Another lovely sunny day for my eightieth birthday with the temperature rising above 20C. Chief Rabbi Ephrem Murvis spoke about the importance of the Passover meal, and the traditional story telling question and answer dialogue, as essential as the ancient menu. At the end he threw in an insightful anecdote from his own childhood, in which he said that when he returned from school has mother would ask him not what new things he had learned that day, but what questions he had thought to ask. I really like that.
Cards and digital greetings arrived from the family and even a couple of friends made in Spain. A message from the Archdeacon so say that when we go to visit niece Veronica in a month's time, I can celebrate the Eucharist with the Costa Brava chaplaincy congregation in an ancient village church in Madremanya, not far from Girona.
After breakfast, a quick visit to Beanfreaks to fetch a heavy item Clare had ordered, then a bus into town to attend the noon Eucharist at St John's City Parish Church. I have such a lot to thank God for, it's something I really wanted to do today. The Friday Eucharist at the Cathedral is at 8.00am, too early for me to manage. None of the churches in West Cardiff Ministry Area offer a Friday Eucharist any longer. Five of the six offer only a weekday Eucharist. Sitting in the sunlit chancel of St John's, receiving instead of offering as I did for eight and a half years before retirement, was balm to the soul.
There were ten of us, there, and a few more sitting quietly out in the nave, observing or praying. Friday attendance was much the same as it was fifteen years ago. There was one lady in her eighties whose face looked familiar, but the other faces had changed, most of them dead now. After the service she recognised me from those days. I last met Sarah the Vicar was at her licensing six years ago. Her recollection was hazier, given the throughput of worshippers and visitors. Then Ruth, former church warden arrived and we recognised each other, more because she used to be a volunteer steward at the opera. St John's is in good hands and as alive and well today as it ever was.
Since covid, Masses have become less frequent and confined to Sundays and Wednesdays. It's a matter of decline in attendance leading to decline in demand for weekday worship on top of clergy shortage, sad to say. For me it's a disruption to the rule of life I have followed for most of my life, like others of my generation striving to take Christian discipleship seriously. Influenced by monastic spirituality from early days, and belonging to the Anglican tradition whose origins owe much to monasticism, This has given special value to frequenting a local place of worship, making it a spiritual home. It's become rare for a Parish Church to be open daily, unless it's a tourism destination like St John's or the Cathedral.
Religious discourse these days often speaks of 'the spiritual journey'. Pilgrimages of various kinds enjoy renewed interest, well and good. But what about dwelling on home ground? A legacy of the monastic vow of stability. Having to commute to a place of worship away from the district you inhabit demands time and effort, limiting what else you can do from home. The disruptive experience of change can leave you feeling like a stranger in your own house. I've maintained an interest in scientific and social innovation and change throughout my adult life, but the church's varied reactions to change are hard to grasp. Differences in conservative and liberal opinion dividing not uniting churches, the struggle to maintain dialogue and collaboration. Inability to be really open and honest about failure and betrayal and provide a healing remedy is a stumbling block to spiritual seekers. Can God's people muddle their way through the mess to a place in which Christian community and the Gospel message regain the right to speak of the One they strive to worship in spirit and in truth? Time will tell.
I took the 18 bus along Cowbridge Road East to the other St John's Parish Church (St John the Evangelist) for the last Lent lunch, calling in at Tesco's for food bank offerings on my way there. There were sixteen of us there, and during the meal I was presented with a birthday card signed by all the regulars at the meal. I had begged them not to make a fuss, as I wished to postpone celebration until Easter Day, but this was a lovely and discreet gesture. How kind!
Clare joined me there for lunch, and we went home together. I walked in the sunshine around Llandaff Fields until tea time, then we decided to take the bus to attend a baroque concert in the 'Res'. An octet of string players plus harpsichord, flute and recorder soloists, involved with the church's music educational initiative 'Making Music and Changing lives' playing music by Corelli, Vivaldi and Bach. A perfectly sized ensemble for the church acoustic. Just fifty minutes of delightful music to savour, such a treat. It was annoying that we reached the bus stop to take us there as a number 18 was approaching and it sailed past us. A number 17 turned up five minutes later which took us there, but its route is less direct, so we arrived three minutes after the concert started. Then the 18 which was due to return us to Canton afterwards had either left early or didn't run, so we had to wait half an hour for the next. Fortunately it wasn't cold. The sky was clear and the nearly full Passover moon shone down on us while we waited.
When we got home, I watched another episode of 'De Dag' before bed, still coming to terms with being an octogenarian.
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