To err is human but to really get on your tits it takes Network Rail

So I had to take my little black VW Polo hire car back to Enterprise. Good firm, good car and good service by the way. Rather than have someone follow me the easiest thing to do was to drop the car off at 10.00 and take a gentle stroll to Parson Street Station to catch the 10.29 to Nailsea. It is an unstaffed station with no announcements or computer screens although you can press a button to hear news.

The 10.29 was a no show. Button pressing gave us (the four potential passengers) the information that it was 18 minutes late. It didn't show at 10.47 so we pressed again. 28 minutes late was the news this time, not bad for a ten minute journey.

Someone phoned the helpline to be told the next train was the 11.29. The 10.29 had now been cancelled. I made a few calls to ascertain the phone numbers of the people I needed to call to say I was going to be late. This included my builders who had managed, during the short time I was away, to lock themselves out of the house. I told them to get a key from the neighbour, which they did, so if you want to break into my house just ask my neighbour for the key. I think my builders have become well known in my street this last three weeks since few of my co-residents have had their lives undisrupted.

I relaxed to read the paper when a train arrived at 11.02. I asked the conductor if it was going to stop at Nailsea and she replied in the affirmative. I got on and then phoned all the people I had rearranged appointments with to re-rearrange them.

My day is back on schedule, my car quota is down to one, my builders are building in the sun and God is in his heaven. Thank you. I feel better now.

Marriage Words

When the Pilgrim Fathers popped off on their little adventure they took with them a number of words in common usage at the time. When a language changes location the process of evolution begins upon it. Some words they took with them died out but continued here in the UK; others died out in the UK but survived in the Americas. Fall for autumn would be a good example - we used to use it here all the time. It is wrong to call it an Americanism.

And look at the history of our English language in England. Our words come from all over the world.

Trying to stop the evolution of language is a bit Canutey. And by the way I think his name was C'nut or K'nut. It evolved. In particular at the teenage level words are reclaimed and relocated all the time. Is that a good thing? No, it's wicked. It's mint. It's top drawer pants.

So a petition dropped in to my in-box this week asking me to support the Coalition for Marriage petition.

This petition asks the government to fix the legal definition of marriage as:

...the voluntary union for life of one man and one woman to the exclusion of all others.

Trouble is that the law defines current behaviour almost as often as it restricts it. Lots of same-sex partners, now civil-partnered officially, refer to their other-half as their wife or husband and their status as married. We can't stop them doing it, despite whatever the law says.

Furthermore the definition means we need to find some new word for the status of those who have married for a second or third time after a failed 'to the exclusion of all others' relationship.

There are things to get excited about in this life. Maybe us heterosexuals should get more concerned about setting a better example of how to sustain a wonderful, long-term, to-the-exclusion-of-all-others relationship. Then we would define marriage rather than asking the courts to. I'm not signing.

Bad Science

I am enjoying Ben Goldacre's book Bad Science very much. He has a regular column of the same name in The Saturday Guardian although he is on a six month sabbatical. Read his last column before the break here.

He writes well and entertainingly of his frustration, firstly that few newspapers have the first idea how to present a science story and secondly that so much that passes for science is actually PR - paid for by the industry most likely to benefit from the particular findings of a piece of research. He helps us to understand how to read between the lines and, in particular, not to fall for the pseudo-scientific claims of the alternative medicine community.

It's a tough time to be a scientist. The Observer reported last week that scientists are becoming terrified by the anti-science backlash that now, routinely, rubbishes the science behind climate change and evolution.

This is currently a peculiarly American phenomenon. Listen to the Republican candidates for president arguing and you won't hear a word against the evangelical Christian right even if that involves swallowing a load of unbelievable bunkum as literal truth. They say that what happens in the States happens here within five to ten so watch out.

So scientists find themselves attacked by the right for being anti-religion and attacked by the left for being insufficiently clear. I think it is a brave time to be a scientist with a public profile. I wish them well in their militancy.

In the midst of this Goldacre alone seems to stride like a colossus asking the same questions of everyone. Has this been peer reviewed? Have you drawn your conclusions from the evidence? Have you sampled correctly? Have you published your bad results as well as the favourable ones?

I love him. I just read an article that tells me I will make my brain last longer and avoid dementia if I fast for one or two days a week. I might previously have, er, swallowed that but I did a quick check online and found this piece which says almost the opposite. The article I read was in The Observer, a sister paper to the Guardian who publish Goldacre, and under the name of the Science Editor.

This bad science stuff is rife.

The Sopranos

This isn't a review as such because it's five years too late for that. But there are a few things worth discussing following a viewing of the Sopranos complete set, seasons 1-6, over the last few months.

TV isn't cinema. One of the many things that was said about the Sopranos was that it made TV for a cinema audience. Grown-up TV.

I've already said that I came to it late. I guess you have to remember the days of inconvenient television - when you had to sort out your social life so as not to miss the final part of a drama series - to appreciate the joy of convenient television. A series originally spread over seven years can be viewed in a few months with pauses not for adverts but at your own behest for a tea or comfort.

I am not a good judge of acting. I know wooden when I see it but am not so good at spotting talent. One of the few things I do observe is the skill of actors in a scene whilst they are not involved in the dialogue. The Sopranos directors tended to let the camera linger on the non-participants in a conversation. They often pan round a whole group during an awkward family silence. They especially loved the facial expressions of those listening respectfully to an idiot. The way Carmela Soprano (Edie Falco) responds with her facial muscles is a wonder of the world.

In Steven van Zandt (Little Steven, Springsteen's E Street Band) they found someone with no previous acting experience who nailed the shrugs and comic twitches of right-hand-man Silvio and invented, and stayed in, a character for all six seasons.

So what was the Sopranos all about? An Italian criminal fraternity in New Jersey? Of course. But it was about more than the story lines. It was about loyalty, relationships, food - always food - and growing old. It covered all sorts of normal and abnormal health matters - cancer, dementia (where did I bury the money?), adolescence, drug and alcohol abuse, domestic violence and smoking. It was about corruption. About fashion and about paying your debts. About sex. In these stories marriage is somehow sacred whilst a succession of escorts and prostitutes provide 'relief' to the men. As long as they are not caught the guys live with this deception. When found out they use gifts in place of penitence. The presents are of hugely expensive jewellery or top-of-the-range cars.

In particular the Sopranos is about the male psyche and the regression to violence, horrible and extreme violence, to solve everything. The guys banter at each other's expense but have a 'line' in their heads which, once crossed, deserves a beating. They find it hard to accept a friend who gives up alcohol and goes to AA since most of their meetings involve booze in some form.

Which is why a weekly set-piece where Tony Soprano (family head and gang leader) visits Doctor Melfi (a psychiatrist) for therapy, is key. He talks to his therapist as if his work should cause no mental problems but his wayward children might. He blames his mother for most things.

Tony speaks of his frustrations and stresses, initially as a waste-management consultant but later more blatantly about his real work. Melfi knows who he is and has a therapist herself with whom she discusses her professional hang-ups. Sometimes Tony even refers to the 'elephant in the room' but then names a different elephant. The main cause of his stress is obviously the inner conflict that he lives off immoral earnings in a world of warped loyalty where, around every corner, might lurk someone who wants to kill him. He commits, or arranges, murder himself many times - sometimes of enemies; sometimes friends. Look at his daughter wrong and don't expect to keep your teeth.

In the very first episode, while Tony is talking to Dr Melfi about 'trouble at work with a debt,' we cut to a severe beating of the debtor.

The use of music is interesting. The Alabama 3's Woke Up This Morning is the soundtrack for the opening credits, these always played over a drive home for Tony. There is no pre-credit action. The final piece of music each episode changes every time. Sometimes it picks up the theme expertly; on other occasions it grates deliberately. The final tune of the final episode is Journey's Don't Stop Believing.

Our expectation is that this utterly unpleasant protagonist, who we will miss when he is gone, is doomed. Few people in the show die of old age. We know his family will mourn him but will we? The final episode leads us up to the point where everything looks in place for Tony's murder. We wonder how we will react when this inevitability arrives.

Are good people all good or bad people all bad? That is what the Sopranos makes you think about.

RIP Tom Smail

In the mid 1970s The Fountain Trust came to St Stephen's, Selly Park to lead a weekend. At the time this organisation was the vehicle mainly for the teaching of Tom Smail. His book Reflected Glory arose out of such. It was an attempt to put a theology and understanding of the Holy Spirit back on the agenda of a church which had lost it. It was a good weekend. One moment I recall clearly is that one of the speakers asked Tom for a brief input half-way through his session and Tom took over. 'You can sit down now' he said to the original speaker after realising he wasn't going to give the platform back up. It was taken in good spirit. Here was a team working but it was one person's work they were doing.

First lesson from Tom. It's OK for the person in charge to be in charge.

A few years later Tom left Fountain Trust which was closed down. It was set up to do a particular work and when that work was done it was stopped. He joined the staff of St John's College, Nottingham, a theological college training people for ordination, and wrote another book, The Forgotten Father. He taught Christian Doctrine

Second lesson from Tom. When you have done what you set out to do, stop.

Third lesson from Tom. If you see your mission as restoring balance you will be constantly emphasising different things.

In 1981 I went to St John's to train. Some of the lectures were hard. Some were dull. Some felt pointless. Two hours a week with Tom for the first two years, the first on Mondays at 9.10 a.m. I recall, were redemptive. He built our doctrine up from scratch, not ignoring the difficulties those of us from a conservative background would have with more liberal theologians, gently helping us through. I loved his lectures and still re-read my notes from time to time. Seminars were harder. He was smart and a good debater. Those of us who were young and timid found it hard to contribute. He liked the cut and thrust with the more academic students and was not so good at encouraging along the slow stream. But I came top of my year group at doctrine in 1983 and got a comment on an essay from him that began 'I liked this essay a lot.' It still only got 58%. But he had enjoyed reading it. Another helpful piece in the jigsaw that eventually convinced me I could write. (He had told us Barth wouldn't get 70%.)

Fourth lesson. Theology isn't beamed down. It needs building.

Fifth lesson. It doesn't matter how gifted the student; if you tell them you like their work it helps.

Tom went back to parish ministry for a few years before retiring. His congregations would have been well taught.

So thanks Tom. We haven't kept in touch but I am one of your students who is glad to have been in your presence those few short years. RIP

To Pray or Not to Pray

I notice that Bideford Town Council, who were challenged in court about beginning their meetings with prayers, have lost their case. The case was brought on the basis that the human rights of non-Christians were being breached. The case was actually won on an obscure point of legislation. No breach of human rights was found.

Read the BBC report here.

I suspect that many Christians will feel disappointed by this judgement. I don't. It is a matter of common courtesy, one which I offer people regularly, to ask permission before you pray. I extend this courtesy to all those I meet pastorally at weddings and funerals. Baptisms are different because the people concerned are seeking to make a Christian connection.

When one of our sons turned against our Christian routines we stopped saying grace.

It is not as if Christian Councillors will be unable to pray. They may have to do it quietly. I know of no scripture that tells me audible prayer is more effective than silent.

The sooner we identify our country's constitution as secular the better the Christian message can compete fairly in the market place of ideas.

Adventures on a Train

I've been between cars for a week now and the public transport thing has been doing me good. Today I had to get to Abingdon for noon. Abingdon is one of the bigger towns not to have its own station so I opted for Didcot Parkway and a bus.

At Nailsea and Backwell I was in good time and able to help a couple of women who were totally baffled by the ticket machine. They were articulate, intelligent and infrequent travellers. The stumbling blocks were:

1. How to buy more than one ticket. They couldn't find the button although they were probably not looking for the words 'additional passengers.'

2. How to pay. They failed to notice that the card reader has its own screen.

Still, we all survived and the train was punctual. The women alighted at Bath, a place Great Western Rail still calls Bath Spa, and I got to my change at Swindon as expected. The 1056 to Didcot Parkway was showing as 'on time' so all was well. At 1055 the departure board changed to 'delayed' and an announcer slurred his way through the news that there had been a power failure west of Swindon and he would keep us informed. My bus journey to Abingdon had to become a taxi ride.

We were told that the power failure was massive. Someone mentioned a landslide (I love rumours) and another a cable theft. This latter turned out to be true. We were never told how long the delay would be but at 1130ish were informed that a train on Platform 1 would be going to Paddington and stopping at Didcot so a load of us crossed over.

An announcement then told us not to get on the train at Platform 1 because it was out of service and the next train would be in as soon as that one had been moved. Then we were told our train was approaching Platform 3 after all and we all headed back (quite a crowd by now) ending up face-to-face with those who had only slowly responded to the news to change from 3 to 1.

Eventually we all got on and arrived in Didcot only 40 minutes late. A taxi made up some time. Only fifteen minutes late for my appointment.

Apparently it was a wire theft at Wootton Bassett.

I've had a good run of trains recently but my last two journeys have been dreadful.

New Book

I'm working through the proofs for God's Church; My Place - what it means to belong to a Christian community. I'm off to the offices of the Bible Reading Fellowship today to discuss the book with the marketing department. Hopefully it will be published in June.

Here is a brief extract to start your pondering:

'And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved.
(Acts 2:47b)

'The Lord adds to the number. He added daily to a church which had recently baptised three thousand new converts.

'You are the best advert your church has. God grows your church. Not you. If God sees you planning to improve your welcome you should expect that he will send you some people to practise on.

'There may not be time to buy three thousand matching coffee cups but you can still smile.'

If you enjoyed Mustard Seed Shavings then you will find more of that style directed at a different subject. It contains two good jokes.

Faith Matters - conclusion

Some folk have suggested frustration that my two-day chronicling of my perilous faith-state then lurched into silence. If chronicling can lurch and silence is a direction, that is. Well I went on holiday and had a lovely week on and around The Gower. I didn't go to church on either of the Sundays, I didn't take a Bible with me and apart from 'I'm still listening if you want me' didn't pray any particular prayers. It was great.

I waited for the mixed-bag of stress related minor ailments to hit, as they usually do once I relax, and soon embraced itchy skin and mouth ulcers like old friends.

Back at the ranch busy weeks set their first challenge - do I go to everything my diary suggests I ought to go to or do I keep my public promise and make being with Mrs WWA one night a week a priority? I opt for the latter and thank those who will be disappointed by my occasional absence for their understanding.

And gently, quietly and unspectacularly, in the everyday life of talking to people, chatting to enquirers, meeting strangers, helping the bereaved, trying to fix a vision and generally curing souls I recall who I am and what I should be doing.

Then last Sunday I arrived, in front of a small congregation at a Book of Common Prayer evensong ('We like to do something different on a fifth Sunday evening'), at that lovely verse from the beginning of 1 Samuel 3 which ought to set the tempo for our lives far more than the spectacular:

In those days the word of the Lord was rare; there were not many visions.

It reminds me that feeling empty and faithless is normal for most of the people most of the time. It reminds me to wait, hope and trust.

Which I will gladly do. Thanks for those of you who were concerned and offered words or hugs. Kind of you.

Review of the Year

For many reasons it was a tough year for both me and Mrs A professionally, none of which need concern us now. It was a year that started for me with surgery and ended with many drives up the M5 to support my Mum through her hip replacement. It also included the first bad holiday we have had for years and ended with us both being ill at Christmas. 2012 is already being better in many ways.

January 31st is perhaps a little late for a review of 2011 but, in my defence, I'm really slow. I started it and forgot I hadn't finished.

These things made 2011 bearable.

Album of the year. Worthy mentions for Atlum Schema's four EPs, Winter, Spring, Summer and Autumn. All good and at least one belting track on each. The lad deserves fame and fortune soon. Loved the second Battles album, Gloss Drop, Metals by Feist, Glasvegas' Euphoric Heartbreak and 4Ererevolution by Roots Manuva.

But for sheer vocal virtuosity, a skill which the Apprentice rarely acknowledges, Claire Maguire's Light After Dark gets the prize. She can sing so you hear Florence Welch, Annie Lennox, Kate Bush, Stevie Nicks and Joan Armatrading; yet all melanged uniquely.

Harry Baker's slam poetry at Cafe Create, Nailsea was beathtaking. Find him, see him live.

Bonobo Live at Bristol 02 was a good evening out; not least because the family came and we have few areas of cross-over. Last time we tried it was Herbie Hancock and I don't think I've quite been forgiven.

Comedy gig award to a rambling, and not especially sober, Dylan Moran. I wish I could be as erudite and amusing without rudeness when pickled.

Source Code was my escapist film of the year. Didn't quite take me where I expected and left a few things open at the end. Let's just pray they have no plans for Source Code II.

The i Paper improved my life immensely. If  I didn't fancy reading in bed there was a choice of three puzzles to do.

The New Battle Axes at Wraxall offered fine services to mid-week evenings off with Mrs Apprentice. Slightly pricey (you pay for the refit) but their two local real ales Flatcappers and Battle Axe are to die for. As is their way with a fruit crumble. Alcoholic pick-me-ups at home provided by New Zealand sauvignon blancs. Hard to find a bad one.

Escapist book of the year was Robert Harris' The Fear Index. A day in the life of a risk-taking banker. A bad day.

Vocational Work

At my leaving do from Eagle Star Insurance in 1981 one of my colleagues wished me luck in my new vacation. I'm sure it was a slip of the tongue.

Priesthood is one of the few occupations still seen as vocational. Notwithstanding the impact of Common Tenure, which leaves clergy to be treated, and feeling, more like the salaried than the stipended, most of us do the job because of a sense of calling and feel that the money we get each month, rather than payment for services rendered, is to save us from the necessity of earning our livings.

We may discuss that some other time.

I've wondered afresh recently, especially in the light of the discussion about salaries for CEOs, if there might be such a thing as a vocational banker.

Who else does this? Some teachers, medics and charity sector professionals maybe but the list doesn't extend easily.

By vocational I mean doing the job by hook or by crook regardless of payment.

The argument about bankers' salaries seems to be that no-one would move sideways to help RBS and in the process take a huge salary cut, therefore the bank needs to offer a market rate. Having done that, albeit with a slashed bonus scheme, Stephen Hester has now been pressured into waiving his right to the bonus negotiated.

How about if there were a group of senior financiers who would say this:

We care about markets, wealth creation and monetary security. It has been our lives' work to study it and manage it. We now pledge ourselves to help ailing financial institutions (even if they are countries) for the rest of our working lives at no more remuneration than that which saves us having to work for our living elsewhere.

Go on. I dare one of you to go first. Bankpriests. We need you.

Insurance

Back in the day, the day being 1973-1981, I worked in the insurance industry. Part of the training, you may be relieved to hear, was a course on Elements of Insurance. It was part one of a nine-part course to become an Associate of the Chartered Insurance Institute (ACII).

One of the first things we were required to learn was this. The basic principle of insurance is that the premiums of the many compensated the misfortunes of the the few. Fair enough. Nobody gets stung by a big loss because everyone agrees to a small loss calculated on the basis of experience.

I had worries about this when various groups began to be set aside, told they represented a low risk, and offered cheap premiums. Think SAGA, women drivers, post-codes for house insurance and many other examples.

Today we hear often that young people, once they have passed their tests, cannot afford insurance for their cars.

This week I read that life insurance may, in the future, use genetic readers to anticipate a person's chance of an early passing and thus raising the premium for the life-limited. I hope that various ethical committees will say that this is a bridge too far, But I wonder if we have established  a dangerous precedent.

What would it be like if all insurance premiums were better rounded? Then the fortunes of the many would still contribute to compensation.

Not having a claim is not a matter, as one customer once told me, of not getting your money's worth. It is a cause for rejoicing about the absence of misfortune.

Spirituality

I was at clergy meeting the other day at which a guest speaker talked about spirituality. I think, and I lost concentration at about sentence two so I may be wrong, that we were being encouraged to make time for our own spirituality in order to sustain ourselves in our demanding roles.

I used to do a job training youth leaders. From time to time this involved talking to clergy about youth-work. I discovered, quite early on, that if I talked specifics I often got the reply 'That won't work here mate and I'll tell you why.' Not always so politely. So I spoke in general terms and principles and allowed others to do the application to their local situation. This had some success.

I think this is what our guest speaker was doing the other day although her precise generalisations (can't believe I wrote that, sorry) were hard to pin down. Elusive wisps of thoughts and ideas came and went, every one of them, sending my mind off on a journey to a better place. Maybe this is what a spirituality adviser should do. But the result was that when we were asked to respond to what she had said I had no idea what the question was. It seemed that most others in the room, with the exception of some of the more recently ordained clergy, knew what to talk about at this point.

The more they spoke the more I thought I wouldn't because I would seem weird. I get this a lot. So I wrote a bit. This usually helps. Just now I found my notes. It occurs to me that discovering others who saw the world my way might be an encouragement. So here, with a bit of tidying, is what I wrote:

What sort of spirituality do you identify with?
Which do you prefer? I do not engage with life as a series of preferences. My life is not especially binary, digital. If given a series of choices I will often make one, but not out of long-term established principle; merely then and there. Tea or coffee? Chips or mash?  Bath or shower? Silence or company? Read or write? Mercedes or VW? (That one's real, current and hard.)

If given a choice of yellow and any other colour, yellow will usually lose. But asked to choose between any other two colours I will probably not have a favourite.

Our speaker just said, 'If I am not astonished (by the world) I am not paying attention.' What has astonished me this week? Nothing. Some people find this question easy. I am not often shocked (although I don't like horror movies so tend to avoid trying to be shocked) and the opposite is also true. I am rarely astonished. Being astonished has just been equated with paying attention. I think I am permanently curious but rarely astonished. The world has a consistency about it such that only the miraculous and street magic (trickery) astonishes me. Since 'astonished' is such a wrong word for me I find the question hard.

So I won't usually hate a week but neither will I instantly and clearly be able to tell you what was the best bit. I wonder if seeing the world in terms of being rather than doing (which I be) makes it peculiarly difficult to identify the best doings of the week. What was the best bit of last week? Being me. It was great. I have eyes and opposable thumbs. Ain't that the dogs?

So what is my response to questions such as, 'What sort of spirituality do you identify with?' It's difficult. All of them. None of them.

If there are any people out there who understand this and would like to talk about it please get in touch. Use the comments box, tweet @s1eve or pick any other way you know.

And nobody mentioned Jesus, once.

Important information from Royal Mail

Along with many people in 'my area' I am going to have changes to my Royal Mail service. A letter, from Plymouth so I don't know quite how big 'my area' is, explains why these changes are necessary.

These changes are necessary to give best value, invest in modern equipment and stop Royal Mail personnel getting a hernia from their heavy bags. Apparently it has not occurred to Glynn Lane, Delivery Sector Manager for the Nailsea area, that I might expect these things to happen as a matter of course.

Still, we get to heading three, 'What this means for you.' I quote in full:

• We will continue to deliver in the morning and for a longer period during the day. Many customers will continue to get their mail by lunchtime.
• The time you receive your mail will depend on where you are on the new delivery route. This may be later or possibly earlier than you are used to.
• As I am sure you understand, when mail volumes vary, I may need to adjust delivery arrangements and time.

He finishes:

'These changes may mean a different postman or woman ... will deliver to you...'

May I summarise Glynn's letter for the hard-of-understanding:

As a result of us doing what you would expect us to do we may deliver your post earlier, at the same time or later in future. In busy times your post may be late. This delivery may be carried out by the same, or different, personnel to those you are used to.

Gee thanks. Load off my mind Glynn.

Garden Bird Sightings

Here are the results of a year's staring out of the window. I have listed the species (21 different ones) seen in, or immediately over, my garden in the last year. The number following is the most of that species seen at any one time, followed in brackets by the date on which that occurred. The final number is the figure for 2010:

Blackbird 5 (14/1/11) 5

Blackcap 2 (several) 2

Blue Tit 5 (6/1/11) 3

Chaffinch 3 (20/2/11) 2

Coal Tit 1 (10/5/11) 2

Collared Dove 5 (6/3/11) 7

Dunnock 2 (several) 4

Goldfinch 6 (8/2/11) (20/2/11) 4

Great Tit 2 (several) 3

House Martin 16 (31/8/11) 17

House Sparrow 16 (18/11/11) 14

Jackdaw 2 (28/3/11) 2

Jay 1 (1/1/11) 2

Long-tailed Tit 2 (31/1/11) 5

Magpie 3 (5/1/11) (27/2/11) 2

Robin 2 (several) 2

Sparrowhawk 1 (22/2/11) 0

Starling 20 (25/3/11) 36

Swift 5 (26/6/11) 3

Wood Pigeon 3 (several) 3

Wren 1 (several) 1

Observed 2010 but not 2011:

Black-headed Gulls

Common Gull

Crow

Fieldfare

Green Finch

Herring Gull

Heron

Pied Wagtail

Redwing

Song Thrush

Swallow

The eagle, parakeet and giraffe observations noted in the book all seem to have taken place on Tuesdays which, coincidentally, is when I host the Holy Trinity leadership team meeting.

Shipwrecks

In Rhossili Bay on the end of the Gower Peninsula is a beautiful beach. Two thirds of the way along you can make out, from the cliffs above, some weird shapes in the sand. They look as if they could have been old groynes or a small boat that has long since died.

Approaching it you discover the alignment of the wood doesn't quite work as sea defence or small boat. In fact you can see the prow of an enormous boat. There is a mixture of wood and metal work that suggests it may be old but not that old.

In fact this is the Helvetia, which sank in 1887 without loss of life although the story is that the cargo of wood now makes up the floor of many local houses. Sadly there was a tragedy when six men were killed in the operation to recover the valuable anchor.

I pondered our island existence this week. It has been a week when a British submarine lost in 1942 off Malta was found and declared a war grave for the 90 hands who perished and also when a huge passenger boat capsized, also in the Med, currently with a loss of life of only three. I fear this will rise.

We live on a planet made up largely of water. Those early explorers who went to sea not knowing where they would end up sure were brave, or at minimum had more curiosity than fear. But shipwrecks tend to stay where they happen.

The wreck of the Helvetia is strangely beautiful at low-tide in the January light. It breaks up the monotony of the miles of sand but like flowers attached to a lamp-post. How fragile we are.

January 4th Faith

So, as some of you know, I got dressed yesterday and did some work. It helped. What helped particularly was meeting with a very ordinary bunch of, yeah let's say it, not that young, members of a local church who wanted help with learning to lead worship, pray in church, read the Bible and preach. Doing this sort of thing is an absolute priority for me. Partly because it clears my diary of having to plan services because others can do it and partly because delegation is the business I am in.

This morning I said Morning Prayer with two other guys in a cold church. They have faithfully done this every Wednesday throughout a vacancy that is nearly two years old now. Only recently have I begun to join them. I don't think there was any clear articulation of why it should be done. It just seemed right to them to carry on and so they did, come rain or shine.

Routine is a good way to keep faithful. You follow the patterns laid down in the past because then the journey is familiar. Footpaths tend to lead to the same place every time, unless you are at Hogwarts or something.

Every time I have posted, over the last eight years, in a manner such as I did yesterday, or indeed ventured that sort of information in a conversation, I have found it tremendously rewarding. Not rewarding in the sense that everyone says 'there, there, buck up' even though they do and it's OK, but rewarding in the sense that it seems to be a helpful thing to say. Judging by the feedback on Facebook and in the comments box I suspect that I am being more helpful to people when I say how I really feel. Obviously not the sort of thing to blurt out on a bereavement visit but you know what I mean.

I used to enjoy a quote that said something like;

Tell them about your certainties - they'll have enough doubts of their own.

I think it was the late David Watson who said it, or at least popularised it. Thing is, that leaves the impression that the clergy are the only ones with 100% clarity of faith all the time. Clergy can come across as just a bit over-sincere - you know that thing we do with slightly more eye contact than everyone is comfortable with.

After prayers I went shopping for a bit - a wander ponder if you like and anyway I had to buy some birthday presents. Another reason January sucks is that half the family have birthdays in it and that is joined by the car insurance renewal and my balancing tax payment for the year.

So the current state of me is that I am bright and breezy and not particularly stressed that the world is currently a place of godless truth and beauty. I will attend tonight's prayer time with a clear conscience and maybe even say a few myself.

In those days the word of the Lord was rare; there were not many visions.

It's from the beginning of Samuel. We don't quote it often enough.

January 3rd Faith

I have to ease myself into it. Like getting into a too-hot bath it has to be done gingerly. Subtle difference is that, once entered, a bath is by-and-large pleasant.

It's not the work I worry about. I can do tasks after Christmas. I can get stuff done.

It's the faith. Where did it go?

There are several mornings a year when I wake up not believing in God and have to do that Descartian locking myself in a metaphorical cupboard thing until I can face the possibility of spiritual questions. Not quite cogito yet. You?

Let me show my working. It may bother you but it gets me going.

Suppose there is no God. It's easy if you try. Then put on a dog-collar. Ha. Weird isn't it? Why are you wearing a symbol of spiritual support to others if you don't think there is a God? Take it off for a bit.

Now look around you. You have a job with very few responsibilities and a nice house and a salary that works as long as you are sensible or have a partner who works. All you have to do to keep those things is to make a few glib and platitudinous statements once a week and pitch up when expected at various occasions. Far more than you could possibly imagine can be delegated. Could you manage that? You may be a con-artist but you are quite a good one.

OK. So that's a starting point. You can come out of the cupboard now. You are a hypocrite but aren't we all? You know you have felt like this before and getting on with things will move you on, or at least has in the past.

Your next step is to decide if any of the things you are going to be talking about can be said to be true in any sense. The world kinda needs a meta-narrative and the Christian one is a good one. Triumph of good over evil; live pessimistically but hold on to a grand hope etc. If there is a God he would be like a good father; if he cared for us he would enter our world, his glory veiled possibly. So that was Christmas.

Just a few days ago I was singing that we might let:

Our happy voices rend the jocund air asunder

Tried it at Trendlewood Church New Year's morning. Never seen a bunch of people less likely to rend the air, jocund or otherwise.

Maybe others feel like me too. Or just went to better parties where they weren't the driver.

But that is where I have reached currently. There may be no God but I will carry on acting as if there is for a bit until he catches up with me again, or I with him. If he is there he won't be hiding.

I'll add some new bricks to this wall over the next few days. I thought it might encourage you to know that you are not the only one who feels, from time to time, that everything has been in vain, but your pension is probably not tied to it quite so tightly.

Happy new year.

The Animals' Tales

As used at Holy Trinity, Nailsea Crib Service yesterday.

The Story of the Journey - The Donkey's Tale
I am a donkey. To tell the truth I don't have a name. Everyone calls me little. I suppose I am small for my age. But small creatures can do important tasks.

Caesar Augustus wanted to know how many people were in the Roman Empire. So he made everyone go home.

When a census was taken in the Roman Empire everyone had to get back to their birthplace and sign in. All the important people got the best rides. Those with no money either walked or got a donkey.

I got to carry this woman who was pregnant. Very pregnant. I put my hooves down really carefully in case a loud noise started her off.

And her bloke, Joseph, came from David's family. The great King David of Israel. And everyone knows that he came from - yeah that's right - Bethlehem, In Judea. But they lived in Nazareth in Galilee. That's eighty miles away and further if you don't want to go through Samaria. Which we didn't. Scum.

It took us a week. Amazing she didn't have the baby on the way.

And when we got to Bethlehem it was ramming. I wondered if some people wanted to show off that they came from the same town as David.

And all the rooms were taken. Everyone must have got there early to get a bed. So Mary and Joseph had to kip at my place. With the other animals.

I'll let Daisy the cow take the story on.



Inside the Stable - The Cow's Tale
Moo. Moo.

Hi I'm Daisy. High quality, organic milk supply to the hospitality industry.

This bit of the story gets exaggerated. Everyone reckons they know what happened and adds a bit of detail. To be honest it all took place quite quickly. Mary and Joseph crashed in the barn and that was where she had the baby. When Luke wrote it down all he said was:

While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her first-born, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger...

As I remember it we all tried to move to the side to give them a bit of room. Everyone respects a birth round here.

But it all went well. Lots of happy voices and then Mary and the baby went to sleep and Joseph went to the pub.

We had a bet on what they would call the kid. My money was on David - it seemed to fit - but everyone lost. They called him Joshua; that's Jesus in Greek. It means 'The Lord saves.' Hmm. I wonder.

How do I know all this? Remember, not all cows are as silly as they look.


Out in the Fields - The Sheep's Tale
It was night. We were all asleep. It was a bit of a boring night.

Sorry. I'm forgetting myself. Name's Harry. Harry the lamb. I told my Mum it would have been easier to remember if it had been Larry but what can you do?

I'll never forget what happened next. It became day. Not slowly as usual. At once. In an instant. Kaflash!

And a thing appeared. I didn't know what it was. The shepherds, who had been doing OK up to then, went crazy. They are supposed to protect us but they hid behind us while we tried to hide behind each other. It was chaos.

And a voice said:

Do not be afraid.

Didn't really work. We carried on being more afraid. Because the kaflash talked.

Then it spoke some more and said a baby had been born, was dressed in cloths, was lying in a manger and was really quite important.

The kaflash got brighter and started singing:

Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to those on whom his favour rests.

Rubbish song. Great video.

So the shepherds left us and went to visit Bethlehem. Left us. Alone in the dark again. In the fields, by ourselves. That was frightening.

When they came back they seemed very excited. They kept talking about what had happened and told everyone who passed by the next day.

Amazing.


Another Journey - the Camel's Tale
If you want to go somewhere in style you don't walk. You don't go on a little donkey. You hire a camel.

That's me that is. Tall. Distinguished. Very capable. Someone once called us the ships of the desert.

They must have meant my sister. She looks like the back end of a liner. I, on the other hand...

Anyway, my story.

One day some wise men who studied the stars hired me and my mates for a few weeks to travel to the east, to Jerusalem. They wanted to see a new king. They had seen it in the stars.

In Jerusalem we stopped and asked where the king was, thinking everyone would send us to the Palace. Nobody knew anything.

Eventually some priests and teachers did a bit of checking. They told King Herod, the current king, what they had found out. He sent us on our way to Bethlehem. We looked up and a star seemed to be moving there too. Cool.

When we got to Bethlehem we found a house where the baby they were all talking about lived. The wise guys went in and said hello and left presents.

Herod had told us to report back to him but the wise guys decided not to. There was something of the night about him.

Rich Gospel Investigates the Light

To use this in a service dress as a private eye (dark glasses, hat, raincoat with collar pulled up)

On the word intriguing – stroke your chin before speaking it

On the word suspicious - look round from side to side before speaking it

On the word mysterious - scratch your head as if puzzled

It was Christmas Eve and Rich Gospel was about to go home for Christmas.

It was a busy time of year. At the offices of Glad, Tidings, Comfort and Joy – the theological detective agency – the phone was ringing incessantly. Sadly, incessantly wasn't picking up.

'Paranormal, supernatural and doctrinal investigations,' they'd put on the business cards.

Very popular this time of year. It had been the busiest Christmas season ever and Rich had taken all the countings. Oops. Of course he meant counted all the takings. Obviously.

Suddenly a letter came through the window and landed on his desk. The window had been closed but luckily the letter was tied to a brick.

Very (look round from side to side) suspicious.

He raced outside but there was no-one in sight. Very (scratch your head) mysterious.

Picking bits of broken glass out of his hair, Rich opened the letter.

'Dear Mr Gospel', it said, 'My daughter has asked for a very specific sort of torch for Christmas. She wants a light that shines in the darkness that the darkness doesn't understand.'

Rich had a ponder. He toasted it and spread it with jam. Best ponder he'd had for ages. Then he went back to his train of thought. Sadly the station was closed so he had to return to work.

He knew about light. It wasn't as clever as it was made out to be. Think about it. Every time you put a light on it is because the room is dark. The dark must have got there first. If scientists listened to him (which they didn't because they tried to avoid being in the same room as an eccentric crank) they would be investigating not the speed of light but the speed of dark.

He had a little wonder, a 1987 one, a good year for wonder. It went very well with the ponder he had just finished.

So if all the girl wanted was a light that shines in the darkness he could give her a torch, a lamp, a candle, a bulb, a match, a fire, a tinderstick, a taper, a laser beam, a thunderflash... easy. But she wanted a light that the darkness didn't understand. Weird. In fact very (stroke your chin) intriguing.

Only recently he had whispered into his computer keyboard that he hadn't washed his hands today. This had turned it off.

He picked it up and kicked it across the room. This booted it up. He waited for it to be ready for use again.

He decided to search for lights that shine in the darkness but this simply took him to the web-sites of lighting companies. Very (stroke your chin) intriguing.

So he changed his search string for a piece of rope and tried the words 'understanding the darkness'. This took him to some very disappointing web-sites all about goths. Very (scratch your head) mysterious.

He was about to remove the piece of wood from the top of the computer to log off when he noticed, far down the search list, a quote from a book by a man called John. Men called John were, in his experience, deeply in touch with the innermost secrets of the theological universe. Something to do with the meaning of their name. Jonathan means God has given us a gift.

He read the quote. It was from a very old book but he thought he had one which he had used last Christmas when investigating angels.

He got the book down from his shelf. He read the beginning of John:

...and the light shineth in the darkness and the darkness comprehendesd it not.

It was very old language in his Bible; he must get a new one. Then he had a thought. After his ponder and wonder he was pretty full but eating always helped. Comprehending. That means understanding, doesn't it?

Very (stroke your chin) intriguing.

He read on. On wasn't as interesting as the Bible so he went back to it. What was this light?

As he read he found out more and more. The light wasn't a torch or a candle. It was illuminating in a different way. It was a person. A person who throws light on things. A person who - very (scratch your head) mysterious - was said to come from God.

Still he had his answer and that was what he got paid for. He was about to send the reply when he realised he had no address to write back to. Just a brick and a broken window. He'd forgotten that this was very (look round from side to side) suspicious.

He went back into his office where a surfer was just leaving. He was from an emergency boarding company and had tidied up the window.

Give me the answer he said, and the brick. If you let me take it to the client she'll pay for the window to be fixed. She just wanted to get your attention.

Very (scratch your head) mysterious. But he had one thing in common with the window. He was also shattered. He headed for home before anyone else needed investigating, a copy of John's clever book tucked under his arm, to read over Christmas.

This is what he started to read...

(Reading John 1:1-14)

See Through?

A quote from the Church Times drops into the in-tray of WWA's 'truth is stranger than fiction' department:

The likes and dislikes of the PCC and the reordering committee may come into play if your DAC is equally happy for a modern, glass-walled lavatory area, or for a panelled, more traditional-looking one.

If a Parochial Church Council (PCC) and its Diocesan Advisory Committee (for the care of churches) (DAC) cannot issue, today, a joint statement that glass-walled lavatory areas are inadvisable in churches I think we all out to go home.

Year in Status

First one Twitter; second one Facebook

What if?

OK this is a 'What if ?' post. If you don't know what one of those is then go away until you do.

See, the thing is, every Christmas someone goes to a lot of trouble to debunk a bit of Christmas. This year an excellent, and scholarly work by Anthony Billington points out that the word we translate as 'inn' in Luke 2 is probably wrong. It is more likely to mean no guest room. Read it here.

Most exaggerations and additons to the Christmas story (number and arrival time of wise men, presence of animals, requests to Christian children to behave nicely) have been dealt with at some point over the years. They are largely the fault of Victorian carol-writers.

My 'What if' is this. What if it's all bunk? No, not rubbish, but simply not history. John and Mark wrote perfectly acceptable gospels without birth narratives. Paul never refers to it and manages possibly the high point of early church Christology in Philippians 2 without talking about it, or apparently needing to. Jesus himself never refers to it; only to his human family. Joseph disappears from view before Jesus is an adult.

What if, aware of the nature of Jesus the healer/teacher and his ability, it was felt appropriate to give him the sort of exceptional birth or call that heroes of the faith traditionally had? Think Isaac's miraculous arrival, Moses escape, Samuel's childhood temple ministry and you'll get the idea. What if tales grew up as a mark of respect? Needing to treat him as divine someone invented his beginning. Luke adds shepherds (Jesus for the poor and stoopid); Matthew wise men (Jesus for the rich and educated).

Given the unique nature of his birth it is amazing that only one story from age 2-30 survives, Jesus at 12 in the temple. Didn't anyone think to chronicle the life of this amazing and special child? Why on earth not? What if that was because at that time he was not yet special, hadn't yet heard God's call and was busy learning not to cut the ends of his fingers off with carpentry tools?

Does that make his eventual sacrifice any less? Here, finally is a son of God (as we are all called) whose obedience is exemplary. 'This is my son', says a voice from the heavens. What if that is what we all could be, if we just went the way he pointed rather than wondering where he came from.

What if?

Christmas Letter

Christmas letter 2011 now published here. Don't all rush at once but it does contain between none and four good jokes.

A right and wrong speech

I commend you all to read the Prime Minister's speech to theologians and church leaders on the occasion of the commemoration of the 400th anniversary of the King James' Bible.

Read the text here.

It contains many fine words and quotes but I can't help leaving with the feeling that I have read a speech that was both completely right and completely wrong at the same time. Fully God and fully man?

I think it was this quote, nailing his colours firmly to the fence, that set the tone:

I am a committed – but I have to say vaguely practising – Church of England Christian, who will stand up for the values and principles of my faith…

Maybe he has simply picked up the vibe of the average Englander today - committed but vague. In what other walk of life could you claim a firm commitment allied with vague practice?

He goes on to praise, rightly, the exquisite language of the King James Bible yet finds within it an authority for everything including a constitutional monarchy, something which, on my reading of the Bible, earned God's disapproval and strong discouragement.

There are pot shots at modern translations, failing to understand that these are to help people access God's word as living and active rather than literature and archive.

He insists that the Bible sets our moral framework but wrestles with his own theological issues. There is an inherent danger in seeing the Bible as a finishing point rather than an agreed starting point. It doesn't give us the last word on divorce, sex, abortion or warfare. Indeed the Bible's own theology of these things develops through its pages.

There is a certain amount of cherry-picking:

Indeed, as Margaret Thatcher once said, 'We are a nation whose ideals are founded on the Bible.'
 
Responsibility, hard work, charity, compassion, humility, self-sacrifice, love…

…pride in working for the common good and honouring the social obligations we have to one another, to our families and our communities…

These are all good but why no mention of prayer, receiving the Holy Spirit, putting Jesus first, witnessing - these are every bit as much the Bible's values yet I suspect slightly less popular.

I rejoice that we have a Prime Minister who will, unlike Tony Blair 'do God'. I hope he understands that there will be some who feel it is rude not to do God properly.

A Bit of Dissonance

My head has been in a bit of a spin today. It started with a vague feeling of I don't-know-whatness at Morning Prayer and it hasn't gone away. I'm not ill or stressed; it's just that there's a thought trying to fly.

It may come from having had my notions of order challenged and being invited to embrace the conflict (see Monday's post and comments) but I seem to be more than usually aware of the bigness of God and the smallness of humanity.

It is also a time where many are discussing the future of the church, especially the Church of England, in the light of the TV programme Rev (tonight 9.00 p.m) and also a few articles being Facebooked and Twittered (some quite old) about the decline in the church. Others are renewing their spleen-venting over disestablishment and literal understandings of the Bible. I'm with them on both counts so they may as well save their spleens when in my company.

In Psalm 76 this morning we were invited to ponder a view of God that was enormous:

You are resplendent with light,
more majestic than mountains rich with game.
Valiant men lie plundered,
they sleep their last sleep;
not one of the warriors
can lift his hands.
At your rebuke, O God of Jacob,
both horse and chariot lie still.

This human view of God's majesty was that creatures were attractive because they were food and defeat in battle was all part of God's mighty, all-encompassing command and control. When he says die, you die.

Some say that they dislike the bloodthirsty God of the Old Testament. In fact it is the people who were bloodthirsty. The psalmist suggests that God is bigger than all this.

The Old Testament contains a lot of history and, as we all know, history is often written by the winners.

Then we started the Book of Zephaniah. He prophesied during the reign of Josiah. Josiah is always lauded as a good king who preserved Israel's sacred religious traditions and instituted reforms on that basis. He listened to the prophets and obeyed them. But the words of Zephaniah fly in the face of that. Here's a guy who proclaims death and judgement while things are improving and being renewed. It looks as if Josiah and he may have shared a great-grandfather (King Hezekiah) so that may be how Zephaniah managed to avoid becoming lion food. He is not mentioned in the parallel accounts in the historical books of 2 Kings or 2 Chronicles.

Then we had that little passage in Matthew where Jesus gets his and Peter's temple tax paid by doing a magic trick with a fish. It smacks of folk-tale to me, an invention of Matthew to keep Jews paying their taxes after the fall of Jerusalem.

We (there were four of us at Morning Prayer) often have a short discussion about the readings but today we sat in silence and I enjoyed my own discussion.

During a pastoral prayer meeting a little later I pondered on the simple faith of some of those prayers. At one point I jotted this down, addressed to those who rubbish the church:

The God you mock, the one who intervenes from time to time, occasionally doing our will, is too small. The God  I think I recognise, and know, always intervenes and my prayers are a way of seeing my unique issues in an eternal context.

This thought, not quite fully-formed enough to write down but what-the-hell, wants to suggest that in getting to grasp the fullness of the wonder of God, literalism can be a real hindrance. Sometimes it doesn't mean quite what it appears to says. That doesn't mean it ain't truth. We may need to search harder to find what is. None of these passages, experiences or events will reveal its meaning alone.

Weather

Why do you talk about the weather so much in England? I've been asked this a few times, mainly by continental friends or west-coast Yanks.

If it was 20c every day with rain falling in April only we'd probably not discuss it. But this morning we had overnight heavy wind followed by torrential rain, hail, lightning and thunder. Now it is looking slightly sunny.

We are blessed with not living in a part of the world where the weather makes a serious annual attempt to take your life, but also where it is not so predictable as to be dull.

I think it is part of what makes us adaptable and creative as a people. And on that note I'm going to get some writing and cooking done.

Pepper Pots and OCD

As you know the world divides into two types of people - those who divide the world into two types of people and those who don't . That's not original but originality is forgetting where you found something (Jonny Baker) and I've forgotten.

So you will either love and understand what I am about to tell you or wonder what all the fuss is about.

First, by way of background, you need to know that I suffer from a bit of OCD. Not seriously. I can cope with an odd number of cans in the fridge and visit untidy houses. I walk on the cracks. But I close doors and switch off lights (not a bad habit so far) and (extreme coming up) can't sleep with a dressing table drawer or wardrobe door slightly open.

Today I was meeting with some other ministers from around the Diocese (Hi David, Kate, Tina, Diana and Roger). We are the ones who have specific job descriptions including missional stuff - fresh expressions, pioneering etc.

Over coffee after our lunch together Tina rolled up a piece of paper that had previously contained chocolate and placed it under the pepper pot so said pot now leaned at an alarming angle. And left it there. She continued to talk as if nothing important had happened and when I suggested that I wondered why she had done this she said 'Because I am a pioneer.' When I further indicated that I found this made me uneasy she did nothing.

Now. Who else is bothered by the idea of sitting at a table looking at a deliberately destabilised pepper pot? Only me? OK. I'll shut up now.

Dr Theo

This morning we welcome Dr Theo Claptrap to the site to answer your questions on matters liturgical, biblical and ecclesiastical. Welcome Dr Theo and let's take a question:

Dr Theo, big fan, love your work, been following you for years...

Yes, yes get on with it.

Well I can't help noticing that today is the Festival of the Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

Indeed it is. Your question?

Well what is that for?

Ah well, glad you asked me that. The idea is that for the Son of God to be completely pure and free from the stain of human sinfulness his human mother must also have been and so on. It used to be called the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. It is celebrated on the 8th December, nine months before the Nativity of Mary which is celebrated on the 8th September. I guess they assumed a full-term pregnancy. Started about the fifth century CE.

Used to?

I think someone realised we'd have to be celebrating her grandparents, great-grandparents and so on. We'd disappear, immaculately up our own genealogy. Anyway if Christ is fully human as well as fully divine it is important that there was nothing special about his mother.

Nothing special?

Exactly. Ordinary, obedient human lass, probably a teenager.

Ordinary lass?

Exactly. The last thing she'd have wanted was a feast. Let alone one to celebrate her parents getting it on. Have you read the Magnificat?

Blimey won't that upset a few of our catholic friends?

Might do. Accuracy more important than friendship I reckon. You don't help your friends by agreeing with them when they're talking boll... Anyway, must dash, those Orange Lodge doors won't open themselves. Cheerio.

Dr Claptrap will be back to answer more of your questions after his meeting. Acknowledgement to the late Miles Kington who did this sort of thing from time to time.

Why is there something rather than nothing?

This is the title of a short book by Leszek Kolakowski which I have been reading very slowly over the last year or two. It is published, in translation, by Penguin.

In it he concentrates on 30 great philosophers and one idea they introduced or discussed which is, in some respects, still current and still being talked about. It is not (as he categorically says in the introduction) a history of philosophy and he warns any student attempting to treat it as such that they will fail their exams.

It is, especially for those of us who enjoy the exercise of thinking for its own sake, a great challenge. Fantastic to strip down life's great questions to such as:

Can we know anything?
How can we achieve certainty?
Do we need the church?
What is human existence?

It is equally interesting to read a summary of what the world's great thinkers (the list is the author's choice) have made of these questions. At the end of each chapter Kolakowski lists further questions and issues that are raised by the particular philosopher's views.

I loved it. And in passing I note how many of the world's great thinkers have given no answers whatsoever but merely raised questions that others have then gone on to think about in detail. Friends and colleagues will be aware of my dislike of answers and love of questions. Shoulders of giants and all that.

Cost me £8.99 through the Guardian book club.

Signs 2

Observing the strap-lines on large lorries has become a bit of a hobby of late (see previous post). What would once have been a Fowler chilled van is now:

temperature controlled distribution

I felt confident that Eddie Stobart's fleet, kings of truckers with girl names on the front of their rigs, would claim no such nonsense but was devastatingly disappointed to pass one of their vehicles on Saturday. It proudly proclaimed:

trans store logistics

No-one is a delivery driver any more.

Soon window cleaners vans will be offering:

on-site transparent wall cleansing solutions

And the Fire Brigade:

domestic and industrial combustion calming

I used to be a vicar. Now I wonder if people would rather have:

eternity logistics and solutions

Well it's a thought.

Signs

If you were to put three words on the side of your van what would they be? I know you haven't got a van, stupid. Take an imaginary trip.

Thing is, I bet that after a bit of work you'd have only those words remaining that were really worth keeping. They'd say a lot about you. Even the words you jettisoned to get, say, six down to four, would be interesting.

I passed a van on the M4 today. In fact I passed three vans from the same company, Downton. Of the three words on the side of their van, a strap line which you will find on their web site, I contend that two are unnecessary:

Real Distribution Solutions

One way to test a slogan is to see if the opposite is clearly stupid. If it is you don't need to say it. So:

Fake Distribution Solutions
Surreal Distribution Solutions
No Distribution Solutions

And as for 'solutions':

Downton - Really Solving Nothing
Downton - Not a Real Clue
Downton - No Real Answers for 55 Years

I rest my case.

I bet some creative types were involved in finalising the slogan. I used to do this for a living. I wish I was back in that line of work sometimes. People will pay good money for that level of stupidity.

May I suggest:

Downton Distribution

Alliterative, simple and memorable.

There will be no charge.

Unless, of course, it was only one van and it kept jumping beyond me at light speed. Now that would be a solution.

Don't Start Anything

I work best in the worlds of vision and delivery. I am not so hot at strategy. If vision is about destination - where are we going? - then strategy is about the steps to take to get there.

It follows that vision is more about leadership than management and vice-versa for strategy.

After two and a half days of retreat, and now a free day before returning to Advent earth, I have a single thought pinned down. I am fed up of starting things. I've spent all my ministry starting things. I've set things up. I've seen things that were not being done and I've made them happen. I have begun.

But I have lost the knack of being able to infect people with the passion for whatever it is I start and thus hand on the started thing to someone who will run with it, polish it and make it great, perhaps using me as occasional consultant if things get stuck.

I am currently doing too many things I started. And this makes me spend too much time keeping those things going when I really want/ought to be starting something else. I hear a Michael Jackson song on constant repetition. And yes I do '...wanna be starting something.'

The danger, with people such as me, is that we walk away from the things we have started because of the call of things as yet unbegun. I am determined not to succumb to this but it helps me understand the niggly level of frustration I currently experience all the time. Keep too many live things in a bag and one day the fight will break out.

It is good for me to take on one or two jobs in any post which require discipline and stickability. I do this in a couple of ways. It reminds me that everyone has to do a certain amount of the less pleasant jobs.

I've started two new things this term but I didn't stop anything in order to do them. I merely postponed. Both have gone well first time and are heading towards that difficult second album in a term when all the other things I've started here, bar two (which stopped because they didn't work), need to carry on.

If you hear me talk about pioneering anything for the next few months tell me to stop starting. At the moment, like a dodgy set of jump leads, I'm not starting anything.

On Criticism

I found myself, though no fault of my own, watching Strictly and Xfactor last night. It was horrid.

One observation. The panels of judges in both programmes know something about the subject they are critiquing. Why, in both cases, are they so hated if they offer suggestions for improvement? Most of the acts nod in acknowledgement. Why do the audience boo?

When Craig Revel Horwood enjoys a routine but suggests some correction of posture or hand positioning he is booed. When Gary Barlow applauds a singer but points out pitching issues in verse 1 (I like 'pitching issues' for what we would call 'out of tune') the audience goes mad at him.

We seem to want our developing stars to be fully formed and unmentored. Even the babies. How do you learn without comments?

I suppose the good cop bad cop routine and falling-out-judges makes for good tele but I can't help feeling that giving the impression that every piece of advice that is not encouraging is somehow wrong is, well, wrong.

We used to run a summer camp and each day would review the performance of everyone at everything the day before. One sign of growth as a Christian leader was the ability to sit in the meeting and hear feedback on your talk/music/game-leading/cooking. Those who listened and learned were the best; those who got all defensive were in for a life of under-development. It was also good to learn to give feedback, positive and negative.

Criticism is good. Anyway the TV was all too loud for me. Went to bed with quiet music. Getting old.