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How right that is and it has been demonstrated over this weekend for me – accompanied by encounters with nature and two small boys.

Friday night we gathered in Pewsey church to welcome Michael McHugh as the new team vicar in that team, the church was packed, the singing was good and the sermon was excellent (thank you John). I caught up with people I had not seen for sometime and enjoyed the chatter. On my drive home I saw a flock of birds flying cross the sky making wonderful patterns as they did.

Saturday saw me having a trip to Branksome St Clements church, very urban, and on the way home from that seven swans flew in formation in front of me.

Sunday and I was at Fittleton @ 9am taking part in a quiet said Book of Common Prayer Holy Communion service. A lovely quiet way to start the day – no birds although we heard them singing. At 10.30 I was at Figheldean with the music group playing – this week they were mostly wind instruments with drums and keyboards, a very nice sound. After the service I spent a long time talking to Patrick and Ivor about all sorts of things including rainbows, birds and whales. They were delightful children and I couldn’t stop smiling at their views on nature and life in general. No birds but later I did sit in my garden with my mother watching a female blackbird gathering food for her offspring, she seemed to not mind how close we were to her and later we saw her offspring in all his glory.

It has been a delightful three days and I enjoyed the differences.

Saturday started with one of those memory flashbacks while doing a simple task.  Shelling peas, and broad beans.  A simple task, but one that connected me with my grandmother, long since promoted to glory, and many happy weekends doing the same simple task, and remarking how beautiful are the beans and the peas, the beans secured within their felt padded pods and yet the pods are marked, spotted and gnarled on the outside.  How is that like being human, or even being a Christian?  Are we attractive on the outside, superficial, yet not so attractive on the inside?  Or perhaps, people we know, work alongside, even even share our lives with, are people with hearts of gold, who are dedicated and  faithful servants of Christ, and yet we fail to get below the surface, so fail to see the glory of God that lies hidden. 

Later in the day, Anita and I drove out to Great Chalfield, that delightful country manor  house between Bradford on Avon and Melksham. http://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/main/w-greatchalfieldmanor I was co-hosting the Wiltshire launch of the Friends of Wiltshire Churches, a fundraising and social arm of the Wiltshire Historic Churches Trust, of whom I happen to be the Chairman.  It is a lovely house, so do get along and see it.  The church next door is simply lovely too, and worth a visit.

It was a splendid evening, wonderful canapés, in delightful surroundings, and enchanting company [do you feel you've missed a treat?  Then think about joining the Friends - no don't think - act: http://www.wiltshirehistoricchurches.org.uk/Home.html ]

We had a moment of drama, when one of our distinguished guests collapsed, and as often happens at these events, two doctors and a nurse emerged out of the crowd to take control and reassure our patient.  Within minutes a paramedic  team arrived and I’m pleased to say that our friend is well and ready to bounce back.  The clergy were on hand too, but the Last Rites were far from our thoughts.  It is good to know who your Friends are – sometimes, you only  really know that when times are testing and tough; if you want to be a Friend, then get on and demonstrate it before it is too late.

Angels with Dirty Faces was a seminal gangster film of the 1930’s, starring James Cagney. I have been recollecting this film as we approach the feast of St Michael and All Angels on 29^th September, commonly known as Michaelmas. In our culture, angels have become popular among authors exploring various forms of spirituality. Because angels occur in the traditions of many religions, they are assumed to be spiritual beings who don’t tie us down to one faith. What appears really important is that they are spiritual not fleshly beings and that they watch over us.

I have a high view of angels. I think that for about five minutes in 1960 my grandmother said I was one. Her view was quickly revised. My principal delight in angels is that we know from Scripture that they are made for worship: they gather in myriads of forms before God’s throne and their reason for being and their only delight is to worship and adore. ‘Glory’ and ‘Hosanna’ are their favourite words as they sing God’s praise. This is our chief association with angels, because we are made for worship, too. The angels know this and they carry their worship to earth not to the great and the good but to shepherds grubby with toil and to tell them that the throne of God has come to earth and is now a manger in Bethlehem for the Messiah has born for us. There can be no allergic reaction to angels feathers, as they fill the empty spaces in our churches praying with us and longing with us that those spaces will be filled with worshippers with flesh, human disciples whom we are seeking to win for Christ.

Jesus refers to the guardian angels who watch over children. It is a happy and reassuring thought that we are all watched over. We all need to know that unconditional love which comes from God. Yet the angel is only a sign or pointer at best. The true guardianship comes not from some independent spiritual creature. The angel has no life except the pure life of God. It is his love which guards and protects us and it is to God’s protection that we commit people in our prayers. Michael the great Archangel is often depicted as a heavenly warrior, defeating Lucifer and all his great army. We are also those who then stand for what is right and good and beautiful even when it is inconvenient or dangerous to do so – not in our own strength but in the power and love of God alone.

The angel Gabriel came to Mary of Nazareth with a message straight from God, with his invitation to be his handmaid in changing the universe forever. His message was the agency of her transformation. We know that the mission to the world is Christ’s, but we are his messengers of transformation and redemption. Let us be angels with dirty faces for Christ’s sake.

An invitation from the Team Vicar in the Nadder Valley Team Ministry, west of Salisbury, brought me to St Editha’s Church in Baverstock this evening.  It was a perfect evening for Evensong, with the setting sun pouring its glory through the west window.  Great hymns including Thy hand O Lord has guided, and Cranmer’s Prayer Book well rehearsed by Jane.  I preached to an appreciative congregation, which included a young Italian Roman Catholic who is here for a month learning English for her Fine Art profession. 

My sermon included what I had discovered about St Editha, and a reflection on the readings which were taken from Genesis’ story of Abraham and Sarah and their hospitality towards the three persons of God; and the passage from Luke where Mary and Martha entertained Jesus.  I concluded by saying:

The call from Jesus to Editha that guided and shaped her whole life, is still the same call that is made to us here today.  A call to bring people together in community whenever we can, to live our lives in a generous and hospitable way, making sure those less well off are offered what they need to have a reasonable standard of living.  To celebrate and give thanks and praise to God for all that is achieved in his name.

 Today we remember Sarah, and Mary and Martha, and Editha—not because they were women, not because they had special gifts and skills, not because they found themselves in the public eye of their day—but simply because they said Yes.  They said Yes, when God invited them to share in living his life, and their lives were changed for the better because of that.

 Celebrate your festival day, and hear the call of Jesus Christ to you this day, and see if in your heart and mind, you might follow Editha, you patron saint, and join her in saying Yes.

 After we had said farewell to the congregation I walked down the path towards the church gate, and looked across at the cluster of graves to the west.  One caught my eye, and on closer inspection it was the family graves of the Venerable Willian Hony, Rector of Baverstock, and Archdeacon of Sarum.  As one of my predecessors I took some interest in him, and have found some details on the parish website:

Early in the 19th century a new rectory was built on the opposite side of the road to the church. It was an imposing Regency residence and replaced the old rectory beside the church which had been burnt down in 1796. It had rarely been home to the Baverstock clergy, who were in the most part absentee rectors. One of the most memorable of the Baverstock rectors was William Hony. He became rector in 1827 and remained until he died in 1875. He additionally became Archdeacon of Sarum in 1847. He made considerable changes to Baverstock during his incumbency. His first task was the dilapidated church. He replaced nearly everything except the walls and these he raised. The parishioners contributed £100 towards the cost, the rector paying the remainder. His next project was to build a school for the children of Baverstock. This was built next door to the church on the site of the old Rectory. Later in the 19th century the children were transferred to a new school at Dinton. The Baverstock school became first a Sunday school and eventually a private house and remains so today.

 Those were the days, and clearly Baverstock has some impressive servants who have offered themselves to Christian witness and I pray that the present day residents might continue in that tradition, as they offer welcome and hospitality to all.

Today my sermon was on Martha and Mary, the fact that they create a whole – doing and being – which we as disciples ought to consider. There is a place for both types of activity and we ought to find the right balance which may well be different for each of us and, unlike Martha, we ought not to complain when others don’t seem to be pulling their weight.

On the way home it occurred to me that I ought to practice what I preach – I need to find the time to be and do – so I start this blog entry with an apology to Alan who has certainly been Martha and I have been Mary, he has very generously not reminded me that it has been a long time since I blogged.

I did think of doing it when we were on Pilgrimage in the Pewsey Team but I couldn’t get on line where I was staying and I didn’t think of other ways I could do it. Then I thought that I would do a retrospect blog but time went by. Then there was my retreat (brilliant with woodpecker and rabbit joining me on various occasions) and the ordinations in the Cathedral where I had the privilege of laying my hands on two people (thank you Ann and Jenny). Again time went by and it seemed to late to do anything. So this blog is also a big thank you to all those who have cared for me, invited me to events, been with me in various meetings and have been generous hosts.

During  the coming week I will blogging most of  my morning thoughts for BBC Radio, the idea came from driving around this wonderful countryside in which we live. I hope to continue to find the time to be and contribute to the blog as part of that being time.

This month’s interest in parish magazines comes from deepest darkest West Dorset.  The Chalk Stream magazine covers the parishes of Bradford Peverell, Frampton, Stratton, and Sydling St Nicholas.  I was visiting a colleague recently down there who is working in areas of mission and vocation, and it was good to stretch the legs of my 120d.  By the way, if you are ever down that way, the pub at Sydling St Nicholas, the Greyhound, was quiet exceptional, with a good lunchtime menu choice, and excellent food. 

The Chalk Stream [which has a bumper issue for July and August of some 58 pages of news, views and advertisements] offers some interest in the local Dorset bread roll, called the Dorset Knob, produced by Moores the famous family firm.  Each year there is The  “Dorset Knob Throwing and Frome Valley Food Fest”  held at Cattistock on Sunday 2^rdMay 2010. Besides Knob Throwing there were additional fun knob attractions including Knob Painting, a Knob & Spoon Race, Guess the weight of the Big Knob, Knob Darts and a Knob Pyramid. Free parking and other more traditional entertainment were laid on to make this a really enjoyable day out with a difference.  It sounds a fascinating and truly novel local event, and some £4,500 was raised for local community clubs.  The record for throwing these delicious bread rolls, under arm and standing are quite amazing with the three records currently:  Gents:  26.10 metres; Ladies: 20.2 metres; and Under 12’s; 18.5 metres.  Why not tell me about your local novel sporting or social events?

Another article that grabbed my attention was about Lip Reading.  1 in 7 people have hearing impairment, and many result from time with the armed forces or disco customers, with the outcome being a distinct difficulty in hearing consonants clearly – an example being “biscuit” being heard as “big kiss”. A tutor holds classes every Tuesday morning for two hours, in a local parish church centre, where people learn not only how to interpret lip shapes, but also strategies for minimising a sense of exclusion as hearing loss progresses.

How wonderful to have a local resource like this.  Other local events this month included the Evershot Butterfly and Moth Festival; and thoughtful articles included From the Allotment; Bradford Peverell Twinning Association; and many more.  Useful ideas can be found on their webpages: http://www.sydlingstnicholas.org.uk/; http://www.framptondorset.com/; http://www.strattondorset.org/; and http://www.thelocalchannel.co.uk/bradfordpeverell/home.aspx

Each year for the past three or four years, Anita and I get an invitation to attend the Chitterne Flower festival, and it is an event we always enjoy attending.  This year was no exception, and the arrangements of flowers, with the theme “Quote: Unquote” were really breathtaking.  I can’t remember all the connections between the quotes and the arrangements, but this one was “A Rose Between Two Thorns”, and just enjoy the others!

The food served in the Village Hall next door to the church was delicious, and at one moment in the afternoon, I think we could have convened a meeting of the Stonehenge Deanery Synod!  We had the Lay Chairman, four clergy and the Archdeacon!  We avoided that temptation by sitting and tucking into our scoff.

later in the day we returned to the church, and as I am prone to do, starting chatting to the visitors admiring the arrangements.  One of the gents sitting quietly at the back of the church, engaged in conversation with me, and I asked him about the Veteran’s badge he was wearing.  Of course, as an old soldier he was quite happy to tell me all about his regiment, and the places that he served.  He carried on to tell me about some of the Chaplains that he served with as well. 

We were able to chat easily, and after a while, as old soldiers do, he picked up on something that had been troubling him for a long time, but he claimed that no padre had been  able to sort for him.  I’m quite used to being challenged by military personnel, and often I can’t offer the answer someone is looking for – but I try to share the dilemma, and encourage the person to keep searching and to trust in God for truth.

With all that he had witnessed, how could he believe in a God who allows good people to suffer.  I said that I could not answer that for him, but I have often asked myself that  question, and for myself, I came to the conclusion – how do we know that we are loved? 

When my children asked me, Daddy, do you love me?, and I answered Yes, of course I love you, they would follow up with, How do we know that you love us?  I replied, Because I will always try be here for you; when the life you lead is good, you’ll not need to ask me that question, but I will still love you.  When the life you lead is tough, you will not need to ask if I love you, because I will be there for you, and I will do anything I can to make the pain and the hurt, [which we all suffer, all of us]; I will do anything I can to make that pain and hurt more bearable.  How will you will know that I love you? Because the pain you are suffering, however it is caused, allows me to show you how much I love you.

The old soldier smiled, and nodded his head, said thank you, and walked away to give his wife a warm, long  and lingering hug.  And we said it with Flowers.

It is the season for Summer fetes, and John and I recently  attended a village occasion.  It was a lovely day, and John did the decent thing by opening the event, and people thronged and spent loose change and chatted and ate cream teas and smashed crockery, and looked at exhibition photos in the church.  Numbers are up, a local worthy told me, and hopefully the income which the church needs will be too.

Then we had the finale, a tug of war, and yours truly was to start the event and present the trophy to the winning team.  It’s only a bit of fun, they said! A novel twist was that this tug of war took place across a river, and the losing team were guaranteed an early bath!  First of all the children had a go, on dry land, in the neighbouring field, and enjoyed it very much.  Then the men – two teams of strapping, well honed, peak of physical perfection – lined up on both banks.  Can you count?  Nine on one side, eight on the other – Hey! The rope was duly picked up, and the strain taken.  Pull!  A load of grunting and cheering ended when one team found themselves pulled into the River Avon.  Then the ladies teams had a go, and did equally well.  Then men swapped sides, after sorting out the equal numbers a second time, the other team claimed a victory, one-all, and a deciding match.  The ladies played their second pull, and the same team won.

So – the  deciding pull for the men’s competition, and I gripped the trophy as the grunts and groans and battle cries rang out across the valley.  Some slippage, but then a rally, and both teams were giving no ground, but after a while the heat, the pressure and the sheer effort pulled one of the teams into the water. Foul! went up from the losing team!  Apparently one man on the winning team had found a foothold in the root system of a tree on the river bank, and this was claimed as an unfair advantage by the other team.

I was still holding the trophy, and the organisers and team captains remonstrated with one another.  As the person holding the trophy, I went and suggested I had some ideas – a final deciding pull – with both teams in the field, on the level, where we could see all that was taking place.  No – the “winning ” team could not agree to that, and my second suggestion that the trophy should stand in the club rooms for six months each, also found little grace – and the team captains walked off. 

I will still holding the trophy!  Should it come home with me?  No.  I walked across to the team captain of the winning ladies team, announced that these were the overall champions, planted the trophy in her hands, and a kiss on both cheeks, and declared honour still alive in the competition.  I hope the  English referee in the World Cup Final this afternoon has a little more fortune.  They never told you about this in Theological College!

A recent lunch with one of our colleagues from the Diocesan Board of Education led to a very interesting conversation around the relationships between our church schools and our parishes. 

For many years, new clergy appointments to a parish would not even include a visit to the school, let alone ask the Head Teacher or Chair of Governors to be part of the interview process.  Now, of course, the Parish Profile for the new priest will include details of schools, and the interview process most often includes a visit to the school, some interface with the staff and pupils, and some informal interview with the school Head or Governors.

Our conversation came around to the appointment of school chaplains, in particular to the new Academies.  Full time school chaplains are a luxury, and indeed, with a decreasing number of stipendiary clergy, would there be a sufficient pool of potential clergy to meet these new appointments?  I pushed the boundaries a little further.  I was certain that these school chaplain appointments could not successfully be part time appointments with dual roles including a parish priest role – the management of the boundaries does prove a challenge.  I had been a part-time chaplain to a joint Anglican-Catholic Secondary School, and it was hugely fulfilling, but also a huge frustration, and the scope for developing the role could not happen whilst I was still expected to be in the parish five days a week.

So – do we need to continue to look for parish clergy who are able to offer some chaplaincy role to the school?  Or, if you consider the development of our school age children between 5-18 years to be the urgent priority for our faith community, do we need to look for clergy who are full time school chaplains, based in our primary and secondary schools, who can offer a couple of  days a week to be chaplains to our congregations? 

What difference would it make if we trained all our clergy to be school chaplains, as the norm, and then let them use their spare time at evenings, weekends and school holidays for work in the parish, developing teams of lay ministers and ordained assistant ministers to be the church presence throughout the parish during the day?

What difference would it make …?  Where do you stand …?

My day started at 0530 with a quick shave and packing my towel and swim shorts, and then a colleague polled up at 0630, we picked up another colleague and then headed down to Portland.  We arrived at 0800 and then waited for the others to arrive. We went and had a briefing about the day’s activities, and then were issued with kit: wetsuit, with hood; boots, fins [never called flippers!] belt with weights, face mask, gloves, BCD [buoyancy control device - a jacket with connection for the air tank, which inflates and deflates the vest which aids buoyancy whilst diving] and air tank [10 litres, which should last around 30 mins, depending how fast you breathe and how deep you dive.
 
We then were supposed to go to a local swimming pool for our practice and test exercises - but when we arrived, the pool claimed not to have the booking, and so we were turned away.  We were advised that we would try out in the shallow parts of the harbour, so we got kitted up, walked across the main road to Portland in our kit [great photo opportunity!] and then we were paired with a buddy and an instructor.  We went into the water, and then ducked underneath, taking our first gulp of compressed air, and then breathing out.  It didn’t seem too bad, but the water was mucky and we stirred up sand from the harbour floor, and we were then given tasks.  I went first, and had to remove my regulator [air supply] and continue to breathe out slowly, and then put the regulator back, blowing out the water with more compressed air.  Then we had to lift the face mask, and allow water to rise up to below our eyes, replace the mask, and blow out the water, using compressed air blown through our nose.  That was more difficult. 

We then left the harbour and walked back to the centre for lunch – the kit was heavy, very heavy, and of course whilst in the water seemed less so, but again out of the water it was really heavy.  After lunch, quiche and sandwiches, we were kitted up again, and informed we would head out to a wrecked dredger, just outside the harbour wall.  We headed out to a jetty where we loaded our kit and ourselves onto the RIB [rigid inflatable boat] and headed out like Special Forces heading into battle.
 
We moored up at the site, and then had to get kitted up in the boat – more difficult than on dry land.  Two colleagues who have dived before showed us how to roll backwards off the boat.  An instructor went next, and then it was my turn.  I was told to go, and did a perfect backwards summersault into the water.  I met up with the instructor and with hand signals indicated all was well, and repeated same to the dive master in the boat.  Every metre down in the water, you just have to “equalise” i.e. make sure the pressure in your ears “pops” like it does in an aircraft.  I found this difficult, and as I went deeper, the pain in my ears increased, but I could not release the pressure.  I indicated this to my instructor, and he tried to get me to do the exercises, but to no avail.  I headed slowly back to the surface, we chatted, and we tried again.
 
The same happened, and as I went deeper, we were aiming for 9 metres, so I knew it would be no good, but the instructor reached forward and took my head hood and opened it, which did the trick and I indicated an OK and we carried on down.  Reaching the seabed, I was asked to kneel down and ensure the buoyancy was OK, and I realised my face mask was filling up with water.  Beards are not always the best option! Snorting seawater is not good, and I tried the clearing exercise, with the instructor watching.  I tried again and again, but to no good, and with the water rising I knew that I had to go back to the surface and fail, or sort it.  A large gulp from the air tank, and then a large blow from my nose, with eyes shut, and the mask was dry and clear.  The instructor looked back at me with large eyes, and mimicked applause.  I was down, and breathing and stable.  All was well.  I met up with a colleague, and realised it was just us two.  We looked over the wreck carefully – but it is really just a lot of odd metal shapes and sea plant growth.  We then swam along the seabed looking at fish and crabs, lobster pots, and small items.  I realised that my perspective was all odd, things I tried to touch were further away in reality.  Our instructor at one point put a hand on my air tank, and one on my colleague’s and we towed him along to show that we could pilot ourselves.  It is all about trust, respect, and being able to relax – to breathe, to make decisions and carry them out.  Not easy, but when you are down there it is a different world – you are deaf, partially blind, totally reliant on the tank of air on your back, and the support of another human, a stranger.
 
After a while, we were joined by the second instructor, and my colleague went up with the first, and I then stayed with the second.  Coming up, even from 9 metres takes care, and we had to follow a line to the boat, stopping and letting air out of our BCD, which seems counter to what we expect – letting air out makes you rise?  In time I felt the surface of the water break, and we were a few metres from the boat, so we swam on our backs, and then had to get into the boat.  First you take off your weights, and then the BCD with air tank, and finally, leaving your fins on, you propel yourself up onto the side, bring your feet up, and someone grabs you and pulls you in.  Easy!  But hard! 

In the boat we swapped stories, enjoyed bars of chocolate and hot Ribena, to help cope with the taste of seawater and compressed air. We tidied the boat and headed back telling more stories and experiences.  We unpacked the boat at the jetty, took the kit back, changed and then enjoyed a mug of hot chocolate.  I realised that my ears were pretty odd, and although they are clearing, the pressure changes have affected them.  I was relieved to hear an experienced colleague tell me his are exactly the same.
 
We gave our thanks, received our certificates, and headed home.  I was tired – a long day from 0530, and the demands on my body, my mind, a drive of 100 miles, and as it says in the brochure, diving changes your life.  I want to go back, I want to experience all that again, prove to myself that I can face the challenges, and see more of God’s world and the fragile beauty that it contains.