We had a great evening yesterday, enjoyed by all. We shared a meal together and while we were eating, watched the film, ‘Son of Man’ - the story of Jesus but set in contemporary Africa. It was extremely powerful. Then we followed with a very short Celtic Holy Communion. I offer you the first part, just to whet your appetite and so that you can see why I love Celtic worship.
Celtic Holy Communion
Call to Worship
Leader: Gather us in,
The lost and the lonely,
The broken and breaking,
The tired and the aching
Who long for the nourishment
Found at your feast
All: Gather us in
Leader: the done and the doubting,
The wishing and wondering,
The puzzled and pondering
Who long for the company
Found at your feast.
All: Gather us in
Leader: the proud and pretentious
The sure and superior
The never inferior,
Who long for the levelling
Found at your feast.
All: Gather us in
Leader: the bright and the bustling
The stirrers, the shakers,
The kind laughter makers
Who long for the deeper joys
Found at your feast.
All: Gather us in
Leader: from corner or limelight,
From mansion or campsite
From fears and obsession,
From tears and depression
From untold excesses
From treasured successes
To meet, to eat, to be given a seat,
to be joined to the vine,
To be offered new wine,
To become like the least
To be found at the feast.
All: Gather us in.
This is a long post because I’m away now for a week – return on Sunday, March 8th. Ed has one of those b-i-i-g birthdays on Monday, so the whole extended family is meeting for a week’s holiday in Cornwall, unbeknownst to Ed. At least, that was the way it started, at youngest daughter’s urging.
“Go on Mum! You can keep the secret. It’ll be brilliant, he’ll love it!”
Hmm.
As soon as I nonchalantly told him I’d booked a week away for the two of us he said,
“In February? Are you mad?”
“Er, well, it’s the first week in March, really. It’ll be great. We can do some walking and – ”
“Oh I get it! It’s my birthday. I do hope you aren’t arranging some great surprise party? You’re not, are you? Please tell me you’re not?”
Oh heck.
So of course, I had to tell him. Once he knew the family weren’t travelling all that way just for an evening, he got quite excited about it all.
How have we done it? Well, Ed and I have two summer weeks of a time share which we can take anywhere we like. We can also trade in the two summer weeks for four Spring weeks – which is what I’ve done, and we’re taking them concurrently. Since most of the family live down south, Cornwall was the nearest venue for them (although it’ll take us around seven hours to get there!) So there’ll be around 20 of us for the great bash on Monday evening, but plenty of comings and goings before and after that. I think 12 of us are staying the entire course. And the kids have booked a photographer for the Monday evening.
So think of us on Monday evening (no, I know you won’t!) and I’ll be back on Sunday week.
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Yesterday was Shrove Tuesday so naturally we had pancakes, cooked and expertly tossed (well, nearly) by Ed. Delicious they were too.
Today is Ash Wednesday when we usually have a Communion service in the evening, but it’s never very well supported. So this year, in a change to the expected programme, we’re going to have a bring-and-share supper (where everyone brings some food and we share it out) followed by a film, ‘Son of Man’. It’s the story of the Passion but set in contemporary Africa, complete with soldiers. It’s really quite powerful. Then we’ll follow that with a very short (because the film is quite long) Celtic Communion.
BTW, Celtic Christianity was alive and well in these islands before Roman Catholicism was brought over by Saint Augustine. It centres on justice and reconciliation and is very close to the earth and things of nature. The main centre now is the small Scottish island of Iona, which has produced some stunning liturgy – one of which we’ll be using tonight.
So sounds quite exciting and different for tonight? I thought so, too. But needless to say, I’ve already had complaints.
“I can’t go to that. It isn’t right.”
“Oh?”
“No. Other people can go if they like, but those of us who like the old ways won’t have any service for the beginning of Lent.”
“But we are having a Communion…”
“Not the right sort, though.”
Oh well, you can’t win ‘em all. Or very many of them, come to that. It’ll be interesting to see how many turn up this year, since people inevitably vote with their feet.
I’m looking forward to it, anyway!
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Led a Quiet Day on Saturday for a neighbouring parish who are without a Rector at the moment.
What’s a Quiet Day? you might ask.
It’s like a retreat taster, only lasting a short time rather than a weekend or a full retreat. In this case, from ten ’til three. Even for those few hours it can be quite difficult to remain in utter silence, so we provided lots of things for people to do, like pottery, painting, writing poetry, reading, or listening to radio plays.
Fortunately it was a glorious Spring day, so those who wished (me being one) could wander outside amongst the snowdrops in the churchyard. And since this particular church is situated next to the village hall, we had good facilities with plenty of rooms we could use.
I started with Celtic worship and a short homily, to give people something to think about if they so desired, then a couple of hours in silence doing what they wanted, followed by another homily around lunchtime and finishing with a Celtic Eucharist and a final homily.
There were over twenty people present which really surprised me, since if I’d put on something similar in my parishes we’d probably have managed about three.
Anyway, they all seemed to enjoy it and so did I. It’s amazing how a bit of silence and space and retreat from the world, even if just for a few hours, can energise and refresh you. And some people produced some fantastic clay work and painting.
What it is to be artistic. Not having an artisitc bone in my body, I look and admire from a distance.
Mind you, I needed the time out. Yesterday was so busy I didn’t have time to breathe and today has been almost as bad. Still, I’ve made it at last – and here I am.
Enjoy your day and I’ll see you tomorrow – if time!
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Ed and I came up to the bungalow last night prior to my day off today, when I had a call on my mobile phone.
“So what?” you might say, “everyone receives millions of calls on their mobiles daily.”
Not me. I almost never receive calls. And as it happens, didn’t receive last night’s call, which flashed up on the answerphone some hours later when half a bar of signal miraculously appeared. Of course, by the time I’d picked up the phone and fumbled about trying to ring the answerphone, all trace of signal had disappeared. I spent the rest of the evening pacing around the bungalow trying to find a spot where there might be some suspicion of a signal, then rushing to ring the answerphone before said signal disappeared again.
All to no avail. I never did achieve a long enough signal to do any good.
So this morning, it being bright and Spring-like with the snowdrops and the aconites out and the crocuses (crocii? Come on, you Latin scholars) just beginning to peep through, Ed and I went for a walk entirely in order to allow me to pick up my phone message.
Three miles further on and on the top of what passes for a hill in Norfolk, I eventually found sufficient signal to connect to the answerphone and pick up the message. Phew!
Only it wasn’t a message at all. It was Nigel the curate having a private (and it has to be said, uninspiring to onlookers – or should that be onhearers?) conversation with his builder. Nigel is having some building work done and presumably has my number on speed dial or something (which in itself is a joke, considering Nigel’s well-known propensity for regularly failing to turn up) and inadvertently hit the wrong button.
I listened to ragged bits of desultory conversation for four minutes, hoping Nigel would have discovered that his phone was on and switch it off, but no such luck. So in the end I deleted the message, hoping the little icon which keeps telling me I have a new message, would disappear.
It hasn’t and I have no idea how to get rid of it.
The good thing about the walk (apart from being absolutely glorious on a glorious morning, that is) was that I dscovered that the whole of this area is a mobile phone signal black hole, rather than just the bungalow. So it isn’t just us.
Ah well! Managed without the wretched things for fifty plus years so can probably continue without for another few.
See, I told you this was well and truly rural.
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Had a letter a few days ago. One of those awkward ones I didn’t want to reply to, so I put it on one side to do later when I’d thought about it a bit.
Just one tiny problem – now I can’t find the letter. Did I throw it out on that momentous occasion when I actually cleared the desk? Have I put it in a safe place, never to be seen again? Has someone else moved it? (I glare accusingly at the family.)
Fortunately I can remember the gist of it, even though I have no idea of the name of the lady who sent it, her address or her telephone number. (Why can’t EVERYONE use email?)
It was about a headstone in one of our churchyards. Next Wednesday I shall be burying the ashes of this lady’s father, in an existing grave which houses his presumably long dead parents. He meanwhile, moved down to the South coast where he has now died, but the daughter wants his ashes placed in his parents’ grave.
So far, so good. Then comes this letter requesting that the stone is in the shape of an open book and will I allow that? The answer is no, which is why it’s tricky.
Why on earth can’t she have an open book? I hear you ask, somewhat indignantly.
Because churchyards are governed by rules from on high. No, not God, but not a great deal lower. Presumably some bureaucratic committee somewhere sits in judgement and has nothing better to do than write rules and regulations to govern every churchyard in the country. One such rule is that you can’t have a gravestone in the shape of an open book. (Yes, I know you’ve seen loads on your treks around graveyards – wonderful hobby – but you’ll see they are from years ago, when it was allowed. Times have changed.)
So anyway. I rang the funeral director to see if he had the lady’s details – he had – so I then rang her and explained as best I could that these were the regulations and we didn’t have much choice in the matter. Not sure she entirely believed me.
Churchyards are one of the trickiest parts of my ministry because problems arise at a time when people are at their most vulnerable and in a very emotional state. Why can’t they have what they want in churchyards?
Apparently so that churchyards are always neat and a joy to behold for visitors and relatives.
But give me a bit of disorder, plastic flowers and stone angels any day, if it helps the family’s grieving. Who cares what it looks like for posterity?
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