Root reconnection

There's still lots to be done to complete last week's network upgrading exercise, so I spent several hours in the office this morning and afternoon, tidying up the records of a few days that passed at distressing speed. I was, however engaged to celebrate the College Eucharist at St Mike's at tea time. It that meant leaving early enough to go home, change clothes and get there in time to brief and rehearse with students playing an active part in the liturgy. 

Some of them were returning from year group field visits, driving through unpredictable  afternoon traffic to arrive in time, and this put preparation time under pressure. Nevertheless, we managed to start only a few minutes late, and everyone involved in making the liturgy happen played their part well. There were nearly forty people present for the service, no sermon, but lots of silence to grace this occasion.

I enjoyed the experience - it was the first time ever for me to preside at a Eucharist in the college where I did my ministry training. I was struck by the resonance of the chapel and the need to go slowly enough to be sure my words were clearly audible. The piano accompanist played vigorously, but was often ahead of the singing - something attributable to the difficult acoustic of the building.

Since my time as a student, the chapel has acquired a lectern in chapel architect George Pace's materials and style. On it is a small plaque :  'In memory of Roy Engelbert Horley'  He was diocesan Registrar at the time I was ordained. When I was ordained, he lived with his wife Betty, who was Bishops's Secretary in the dwelling at the south west corner of the Cathedral called 'The Clock House'. I remember him in his jurist's wig and gaiters, reading out the official Mandates during the ordination. His unusual middle name helped  reconnect me with that awesome moment in my early life, although I don't remember ever learning how he'd come by it.

At that time the chief legal officer of the diocese present at ordinations was the Chancellor, Judge Owen Temple Morris, also dressed in a jurist's wig and gaiters. In the swinging sixties, there were many things which had not yet changed. Judge Temple Morris spent his last years as a resident of the Westgate Street flats in the city parish of St John the Baptist. It was my privilege to support a faculty application made by his son Lord Peter Temple Morris to erect a memorial to his father in the church he loved and belonged to. It remains one of the few lasting achievements of my eight years there as Vicar.