The value of time

I was at St Mike's yesterday for a tutors' meeting over lunchtime, and spent part of the afternoon getting to know one of my tutor group members, before meeting the group for our session before supper. Students have a 9.00am lecture start most weekdays. Their day starts with Morning Prayer at 7.30pm before breakfast, but for those with neither car nor bike it's over a half hour walk over Llandaff Fields into the University Faculty of Theology, and using the bus could take just as long. So if prayer time goes on too long, there's a risk that breakfasting is squeezed to a minimum. Some students living outside College travel in before Morning Prayer, and so have a very early start. It's all a good deal less leisurely than it was in my day, and requires commitment and stamina to sustain. 

Talking of busyness, a friend of my sister wrote this to her recently from New Zealand:

"It’s disappointing that many of the smaller parish churches here are closing, due to low congregation – first they started sharing ministers, so a minister would serve over a couple of parishes (or more). But you know, I've virtually stopped going myself. It’s difficult fitting everything in and actually gaining some peace or message from a church service. However, I do feel that the church could respond in different ways – be open evenings and after work times, have smaller & more frequent services during the week of a slightly different format – prayers & communion / singing & praising god & in different ways / groups that discuss issues like islam, etc.  I don’t see any of this happening – they all tend to just keep the same liturgy repeated once a week (& Weds mornings).  The modern way of looking at time is the problem – you can’t expect people to be able to spend half a day at church – it has to be easier & simpler, otherwise no-one will come." 

She's right that the problem is the modern way of looking at time - how we value it and what we use it for. Easier, simpler, more frequent, more convenient. That's a huge ask with diminishing resources. Maybe she doesn't realise that what's on offer is all that's sustainable. 

My worry is that the tone is being set for busy crowded pressurised ministry, in which there are too few clerics attempting to maintain several times more church communities than any of their predecessors had to a couple of generations ago. Admittedly, lay people take a lot more responsibility for running parish affairs these days, and some can be encouraged to do more and find satisfaction in doing so. But pastoral ministry consisting of replicating Sunday and weekday Eucharists, weekday offices and church council meetings may leave little time for creative idleness, hanging out with people, whether churchgoers or not, to get to know them and their lives better. 

The cleric's role (and what people expect from them) has gradually become more restricted to that of a 'services provider'. Parishioners having to work together more actively to sustain the life of their church may come to know each other better over the years than their priest can get to know them. They get used to saying to their parson: "I understand how busy you are." It's that much harder for a pastor to get the time with people needed to accompany them, understand and sympathise with their circumstances. Or, it's possible only to achieve this quality of ministry with a smaller circle of people, perhaps only church goers, and this limits the relationships that can be built up in service of the wider community. How can this be turned back into a virtuous cycle without a radical re-appraisal of the value time has for us?

  

Harvest Two

Taking advantage of yesterday's warm sunny weather, we drove to the Gower, and ate a picnic lunch on Oxwich Bay beach, before walking the low tide shoreline to Three Cliffs Bay. There were double the number of people out sunning themselves compared to our last visit on August Bank Holiday - possibly because at that time many were still holiday-making abroad. With the tide being as far out as it could be, we had time to explore rock pools, and found two kinds of starfish, whelks and winkles about their business

Walking back to the Oxwich Bay Hotel for tea, facing the sun, I found more tiring than expected. But then, I've had more than my usual amount of exercise this past couple of days. I need to work hard at staying fit, obviously! We returned home for a vegetarian curry supper, and watched the second of the two pilot 'Inspector Montalbano' detective movies. It engaging, quite nicely done, but a bit lightweight against competition from 'Wallander' and 'The Killing', both less 'entertaining' and more compelling to watch. Although I've hardly used the Italian I acquired since I put effort into learning it thirty years ago, I was pleased at how much dialogue I was able to make sense of apart from the subtitles. Funny how memory works, and sometimes doesn't.

Before bed I spent an hour revising my Sunday sermon. I don't know why, but it was the first time I had to prepare something on the parable of the Vineyard in Matthew 21 after five cycles of preaching with the three year lectionary. There are gaps in the sermon records I keep. Possibly this is due to the coincidence of this Sunday with Michaelmas, Harvest or Dedication Festivals, so it gets less regularly  used. 

Anyway, I was taken aback when I arrived for the Eucharist at St Mary Church in Cowbridge Benefice this morning to realise it was Harvest Festival not Trinity 15. I had overlooked this in the published preaching rota notes, and in any case had preached Harvest at St German's two Sundays ago - they'd advanced their celebration to accommodate their dedication festival this weekend. I placed my sermon notes in the pulpit, and only then noticed the small sheaves of wheat and freshly baked loaf, placed in front of the altar. Although I could recall what I had preached about two weeks ago, it was an altogether different affair to preach Harvest in two wheat growing rural parishes, where to judge from the fields along the A48 from Cardiff, All had been Safely Gathered In. 

So, I had to improvise, at both St Mary Church and St Hilary, without going on too long. I explained what had happened, to their amusement, and then enjoyed reflecting on the value and significance of local food production in this time of recession and environmental threats. I think it went down all right, although I am conscious that when stimulated to talk freely, I can talk too fast, say too much, and not give time for the message to sink in. Let's hope the 'plough the fields and scatter' techinque worked on this occasion.

I arrived home punctually in order that we could drive to Penarth for lunch at the 'Mediterraneo' on the sea front. With no evening service this week, it meant that I didn't have to dash off somewhere else, so we lingered on the prom and on the pier, basking in the unseasonal October warmth. We've been out in the sun a lot over the past few days, and not had the slightest trouble with sunburn. What a difference a few months can make.

It was late when we sat down to supper so we missed the first half of Sunday spy melodrama 'Spooks', so we lingered until it was over and then watched it on my big Sony laptop with BBC iPlayer. For once, streaming was flawless, without the delays due to crowded bandwith we often get at peak periods. It's usually quite entertaining, although suspension of disbelief required to accept the fictional power of technologies used in the series makes it almost as daft as Dr Who on times. I stopped watching that thirty years ago. Thankfully this is the last series of 'Spooks' - unless there's a Christmas Special. I wonder if Rhod Gilbert would be interested in a headline role?

 

On form again

Following an afternoon in the office yesterday, I drove to Penarth for another evening of Chi Gung followed by Tai Chi. In the second session an experienced group went through the full short form and I joined them. It's the first time I've attempted playing the form in full for about five years. I only managed about a third of it before my body memory for the patterns began to break up, and I was reduced to watching and try to copy familiar movements, but not adequately retained. I enjoyed doing it too much to feel frustrated by failure.

Christie our teacher always exhorts me not to let my mind get in the way. Of this I was guilty in times past, but I do believe that I'm more in tune with letting my body remember, and building on the recognition of when positions and moves feel right. This doesn't stop me wanting to think and write about the value and inner meaning of Tai Chi in a western context, but this will take time and a different context. First things first: re-engage fully in physical apprenticeship to form and movement. The more the body benefits, the more mental activity takes on a better quality, and the writing more worthwhile.

By the time I arrived home, Eddie and Ann had arrived after a long journey all the way from Felixstowe, for a long weekend including the opera. They arrived later than expected and the meal had only just started, so it was good we were all able to eat together and then talk until very late.

  

After a late breakfast, we all walked the Taff Trail, as far as the Melingriffith Water Pump. This visit, I was able to take photographs before the local shuttle bus arrived to take us into Whitchurch village for a bus into town. We stopped off at the Royal Welsh College both to show Eddie and Ann Cardiff's latest architectural triumph, and have a light lunch before a pre-operatic siesta. Not that I managed a snooze. I realised I'd forgotten to re-tax the car, and had to go back into the main Post Office to do this. Fortunately the queues were short and I was back within the hour.
  

The WNO's production of Mozart's 'Don Giovanni' was magnificent. Outstanding singing all round, and an amazing set, baroque bas-relief decoration, with all the scenery and backdrop painted black, made visible by changes in lighting colour. It was built from a series of movable modules, deployed to create the variety of scenes against which the action took place.

I was struck at the characterisation of Don Giovanni in the libretto as an amoral psychopath. It's the conquest of seduction that enthralls him rather than the acquisition of lascivious pleasure. It's the exercise of power without scruple or sensitivity. He faces his damnation with bold indifference, like dictator or a Balkan warlord on trial for crimes against humanity. The opera's commentators observe that it was written following a time of enlightenment liberalisation in the Hapsburg empire. Some perceived this as failing to achieve its humane goals. Mozart, despite his naughty youthful reputation was in this opera speaking up for a return to values and behavior based on traditional religious teaching. Quite an interesting perspective for our times, I think.

 

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.

St Mike's - a beginning

My first visit as a voluntary tutor to St Michael's College today. I  felt somewhat apprehensive before I set out, wondering if I'd be up to the challenge of occupying a role in a rigid academic organisational framework. The intellectual or pastoral dimensions aren't a problem. The worry is keeping up with the required disciplines of an organisation foreign to me and my sanguine approach to institutional life. 

St Michaels's College Chapel

For most of the day, students were occupied with start of term briefings. I had plenty of free time to re-acquaint myself with the chapel, where I'm celebrating Mass tomorrow evening, and to read through and sign the must-read I.T. security policy documents, to obtain my college network login details and establish a personal user area on the Windows XP Pro system. It's a bit slow starting up, but neatly offers each user a choice of browsers to download and use, and that's a big plus.

I was impressed with the rigour of the I.T. security policy. It's well thought through, an important safeguard against abuse or neglect, and sets clear limits as to what the resources are to be used for. A theological college is a learning community where people would be expected to know as much about sin as they do about the grace of God. So one should expect I.T. doctrine to measure up to awareness of the wrong things people can do, innocently or otherwise.

After lunch I met with Lorraine, a second year student who'll be acting as Deacon at tomorrow's Mass. She has made all the arrangements for the Liturgy, and we spent half an hour together figuring out the liturgical choreography, before for she went off to hear my good friend Derek Belcher talking about Canon Law. I had an hour spare, which enabled me to cycle over to Staples to buy Clare's birthday present, an Amazon Kindle ebook reader, and then to Tesco's to buy festive breakfast food for tomorrow.

At five I met for an hour with the members of the tutor group I'm looking after while Peter Sedgwick the Principal is on sabbatical study leave. Three men, Chris, Marcus and Rufus, mature students and two women Liz and 'Becka in their twenties. All have interesting backgrounds and different routes leading them to take the path to ordination. I played the session by ear, and was delighted to find how warm and responsive they were to each other and to me - and few of them had the advantage of knowing each other before they arrived in the room for the tutorial. An encouraging start.

I finished too late to travel to Garth, Maesteg for Chris Reaney's silver jubilee Mass, but I was glad of a quiet evening to reflect on the day's events.

 

Lacking intelligence

After singing the Mass of the day at St German's this morning I conducted the baptism of a baby girl. In a few weeks time I'm booked for the baptism of five children of one family. In nine months of locum duties at 'the Res' and St German's, I'll have done as many baptisms as in five years at St John's. That shows just how variable demands on a minister's time can be from one parish to another.

Father Roy's friends were finally able to collect furniture from the Vicarage, now that a set of keys are in the possession of church officers. There is an element of craziness about a situation where the Vicarage locks were changed, and copies had to be hand delivered from the diocesan office near Bridged, especially in a situation where one of the church wardens is the local locksmith, and was not advised or consulted. 

In times past - BC - before computers, diocesan stewardship practice made such expert information available. Nowadays it seems to revolve only around money. It is so much easier to keep and share records today, but updating them is as onerous a practice of intelligence gathering now as it ever was. But is anybody bothered any longer about smart solutions, as opposed to throwing money at a problem?

 

Managing change - could do better

I was pleasantly surprised to see Father Roy, retired Vicar of St German's in church when I arrived this morning to say Mass in honour of our Lady of Walsingham on the anniversary of the beginning of the restoration of the shrine of the Holy House. He'd come in search of keys to the Vicarage, his former home, but found the locks had been changed by builders working on the property, so he was unable to retrieve surplus items of furniture belonging to him which he'd arranged to be transported elsewhere that morning. 

Last Sunday, Angela, the church administrator was complaining that she'd been unable to retrieve mail because the locks had been changed without notice and copies of keys not handed over. Later this morning enquiries revealed that keys had been delivered to her at 7.00am that day, but Father Roy was not aware of this, just taken aback at being locked out and his plans for the day thrown into disarray. Problems like this arise because the management of church housing is done remotely, and building work done by an agency which has little contact with those who might be affected. As I discovered during this week's exercise in upgrading a communications network, keeping all who need to know in the information loop is an activity everyone involved benefits from doing better. 

Following a quiet afternoon of catching up after a demanding week, Clare and I joined two of her school colleagues at the Millennium Centre for the WNO's English language rendition of Rossini's 'Barber of Seville'. We saw and enjoyed it last time around, but when? For an aide-memoire I checked my old blog 'EdgeoftheCentre' when we got home, and found that it was three years ago minus five days since we last saw this superb comic performance. We went on Clare's birthday and loved it. 

That was the day Ben Rabjohns came to us on ministry placement at St John's. He'll be ordained deacon at the Cathedral next Friday, Michaelmas Day, a term later than his contemporaries, since he did an extra placement in Jerusalem once he finished at St Michael's College. In my mischievous way, I wonder - which will have greater impact on him in the long term - three months in the 21st century Holy Land, or ordination in the Cathedral of the diocese where his father was priest of the same parish for thirty years?

  

More to all this than meets the eye

Thank God it's Friday, with the prospect of some respite from the affairs of this past working week. The radio network engineers arrived a day and a half late. This demolished my scheduling attempts and created problems for us in keeping radio users appraised. Some brought radios in to be fixed. Many more radios had to be hunted out in stores, clubs or pubs, taken to our base, then returned. I haven't felt so out of control since we moved out of the Vicarage and into our new home. Things were complicated by my absence attending a half day briefing session for new voluntary tutors at St Michael's College, on Wednesday morning, and then absence for a funeral this afternoon. Thankfully I was able to recruit Owain to join in the data collection / radio receipt side of operations. His disciplined thoroughness, not to mention his calm cheeriness proved a great asset in minimising the inevitable chaos.

For all our strict procedures, there is nothing uniform about the ways in which users operate their radios in different contexts. Those responsible for business change, not infrequently. Newcomers to  RadioNet system may not be briefed by an outgoing colleague or senior manager. CBS is rarely advised of personnel changes. Only if new users with no grasp of the radio operating instructions bother to ring up and ask for help can training be given. Some can't be bothered, so their radio ends up unused, which does nothing for the security of the place in question. Lack of conscientiousness is on times quite shocking. Some store operators only sit up and take notice after a series of robberies or a nasty incident takes place affecting them. Are they too busy to care?

A major maintenance session is when we discover sets are lost or have sustained damage without us being informed. Few would treat their own mobile phones with such disdain. It meant the exercise was fraught with unforeseen time consuming issues. Radios could not be upgraded at the planned rate, so the exercise ran for three and a half days, instead of two. There are many loose ends to be tied up next week. A fresh attempt to inventory our assets must be made, to ensure the condition and location of every handset is known, rather than traceable when changes occur: e.g. radios swapped out for repair,  given a new location identity, or reported as lost/stolen. At the moment we survive with a document hunt through a paper filing system, still recovering from three office moves in a year. A 24/7 operation in constant motion deserves better, and will get it this time around. It's the price we pay for establishing the organisation from scratch.

All week we camped out in the reception area of our building, surrounded by scores of radios being  upgraded. After arrival this morning I ran up and down four flights of stairs five times in fifteen minutes fetching kit, taking messages. An engineer arrived to service the lifts, taking them out of action for the morning, then another engineer arrived to test the building's electrical circuits. Then a landlord's agent showed up to inspect the building. As we were in the (unstaffed) reception area, with no phone links upstairs, someone responsible had to be located, one or two stories up. The guy managing the building was off work for the day. In addition, I did two circuits of the city centre delivering radios on foot. No wonder I was too exhausted to go out circle dancing when I got home.

I shan't forget my ride along Bute Street at lunchtime today, driven at full tilt in the traffic on one of the city centre's electric golf buggies to collect a couple of unused radios from a down-town top floor office. I kept wondering if it had enough power for the return journey. I worried about being stranded, as I had to cycle home and prepare for the afternoon's funeral. All's well that ends well. At least I'm getting a taste of what it would have been like to be the worker-priest I originally hoped to become when first ordained. There's a lot more to living a priestly life in the world of work than meets the eye. Could I have ever sustained both dimensions satisfactorily I wonder?

   

Sombre Harvest

Before I went to celebrate Harvest with St German's Parish this morning, after reflecting on the Cil-y-Bebyll mine accident, I decided to email Archbishop Barry and express my support for him  at this tragic time for the people of his home valley, from one miner's son to another. We brought the Paschal Candle from the font, and lit it in the midst of the church to remind us of those who had died.

The Mass was followed by an excellent lunch in the Parish Hall next door. I sat next to Fr Malcolm Brooks, former Vicar of my home town Ystrad Mynach, and we chatted about the village and people remembered from my youth, and about the lost community culture and values of the coal mining era. It was natural to do so in the light of current events. 

After lunch, instead of going home, I went into the office for a couple of hours to see if there was anything more I could do to advance preparations for this week's radio network upgrade. Yesterday, I learned that the engineers had encountered problems with their side of the operation and this would mean a late start. We have so much to get through in two working days, I can't see this project being completed to schedule.

It was such a comfort to leave all these worries behind on the desk and return to St Germans for the comfort of Evensong and Benediction. Only half a dozen of us were present, but we sang without inhibition while the evening sun streamed through clouds of incense into the holy of holies. I guess it's the contrasts and paradoxes of the worlds I move in and out of which give me most pleasure.

    

A Hard Friday

It took me the best part of six hours non stop work today, to produce the radio reconfiguration scheduling mail-out for about 180 users in ten groups over two days. It shouldn't have taken so long, except that designing a suitable conditional mail merge, not to mention editing the dross out of the mailing database might have taken longer than using an older label print-out and much manual sorting, not to mention folding and sticking. Lots of repetion with minor variations. The challenge was not to lose concentration and mail schedule letters to users in the wrong groups, so that the check lists for collection and delivery didn't match what recipients had been informed. I only lost the plot once, that I noticed (I hope).

Ashley arrived with the news that the engineers had advised him that they'd be starting later than expected due to glitches in their programming preparation, thereby putting the whole schedule out of sync with the information issued. Ah well, I did my best to order the chaos. I'm dreading Monday and Tuesday already. To add to our trials, our BT internet connection was down again and their support services seemed to be even more chaotic than usual, telling us that our account had been disconnected, promising to ring us back by a certain time and failing to do so. Ashley must have spent two hours on the phone to different operatives, having to explain the situation each time, as none of the information he imparted seemed to be retained and passed on from one section of BT to another, and nothing was resolved.

This was especially annoying as the radio reconfiguration engineer had emailed us a spreadsheet for us to check for the forthcoming work, but offline we couldn't access email. The only BT service working for us was our rarely used 3G internet dongle, and this had to be installed on Ashley's laptop before he could access his account. Once it was working the dongle advised us that only limited use was possible as it needed a software upgrade. Anyway the email was retrieved and the file forwarded to my laptop before it stopped working. As last user of the dongle, my software was more up to date, so I was able to retrieve the file, and together we tackled the task of error checking its 250+ entries, and returning it before the end of business for the weekend. By the time I'd cycled home, I felt fit for nothing, exhausted by so much attention to detail.
 

The evening news reported the death of the four miners trapped underground at Cil-y-Bebyll. Flooding, by waters accumulating from old unmapped mine workings in the vicinity of the latest tunnel may well have caused a fatal tunnel collapse. There was an excellent reprise of article written 15 years ago about the resurgence of small private mines in today's Guardian. Local Vicar Martin Perry was interviewed on Radio. I watched MP Peter Hain on the TV news. In the distant outdoors background, out of focus I think I saw Archbishop Barry talking with locals. He is one of the locals there, born a few miles further north.  It's where I'd expect to find him at a time like this - with the people rather than with the media. My heart goes out to them all.

 

Under pressure

Work was busy this afternoon, with scheduling preparations for next Monday and Tuesday's network radio upgrade to prepare for. Yesterday I got up early and spent a couple of hours on scheduling before going over to Bristol. I sent an email about what I'd done to the office, but omitted to send the file attached, and also omitted to save it in any other place I could access the data. So, as soon as I arrived I had to turn around and go home and recover the file from my desktop machine. Lately, I've been conscientious about emailing in work done at home or storing in in Google Docs, but on this occasion, absent mindedness wreaked havoc.

Thankfully, Jason and Ashley were on their way in together by car, and were able to collect me from a bus stop and take me home and then back to the office. I couldn't find the file at first because I'd forgotten that the work had been done on one of my two portables machines, so the search got me in a right flap. By the time we got back to the office I had only two hours to work before returning home to eat early, then ferry Clare to Dinas Powis for her study group, before going to Penarth for a double session of Chi Gung and Tai Chi. I was glad of the workout, but found it more than usually demanding, after a stressful day. By the time I dragged myself to bed, I felt like I'd swum a couple of miles.

News came in during the day of workers trapped by flooding in a small drift mine at Cil-y-Bebyll in the Tawe Valley up behind Swansea. The news triggered off memories of my father, and the sombre mood at home associated with accidents up at Penallta colliery. The eerie untimely hooting of the pit's siren would announce a crisis that got off-duty emergency responders into their boots and heading out up the road back towards work, just as fast as their tired limbs could take them, just in case they were needed.
 

Although the large nationalised coal mines are long gone, small privately run drift mines still operate, mostly at the Western side of the South Wales coalfield, where lucrative anthracite coal, known as 'Welsh gold', is abundant. This is a region suffering from tens of thousands of mining job losses three decades ago, on top of the impact of the current recession. Anthracite is a high energy low smoke coal costing around £130-150 a tonne in today's domestic market. Small mines using traditional methods in difficult conditions, lacking the benefits of modern equipment, are unlikely to be highly productive, but they still offer men an opportunity to work for a living, albeit for meagre rewards, with high risks attached, as we are reminded by the headlines once more.

 

Visiting SS Great Britain

Owain Clare and I drove to Bristol today to visit Amanda and celebrate her birthday with a trip to see SS Great Britain in Bristol Docks. We were living in Caerphilly when this great ship made her grand re-entry to the dry-dock where she'd been built. Five years later we returned to live in St Paul's Bristol, but the eight years we lived in the city that followed I never made a visit, although I imagine the children must have made school visits there. So for me at least, this was a first time experience, and a most impressive one.

The ship's interior and top deck have been beautifully restored to reflect the way she was in her heyday as the first great transcontinental ocean liner of mid-Victorian times. She is surrounded by only a thin sheet of water, to give the impression of being afloat. Beneath the artificial water-line the hull sits on terra firma in the dry dock with amospheric humidity controlled zealously to combat the deterioration of her cast iron hull plates, oversaturated with decades of sea salt.

The visit begins by going down to hull level, where one can walk around the entire ship at ground level, then it continues with a walk through history exhibition, before ascending to the sea deck, overlooking the harbour and the steep streets of Hotwells, just across the water. From there, one can go down below deck three levels, and see where passengers lived, both rich and poor, and where those who served them and the ship's crew, and livestock were accommodated.

What's remarkable is just how wheel-chair friendly the entire visitor experience turned out to be, with lifts conveniently placed near staircases. A very positive experience for us wheeling Amanda around in her chair.  Although she's improved a great deal, an entire visit on crutches is out of the question for now. After a late lunch and stroll along the quayside, we headed back to Amanda's, where I cooked one of my seafood paella specialities for supper, to go with one of Clare's excellent chocolate birthday cakes. It was a superb outing, and we got back to Cardiff in time for Owain to go to a gig, Clare to choir practice and me to relax doing nothing in particular at home.

Another sombre blue skies day

Well, finishing the sermon was easier said than done. We got back from Worcester just after eight, and it was half past midnight before I turned in. Then I had a new idea while I was eating breakfast, and had enough time for a final edit and print before driving out in bright sunshine to Llandough for the first Eucharist of the day at the Parish Church of St Dochdwy, on the Western ridge above Cardiff Bay. Dochdwy is one of our local Celtic saints of the 5th-6th century.

The mid 19th century church sits on 12th century foundations in an ancient Llan, more oval than circular as sections of this ancient circular enclosure of a sacred place have been trimmed off with the passage of centuries. The interior walls are clad with attractive reddish pink bricks decorated with large crosses in yellow and black brick, imitating the interior design of William Butterfield, who was at the same period building St Augustine's in neighbouring Penarth Parish. Lit by bright morning sun, it looked quite enchanting.

Standing a little way from the south west corner of the building is the three metre high stone shaft carved with celtic patterns of the 10th - 11th century, remains of a celtic Cross, with the name IRBIC inscribed on it. Some historians have speculated that the size of the head of a celtic cross in the same Ogmore sandstone found in Llandaff Cathedral could be what once stood on this shaft. Imagine - if this could be scientifically proved to be true - how many decades of argument would follow on the subject of re-uniting them, and where it should be located?

The twenty strong congregation was friendly and welcoming. Afterwards I had to decline their offer of a cup of tea and a chat, as I had to make my way across to Adamsdown on the A4232 ring road section crossing the Bay to arrive on time for the 11.00am Solemn Mass at St German's, where a congregation of thirty was waiting for me in another enchanting sunlit building four times the size of Eglwys Dochdwy. I got hardly any feedback on the sermon in both places, apart from "Nice to hear someone different for a change." Well, I should be grateful nobody walked out, I suppose, with attendances compensating with commitment for lack of numbers. The sermon's here to read, if you want to see where yesterday's musing led me.

Lunch was hot and on the table when I arrived home - venison stew lovingly prepared by Clare with fresh green vegetables - very tasty. I hunted the afternoon TV news channels to find out if there was any resolution of the unfinished conflict in Libya, but all attention was on the Ground Zero commemoration in NYC. It seemed quite bizarre that BBC One was showing the Monza F1 GP race, with all its minor skirmishes for position, seemingly oblivious of the sombre mood elsewhere. But then channel hopping always seems a bit surreal to me. It was a relief to return to sunny St German's for a single focussed happy hour of Solemn Evensong and Benediction, as a prelude to a quiet evening of Sunday relaxation, grateful for the peace and safety we enjoy, the cost notwithstanding.
 

Terrorism - confrontation or dialogue: what do we want?

As part of the run up to tomorrow's commemoration of 9/11, Mister Blair was interviewed on this morning's Today programme by John Humphries, who wasn't quite as bullying as I usually find him to be, though Mr Blair was dogmatic as ever about the part he and Britain had played in the past decade of violence around the world. He still insists that combating so-called religious extremism is the key to neutralising the global terrorist threat and still doesn't see the costliness and unproductiveness of the use of force. 

Yet paradoxically it was on his watch that secret negotiations between the 'terrorist' leaders on both sides that led to the end of decades of conflict in Northern Ireland bore fruit, as Dame Eliza Manningham-Buller pointed out in her Reith Lecture this week. Although the warring parties in Ulster were for ever assigned religious labels, the conflict was not about religious belief as such. It was about the inability of those with power and access to resources to share it fairly between different communities and their needs. As it happened those communities had social and cultural identities with roots in the religious history and politics of another era. In the doctrines of opposing sides, fair shares in employment, education and housing were what mattered, and required a reconciling response. That's what the dialogue revealed and led the way to achieving.

I was disappointed that Humphries omitted to remind Mister Blair that only about ten per cent of all reported suicide bombers in the past couple of decades could reasonably be described as 'religious extremists'. The other ninety percent were ordinary people, some communist, some atheist other with religious beliefs maybe but not as a driving force. Helplessness rage at the plight of a nation, a community, an ethnic group, subjected to foreign domination, exploited, deprived of dignity as well as resources, generates a despair that induces a feeling that since all is lost, why not give the oppressors as taste of their own medicine? It's a most perverse and evil way to make one's existence meaningful, but it's the response of poor vulnerable people whose lives have been thoroughly devalued by their experience of suffering oppression.

Emphasis is rightly given to the tragic victims and heroes of 9/11, nearly three thousand of them, maybe more when the final account is made of eventual victims of toxic dust fall-out in the aftermath. The world would have a lot more mourning to do if a similar day were to be set aside for a hundred times as many victims of a decade of  'war on terror' in Iraq, Afghanistan and Pakistan, and other parts of the globe soon forgotten. Why do all these lost lives seem to matter less in the estimation of attention given to their demise? It's a mighty challenge to secure any kind of peacemaking dialogue with people enraged to the point of insane despair. Violence must be stopped by reasonable force if needs be. But beyond that?

I've got to preach twice tomorrow. What can I say? But first,  there's Mass to celebrate this morning at St Germans, then a drive to Worcester for lunch and a walk along the banks of the river Severn with our friends Mike and Gail, to lift the spirits and clear the mind. And then finish the sermon.

Worlds of work, leisure & late shopping

I had a noon meeting in the office today with two people from the company which does all the technical support for Cardiff RadioNet. We had Monday and Tuesday of this week set aside for a major exercise in upgrading 240 networked radios, and this was postponed for another two weeks at the eleventh hours. Today was our opportunity to review all our work plans for the coming months with top tech guy responsible for these things and consider the proposed scheduling of work needing to be done. Inevitably plans now have to be re-jigged to fit resources available, and that means more work for me next week, but at least this meeting afforded us the  possibility of progress in getting our comms network to function in a way that matches our ambitions. 

Would I have survived if the nature of 'getting things done' in the church had been as tricky and complex and strictly time based ? (Essential in any upgrade exercise of this kind.) The timescale of change in the church is generally pretty long and very elastic. As an impatient feller this frustrated me hugely, even though I learned to take 'the long view' over time. Now I have to think hard about the most efficient way to manage scarce time resources to get this job done. It's quite a contrast to the way I spent my working life, but I'm glad of all the insights this gives me into the ways of the workaday world.

This evening, Clare and I went to a circle dance session in the Mackintosh Institute over in Roath, with its immaculate, well-used bowling green right outside the french windows of its main assembly room. There were only seven of us (adults of riper years) at this first session of the new term, all people we knew from times past when our friend Moonyeen (God rest her soul) was this group's guru. It was an enjoyable if challenging experience to discover if I could still follow instructions, repeat steps consistently and not make a fool of myself - not that it matters - if you do go wrong nobody's bothered. Circle dance embraces every level and kind of participant that can stand and move around. I love its combination of physical and spiritual activity. Would that our over-intellectualised church life enjoyed the same balance and integration.

On the way home we called into big Tesco on Western Avenue to get some 9 volt smoke alarm batteries, as one of our three started irritating the hell out of us this morning. Such a simple purchase at ten at night in a 24/7 supermarket entailed queuing for a quarter of an hour at a checkout behind a couple of people with their week's shopping. The '10 items or less' aisle was closed. Only a fifth of the checkouts were open. There were queues requiring a couple of staff members to manage those using automatic checkouts. I refuse to use them on principle. OK it may be simple and efficient, but it's so impersonal. It reduces the social experience of shopping to queuing with others who don't want to speak, already fed up that they have to wait to part with their cash to a damned robot. I'd rather say 'hello' and 'thank you' to a real person, even if I have to queue for the privilege.

Next time, I'll exercise even more patience and get my spare batteries downtown, in Cardiff Market.

   

Time out

No Wednesday Eucharist to celebrate today. School's back, and the first of the term time 'class Masses' takes place, and Fr Dean is taking this on board from the start. 

I've been feeling mentally tired this past few days, so I didn't feel like going in to the office. Instead, Clare and I took a brisk walk up the Taff Trail to Whitchurch aiming to see the newly restored Melingriffith Water pump. We certainly needed the exercise, as we were both somewhat out of condition, and were beginning to feel joint pains by the time we reached the road where the pump is sited. Just then the local circular bus came by. We stopped to look at it and it stopped for us! So we didn't get to see the pump, but took a ride into Whitchurch Village and had a cup of coffee from a nice little takeaway shop while we waited for the 24 bus into town. We had lunch in the new Pipi's café, soon to add a Greek restaurant to its excellent food fare offer, then went for a little browse around the shops before returning home.

After supper I booked flights for us to Alicante for a week's half term break, since Anto's apartment is free for us to use. It's hard to believe that we were last there over two years ago. That time has flown by so quickly. Our first visit there was in October during the grape harvest ten years ago. It's not so fiercely hot, and that should make it more tolerable to spend time watching flamingos and other birds in the local natural park behind the shore line on the southern side of the port - while wearing a shirt.
   

Creative contributors or passive recipients?

Since yesterday, I've been reflecting about the condition of parishes in times of interregnum. They go into a kind of suspended animation, with all development initiative suppressed until there is a new incumbent in place, as if lay people can't be trusted to do the right thing without a 'king in the castle', so to speak. I can see that conditions may not be so healthy everywhere, that lack of priestly pastoral leadership might lead to conflict, or strategic decisions no new cleric would find it possible to live with. 

Those of us who share in  maintaining this static condition aren't allowed to change anything or permit changes to be made once an incumbent has gone. It's not the only choice church leaders could make, and it's not always a healthy choice. The idea of having people, ordained or lay, who could accompany a parish pastorally ad interim offering 'light touch' guidance in response to development of new ideas seems not to be explored, or if it happens, it happens off the official radar. Expecting keen lay folk to be patient for a long period puts them at risk of becoming 'patients' - passive recipients of what ecclesiastical professionals hand down for consumption whose creativity has been stifled. Is that good enough?

Back in the 1920s British Anglican theologian and missionary cleric Roland Allen who'd worked in China and in East Africa observed that the rate of the spontaneous expansion of the church, once the Gospel had been received by ordinary people, diminished noticeably once leadership was entrusted to trained professionals, whether expatriate missionaries or local indigenous people. His prophetic insight stimulated debate about the need for non-stipendiary and locally ordained ministries half a century before these were finally approved and adopted by the professional leaders of Anglicanism.

Sure we need our trained professionals, but do they have to be so much in tight control of everything? I'd never thought of that until I was introduced to Allen's writing back in the seventies. Interestingly, after his spell of overseas mission he became a CofE incumbent, but gave it up to earn his keep as an international free-lance expert teacher and writer on mission. I suspect after his experience of mission, he couldn't get used to having so much status, power or control over parishioners. What's it got to do with the Gospel? After all, the pastor like Christ is meant to be 'among you, as one who serves'.

   

Waiting for a new start

Once again I celebrated the Solemn Mass at St German' this morning and Benediction this evening. Their new lay Reader Mike preached at Mass. It was a welcome change to listen to someone else. The sun shone, sending beams of light through clouds of incense, to add to the pleasure. 

I was glad to learn that work has now started on renovating the Vicarage for its next occupant, two months after it was vacated. Sensibly, to my mind, Fr Dean is resisting being licensed to the Parish until he has a place in which he can both live and work. Settling into a new community would be very stressful if the house was a building site with workmen  coming and going while he's trying to work. 

Let's hope there are not too many delays. At this stage, unless there's a miracle, I doubt if they'll be finished in time for his new ministry to be launched before the end of the year. Mindful of that yesterday, I emailed Area Dean Fr Mark a list of my remaining locum duty availability for the last quarter of the year. I don't envy him the task of providing all the necessary duty cover.

I admire the cheerful patience of church members, getting on with their regular duties, welcoming various guest clerics, also parishioners seeking pastoral offices. It's business as usual until they can work with their new pastor to figure out what fresh initiatives they want to take together. I get an insight from here into what it must have been like for the locum clerics who did duty at St John's during the fifteen months after my retirement. A pity it always seems to take so long.
    

Making time work

It's been a busy week in the office, with preparations to make for to organising the software upgrading of the 240 digital radios belonging to the City Centre radio network. This involves checking their specific identities and locations to which they are assigned, so they can be configured correctly. My task has been to figure out the best way to create a timetable that will bring users to two separate locations convenient to them, for a ten minute rendezvous with an engineer over a period of two full working days. This must be done within a specified period to minimise down-time for the 200 users involved, and build enough slack into the schedule to allow for the inevitable minor glitches, late arrivals, failure to get the rendezvous message through to the person who has to perform the errand. 

I went into the office early this morning to finish the task, as I had to officiate at a funeral after lunch, only to learn that the engineers had postponed the work for a couple of weeks. We had only just started to distribute a general reminder notice, and that a somewhat later date than desirable, as a preliminary to preparing the schedule notifications for distribution, so the notification task had to be aborted, and all users notified of the delay instead. At one level it was most annoying, but at another level, the extra preparation time will not go amiss, and will allow us to refine the scheduling plan to optimise the limited (expensive) time available. As a not for profit company we have to make best use of our finite resources, and to do this, a little extra time is most valuable.
 

Bank Holiday outing

I drove through a quiet city centre to St German's on this Bank Holiday morning to celebrate Mass in honour of the martyrdom of St John the Baptist for five worshippers. Then I picked up Owain for an excursion to the Gower, for a walk and a picnic. Though cloudy, the weather was just perfect for a good stroll. 

Traffic was reasonable for most of the journey, but on the outskirts of Parkmill on the last stretch, we ground to a halt in a queue of cars which only progressed when drivers decided to turn around and take another route. After ten minutes, we did likewise, and took the road across Clyne Common, up and over Cefn Bryn to avoid Parkmill and reach Oxwich Bay. Traffic everywhere else was reasonable, and the diversion gave us a chance to stop at the top of the ridge to enjoy the view and take a brisk walk down to Arthur's stone, the megalithic tomb overlooking the Loughour estuary.

The beach front car park at Oxwich was full and hundreds of people were out enjoying clement weather. The vast beach hardly seemed full however, especially as the tide was out as far as it could go. It meant we were able to walk straight across the sands to Three Cliffs Bay and eat lunch there at the foot of the cliffs. We climbed up the long sandy footpath on to the cliff top for the first stretch of the walk back Oxwich, as the turning tide had by that time cut off our return all the way across the sand. The abundant cliff top heather was a remarkable bright purple colour. 

At the northerly end of Oxwich beach, someone had drawn a giant turtle on the sand, over fifty feet long, and best visible from the cliff top immediately above. I wonder if the artist had a companion up on high to advise on proportion and dimensions? Within two hours of our passing by it would be effaced by the incoming tide. An interesting work of art indeed, more ephemeral than street graffiti.

We had tea in the garden of our beloved Oxwich Bay Hotel before driving back to Cardiff. I was certainly ready for it after our brisk five mile afternoon walk.
  

Busy day

I never sleep well when I have to be out of the house early enough to celebrate an eight o'clock Eucharist somewhere, and today was no exception - a night punctuated with odd dreams reflecting uncertainty. I was up and about as soon as the alarm went off, as ever, and punctual arriving at the Parish Church of the Resurrection in Ely for a small congregation somewhat depleted by the fact of the Bank Holiday Weekend.

I had the church to myself for an hour between services, and made use of its huge space and my free time to practice some Chi Gung and Tai Chi moves before the main Eucharist of the day. After the Eucharist I celebrated the baptism of two children. The families and friends of the two children christened amounted to more than double those attending the Eucharist.

After this, before returning for lunch, I drove over to St German's for another baptism service, a much smaller affair, with about three dozen present, only two of whom were men. I've never done two baptism services en suite like that in my entire ministry. It was just necessary because of the problems of clergy deployment during one of the weekend in the year when it seems like more clergy want time off than any other time in the year.

St German's didn't know until Tuesday that there'd be a priest for its one Sunday Mass. Shortages are a reality, but it seems to me that the greatest shortage is in recognising and dealing with the problem that exists, as if those at the top responsible for ensuring pastoral cover are still in denial that a radical solution is needed to ensure that people at grass roots get the support they need to continue their witness through worship.

Anyway, I was happy to find that I could cope with four services before lunch - just like in the old days of the Central Cardiff Rectorial benefice, depleted of clergy - I was home eating lunch by two, back at St German's after a snooze in front of the TV for Evensong and Benediction at five. When I got home, Katherine was there on Skype, standing in a wifi hotspot with her iPhone outside the hotel where she, Rhiannon and Anto are weekending down in Valencia, so I could sing her Happy Birthday. Half an hour later, Rachel was there on Skype from Fairmont B.C., having just talked to her sister. This made my day complete.

   

No mean feast

This morning I celebrated Mass at St German's in honour of St Monica mother of St Augustine whose feast day is tomorrow. It's an occasion which figures in our family memory, as our eldest daughter Katherine was born on St Augustine's Day in the old St David's hospital on Cowbridge Road, here in Cardiff, forty years ago. Strange to have daughter who's forty, when you hardly feel that age yourself (sometimes). The facade of the hospital building remains, albeit converted into apartments - I wish they'd get the clock on the tower above the old main  entrance working once more. The rest of the site has been turned into apartments, plus a much smaller medical specialist centre for older patients. So different from its glory days as a top maternity unit.

After lunch we drove down to Cold Knap in Barry for a walk along the cliffs to Porthkerry. There was a strong wind off the sea, but it wasn't uncomfortably cold. The tidy was right out and on the turn, crashing in on the vast bank of pebbles by the time we left. Most stimulating, and guaranteeing a good night's sleep.

 

Indiscretion

This morning I acted as scribe for the RadioNet User Group monthly meeting. There's not usually a meeting in August, so only half the usual number of people attended. During the meeting I raised a security concern of my own, arising from the televising of the parliamentary debate about social unrest after MPs had been recalled last week. Our local MP Jenny Willott was one of the earlier commenters to catch the Speaker's eye, complimenting South Wales Police officers re-deployed early to assist in quelling unrest - fine. But she couldn't resist mentioning how Cardiff and Sheffield had escaped civil unrest, and attributing this to superior city centre management. 

To say such things, whether true or not, seemed to me to be inviting challenges to peaceful order. Why mention these things before it was certain stability had been restored? I thought it indiscreet, tempting providence, and I discovered others at the meeting felt the same. The consensus was that it's best to say as little as possible about security issues until you're sure everything is as stable as it needs to be. Time to drop a note to our local MP I think. 

Our new local city centre 'Bobby' was at the meeting, PC Dave Sharp, sharing with us his enthusiasm for keeping regular local offenders in check. We certainly have some persistent problem people, beggars, thieves, hustlers, causing a lot of trouble. Given that removing one seems to make room for another, I wonder how long he'll be able to keep up the initiative? After the meeting I managed to get the framework of the minutes sorted before I had to go home. 

After lunch, I was picked up in a sumptuous new Funeral Directors' Jag and taken to 'the Rez' Parish Church in Ely to conduct a funeral service for a man a year younger than me who'd died of a brain tumor. He worked as a fitter on the railways all his life without taking sick leave, but after five years of retirement, an inoperable cancer developed and took his life in eight months. None of us know what lies ahead of us, do we?

   

The news war

I've been spending a lot of time following events in Libya this past few days. This morning's trip to St German's to celebrate St Bartholemew's Day was my first outing since Sunday. Each day is punctuated by sessions of news channel hopping between BBC, Sky and Al-Jazeera, both on telly and on the web, plus regular scanning of Twitter to sift for the odd speck of gold among the dross of thousands of postings repeating old stories or peoples' varied emotional reactions or spam of Russian origin. Unscrupulous folk mention Libya or Tripoli so that the search engine will pick up and display a posting which is generally about something unrelated, usually dodgy. Purveyors of verifiable facts and outrageously fictitious notions of events, not to mention comic one-liners, are all there in the mix, but with a little practice it is possible to identify stuff worthy of consideration.

On any hashtag (= #name) relating to the conflict, one can find the first posting of any occasional article or news report worth reading, the pleas of people close to the conflict for medical aid, or recognition of some new conflict hot spot. People were tweeting about Gaddafi's network of tunnels days before reporters were broadcasting the guided tours. Twenty four hours before Gaddafi soldiers concealed in the forest area linked to the zoo started opening fire on the city's liberators, someone in the locality was tweeting a warning about the danger of their presence there. No doubt news hounds and military intelligence observers also have their eyes on the 'tweetosphere'. It's interesting to see how long it takes for a noticeable reaction to new information. Sometimes the tweets throw up specific immediate material that simply needs to be prayed about. As one might pray briefly on hearing the sound of an ambulance  racing through the streets.

Watching over days, the same film footage, reports and interviews are aired time and time again. Each channel has its own angle. The Beeb is always a bit behind Sky and Al-Jazeera in sniffing out new stories, and a bit more preoccupied with the views of powerful institutional figures and speculation on policy than immediate events on the ground. Interviewers, reporters and commentators can get very worked up at what seems to them like a slow rate of progress in resolving a crisis. Their impatience is an irritation, itz demonstrates a kind of naïvety about the pace of real events outside the studio, and the scale of difficulties being faced up to in order to get through huge upheavals, especially when you don't have all the resources and a dedicated team at your beck and call.

I used to think the Beeb was most balanced in its reportage, but it's been good to compare perspectives and priorities between news organisations and to see that the Beeb reflects the establishment position - our establishment of course. However, one thing I'd like to think the Beeb would never do, and that's display a Mediterranean map marking the wrong Tripoli (in Lebanon), while fighting in its Libyan namesake was being reported. But CNN did. And news of this went around the twittersphere like wildfire!

But why this obsessive watching? The overthrow of this particular evil tyrant has been longed for since well before Saddam Hussein came to power. How it has come to pass, and where it will lead the Libyan people is for me a matter of much prayerful concern. One of those things I feel I should make time for in retirement.

The surprising triumph of faith

I had a leisurely start this morning, my first service being the St German's Solemn Mass at eleven. After this  came the baptism of three children - two little girls of four and five in white dresses, and a boy of toddler age. It was at the mother's insistence that the children were christened. He partner is a Kurdish Muslim. She hadn't expected him to attend, but he came  and sat through the service with the family. I noticed he had lost his left hand, and wondered by what act or violence or misfortune this had occurred, but there was no time to ask. 

Each girls' had a godparent standing by them and steadying them as they stood on a stool to bend over the font for the pouring of water over their heads. Then, to my surprise and delight, Dad stepped up with his son in arms, and tipped the boy's head over the font with reassuring words for him while I poured water over the child's head. On each occasion the baptismal action was met more by cheers than by a liturgical 'Amen', but nobody could question peoples' involvement in the ceremony. His family didn't come, although invited. Perhaps another time.

Afterwards, Dad stood at the door, radiant, and greeted everyone as they left the church. I'd like to think that for him this was a special moment of acceptance and bonding with her family. I greeted him afterwards with Salaam eleikum to acknowledge his Muslim identity, and expressed appreciation for his willingness to participate in the service. For the mother of his children, this must have been one of life's small triumphs, a little victory in capacity of her faith to bring people together.

View from the Rhigos

After celebrating Mass at St German's this morning, I drove Clare and Auntie Daphne (who's holidaying with us this week) to the Ignatian mediation group at Tonyrefail Vicarage. Members of the group lunched together, and then we took the long way home - driving up Rhondda Fawr, climbing up over the Rhigos, then going east along the Heads of the Valleys Road as far as the junction with the A470 above Merthyr Tydful, then back down the Taff Vale all the way to Cardiff.

There's little remaining of the scores of coal mines which would have punctuated this route thirty years ago. Auntie Daphne quizzed me about the South Wales coal field, so I was challenged to explain the geology underlying the geography as we drove. The now closed and empty site of Tower Colliery outside Hirwaun is still visible from the lay-by up on the Rhigos.

The striking difference since we last drove up there is the sight of a hillside a few  miles to the west of the colliery, covered with over a dozen wind turbines. When I checked my photo archive for pictures taken on our last trip, I was astonished to find that it was seven and a half years ago.

We also noticed on the east side of the road past the colliery site, open cast mine workings where none existed before. A large sign declared that they belonged to Tower Colliery Ltd. Wikipedia informed me that after colliery closure in 2008, planning permission was sought to extract the coal in this area of land, formerly used by the colliery as a coal washery site. Six million tonnes of anthracite left to be extracted, and hopefully benefit local economy for a little longer.

The Heads of the Valleys Road to the west of Merthyr seems to have changed little in the half century from its launch as the new trunk road across the northern perimeter of the South Wales coalfield. The stretch from Hirwaun to Merthyr looks as if time has stood still and forgotten to move on, unlike the section to the east of Merthyr which benefited from a European Community funded upgrade a few years ago.

Travelling up and down two former mining valleys got me thinking about my father, with whom I'd travelled these roads as a teenage during school holidays, as he went about his job as a consultant representing a wire rope haulage company. I think he hated what the pits had done to despoil such beautiful countryside, and would be glad to see them looking fresh and green again. Even so, I wonder what he'd have made of the wind turbines?

  

Reflecting on the riots

Two services this morning out in the Vale, first at Saint Marychurch with its round Celtic llan of a churchyard, then at St Hilary. The tower at St Marychurch is currently cordoned off with Heras fencing. A large crack has appeared in the south-west corner of the tower. Fortunatley the crack doesn't penetrate right through to the interior of the tower, it's just the stone dressing of its core that needs attention, doubtless expensive for a small community. As I entered I was greeted by a lady offering free bags of cooking apples, gratefully received. At St Hilary, another lady was selling one kilo bags of lovely ripe Victoria plums a quid each for church funds. I gladly stumped up for a bag to take home, though I was certain Clare would be getting somer at the Riverside farmers' market. She's been making the most of the abundance of a good season of summer fruit, first with strawberry and then damson jam making. Maybe plum jam as well? Or just lots of good eating.
 

When I came to check my sermon last night, one I'd written in fit of zeal last Monday knowing we'd be away several days, it seemed less than relevant, after the week's urban riots. I'd worked with a Gospel about the healing of the Canaanite woman's daughter, a favourite of mine for reflecting on how Jesus approached inter-faith and cross cultural encounters. So I re-edited the text radically, to focus on examining the spiritual context of public disorder. In the end I didn't need to abandon the 'inter-faith Jesus' theme, as I was able to point how how he applauded the faith of people different from his own beliefs and culture, enabling us to admire people other than Christians, like Tariq Jahan, whose son was murdered in Winson Green last Tuesday, standing up for values clearly recognisable to Christians and others of good will. I've posted the text of it for downloading here.

It was interesting to observe that the press has made little of the fact that Mr Jahan is muslim, that his son was killed in the holy month of Ramadhan, that his appeal for peace, not retaliation or revenge in response was a consistent witness to the inner meaning of Ramadhan discipline. Only at the peace rally in Winson Green  televised after lunch today, did Mr Jahan himself mention for the first time this week that he's muslim and that it's Ramadhan. In the end it's example that counts.

At Evensong in St German's we observed the Assumption of our Lady, which gave me an opportunity to use three of my favourite Marian verses from the Byzantine liturgical corpus. At the end of it, I was just too tired to join the others who went on to St Mary's for an eumenical event with festive procession and fireworks in honour of the feast, grateful for a quiet evening at home instead.

Scarborough journey

After celebrating the 10.00am Mass at St German's on  Wednesday morning, Clare and I travelled by train to Scarborough to visit out old friends from Geneva days, Peter and Andrea. The six hour journey was so much more pleasant than driving by car even if it cost more. The high summer countryside up the border between England and Wales, and on the journey across the Pennines from Manchester to our destination provided us with a feast of beautiful colour. The trains on both legs of the journey were in good order and satisfyingly full.

Scarborough is what one might call a traditional seaside town, beautifully maintained with lots of fine Victorian buildings and three cliff railways, of which two are working. The sea front is an eclectic mix of buildings serving the needs of holidaymakers: pubs, restaurants, ice cream parlours, amusement arcades, stalls selling toys, sweets, fresh sea-foods etc; and there's a harbour, with excursions on speed-boat or pirate galleon, catering for all kinds of taste. There are some grand hotels, and Victorian terraced houses of substance, and many streets that still contain small shops of every kind. 

Without striving to manufacture it, Scarborough breathes the ethos of an earlier time, an era which remains attractive and comforting to a large enough number of people to sustain the town as it is in these times of change. It has a high proportion of of older residents among its population, and that may be what ensures its viability for the present. Our friends are very happy there in retirement, and despite a Thursday of dreadful weather our stay with them was most interesting and enjoyable, destined to be repeated.

We had a couple of days without internet, only occasionally being able to follow TV news. Even so, just as I'd imagined, the numbers of arrests of people rioting in London and other parts of the country quickly rose to over fifteen hundred, with courts sitting all night to process offenders. Parliament recalled has discussed the events ad nauseam and now efforts are being made to begin a sensible grass roots enquiry into the reasons for such public disorder, even before any formal judicial enquiry is set up.

I daresay, in the long run, an analysis of how it all happened in its different settings may be achieved, but even if underlying moral and spiritual failures of society are identified as a key factor, I doubt if any practical remedy will be the outcome. The modern world is so addicted to its own ideas of progress, it's impossible to see what heartfelt repentance and reformation might look like in a way that would transform life for all.

  

Insurrection or what?

For the last couple of days, the news of rioting in London, then Manchester and the West Midlands has captured my attention. I've spent a lot of time following the unfolding news and commentary on TV and via Twitter and the BBC and Sky news websites. It's reminded me of the riots during the time I was Rector of the Parish of St Paul's Bristol on April 2nd 1980, when 'ignored poor people spoke with fire' as one black activist put it to me days later. The first major civil disorder in England since 1820 broke out that day.  

What's happening now little resembles that time. The scale and spread of events, the use of technology which facilitated the uprisings in Arabic countries of the Middle East, employed to co-ordinate public disorder and looting. Those making mayhem now are more diverse in culture background and age than in St Paul's, 31 years ago. Yet now as then, people are out destroying amenities that serve places they belong to. It's a kind of communal self-harm expressing a profound social sickness and dysfunction nobody seems able to deal with effectively. Nothing much has changed. Socio-economic divisions are as deep as ever, set to disadvantage an even broader cross-section of the population.

All this has distracted me from full enjoyment of Kath and Rhiannon's visit, although we did get out to Saint Fagan's folk museum this afternoon and to Stefano's around the corner for supper tonight. But, all along I've been crossing my fingers that Cardiff wouldn't erupt. I rang my colleague Ashley very late this evening to seek some kind of assurance from someone on the ground in touch with security people in the centre that it was as calm as it was being reported by others. It's been quieter than usual - maybe people have stayed at home to watch news on TV rather than go out.

I picked up this evening on an interview with Darcus Howe, a Trinidadian black militant even when I was in theological college. A BBC presenter, poorly briefed, alleged he was no stranger to riots himself. She was upbraided by him for her impudence. He spoke of current events as 'an insurrection' of disavantaged people. Exactly the phrase he used, talking about the St Paul's riot in 1980. In a sense he was right about both, except that there's been a change in what I call the 'boundaries of transgression'. More violence, less respect for the vulnerable, the stranger in the midst, more self-centred attention grabbing behaviour - the dark side of that libertarian phrase which crops up so often on tee-shirts and advertisements: 'no limits'. There are real risks in promoting people's fantasies to them as if they were reality. Now we're reaping what we sow. 

Looking at news film footage I get the impression that huge numbers of people are swept away by the sheer excitement of defying law and order, intoxicated with the illusion that they are invulnerable, undetectable, like some primitive tribe on the warpath feeling that its magic spells protect it from an assailant's bullets. On times it seems as if the police are reluctant to intervene as people are setting fires and looting. They are outnumbered in some confrontations, it wouldn't worth the risk to respond without support. They're there to protect lives, and however important property is to everyone, people must always come first. 

What the perpetrators forget however is that above the thin blue line, the CCTV cameras are recording and zooming in on the action. I bet there are also police officers photographing events just behind the front line too. Reports come in of people taking pictures being beaten and having their cameras stolen. What would happen if hundreds of citizens came out in protest with their cameras, and photographed and every effort to break the law? Unity is strength. 

The appearance of hundreds protesting against the riots by getting out into the streets with bin bags and sweeping brushes is a great triumph for a 'big society' which already exists - people of good will responding spontaneously before any politician can claim the credit. Cameron has recalled Parliament. Will MPs be joining a clean-up started by the people?

  

New release

Up early today, to celebrate the eight o'clock Mass at Christchurch, Roath Park. That was it until Evensong and Benediction at St German's, so I had a nice un-busy Sunday for a change. 

Kath and Rhiannon arrived to stay for a couple of days, just after I returned. It's great to have them here again. Kath brought me the latest album from Ojos de Brujo,  'Corriente vital - 10 anos' - two new songs and nine old songs from their repertoire interestingly re-worked with different musicians and producers. It's marvellous to hear great songs presented with considerable differences in interpretation and performance, a real exploration of how their musical content can be developed. 

To my mind there's not nearly enough of this happening in the popular music world of today. The emphasis is so much on everyone writing and performing their own original stuff. The increase of volume of material is accompanied by a decline in its quality. As a result there's very little that's musically exciting to grab attention in the general market. There are always remarkable exceptions of great originality of course, and it's great to know that originality is the hall mark of the output of 'Ojos de Brujo', even when reworking their own songs.

Transfiguration anniversary events

Today is our forty fifth wedding anniversary. Clare had a lie-in, but I was book to celebrate at St German's, so I laid the breakfast table and left her  greeting card before I left. Another young mum with kids came to thechurch after Mass to book in a baptism. I'll have done more baptisms this month than in give years at St John's. It shows how much variation there can be in pastoral demand from one church to another.

At noon, Clare and I joined a congregation of about three hundred at St Mary's the Docks celebrating Father Graham Francis' fortieth anniversary of ordination to the priesthood. I was sub-deacon at his first Mass in Holy Cross Parish Church, when we were both junior curates. The legendary Father Ken Gillingham guided him through the celebration and preached. Here we were, forty years on, in the church which 'Gillie', as he was fondly known, had served with distinction, before during and after the years we were at St Michael's College in training. We both worked under 'Gillie's supervision as Samaritans volunteers. 'Gillie' was a priestly and pastoral role model to us for ministry among the working classes. Graham followed in his footsteps, and this was testified by the number of clergy present, both in the congregation, and at the altar as con-celebrants.

The celebration was superbly organised involving dozens of people, singing, reading, praying, serving at the altar. There were even three Bishops present, one of them preaching an thoughtful homily on transfiguration while reflecting on Graham's priestly ministry. The singing of all his favourite hymns was exuberant, making for a joyous occasion of thanksgiving. We sat together in the choir stalls, overlooking the nave altar from behind, a great place to see the variety of people in the assembly.

Afterwards we stopped briefly to greet a few people, before heading out to Caerphilly mountain for a walk. We looked at a display of black and white photos taken at Graham's first Mass. I appear in them porting a beard, with long black hair, resembling pictures of Rasputin, as my father used to say. Typically sixties. I can hardly believe it was me I was looking at. I don't recall much about that service, only the hassles of arranging a nave altar for the occasion on a very uneven flagstone floor in Holy Cross Church.

After an hour's vigorous exercise in perfect walking weather we had afternoon tea in the New House Country Hotel, with its panoramic view of the city, Bay and Severn Estuary. By the time we arrived home neither of us had much enthusiasm for supper at a restaurant, so we went out and hunted for a take-away meal, settling for fish dishes from Seren, a Turkish restaurant in Canton. I think we'll go back there for a proper meal soon.

There's rioting in Tottenham tonight, following a protest march to a police station in connection with the killing by police of a local man two days ago. It sounds like senior police were unable to respond to the request for a meeting with the dead man's family, then disorder broke out and went out of control. Given that the IPCC (Independent Police Complaints Commission) was called in to investigate a killing by police, did this induce a paralysis of common sense on the part of the leadership? There's a lot of anger out there.

  

St Germanus celebrated

At the end of an afternoon in the office, I cycled over to St German's to celebrate their feast of title with a Solemn Mass, followed by a social evening for neighbouring church members from St Saviour's Splott. Evening sun added its numinous touch the occasion. It was a great pleasure to perform, and it pushed me to research St Germanus of Auxerre. He came to Britain in the early fifth century on a mission to dispute with Pelagian heretics. I daresay he was something of an influence and inspiration to our local Celtic saints of the generation after him - David, Patrick, Illtud, Teilo, Dyrfig, Samson etc. 

Two festivals honour his name. This one, relating to his death while visiting Ravenna on a peace mission from Gaul in 448, and then one in September celebrating the home-coming of his remains to Auxerre, where they remained undisturbed in the Benedictine Abbey there until his tomb was desecrated during the Huguenot revolt of 1567. What a violent traumatic upheaval the reformation must have been for many ordinary people across Europe! I wonder if our changing times will one day be perceived similarly.

   

Lammas Day thoughts

Lammas Day, first of August - I wonder how many people of today seeing that title on an old fashioned calendar would know that it refers to the ancient custom of baking and offering to the church for use at Mass on this day bread made from the first-fruits of the new summer grain harvest? Loaf-mass=Lammas. Is popular culture today as disconnected from the tradition of Eucharistic community life as it is from agriculture?

Looking over the Cowbridge Benefice Sunday bulletin last night I learned that David Boult the non-stipendiary priest in the Benefice has now been licensed to full time ministry there as Assistant Curate. That'll make a difference. For many months Rector Derek Belcher has been the only full-time cleric in a rural agricultural area of eleven churches, eight of them with weekly services. There's a vacancy for a Team Vicar proving difficult to fill. Thankfully there are a number of retired clerics living in the Vale. Without their help every week, plus local teams of lay people, pastoral life in the area's village parishes would be impossible to sustain. It's cause for concern as numbers of retired clergy shrink, reflecting a decline in numbers of vocations dating back to my ordination time. 

In those days, the Church in Wales promoted liturgical revision and acceptance of Sunday Eucharist and Holy Communion as the norm for worship. This sent Matins and Evensong, services not needing a cleric, into terminal decline. Short-fall priestly vocations has been proportionately greater than that of church attenders. Demand for the Eucharist is now high and clerical numbers to provide it are fewer than ever, as in the Roman Catholic church. Cardiff Deanery has half the clerics it had a decade ago, though few churches have yet had to close, or give up their Sunday Eucharist altogether. At what point does the present pattern of localised church become unsustainable?

Sixteenth century liturgical reform aimed to increase regularity in receiving Communion but it failed. Regular church-going remained less than popular and Communion infrequent.  People were content to attend Matins or Evensong, and in the absence of communicants, Eucharist was not celebrated. Even the four obligatory main feasts a year were poorly attended. Centuries since have seen times of stagnation and revival. Recent church decline follows missionary resurgence in the nineteenth century as the population moved from the countryside into the cities. However worrying the present situation is for mainstream traditional faith communities, nobody can really predict what the future holds, especially in times of such rapid change. 

There are plenty of experiments in mission and worship going on today, quite apart from those enforced by pressure for change. There has been much rethinking of the way Christianity and the Gospel is translated and communicated for the era of modern science, technology and globalisation. But we have yet to see how the spiritual hunger and creative imagination can be captured for such a radically new era, an time in which accounts of Lammas tradition can be accessed on-line in seconds, but rarely if ever encountered in reality.