Good Friday - same story, same questions

I woke up at six and said morning prayer early for once. Mid morning I had a wound clinic visit, then walked to Llandaff Cathedral where I joined a congregation of about 200, with the choir and sanctuary party adding another fifty to those attending. Fr Mark was 'Preaching the Passion' with the Liturgy of the Day to follow. I appreciated his gentle thoughtful style, making space for the hearer to enter into his reflections on some detail in the Passion Story, not telling you what to think but rather allowing you to imagine for yourself. It was just what I needed.

The Liturgy which followed and hour and a quarter's food for thought was both traditional but also very contemporary. It started with the Tallis 16th century Litany setting for the Book of Common Prayer, and during the giving of Communion we had Byrd's 'Ave Verum Corpus'. St John's Passion Gospel was from the Jerusalem translation, sung to a remarkable setting composed by David Price, Organist and Master of the Choristers at Portsmouth Cathedral, (b.1969). It's remarkable, due to his decision to give the voice of Christus (traditionally assigned to a priestly celebrant) to a trio of singers, soprano, alto, tenor. Exquisite dissonant harmonies gave it an other-worldly, ethereal quality - divinely human, or humnaly divine. Having a less than familiar Gospel translation also stimulated the attention. Quite an arresting experience. A modern setting of the Reproaches that I'd never heard before, composed by Richard Lloyd (b 1933) was also sung, and this fitted very well. 

Good Friday has always been a taxing experience for me, preaching the passion along with having to officiate at one of the most intense liturgies of the year, often unsupported, as regular servers have had to work or are away on holiday. Only rarely have I not preached on Good Friday over the past 50 years. I admit that I missed this, or perhaps missed the hours of preparation required to re-interpret the mystery of the Cross in another time and place. It's as enriching as it is also draining. Anyway, I was on the receiving end, and came away feeling invigorated by the experience, and grateful for the change of scene. Clare was in town after going to the gym, so she attended St John's, our old church. 

I cooked us a chick pea and vegetable cazuelo for supper, and feeling pretty tired after the sustained effort of sitting still and upright avoiding discomfort for most of three hours, I went to bed and again watched the live TV stream of the evening's processions from Málaga, and looking through my photos from last year - so profoundly moving with several tronas dedicated to the moments after end of Christ's crucifixion, when his body is taken down, mourned over by Mary and laid out for burial. These are reminiscent of modern photographic reportage of a tragedy, and due to the quality of the sculptures, most vivid, but more contemplative too. Ancient art sought to tell the story much in the same way as contemporary photo-journalism, to make stop and think. Such rage and such tender pity, all centred around this one man's broken body. This man.

The church dares to proclaim him as divine with good reason, even if arguments are resisted and challenged by skeptics and agnostics. Trust in the dogma and institutions of Christianity is perhaps weaker and less widespread than it has been for centuries, but the story Christians strive to tell still challenges us to ask 'What do you think of this man? Who is he for you?'

The Gospels teach us to ask these questions and to decide for ourselves. It's different from stating unequivocally 'This is what you should think of this man if .... etc'. I wonder if Christian mission and evangelism has morphed into an exercise concerned more with just telling than asking? Have we become afraid of asking these questions? Of having a conversation of this kind?

The spice of life

A quiet, uneventful start to the week apart from visits to the bridge over the charco, spotting a couple of herons, well they may be a pair, but they tend to stay well apart from each other once breeding is over. There's just one egret out there again, the other two I saw seem to have quit. What's happened to the hundreds I saw last year? I wonder.

Today I phoned Fr Miguel the local parish priest, to confirm with him a date for the ecumenical carol service which happens a week after I leave here. I'll go to the Wednesday evening Mass in the parish church at Mojácar pueblo this week, and meet him properly. It'll give me an opportunity to exercise my Duo Lingo Spanish.

I had an email confirming an earlier request to do locum duty in Málaga during Lent and Holy Week. So that's January in Montreux, home for February, then Málaga for March and April. It will mean living there for the period of remarkable religious processional events, not just commuting in for a few hours at a time, as I did in 2014 from Fuengirola. It interests me greatly to see how the city continues to go about daily life, welcoming hosts of tourists as well as those who make what is in effect a pilgrimage there to participate in the cermonies. For balancing normality, I'll have the variety of three Anglican Chaplaincy congregations to minister to, at what is my favourite season of the Christian year.

When I think of the places I've done locum duties in Spain, what makes this enjoyable is that within a chaplaincy, congregations aren't clones of each other. Each has a different history as well as different context. Liturgy used will be much the same, but each gathering for worship expresses itself uniquely, and as a priest one has to develop a particular relationship with each. Variety is the spice of life!

Another walk to Garrucha this evening. A new large bulk carrier is loading in port, called Yeoman Bank, registered in Liberia. It's unusual among big ships I've noticed here, described by the Marine Traffic ship database as a 'Self Discharging Bulk Carrier' which explains the distinctive superstructure attached to its bow section. As it's currently loading, this is not in use, and is displaced high above the water, away from the loading quay.

For reasons unknown, the ship database shows correctly that it is currently berthed in Garrucha, but the Garrucha Port section of the Marine Traffic website shows no trace of its visit. This website is vast and complex. Keeping it up to date must be a nightmare, and not everything can be automatically sync'd. It's amazing we have such information resources anyway.

    

Summer time starts

Over the last three days Clare has been making steady progress and getting used to coping with her immobilised shoulder. The pain hasn't been too bad, but the anaesthetic after effects have been quite unpleasant - nausea, dizziness, fatigue - and we get the impression this could go on for some while. We've gone out for a short walk each day to get some fresh air, longer each time. Exercise makes all the difference. There have been emails, texts and phone calls to take her mind off the symptoms, not to mention the challenge of one handed typing.

Allan and Lynne visited yesterday afternoon and Lynne took charge of changing her wound dressing. It all looks good and healthy, testimony to the care taken by the surgical team. Owain came over from Bristol for a couple of hours in the evening, with a large bunch of flowers to cheer his mum. 

As I've also been feeling quite tired with extra tasks to perform, I made a point of putting the clocks forward in the early evening, rather than wait until it's my usual bed time, and end up losing an hour's sleep. It worked quite well, and I woke up more refreshed than I usually do on this particular weekend when summer time begins.

Clare didn't feel well enough to come so I went to church on my own, joining a congregation of over a hundred at St Luke's for the united Benefice service of the day. It was great to see so many children there with their parents, and to see two other retired clerics who help out in the parish, sitting in the congregation. The day was overcast. It rained and as a strong wind gusted, the usual procession from the hall next door, up the street and back to church was exchanged for an indoor circuit - the first time in his sixteen years as Vicar, said Fr Mark. Throughout the reading of St Mark's Passion, the ominous rumble of distant thunder could be heard. A sobering start to Semana Santa Cardiff.

Thinking of which, a brief search provided me with a link to the live broadcast stream of tonight's processions in Malaga courtesy of Onda Azul Malaga. Clare thinks I'm obsessional, but for the sight of all those people participating in such a massive and well organised social religious ritual is really inspirational. I can't be there now as I was last year, popping into the city on a crowded train at the end of a day's work, but I can do now what I discovered that I could do then, and watch on-screen whenever a visit was impracticable. Ah the marvels of modern technology!

Here's the link to the stream