Of coffee, countryside and kirk...

My last post was a somewhat tongue in cheek ode to the wonders of coffee - the great life-giver, heart-starter, finder of lost brain cells, and mover of our bones.
I am a fan of the bean, the wondrous coffee bean, and the oh-so-many ways of drinking it in all of its fabulous, caffeinated glory. So, there was a slight pang of sadness when I was preparing to move to the rural wilds of the parish, knowing that my [insert coffee chain of choice in here] days of drinking such a variety of caffeinated beverages would soon come to an end. That was before I found [chain that must not be named] at the services on the motorway that passes through the area, and realised that if I sold my first-born or my immortal soul, I could still have all that happy caffeinated joy in my soul - or, the place my soul formerly occupied.

Out here, in the rural wilds [which are not quite as remote as some I've been through], there's less scope for spontaneity of the 'oh, I really fancy an avocado, I'll just nip to the shop' kind. The nearest shop of any description is the neighbouring village store 3 miles along the road. Alas, they don't sell anything quite as exotic as avocados. They do have a decent range of stock for a small establishment, and they've recently begun selling lattes [not bad, to be honest] and making soup and rolls in the new extension. It has become a haven for hungry, and usually very wet, cyclists who pedal the route from Land's End to John 'o Groats. For such hipster needs as an avocado, I need to drive 17 miles up the road to the nearest country town of 2 000. There, the wee town with a 'big' name, rejoices in having a decent array of actual joined up shops, one of which is a killer ironmonger's that doubles as an Aladdin's cave to die for [magic, yes, but no avocados]. The supermarket, as such is a small, but well-stocked Coop, where avocado joy abounds. It's also a useful place to stock up on ever-reliable frozen goods, in case of weather, for this is a place where the weather can hit hard in winter [well, by Scottish standards]. In the tricky winter of 2018, I was stuck in the house for 4 days at one point, and at least I live by the main road in the village, not down a lane or country track. You need to be prepared. If not, there's not so much of the 'blossom and flourish' but more of the 'wither and perish'... or it could be that way if neighbours didn't look out for one another, and it's great when the local farmers take turns on their tractors to try and keep the roads clear.

Scattered over many miles, there are still some very good community networks and yet, there's isolation too. The parish covers approx. 180sq. miles. Nine  small villages spread themselves about the hills and river valleys, with farms scattered around, often up single track roads way out in the middle of what some would consider 'nowhere.' While it's easy to be noticed within a village, it's also easy to be invisible - some move out here to do precisely that, disappear. One of the highest rates of suicide in Scotland is found within the farming community. Alcoholism and substance abuse happens in the beauty of the hills and glens just as it does in the inner cities. Domestic violence exists here as it does elsewhere. Poverty too. I write referrals for the nearest food bank which, mercifully, delivers, given it's 30 miles away from the village I happen to stay in. I'm continually astonished and humbled by members of the congregation and folk from the wider community who know we support the work of the food bank, and who are so generous with their donations. Initially, when we as the local parish church started up our very micro project of accepting items for the food bank, folk gave, but often with the comment
'but no-one around here uses it.'
To which my response was
'You'd be surprised, yes, they do.'
We get the goods up to the food bank, piggy-backing onto another church over in the big' town. It's a nice wee piece of collaboration.

Austerity cutbacks have hit hard in rural areas. With fewer services anyway, those we have are constantly under threat. In the five years I've lived in this village, we've lost the small Post Office, the village shop, and the surgery. Other villages tell similar stories. It means travelling further to get basic needs met. I'm still surprised by the number of folk who live out here who don't drive. If you do have a car, you find that you're paying at least 10p per litre more than in the larger towns. If you don't have access to a car, how do you get the 21 miles up the road to the Job Centre if you have an appointment that doesn't fit with the 3 buses that run [and those 3 buses don't run through all the villages]? If you miss your appointment, that's you, punished and cut off from any help from the Social. Another knock-on effect: if you only have the local store to rely on, sure, you'll have access to food and other goods, but of course, it costs more. The small stocks of Social Housing that have been built here and there, are often filled with folk who are placed from much bigger towns and cities, and who get easily lost. Fewer services, fewer distractions or places to spend time, coupled with feeling like an 'incomer' means addictions that may have been under control, flare up.

Institutionally, with the church, programmes and ideas rolled out from head office are often met with bemusement in places such as this: what works well in towns and leafy suburbs with more 'gathered' human resources doesn't necessarily translate in places where folk are scattered. And that's fine. The church as an institution parallels those other community institutions: education and the NHS. Rural areas are the ones who often don't feel seen - like some in our communities, we feel institutionally invisible. But we're still here. We will be for a wee while longer living with the effects of, and in the shadow of the slow withdrawal from the edges and shrink to the centre that seems to be happening across the board with other institutions. Often I refer to what is happening within the church as 'ecclesiastical Darwinism'. It would be sad to see a business model church where only the wealthiest and best resourced survived. Out here, along with many other rural churches, proportionally, my folk are incredible givers. Yet, we'll never be anything other than seen as 'aid receiving' - just because of such a scattered population. It's easy for rural congregations to begin to look inward, to focus on what they don't have and what they can't do.

None of this is meant as a complaint. Rural ministry is a great calling. There are joys and there are challenges. So, what is the future for the church in rural areas? I'm not sure, but I think the 'traditional' model has to die as an institutional whole, and rise up in a new way - we are a resurrection people, and 'alleluia!' is still our song. In the meantime, I get on with leaning over farm fences and chatting to farmers, or going to the local agricultural shows, feed the occasional orphan lamb at lambing time, and try to find ways of encouraging my folk to look at what they do have, and what they can do. And, for all that they don't see it at times, it's a lot. In the kindness and support for the micro food bank project, they can and are making a difference: loving their neighbour in a most practical way. There are wee green shoots to be found in unexpected conversations in village halls. So, we all plod on, because, I think, that's the work, and the mission, and the joy. And in the isolation of the rural life, and of rural ministry, God's still walking here with us, in what locals occasionally refer to as 'God's treasure store.'
And in the midst, there's also coffee.

Tiny tales of triumph

...or perhaps: feel the fear, and live life anyway

The summer holidays have ended, the school gates are open and, as I type this, young people will be emerging from their first day:

• of school ever...
• of going up a year in Primary school and becoming slightly bigger fish in their particular small pond;
• of moving up to High School and suddenly feeling like quite wee fish in a strange, new, and rather big pond.
• Some will still be waiting, and preparing for a new experience altogether: of being treated as adults and looking for work, or heading to university. 

Last week, Scottish Higher results were out, and today, it's the turn of England and Wales. On both days, there were many tweets along the lines of: 'it doesn't matter what you got, your results don't define you,' meant kindly, to reassure, and to help put life into perspective. I'm never quite sure about these tweets: for those getting lower than hoped-for grades, I wonder if  the kindliness almost has the opposite effect and feels as if the knife is just being twisted that little bit more. Also, while it's good to reassure, etc., it's also a good thing to be able to celebrate and for those who did get the grades they wanted, it can feel almost dismissive of the achievement and put a damper on celebrating. How better to balance that, I wonder... but I digress.

One of the big words around in teaching these days is 'resilience' and looking at ways in which to build it within our young people to help them prepare for a world where maybe not everyone gets a gold star. How do we help our young people and, for that matter, people in general learn to cope with setbacks in such a way that they can bounce back and keep going - to help build bouncerbackability, if you like? I'm often in awe of the work that staff and students do together in the five wee schools where I'm chaplain. From working together to build safe, kind, fun, learning environments and being involved in mutual decision-making processes, to ways of handling the wins and the losses in life, I see great team work, care and support. Here, building resilience seems to be the product of being:

• a part of supportive, encouraging communities which... 
• nurture respectful relationships, 
• which have good boundaries set by the students themselves with the help of the staff, 
• which not only foster healthy self-esteem
• but also motivate students to be outward-looking - not the centre of their own universe, but a part of the universe itself with their own particular place in it... or 'not everything is about you.'

What I love is that I get to be involved a little, and over the 5 years I've been working here, it's been such a privilege to watch the students blossom and flourish, and see them learn to overcome some of the hard stuff of life. Their stories never make the news, but all of them are tiny tales of triumph. Long may that continue.

In the meantime, back to the first day of school, and of one person's tiny tale of triumph.
Among so many young people experiencing their first day at school, huge cheers for tiny 'E' this morning, who managed to successfully navigate the school gates with a brave grin. And, given all the stimulation and her particular special needs, managed very well. Wee star.

Gone fishin', and other thoughts

Currently procrastin...er, pondering and reflecting upon the sermon for tomorrow.
*ahem*
It's been a different space, over the year since the end of August 2016, as I've moved from making use of the Revised Common Lectionary, to working through Brian McClaren's book 'We Make the Road by Walking' with the congregation. It's been fun encountering texts I've not necessarily preached on before, as well as finding other texts in quite different places in the church liturgical calendar than I've been used to.
Enjoyable.
Challenging.
Refreshing.
Engaging with story/stories.
Making me think in a slightly different way.
All good stuff.
Hopefully, the folk who've bought the book and aimed to follow along as they could, have also found it a helpful approach.
Currently wondering where we might go from 'Making the Road'...
Always the big question, really:
how to help folk engage with God a little more - new ways, and old ways, creative ways and more structured ways, in the mystery and the everyday.
And, following on, through that engagement, how to work out that engagement
in a context wider than just a 'me and my God' way.
I'm still passionate on the 'called to be in community' thing - a challenge in a world where
we seem to champion the individual over all, forgetting that none of us ever gets 'there'
completely by our own efforts.
Anti-Hayek bias coming to the fore: there is such a thing as society...darn it.

In the meanwhile, I've recently come across Steve Garnaas-Holmes' site Unfolding Light.
Some really lovely reflections in there, and I'm looking forward to gently working my way through some of his posts while I'm on a wee break.
Given that I'm off-lectionary at the moment, and meeting fish, rather than walking along the road to Emmaus, I'll be borrowing the following during worship tomorrow, for a short reflection:

Fish

Just after daybreak, Jesus stood on the beach;

                  but the disciples did not know that it was Jesus.

         Jesus said to them, “Dear children, you have no fish, have you?”

                  They answered him, “No.”

         He said to them, “Cast the net to the right side of the boat,

                  and you will find some.”

                           —John 21.4-5

The surface is always blank.

The real, submerged.

Look down into that sky,

where beneath a vague cloud flashes,

—is it above or below?—

created, given, waiting.

There is another way,

another side of your little boat.

Beneath your dreary, fruitless nights

something graced awaits,

abundance exceeding your capacity, blessing

at which you laugh in wonder and fright,

a gift that bears you to the breaking point,

a net swelled with light and glory,

and not by luck, but given in love: a presence,

a companionship you hadn't recognized.

Heaven is offered, hearts are restored

in something as simple as a broiled fish, shared.

But first you learn a new way,

another side, the unrecognized friend.

And then, after the gift, the revelation,

you learn a new way, another side.

The Mystery doesn't leave you.

It leads.

I am a pheasant plucker: a day [or 3] in the life of a rural minister

Along the lines of 'things they don't teach you in seminary...'
#169 Herding cows...
and
#170 How to 'dress' a pheasant...and a goose.

Conversations in cafes can be a dangerous thing.
I'd headed out of the parish and up to the local country town - pop. c. 2 000.
Happily meeting up with one of my elders for coffee, we were subsequently joined by one of her pals. Said elder and I had been having a blether about how fabby Harvest service had been, and the logistics of herding the 'cattle' created by the children of our five small primary schools from
schools to kirk, and back again
[they were awesome - way to go wee rural kiddies!].
Most of the cattle-wrangling was beautifully dealt with by my elder's hubby and a rather large pick up truck...
Meanwhile, Gertie the Highland cow, constructed by our school in the hills, was driven
down and then back up the hill by creative parent who had helped small people put her together.
All of this had been great fun, with a good buzz in both schools and the church, and with
the work of Send a Cow brilliantly flagged up and cheerfully supported.

Back in the cafe, having discussed the coos, the subject somehow changed to pheasants.
Friend of elder noted her husband was currently busy, as the season was on and he was out shooting.
I observed that I'd never actually eaten pheasant, wondered about 'shot' and
breaking of teeth [not much of a problem, apparently], and we chatted on about other matters.
Cue Saturday.
A text arrived:
'S wants to know if you would like a pheasant and a goose?'
Cue raised eyebrow, thoughtful look, grin, and text response:
'Okay. Cool. Thanks!'

Arriving home late Sunday afternoon,
I found an enormous goose and a plump pheasant hanging in a bag on my back door.
Bringing the bag in, I opened it and looked at the birds.
They met my gaze with dead-eyed stares.
The heads, wings, feathers, and legs, began to take on the feel of old still-life paintings
I'd seen in the National Gallery.
Thoughts then turned to the recent interview with Ministries Council concerning areas that might have been usefully covered when training; I refrained from responding 'a short course in the gentle art of butchering.'
Shaking myself out of my musing, I began to ponder practicalities.
Phred the pheasant should be manageable.
However, Gil, the goose, is big.
Surprisingly big.
Well, I like a challenge.

Psychological sleeves have been rolled up:
I am mentally preparing for the preparing of the birds;
I have been watching 'how to dress a pheasant/ goose' type videos on youtube;
I have gone to the iron-mongers and purchased a mean-looking cleaver and
a wickedly sharp small knife [interesting walking up the High Street with said implements!];
I am glad I'm not squeamish;
I am thankful for generous gifts that will be put into the freezer once dealt with,
and which will then come into their own at Christmas.
I am a rural minister...we're a resilient and resourceful lot.

Homily for a hedgehog: a day in the life of a rural minister

Things they don't teach you in seminary #168...
pastoral care of hedgehogs.

Unusually, for this particular Scottish summer, I awoke to a blue-filled sky. A day working up in the hills in this remote rural charge awaited. By the time I hopped into the minister mobile, the blue had been replaced by deeper shades of grey once more, but all was well - I had slung my summer jumper into the car, alongside the guitar, music book, and diary. Sister Maria would be proud: a little later, the hills would indeed be filled with the sound of music, but before that particular music rehearsal for Taize worship, I had a pastoral matter to attend to...

Quickly nipping into my own local village coffee morning to wave at folk and grab the briefest of natters, I then headed up the back road to the hills. As usual, passing beyond the second cattle grid, mobile signal cut out and I was cut off from contact with the wider world. 'Virtual' existence would only be restored once I came back past the same cattle grid on the way down. Along I sped, up the winding road, past loitering sheep on heather-filled hills, and the occasional prospector panning for gold in the shallow, swift-running burn. After cattle grid number four, as the road turned again, I kept a beady eye out for the local red kite. No sign. It obviously knew the heavens were about to...open.

Minister mobile turned into the village, through the deluge, and crept up the main street, edging me closer to the important pastoral visit. The car glided up the long, red chucky-stone drive to the centuries-old house. Crunching along the stones to the doorway, I could already hear the fluffy, four-pawed inhabitant of the house barking a greeting. Door opened, flash of waggy brown and white tail... Smiles with the two-legged inhabitants, who ushered me into the small room to meet 'Blossom'...or possibly 'Clyde'. It must be tricky to be a hedgehog with an identity crisis. Trickier still, I suspect, if you're a wee orphaned baby hedgehog with a gammy back leg.

Gently - and gingerly - I held the small hog in the palm of my hand. We took it outside, to a special enclosure, with 'assault course', along with some chopped up chicken and strawberries. The fluffy pal who'd greeted me earlier watched over proceedings carefully. My task was to hide said bits of food for our wee hog to hunt down - part of its life-skills building. Wee hog was then released into the pen, snuffling and sniffling, and having a wander. It is quite a magical thing to see a wee beastie working out how to make its way in the world. After twenty minutes of hog-training, the small and unutterably cute soul was back in the palm of my hand, being walked back to the big house. I'm sure we bonded and made some kind of pastoral connection. At any rate, I was reminded briefly of St Francis, and his kindness to animals...he preached to the birds; I pastored to a hedgehog.
Have I ever said how much I love the randomness of rural ministry?!

making roads, old and new

At the end of the month, my congregation and I will be embarking on a year of spiritual formation and reorientation. Using the framework of
Bryan McLaren's book
'We make the road by walking', we'll be following
a semi-chronological biblical path, learning [or re-learning] the stories of our faith tradition and, along the way, acquainting ourselves with faithful followers of Old and New Testament times.
We'll be thinking, as we start each quarter, of beginnings:
*the beginning of all things, and the beginning of God's relationship with people...and our relationship to God;
*the beginnings of whisperings of God doing a new thing - and the promise of a longed-for Messiah;
*the beginnings of Jesus' public ministry through to his resurrection and ascension - new life for all;
*and, the beginnings of the church.

We'll be using - for the most part - McLaren's suggested
1 year lectionary. This will inform our worship, and hopefully fellowship and Christian Ed. opportunities with all-ages. Taking the plunge to go down a quarterly potluck lunch at the manse route, and hopefully see what the mood is for monthly study group engagement in some form or other.... There'll also be a weekly 'take-away' on the back of the service sheet, for folk to use [or not] for ongoing bite-sized spiritual reflection over the course of the week.
So, the more folk engage, the more, I hope, they'll grow in faith.

I've been involved with some RevGal friends in an ongoing discussion on a variety of approaches for using McLaren's structure. As such, I've created a page on this blog where, from time to time, I might make some practical comments/ provide some feedback on using this beyond small group or bible study approaches.
Interesting times. To follow that conversation, look along the tabs, and click on:
a year with 'We make the road'  [or visit the link here]
Curious to see what this very intentional year will bring.

NaBloPoMo, day 5: of job descriptions

Julia, prompting for NaBloPoMo, asks: I had a little furnace mishap at church on Sunday. What's something you've done for your work that wasn't exactly in the job description?

I think I want to put this in the file 'things they didn't teach us when we were training.'
A year into the parish and what's emerged for me is the number of small
trusts that the parish oversees - mostly due to historical accident.
As minister of this particular parish, some of the Trusts that I am Trustee for
include within their remit ensuring that one sack of coal is given to the
indigent villagers of X village at Christmas; maintaining and keeping insured the window
of a church ... that isn't actually ours anymore, and is a private home. Tricky, that one.

It both fascinates and frustrates me in equal measure, that some of these wee Trusts
are hedged about so tightly with specific remits, that we can't actually make use of
them for the more modern village contexts. And I continue to ponder on why I seem
to have inherited all these odd wee pockets of not-get-at-able funds. I suspect it's one of
those back in the day when the minister, school master, and bank manager were around
and were considered 'worthies' - responsible and respectable, and thus, most
qualified to act as Trustees, dispensing benevolence upon the 'deserving poor.'

Meanwhile, lesson here: if you're leaving a legacy of any kind, for whatever purpose,
make it flexible enough to adapt to changing circumstances a little further
down the track.

NaBloPoMo, day 4

Ah, missed Day 3 of NaBloPoMo. Never mind. 

Both yesterday and today, I did drive around quite a substantial part

of my gorgeous parish today, however. The prompt for Day 4 involves

the posting of a photo - huzzah, piccies!! The pic is supposed to represent something

I see all the time, and thereafter, write a little on what the thing means, symbolises,

or reminds me of; this, in order to provide a wee glimpse into my world.

Okay. I'm on this.

Rush hour in the village...

The parish I serve in is very rural - lots of sheep. 

The posted pic was taken from my front door on a rather rainy day earlier in the year. 

There's a big field encirling the black and white house opposite the manse. 

From my office window over the course of this year, I've watched

the seasons of the farmer's year unfold - from lambing to breeding, 

to herding for tup sales, and everything else in between. Every day, 

in my travels in this parish of 180sq miles, there are sheep to the left of me, 

or sheep to the right of me, and occasionally a sheep who decides the grass 

really is greenest on the roundabout leading to the motorway. 

Sheep, and the attendant work around this industry, are very much part 

of the life-blood of this area. Having been a townie for most of my life, and

a coastal-based townie at that, the immersion into rural life has given me a fresh

way in which to read scripture.  Parables about selling off part of a farm to one 

of the sons, or of lost sheep being found, take on a slightly different significance

now: I certainly appreciate in a more nuanced way, the impact of asking

that a farm be split up. I also wonder about the metaphor of minister as shepherd -

and over the course of this first year in ordained ministry, am gently learning

this particular craft - a craft that is a life in the learning. It's an astonishing thing

to me, to realise that I have now been here for a year - possibly the quickest year

of my life - in what has become home amongst good folk. I'm also wondering

what that great Shepherd of the sheep has to teach me over the course of this

next year. In the meantime, I watch the sheep, and hopefully tend my people to

the best of my ability - and often find that I've a rather big grin on my face still:

I suspect I am possibly the most fortunate minister alive, and I am content.

NaBloPoMo day 2: clothes maketh the meenister

Always happy to find helpful prompts for writing, and it's NaBloPoMo - National Blog Posting Month. I'm not sure if I can commit to a post a day for this month - heck, I've already missed the beginning, but time to dust of the blog keys. Thanks to Julia at RevGals for going the extra mile and posting daily prompts...
Today's prompt:

'write about what you wear at church 

(your best clothes, your comfy clothes, robe, stole, etc.). 

What does the phrase "church clothes" look like in your world? 

Or write what you want.' 

I learnt early in my church life that while a cossack can commit a multitude of sins, 

a cassock can cover a multitude of 'em [sins, not cossacks].

Prior to beginning my first training placement, I met with my soon to be supervisor.

During the course of the meeting, he asked 'Do you have a cassock?'

I replied that I didn't, but wasn't sure that I was allowed to in my non-ordained state.

'Anyone can wear a cassock!' he said, rather animatedly.

I paused, and then timidly offered: 'I have an academic gown and hood.' 

'It will have to do.'

Don't get me wrong - I grew to love that supervisor - a wordsmith, with an eye

for liturgical detail. Every Sunday felt like being in a worship masterclass of 

Scoto-Catholicism [or high Presbyterianism] at its finest. Over the months that followed,

I reflected on the whole 'dressing up in frocks in Kirk' business, very much out of my 

comfort zone by personal choice. Several months down the line, it made sense to

get a cassock: it was a contextual choice. Just as the style of liturgy made sense

within the ancient building we were in, so too, the clothing. A time and a place

for everything, and this was the time and place for more formal wear.

Over the course of my training, I did quite different styles of placement: high, low, 

in-between, non parish chaplaincy, overseas. I wore a variety of different outfits.

Alongside, at the various training conferences and around the tables at New College, 

conversations were had amongst traineed meenisters about the wearing of items 

that would possibly mark us out as clerics, once ordained.

''I will never wear a dog collar: it's just not me!' was a common catch-cry, 

occasionally along with mocking those who wear somewhat higher liturgically 

in their approach. Those on the other side of the great costume drama could be 

equally as scathing. At times, it was really not that pretty to be a party to such discussions.

I watched the great costume wars wax and wane, and at some point in my own thinking

came to a point where I felt it was less about 'me' and more about context.

It was never one of those drawing of a line in the sand matters where I was concerned.

My personal preference is to wear a cassock - I feel less bothered about

the potential for people to be distracted by the colour of the shirt, 

or the fit of the trousers when I'm in the cassock. I also move differently and

like the way that feels. It's practical and it keeps me warm in winter. Let's not

talk about summer, however...

In the parish where I now serve as minister, I wear a cassock.

It was given to me as a gift by my lovely folk - and out of sheer respect for them,

I wear it during the morning service. 

Evening worship is a very different ball-game.

I'm often not leading it, thanks to the gifts and talents of a wee worship team.

I turn up in civvies, and quietly cheer them on from amidst the rest of the

gathered congregation. Last week I was in clergy collar and shirt - but this

because I was taking part by leading us in a simple communion service. 

If I had a theological/ liturgical nod towards the cassock, perhaps it would be

that, before worship, I'm pretty casually dressed for comfort: clerical shirt under a jumper, 

and am often in black jeans, not suit trousers, due to the vagaries of the weather 

here, but also the kind of parish it is. On those Sundays that are higher up the scale,

as this coming Sunday will be - Remembrance Sunday - I'll wear a suit. 

Before worship, I wander about the pews catching up with folk, a word here, a word there.

As time moves towards worship, I go and put on my cassock.

When I walk down the aisle to the sanctuary, it's that wee visual marker,

of time and space changing - we are entering into worship - time to settle ourselves,

time to set apart this particular space and time. Both collar and cassock are the uniform

that makes me easily identifiable.

In a couple of weeks, I'll be opening up the church to the students of one of our schools

as part of their school work. I'll pull out the cassock and bring the many stoles I've

been gifted - let them have a go at wearing the stoles too. And we'll talk about

what the church is [I'll be saying it's not a building, it's us], and what we do in the

building. The clergy outfits here, will become an educational tool.

Outwith church, context again, is the determining factor: personally, I'm happier

not being choked by a collar, however:
I'll visit the schools wearing dog collar and clerical shirt - but jeans and jumper. 

And the same with hospital visits or visiting older folk who may have memory issues -

though I'm particular about trying not to wear a black shirt in these latter two, due to

potential death associations! 

However, suit with clerical shirt/ collar for parish 

bereavement visits. Always. It's expected - and it's not about me.

These particular places/ contexts the collar's a helpful visual cue as well 

as being a uniform. But in some places, I will not wear a collar at all - 

in one of my villages, particularly, it makes it harder for folk to feel able

to talk comfortably - it's a barrier, so it is not worn.

In the end, I think that's probably the deciding factor regarding what to wear:

will it help/ is it a barrier? If it's the former, I wear the outfit; 

if it's the latter, then I go without.

Clerical clothes don't maketh the meenister...I'm minded of Francis of Assisi's dictum:
'preach the gospel at all times; if necessary, use words'. 

In this case, if the clothes help fine; 

if they hinder, then find something else to wear.

Although...I have a strong suspicion I won't be wearing these:

'yes'

This time, last year, I'd voted.    
Marked a box with an 'X', and waited,
wondering what the morning would bring.
It was a time of anticipation and hope.
Morning brought a closer than anticipated 'no',
deep disappointment, but nevertheless, a desire to see how best to work together regardless of where 'X's went in boxes.

It was also a time of personal preparation: I was to preach as sole nominee of a lovely, rural charge. Before getting to that point, I'd thought up at least 27 very logical and sensible reasons for not applying before I was interviewed, and yet, I remember driving away from that interview, knowing that something had shifted inside. On a gloriously, almost impossibly sunny day, as I headed back home, I had one of those say it out loud moments in the car, as realisation dawned.
I found myself saying:
'if they ask me to preach as sole nominee,
I'm going to say "yes", aren't I, Lord?'
They asked.
I said 'yes'.

A year ago this Sunday - the Sunday immediately after the Scottish Referendum, I preached as sole nominee. Given what was happening nationally, in many ways, it was a bit of a scunner of a day to be preaching! While trying to keep an integrity to worship, and to honour the One we follow, there was also the knowledge that this was, in a sense, part 2 of the interview, moving beyond the Nominating Committee, and into the more public domain of the wider congregation.
I remember thinking that I just had to shake off the thought, and crack on with worship, and yet...
On that day, I asked.
They [mostly] said 'yes'.
I wouldn't swap it for the world, and, a little like the Referendum, here within the parish,
the same thought and desire is uppermost:
to see how we can best work together, regardless of the 'mibbes ayes', or 'mibbes naws'.
It's been an astonishing time so far.
God is good.

Praying the Lord's Prayer

As we begin a series focusing upon the Lord's Prayer in
the parish, a prayer on keeping company with God:

Creator God of limitless imagination,

who fashioned the universe 

and all the galaxies therein,

who breathed life into being

and formed the mountains and the valleys,

the forests and the ocean deeps,

and filled the world with creatures great and small;

who, from the dust, created us in your image,

and walked, and talked in dappled Garden-light

with the first two of our kind:

we come before you,

awed by your power,

inspired by the works of your hands,

humbled, that you,

who are greater than we can ever comprehend,

wish to keep company with us -

to hear the thoughts of our hearts,

and to speak with us as friends.

Lord, our God, our Father...

teach us to pray anew 

the prayer that Jesus taught us

and, help us to live it. Amen

rural isolation...

'...the minster reflected on the diversity of pastoral situations she was encountering within the parish.
She suddenly realised her training, when it came to small abandoned creatures by the roadside, was somewhat ... lacking.'

The parish where I serve as minister is, geographically, one of the largest in the Kirk.  Population, on the other hand, is small and very scattered.  Isolation can be quite an issue pastorally amongst folk; nothing, however, prepared me for this...

Seen on a pre-lunch drive to some of the more remote corners of the parish :)

oh Lord, it's hard to be humble...

I have been pondering the texts for today.  The OT text highlights the impossible ideal of the capable wife.  An 'interesting' one to think on for preaching - where to go with that, I wonder!?   
However, what has caught my attention is the combination of the gospel passage and epistle.  Jesus and the disciples are on their way to Capernaum.  As they walk he tells them of his coming suffering and death.  Later, in Capernaum, Jesus quizzes the disciples on the content of their subsequent conversation.  You can almost hear the awkward shuffling of feet in the embarrassed silence that ensues - one of those classic 'tumbleweed' moments.  Given what follows, somebody must have finally 'fessed up: we, as readers discover the topic was a discussion on who was the greatest, of jockeying for position, of pecking order and power.
“Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.”
A child is brought into their midst and a lesson is given:
notice the overlooked, the least, the powerless - and welcome them....

And then the epistle... 'the wisdom from above is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, willing to yield, full of mercy and good fruits, without a trace of partiality or hypocrisy'... and 'Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you'.
'yield', 'submit', avoid partiality - the privileging of the prominent/ the powerful over the unimportant/ the powerless...

At various stages through the week, the word 'humility' has been quietly rolling about my inner landscape, particularly in connection with ministry.  I have mused upon ego and arrogance, power and privilege, have thought about service and self-importance.
What is it to be humble?
And what is it to be humble when you can't keep your head below the parapet due to being in a position of leadership?
As I've thought about this during the week, I decided to do a wee bit of 'googling' - combining words like 'christian service' 'humility' and such-like... I kept hitting sites talking about 'servant leadership'.  It is a phrase that has often bemused me.  Whilst it is a very sincere and deliberately intended oxymoron, meant to make one stop and go 'ah', the phrase works on another, perhaps unintended level.  In my own mind, that there needs to be the word 'leadership' at all in there makes me smile.
Truly, it is hard to let go of the ego, even when trying to talk about a life lived in loving service. 
Indeed, oh Lord, it's hard to be humble...

ministry skillz, innit?

On a discussion board somewhere in cyberspace a question was asked concerning five particular, possibly useless, skills you bring to ministry.  My offering below:

1/ liturgical/ theological potential I can discuss in detail, and with delight, the development of 6-8th c monastic laws concerning the 'ejecting' of the host post communion; I will one day write the definitive paper on this entitled 'Jesus is everywhere', or, 'I can't believe it's not Jesus'

2/ liturgical/ theological potential If you want to know anything about liturgies for corporate Protestant fasting - y'know, on those occasions when storms hit, plague strikes, or you have an outbreak of pesky witches - then I can rustle up something appropriate.

3/ working within a large institution/ team work potential I am a dab hand at cussing in mid-Scots [c.16thc]

4/ spreading cheerfulness through community singing factor My secret substandard-power: the ability to turn life into a musical at any point in a conversation. My life does indeed go on in endless song...

5/ pastoral care potential I have a deep understanding of the power of the pastoral elbow, and can, when pastorally elbowing simultaneously tilt my head to the side.

the [un]healthy cult of youth and the old church welcome chestnut

It's an expressed wish, a  catch-phrase, a mantra.
It's a cry of the heart, no more than lip-service, and everything in-between.
It's missional, a sticking-plaster, and perhaps oddly vampiric.
It's a gaping hole, the missing link, the holy grail.
It features on most parish profiles as a need, is ever-present at General Assembly, and if we don't have 'it', we are warned by the sayers of doom that will shuffle into oblivion.

'It' being all wrapped up in the ubiquitous
'we want more children and young people in church'.
Do we?
Why?
And what do we plan to 'do' with them?
Have we asked them?
Do we consult this longed for target group when we imagine and prepare fabulous programmes?  [to be fair, sometimes, yes]
Do we mutter darkly about them and their 'priorities' and 'lack of commitment' in our disappointment when they don't eagerly come rushing along to participate?
'They should come!'
Why?
'We like to have them in the church'
Are they trophies?
'We like to see them, them'
Hmmm, but not hear them, not be distracted if they are moving about 'more than is really quite acceptable'
Are we actually prepared to welcome them and accommodate ourselves to their needs, I wonder, even if that means the way liturgy is structured, or furniture and equipment might need to be changed?  
Given the prevalence of 'you're in my pew' horror stories when it comes to visitors who are adults, are we prepared to make any type of accommodation to those who are 'not actually us'?
How do we go about being even a little tiny bit more better at just welcoming folk into the kirk should they dare to venture across what can be a daunting threshold?

I do not deny that in various pockets of the wider church that it would appear that the church has a dearth of children and youth.  But I wonder why we are so fixated on this particular age group?
They are not the only generation missing.
Where are the 20 and 30-somethings?
Or folk in their 40's and even 50's?
We are missing several generations - children, and those of parent and grandparent age.

I am not saying we shouldn't want to have children and young people in church; I'm puzzled over why we are focusing upon just them almost to the exclusion of every other generation?
Occasionally, I wonder if it is about energy, and conversely, about tiredness.
Underneath the expressed wish, is there a desire to hand over the ever-increasing, ever-exhausting burden of looking after the fabric of a building which can become the all-consuming focus of a congregation?
Are we imprisoned by buildings which are called 'church', and yet, are merely stone and mortar? 

Perhaps a little missional balance and re-prioritising is in order.
I am not sure I know what the solution is; I do know, however, I never felt freer and more 'church' in the flesh and bone manner as when I was working within a congregation that wasn't shackled by the constraints of a building and which met in the local high school.

This is not a rant.  I am just trying to work some thoughts out in my small, tired brain concerning approaches to mission.  We do need to go beyond the plaintive 'we need children and young people' however and work out how to engage with that great diverse huge bunch of humanity beyond the kirk doors... oh, and while we're at it, might we also stop fixating about who falls in love with whom?

lectionary leanings: 'what's this then?'

Some musings on this Sunday's gospel passage:

Mark 1: 21-28 

²¹They went to Capernaum; 

and when the sabbath came, he entered the synagogue and taught. 

²²They were astounded at his teaching, 

for he taught them as one having authority, and not as the scribes. 

²³Just then there was in their synagogue a man with an unclean spirit, ²⁴and he cried out, 

“What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? 

Have you come to destroy us? I know who you are, the Holy One of God.”

²⁵But Jesus rebuked him, saying, 

“Be silent, and come out of him!”  

²⁶And the unclean spirit, convulsing him and crying with a loud voice, came out of him.

²⁷They were all amazed, and they kept on asking one another, 

“What is this? A new teaching—with authority! 

He commands even the unclean spirits, and they obey him.” 

²⁸At once his fame began to spread throughout the surrounding region of Galilee. 

The writer of the gospel of Mark continues to drive the narrative on at a break-neck pace.  Still in Chapter One, we have moved from the Baptiser's baptism of repentance and Jesus' baptism in the Jordan, briefly noted a wilderness time, have just managed to catch our breath and travelled to Galilee to hear a call to turn and listen to the good news being proclaimed and some fishermen being made an intriguing offer too irresistible to walk away from.  Now we find ourselves suddenly in Capernaum one sabbath day in the local synagogue...

Questions in my head for personal reflecting revolve around what it is to 'teach with authority'; this coupled with avoiding the seduction of 'fame'.  Here, I'm remembering some wise words of Eugene Peterson reflecting on ministry and vocation in 'Under the Unpredictable Plant' about keeping it all real, about being authentic.  And certainly, that can be a challenge when working within and without institutional forms of church: lured by a sort of subtle 'careerism', or lured by building up the biggest and best form of independent church / or type of novel 'fresh expression' ever....
Funny how that's the book I keep coming back to out of all the discernment ones: Peterson speaks in a language that I understand and find myself saying 'yes!' out loud to when I read.  It helps keep life, death, ministry and the universe all a little bit more in perspective at least. 
 
The gospel text is also one of those passages that both make me smile and have a way of making me feel, for want of a better word, rather compassionate.  Here, both smiling at the irony of demons knowing exactly who Jesus is, whilst feeling somewhat kindly towards the people sitting about going 'what's this then?'
I guess I identify a bit with them: I know I certainly ask the 'what's this then?' question quite a lot as I sit about scratching my head, knowing only part of the whole.
Kinda looking forward to moving from the 'now we see in a mirror dimly' to the 'then we shall see face to face...now I know in part, then I will know fully, even as I am fully known.'
Perhaps that, in the end, is what keeps us all going; in the meantime, it's accepting the stuff we do know, embracing the mystery, and walking forward in the now and not yet of hope.

of plate-spinning, beaches and reflective practice

I've always loved an open horizon - even more when it is the sea, a river, or lake.  There's something about swathes of water that soothes my soul, helps me relax, gives me a better perspective on life, the universe and everything.  This pic. is what lies at the end of my street - maybe 50metres away.  Every morning when I leave for university I shut my front door and look at this, before readjusting my rucksack and turning the other way to walk to the bus stop.  Every evening, after leaving the bus and the noise of the main street, I follow the salt tang in the air and head back in the direction of the sea and to my home. On still nights, when the tide is high and the evening is warm enough that I can leave my windows open, I hear the sound of the waves rippling to the shore.


You'd think, given where I live, that I'd spend a lot of time down on the beach... but this last year I have become progressively worse at taking time out to 'be'; so many demands crowding in and taking up so many pieces of me.  Juggling.  Lots of it.  Sometimes not quite knowing which spinning plate to catch and put back on the shelf to rest.

Some have said 'Ha! Get used to it if you're going to be a minister!'  But I think that this is a false analogy.  I know - or understand - that while there's a rhythm of days in ministry, that also one should constantly expect the unexpected; life is crazy-busy.  Yup.  And I will be happy enough for that.  Where I think the analogy comes unstuck is more in light of focus: the fact that as a minister I will not also be doing a full-time degree, nor doing the other requisite bits and pieces that 121 requires of its trainee ministers.  As a minister [should I get through the process and a congregation call me] my focus will be on the rhythm and irrhythm of ministry - that is, in the midst of it all, while gazillions of things will crop up, it will at least be contained within the context of being a minister.  Not sure if I'm articulating this well at all.  Never mind!  And here I put in the caveat that for the most part, I do enjoy the process, although sometimes it feels like being pushed and pulled and squished in a frenzy of activity whilst simultaneously being expected to be a reflective practitioner.  A paradox, a paradox... yet life is about paradox and, often times because of that, more challenging but also more enjoyable.  Nevertheless, how do I build in patterns now that will stand me in good stead later on?  Those practices that will help stave off burn out and drop out?

In an attempt to become a little more accountable to myself about those demands that take pieces of me, and the subsequent lack of peace, and in hope of getting my life and balance back, I'm going to spend this semester not doing pulpit supply, get better at saying the word 'no', and go and spend time sitting on 'my' beach.... Time to think, while I can, and perhaps time to build in some way of remembering to take the time to feel the sand between the toes, listen to the waves, watch the sunsets, and formulate a strategy for doing this when demands come crowding in again.  It's odd: I used to be so good at this - training for ministry has seen some unwelcome 'rat-race rot' creep back in.
Let's see how this mini-sabbatical from churchly duties goes this semester...!

a robe by any other name...

is still a robe.  

The subject of clerical 'fashion' was one of the many tailends of conversations I wandered into over the course of the recent candidates' conference in St Andrews [apparently, according to Dad, you can play golf there, too, although not necessarily in clerical garb].  As it has cropped up occasionally in my thoughts as well as in other conversations, I thought it was time to have a stab at ... oh dearie me, no: poor phrasing with connotations of 'who will rid me of this troublesome priest?!' ...

[starts again on the 'once more with feeling' principle]

Er, so, thought I'd do that which is required of student ministers these days and 'reflect' on the apparently thorny question of 'to robe, or not to robe?'  

Plus, it gives me an opportunity to highlight a most fabby blog featuring a wondrous collection of pretty piccies which illustrate just how weird, wild and downright wacky some robes can be when good intentions or ample egos make the business of conducting worship decently and in good order that much harder...

eco-congregation?

'go-faster stripes'?

'fresh expressions' of church took on a whole new meaning, as Rev Lil Surfergirl suddenly emerged through the improvised communion table, dramatically clutching the body of Christ

So, some thoughts -

First/ 

Context. is. important.  

Robing and worship:

No point when on placement being all robed up when your supervisor is not.  And when doing pulpit supply, as a visitor, aim to fit in as much as possible with the practice of the minister there - a combination of continuity of practice but also courtesy.

On having become a parish minister... over a period of time, you can quietly change the practice if you have a particular theological veiwpoint re. the robes in/ not in worship debate but sensitivity towards the congregation is probably a helpful and kind thing too.  But also, church architecture can play a part in what you might or might not wear.  What is right or appropriate?

Given that there are times when we conduct worship within the civic context, such as Remembrance Sunday, out of sensitivity to those folk who expect you to look like a minister at such an event... yup, bite yer tongue and just do it, I think.

Robes for sacraments - communion and baptisms - well, I would, but that's just me.  There's an aspect of the robing debate that sometimes gets overlooked: putting on 'the uniform' is, I think, a very visual way of noting sacred time and space.  So pre-service wandering about chatting to folks in 'civvies'... and then going off and robing and coming back to conduct worship - useful visual clues/ symbolism that say more than words 'come, now is the time to worship'.

And a reminder to me, at least, that when I put on the 'uniform' this is not about me, it's about 'us':  

1/ God at the relational centre and the reason why 'we' are all here

2/ministry as a relational part of that: as a partnership and whatever is done is done [hopefully] in His name, through the power of His Spirit

3/ relational as a way of going this is indeed the body of Christ here represented in this neck of the woods...us as the community of God's people.

Robes on 'ordinary' Sundays - well, again, my own thought is at least clericals/collar - visitors at church can work out who the minister is more quickly!!!! ;)

Outwith worship contexts - sometimes it's useful to have a uniform:

because there are times when, again, it's just sheer respect/ courtesy to wear it.

I think funerals, especially parish ones in which any link with church may be rather tenuous, is where it helps to put on the 'uniform' -

a/ because folk expect you to 'look like a minister' and for easy identification... as in 'who is this stranger chapping on the door, ahh, the minister'. 

b/ I wonder if by dint of wearing the uniform, there is something about conveying of authority [yes, of course, it is God who has the authority] that gives permission to say the tough things, or even gives people a reassurance that you know what you're doing and Great Aunty Ermintrude is in safe hands, as are they?

c/ You are representing the Church as well, I think, as the great communion of saints [and granted, this might not quite be the language folks you're visiting might use] and it is just respectful to oblige when people are in grief contexts

And then there are hospital visits - if needing to be done outside of visiting hours, then it's like a badge that allows access... [just don't go too early - during rounds, during meals - when you'll just get in the way of hospital staff.]

 

Visiting - being mindful of who we are visiting: for those who are in various stages of dementia, a collar at least will serve to show what you are/ who you represent, and maybe remind some folks of who you are as well.  They may not get your name, but they might at least be provided with a clue by what you're wearing.  It also helps to make folks a little less anxious - so pastorally perhaps reassuring?

Second/ 

Some non-phrases re. non- robing:

'but I don't feel comfortable', 

or 'I don't feel like it', 

or 'it's not me' ... 

nope, not good enough.  It's a little too 'all about me', I'm afraid.  Find some theological arguments.  There are good ones either side of the discussion; think about why you're going to use/ not use robes and how this might express your particular theology of ministry - not whether it just feels icky.  Hmmm, that sounded a wee bit stern, but it's less about us and more about the folks we're called to serve, innit?  And that certainly crosses both sides of the debate.   

Third/ 

That priestly role 'thang': 

robes can serve to be a reminder of being set apart as well as being a part, perhaps... we have been called as a part of the body of Christ, to be set apart to minister to that body...?

There is the issue of pride - but that argument cuts both ways I think:

it can help stop the pride thang - you cover yourself/ are trying to be less a distraction with those marvellous 'funny ties' or lovely blouses - and are hopefully more a pointer to God.  Yeah, conversely I'm sure some folk love wearing their stuff - robes or ties to say 'look at me'!!!

But I do wonder about the 'reluctance' I sometimes see with regard to wearing the uniform: it makes me wonder if this may occasionally portray an inner wrestling about what it is to take up the call and be a minister and thus,the physical wearing of the uniform is, in that manner, uncomfortable? Not always, but that, too, makes me curious - I just like the way we all tick, really!!

Last/

In the end, whichever side of the discussion you are on a couple of useful rules of thumb:
i/It ain't a doctrinal issue - I suspect getting to heaven is not dependant upon the wearing or non-wearing of clerical outfits.

ii/If your clergy get-up gets in the way of ministry, ditch it.  If your non-clergy get-up impedes... get on those clericals. 

And just as a post-script, if you haven't checked her out, go see the wonderful Peacebang's blog over at Beauty tips for Ministers - she is the epitome of style and taste :D

 Okay, maybe just a little too 'tacky'?

Foxy Knoxy's word to the wise #2: preaching beards

Facial hair letting you down?

Preaching beard lacking in Reformed gravitas?
Tired of older Reformers throwing theological sand in your clean-shaven face?

Why not try:
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'Before I received my preaching beard, I just felt naked.  My ministerial life was a meaningless abyss of self-loathing, failure and despair.  My preaching lacked the 'zing' that comes with the choreography of beard stroking that always denotes wisdom.  Since I started wearing my PREACHING BEARDTM, the sick are healed, the dead are raised and the congregation stays awake during my sermons.  Thank you so much!'
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'Thank you for transforming my approach to minstry!  My authority as a woman in ministry was often under attack.  Since wearing my PREACHING BEARDTM however, the congregation sit in awed silence as I proclaim the word.' 
Shirley U. Musbjokin, priest, Valhalla Episcopal Church, Fetlar.

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