Not busy

This year I am not busy for Lent. To find out more, click here.
It involves intentionally sitting still and doing nothing for at least 10 minutes every day.
Sounds simple?
Well, the idea is simple but the execution is proving much harder than you might imagine. The temptations are endless - radio, TV, internet distractions, books sitting around to be read, magazines and papers with tempting articles, music to be listened to.
I have decided to not have the radio or any music on. I really am trying to still my mind. I failed on Ash Wednesday completely. On the Friday I forgot. But from the attempts I have made so far, here is what I have learned:

1. 10 minutes is a long time. I set a timer and the first day I did it, I kept looking at it. This did not help time pass more quickly.

2. I will remember lots of things I need to do as soon as I sit still. However I have decided not to pick up the pen and write them down as that definitely counts as Doing Something. I have yet to discover if I will always remember these things after the 10 minutes is over, or if I will forget them entirely. Or indeed if it matters if I forget them entirely. Perhaps I will find out that it's OK if some things just don't get done.

3. It is easier to do this when I'm not running a busy parish. But perhaps that's why I need to get into the habit now so that when I do get back into a parish, it's already a regular part of my discipline.

4. It is much easier doing nothing when the puppy comes and sits on the sofa with me and I can stroke her velvety coat. I have convinced myself that this still amounts to doing nothing. After all, who could resist this?

All change

Now gone to a good home!

Today has been a difficult day in lots of ways. A final service in my title post, where I just about managed to retain my composure and although I know I gave the final blessing, I'm not sure exactly how.

Then lovely cards, flowers, astonishingly generous gifts, and  a lovely feast even although it's Lent. I know I have friends here who I will be sure to stay in touch with, and to think of how much I have grown and changed and learned priest-craft ( is that a word?) in the almost four years I have been curate in the parish, is humbling.  But somehow it doesn't seem real.
Somehow, part of me thinks I am getting up in the morning to say Morning Prayer  in St Alban's. But I won't.  Well I will say Morning Prayer.  But alone, in my study.  Because a house move is not imminent,  it all feels a little as if I'm not leaving at all.
But something happened today which felt much more real. We had sold our climbing frame on a well-known internet auction site. It was a gift from my parents when we moved to Basingstoke (The Big Move South) and our children were both under three.  It has been a feature of our lives for nearly 12 years.
And now it's gone. 
It provided hours of fun for our children,  and many of their friends over many years. It was a great asset to the garden.
And now it's gone.
More real than the end of my title post.  More real than the move to a new place.
Our children are now amazing young people,  growing up,  and with us for only a few years more.
The other changes will kick in and become real over the next few days and weeks.

  But this one is real now. 
All change. 

Endings and beginnings

Signs of new life are all around.
And today there's even some sunshine!

Today as I was sitting at my laptop writing my final sermon to be preached tomorrow in my curacy parish, I received an email with the rota for the services in my new one.
It feels odd.
The format is different.
The service pattern is different. 
The other names on it are different (although it really helps that there's a good friend already there - for a while at least) 

It's concrete (or at least paper) evidence of the change that lies before me.

I have long prayed for this change. A new role that allowed my children to stay at their school at least until after public exam courses are over. A context completely different to the one in which I served my title - I'm moving to a much more affluent parish, to churches with large congregations and a growing staff team. A job that will allow me to study and perhaps teach. But having the paper evidence of this change in front of me somehow makes it more real and simultaneously scary and exciting.

There are a lot of challenges in the weeks ahead. Uncertainty over when we might move house is the main one. Reading, thinking and exploring various opportunities for further study is another. I feel like I'm entering into a time of uncertainty, although it seems that much is already settled.

As I was preparing for tomorrow's sermon, I came across some words of Geoffrey Studdert Kennedy, who is one of the three people remembered by the Church of England's lectionary today.

“We have taught our people to use prayer too much as a means of comfort – not in the original and heroic sense of uplifting, inspiring, strengthening, but in the more modern and baser sense of soothing sorrow, dulling pain, and drying tears – the comfort of the cushion, not the comfort of the Cross.”

I wonder if I've been thinking more in terms of the comfortable, cushioned road ahead (in spite of previous experience telling me that it is always anything but) instead of the way of the cross. I need reminding that a comfortable life with everything settled is not what Jesus promised his disciples. Change and uncertainty are part of the package. Learning to deal with that will be part of my discipline for Lent.

Lenten Garden

Sadly, I wasn't thinking ahead enough to take a
"before" picture, but here is "after".

Yesterday was my day off. It feels a bit odd to have a day off this week as I only have another few days left in the parish, with my final service being on Sunday. After walking the puppy, I took it into my head to do a job that had been annoying me for too long, and I cleared and cut back some climbing plants (botanical skills are zero I'm afraid so I have no idea what they are - only that there is - was -  far too much of them)
About 20 minutes in, I was regretting ever lifting up a pair of shears, but I battled on, and eventually the plants were well and truly pruned. Now I confess, I don't know that they'll definitely recover but I do know that I undertook the same exercise two years ago, and having to repeat it is ample testament to the vigorous nature of the plants. They were so vigorous in fact that they were preventing other things from growing - and so my spring bulbs, of which I am excessively fond, were shaded out and covered up, and as a result will not be the display I was hoping for when they were planted.

This is some of the material cut away.

Cutting away lots of plant material the morning after our Ash Wednesday service gave me plenty of time to think about the spiritual pruning that is traditionally called for during Lent. A time to deliberately and intentionally spend time with God and seek spiritual disciplines to cut away from our lives whatever may be unhelpful and preventing other beautiful things from growing.

 Lent will be odd for me this year as I find myself between posts. There will be time, I hope, as we prepare to move house and I prepare to take up a new post in a completely different context, to engage with some pruning of unnecessary things so that other things will grow. Disengaging from my curacy post has felt quite a lot like pruning, and it has not been a painless exercise. I am aware there is yet more to do, perhaps as the administrative and organisational functions which have taken up so much time of late are handed on, I can re-engage with other spiritual ones, recollect and redefine my identity as priest and child of God. I hope I can end Lent as ready for the resurrection as my garden is for new spring growth.
And remember that I will certainly have to repeat the process again next year.

Thank God for Social Media

On Tuesday evening, Evensong had just finished at Salisbury Cathedral when I checked my Twitter feed.
OK I won't lie. I had been checking it during the service too.
The Synod hashtag feed was repeatedly refreshed, except during the singing by the choir of the Magnificat  - Mary's song. As I listened to the familiar words and beautiful music (Noble in B minor) I had the rising sense that, just as God called the woman Mary to do something that had never been done before, (or since, it has to be said) God was also calling the women of this generation to do something new in the life of his church. Some of them would be Bishops.

My Soul magnified the Lord and my Spirit rejoiced in God my saviour.

And then I read my Twitter feed.

I felt incredibly deflated. Shocked. Bereaved. I remain surprised by the strength of my own reaction and have spent today reading, praying and reflecting on it, leaving my place of retreat with a determination to serve, with as much commitment and compassion as before, the people among whom God has placed me.

But on the night, it was hard. As a Myers-Briggs E, I need people around. I prefer to process what's going on out loud with other people. Admittedly this can have embarrassing consequences, but let's not go there.
But on Tuesday night I was alone. Away on a retreat without my family and friends.

I did, however, have Twitter and Facebook. And there I found the same shock and disbelief I was feeling. I found anger, love and compassion. And an almost immediate determination that the result of this vote will not be to diminish the ministry of women in the Church of England. And even some humour. Especially around gin.

So, thank God once more for Twitter. This Extravert was not alone when she needed company the most.
At CNMAC this year we chatted about relationships made over social media. Of course there are dangers. And we must be aware of those. But they are real, not virtual relationships and I valued them enormously this week.

Painful Explanations

My ordination stole and gift of Chalice and paten

At lunch time I had to do some of that explaining which Archbishop Rowan was talking about this morning. To a (secular) youth-worker in the secondary school where I am occasional chaplain. She was outraged that the Church could discriminate against women when her job was all about building up young people's confidence and encouraging them to fulfil their potential. Wasn't the Church in that kind of business too? So why limit the potential of 50% of the population?

And then there was the dinner table conversation with my children this evening. Completely at a loss to understand why women can't be bishops.

In both cases, I explained that the Church of England had actually decided that it did want women to be bishops. It decided that several years ago. Yesterday was not about that. It was about the particular legislation which would enable women to become Bishops. General Synod, did not decide by a large enough majority that the proposed legislation offered the kind of protection that those opposed felt they needed, if their theological positions were to be properly respected in a way that allowed them to remain in the Church of England.
"Protection?!" exploded the youth worker. "Why does anyone feel they need protection from women in church?"

As I tried to outline the theological positions, or at least how I understand them, to her, I realised how hollow I sounded.
For you see, I have been sympathetic to those opposed to the ordination of women as priests (and therefore as bishops) I have read their statements and publications, many of them for an MA essay on the topic. I disagreed with them but felt with all my heart that one of the strengths of this church I have been called by God to serve in, is its very diversity. When we gain insights into God's character from other ways of worshipping and being, we are all enriched and gain a fuller picture of God.

On a personal level, I find, for reasons that I don't entirely understand, that I am deeply wounded that my calling is a source of hurt to others who also seek to love and follow Jesus. Jesus himself didn't say anything much about bishops (or if he did, the evangelists didn't record it for posterity) but he had quite a lot to say about unity. And loving one another for his sake. And about looking after those on the margins and whom society rejects. Those, perhaps with different views to the majority, those perhaps who feel that they do not have a voice.

So I really wanted to try to do that. I didn't add my name to the letter in the Independent because I wasn't sure that this was legislation that was the right legislation at the right time. I talked with my husband (who thinks I'm mad to worry about this) about my ambivalence towards the measure. I kept quiet and prayed.

At the recent church beetle drive someone (me) drew
 a female scarabeus episcopus

The strength of my own reaction to the news of the defeated legislation has taken me entirely by surprise. In a way I kind of expected it to fail. Those opposed to the measure had been very good at getting representatives elected in the House of Laity where the required two-thirds majority was not reached. Suddenly, those on the margins, whose views and beliefs I have tried so hard to respect and hear had achieved what they wanted to achieve, and in doing so have left the majority of Synod and Church members feeling they are the voiceless ones on the margins.

So, I've just read Bishop Alan's article and I think I may have been trying to be nice. And in trying to be nice I'm left explaining things I fundamentally disagree with to an incredulous youth-worker, who thinks that my ability to minister to young people, encouraging them to fulfil their God-given potential is fatally compromised; and also to my children who I otherwise encourage to know, love and serve God through his church.

So I will continue to pray and wait and listen. And I will try to respond and offer explanations with grace, respect and love. But perhaps I may have a re-think about how much I need to go on holding the pain of others who will never agree with me.
For right now, my own pain, and that of the vast majority of the Church of England is about all I can cope with.



For other, more intelligent views, and there are many more than these, but for a starteryou could do worse than  Bishop Nick Baines, Lucy Winkett, my very articulate friend, Revd Claire , the priest who waxes his knees, Laura the Lay Anglicana and this very interesting piece by Jemima Thackray

Adding to the chaos

OK. So this is an excuse really. And it's probably a bit self-indulgent. But I thought I'd share with you one of the reasons blogging has taken a bit of a back seat recently.

Meet Millie, our Golden Doodle. That's a cross between a Golden Retriever and a Poodle. This was her at about 3 months, not long after she arrived with us back in June.
She joined our decidedly geriatric Golden Retriever, Holly. Holly will be 14 this month and although she's a bit creaky and slow still enjoys life (apart from the indignity of being played with by a six month old Golden Doodle) and after a number of scares in the last year now looks like she' might outlive us all...

After a visit to the grooming parlour aged 5 months

Millie is a lot bigger now. She loves to go to Southampton Common or the Sports Centre near where we live and run around like the mad things she is. We never intended to have two dogs. But a combination of circumstances meant that it seemed like now was a good time to add to the family - although on the face of it, you might think that the last thing I needed was a puppy.
But there have been a number of benefits - the huge amount of fun we've had with her, especially when she was little (even now she is singing along to my daughter's cello practice) The children have spent less time watching TV as we've played with her, and taken her to training classes and I enjoy the opportunity for longer walks in the (now) Autumn air as they arise. Do feel free to remind me of that when it's pouring with rain and blowing a gale.

Somehow in adding to the chaos, Millie has nonetheless enriched our lives and although she has been hard work, what worthwhile things in life aren't?