Do - be - do - be - do

After a madly busy day, with little time to breathe, still less to reflect I find myself in urgent need of a blog post for this evening.

So, as quite often when I'm in need of friendly advice of any kind, I turn to twitter...

Twitter - such a difficult concept to explain to those who don't belong.
So often I find myself trying to answer questions that go something like this...

How is it possible to form meaningful relationships with anyone based on 140 characters?

Don't you just tell the world "I'm on the train"...?
How do you deal with all that shameless self-promotion?
Actually, my reality is more like this:

Twitter - the virtual common-room where I'm likely to find at least a few friends with time for a chat at almost any hour of day or night.

Twitter - my place of first resort when I need prayer, comfort or a really good laugh.

And because you can get a really good idea of someone when they offer you 140 characters at regular intervals every day for several years, 
Twitter- the place where an appeal for inspiration for today's blog post netted in under a minute two words linked, I think, by my own somewhat manic lifestyle

"Being" said Christine.

"Wholly" said Alice.

Just seeing the words in my twitter stream inspired instant guilt.

Only this morning I had noised my busyness abroad!

One of my first tweets this morning ran thus:

Morning prayer,funeral, curate supervision, dentist, Trustees meeting, pastoral visiting, team meeting #dayinatweet #praying4stamina

I know I am disturbingly susceptible to the clerical vice of shouting about an over-full diary, - a defence against the anxiety that I might actually not be doing anything worthwile at all. I don't THINK this morning's tweet was part of that process, but I also think it's important that I should ask the question.

If I need to tell other people how busy I am in order to bolster my own self-worth, there is something rotten in the state of Denmark but at the moment I'm not feeling particularly defensive. Indeed, after a recent hard look at the shape of my ministry, in preparation for a forthcoming ministerial review, I'm particularly aware of what I do in the course of bread and butter vicaring - and it's startling how much actually gets done in the course of a week. 
Some of it is even quite close to the centre of my calling - rather than simply feverish running around the parish squawking as I go!
So, I'm feeling rather brighter about  the things I do to live out my vocation...and I'm quite clear that even on a bad day at least some of the things I do, maybe even a majority, have their roots in a response to God's over-riding call to priesthood, or the more specific call to be HIS person in this place.

But DOING is one thing - BEING quite quite different.

In these days of Common Tenure, though clergy remain office holders rather than employees, we no longer have quite the same sense of being licensed to "the living".

Though the stipend I receive is designed to free me from financial anxiety so that I can most effectively live out whatever God wants of His priest in this place, it's far too easy to see the sum that arrives each month in my bank account as payment for feverish activity.
A recent conversation on (yes, you've guessed it) Twitter highlighted the perennial issue of work with porous boundaries...
Is it good to share a pint with a friend who is also a parishioner on a day off? 

How does one explain to even the most loving of congregations that sometimes the absence of their company is a blessing?
And, for heaven's sake, what does the vicar DO all day that means she can't be instantly present when I need her?
But that's all about doing again...And we are called to BE
As someone who is disturbingly distractable, the thought that I might be wholly present to whatever situation, whichever person is before me both attracts and terrifies.

But I long to be that sort of priest.

One with the gift of making everyone I encounter feel uniquely attended to, uniquely important.

One who doesn't have to hurtle round in anxious orbit of my own diary.

One who has enough sense of herself to be at rest in the here and now, neither scattered nor distracted but wholly focussed on the present moment, since that is the only time when I can hope to encounter God.

In January every year, when I pray for my Methodist friends on Covenant Sunday, I am struck afresh by the terror of that most beautiful Covenant prayer.

How, I wonder, do quite ordinary quiet little congregations cope with praying those words and expecting God to honour them?

Would I ever have the courage to pray

"Let me employed for you, or laid aside for you", to just stand in God's presence with no activities or achievements to distract?

I truly don't know, but it seems to me that it would be a wonderful thing to try.

What will remain?

Regular readers, even those who don't know me "in real life", will probably not be surprised to learn that I have a pretty constant stream of music playing in my head, morning, noon and night. I'm told that I was singing recognisable tunes long before I learned to talk, and for many years if I needed to learn something new - a string of dates, some Latin vocab, a chunk of the periodic table - I did so by setting it to music.

With my sons now cheerfully working their way through much of the standard choral repertoire I'm regularly delighted to find that it's all very much still THERE - maybe a bit dusty and underused, but if you throw me a line of anthem text I can pretty much guarantee to sing my way through the top line of the piece from beginning to end...so I'd kind of assumed that if at some stage in the future my short-term memory deserted me completely, music would always be the way to reach me. For Proust it might be madeleines - but for me it would be "O clap your hands" or "Selig sind die Toten" that would recreate times past and connect me with my former self. I'd even envisaged a slightly surreal world in which most of my everyday conversations happened via the words of hymns - for those seem to be even more firmly engraved on my memory - and have told the children to try reading the English Hymnal to me if I ever vanish down the dark corridors of dementia.

It had never occurred to me that those corridors might be so very long and winding that even music could not penetrate....but last week that confidence was shaken. We were at Cheltenham Town Hall to hear, among other things, Elgar's cello concerto. We have series tickets this year, so have the same (rather dreadful) seats for every concert - and some of the same neighbours too. When we arrived, an elderly couple were sitting just in front of us - but it transpired that they were in the wrong place. The rightful owners of their seats appeared and after a brief conversation the man stood up - and began the laborious business of explaining to his wife that they needed to move. It soon became obvious that she was utterly bewildered by the whole situation, but he took her hand and they went on their way like a couple of elderly babes in the wood. Their allotted seats were, in fact, immediately opposite us - and I watched the gentleman seat his wife and help her off with her overcoat with great tenderness. Charmed, I thought to myself "How lovely that he is bringing her out for a treat, even though she is obviously frail and rather fearful. I'm sure she'll love the concert".

But - when the music started I wanted to weep.

She sat there in passive confusion - a good little girl observing a conversation that was taking place in a foreign language, but with absolutely no idea what was going on,why she should care or how she should respond.

The cello soloist (who looked about 12) was impressive,and the audience applauded warmly - but all my pleasure in the evening evaporated as I watched the husband glancing repeatedly at his wife...as if he hoped to catch her awares for once, recapturing her former self enough to remember that clapping is part of the convention of concert attendance even if you haven't enjoyed the performance that much.

Poor lady, she sat marooned in her own world - utterly detached from all that was going on around her - lost somewhere that even music could not reach.

When the concert ended she looked relieved as her husband helped her on with her coat and led her away through the crowd. He seemed calm and unperturbed and I hope that perhaps the evening brought him some joy - that he was, for a while, less painfully conscious of the losses he is living through, able to focus for the duration of the performance,on the pleasure that remains.

Perhaps it wasn't really so awful - but it certainly seemed that way. 

I cannot begin to imagine a world in which music might be powerless to move me...and I'm thankful that I can't.

If, one day, the cruelty of age so separates me from myself that I'm no longer connected with life by the constant processions of words and melodies that fill my head today, then I must throw myself on the mercy of the One who knows me better than I do myself - and who rejoices over each one of us with loud singing even if we can no longer make sense of the melody.

All Saints Sunday - Homily for 8.00 at All Saints, Uplands

“I  believe in the Communion of Saints...”

That's what we assert week by week – but I wonder what it means for you.

It's very easy to picture The Communion of Saints as simply the shining ones who are quite out of our league...those who have made it...who stand in glory around the throne of God....who have passed through the great tribulation and washed themselves in the blood of the Lamb...

Such wonderful finished products – overflowing with holiness, love, joy, and peace – in painful contrast to the rest of us who toil onwards, falling over our own feet, letting God down on a daily, even hourly, basis.

Saints and sinners...

As dear Bishop How puts it in that truly wonderful hymn

“Blest communion, fellowship divine – we feebly struggle, they in glory shine”

That's one vision...Is it yours?

If it is – this morning I'd like to invite you to rethink.

Have you noticed how often Paul, in his letters to young churches, writes to “the saints in Ephesus...Philippi....Corinth...”....But as we read the substance of those letters we see that the recipients are very much works in progress, making just as many mistakes as we do ourselves. They are real people – messed up, sinned against and sinning but CALLED TO BE SAINTS in just the same way that we are ourselves.

If we use the Beatitudes as our yardstick, we may well feel we'd prefer to avoid sainthood– for if it is really blessed to be poor, to weep, to be hungry, hated, insulted, rejected...then, please Lord, could you choose someone else

In truth, we can often see God's light shining most clearly at times of the greatest darkness – so perhaps it's no surprise that those who suffer are also those who shine.

And it's all about shining...

Remember Leonard Cohen's wisdom

“Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.”

It's their flaws that enable the saints to show us God's grace at work...It's our flaws that may show that same grace to others.

So let us celebrate the every-day saints, as we are invited to by the priest and poet Malcolm Guite in his sonnet for All Saints

And blessed are the ones we overlook;
the faithful servers on the coffee rota,
the ones who hold no candle, bell or book
but keep the books and tally up the quota,
The gentle souls who come to 'do the flowers',
The quiet ones who organise the fete,
Church sitters who give up their weekday hours,
Doorkeepers who may open heaven's gate.
God knows the depths that often go unspoken
Amongst the shy, the quiet, and the kind,
Or the slow healing of a heart long broken,
Placing each flower so for a year's mind.
Invisible on earth, without a voice,
In heaven their angels glory and rejoice.

“Holy, holy, holy Lord”

That shining circle who stands around the throne of God is still very much part of our story…for we worship together, our prayers and praises connecting with theirs across time and eternity.

When I first celebrated Mass, the day after my ordination as priest, I was completely bowled over by the overwhelming presence of that heavenly company….MY saints. - the people whom I’d known and loved, who had shaped my journey…and those who had died long before I was born, but whose words or deeds had inspired me. They were all there, standing beside me at the altar – and when I’m properly attentive, they are there still, week on week, singing with us, lending power and life to our song.

Pause to listen for their voices yourself, this morning, and be thankful.

Oh yes, I believe in the Communion of Saints alright...I'd be lost without it.

Without them – and without you - the saints of Uplands, of Stroud, Cainscross or Slad...(the saints of twitter and Facebook too)

We may not think of ourselves as holy in any way…but actually, by virtue of our baptism, holiness IS our calling.

We are, every one of us, set apart for God…called to be saints, just as we are.

Flawed, imperfect people, but people through whom the Light of the World is content to shine.

“Yet all are one in thee, for all are thine....Alleluia”

Journey On

"Our past is wrapped up in the heart of God, and of our future he will take care"

Each year since I've been at St Matthew's, we have invited our funeral families to join us for two very different kinds of remembering.
Of course we offer the traditional All Souls Requiem - and every year I am almost overwhelmed by the weight of privilege and responsibility as I read aloud that list of names - some long gone, some whose funerals I've taken just a few weeks before.
But I remember all too well that feeling of waiting to hear my parents' names read out...the leaden weight on my heart as we journeyed through the alphabet towards "W" for "Warner".
It was almost unbearable - something I really don't think many people are ready for in the first months and years of bereavement.

So, though we tell our funeral families that the Requiem will take place, and many ask for their dead to be remembered there, we also offer them a gentler way to pause on their journey, to bring their sadness and their gratitude to God, and engage with all that is happening inside them as they move hesitantly towards healing.
This afternoon some 40 of them gathered, dodging the downpours that seemed to underline just how tough the going is when you're mourning...
They arrived chilled and dripping, somewhat bedraggled - and the church did feel like a sanctuary as we listened to the wind getting up outside.
Each one of those present represented a story of remarkable courage...
The son who had cared devotedly for his mother through long years of dementia
The mother whose son took his own life when the world seemed to harsh to endure
The young mum and her sister who came remembering a baby lost to SIDS - but who came with their arms full of the toddler who is not a replacement but is so very clearly a sign of hope.
Each of them has mourned and struggled and wondered if there was really any point to getting up in the morning.
Each of them, simply by being there, reminded us
"And now faith, hope and love remain - these three"

Their presence in church represented a huge act of faith - and an expression of hope, that the darkness of loss would not hold them forever.
And the love? Well, that was evident in everything that they did...
In the tears and the smiles as they lit candles and remembered - of  course - but still more in the care that they took of one another as we gathered for tea and far too much cake in the church hall.

The wonderful Ally Barrett had written a new All Souls hymn this year, which we sang just before we embarked on lighting the candles.
Its words carried exactly the message I wanted to leave with today's congregation
We place into your hands, O Lord,
our future and our past:
And as you bless us on our way,
and travel with us night and day,
your love will hold us fast,
your love will hold us fast.

So often in ministry, my job is to get out the way so that God can work.
Today I watched as these lovely, beloved and hurting people reached out as agents of God's healing for each other.
Indisputably, non-negotiably holy ground - where I am privileged to have stood for just a little while.

For all the saints

So November begins - and with it for writers across the internet a month of specific daily commitment to their craft. My beloved daughter is focussed on not one but two novels (and being her, I'm confident that she'll achieve them) but I lack her creative gifts so it's all about the blog here. The hope is that having someone else in the house who is writing manically every day will ensure that I manage something too - so I'm taking a deep breath & attempting a commitment to NaBloPoMo. Some posts may be negligible, but I promise to do my best.

1st November is the feast of All Saints - surely one of the loveliest of all the Christian calendar. On twitter this morning there were many many posts with the #forallthesaints as people gave thanks for their own personal saints, who had inspired, encouraged and blessed them.

So, today and on every day "I thank my God on each remembrance of....."

J- the larger-than-life director of music at my school - who took the risk of allowing a girl to become head chorister - whose passion for perfection in the music of worship opened up a world that I longed to inhabit, which drew me in and shaped everything I have been and done from then on.

Another J - the farmer who was our neighbour when we first moved out from London. One of the kindest and most truly courteous people I have ever encountered. When we moved to the village, life was rather a struggle:the children were tiny, the house was a building site, we had no money and for about 2 years it felt as if I was never out of jumble-sale clothes or to be seen without plaster-dust in my hair. But the route to school was past J's gate - and the unfailing warmth of his greetings, his unaffected compliments and the sheer goodness he radiated always left me feeling that life WOULD be alright in the end.
When he died of cancer, the entire community came to a halt for his funeral and we realised that he had been a kind of honorary guardian-angel for much of the village. Whenever I see a tweedy type with a black labrador, I smile as I remember.

A & J - an elderly couple who adopted my children as "church grandparents" when we first moved from London. Sunday by Sunday, the welcomed the children to sit with them, read their collection of church books, fed the toddlers with breadsticks where necessary and generally made a gift of their time to me - so that I was free to listen, to pray, to worship. Were it not for them, I suspect I would never have heard God's call to ordination.

T - the first parishioner with whom I journeyed through the long march of bereavement and, in time, on his own journey towards death. As we put one hesitant foot in front of another along that inexorable road, it was wonderful to see the fear replaced by a quiet confidence and courage. He taught me so much, bless him.

J, my precious beloved godmother, whose unconditional love and affirmation supported me through some of the hardest times of my life. Her letters, in that beautiful italic script, were a treasure - offering glimpses of her life, her pleasure in the changing seasons, her family, her animals, her garden. I'm told that at her funeral (in Denmark, on a day when I was committed to a wedding here) her parish priest described her as a "thin" person - one through whom the light shone for all to see. She always shone for me.

My parents, and those who hugged and cherished me when they had gone...
The hugely different priests, women and men, who have showed me different ways in which I might live a calling that seemed impossible at the outset...
Friends, living and departed, who encourage me, pray for me, trust me with their vulnerabilities and listen as I share mine.

Then, of course, there are those long-gone, whose lives or work inspired and blessed me...
Herbert, Donne and Andrewes among the writers; Bach,Tallis, Gibbons, Byrd, and countless others whose music weaves patterns of sound that echo the perfection of that chorus around the throne of God.

My favourite story for today concerns an apocryphal small boy who was asked in the "children's spot" at church to define a saint. In a moment of panic, he forgot the carefully prepared lesson his Sunday school teachers had offered, and casting about for inspiration saw the haloed figures in the stained glass...
"A saint", he said, "is someone the Light shines through"

.

I'm thankful for so many, today and every day.

"God, have mercy on me, a sinner." Sermon for the last Sunday after Pentecost, St Matthew's.

God have mercy on me, a sinner

How does that simple prayer make you feel?

It sounds rather more abject than our usual tone, perhaps...but I'd want to say that it should be a part of our prayer each and every day.

You see, in the past few decades – throughout my lifetime, I'd guess, - the Church has been encouraging us to focus on God's love more than his judgement...and that is absolutely as it should be.

Hear me now – for this is surely the heart of the gospel...

God loves you – absolutely and unconditionally.

There is nothing in the whole world that you can ever do or say or think that will make God love you any more or any less...God loves you so much that if you were the only person ever born in this world, Christmas and Easter would still have happened – just for you.

God loves you – and has created you for a relationship of love with Him.

Alleluia!

Thanks be to God!

But – love is a two way street.

Though every body born into the world exists within that boundless, eternal love – many of them are oblivious to it...and we who know intellectually that we are loved will often struggle to experience that love as our deepest reality.

Jesus tells us in the great commandment not only to love the Lord our God – but also to love our neighbour AS OURSELVES...and that's often a huge struggle, because, you see, we very often don't love ourselves at all.

We grow up believing that inner voice, like that of a little devil sitting on our shoulder telling us “you're not really anything special...You're stupid....lazy....inadequate....”

You can pick your own adjective here – because I'm pretty sure that you'll have one.

You may know, with your rational mind, that this is all a load of nonsense – but very often vestiges of the lies take root and so as we go through life, when sadness hits – when a loved one dies, or illness strikes – that same little voice will whisper “There you are...It's no more than you deserve. Whatever makes you believe that God could love you”.....

and so, often, we find ourselves living a daily lie.

We affirm with our mouths – and maybe even with our minds – that we are God's beloved children – but at a deeper level we fear that actually we are a waste of space.

And that has a huge impact on our connection with God – it makes prayer harder – it makes EVERYTHING harder.

How can we have a loving connection with the Creator of all things if we actually see ourselves as akin to something on the bottom of a shoe...

And, of course, that's where the cross comes in.

Atonement – making us AT ONE with God

Showing us, once and for all, that we ARE beloved and loveable...despite all those negative voices, despite our own deepest fears...

God loves you so much that he CHOSE to die for us...What greater proof could there be?

How much does he love you?

THIS much....and beyond.

But often it's hard to accept that...and that's where reconciliation comes in.

No, of course we are not the worthless beings that our inner voices might claim – but when we raise our eyes and open our minds to reflect on the God who is wholly love, light and eternal perfection – we will surely be very conscious of the gulf between us. We may, at this point, be so overawed that we cannot believe that he loves us...

The closer we come to His light, the more we see of our own inner darkness...

So – we need to face that darkness– to look honestly at ourselves...at the people we really are, deep down...at the mess of contradictions, good intentions, failings and fears...all those things that push our buttons and determine that, as Paul famously put it

“I don't do the good things I want to do, but the bad things I try to avoid, I find I do ALL THE TIME”

Does that sound familiar? It's certainly a reality for me..

So -what to do?

I could retreat – let that reality become my main driver, filling me with the fear that I am fundamentally unloveable.

I could move further away from the light of God's presence, settle for being always less than I'm called to be.

Or perhaps I could pretend – pretend that I really AM the person I'd like to be – the one who is always kind, always loving, who always trusts God and is never afraid.

Sometimes I've carry on that sort of pretend game for months on end – and I doubt if I'm unique.

But you can't build a relationship on the foundation of a lie – particularly when that relationship is with the One to whom all hearts are open.

And deep down, I don't want to.

I want to be at one with God, to know that he loves and accepts me as I am...

I want us to be reconciled....and that means being honest about my situation.

True reconciliation never comes through glibly denying that there is anything wrong.

That's why the Pharisee, who was so very busy applauding himself for being better than anyone else, was completely on the wrong track. He was trying to distract himself – and maybe to distract God too – from the mess within by his loud protestations of holiness...

Anyone who spends so much time praising their own endeavours clearly has a whole heap of problems – whether his words came from the pride of an inflated ego or the insecurity of one who thinks that God needs to be appeased by extravagant offerings, or bribed by lavish gifts.

And there's really no point in doing that – because God knows us through and through, better than we know ourselves – and STILL LOVES US.

So, reconciliation is about learning to be honest about ourselves, about facing hard truths and offering to God those things which we wish we could change.

It may come through a lot of heart-work...as we, like the tax collector, pour out our soul to God in true humility in our private prayers and as we come to worship week by week (that's part of why saying sorry is one of the first things we do during the Eucharist)

It may come as we explore our inner life with the help of a wise “soul friend”, who can make it easier to understand the twists and turns of our spiritual journey.

It may come through the sacrament of reconciliation – a gift that the Church offers to all who are serious about facing the hard truths about themselves and inviting God to transform them.

Always, reconciliation involves finding the courage to be honest before God about our inmost being....those things we cannot love, those things we wish we could change

Because, of course, once we've acknowledged the truth, we are open to the good news that God can and will change us from the inside out, that God will justify us and straighten out the tangled mess of our lives

Reconciliation isn't easy – for us or for God. It costs God the life of his Son – but for all that it is joyous and wonderful because it rests on that central truth that whoever you are, whatever you've done – GOD LOVES YOU ANYWAY.

If you dare to believe this, then it's safe to be yourself with God – to pray this simple prayer

“God have mercy on me a sinner”

and then to let him begin his work of setting all to rights – transforming you as he transforms creation and makes all things new.

"Reconciling the world....."

Recently,  Archbishop Justin told a group of church leaders how much he valued the practice of Sacramental Confession...and I have to say that I agree with him wholeheartedly! But the conversations that arose when I linked to his words on Facebook brought home to me once again just how unfamiliar this sacrament is within the Anglican Church...so I've been pondering ever since and have realised that for liberal Christians like me, it may seem almost a contradiction in terms to be advocating it at all. A face to face chat with a parishioner who was full of questions helped me to clarify my own thinking and just why I am so grateful that in the Church of England though "none must, all may and some should" receive this sacrament.

You see, we do rather struggle with the concept of "sin" in my church. In preaching and in conversation I tend to talk about "brokenness", "failure",  "disappointing ourselves and God" "hurting God and the people God loves" - but I steer clear of the language of "sin". Generally, I think I'm right in this. We have alot of lee-way to make up after generations of preachers offered so much by way of the fear of God that people were (and are) apt to forget that God both loves AND likes them. Also I'm not sure that it really helps those who are tentatively exploring faith if the first thing they are invited to do when they first arrive at an act of worship is to dwell on their utter unworthiness...While beginning the Eucharist with an act of confession may seem as natural as washing before a meal to some, others feel quite definitely "got at" - and not by God but by an institution that they rightly recognise has its own fair share of confessing to do. 

So - while I value the role of a weekly general confession within public worship, I'm not much given to laying stress on how much we need it as individual sinners. 
Then, of course, the rhythm of the service is such that it's quite hard to enter into deep and specific self-examination...We may manage to apologise in our hearts for the time we were exasperated with a colleague, or moaned to a friend about a mutual acquaintance...but we rarely have the time to think about what it is in us, those deep habits of thought or behaviour, which have driven us in our bad behaviour. So we join in the general confession, receive non-specific absolution - and move on to celebrate as God's forgiven children.

That's fine. I'm not in any way suggesting that the corporate confession and absolution are not effective - simply that in my own experience there are things that I do again and again which have their roots in parts of myself that I really do need to spend time reflecting on, places where I am acutely aware of my need for God's grace.
And for me, that's where the Sacrament of Reconciliation comes in.

I've blogged about it before ...the way that grubbling about in the depths of my soul makes me all too aware of the things I hoped I'd buried forever...the sheer misery of having to articulate painful truths about myself when they are such a far cry from the person I long to be. I can honestly say that when I'm engaged in the process of confession, the shame that I feel is 100% provoked by the sins - that I have been content with so much that is a distortion of my best self, the person Christ calls me to be...It has nothing to do with what my confessor may think of me - because, once the rite has begun, I'm almost unaware of them. This is me, taking a long hard look at myself and admitting to God those things that God already knows all about....

When I've looked those unpleasant truths in the face with as much courage as I can muster, - then it DOES matter that there is another person there - for while the actual process of confessing is about me and God alone, it is hugely helpful to receive the thoughts, wisdom and compassion of another human being - a priest speaking with the authority of the Church but with their own experiences of being a fallible human being to shape their words. There have been times when I have been quite resistant to making my confession to the particular priest "on offer" that day - but always, EVERY SINGLE TIME, they have said exactly what I most needed to hear - and those nuggets of wisdom have stayed with me long after the sins I'd confessed have sunk without trace.

And, of course, that's the really wonderful thing.
Having shared those things which are so hard to acknowledge, harder still to deal with - I not only receive help with reshaping my life so that their influence is no longer strong - but I ALSO hear words of forgiveness spoken directly to me - ME...absolution for all that STUFF and "those other sins I cannot now remember".
God has looked at the whole of me, has helped me (as the psalmist put it)  to understand my errors and now cleanses me from my secret faults..
God looks at me just as I and accepts, loves and forgives me.

Regardless of the words I am given to reflect on, or whatever process of penance is suggested to help me to rest on God's forgiveness, I always leave confession with my confidence renewed that nothing 
"Not death nor life, neither angels nor demons, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation,...."
- not even my own willful determination that "I'm not really that loveable, honestly God, if you knew me..." NOTHING 
will be able to separate me from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Small wonder that I feel as if all my Christmasses and birthdays, all the spring mornings of childhood and the most joyful awakenings of life have come together.
Reconciliation is a wonderful thing!

I want to get my baby christened

That's generally the way the conversation begins in these parts.
A bit of me registers minor professional irritation...why won't people use the word baptism? do they actually expect a naming ceremony?....but I disguise that as I go into smiley vicar mode.
KF "How lovely...We need to get together to talk about this"
Parent "Can I have it on Christmas Eve/Easter Sunday/Sunday week..."
KF "Let's meet first and try and talk through what we'll be doing, what the service is about, what promises you'll be making......then we can fix a date"
Parent "But I want to get the invitations out...."

So, before we start, there's a risk that the conversation will derail.
Our expectations seem so very different.
I'm thinking longingly of on-going Christian commitment, of growing the Church, of God's saving grace in action, God's love affirmed and celebrated.
They are thinking.......well, actually, I just don't know.

Sometimes (and I ask forgiveness for it) I've been far too quick to jump to conclusions, to decide that "all" the parents want is the opportunity to celebrate their family life with a really good party thrown in...that the "church bit" is just an embarrassing preliminary that they really don't see the point of.

Oh Kathryn! REALLY...

I admit that sometimes the wider congregation of friends and family who come arrive for a baptism are not on board with the service - despite my  best efforts to make it as accessible and easy to understand as I can. 
I know that sometimes (but ONLY sometimes) the whole thing can feel like an unsuccessful exercise in crowd control.
But even then - well, who knows what is going on beneath the surface?
I remember one such that felt deeply discouraging...parents and godparents struggled to join in with their promises...children ranged far and wide expressing themselves with full confidence at the top of their voices even as I tried to draw them in and engage them fully. I was convinced that I was an extra in a rather complicated photo shoot - and my anxieties were not allayed as I listened to a couple of very young mums, teetering on high heels  and shimmering with enough bling to make the eyes water, dismiss the service thus
"Well, that was WELL EMBARRASSING wasn't it?"
"Yeah babe, but it had to be done"

It had to be done.
I've wondered so often what the motivation is...why "it had to be done" at all...
Vestigial folk religion? Social constraints? To satisfy Grandma? (but even Grandma is increasingly unlikely to be part of the church, so that bit of reasoning has had its day)
Actually, you know, I'm beginning to come round to the opinion that - shock! horror! - it might just be God at work.

You see, I'm surprised so very very often.

Surprised by the young soon-to-be godparents who come to talk about their own necessary baptisms...who struggle at first to articulate anything that I can recognise as faith language but then share some profound questions about the point of life, or explain how they have talked to God each and every day and cannot imagine how they'd get through without Him.
They won't offer me neat little sound-bytes about "repentance" but they often say "I've done some stupid things and I'd like to draw a line - and to help my godchild not to make those mistakes"

Sometimes, no such encouragements are forthcoming - and so I approach the baptism with minimal expectations. I find myself apologising in advance to God, worry that I am peddling cheap grace - and then, something happens.
You see, it's impossible to trace the cross on someone's forehead without looking them in the eye as you do so...
"Windows to the soul"?
Apparently so - and again and again at this moment I find myself taken un-awares, standing on holy ground in company that I would never have expected to meet there.

They have such care-free, care-less facades - those young men who discover that they can't be godfather to their best mate's son unless they've been baptised themselves. 
It can be really hard to persuade them to go deeper in conversation...but then, as we stand together beside the font, with the Paschal candle creating a pool of light in the shadows, something happens.
"Do you turn to Christ?" I ask
"Do you repent of your sins?" and then, with growing confidence
"Christ claims you for his own..."

And, without fail, He does.

We know, all of us in that tiny group at the back of the church, that we are not alone...that One greater than all our hopes, our dreams and our imaginings, has been invited in and has arrived and made Himself at home.

Afterwards, the newly baptized may be gruff, trying to reclaim that nonchalance that was part of the deal at the beginning - but they will say something like
"I'm glad I did that. It was special. I feel different"

And I don't know, and I can't know,  what will happen next for them...whether the promises they have made will translate into on-going active membership of the Church...how things will work out with their godchild as the years go past...
But I do know that, as I tell them
"Today God has touched you with his love and given you a place among his people.  God promises to be with you in joy and in sorrow, to be your guide in life, and to bring you safely to heaven. In baptism God invites you on a life-long journey....

And it is just that.

An invitation.
The response is not within my control but in welcoming all comers to the sacrament I do at least ensure that the invitation is issued.

So I remain unapologetic about my "baptise anyone who asks" policy - and confident that no preparation I could offer could in any way make any of us ready for that moment when the Spirit descends, as gentle as silence, and we are made new.

India - in no particular order 4...a lesson from the hospital

During our India trip this year we spent some time visiting health projects - and CSI places a high value on its hospitals, which, for the early missionaries, were a vital part of the process of creating community and making relationships. In healing the sick they not only obeyed Christ's mandate but fostered relationships with the local community based on the meeting of needs. Contrary to some misinformation, at no stage in the history of Christian missions was help and treatment conditional on accepting Christ, though of course there was always the hope that the kindness and compassion shown in missionary hospitals might inspire patients and visitors to explore the faith that was its source.

CSI hospitals today still treat all comers - though rather confusingly in modern India they need to charge for their services in order to survive, so find themselves caught between the free but basic provision of government hospitals and the state of the art, gleaming chrome aspirations of private medicine.
The CSI hospitals are still  held dear, both as a link with those missionary origins and as an expression of an essential outworking of the Church's DNA- but I'm not honestly sure whether they have a place today - though like many other treasures of the past, they are surprisingly hard to let go.
So even the barely functioning hospital at Chickballapur was an essential item on our itinerary - and I'm so glad it was, for it was here that we encountered one of the clearest demonstrations ever of what vocation can mean.
You see, there has been trouble at the centre in our link diocese of Karnataka Central, trouble closing diocesan offices and meaning that some salaries have gone unpaid in CSI projects for weeks and months. Yet at Chickballapur staff came in daily. One sister who strained at the hospital 40 years ago has never stopped coming in to give the care that she knows is at the heart of her calling. Wards were mothballed, dustsheets covered disused equipment - but, said the medical director
"People still choose to come to us to die....because we don't treat death as a mechanical failure but as an essential part of being"
Time to consider a change of focus, perhaps? to move from hospital to hospice? to let go of some of the treasures of the past in order to hold the Christ-light in the present?
Something for our churches to consider too?
Just possibly.

And, of course,a  change of focus need not mean abandoning vocation.

One of our group, who had been considering nursing, was so inspired by this that she went home with her mind made up. To love your work so much that you carry on regardless of salary - just because you have to - that's vocation, right enough.
What inspired us most of all, though, was a rural nursing dispensary - from which student nurses, on placement from the main CSI hospital in Bangalore, went out to isolated settlements, - where their presence and work in health education was having a significant impact. The women and children in these tiny hamlets were simply not going to get to any hospital - of whatever stamp - but with nurses appearing in their community, offering immunisations, wise advice and a rapid first response to more serious ills their over-all health was improving hugely. Further evidence that competition with the shiny trappings of American-style health-care might not be the best route forward for the church's ministry of healing in Inda? 
I don't know - but it might be worth considering.

Back in Bangalore, we encountered another nurse, still driven by her vocation some 2 decades after her official retirement - or perhaps she was simply an angel in disguise.
Mrs Hopi qualified as an SRN at the Middlesex Hospital in London before even I was born, and nursed for many years in both the UK and her native India. Now she lives in a retirement home right next to the CSI hospital and visits the geriatric ward there daily without fail. Her presence there is, quite simply, transformational.
You see, the very existence of elderly care units is a challenge to traditional Indian culture, a sign that western influence is taking its toll on the extended family, that elderly parents can no longer expect to end their days cherished by their children and grandchildren, and with a guaranteed place in their home.
Many now work abroad - so an elderly parent, frail and confused - is a huge worry.
The CSI hospital offers loving care, ensuring that physical and emotional needs are met - but Mrs Hopi loves and cares for the SOUL.

She clearly knows and loves each one of the long-term patients dearly. She reads the paper to them, prays with them, sings to them - every single day.
As our stay in India went on, our less-than-tuneful group learned rapidly that singing was part of the essential package expected of visiting Christians.
On the geriatric unit, it was, triumphantly - the perfect language.
When we had exhausted our small repertoire, I turned instinctively to the Sunday School songs my own mother had learned from the CIM missionaries in Chefoo between the wars...and as I began to sing, Mrs Hopi and the patients soon joined in.
"Wide, wide as the ocean..." we sang - remembering the truth that God's love does indeed reach us wherever we may be
"Jesus loves me, this I know" (and Mrs Hopi taught me a new verse, singing with  the earnest,  simplicity of a child who knows that every word is true)

When we left, she asked me to give her a blessing - but I knew who had really been blessed by the day's encounter...

There but for the grace of God...

On Saturday our Cathedral was full as we welcomed our new suffragen, Martyn Snow, who is now the 7th Bishop of Tewkesbury  - and just a couple of weeks before, some of us went on a coach trip to London for his consecration service at Westminster Abbey.
I'd not been to see a bishop under construction before - and much of the service was splendid - notably the sermon from Rowan Williams and the strains of Howell's Coll. Reg Eucharist and the Tallis Miserere floating around that wonderful space. We were seated in the north transept, so had a superb rose window to focus on when there wasn't much to see on the big screen - and Tallis and stained glass combined to give me a small glimpse of heaven. There were also comic moments - as when the Gloucester procession was verged out before its time - mostly funny because we all knew how very much our liturgy-loving bishop would be fuming...

However, it wasn't all sweetness and light.

Bishop Martyn was consecrated at the same time as Bishop Jonathan Goodall - who now occupies the See of Ebbsfleet. Quite properly there were many present to support him in his new ministry - and of course, the majority of his supporters came from those "traditionalist" parishes where it remains unthinkable that women should be ordained priest.

Thanks to FabBishop, my home diocese of Gloucester is a very happy place to serve as an ordained woman. We know that our bishop is 110% behind us, and there are women in senior posts - including one of our Archdeacons. Of course, as a woman from the catholic end of the spectrum I've encountered some people along the way who doubt the validity of my orders - but the prevailing climate is so friendly that it's easy to forget that it's not always like that in the world beyond diocesan boundaries. Of course, the harsh reality was brought into focus during the debate on women bishops last November, when speaker after speaker seemed determined to rehearse the same arguments against the ordination of women to the priesthood that we had heard so often 20 years before - but, again, the response from senior staff here was so affirming that the pain of that vote was overlaid by gratitude that we have such support at home. 

Now,here we were in the same space as those who will surely have asked themselves

"Why are those women dressing up and pretending to be priests?" or wondered 

"How can those women dare to attend this consecration when it is they who are splitting the Church that we love?"

I need to make it very clear that nobody was in any way ungracious that day.There were no re-enactments of the "won't share the Peace with a woman in a dog collar" experience which has been my lot in the past. Nobody cut us dead and as far as I know, nobody refused to accept the Sacrament because it was being shared with women. 

(As an aside -this did confuse me somewhat...I had understood that "impaired communion" was one of the issues for Forward in Faith et al - but there seemed to be no evidence of this impairment today - any more than there seemed to be any doubt that Bishop Jonathan was validly consecrated, although Archbishop Justin has surely ordained women during his brief ministry as Bishop of Durham. I'm GLAD that these problems didn't rear their heads -but yet more bemused as a result)

Never before have I been so utterly delighted to see Archdeacon Jackie and other senior Gloucester women take their place in the procession - and when the bishops moved forward for the laying on of hands, it was suddenly (naively) shocking how very male they were. Suddenly our situation was starkly illustrated for me and I realised just how chilly the world beyond the borders might be. 

At the end of the service, we greeted our new suffragen, and I was delighted to see beloved +Rowan about to leave to catch his train - but with time for a hug and a few quick words..We were waiting for friends to join us, so found ourselves milling about outside the Abbey as the cohorts from the "other side" departed.And I realised that the parishes represented there were exactly the kind of parish in which, as a young Anglo Catholic in London, I would naturally have made my home.

I looked across at the parish clergy, in monochrome black (as I was myself)...Some were nearing retirement, others in the early years of their ministry - and they largely preferred to avoid my gaze.

I smiled my best "Friendly vicar" smile (the one that my family beg me never to use when we're on holiday!) at a group of elderly ladies who were heading towards their bus - and was rewarded with the sort of icy stare that makes you wonder, for a moment, if you've suddenly turned into an axe-murderer unawares. 

And I reflected that we shared so much in our devotion to Catholic faith and practice - that in many ways I had more in common with those parishes than with the community which I'm now privileged to serve....and I wondered how I would have coped with my call to ordination had we remained in London.

Would I have allowed myself to listen? Or clung determinedly to the "certainty" that such a call could not be from God....

Would I BE a priest in His church if we'd stayed in London?

God knows - but I'm thankful that was free to listen when the call came.

In no particular order 3 .......Mission & missionaries - ancient and modern

Spending time with the Church of South India I was once again very conscious of the footmarks made by bygone missionaries...

The Church itself exists in its current form because of the courage and passion of those who travelled across the sea to share God's love and for the most part their legacy is treasured and valued. Again and again on my last trip I was struck by the way the founding missionaries set their stamp on the churches they built, even down to being remembered in the names. While we were in Chickballapur we visited the tiny mission church from which schools, hospitals and many many churches grew and we visited too the CSI cemetery where many of the early missionaries lie. They were so very young, these men and women who set out willing to risk everything for the love of God and God's children.
Their names live on in the churches they founded - but though they remain revered, many Indian Christians I encountered on this trip fought shy of celebrating their debt to the missionaries. They agreed that so much that is good and admirable was established through their faith and courage -  but the world is a very different place today, and the loving paternalism of the past can no longer be welcomed.

Younger Indian clergy are anxious too that western influence on India should exclude the spiritual malaise which they see destroying our churches...and worry, I think, that as long as the Indian churches are shaped so thoroughly by their western heritage, they will never fully connect with the culture they exist to serve.

So - I was excited to visit a new mission field - in the deeply rural community of Kannapura. Travelling there from Bangalore was a journey back in time, as we reconnected with village India. Cows, flocks of sheep and goats and the inevitable bullock-carts were our companions on the road, and we passed many labourers ploughing with oxen as their ancestors must have done for centuries. As we headed towards Mysore, we saw strange woven structures, looking a bit like archery butts, at the side of the road - lodgings for silkworms, on their journey from mulberry tree to silk-merchant's store

We turned off the metalled road and bumped along a dirt track...soon, even the dirt track was abandoned and we travelled cross country - to a simple house in a field. This was the mission  - part home, part worship space - where Jason and his wife had settled to build a church, supported by Revd Shilpa and her congregation at Christ Church Kannapura . 11 years ago, when the CSI hospital in Channapatna closed, the couple came here, reclaimed the near- derelict building, and set about befriending their neighbours. Jason visits the scattered villages and hamlets regularly, his wife runs a drop-in clinic that is open all hours - and their kindness and compassion have gradually drawn others into the church that meets in their one-room home. When we visited, the children crammed in first - some shy at their first ever western visitors, others giggling....Their parents followed, coming in from their work in the fields til the room was packed. We took it in turns to sing choruses to one another - the children specially delighted when we sang familiar tunes with English words - we prayed together, and then each of us was presented with a rosebud - coming with warm handshakes and a blessing that touched us deeply. There was no doubt at all that this was holy ground - an inspiring glimpse of how the church can be - a small humble community whose only aspiration is to love and serve.

We spent that evening with their "sending church" - another small group, meeting in their pastor's home, in the shadow of a Hindu temple. Shilpa told us that the CSI have approved a new building - a purpose built church to be built in her garden - provided the local community can contribute 5 lakhs towards it - a huge target for 20 families to meet. She asked us to pray - understandably - but also commented that the excellent relationship that church and temple have means that she is confident of some support from her Hindu neighbours, who already to a great deal to further the work of the church in supporting the community, and often celebrate Christian festivals with her congregation.

Syncretism - or outreach? It felt wholly good.

Worship that evening was wonderful...Again, adults and children packed into a small room, the young on floor mats, their elders ranged on benches around the walls, everyone completely at ease with each other. A small boy performed his party piece - a breakneck dash through all the books of the Bible; children sang action songs, and together we learned an African action song/dance - which I found myself performing with a delightful toddler on my hip. There was room enough for all, children and adults listened attentively to the teaching and contributed along the way, and after prayer and blessing we all ate together, the community offering hospitality as a loving duty which we felt truly blessed to receive.

Travelling back to Bangalore that night I felt as if I'd spent the day living in the early chapters of Acts - an experience to treasure and to learn from.