.

Hurried back from the conference to drive Tui, our youngest, to university Up North. She's been away from home before, and during this gap year she hasn't been both in and awake at any sensible hours, on account of working at the local cinema for ridiculous hours and barely minimum wages. But no doubt she'll leave a huge hole in the life of the family, and I'm quite prepared to feel as bereft as I was whenever any of the others first went away.

She's much more grown-up, more confident, sociable and attractive than I was when I went to uni. But today she seemed to revert to the little girl who was afraid of feeling homesick. Some of it was because of going a day earlier than most of the other freshers: delivering offspring on a Sunday is kind of difficult for the parish clergy. As we left her and drove away she was asking, 'What am I going to do now?'

Live, Tui. Have a great time, make lots of friends who will love you, start to find your way in life. But mostly, know that whatever happens, you are Loved.

The trouble is, I don't actually do storytelling 'performances' - if that's the right word - to new and strange audiences, as much as would be good for me. And telling most of the time to my own favourite audience who listen to me week in week out, just isn't the same challenge. So last night's gig was the welcome exception that had me dreaming those old anxiety dreams and panicking those panics all last week.

It was the annual conference for readers in the diocese (Licensed Lay Ministers, or LLMs, as we are supposed to call them now, except most of the time we end up having to explain, 'That's what we call Readers now.' A friend of mine who's in charge of organising the conference twisted my arm into being the speaker at the opening session on Friday evening: straight after arrival and dinner. It's supposed to be light-but-serious introduction to the theme of the weekend, entertainment but thought-provoking too, inspirational without being too head-breaking. You get the picture. So obviously biblical storytelling was the answer to their needs.

I had to spend a good bit of time brushing up the stories I wanted to tell, but couldn't do much to plan my links between them until I was actually on my feet. I told:
The Sower (Matthew's version)
The Man Called Legion (Mark)
Blindness and Sight (John 9)
Jairus and his Daughter - and a woman along the way (Mark)
The Lost Son (Luke)

With the linking talk, it took just an hour. The voice lasted out (God be praised!) - though I think there'll be hell to pay tomorrow - and everyone seemed more or less gobsmacked. Which I've never really been able to interpret. But no one went to sleep, and several people wanted to ask questions afterwards and said they'd been excited, inspired, etc. So, a success; another step on the road to that elusive and not-yet-existent post of Diocesan Storyteller.

duncan commented on my earlier post where I made some suggestions on Rules for Blogging:

... it's more just that most of us wouldn't blog about our work. I certainly would never mention my clients on my blog. But I might talk about what I'm doing in my church.
For Pastors, working with people in your congregation is pursuing your profession. Maybe it is more just that professionals don't talk about their clients in public.

This raises interesting questions about the status of the clerical profession. There's no getting away from the fact that most of all, the work we do is all about people. But those people are very rarely 'clients' in the way that the people dealt with by professional therapists, counsellors etc. are. They are friends, family, brothers and sisters in Christ; and yes, of course they are often also 'perishers', as a delightful Mrs Malaprop in a former parish used to describe my parishioners. ("Of course, you have to worry about all your perishers, don't you, vicar?") So I can't talk about my life without talking about my work without talking about the people I work with.

Of course, when someone does come to me in a client capacity, to make a confession or talk in confidence, the same rules apply as for all those counselling professions. I would never write about that in a blog. But mostly that isn't the case.

One of my main reasons for wanting to be ordained was a not-yet-articulated sense that the dichotomy between work and life that affects so many people was somehow wrong, or not something I wanted. I wanted the whole of my life, under God, to be one. Oh yes, there have been lots of times since then when I realise that was the kind of ideal that can burn you out unless you have some boundaries too; but I still believe there is something fundamentally healthy about wanting one's life to be a unity.

So does that mean that being clergy entails not being professional? Well, there are lots of different ways to answer the question: Are clergy professionals?

Of course we are, because we have undergone intensive selection processes, years of training and study, and arcane initiation rituals.

Of course we are not, because if we were we would be paid a respectable salary.

Of course we are, because we have a respected and acknowledged position in society (to an extent).

Of course we are not, because we are amateurs: we do what we do for love.

Of course we are ... or are not ...

What do you think?

Browsing at Bloglines, I was scrolling through their list of recommendations, (Based on your current subscriptions, Bloglines has generated this list of feeds that you might be interested in. This list is updated daily) and came across a link to Storyteller's World; yes, no other than my very own blog. It's encouraging and affirming to be told you might be interested in your own writings and musings. After all, that's the main reason for producing them in the first place.

A bit like applying to a computer dating agency, and being sent details of your existing partner. On second thoughts, this may not be such a good analogy.

Yes, the decorators came back today. It was like that moment in Fatal Attraction when Glenn Close rises again from the waters of the bath in which you were sure she was dead. Like countless other moments on screen and in real life, when, just as you think it's safe to pick up the threads of your life again, just when you think things are under control and you're coping, the horror returns in all its malign determination.

We'd happily moved out of our bedroom into the 'spare' or 'guest' room. This is a kind of virtual space, because it never was spare until the children started to leave home, and it still isn't really, because when they started moving out, most of their stuff stayed behind - as it does - and it also acquired the new status of general junk and box room for the offspring that remain. Just occasionally a genuine guest finds where the bed is in there, and succeeds in staying the night. But it's like all those folk tales: we, the hosts, bid them Goodnight with anxious expressions. Will they survive? Will we find them dead in the morning, strangled by something evil that lurks among all the piles of stuff? I have read about 5 bed-roomed vicarages, but I don't really believe they exist, except in some fabled travellers' tales of Somewhere Else. Maybe only Important Clergy, or incumbents of Important Benefices, are fortunate enough to live in such exotic palaces ...

So we moved into the spare room and slept there last night, and all seemed wonderfully comfortable and serene. Before 8 this morning the decorators came. And all the Other Stuff had to be moved in about 5 minutes, and naturally turns out to be much more than we had already moved and that took all day at the weekend. I don't know how these anomalies in the space-time continuum creep into my life: they should stay in Star Trek where they belong.

Not that the painters themselves are evil; in fact, they're lovely. One of them, Billy, an Irish Catholic, actually asked to come back and work here again. He was asking me if I had Mass in the morning. Only on Wednesdays, I said; the other days it's just Morning Prayer. I'm touched by the good will of ordinary people who want to do a good job to benefit someone working for a Church that isn't even their own. There is a true ecumenism. It just doesn't have much to do with the church structures and institutions.

John Naughton (one of the best reads on the Web) is right about the absurdity of the hysterical reaction to the Fathers4Justice 'Batman' protest at Buck House. But all this clownery won't look so funny when our essential freedoms are lost, not because of genuine terrorist threats from al-Qaeda or wherever, but because of the selfish posturings of these self-styled victims of injustice. Get a grip, guys! If you don't want to lose your children, don't walk out on (or don't get yourself thrown out by) their mother.

One or two people have noticed my suggestions on rules for Christian blogging. So I thought I'd add what I think is probably even more important, and without which the rest are mere piffle in the wind.

St Paul and St Peter (or writers claiming to be them) both include in their epistles (1st century blogs, I suppose) lists of rules for proper behaviour among the followers of Jesus, and cap them with an 'above all': Love.

Above all, clothe yourselves with love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony. (Col.3.14)
Above all, maintain constant love for one another, for love covers a multitude of sins. (1 Pet.4.8)

Whatever rules you adopt for your blog, this has got to be our Above All, too. Above all, love what you are writing about. Love the people, the places, the situations, the work. Love them with all their crankiness and infuriatingness; love them with all their true beauty and heroism. If you don't love 'em, you should consider blogging about something else that you do love. (If you don't love 'em, maybe you should consider some other line of work ...)

This is actually a bit of a passion of mine. I've come across far too many vicars in my time, who spend a good bit of their time berating the congregations they are supposed to be caring for, telling them off for not being better than they are, urging them to become something they are not, complaining about them to their friends, colleagues, bishop, God. Actually, that's Satan's job description, not the pastor's. The people I've admired have been the ones who imitate St Paul, who defend the people and stand up for them, start off before anything else by giving thanks for them. You've got to love the people you serve for who they are, not for who they ought to be, or who you would like them to be. They're never going to get that way, if you're accusing them the whole time.

And that's what I've tried to do in my thinking and praying and preaching. The funny thing is, it works. OK, I guess I was luckier than some. This group of people were pretty lovely to start with. But as I have loved as an act of will, so the feeling has grown to match. Till even at the end of a PCC meeting last Friday - mostly about money of all things - I found myself telling them: I really love being the vicar of this parish, you're all such great people.

The crazy pay-back is that they then love in return. Anyone would think Jesus was right, after all.

I've often thought about the content and rules of this blog. What are the proper limits of what I write? What should I put in, and what should I leave out? Of the many different types of blog that exist, some, I know, are completely anonymous; and anonymity is an essential part of what they are about, which is the complete freedom of the writer to express anything and everything they want to. This is OK, perhaps; but wouldn't suit me because I would never quite believe in the possibility of no one ever discovering my identity. In the case of Christian ministry bloggers, anonymity isn't really an option. We are inevitably public figures, and that is reflected in what we blog. Whether it's maggi dawn, Kathryn, Daniel, or many others, our identity is transparent.

This means that, as a general rule, I try not to write anything that I would not wish to be read by
1 my mother
2 my boss (the Bishop)
3 my wife
4 the weakest brother or sister in the congregation, who could be scandalised by something I write.

But what about the anonymity of people I write about? The confidentiality of anything that might be said to me? It would be pastorally disastrous if parishioners started saying to themselves: I don't want to talk to the Vicar about this, it'll be all over his blog before the end of the day. Or maybe worse yet, the person who tells you scandalous things in the hope that you will put them in your blog!

Here the rule I've applied is, never to use full names, but only a general description of a person, or just a first name, or a code name. Not to record anything at all that was said in confidence. My general descriptions and slightly veiled identities may be adequate if jfreeman or Mumcat or Dave read this, but any parishioner reading it will probably know instantly, or soon be able to identify, who I'm talking about. So I will not write anything about anyone that that person would not wish to be common knowledge, or that I would not say about them to their face. In general this means I will only say good (and true!) things about them, which may be helpful, encouraging or edifying to someone.

One effect of these rules seems to be, that the experience of blogging is much healthier than that of private spiritual journalling. I kept that kind of journal some years back: a 'for my eyes only' record of my spiritual journey through a period in my life when I was dealing with a bout of depression, and the painful process of moving across theological and belief frontiers. The discipline was supposed to be healing, but its actual effect was the reverse: it trapped me in a vicious cycle of introspection, self-pity and guilt. In contrast to this, the discipline of blogging encourages extraversion, looking away from yourself and your problems, to see the good, the positive, the amusing or interesting, in other people and in the world around.

But there are some things it can't provide. This morning I spent an hour and a half with my 'soul friend' - preferred title for what used to be called a spiritual director. I had gone, unsure about what to talk about, and ended up telling the whole story of the four months since my last visit. A time that has been full, rich, many-faceted, apparently chaotic and directionless; yet telling the story brings into focus how much it is all about God, and what is going on between us. Where God is working in this life, this place, these relationships, these people, this congregation, this particular time. And it was an emotional experience. Where blogging helps hold it together, telling it to Anamchara releases tears of healing. Weeping for the dear ones who have suffered or died, for all those I have loved, for my parents in their frailty and age, for all the people I would help and cannot, for all who are making beauty, goodness and truth out of life's raw materials.

Thank you, Anamchara, dear sister, for listening and helping to make sense of this life. Thank you, all the dear ones who help make this life what it is. Sheer gift.

I'm feeling really tired this morning, and having to clutch at very small things to raise a slight smile on a Monday morning. Like this: Wanting to send a txt msg to the wife about what colours we want the toilet painted (yes, the decorators are threatening to return). I keyed in 'loo', which word completion rendered as 'jon'. Made me wonder how many other instances there are of the same set of keystrokes rendering synonyms in different cultures.

The Observer | Business | John Naughton: Wiki's wacky, but it really does work

So, I used Sarah's story in my sermon this morning, and lots of people really enjoyed it. It was one of those You could hear a pin drop moments. I didn't know how to interpret the silence. The people who are most resistant to accepting differently sexually-orientated people were just as quiet as everyone else; but I wasn't sure whether this was because they felt the story was particularly barbed at them, or whether they saw a different point.

Is this the whole thing about Jesus' stories? They give us space to have different views - or even to think the story is about something completely different - but still stay together, in a way that more propositional teaching doesn't. And they don't force us to see that we are wrong, until we are ready to cope with it and change our minds. And when that happens, it's genuine because it feels we have changed from within ourselves, rather than been forced to by something outside.

I love it that we both love words and wordplay, and every so often come up with what I think are some clever inventions and fantasies. (Not that I'm any way biased ...)

Today Alison was going to the Oxford Brookes University graduation ceremony, and because she has a D.Phil from the other Oxford University, she was going to be wearing the full scarlet doctoral robes, so she set out in sub fusc.

I told her she looked like something out of The Matrix (which incidentally might make degree ceremonies a touch less boring). When she came home, it was with the rejoinder, 'Actually, I thought it was probably more like The Matric Reloaded.'

Well, I suppose you have to be an Oxford person and like all this daft dressing-up, to appreciate it. I do it in church, she gets to do it at degree ceremonies.

There's no justice, is there? I mean, I swallow enough multi-vitamins and garlic capsules each day to protect the whole parish from all ailments known to man, I should think. Yet all this week I have been suffering from an annoying little cold, at a time of year when no one (least of all the person protected by multi-vitamins and garlic) should have a cold. It started on Monday with a trivial sore throat, and has grown into something which keeps me coughing and sipping water throughout prayers and PCC meetings, and lying awake most of the night unable to breathe.

The sense of injustice was compounded by not being able to remember being in contact with anyone who had a cold. It looked like a visitation designed specifically and malignantly for me.

Then last night I remembered. Barbara had a cold at Bunkfest last Saturday, and all through that storytelling, she was exhaling minute germ-laden water droplets which I then stood in the same space and inhaled. Gee, thanks, Barbara. I hope you're feeling much better ...

Naturally there is no sympathy to be had from the Best Beloved. As we sat in bed this morning with our Saturdays-only morning cuppa, the conversation turned to TB (as it does).

-That's what I've got, said I, coughing wretchedly. Even Mr Hyde would have shed a compassionate tear.

-No, what you've got is TBFSF.

-?

-To Be Felt Sorry For.

(This is part of the sermon I will be preaching tomorrow, inspired by a memory of Luke 15.1-7)

I suppose most of us, if we look back over the years, can think of a number of those excruciating memory moments. You know the ones: where you wish, oh, how you wish you could have that moment over again and have it happen differently; or you wish the you that you were had somehow dissolved into the floor instead of making such a mess-up of the situation.

One of the great things about life, of course, is that as you get older those moments become fewer. You get to the point of surviving one of those embarrassing episodes, and you think Well, blow it: I am who I am, and I did it the way I did it, and if they don't like it, it's their own sorry lookout.

So my example of an excruciating moment is from over 30 years ago. The first Bible story I told to a group of children. And it was the story of the Lost Sheep. Now picture this. I'd been a Christian for about six months. I'd just finished university, not started work yet. And I'd agreed to join the team for a CSSM beach mission in Somerset (it's not in Somerset any longer - this was over 30 years ago, remember - it's now in a place called Avon). And the team leader had asked me to go into a children's Bible class and tell them the story of the Lost Sheep. I hadn't got a clue. I didn't yet know I was, or was going to be, a storyteller. (This is one of those examples of how God gets you doing the things you're going to do long before you know how, or even that, you're going to be doing them. That's happened quite a lot in my life.) I had had so little training as to amount to nothing. God bless Scripture Union, they really tried (I think) but the only memory I have of that training day Somewhere in the East End of London, was the moment they got all the young men up the front to practise leading choruses, and said OK, now conduct and lead us in singing By blue Galilee. Since I'd never heard this before, never sung it, didn't sing - this was not a good performance. And then being told That was pretty useless - even if it was addressed to all of us - was neither encouraging, nor much use in helping us know how to improve, nor good pedagogy in any sense. Well, every experience is a learning experience ...

Also, it was over 10 years since I'd been to Sunday School, so even my limited experience of how people spoke to children about God was, well, a bit out of date. More 1950s than 1970s.

These are my reasons, or excuses, for the fact that my first telling of a Bible story to children, the story of the Lost Sheep, was not something you'd write home about. I was very nervous, (for I knew that small children eat nervous adults for their elevenses) and the story was very short, dull, unimaginative and uncreative, and I'm not very sure what the point was (if it had one). When I asked the lady in charge afterwards how was it? she answered, I can see that you put a lot of prayer into it. At that moment I knew two things with great clarity. One was, that she was a very dear saint. The other was, that story must have been pretty bad.

Now from all this, you will realise why I was destined to be a storyteller; and why it is that the parable of the Lost Sheep is so peculiarly important to me ...

(I'm then planning to use Sarah's brilliant Parable of the Ninety-Nine. Thanks, Sarah!)

Here's a strange little tale for our times.

I was going about my lawful business when my mobile phone rang (not in the middle of a committal, this time), and it's Vicky, from The Bank, with the good news that I have just won some money in a prize draw they are holding to promote their Internet banking service: everyone using the service gets entered in a monthly prize draw, and I've won the first monthly prize.

Now, The Bank does happen to be who I entrust the few coppers of my monthly 'stipend' to; but I hadn't actually heard about this prize draw promotion, and there are so many people nowadays ringing you up telling you you've won something which turns out to be only an opportunity to give them money, that I was a tad guarded in my jubilation.

-Yes, says Vicky, I just need to ask you some questions to verify who you are; can you tell me your 'significant name' you use to access your account?

-Oho, no, I said, not so fast. How do I know you're not one of those naughty scammers trying to get me to divulge my security details?

So she gave me a phone number and her name to ring her back. Which I did. And the woman who answered the phone said

-This is The Bank; admitted that they had someone called Vicky in Marketing, and put me through.

Now, we have all been so schooled to be suspicious about divulging security details (and I have learned my lesson well) that I was still cautious. So there then began a strange telephonic exchange of I'll show you a bit of mine if you show me a bit of yours, as we tried to give away enough to persuade the other we were legitimate, without giving away too much. For after all, any scammer who gives you a false number could get their accomplice to answer the phone and say they were The Bank, or anything else. In the end I was almost satisfied; but still not quite. So I phoned the customer service number I used to use (even though the infuriating, mind-deadening music you have to listen to while you wait to speak to someone was the chief reason for changing to mainly Internet banking), told them what had happened and asked them to check on Vicky. Which they did, and put me through again from their system. By this time the poor woman was probably thinking I was stalking her, or about to invite her to help me spend the money.

But what are you to do, in a security needy society, when two strangers need to prove to each other that they are genuine? I can see the day when banks will not only have to know our PINs, but will also have to give us a security password they can use with us. Exchanges like in the good old spy movies will become routine, for telephone and Internet banking:

-There are nightingales flying over the white cliffs of Dover.

-It is cold in the Urals tonight.

-Right, how much cash do you need, Mr Price?

Time I spent a bit more time learning how to use this beautiful box (the iBook, I mean), instead of just blogging. There is so much to learn, and I should be keeping the recommended journal of what it all is, so that I don't have to do it again if I forget; or don't make the same mistakes again.

I want to explore all the Unix background that underlies Mac OS X, which I'm partly familiar with from Linux. I've downloaded and installed Fink, which is a Debian-like installer for loading various bits of open source software. I've also got Lynx, for text-only Web-browsing. When your Internet connection is as pathetically slow as mine is, anything that goes a bit quicker is welcome.

I've downloaded (and had to pay for - ouch! - which is a bit unfamiliar to us Linux users) Fetch, an FTP client for Mac, so I can start maintaining my web pages from the iBook if necessary. Plus there's all the Mac OS X stuff that's there already, like how it deals with tunes, photos, email, which I've begun to discover, but not got into the finer points of. And finding out how to do presentations, that aren't PowerPoint. And many, many more.

Well, more than that, really: potentially a bit of a disaster; though fortunately it didn't come to that. It was a morning when I was supposed to be conducting the interment of four sets of ashes in our Garden of Rest. The first one took place, no problem. The rest were all members of one family. The man died about three years ago, and his widow had kept his ashes and never quite got round to arranging what to do with them, before herself becoming too frail to do anything, since when her son kept them in the wardrobe. About six weeks ago the widow and her son both died within days of each other, leaving a daughter, the sole surviving member of the family, to deal with all the funeral arrangements and estate.

I had carefully marked the places where holes were to be dug, then got involved in something in the study (drinking coffee, perhaps) so that when I noticed the time and went along to the church it was 5 minutes to the hour appointed for the interment. Sister and her husband both there. But no holes, and no funeral directors. Thanks to mobile phone technology, and my memory of a number, we were able to phone the office to find out what was going on. Two men and later a woman arrived, rather breathless and newly changed, to dig two holes and, only half an hour late, proceed with the service and interment.

Embarrassment and apologies all round, which is never quite so painful when you are sitting on the patient, tolerant, 'these things happen' side of the exchange. Except that my own mobile phone then went off in the middle of the committal - I had forgotten to switch it off after the possibility of having to use it. Aargh!

From, I do not BELIEVE it!

There are not that many things that make me really angry. On the whole, I would say I was an even-tempered, easy-going kind of guy. But one thing that really makes steam come out of my ears is the current rigmarole you have to go through with banks and building societies to provide proof of identity before you can open an account, or do anything pretty much.

Today I tried to open a cash ISA, to put away a bit of money from the return on some previous savings. I thought I knew the drill: two proofs of identity, such as passport, and a recent utilities bill; I'd even taken my birth certificate as a third piece of evidence just in case. Lo and behold, it wasn't acceptable because the utilities bill only had my first name and surname, and didn't include my middle initial.

These strict requirements are apparently required by the FSRA (?), the Financial Services Regulatory Authority, or some such. It makes it practically impossible for new customers, especially young people, to open accounts, because they generally don't pay utility bills. But more than this, it's an intrusive and time-wasting nuisance for regular users, who have to go in and provide this kind of proof of identity in order to administer existing accounts for charities, churches etc. The institutions don't really care about small customers like the young and the average, however; their main interest is the mega-accounts, and their own profits.

For, you see, the whole point of these guidelines from the FSRA, is to combat money-laundering and the financing of terrorism, which they allege they are required by the Government to do, though I'm pretty sure the main object, as said, is to look after their interests. When I wrote to my MP and complained about it, the last time the head of steam built up in me, he said the problem was not the Government's requirements, but the way the financial institutions interpreted and applied them. (You see how they pass the buck, and cover their own backs?) I asked him for exact statistics of the number of churches, charities and clergy involved in money-laundering and the financing of terrorism, and he did not reply. I suspect because it is around zero%.

But the thing that really astonishes me, is that no one else seems to mind about this, everyone puts up with it like turkeys getting in line for Christmas. Why is no one out there pulling up the cobble stones and throwing them through the windows of banks? And MPs?

Ah, I thought you'd never ask. According to the Oxford Dictionary of the Christian Church, he is one of the 14 Auxiliary Saints, also known as the Fourteen Holy Helpers, who were especially venerated in earlier times because their prayers were supposedly most effective on behalf of human needs. Many of their feast days have now been suppressed in the West (ain't that just typical?) so it's a wonder St Giles survived from the BCP Calendar into Common Worship, even as the minorest of minor observances. Perhaps because, being as popular as he was, he had 160 churches dedicated to him in England alone.

Not much is known about him, and there's some doubt as to historicity (does that matter, as long as his prayers work?) Possibly 8th century, possibly from Athens originally, he is thought to have fled to France to escape his countrymen's admiration of his holiness, in order to live as a holy hermit. King Flavius Wamba of the Visigoths was so impressed by him, that he built him a monastery. What a lot of questions this raises! If you want to be a holy hermit, don't go anywhere near kings - better to stay and risk your neighbours' admiration - and resist the temptation it will expose you to.

He was specially favoured as their patron by cripples, beggars and blacksmiths.

I love St Giles' Fair, which is held in Oxford every autumn on the first Monday and Tuesday after the Feast of St Giles. It's not the rides I like, in fact it's probably ten years since I even went on one, and then it was probably nothing more heartrate-raising than the dodgems. And it certainly ain't the candyfloss or the soft toys which seem to get bigger and more garish every year. I'm quite happy to leave all that noise and the crowds and the flashing lights and music to youth and the evening.

No, what I love is the complete topsy-turviness of an ancient tradition that empties one of Oxford's main thoroughfares of traffic - the whole of St Giles and the bottom ends of Woodstock and Banbury Roads - for two full days, and turns them over to the anarchic colour and confusion of the funfair. It's a kind of sole survivor of the feast of the lord of misrule, cocking a snook at town and gown (but chiefly the latter, when the students aren't even there to enjoy it).

It's good to remember that cars and buses and all the ways we rush about day by day, must sometimes give way to older pleasures and pastimes. Oh, and yes: I did walk into town and back.

Memory plays strange tricks, and (like death in one of my favourite movies) was whimsical today. I know that when you are about to die, or at extreme risk, your whole life is supposed to flash before your eyes. But what are the other circumstances in which long-unremembered details suddenly bubble up - more like gloops of mud from the depths of the primeval slime?

Both these memories came from the year when I worked as a language assistant in a Realschule in Gronau, in 1969-70. I wasn't yet 'a Christian' - or didn't know I was, or whatever - but the memory is that I prayed an awful lot during that year. And that prayer came out of being far from home, a stranger in a strange land, lonely, isolated, not many friends: all the things, in fact, that are so conducive to spiritual experience. It was a Joseph, or an Exile, experience. And who can tell, in the economy of eternity, how much weight that prayer carried? As if, when I came back to England and the time had fully come, God said, 'OK, Tony, now that I've got your attention, let me show you what it's really all about, and what I've got in mind for your life.'

The other followed on from it. What had I got to be so anxious about, anyway? Well, one thing was that the headmaster of the school was really keen on what he was hearing about the comprehensive school system which was just about to be widely introduced in Britain, and asked me (told me) to give a paper on it to a day conference he was organising for local teachers and educators. So picture this very un-self-confident, grammar school boy, who knew nothing about educational theory let alone comprehensive schools, and who hated teaching grotty German teenagers, reading up in a Penguin book about The Comprehensive School, and writing in rather faulty German a 45 minute talk, which he then read out to the assembled long-suffering audience. Nightmares about public speaking, or what?

Who could have discerned in this scene, the future addict of the 'buzz', the very distinctive high, you get from preaching or storytelling?

After my earlier post about the difficulties I was having in buying aubergines at Sainsbury's, a dear friend turned up this evening, with an aubergine, and the note: Try the Co-op. I should have known better, of course. If I had only kept faith with my working-class roots and shopped at the Co-op instead of selling out to the capitalist system, I'd have been OK.

Thanks, Gill. Come up and share some ratatouille some time.

I'm still none the wiser about what Bunkfest means and why. But it was a grand occasion, taking up all the park in the centre of Wallingford, which is called the Kinecroft (well, what else would it be called?) I drove in with my performer's car parking permit, in good time to look around the whole site and spend my £5 lunch voucher at La Grande Bouffe (winner of the Best Stall prize at Glastonbury 2003). This was the sum total of the pecuniary reward I had agreed, so it's a good job I'm glad of every opportunity to tell, and increase my experience.

Most of what was going on on the Kinecroft during the day, was dancing by various teams from around the country. Something strange seems to have happened to morris dancing since I last looked at it. Back then, they mostly wore white outfits. All very pagan stuff, no doubt; but they were our pagans; Christian, like. Now many if not most of the teams seem to perform in black, with masks or black faces, as if they wanted to look like middle-aged Goths, and they're called things like the Witchmen, or the Wild Hunt Bedlam Morris.

We've had a lot of sociologists thinking about secularisation over the years; what about someone looking at the paganisation of British institutions? What could be more institutional and Establishment than morris dancing, I mean to say?

There were also the other ingredients of folk festivals, like the colourful stalls selling t-shirts, jewellery, reflexology sessions, and of course the beer tent, where it was naturally a duty for me to sample some of the real ales. (Encouraging small local business, don't you know?)

Then off to the fringe - the very fringe - venue for the Storytelling Fringe event. It was not an especially congenial setting, and the eventual audience for this public telling - max. 30, usually more like 18 - was considerably less than my usual audience for more private gigs. My performance also wasn't the best ever; but like I say, it's all practice. I told The Legend of Baal Shem Tov; The Man Who Looked On His Face In A Mirror; Mrs Field's Chocolate Chip Cookies; The Unluckiest Man in the World; and The Rabbi's Tale of the Marksman.

And so, as the bands and folk groups begin to warm up for the main business of the evening, the weary storytellers wend their way home to rest.

I am coming late to Storykeepers. When they first appeared, our own children were already past the age of real interest in TV cartoons. Then they were also usually televised on a Sunday morning while we were at church and not taking note of what was on TV (lots of Christians miss religious programmes that way - and then the programme makers complain that they don't get enough input or support from the churches. Derr.) Then when they came out on video, I'm too mean to buy them, or embarrassed about buying them for myself.

So now I have to manufacture an occasion, by planning to use an episode as the basis for one of our all-age services. This means I can borrow the set from one of the church families, and sit in the lounge watching the adventures of Ben, Helena and the children as they try to escape the clutches of mad Nero and his soldiers, and keep the stories of Jesus alive. 'Hey, keep it down, will you? I'm working in here!'

from, Tales from the (Daily) Office

I go along to the church to say Evening Prayer, with the secret and silent prayer that today I may be alone for it. I usually am. But for the past few days one of the village 'characters' has taken to joining me. On many occasions, it's nice to have company in prayer; but this person's company is distracting. She likes to fill the meditative silences I like to leave after the readings, with her own commentary on them, or on what she's been up to today. Most of her prayers are very heartfelt, sincere and empathic; but as soon as we stop, she will start telling me (if I don't escape quickly enough) the latest episode in the saga of how she is being persecuted by Satanists for her work of trying to free people from the clutches of the cult.

When I get to church today, however, one of the flower ladies is there instead, still working on the altar flowers.

At this point Super-Vicar in my head would say; "Now then, my good woman, that's enough of that. The hour for the Sacred Office is here. Get on your knees and join me, or be off to your home." But this real, modern, wimp vicar hasn't the heart to say any of this. After all, she lives miles away and has driven for half an hour, and is giving up her afternoon to make God's house beautiful. Her offering is a form of prayer, too; and who would presume to judge between its value and that of my saying of the Office? I am also haunted by the St Gargoyle's cartoon of some years back which shows a lady of the flower guild wearing a kimono and a confident expression, over the caption: Mrs Jones was a black belt in ikebana. As they teach you in the first week at theological college: Don't mess with the flower guild!

So I left her in possession of the sanctuary, and went into the vestry to say my prayers there. At least it saved me from the Character, who came in while I was there, but didn't find my hiding place and went away again.

Driving home from the hospital this afternoon I found myself behind a red Oxford Bus Company bus. On the back this advert:

This bus is red green.
A sexy particulate trap thingy makes this exhaust cleaner than a vicar's sermon.

By the time we got to the next traffic lights, I realized I had been far away in a distant fantasy, in which a parishioner leaving church shakes my hand and says, "My word, vicar, that was the dirtiest sermon I've ever heard!"
People have been shocked, or upset, by some of my preaching on sexuality. But no one's ever called them dirty, exactly. On second thoughts, it's probably an ambition too far.

A strange experience while saying Morning Prayer today.

I was reflecting (with half my mind) on how much I had enjoyed Pride and Prejudice, when I found myself without thinking about it wanting to pray for Jane Austen. For the repose of her soul (I don't do this kind of thing!) because she was so brilliant and has given such pleasure to her readers over 200 years. Or maybe, to St Jane, to intercede for me that I might have the same gift of acute and compassionate observation of human nature, the same wit, the same satirical humorous skill at pin-pricking the absurd social pretensions, greed and class-riddenness of society in our day.

Then I realised that we were part of the same communion of saints, and it was helped by the fact that I was praying the very same words, from the Book of Common Prayer, that she will have heard and used in church week by week. We were united by the language of prayer.

I don't suppose anyone will be using Common Worship in 200 years time, so there will be no similar sense of communion with St Lynne Truss (even assuming she uses Common Worship? which I have no evidence of). So maybe only those who are still using BCP 200 years from now will feel this truth, that we and the saints are contemporaries.

Followers of Storyteller's World may have been wondering: What happened to the building and decorating work?

Well, to our great relief the building was finished, and the upheaval of the first phase of decorating survived. Then all went quiet. The decorators had only been contracted to do two rooms. They've done 'em and gone.

So here's a dilemma: How long do we wait before nagging them to come back and make our life hell again? Or do we just wait till they choose to do so?

I had one of those wonderful afternoons when a visit to a sick parishioner in hospital cheers you up so much, that you come home feeling a hundred times better than when you went.

Mind, this lady is exceptional. Aged 92, she went into hospital last week with symptoms of acute heart failure, and was found to have a defective valve. The options were: do nothing, in which case she would never be able to go home, and her quality of life (although nearly blind, she has been very active) would be very poor; or perform an operation to replace the valve, which 'at her age' is quite risky, with only about a 50% chance of survival.

The consultants and surgeons are reluctant to operate: having people die in theatre or recovery must affect their batting averages (or whatever the equivalent is). But this lady is a retired academic who has outsmarted chancellors and vice-chancellors and Government ministers in her time. If she makes up her mind on an operation, then an operation she will have.

Her account of this process, and her observations of goings-on and fellow patients in the cardiology ward, are unfailingly entertaining. One neighbour earlier in the week was really pretty low, hardly speaking or answering (partly because she was sans teeth); but after three days of my friend 'she was much better'. I'm not surprised. I was nearly fully recovered after half an hour.

Since becoming blind, she has relied on audio-books, and was enthusing about War and Peace. She had realised how much she just skipped when she was sighted. When you listen (in real time) you have to get every word. And she lapped it up: she just loved Tolstoy's philosophising, his descriptions of battles, everything. Almost made me want to re-read it; but I think on reflection I'm too old (and too young) to have the time.

Question to the Emerging Church people: By catering primarily to interested groups and individuals - and it's often pointed out that new ways of doing and being church are much more homogeneous than the old parish model - will you ever be able to enjoy, learn from, be blessed by, the life-experience and faith of people like this dear friend of mine?

Today we said farewell to one of our elderly saints. She had only been with us for about four years. That was when she and her husband moved from North London to this parish, into the 'granny flat' attached to her son and daughter-in-law's house. I conducted her husband's funeral nearly three years ago. Since then, she continued to worship with us and win the hearts of many in the congregation.

Three months ago she was diagnosed as being terminally ill. Characteristically, she chose not to accept any of the invasive treatments that might have prolonged her life for a month or two, but with relatively little improvement in quality of life. She was very matter of fact in how she spoke about her illness, the pain she was suffering, and her approaching death. She wouldn't have any truck with all those ways of talking that collude with those who are dying-in-denial. You know the kind of thing: the prayers for healing; the promises of 'what we'll do when you're well'. When you prayed with her, it was clearly for strength to go through that Journey that lies in front of all of us. When friends and relatives visited her in the last few weeks, it was clear that they were coming to say Good-bye, and Thank You.

Today the church was full of the people who loved her and felt blessed by her faith and generosity of spirit.

How sad it is, that this example of faith facing death, seems relatively unusual to us. In most churches, we seem to absorb from the doctors and hospitals the whole culture of the avoidance and denial of dying. The groups that have had to deal with the whole HIV/AIDS thing, are light years ahead of the rest of the Church in all this. Yet only a couple of hundred years ago, Bishop Jeremy Taylor's Holy Dying was one of the hot Christian best-sellers. I don't know what my local Christian bookshop would say if I went in there tomorrow and said, 'Have you got a Christian self-help book on dying?' But I'm darn sure that it's something we need to learn.

Because this dear, saintly lady's example was such a powerful witness to all of us there in church today, and in stark contrast to last week's funeral, attended by me and about eight others. I know which I'd prefer my funeral to be like.

At last I've got around - thanks also to a couple of days at the flat for the Bank Holiday - to reading the sixth and last of the major Jane Austens that I've set myself to read this year. It is Pride and Prejudice that I've left till last: the only one I had read before, and most people's favourite, and the story that I know best thanks to the BBC dramatisation with Colin Firth and the beautiful Jennifer Ehle.

There I learn (from the words of the monstrous Mr Collins) what are the chief responsibilities of the Anglican clergyman:

The rector of a parish has much to do. In the first place, he must make such an agreement for tythes as may be beneficial to himself and not offensive to his patron. He must write his own sermons; and the time that remains will not be too much for his parish duties, and the care and improvement of his dwelling, which he cannot be excused from making as comfortable as possible. And I do not think it of light importance that he should have attentive and conciliatory manners towards every body, especially towards those to whom he owes his preferment. I cannot acquit him of that duty; nor could I think well of the man who should omit an occasion of testifying his respect towards any body connected with the family.

Anyone who thinks the Church of England is in a bad way today, should reflect on these words. Yet God saved the Church then by the Evangelical Revival and the Oxford Movement. He can certainly save it today, when the Church is already blessed with clergy and laity who are genuine in their faith and prayers, are not led astray by the pursuit of wealth, not placemen (we should be so lucky) or fawning lackeys of the aristocracy or the Establishment. What we need is more confidence - in ourselves and in God - and a bit more in-your-face assertiveness over against a culture that doesn't know its soul from its sex, and couldn't tell the difference between a living God and an idol. (Clue: the idol will be the one that demands a large input of cash before it delivers the goods.)