My Other College

Yesterday I gave my first lecture in a 'proper' Oxford University college--Regent's Park, which is a Baptist 'permanent private hall' of the University. I'm affiliated there because the Oxford Centre for Ecclesiology and Practical Theology here at Cuddesdon has linked up with the Regent's Centre for Christianity and Contemporary Culture. My lecture yesterday was part of their Research Seminar in Practical Theology. I was pleased--I spoke on theology of the laity (on which we don't have much good reflection), and although the turnout was small, the discussion was lively. That's gratifying. Even if people don't agree with what you say, if they have an animated conversation about it, it shows that you've brought up a timely and relevant topic. Mission accomplished!

After a little wander in town, I returned to Regent's Park for a chapel service and the Friday evening formal dinner. Drinks for staff and their guests in the Senior Common Room, with a quite nicely done table served dinner, and then coffee back in the SCR.

It was lovely to be in a room with candles, china, and tablecloths, and where people had dressed to honour the occasion. I know a lot of people sneer at formality--I rather think it reminds us to behave like civilised adults. People do tend to rise or sink to meet the expectations set, and I'd rather rise, and I'd rather that others do, too. Additionally, it is always delightful to be in the company of people who have interesting ideas, and who want to hear the interesting ideas that you have, too.

Although I've never been to Baptist worship before in my life, it did not feel strange. It was a communion service, and although Baptists and Anglicans have different theologies of many things, there was nothing in their service that I couldn't say with a happy heart. Most especially, I liked the words of mission at the end:

Time has now come for us to leave this place.
As we do, may we embrace the challenges of our lives and of our world.

Do not try to exceed your commission.
Life is too short for grand gestures followed by self pity in the hour of failure.

Go out to serve Christ without anxiety.
Do what you can.
Entrust to others what you must.
And dedicate both your successes and your failures to the greater glory of God.

It is not a bad prayer, and easily adaptable to just about any religious tradition with the alteration of a word or two--or, with slightly different wording, to people of goodwill who do not subscribe to any theistic system of belief.

We could use more of that.

A Two-Bracelet Day

Today is, I think, a quietly happy day for the Anglican Communion--especially for those of us who are technically members of one constituent member church, but who live and work and have our being in another one, the relations between the two being shaky:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/religion/Story/0,,2014518,00.html

It does not seem to be the outcome (even if a temporary outcome) that some people expected or hoped for, but I think it is the right, good and joyful one. The work isn't finished, but it is moving in the direction that I think is pleasing to the God that all in our communion profess to love and serve. Probably to the God that a lot of people outside of this communion profess to love and serve as well. Working together through difference, rather than refusing to do so, seems spiritually more right than cutting each other off. Especially when the differences are deep, I find a greater integrity in trying to work together, even imperfectly, than in self-righteously excluding ourselves or others from the important conversations.

And so, today I wear two bracelets. The one on top was a gift from my Anglo-Celtic-Canadian-Muslim friend, who has been a bright star in my universe for 26 years. She gave it to me at a dark, faith-challenged time in my life, as a reminder of 'the links to the Divine we share'. I wear it almost every day. The regular, familiar 'three short, one long' pattern of the links reminds me of the opening motif of the Beethoven 5th Symphony--as well as reminding me of the links to the Divine, and of my links to a good and faithful friend. It is a sign of steadiness and reliability, and those things are always a comfort.

More recently, a different, newer friend gave me the bracelet in the lower part of the picture. There was no symbolic message expressed along with the gift, as there was with the other bracelet. But if humans are anything, we are beings who try to give meaning to those things and events in our lives that aren't furnished with explicit significance.

And so the less-regular, funkier, unpredictable bracelet has become a reminder to me of the unpredictable nature of how God works in our lives, both as individuals and as members of wider groupings.

There is beauty in both, and it does me good to remember that. Especially on days when the things of God go in unexpected directions. And it is good to remember that the predictable and the quirky can complete and complement each other.

A Presidential Farewell

President Gerald Ford, 38th President of the United States, passed into paradise on 26 December 2006, at the age of 93. That is hardly news; not a person with newspaper, radio, television or internet access could have missed that.

I was hardly old enough to be politically aware when Ford took office--in fact, 9 August 1974, the day he took the oath of office, was my 13th birthday. My family was on a camping holiday in the Canadian Maritimes. I will never forget the announcement (as I heard it) of President Nixon's resignation. We were at a campground just outside St John's New Brunswick, listening to the early evening news on CBC Radio, in our Chevy Sport van that had been 'modified' (stripped down) for use as a camping vehicle for a family of 2 adults, three kids, and a large dog. The headlines were repeated: 'Richard M. Nixon, 37th President of the United States, has resigned his office. Repeating our top story: There's been another arson fire in St John's.'

Although I understood some of the problems the country was experiencing at the time, I did not grasp all the legal and political intricacies of the Watergate scandal--and I probably got caught up in the general disdain for Ford's decision to pardon Nixon.

But several decades on, and with a little distance (and I hope, growth in charity), I understand that although Ford's pardon wasn't popular, it was right, and it was gracious. And although Gerald Ford made few overt references to his personal religious beliefs, it was, I think, a deeply faithful, faith-guided decision. Healing only comes with pardon. It's unfortunate that Nixon didn't grasp the other side of that coin, and that full pardon and healing only come with acknowledgement of the need for repentance.

Several presidents since have made much more public fuss about their religious beliefs, their certainty that they know what God wants of them, and of the American people. I'm always cautious about such certainty--especially when it is a confirmation of what that particular person would want to do anyway. Confusing the divine will with the human is always a dangerous thing, especially when it is done apart from the consultation of other wise minds whose reading of the signs of the times may differ.

From my flat in Oxford, I watched the Presidential funeral proceedings in Washington. What struck me most was that, for an Episcopalian who had given so many decades of his life in public service, a funeral from the National Cathedral was entirely fitting. And, unlike the Reagan funeral a few years ago, Ford's was most definitely a religious service in his own tradition. It was unashamedly a service from the 1979 Book of Common Prayer, with the liturgical traditions of Cranmer and the English Reformation.

It was a much more personal service than that of Ronald Reagan: Yes, like the earlier funeral, notable people from politics and media gave eulogies. But Ford's funeral featured an actual Christian homily from his own pastor, who gave a glimpse into the spiritual life of the accidental president.

I'm sure there are people who are saying that the state funeral of an American President should not be religious--but I believe they are wrong. The First Amendment forbids an establishment of religion by the government; it does not forbid those in government service to hold, and express, and live and die by, deeply held religious commitments. Indeed, the First Amendment's protection of free speech stems from its protection of religious belief and practice.

At what time is it more fitting to make those beliefs and practices known than at the transition from this life into the next?

Driving on the Left

Well, I have now been at Ripon College Cuddesdon for six months, which seems a good time to think about the journey here and what has happened since. As well, as the year winds down, it's also nice to think about the past few months.

2006 has been a year of massive change for me. Beginning on 21 February, the day I interviewed for, and was offered, this job, everything took dramatically different directions. From the return to East Aurora, and then the four months following, almost every ounce of energy was turned to preparing to move. It involved selling a car, seeing friends for the last time in who knows how long, and putting my hands on literally every object I owned in the effort to decide if it was a 'take', 'store' or 'ditch'. It also involved a lot of learning, preliminary reading about the work I would be undertaking and the people with whom I would be spending the next chunk of my life.

The next phase, when I arrived on 13 June, brought me to the single most rural place I've ever lived--and that includes a year in southern Kansas. I am living literally where I work (the main room of my flat has also been serving as my office), which is nice because Cuddesdon is not well-served by buses, and commuting would be difficult. However, relying on public transportation does make you more intentional about each journey and getting the most out of it. There is also something charming about waking up to cows and hearing owls at night. It gets darker here than anyplace else I've lived--very little street lighting and almost nothing visible from homes (except for the Bat and Ball pub, there aren't really any 'businesses' in Cuddesdon). So, the moon and stars are particularly vibrant on a clear night.

But apart from the physical setting, the first thing I became aware of is the general good feeling of the place. I spent two years in an Episcopal seminary, and at no time was the mutual regard between students and staff nearly as noticeable as it is here. In particular, the Principal here at the College seems to have a really good relationship with most of the students, and most of them seem to regard him well; it isn't just formal respect, but genuine liking.

My whole mode of theological work has changed. Up until now, I've considered myself a systematic and historical theologian, and my main place of learning was in the library stacks. Now I am doing a version of ethnographic research into the changes of clerical roles and identities in a particular diocese (for more, you can look here: http://grapevine.derby.anglican.org/sectshow.php?57). This involves observing and interviewing individuals and groups. I never thought I'd do this kind of work, but here I am doing it, and I think succeeding, at least in the early stages.

And I have driven on the left a few times. . . and there has been no damage to people, property or livestock.

It's been a year of major change for me. Everything is different--it all sounds, looks, smells different, things are called by other names. But it is all good, all happy.

Best wishes for Christmas and the new year!

Musical musings

Last week, from 8-16 October, I was travelling for a combination of work and play. I did two 'musical' things during the journey.

The first was that I read Sting's autobiography, Broken Music. It was, as I suspected it would be, a moving and well-written account of his journey from childhood to the brink of stardom with The Police. His lyrics have always been favourites of mine; his prose did not disappoint.

Incidentally, I returned home to the copy of his new Songs from the Labyrinth that I had ordered from Amazon. Songs of John Dowland, the Elizabethan popular songwriter. Lovely stuff--so often, Dowland's music is sung by voices denote people who cannot possibly be mature enough to have suffered love, desire, loss, and still maintain hope. It is a real treat to hear these songs performed by someone who is obviously a grown man with some experience of life. I highly recommend both the book and the disc.

The second musical thing I did was, during a visit to Durham, I heard the local Sinfonia play at the Cathedral. Although it's not the best acoustic setting for orchestral music, it's still magnificent to be in such fine surroundings--the work of great talents and great devotions, both in music and in stone. The programme was Vaughan Williams' Serenade to Music, Brahms' Violin Concerto, and Shostakovich's Symphony no. 5.

Between Sting and the Sinfonia, though, I'm struck by a paradox. Popular music is generally performed only by an elite few, and appreciated (albeit on various levels) by a vast number of people. Orchestral music, on the other hand, can be performed by a much larger number of people (indeed, demands it); so long as enough people can be assembled to play with good tone, in tune, and in time, in the right combination of instruments, a decent concert can be staged. And yet, somehow, there is a much tighter ratio between the number of performers and that of appreciative listeners.

So, the question I have--which is the 'elite' music, and which is the music 'of the people'?

Being Generous to Bishop Wilberforce

A few days ago, we had an 'open day' for people from the community to come and 'check out' the College, with an eye to promoting our facilities as a place for people to consider holding meetings, conferences, quiet days or workshops. It concluded with a really wonderful luncheon, and a few members of staff were asked along.

I ended up sitting next to a lovely lady who had worked in bookselling and publishing, and we were directly under the gaze of Bishop Wilberforce, whose portrait hangs in the dining hall of the College. She talked briefly about having read many of Wilberforce's papers from his episcopate (including his founding of this College), and said that he must have been a 'thumping good bishop', and it was a shame that his most legacy popularly rests on the unfortunate public comments made to Thomas Huxley in the Darwinian controversy.

In our brief conversation, we talked about how much change a Bishop of Oxford must have been coping with in the mid-19th century--industrialisation, urbanisation, stirrings towards women's suffrage, and a host of other things. I think every human being has a limit to how much change she or he can cope with before they say 'not one more thing!' And it was unfortunate that Wilberforce is most remembered for the point where he said 'not one more thing!'

All of us have our limits, and they will be met at different points, concerning different issues, and we won't always meet them with grace. But we all hope that we will be remembered for the times we've faced change, doubt and uncertainty with grace and good humour, rather than frustration and (what I hope must have been) an attempt at humour, even an unsuccessful and somewhat acidic attempt.

So, I'm willing to be a little generous towards Bishop Wilberforce, even if it's a bit on the late side. I hope I'll be able to be a little generous to those whose 'not one more thing' may differ from my own.

The grace of a ham sandwich

The work I'm doing sometimes involves long days, and then staying in the homes of people I've never met until I land on their doorstep. Sort of a bed-and-breakfast arrangement, when you think about it.

Last Saturday night, after a train journey that got confused by a suicide on the line, and the question of whether we would be taken to the next station by coach to get around the result of that, and a long day of observations, I landed at my hosts' home around 9:30 p.m. Lunch was the last 'real' (as in nutritious, balanced) food I had eaten--everything else available was nothing more than cakes and crisps. My hostess seemed to sense that something light but sustaining was in order, and made me a simple ham sandwich on wholegrain bread, with mixed leaf salad, tomatoes and cucumber.

When I was growing up, I spent a lot of Saturdays in Manhattan, and have had various sky-high piles of meat on bread at some of the best delicatessens that city has to offer. But Saturday night's was the best I can recall. It was just right--the right amount, the right kind, at the right time. And I barely had to do anything more than accept it and say thank you.

And I think, that's how divine grace works. What we need, in the right amount, the right kind, the right time. And all we need to do is accept it and say thank you.

Grace is an awful lot like a ham sandwich, sometimes.