Cave tourists

I made the brisk half hour walk down to the Church shop again this morning to celebrate the nine thirty midweek Eucharist there. Once more we were a dozen people, and among the newly arrived visitors was a retired priest and his wife from Norwich diocese. He told me after that the local rural group of churches where he lived had just lost both its full time clergy, and this had left him rather busy, with three funeral as well as regular services to do last week. He was thankful to have his holiday time here pre-booked!

The Europe diocesan website now has a useful page dedicated to requests for locum duty clerics. What with home leave and duties during vacancies, it's quite a challenge to fill all the gaps. The number of places where a ministry to English speaking expatriates has developed continues to grow, especially in France and Spain, as a result of people retiring abroad, if not moving for professional purposes.
 

After the post Eucharist coffee at Rosie's next door, I went off the the Hotel Balcon de Europe to meet a young civilly married couple who requested a blessing ceremony here in Nerja. All the arrangements were made with Fr Geoff during previous visits, and this was my opportunity to meet them and prepare for their big celebration, which will be tomorrow afternoon in a restaurant overlooking Nerja. They showed their bi-lingual Irish wedding certificate, which I needed to see in order to proceed. They are excited that their romantic dream celebration of the new life they've already started together, is about to happen. Weather forecasts for tomorrow are none too comforting. I hope it doesn't rain, as it'll be held outdoors. However, the groom is Irish and the bride Scottish, and it'll take more than wet weather to dampen their enthusiasm for a happy feast.

i went home to lunch, arriving before the rain started. After an hour it stopped and the sun came out, so we drove up to Maro and visited the extraordinary limestone caves. Only discovered fifty years ago by some local lads, the site has been nicely developed for tourism, and has logged over half a million visitors a year, justifiably. One of the largest caverns has been equipped with seating for several hundred, and a level floor created as a performance space. There's an exclusive dance festival which happens here annually each July. We had our photos taken on the way in, and were presented with the opportunity to buy it as we left. While I hate having a commercial photographer take a picture of me without permission like that, the result was decent enough and on impulse we both agreed it was eight euros worth of amusement, if a little cheesy.

The photos I took in the caves can be found here. A tripod would have been a boon companion for perfect picture consistency. However, some of the handheld flashless photographs taken with my new Sony HX5 underground justify my guilty purchase.

Nurturing Nerja's young

I went down to the Church shop this morning to get a new second hand book to read. Clare and I met up for lunch at an excellent tapas bar near the main church, discovered yesterday, then I made my way slowly through the back streets to San Miguel church for the teatime meeting of 'Messy Church', an outreach by the Anglican congregation to mothers with pre school children. An undercroft room below and behind the main sanctuary is borrowed for this purpose, and a dozen adults, mostly of grandparental age, involve themselves in the offer of hospitality, themed art and craft activities with children or leading a simple act of worship. 

Few if any of the families attend regular church, but clearly this English speaking social enterprise is valued, and has lately attracted as many as twenty children. On this occasion there were only half a dozen for no obvious reason except that the week after San Isidro's festival sees some shops and businesses taking a few days off and normal working patterns disrupted. In my experience there's never a single reason for the wide variations in attendance patterns of any activity involving parents and small children. What's important is being there, and being there regularly to welcome anyone who turns up, and taking an interest in them. Nerja Anglicans are enjoying the challenge and sustaining their commitment thus far. The need is as much there in an English speaking expatriate community as it is back in Blighty. It's admirable that so many are willing to take part.

Up in the church sanctuary at the same time, local Catholic kids were meeting either for a catechism class or to be prepared for a confirmation or first communion ceremony to happen in the coming weeks. May is the month when these things traditionally happen. It's a positive witness to the barrio of the church's care for children in the community that these two activities happen simultaneously.
    

Spanish burial

I was back in the church of San Miguel by eleven this morning for another funeral of a British woman who had been resident in this area for the past quarter of a century, having uprooted totally from the UK and integrated into a new life in the Spanish community. The daughter and son in law with their two small daughters were the chief mourners. The children were beautifully behaved and naturally involved in all the proceedings. Of the twenty other mourners, the majority were local neighbours. A close friend gave a brief tribute in Spanish, the family solicitor read a portion of John's Gospel in Spanish, and I did the rest in English.

We arrived at the Commendation in the service exactly at midday, allowing me fortuitously to pause for the church clock bell to toll the hour. Thankfully, I knew that after thirty seconds it would also chime the Angelus, or in Eastertide, the Regina Caeli. Just one spoken prayer fitted nicely in between the two, to take away the eerie silence, and then we left the church.

With the family and other mourners bearing flowers, we followed the hearse through the barrio, with a police escort to see us up a one way street and across the dual carriageway at an uncomfortable angle to access the cementario. The last time I walked behind a coffin through the streets in clerical garb was thirty seven years ago during the Troubles in Newcastle County Down, at the funeral of one of the town's senior tradesmen, leading a procession of his apprentices - Catholics and well as Protestants - to bury him. At the end of today's quarter mile walk, the departed, whose body had been repatriated to Spain from her native England where she'd died in hospital, was to be entombed in a columbarium level six niche, eighteen feet above ground. 

In the narrow aisle between columbaria walls there was a large portable iron platform, which I climbed up in order to be at eye level with the niche for the prayer of blessing. One of the rare times I ever recall being literally six feet above the congregation leading in prayer. After my descent, two funeral workers manhandled the English imported coffin between them up the stairs and into the niche. Then it was the turn of the mason to ascend and seal it in place. The panel used was thick plywood, the sealant something like polyfiller. It was done neatly, carefully, without haste and took ten minutes. I spoke appropriate meditative scripture sentences into the silence ad lib, and the assembly of mourners seemed quite at ease with this, as it removed the need for trivial conversation. 

In due course a marble memorial panel and facade will be inserted into the front area, similar to the one adorning her late husband's tomb to the left. For the time being, the space is occupied by mourners' flowers. The Spanish lady who'd spoken in church also brought a wreath of roses. These were placed by the tomb of her husband, on the fifth level immediately below. Friends, close together in death, as in life. 

There were quiet appreciative handshakes afterwards, from Spanish and English mourners. As I returned to the church, carrying my robes, I was aware of old men sitting outside noticing me smiling and nodding their  greeting. Dressed as a priest here, you're not invisible in public, as is commonly the case nowadays in Britain. And in these days of clerical scarcity, I guess they're glad to see any new priest around the block, whether they need one or not, as the priest in a community seems less of an oddity to them than it does so much further north. Here a new priest can be a sign of hope for those who want their community to live fully.

  

Keeping faith with the Workers' Saint

Up early this morning to be driven by Jill to Almunecar for the nine thirty service at the 'Fisherman's Chapel', as the former convent chapel is popularly known. This was a kindness on her part as the last part of the route down from the Autovia into the town was not easy to recall after just one visit last week. Having driven the route twice, I think I should be able to remember it next week. Jill lived and work in several countries before retirement, and we had a very interesting conversation en route about the funeral customs of Spanish Royals and Zoroastrians. There were twenty three in the congregation, and they sang enthusiastically, filling the small place with their voices - and, of course, the early sun shone in through the open windows, to make worship against the backdrop of a barrio waking up to enjoy its Sunday, real pleasure.

We drove back to Nerja for the midday Eucharist at the church of San Miguel. Many of the regular congregation stayed away from church, due to the difficulties of access and parking (as many drive in from outlying areas) caused by the Romeral de San Isidro - an annual street procession made by the region's agricultural communities to honour the saint. There was also the competing attraction of seeing the procession. Nevertheless there were still twenty eight of us for the Eucharist, in an echoing barn of a building seating 400.

Nobody could tell us much much about the saint, so I googled St Isidore and came up with the 6th century sevilliano scholar bishop who converted the Visigoths from Arianism to Orthodoxy. (Ah! A contemporary of Illtud and Teilo, back home in Glan Morgannwg!) He was an early developer of thinking about involving people in decisions about their governance, when such ideas were less than fashionable. Why so popular? 

It was only after mentioning this in my Good Shepherd Sunday sermon, that someone spoke about San Isidro Laborador - Saint Isidore the Worker. I googled again, and this time came up with an eleventh century Spanish saint - a landless peasant who, together with his saintly wife were acclaimed for their holy living and generosity to the poor - so, not San Isidro of Seville, patron saint of computers, but San Isidro the Worker, patron saint of agricultural workers. That explained everything. A big 'oops' for me however.

After the service, I met some of the family of the woman whose funeral I shall be doing there tomorrow, and we confirmed the arrangements we'd made by phone and email from the U.K.  Then it was time to make as much haste as possible in the midday heat, to follow the procession uphill to the outskirts of town, to see as much of it as possible, having missed the first hour or so of a three hour affair.

We missed the horsemen leading the way, and a few of the opening festively decorated wagons. The first dozen or so were literally ox-carts, drawn by beautifully kept yoked pairs of bullocks and some mighty bulls. A variety of decorated horse drawn carriages and carts followed the oxen, and finally came every kind of tractor and trailer available, festooned with flowers and ribbons, and kitted out with a sound system. 

Each vehicle was accompanied by groups of men, women and children in traditional Andalusian costume or in stylish fashionable modern derivatives, singing, dancing, drinking and smoking, smiling, chatting and waving. It was all the better for the absence of obvious commercial or political sponsorship. I felt they were doing it for themselves, and not for the tourists, not even for any 'good cause'. It was just a natural expression of pride and pleasure in community life and fraternal relations. My photos of that precious hour on the street can be viewed here.

We learned that the procession made its way out of town to a nearby area where there are large limestone caves. This was to be the site of a party for thousands, continuing all afternoon and into the evening. Back at Church House we could hear from the distant hillside the thumping disco beat of a big sound system. It didn't continue into the small hours, however. After all, tomorrow for farmers would be an early rise to a working day as usual, in the spirit of San Isidro, Laborador, their causa festiva.
  

Moving scenery

Yesterday for the first time we went down the flight of steps, beautifully decorated with patterns made of black and white pebbles, to Calahonda beach below the Balcon de Europe. On the beach there's an old fisherman's cottage which has been made out a cave at the foot of the cliff.

It's a lovely sheltered spot with several small coves, linked by a red brick and quarry tiled trail winding through huge masses of limestone conglomerate boulders either torn from the cliffs by the sea recently or pushed out of the bedrock by volcanic activity in more distant times. Right down to the foreshore the cliff face is decorated with greenery and flowers - nasturtium, convulvulus, hibiscus. It's an enchanting path, evoking memories of childhood adventures. It's a shame that for the time being you cannot walk its full length to Burriana beach, as sections have had to be closed off due to instabilities in the cliff face. No matter how strong and permanent cliffs and mountains appear to the casual viewer, this is a landscape still in the process of formation.

Overhead flew a light plane towing a banner reminding citizens to vote Conservative in next week's elections. Registered expatriates are allowed to vote. When I got home I found a phone message advertising a meeting to brief English speaking people about the issues in these elections. It's a sign of just of well established the Brits are that in some regions they stand in local council elections and get appointed.
  

Thanatorium

Churchwarden Judith drove me in her SUV to today's funeral. It was good to have here there to distribute the service booklet and hymn sheets. As she arrived to collect me, there was a second call in English from the funeral directors confirming next Monday's service at San Miguel. The first call had been in Spanish, so  the man had to get an anglophone colleague to ring back on his behalf. Somehow in my early learning days in Geneva, I'd gotten by with my funny schoolboy French, but now I don't have even that advantage, and realise what a challenge this must be to those working in far flung places with less accessible languages.

Unfortunately, there were two possible funeral centres in the vicinity of Velez Malaga. Ours was the Axarquia Thanatorium - the one Judith didn't know about and hadn't visited before, so we missed the turning which figured in the instructions given me the day before, and drove to one the other side of the town centre first. Fortunately we'd started out with time in hand and arrived with ten minutes to spare.

The Axarquia Thanatorium is located in a commercial industrial area, amidst car showrooms and the suchlike. The roundabout turnoff also has a sign for the Axarquia hospital (sanatorium?), so it's not far to go when making final arrangements. The place itself opens on to a small forecourt decked with seasonally cropped plane trees, then straight on to an access road for several other commercial outlets. For the number of businesses in the street parking is inadequate. It stinks of bad local planning. We had to drive around the block, park on a pavement and make the past three hundred metres with indecent haste to be there on time, all of which set my heart pounding a bit.

The warehouse sized building has a huge marble decked foyer with seating, and funeral chapels off-set down corridors. People were milling around inside and outside, and information had to be hunted for, but we soon made contact with the widowed husband who took us to our chapel to meet the choir and get ourselves ready for action. The chapel seated about sixty with the fifteen strong choir all standing at the back. In the absence of an organ, singing would be unaccompanied.

The casket was a polished oblong box affair, with a hinge down one side, a lock with a key in it on the other to facilitate viewing the body if requested. The women of the family had made their own flower arrangements with the best of blossoms from the garden at home, and there was a framed photograph with them. The altar behind was set up for a funeral Mass if required, and on the 'north' side of altar was a life sized statue of the Virgin of Sorrows gazing towards the casket, looking down upon the deceased, should the lid be open. All carefully considered for those needing such a resource. There was also a permanent Paschal Candle, and this I made sure was lit. By the time everyone was in the chapel, none of the officials were in sight. Not that I would have been able to speak to them. It's fairly rare to find an English speaker in such a setting.

Once the chapel doors had been closed to shut out the noise from the foyer, I could make myself easily heard in a room full of seventy five people. The choir sang movingly a couple of pieces requested from their regular repertoire by the family. With the family's agreement I led everyone in singing 'All things bright and beautiful', rendered with great gusto. In the absence of funerary officials, I wasn't sure how the end would happen, so after the blessing, I led the next of kin outside, then the congregation slowly poured out. Once it was quiet and only a few family members remained to collect the flowers and photograph, the casket was wheeled away informally, quietly and things naturally came to a close. I learned that cremation would happen latter, not on site but privately without ceremony over at Almunecar.

Thankful that all had gone as well as it could, we left for home, there being no after-service reception on this occasion. On the street nearby we met Clare on her way to the local medical centre, to see if she could get treatment for the sinusitis which has been plaguing her since we arrived. Fortunately, she was able to see one of the emergency medical team and obtain medication with little difficulty, despite possible communication problems - always a nightmare when it comes to describing symptoms to someone with whom you do not share a mother tongue. But all's well that ends well.

Bereavement meeting

At lunchtime today , I drove the chaplaincy car along the coast road in the Malaga direction to Torrox, the next resort along the coast from Nerja. At this time of year, before the major influx of holidaymakers, the roads and beaches are quiet and empty, something which I appreciated as I hunted for a nameless churrangito (snack bar) where I was to meet the bereaved family. This is much more the likely pattern than a home visit here, apparently.

The sand of the largely limestone seashore in this region is an interesting cement grey, due to the addition of black volcanic sand and pebbles into the mix at some time in ancient pre-history. From its appearance, you'd  expect the foreshore to be as hard as a kerbstone, not soft mobile sand. Exposed cliff and road cuttings reveal ancient pebble strewn river beds compressed and twisted out of shape over time into a hard material whose character resembles concrete with added pebbles and boulders. This would be a bleak environment if it were not for the proliferation of mediterranean greenery in abundance.

It was good to sit and listen to a husband and three children speak fondly about the woman whose life we would be celebrating in tomorrow's funeral. There would be no eulogy, just a couple of musical items from the choir and the funeral liturgy which I could develop to fit the occasion. All in all this was familiar territory. The only unfamiliar thing will be discovering the Thanatorium (sounds like a sanatorium with a lisp), and liaising with the funeral directors to ensure an appropriate outcome.

  

Midweek celebration

I walked down to town this morning to rendezvous with churchwarden Judith, and go to the Church shop to celebrate the midweek Eucharist there. Eleven people turned up, including some visitors, who were appreciative to find an act of worship going on in the midst of the everyday retailing on second hand books and nearly new clothes. Afterwards I went to the Hotel on the Balcon de Europe, to rendezvous with a couple whose civil marriage I'm blessing  next week. I was on time, but a week early for the meeting, I discovered when I checked the documents. So I bought some fresh fish in a real fishmonger's shop and headed home for lunch.

A phone call at siesta time brought a second funeral request - a woman who was somewhat disconcerted to learn of Fr Geoff's absence on leave. A member of a local English speakers choir in which he sings had died, and a funeral was to be arranged at which the choir would sing and Fr Geoff was asked to officiate. I was able to reassure her that as his stand-in, I would be available for a service on Friday - at the Thanatorium near the Velez Malaga motorway junction. Later in the day, I received a call from the widowed husband, and we arranged a preparatory get together with the family for tomorrow at a beach snack bar in neighbouring Torrox. 

The evening news reported an earthquake in Lorca, near Murcia, about three hours drive north of here. Just as I was about to go to bed, my sister June rang for reassurance that we were OK, as she'd heard on the news that  the quake had been felt in Granada, just over an hour's drive through the mountains east of here. Whatever next, I wonder?

   

Tuesday market

After breakfast, we sauntered out of our residential area to check out the full blown mercadillo (open air market) occupying double the open space of the Sunday market. Ninety per cent of the stall and clothing and shoes. The rest are household goods, artwork, jewellery and vegetable stalls, offering the best of seasonal fare, plus a few selling spices, teas, nuts and dried fruits. We made the most of the opportunity to stock up on fresh veggies, pecans, dates, figs, stuffed olives and paella spice. Nerja has a welcome variety of decent restaurants to choose from. Eating out is great for socialising, or when we're tired of our own creations, but everyday home cooking Mediterranean style is a pleasure as much on holiday as at other times.

Fr Geoff gave me the vital low-down on local funerary practice before he left, in the event of a request coming my way. He reckoned it would be unlikely, as he'd had more than his annual quota in the past year - although his locum priest last year had three funerals in a fortnight. Famous last words. After lunch there was a UK phone call requesting an Anglican  funeral at San Maguel which would involve repatriating a widow's body by air from Britain, for burial with her husband in a columbarium tomb at Nerja cemetery. That's something I've never done before. Pastoral ministry is like that. You never know what's going to happen next.
  

Getting about

First thing, Clare and I walked downhill to the nearest beach and back to find out how long it would take ius - twenty five minutes, or thereabouts. Nice healthy exercise. With last minute errands to perform, Fr Geoff and Carol had a busy morning, so later on it was my opportunity be taxi driver, get used to their car and familiarise myself with Nerja town centre street layout. We lunched together in a restaurant overlooking a beach on the south side of town, then went home for a siesta before taking them to Malaga airport for their journey back to the U.K.

The Autovia (motorway) carves a spectacular path through coastal hillsides, with views of the sea, valleys and high sierras at every turn. The seventy kilometre journey takes less than an hour at a leisurely pace, allowing time to register not only the beauty of the landscape, but also the extent of the urbanisation of the Costa del Sol. Housing has been constructed in every conceivable location in this very hilly landscape, and not always in harmony with it. In the coastal plain areas there are high rise apartment blocks, but little beyond three storeys in the interior. Many of the  buildings fail to take advantage of their place in the natural environment. It's not quite ugly, it's not beautiful - if anything it's odd, an unnatural evolution from a visual perspective. But then, one could say the same of many volcanic landscapes too. Twentieth century urbanisation represents economic volcanic activity in its own way.

As the sun was setting on our way home we stopped at a hypermarket near Velez-Malaga to pick up a few necessary food items. It was vast, and reminded us of similar shopping centres in France. Navigating our way to the main entrance for the first time proved a challenge. The key to anxiety free motoring in any country is understanding how the road system is designed to get you where you want to be. However, there are always sufficient differences in local road markings and signage (despite international conventions on these facilities) to raise anxiety levels when attempting to find the right way to go.

  

A Sunday treat

Today, the Nerja and Almunecar Anglican congregations combined for a joint act of worship in the small  chapel of Our Lady of Carmen in Almunecar.

It used to be the ground floor chapel of a convent, accessible to the public straight from the street, probably sisters doing missionary pastoral work in the parish, living in the two storeys above. There are no more nuns, but the local Catholic Parish mission still continues using the buildings for pastoral purposes, and one of the Sunday Parish Masses is celebrated there on a Saturday evening.

Combined Anglican services have been held hitherto in Almunecar throughout May, as the Parish Church of San Miguel in Nerja has been otherwise occupied with additional celebrations relating to first communion and confirmation. This year, these have been switched to Saturdays, removing the need to change the routine of two Anglican services a Sunday. However, there was best possible reason for a combined service, in the form of a visiting preacher from Britain, the Reverend John Bell of the Iona Community and well known to listeners of BBC Radio Four's 'Thought for the Day'. He'd come over to lead a Celtic Spirituality workshop at a retreat centre in the Sierra Nevada, which Fr Geoff and his wife Carol were fortunate enough to attend.

John Bell is a story telling craftsman and he did us proud, getting the sixty strong congregation (95% aged +55) to reflect on the opportunity of older people to do new things and leave a positively memorable legacy to succeeding generations. Apart from 'Thought for the Day', the last time I caught John Bell live in action was in 1985, when I attended a convention in Edinburgh marking the 75th anniversary of  the first inter-church conference on world mission which eventually led to the foundation of the World Council of Churches. I think John was there for the centenary event also. I certainly wasn't, and was saddened to see how little it was reported upon, in the church press, as well as the rest of the mass media.

After church, we went to a nearby restaurant and socialised over coffee for an hour before returning home for lunch and a siesta. This gave us an opportunity to meet members of the congregation. Clare found and chatted to a  Welsh speaking lady from Aberystwyth who'd  moved to Spain with her husband who had since died. I conversed with a retired funeral director from the West Midlands and another man who was familiar with the mission of the church in Latin America. Then we drove home for lunch and a siesta, with a quiet evening to follow while Fr Geoff and Carol readied themselves for their holiday journey back to the U.K.

Locum duty in Spain

To Bristol Airport yesterday afternoon, for an evening flight to Malaga. My former colleague from the Halesowen Team Ministry, Fr Geoff Johnston is now pastoring the congregations of Nerja and Almunecar at the northern end of the Costa del Sol. I'll be standing in for him while he and his wife go on leave. We met up in the airport arrivals area, and were driven the 50km journey back to Nerja in darkness, which was really tantalising as this part of the world is terra incognita to us.
   

It was half past two by the time we got to bed, and were awoken by a big thunderstorm and rain just after dawn. The weather front was going east, however, and the rest of the day was beautifully sunny. After a late breakfast we went into Nerja old town, and lunched on the renowned 'Balcon de Europe', a promontory, once part of a military fortress transformed into a palm tree lined promenade with stunning coastal views. Photos can be found here

Late afternoon I was shown the local Catholic Parish Church of San Miguel, where Anglican Sunday services take place at noon. This dates from the early seventies, a building project in a poor barrio undertaken by a parish priest who made it his life's work. It's quite a plain building, with only one large crucifix and a couple of large statues. No stations of the cross or votice candle stands, a simple open confessional station was the only adornment of the nave apart from congregational benches, almost protestant in its simplicity, and quite fitting for churhc sharing with the Anglicans.
   

We were there for a wedding blessing. A Dutch couple with two children, on holiday, wanting more than just the bare civil ceremony to mark their life commitment to each other, following whatever journeys both had made before they found each other. With the organist, Fr Geoff and one of his churchwardens, I was the only congregation in this barn of a church that seats four hundred. On their way to the altar, I was entrusted with a digital camera, and took photographs of the occasion - less than easy, as I had never handled a Samsung digicam before, and had to figure out by trial and error how to switch off flash and get the telephoto lens to work without instructions. Fortunately, I'd got it right be the time they reached the vows, and was able to give them back a decent record of their Big Moment.

Blessings of civil weddings, whether in church or in hotels or restaurants are part and parcel of life for an English speaking priest of any denomination. A romantic wedding in a beautiful location all prepared as a package deal by a 'wedding arranger' is a commodity marketed these days to aspiring couples with plenty of spare cash. While we were having lunch, one professional 'wedding arranger' passed by and stopped to say Hello to Fr Geoff. This was timely, as she's arranging a wedding I'll be blessing on a restaurant terrace during my stay here. 

Apparently the civil administration of Nerja has obliged to the Parish of el Salvador to restrict the number of weddings it does in any week in the church adjacent to the Balcon de Europe, as it can't keep up with the paperwork required for couples flying in for a combined wedding and honeymoon package deal. Curiously enough, the largest number of couples come from Ireland. Are they escaping from the weather? Or from clergy reputed for narrowness as well as disrepute arising from the actions of an abusive minority? 

I find it amazing, the extent to which people are still prepared to trust clergy to play a significant and intimate role at an crucial moment in their lives, particularly when they are strangers in in a foreign land. And for me that's what makes expatriate pastoral ministry a special privilege, if anyone is willing to make the journey.
    

Taken on trust

I officiated at a funeral this morning, at Thornhill Crematorium. Last Sunday's pastoral visit to the next of kin left me not knowing how many people would attend. About two dozen people were there, and few of them were interested in engaging with me, as is often the case. Engaging with each other also seemed problematic as well. Moving beyond showing respect for the deceased to being reconciled with each other is a journey that's difficult to take, and many are reluctant  to take it.

Apart from the carefully chosen prayers of the funeral liturgy, it was difficult to know what to say that would help everyone involved, when as it seemed, relationship with the deceased was for each of them the point of contention. A priest cannot any longer compel anyone to go some place they don't want to go. The priest's presence and role is not fully understood, yet it is tolerated and to an extent trusted to help people through a rite of passage which they themselves find it difficult to place properly within the context of what their lives mean to them. So, I come away yet again in the absence of any feedback, wondering if I have been of service to anyone.

Having shared things that matter most to me in life, I have to trust that God will take and use this to enable everyone to move on, learn and grow, accepting that I may never know if this made a difference to anyone.

  

Extra-judicial killing makes news

It was strange to awaken on a Bank Holiday Monday morning to hear news of the killing of Osama Bin Laden hidden in a large private residence in the Pakistani equivalent of a military town like Aldershot or Sandhurst. If anyone in the military or government knew he was there, it suggests there was a conspiracy to conceal. If nobody knew, it reveals an almighty level of incompetence on the part of Pakistani military intelligence. The oddness of all this was compounded by the fact that the first intimations of the raid came from a Pakistani tech worker tweeting, well before White House announcement, about the late night arrival of helicopters and loud explosions heard in his Abbattabad neighbourhood.

Given a record of questionable loyalties on the part of some in the Pakistani intelligence services and military, the Americans can't be blamed for not forewarning anyone of the discovery of their number one target for the past decade. Regrettably, violation of another nation's sovereignty as a means to an end is nothing new. Murders and kidnappings are part of the shameful history of foreign adventures for the USA and other super powers. In this era of instant global communications, used by the ruled as well as the rulers, nothing can be done secretively or remain hidden for long without someone disclosing it and maybe someone else demanding an explanation. The exercise of power without accountability sooner or later, is becoming increasingly more difficult. But, as we see in Libya and Syria, those with a grip on power, will strive even more brutally and ruthlessly to retain it, preferring to be destroyed than relinquish it. The ancient ways of tyranny still persist wherever they gain a foothold.

The speedy disposal at sea of Bin Laden's body as a means to avoid a pilgrimage cult around his grave will be controversial, even if it's not contrary to islamic law and custom - not least because evidence of identity has not been formally published or independently verified. In his native Saudi Arabia everyone, even royalty is buried in unmarked graves, but the Saudis declined the offer of re-patriating and disposing of his body. They disowned one of their own wealthy offspring who refused to behave according to type.

Today has seen public jubilation by Americans, still affected deeply by the experience of 9/11. But will this lead to true healing of those memories? The recent Qu'ran burning episode by an American fundamentalist pastor only led to loss of more innocent lives in different part of the world. The glee of revenge soon turns bitter with the prospect of reprisal atrocities from Al Q'aeda. Maybe, as experts have suggested, followers are now less organised to effect any immediate action, but it is still to be expected sooner or later somewhere in the world.  That's the trouble - violent acts spawn more violent acts. Only the truth will set the world free. 

I would like to have seen Bin Laden reduced to size by having his day in the international criminal court, like Karadzic, Milosevic and the other authors of Balkan genocide who saw themselves as above the law. How one could prosecute or defend charges of incitement and conspiracy to commit mass murder, in a way that involved the best of islamic as well as secular lawyers is not easy to envisage, but perhaps that's the kind of challenge the global village community has to take on board as part of educating all its citizens in the ways of justice and peace.

 

Low Sunday - Mayday anniversary

I drove out to St John's Penllyn again this morning to lead the 9.15 Parish Eucharist for ten people. The church register recorded more than thirty attending for last week's Easter Sunday celebration. Such fluctuation in numbers is almost customary in these days of mobile populations, living in one place and working in another which may be far away. 

After cup of coffee in church with members of the congregation, I drove back down the A48 to to the village of Saint Hilary for the second service of the morning. A  church here was dedicated by the Normans to fourth century French theologian St Hilary of Poitiers in the twelfth century. The exquisite village and Manor took the saint's name as well. As I was getting out of my car, I was delighted to hear the church's peal of six bells being rung to welcome worshippers, on this beautiful spring morning.

As ever, none of the bell-ringers stayed for the service, yet there was still a congregation of nearly thirty, and the church register told me the number last Sunday was double that. Quite impressive for a country village. I gather St Hilary has plenty of social activities in keeping with its largely professional constituency. Again there was coffee and conversation afterwards.

On my way home for lunch I had a preparation visit to make to the home of a woman who was next of kin to a septegenarian whose funeral I'll be conducting this week. I heard the sad story of a divided family in which communication between siblings as well as parents failed decades ago. What will I be able to say to those who attend, not even knowing who will turn up?

I returned to the Vale church of Flemingston to lead Evensong and preach for six people. Last time I was there, it got dark much earlier and I was unable to take a photo. I allowed plenty of travel time on this occasion and was able to enjoy the scene for half an hour before starting work.

Flemingston Court next door to the church was, I think, the site of the original local Manor house. It still has access over a stile into the churchyard from its courtyard. Worth a couple of extra photos, I think.

This was the first time I'd taken Evensong in the year since my retirement, one year ago this weekend. What a lot has happened in that year! We're well installed in our new home, and have done a reasonable amount of travelling for pleasure and duty. However, I don't yet feel settled. I'm still lacking a sense of what my mission in life is to be, now that I have as much freedom and security as I need. I write a fair amount, but I not sure of my goal. I'm suspicious of writing for academic purposes. Having little faith in publication and publicity doesn't help either. Throughout my adult life there has always been some meeting of personal impulse and aspiration with some opportunity coming towards me. If it's there at the moment I can't see it. 

The wait is an interesting learning curve, however.

  

Easter Week in North Wales

Monday morning, we were on our way to Bristol by nine thirty this morning, to collect Amanda and James (plus wheelchair) to drive up to North Wales to spend a few days at the Trigonos centre in Dyffryn Nantlle. It's nearly three years since we stayed there last. We took the motorway as far as Shrewsbury, then made our way into Snowdonia via Llangollen, Capel Curig and Porthmadog. The roads weren't too busy with Bank Holiday traffic, and the delight of spring blossom and many leaf colours on such a fine day made the six hour journey pass with ease, arriving in time for tea and Bara Brith.

Amanda was assigned one of the new rooms designed with disabled access in mind, and as the first such user was asked to give feedback on the kind of improvements to the facility which you'd have to be in a wheelchair to understand the need for. An interesting exercise for all of us. After a superb supper, were were all on our way to bed by ten, tired by travelling, exhilarated by the fresh air, the peace and the birdsong.

Tuesday, we drove to Caernarvon for liunch and visited the Castle - an interesting experience with a wheelchair user. The only wheelchair lift on the site had broken down, and the internal rooms not really visitable because of steps and narrow entrances. At least there is a rather stylish modern looking ramp crossing to moat to access the main entrance, with reduced entry fees for us oldies as well as a disabled person with carer. There are limits to the modifications allowable by CADW to a prestigious ancient building, and that means limits to its user friendliness for those in wheelchairs.

To have a conservation policy that effectively preserves a historic monument in the state it was acquired and its structure made safe for public visitors may seem fine, but a building is a living thing to which people relate, not a snapshot of its former glory, a relic to be preserved. Disabled access policy makes difficult challenges to everyone's assumptions, but it empowers and enables a significant section of the public to do things from which they would otherwise be excluded. It is a triumph of contemporary humanitarian thinking from which all may benefit once we have made the adjustments needed. 

If ancient stones need shifting, arches widened and ramps installed to enable all visitors to move more freely and safely, there is no sane reason why this shouldn't be done, given that we have such superb designers and architects to work on the issue. It is all part of the life of an ancient building which has already changed and changed again many times during its life in days before the dictatorship of bureaucracy took hold.

Wednesday morning, I took James for a walk around the old Dorothea slate quarry and work places. Then we all headed out of the seaside for lunch and a sunny afternoon of the beach at Criccieth. Glad to report the existence of a long ramp right down to the sand. Amanda managed a walk on crutches down to the water for a paddle, and we exchanged beach photos via Clare's phone with Kath, holidaying in Spain. We couldn't do that last time we were here - none of us could then afford to use a phone that sends photos.

Thursday, we took a trip to the National Slate Museum in Llanberis, stopping in Beddgelert to visit Gelert's grave and to eat a picnic lunch on the river bank. The Welsh Highland Railway is now running all the way from Caernarvon to Porthmadog, and I photographed steam trains running in both directions while we were there. It's an impressive and attractive enterprise which, along with Snowdonia's other mountain railways benefits the local economy significantly. It's also an example of how conservation of steam locomotives has led to real development, and not just preservation of old dead artifacts. The slate museum is impressive and easily accessible, with a working lift to take people to a viewing platform next to the giant waterwheel, still working, and able to provide power to machinery in the workshops that once supported slate making.

Friday - Royal Wedding Day, but for us the journey home right through the heart of Wales on deserted, but slow roads. The trip took seven hours plus two hours of stops en route - lunch in Machynlleth, tea in Tintern. As FM reception is poor in mountainous regions, listening to the big event live wasn't possible, but we had another feast of scenery and leisurely motoring to enjoy. 

Finding wheelchair user friendly places to stop for refreshment or comfort breaks could have been worse, but there is obviously much room for improvement, and in such a time of recession, sadly, this doesn't always get the priority it deserves. All credit to those companies and individual owners who do make the effort.

  

This is the day the Lord has made

Easter Sunday saw me up early to celebrate the eight o'clock Eucharist at St John's Canton. I was temporarily disconcerted by a nose bleed five minutes before I was due to jump on my bike and ride to church. Fortunately it didn't last long once I got started on my way, and I survived the service without embarrassing myself.

It was very pleasant to walk in the sunshine with Clare to St Luke's for the Sung Eucharist of the day. On the way we noticed that the Goscombe John statue 'Joyance' in nearby Thompson's Park has been restored after a vandalistic theft last year which left in place only the feet and base. I found a news article from two months ago reporting the installation of the bronze replica. Apparently it's the fourth such replacement in forty years.

At St Luke's, I enjoyed preaching to a mixed all age congregation of about ninety, my text: 'This is the day the Lord has made'. The singing was rousing and the mood buoyantly festive. I left my reading glasses at home which made it something of a challenge to focus on my text. Thankfully, I coped without too much hesitation, deviation or prolongation. It was a joyous occasion, with all my favourite Easter hymns. Who could ask for more? 

  

Easter Eve

Getting a sermon ready for tomorrow occupied much of my quiet day, both in the morning and in the late evening when I returned from taking part in the Easter Vigil at St German's.  I took great pleasure in singing the Exultet, and not having responsibility for any of the planning or organisation. 

I love the Vigil, and for most of my ministry I've worked in churches where this event has not been fully adopted by the majority of parishioners, so it's been attended by small numbers, with few servers and other assistants to make it run well. This meant I had to lead from the front, rather than the liturgy being run by a team working together to make it happen. There we thirty people there including four clerics and half a dozen servers used to working together on grand occasions of this kind, so it was a lovely occasion  to share, with many active participants in which relaxed and enjoyed worship doing something which for me is very precious. Beforehand, I had time to sit quietly and savour the moment. What could be better?

The service started well before sunset out of practical necessity, with the blessing of the fire and paschal candle outside in the church garden. It was lovely to see the evening sunlight stream into the church during the Liturgy of the Word, and paint everything in a golden hue. By the time the Vigil ended, darkness had fallen, and the east window floodlights were back-lighting the high altar and candle filled chancel. There's an Easter garden in the nave surrounding the Paschal candle, made of soil and stones and filled with pots of spring flowers of many colours, a real labour of love on someone's part.

I returned home very content with such a full and varied week, doing things I love best of all.

Good Friday

Because of the good weather we're enjoying this week, I could cycle over to St German's to share in the morning's  Stations of the Cross. Then, with several hours free before the afternoon Liturgy of the Passion, I rode back into the city centre and joined the congregation at St John's for the first hour and a half of the Vigil at the Cross. Father Mark Preece was preaching. I was so glad that he'd committed himself to maintain this special city centre church tradition. It's a lot of extra work for him in addition to his role as Area Dean with responsibility for the Parish during the interregnum, on top of his own. It's an occasion that attracts all sorts of people apart from the faithful regulars - casual visitors away from home, aware that it's a holy day, and church goers from other parishes around the city that no longer offer the midday Three Hours devotion on Good Friday.

Then I returned to St German's for the afternoon Liturgy of the Passion, on the spur of the moment offered to improvise a short homily to prepare for devotions on the Seven Last Words from the Cross by Father Roy. I returned to the train of thought I'd developed for my address in Pontyclun on Wednesday, and starting by  reading John 12:23-32. I don't often trust myself to preach without any notes or a script, but this time, I felt the right kind of confidence to let the words flow from me. I felt very blessed by this, and by the liturgy it was part of.
 

On the way home, I called in to the office, unusually quiet as Council employees apart from the Traffic Wardens weren't working. There was a little snagging problem in something that I've been preparing this past few days that I wanted to deal with before next week's holiday.  A fifteen minute errand turned into a three hour marathon of a different kind. It turned out to be a real trial of patience and persistence to sort out. So it was gone eight by the time I got home, more than grateful for the serenity imparted by the worship on this Friday that is forever called Good.
 

Royal Maundy

Yesterday I returned to Pontyclun for the last time, to give a Holy Week address and celebrate the Eucharist. When I returned home, Clare and I went together to a meeting of the Ignatian meditation group, being held in a house not far from us, in a street by Thompson's park. The group lunched together after its session, and then I cycled into town for a few hours in the office. Before returning for supper I rode up to the Heath Hospital to visit my centenarian Auntie Ivy, who was admitted before the weekend with a cracked femur. The repair job was done successfully on Monday and she is making a remarkable recovery for a woman of her age. She is fully alert and asking questions about members of my family, remembering their names. I hope I'm still as engaged with life as she is, should I ever reach such an age.

Early this morning, the double gazing work team arrived to install all new fittings on the ground floor at the back of the house, including a new door with puss flap. I hope the fact that it has been fitten a few centimetres lower will please Ben, who has access issues due to the stiffness that goes with being a 'geriatric' cat (in vet speak). While the work went on, we sat and watched the Royal Maundy ceremony from Westminster Abbey, and were rewarded with a glimpse of our dear friend Gill Howie from Holy Trinity Geneva smiling at the Queen as she received her Maundy purse. She and the church got a mention from the commentator too. I was also pleased to see Robert Paterson, now the Bishop of Sodor and Man, reading a lesson. When he worked in the Church in Wales and I with USPG, we were both members of the Provincial Committee for World Mission - he as chairman, and that was a quarter of a century ago. He still looks youthful, although he now has silver hair, as befits the dignity of his rank.

Following an afternoon's work in the office, I cycled over to St German's for the Mandy Thursday Liturgy. Father Roy invited me to share in the evening celebration and to preach as well, which was for me both an honour and a pleasure. There were about thirty in the congregation, much the same as I recall in St John's on an occasion like this. Older members are reluctant to go out at night if they don't have someone to accompany them, and that's a problem in any community made up largely of elderly people. I imagine it's tough for those who stay home alone when they'd rather be at worship with others.

 

Festive days in a penitential week

Sunday afternoon I drove up to the West Midlands town of Kidderminster to meet Clare at the train station, as she'd been looking after Rhiannon in Kenilworth for two nights. We had two nights booked in a B&B to afford us short journeys to celebrations we were invited to on two successive days. First on Monday, Mike and Gail's ruby wedding anniversary party, held at Bodenham Arboretum. It's a family affair, developed in a visionary way from scratch out of a derelict farm they took over forty years ago. It's a beautiful place to visit at any season.

Thirty of us were invited to meet there for a guided tour by the owner' son. It was an informative introduction to the ecology and economy of a modern environmentally aware agricultural development project, conceived out of the owner's love of the world's trees. Some of the work they do now on the environment will come to fruit only in a century or two from now. How many people work with that kind of secret vision today? 

Then followed our celebratory lunch in the Arboretum's restaurant, built into a hillside with a grass roof. All the food we ate was sourced locally, if not on the property itself. Mike and Gail's children and grand son were there. It turned out I was the only person present who'd been present at the wedding forty years ago, which was a good excuse for me to be the one proposing a toast. The weather was perfect, and the trees were laden with blossom and/or unfolding leaves in many colours - a feast for the eyes.

Then on Tuesday, over to Fairfield Parish Church for the wedding of Richard and Sue. We met Richard and his first wife Brig over the christening of their children, and I ended up presenting them for Confirmation. They later came to Geneva and stayed with us on the way to the ski slopes with their small children, Tom and Emma, and between them, taught me to ski up at Les Gets sixteen years ago. Then tragically, Brig died of cancer ten years ago, and is buried in Fairfield's churchyard. We were delighted however when Richard and Sue visited us last summer, to find that love had found them and was renewing their lives in middle age. 

I felt so privileged to be invited to read 1 Corinthians 13 during the service, but otherwise to sit back and enjoy seeing another priest cope with a pastoral celebration. I valued everything about celebrating marriages when I was a Vicar, but found the responsibility for the occasion quite exhausting.

The wedding party took place in the banqueting hall of Avoncroft Museum, a sort of West Midlands version of St Fagan's museum of Welsh life. Much of the afternoon passed in a giant photo opportunity before we sat down to the meal followed by speeches. Just before the dancing started at eight, we had to depart in order to drive home, and prepare for the rest of Holy Week, the beginning of it having been put on hold to share in rejoicing with two couples with special places in our lives.

One of Avoncroft's boasts to fame is that it holds a national collection of various models of telephone boxes, interestingly displayed. Inevitably, this reminded me of a certain field in the Rhone valley, near the nuclear power stations not far from Valence, next to the Autoroute, which is filled with an assortment of France Telecom phone boxes of the past forty years. It's not a museum, but a dumping ground of surreal dimensions, still memorable across the years since I first noticed it en passant.

Holy Week begins

Another outing to Tongwynlais and Taff's Well this morning, yet again under a clear blue sky, for a double dose of the full length Palm Sunday liturgy, plus brief homily. The congregations are delighted a new priest has been appointed already, to be in place by the end of August. He will serve part time as Director of Ministerial Training. Now that there are fewer clergy, many more incumbents are being appointed with a part-time additional role at a diocesan level. Let's hope this is beneficial both to Parishes and the wider church.

It's going to be strange not spending all of Holy Week in one Parish or worshipping community. It's always been something of a working retreat for me. The narrative affects me profoundly, makes me dig deep within myself, in the endeavour to know Christ and the power of his resurrection. Father Mark, Rector of our local Parish of Canton, has invited me to celebrate one of the eight o'clock Masses on Easter Day, and to preach at the main Mass at St Luke's. I'm really thrilled to have been asked (or should I say 'rescued' at the eleventh hour). I will relish the opportunity to preach the Resurrection Gospel to a congrergation I have often sat among and prayed with. It will give me something special to exercise my heart and mind upon this coming special week.
  

London outing

I cycled over to St Germans Thursday morning to celebrate Mass this morning, as Father Roy Doxsey has taken a group to Caldey Island for a retreat. It was an all male affair, four of us sharing the weekday Mysteries - not that unusual at St German's in my experience, people make the effort. 

Then I cycled to the CIA to take minutes at the Cardiff Business Safe Users' security meeting. There were eighteen of us present, including three police. One of them Richard Moorcroft is the incoming Inspector for the city centre sector, introduced by his colleague, about to retire, Tony Bishop. After the meeting they came over to the City Centre management officer for a cup of tea and an informal chat. Then, while it was all fresh in my mind I drafted the minutes of the meeting, before getting on with the rest of my work. There was a lot to get done, as I was not due to be in the office on Friday, owing to a trip to London for a birthday treat.

Kath and Anto bought me a ticket for a concert in the Barbican centre of our favourite Spanish contemporary flamenco fusion group, Ojos de Brujo.  So, I caught the fast 8.30 bus, and went and had lunch with my sister June first. We travelled in to Chelsea together on the bus afterwards, and visited the Saatchi contemporary art gallery, an amazing palacial Georgian building mainly full of large inferior paintings, with a handful of quite interesting installations. I liked the glass tank which at first sight appeared to be full of flying insects frozen in mid air, but on closer inspection revealed them to have tiny fairies either riding on them or hanging from them.

There was also a room housing a custom made tank full of old sump oil. Its dark sheen made for the most intriguing optical illusion, mirroring the light walls and ceiling, but in a dark shade, giving a strange sensation of depth. However, although the oil was seemingly odourless, I came out of the installation room with a irritating cough which persisted for the rest of the day. The sort of cough I associate with those days when central heating oil would be delivered to the Vicarage. There's something not right about that.

After tea in Peter Jones' store, I took the underground to the Barbican Centre to rendezvous with Kath and Anto. It was a great performance, both by Ojos de Brujo and the support band Depedro, although getting the sound balance right seemed to take the first half of their set.

We were told that this would be Ojos de Brujo's last appearance, as they are disbanding after ten years, to pursue other projects. How sad for us. But who knows what will emerge as a result? Will it be as good, as innovative, I wonder?

I loved the way that Marina Abad, the band's singer, closed the concert, following two encore songs, with an unaccompanied solo, that sounded to me as if it was a traditional lullaby, clearly known by the majority of her young Spanish ex-pat audience.

Having re-installed my sister's net curtains at risk of life and limb - she has tall windows - I returned by coach, Saturday lunchtime, and went straight into the office for a couple of hours before going home, as Clare is in Kenilworth babysitting, for Kath and Anto, both to take me to last night's concert, and do a gig of their own this evening.

Back home again, I watched the evening's double episode of 'Engrenage'. It gives a picture of Parisian politics, policing and crime which seems incredibly sleazy,  when compared with the dubious image of the same in  Copenhagen portrayed in the recently completed serial 'The Killing'. I felt like a needed a wash after watching it - the kind of feeling you get when you've walked through a dirty derelict old building. Strange, not nice.

Afterthought

Off to Pontyclun this morning for the fifth and final in my series of Lent talks on the Exodus journey to a two dozen strong appreciative mid-week Communion congregation. At the end, Grace the Vicar asked I could also return next week, as it was Holy Week. Originally I thought I might be away in Holy Week and so had only arranged to do the five Lenten addresses, but as our plans have changed, I agreed. When reviewing my final address I found that there was one detail I'd not been able to weave in to my addresses - the story of the serpent in the wilderness (Numbers 21:7-9), cited by Jesus in John 3:14 as he foresaw his Passion. So I won't find myself wrestling for something relevant to say. It's nice to be asked. 

The thought of not preaching on Good Friday and Easter Day is very strange to me - possibly the only time when I've not done so in forty four preaching years was the time we went to Taizé en famille, while I was working for USPG. As nobody manages or oversees the offerings of ministry by retired and supernumerary clergy - in this, the church is very much a free enterprise zone, despite being a highly centralised economy in other respects - perhaps I should make it known that I am available, just in case there's someone who is trying to cope with too many services in a short space of time.

Birthday surprise

After a nice lazy breakfast, Owain arrived and we were soon on our way to Brecon, to lunch at the George. It was cold and overcast when we left Cardiff, and raining when we crossed the Beacons, but it cleared up and the sun came out by the time we'd finished eating. This allowed us to stroll around town for a while. I was delighted to find the town centre church, St Mary's was open - the first time I recall seeing it open in many visits there. The church, looked considerably different to when I preached here with USPG 25 years ago. There's new flooring chairs and a nave altar, and south aisle has now been given over to serving refreshments with a kitchen and servery in the south west corner.

I also popped in to the South Wales Borders museum, while Owain and Clare waited in the car, to enquire about service record archives. I wanted to see if I could find out about Great Uncle William who served with the Borderers on the North West Frontier in the 1890s. The duty curator was very helpful, and gave me some useful leads to follow. It was only when my phone started ringing loudly in that quiet place, that I realised I'd left them parked outside for half an hour. A fascinating place to return to.

We drove on to Talybont reservoir, and walked along the foreshore, enjoying the blossom, wild flowers and birdsong. Such a delight. We'd left it too late to stop for tea on the way home, so we stopped off and picked up a few missing ingredients for the hasty assemblage of a birthday cake on arrival home. Imagine my great astonishment, when I got out of the car, to see my bike in the front garden surrounded by beautifully made brand new wrought iron railings - a special surprise birthday present, installed in our absence, without me having a clue about the conspiracy to get me away from home for the day. The idea of the railings is to have something to chain my bike to when I leave it outside (which is more often than not). I had been thinking of sinking an iron post with a ring into the ground, but Clare had much a more creative idea. Brilliant!

The other surprise of my sixty-sixth birthday was the Facebook greetings I received, not only from my family, but also from friends in Singapore, Brazil, the USA, and Cardiff, plus emails from Valdo in Switzerland and from the Wales Ubuntu forum, of which I'm a lapsed member. A memorable day.

  

Another Vale visit

Thanks to habit of starting the day with a few Chi Gung exercises, the after effects of yesterday's cycle ride were far more muted than I feared, and just as well, as I had an early start to get to the Cowbridge Benefice Parish of St Marychurch by nine fifteen to celebrate and preach. I had to pick up petrol en route and this proved to be a bit of a nightmare, as I had to queue at the Culverhouse Corss Tesco filling station to use one of the only pair of pumps in use, the other six being locked out of service and the kiosk closed. Thankfully I had enough time in hand so this didn't make me late, only nervous.

The thirteenth century Parish Church of the Annunciation, remodelled in the nineteenth century, is sited on top of a hill in the village of St Marychurch. It has a characteristically Celtic circular churchyard called a 'Llan' in Welsh, probably the Christianisation of an even more ancient sacred site.

After ministering to the congregation of fifteen at St Marychurch, I drove back through Cowbridge town and out on to the westward road to get to Penllyn's Parish Church of St John the Evangelist, to minister to another congregation of fifteen. This church is sited at the village entrance to Penllyn Castle, home for many generations of the Homfray family, whose memorial cover the walls, many of them military men. The well appointed church building dates from 1850 rebuilt on the site of an older Chapel of Ease. 

In a location more remote from Penllyn village, reached across fields, is a thirteenth century Church dedicated to St Brynach a sixth century Irish saint reputed to be its founder, although his name is more associated with Pembrokeshire. It is only used for worship occasionally, due to its remoteness, and problems with access and maintenance dating back three hundred years, though its ancient churchyard remains the Parish burial ground. All this I found out from my history reference book of mediaeval Vale churches when I returned home. I'll have to take another trip out there some time, and see if I can find it.

Taff Trail triumph

It's been such a beautiful day today, warm and clear blue skies again. Clare was inspired to go to the RHS show over in Cooper's Field and look for more plants to enhance the back garden. Once I'd got my sermon sorted for tomorrow, I decided to get my bike out and go for a ride up the Taff Trail. Amazingly, although this was my first outing on wheels since last autumn, I found it far less tiring than I'd anticipated. On my last ride up the Trail, I made it as far as Nantgarw before needing to turn back. This time I made it all the way to Pontypridd, about twelve and a half miles from home. 

After tea and a custard slice in The Prince's venerable continental style tea room, I went up to the famous stone arch bridge to take photos. Then, to commence the return journey I rode though Ynysangharad War Memorial Park to see the bronze sculptures commemorating father and son Evan James and James James responsible for composing 'Mae hen wlad fy nhadau', the Welsh national anthem. You'll find my photos here.

I was tired and ready for supper when I got back, but not nearly as tired as I thought I might be. In fact I bought some food for supper on the way home and cooked as well. Spring, season of new life is here!

Re-shaping mission at Parish level

I celebrated Mass at St German's for Fr Roy Doxsey this morning, to enable him to take a proper day off. He's just had his seventieth birthday and retires at the end of June. The church looked magnificent with Spring sun streaming in through its clerestory windows, and making the sanctuary lamps glitter. The Parishes of Splott and St German's will share an incumbent once Fr Roy retires. There are simply not enough full time clergy to cover both separately any longer, and although both are reasonably well attended for urban prioirty area churches, there are only sufficient supporting members between the two communities of Splott and Adamsdown to afford one priest between them.

In times past it was possible to underwrite clergy costs from the wider diocesan budget on the grounds that these communities are mission priority areas. That might still be the case if there were sufficient clergy to deploy, but such is the shrinkage in numbers of trained people, that even if this was regarded as a broader budget priority for the diocese, it could could only be achieved by depriving areas with greater numbers of faithful, equally in need of the ministry of a priest. We're also getting to a stage where the numbers of retired clergy available will grow less because of the reduction in numbers ordained generations ago. I'm not sure how many faithful members yet realise the scale of the problem facing the church. 

The Roman Catholic church has been in a similar situation for the past quarter of a century, likewise the Free Churches, so we're not alone in this. We've actually made things more difficult for ourselves too, through the emphasis on the centrality and desirability of regular Eucharistic worship in church teaching, to the extent that services of the Word and the daily offices tend to be neglected; that is to say, services which do not require an ordained priest to conduct them. We've accustomed faithful Anglicans to having Communion in their locality, and several times a week. It's an ideal, a counsel of perfection which makes the church utterly dependent on ordained clergy. And now our own vision is put to shame by the lack of vocations to the very ministry that can guarantee continuity. Where do we go from here?

Can we re-train our parish congregations to sustain regular prayer and ministry of the Word with lay ministers in each church, and gently insist that gatherings for the Eucharist will take place on an area basis where several parishes can conveniently meet, or agree to rotate from place to place, wherever a priest can be invited to lead worship? This will require a massive change in culture and social habits, especially from those with a genuinely valid vision of what local mission through worship should be. It will require not just direction, teaching and leadership, but debate and the rebuilding of a consensus about how God's people can nurture and inspire themselves for service, witness and proclamation in what seem like the worst of circumstances today, where the sea of faith seems to have receded beyond the horizon of anyone's imagination.

Well, not everyone's imagination.

The past decades has seen the emergence of new churches rooted in evangelical tradition which are less reliant on ordained clerics and less dependent on Eucharistic worship to nurture community building that the historic mainstream denominations. It's not been a reaction against the trend to celebrate sacraments more frequently, but born of a desire to give people an experience of faith alive in community, and emerging through a learning programme that speaks to people's everyday personal and social needs, and it's grounded in the desire to make sure people can read and understand the bible, and apply its teaching to their lives. Surely there are lessons to be learned from this in facing up to the challenges which lie ahead of us?

  

Faith in the Family

I drove out to Pontyclun in glorious weather again this morning to give the fourth of my Lenten addresses on Exodus. After this Clare and I went to St Mary's Bute Street to attend the funeral of Pegi Roberts, the mother of Eleri, wife of Fr Graham Francis, both friend since college days. Graham celebrated the requiem Mass, and Archbishop Barry was there to offer the Commendation prayer at the end. He had been her diocesan Bishop in Bangor. She lived on Anglesey all her life until she came to Cardiff to spend her last years with Eleri and Graham in St Mary's Vicarage.

All the lessons at the Mass were beautifully read in Welsh, by her grand-daughter, grandson's wife and family friend Canon Geoffrey Gaynor, as befitted the obsequies of a first language Welsh speaker. Graham preached an excellent homily, respectful of his mother in law's wishes that there should be no eulogy at her funeral. I admired his determination to lead the mourning from the front, so to speak - something I could not have done for any close member of my family. He was very fond of her and she of him.

One day I stood in at Mass for Fr Mark at St Luke's, and Pegi was in the congregation, having been brought there from the care home where she was staying temporarily while Graham and Eleri were on holiday. It wasn't long before I realised who she was because she spoke so proudly and affectionately of Graham and rejoiced in the faith they shared. That's such a blessing in the family for a priest. My three devout aunts gave me that kind of encouragement, but my parents, uncles and grandfathers had more reservations about my faith conviction, and this reservation has been reproduced in our children, despite our efforts to raise them in church life and Christian faith.

I keep reminding myself that we cannot impose, only share our faith as part of our free self offering to those whom we love, without regard for the consequences. Who can control the way in which seeds sown will grow to fruition?
  

Change in the air

Ages ago, St John's women's Tuesday Group invited me to tell them about our Canada trip, so I spent some time making a selection of the almost a thousand pictures I took to talk about, and went along this afternoon. I borrowed the office laptop to display the photos, not having access any longer to a projector and screen, and being unable to find the box to carry our nice flat screen telly into church to show them on. Fortunately the laptop is large enough, and has a high resolution screen, so was just about adequate for a group of nine.

Naturally enough, talk before and after was about the recent visit of their new Vicar Liz Griffiths. As I expected, they expressed their fascination and delight at the prospect of this 'first' in the nine hundred year history of the church. The women of the Tuesday Group are mostly of the generation that first showed what ordinary women could achieve with education, permission and an opportunity to contribute to shaping today's world.

After the meeting I spent a couple of hours in the office before attending my Tai Chi class on the way home, on a splendid early evening with Spring in the air. It left me feeling more refreshed than tired, for which I'm thankful.
  

Refreshment Eucharist

Today we had a lunch date with our friends Martin and Chris in Newport, and they invited us to join them beforehand in attending the Eucharist at the Parish Church of St Julius & Aaron on the east side of the city, where they are regular attenders.  

The church is tucked away on the hillside above the suburb of St Julian's, close to where the M4 climbs up a very long hill in by passing the city. It's an interesting building in the Anglo Catholic architectural ethos, using red brick and stone to good effect, dating from the early twentieth century. It contains the reredos rescued from Llanthony Priory, a failed nineteeth century monastic experiment in the Honddu Valley, north of Abergavenny. The church was never completed and indeed looks incomplete. Apparently there is a plan afoot finally to add a Lady Chapel on the south side of chancel, as this was originally conceived

I went to St Julius and Aaron's parish church just once as a guest preacher for USPG in mid-eighties. It was good to return with friends and realise how much it had changed in 25 years. Admittedly, sun was streaming in and enhancing the sanctuary, but I remembered it as a somewhat sombre over furnished place all those years ago. The chancel has been cleared of choir stalls and a nave altar installed, leaving the impressive Llanthony reredos and altar to serve as a setting for the Blessed Sacrament tabernacle.

Distribution of flowers during the Mass

The church was full for an all age Mothering Sunday Family Eucharist. The service blended Catholic ritual with contemporary music and the use of a project for hymns, liturgical texts and visual aids during the sermon. It was all beautifully done, with a well crafted homily from Fr Rex the Vicar. So well done as to feel natural and relaxed. I imagine it must have taken a huge amount of careful preparation in order not to feel contrived or self conscious.

The church is fortunate in having a gifted organist and choir director who is sensitive to the worship needs of both priest and community - a marvellous partnership. It's the other side of town from where Martin and Chris life, and it's quite an effort to get the family there on time, but it's obviously worth their while. It's a place where people can feel nurtured and uplifted in an everyday parochial environment, because what happen there matters muchly to those who make it happen.

I hope that's how history will remember the majority of our parishes in this era of survival struggle.