Candlemass

I celebrated and preached at St Paul's Grangetown this morning. When I returned home, Clare told me that Emma was presiding at the St Catherine's Eucharist, having resumed work after maternity leave. It's good that she's back in circulation, and will have several months of working with Frances before the parish welcomes a new Deacon for his training curacy. It's pleasing that ministry in the parish getting back up to strength. It means there'll be less for me to do, but that's fine by me, as I'm in Grangetown most Sundays at the moment and have the prospect of returning to Spain in March.

Apart from an afternoon walk, I spent much of the day again scanning old photos - a mix of pictures taken in Switzerland, and some in Barcelona when we went there to celebrate Anto's 40th birthday. I'm not writing much at the moment, the surge of inspiration has waned, perhaps because I enjoy the journey into our past lives through the photos I'm rediscovering. We were fortunate to visit or live in some lovely places during my full time working life, and this continues still, thankfully.
  

Epiphany confusion

Yesterday I had a sermon to write, and documents to prepare with photocopies of my passport and driving license, which can be verified as copies by an office holder's signature, GPs and clerics do this. I have often done it for others, but this time I must get someone to do it for me. Fr Rhys has agreed to. He's a GP and a cleric! The point of the exercise is to have an identity document to send to the Spanish police database to secure an official certificate stating that I have no criminal convictions in Spain. This is necessary to renew my European Permission to Officiate. 

It's a fiddly task which has to be perfectly correct to succeed, and that makes me nervous, even though I know there's nothing to worry about, as there's nothing to find. The trouble is, I don't trust anybody's big information systems, as none of them can be absolutely error free. It's one of the obstacles of modern life that has to be lived with.

My afternoon walk took me past Tesco Extra on Western Avenue. The stretch of woodland behind the store a few years ago hosted a huge flock of starlings, which came to roost there at sunset. These have been supplanted by a huge flock of crows. I have never seen so many in one place, hundreds of them. Alarm calls from birds overhead caught my attention. I looked up and saw several crows attacking a couple of starlings, driving them away from the roost which used to be theirs. People can behave like that too, if they think they have the numbers or strength. We're no better.

I spent several hours writing my novel until late, taking time off just to watch this week's double episode of 'Wisting' on BBC Four. Although this is the first time it's been screened in the UK, the plot has an air of déja-vu about it. It's worth watching for its backdrop of Norwegian winter landscape, but part of the entertainment is predicting twists in the story-line.

I was thankful for a later start this morning celebrating the Eucharist of the Baptism of Christ at St Paul's Grangetown at ten thirty this morning. There was a certain confusion about whether Epiphany ended last Sunday or ends today and Ordinary Time (changing to green liturgical décor) begins. I regret that lectionary revision fifty years ago didn't keep the rest of January as time 'after Epiphany', up until Candlemass. Just because the Roman Catholic church does Ordinary Time is no justification for everyone else to do it.

Clare had her monthly afternoon study group so we had an early lunch. This meant I could get out for longer walk and went up the Taff Trail to the top end of Hailey Park in Llandaff North and back, six miles in two hours. It's great to be able to do that and still have energy to spend hours writing.

We watched this evening's  the second episode of 'Doctor Who'. The goobledgook sci-fi content is barely intelligible let alone credible, but it was good to see Sir Lennie Henry again, playing a baddie whose tech genius dominates and controls the internet using 'big data' harvested from people's personal web accounts. He had some rather good lines, much closer to contemporary truth than any of the sci-fi. Then, more novel writing until late. I've gained a good deal of plot momentum this weekend, but the end is not quite in sight yet.

Epiphany Sunday

I celebrated an Epiphany Eucharist at St Dyfrig and St Samson's at nine this morning, then again at ten thirty at St Paul's Grangetown. I had forgotten that the latter on a first Sunday has children from the Sunday school attending the service, and had to ad lib a suitable sermon. As it was the second of the day, this came much easier than feared, and enjoyed the interaction. Actually the adults are as responsive when questions are asked, as the kids.

The weather was good enough for a nice long walk after lunch, nearly nine miles, as far as Llandaff North bridge and back. Then, a long session of editing and writing this short story turning into a full length novel. My wound hasn't gone away, but it's far less tender now so I can sit for several hours to write without my concentration being ruined by discomfort. The trouble is, I continue past bed time and end up losing half the morning in recovery. Going with the flow has consequences unfortunately.

Not quite a protest, more a gentlemanly warning

For the third Sunday in a row I returned to Grangetown to celebrate and preach at both churches. I had been asked to do a baptism during the service, but was contacted by the churchwarden midweek to say it had been postponed, as a godparent couldn't get there. The couple and their young son and his baby brother were in church anyway, and I had a chat with them after the service. They hail from Sri Lanka. Next week I'm back at St Catherine's, so it won't be me. I'm just a little disappointed.

As I was driving home afterwards through Canton there was a long queue of slow moving vehicles on Cowbridge Road East, mostly tractors great and small, interspersed with a few cars. Were they returning from a city centre protest? I wondered. Apparently not. It was part of a rally of agricultural vehicles, ancient and modern, seventy five of them, which started out in Wenvoe and paraded into the city centre and back. A great way of showcasing Welsh agriculture. 

It wasn't Not quite a protest outing on this occasion, although publicity quotes did highlight Welsh farmers' concern about threats to their business viability due to the current state of brexit induced uncertainty. Not so much a shot across the bows, more of a gentle 'don't forget we're here' reminder. If leaving the EU without a deal betrayed the Welsh farming industry, I for one would get out and cheer on a city centre gridlock farmers protest.

This afternoon it was sunny with clouds with a light warm breeze, perfect for walking. Almost all the equipment for yesterday's athletics meeting had either been taken away or was stacked neatly, ready to remove. A 3km strip of mud around the west wide of the park was all that remained of the running track, and the footpath verges were pretty broken and muddy too. I wonder what'll be done to remedy this, if anything? If only it hadn't rained so much last week. 

I took my HX90 and LX5 cameras out with me, so take black and white as well as colour photos. As the sun was low in the sky, and shadows were long, I got some satisfyingly atmospheric monochrome pictures to add to my collection. As Clare remarked when she looked at them on-line, it takes a little time to get used to seeing the content of a photo in shades of grey, now that we are so used to colour in almost all photography we see, movies and stills.

I intended to spent the evening watching 'Non uccidere', but ended up spending the time before bed updating this blog instead. Ah well, it'll keep for another dull uneventful day, no doubt.
   

A face from the past on the bridge

Two services to take in Grangetown Parish this morning. I preached what I'd prepared at St Dyfrig and St Samson, but couldn't repeat this at St Paul's as it was a Family Service Sunday, with a dozen Sunday School children in the congregation for the entire service, with children reading, bringing up the offerings, leading intercessions, and one small boy assisting as a server. All was nicely organised, so all I needed to do was deliver a Ministry of the Word that engaged them. I found it impossible to prepare in detail, an didn't quite know how I could make it happen until I got to St Paul's and saw the congregation taking their places.

Neither the Old Testament nor the Epistle were easy to read, let alone make sense of, and the pair of eight year olds who read showed that, despite their good effort and confidence, standing and reading in front of the congregation. I introduced each reading with a brief explanation of what they were about. I didn't then need to repeat this in my homily after the Gospel, centering around the mustard seed and dutiful servant themes it contained. For this, I didn't need use my script, and it was easy to engage my audience. The last hymn was 'We are marching in the light of God', evidently a favourite as the number of people who started swaying with the rhythm of the music grew from verse to verse and joined in the clapping when I launched into it. 

It was a happy fun moment to end on, and people left smiling. I had both a banns certificate and a copy of baptism certificate to fill out afterwards, and was asked if I'd be willing to baptise the child of a church attending Indian family when I return next Sunday. A marvellous opportunity. 

A small boy came to the vestry door to thank me for an enjoyable service, and asked if I would come and be their new priest! I explained that I'm much too old now, and suggested that when he grew up maybe he could come and do this. Well, you never know what a small seed of an idea might lead to.

Talking of which, when I was out for my afternoon walk crossing the Taff bridge on Western Avenue, I was overtaken by a young man walking his white Scottie dog. He looked across and asked "Are you a priest?" "Yes" I said. "Were you ever at St John's church in town?" he asked. "Yes" I said. "I wonder if you'd remember me, it was all of ten years ago I came to church and talked to you a few times."

His face was faintly familiar, but then he's ten years older now. When he said his name was Stephen that jogged my memory. We had talked about basic matters of belief in God, creation and Jesus on a few occasions, there were things he wanted to know, was trying to clarify in his thinking on religion.

He then told me that he'd grown up on a rough housing estate surrounded by drugs and crime, but he decided he wanted out, something more, something better in life. I don't think I was by any means the first person to introduce him to the Gospel message, but he was still getting to grips with it. 

He said that talking to me then had helped him on his way in his journey of faith, to a new life as a member of the church. He didn't elaborate on that, but when I asked him what he was doing now, he said that he was halfway through a degree in Biology, I guess after catching up on his 'A' levels, as I believe he'd left school after GCSEs. He thanked me for those conversations which made a difference for him ten years ago. Then we shook hands and went our separate ways, the other side of the bridge.

I was astonished by this, that he should have remembered me after all this time, having played but a small part in the life of this teenager who didn't want to go off the rails. I often 'loitered with intent' in the church during the working day. The idea of advertising times when a priest was on duty available to listen to all comers didn't occur. There was a pattern of regular weekday worship, but if I wasn't out and about on the streets attempting to know people and make myself known, I'd hang out in church. It seemed in reality to be a more useful place to be recognised and approached by random visitors. That way I met many different people arriving from places far off and places near. Give the place time, and the place gives back to you in unexpected ways. 

This encounter on the bridge was such an unexpected surprise, a blessing, for which I thank God, giver of every good gift, from the bottom of my heart.

    

A timely anniversary

This morning I had the challenge of getting to St Dyfrig and Samson's for a nine o'clock Mass, and then going on to a ten thirty Mass at St Paul's. Thankfully, driving I'm finding is now getting more comfortable, at least for local trips and that's a positive outcome from the op, ten days ago. I really had to think of my feet, as I'd prepared a sermon on St Michael and All Angels, but the Parish was celebrating Harvest Festival, with the readings for the Fifteenth Sunday after Trinity, so I had to ditch my text and ad lib elements of all three together.

The were twenty at St Dyfrig and St Samson, three dozen adults and twenty children at St Paul's, including a robed choir of five young women, who sang well. For the time being services are taking place in a room big enough for eighty worshippers, screened off at one end of a refurbished hall next to the church building. The screen can be opened to extend the space for a funeral congregation, and in this Parish, I I discovered standing in for the Vicar in times past, that can mean several hundred mourners attending.

The church is closed, pending a major conversion project which will see the vast nave turned into apartments with the choir and sanctuary area re-worked into a new chapel, accommodating a hundred plus, with a vestry and Parish office on two levels. Meanwhile, the congregation fits comfortably into the reserved space and this helps to generate a relaxed atmosphere for worship. The number of young couples with children in Sunday school is a tribute to the Messy Church initiative, and the hard work of those who make it happen as a first point of contact. Much the same as in St Catherine's.

Clare and Ann went to St John's City Parish Church this morning, and from there walked to the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama for lunch. Having returned home for lunch, I took the bus into town and joined them there for a matinee performance of a new play called 'Kamil and Francis' which recounts and reflects on the meeting of St Francis of Assisi and Sultan Malik al Kamil nephew of Saladin and ruler of Cairo during the fifth Crusade, eight centuries ago this year. It's a story I remember reading about in my student years in Bristol, when we got to know Brother Christian an Anglican Franciscan who came up from Hilfield Friary to the city for dental treatment, and stayed with us. Clare's father was named Francis, so it was natural to take an interest in the spirituality and lifestyle of the Franciscan movement.

This story tells of an interfaith encounter and peacemaking initiative which St Francis made unsupported, apart from a companion Friar. Unarmed, and totally vulnerable before an adversary of Christendom. His wasn't the only effort made at dialogue between religions in the Middle Ages, but others are less well known. We hear little of the fact that imperial Muslim rulers employed learned Jewish and Christian advisors and officials, whom they knew were trustworthy, such was the confidence in their hold on power.

It's far less certain that Muslim intellectuals were similarly employed when Christian rule gained the upper hand, although Christian scholars certainly took advantage of the work done across the Muslim empire, to acquire and translate ancient Greek literature, philosophy and drama. Without that immense information harvesting project, there would have been no Renaissance or Enlightenment, no Western culture as we know it today. The violence of contemporary Islamism has obscured this fact, as its qu'ranic fundamentalist approach denies much of the value the great work Muslim scholars did in restoring Classical knowledge and critical thought to the world.

The play as a highly speculative account of that landmark meeting, the content of which nothing is known. The fact that it happened at all, between these two particular men, when it did, is remarkable and inspires imagination about the current need for dialogue between adversaries, both religious and political. It ended with a conversation between its four actors, its author D.J. Britton and an audience, which included several Egyptian Muslims as well as some active Christians, and a majority of uncommitted but curious people. It was a fascinating way to spend an afternoon indoors, even though the sun shone brightly in between showers.