maggi dawn

Noah's Nuggets???

A while back I posted some marvellous "wash away your sins" soap. I never got round to getting some - I'm now kicking myself for not remembering to buy a bottle on a recent trip to the States. 

Now I discover*, amazing but true , that you can buy a totally Biblical treat, and munch your way through "nutrition God's way" with a snack bar containing the seven foods of Deuteronomy. Did Moses order them to be wrapped in plastic, Iwonder?

You can also buy God-is-Love chocolate, Bible Gum, and "Testamints" - the mints with a message.  I can't guarantee that Biblical Sweets won't rot your teeth, just like the normal ones. But they could just make you laugh out loud, especially if you decide to feast yourself on  - wait for it - Noah's Nuggets. Yes, really.  Pause for silent mirthful weeping. (Oh, I'd really better get that soap now...).

*(according to The Times)

sauce for the goose

AnneDroid tells an amusing story about cooking lunch for a judge with a recipe from the prison...

birthday flowers

The IDEAS of March

Last week I posted about a local cultural event which will take place in Cambridge on 15th march - the date known as the Ides of March.  There was a soothsayer in Shakespeare's Julius Caesar who went about intoning "Beware the Ides of March", and it came to pass that it was on the Ides that Brutus did the dastardly deed... The Ides and St Patrick's Day have always been easy dates for me to remember because they are either side of my birthday.

Now I see that David amusingly misread the Ides of March into the Ideas of March...

If you live in the east of England you'll be needing some good ideas for keeping warm at the moment. The temperature dropped below freezing again last night, requiring an extra layer of bedding and clothes, and anxious bubble-wrapping of the spring flowers that have already courageously bloomed, only to have their lovely petals frozen off.  A few years back we had a good idea for the 16th March - instituting St Megingaud as a Robinson Chapel feast day (purely in order that we could go out for a mid-Lent birthday chocolate party, I admit) - that was an idea that has lasted a full 4 years now. This year St Megingaud coincides with Palm Sunday, when my Choir and I will be visiting All Saints Stamford to sing Evensong, with yours truly preaching.  And chocolate - dairy free - will doubtless feature at some point in the day too.

Tell me your ideas for March, blog readers. 

winter

It's that hibernation time of year again.  Christmas is over, and now it's just a couple of months of cold, wet, dark, until the signs of Spring will emerge.  My body may want to get up and go to bed with the sun, but a go-slow is not an option in term time. Term moves so fast and relentlessly that if you don't stay two steps ahead of everything you get flattened and never get back up again.  At least, that's how it feels.  On with the show...

picture from Aletheia

wriggling worship

This is Wednesday's comedy moment - "Hello Pastor" from Ship of Fools.  You have to listen right through the clip to the dance mix at the end to get the funny bit.

what the tourists don't see

had a long overdue day off yesterday, and did something I don't do too often - only if there is an out-of-town friend to show around - clambered up to the roof of King's College Chapel. A few years back I was the Chaplain there, so I know the building well.

The fantastic carved, fan vaulted ceiling is a famous sight, but clambering about in the ceiling/roof cavity  you can get a picture of how the stones were fitted together in the late 15th/early 16th century.

Right up on top of the roof, though, (and I say this despite struggling somewhat with vertigo) not only do you get a great view of Cambridge and the surrounding countryside, you also get a magical sense of being removed from the stresses of everyday life.

In a county of flat fenland with no hills this is about as close as you get to being "on top of the world".

Yesterday we watched the sun set on one side of the Chapel as the moon rose on the other. Pure magic.

I think, therefore I am

René Descartes is sitting in a pub, he’s had a bit too much to drink, and is beginning to feel the effects. 

“Another beer?” asks the landlord. “I think not,” says Descartes, and promptly vanishes.

trees

I love trees. They inspire me, make me feel good to be alive. I love them in winter, when they stand stark against a pale sky. I love them at twilight when they look full of secrets. In the spring when the light yellow green leaves begin, the freshness of that colour seems full of promise and hope. In the summer the sheer abundant lushness of great boughs of green and red and brown is enough to drown in. In california once I lay underneath a grapefruit tree in a friend's garden, and took about a hundred photos all at different angles.

In the park where I take my son to play there are enough different trees to keep a photographer as well as a tree-climbing boy very happy indeed.   

We went over to Burghley the other day, back when the sun was shining, where there is a sculpture garden and the new Garden of Surprises, both of which have astonishing art installations set among trees, making you see the landscape in a completely different way.

The artist who set these strange figures up on a branch must love trees too, I think.

stuff happens

I was searching the web this morning for a Simone Weil quote which I had written down without its reference. As so often happens with such searches, I came across something that had nothing whatever to do with what I was looking for but happened to be on the same page. This made me laugh out loud, and I had to pause for a coffee break. Oh, and then I found the source for my quote on another site entirely. Which is also one of those things that just happens most days of the week.

Stuff happens. What do the world’s religions have to say about this vexing existential problem?

Taoism: Stuff happens. Who gives a stuff?

Hinduism: This stuff has happened before and will happen again.

Buddhism: The stuff that happens doesn’t really.

Zen: What is the sound of stuff happening?

Islam: The stuff that will happen will happen.

Judaism: Lord, why is this stuff happening to me?

Evangelicalism: Jesus, we praise you and just wanna ask why this stuff isn’t happening to someone else?

Catholicism: Stuff happens because you deserve it.

Open Theism: Stuff happens to God too.

Pentacostalism: Tuffs appensh.

Anglo-Catholicism: Verily, verily, stuff happeneth.

Atheism: Stuff happens. Then you die. No more stuff.

Rastafarianism: Let’s smoke the stuff.

Link: connexions ? Blog Archive ? Stuff Happens.

Five Things You Probably Didn't Know About Me

"You're going to love me or hate me,..." writes Roger von Oech, as he tags me this morning with this little meme. It's impossible to hate Roger, the brains behind the Whack Pack. So I have no choice but to break the habit of a blogtime and join in the game.

Five Things You Probably Didn't Know About Me

1. I once lived in Norway for a while, and learned to speak the language moderately well.

2. I once learned how to drive a tractor, and to shoot a 357 Magnum, while I was staying on a cattle ranch in Texas. Have never done either thing again, before or since. From choice, I would never go near a gun again.

3. I dream of giving up the ministry and doing something completely different.

4. I have vertigo. Stand me on a tower and I feel as if I'm falling when I'm not really.

5. I carry round little notebooks in my bag,

and write down interesting quotes and bits of information I come across, 

and in idle moments make sketches of the people I'm with. Not many people get to see these.

I now tag these five people to give us five random revelations...

Dave Walker, Simon Barrow, Ruth Gledhill, Dave Paisley, AKM Adam

Stir-up Sunday

The last Sunday of the Church Year is the Sunday before Advent - this year on 25th November. These days it is known as the feast of Christ the King, although at Robinson, as it's the last Sunday before the undergraduates "go down" we'll be having our Advent Carol service a week early.

The last sunday before Advent is traditionally known as Stir-up Sunday. The name is taken from the Collect for the day in the Book of Common Prayer:

Stir-up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people; that they, plenteously bringing forth the fruit of good works, may of thee be plenteously rewarded; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

But the happy coincidence of the Collect with the timing of Christmas preparations has led to a double meaning here, for this is also the Sunday that traditionally is the day for giving the home-made Christmas pudding a final stir.

The pudding was made with thirteen ingredients, to represent Christ and his disciples, and the stirring was supposed to be done from East to West, in memory of the great journey of the Magi. Every member of the family would take a turn at stirring the pudding, before it was sealed up ready for cooking, and while they stirred they made a wish - and, like most wish-making traditions, the wish had to be kept secret if it was to come true.

Into the pudding would also be stirred a few more wish-making features. A coin was stirred in, either a silver sixpence (about the size of a modern-day 5p piece) or a threepenny bit, a ring, and a thimble. On Christmas day each person would hunt through their serving of pudding to see if they had got one of the good l;uck charms - the coin was supposed to bring wealth, the ring foretold a marriage, and the thimble was the sign of a life of good luck.

You see what you miss if you buy a ready made pudding in a plastic pot?

It's official

the last threads of summer are truly over. Extra hour in bed tonight; thereafter it's winter. Brrrrrr.....  British Summer Time (BST) Dates & FAQs.

Sunday morning, 7 a.m.

A heavy mist hung over the fields this morning,

as I drank my tea on the first floor deck.

I love those early moments in the morning, when there is a stillness over the fields and I'm the only one awake.

The red sunrise, like the BBC forecast, seemed to promise  rain later, but in fact it turned out to be a perfect sunny day, ideal for a long lazy lunch with a dozen friends, kids spilling out into the garden. Chicken and italian sausages, home made bread and salads, followed by a yummy plum crumble with walnuts (the latter made by multi-talented friend).

how many cushions?

I was walking through Cambridge this morning on the way to my new course (yep, I'm being a student again for a few hours a week, but more on that later), and noticed a new shop about to open. It's just up the road from Habitat, which sells furniture, cushions, picture frames, all that kind of stuff (and lovely too - I bought my bed there); it's round the corner from Robert Sayle, where you can buy all of the above along with clothes and toys and perfume and electrical goods.And the new shop is directly opposite two fairly new shops that sell cushions, candles, furniture, dishes and the like. And what does the new shop sell?  you guessed it- cushions, candles, small items of furniture, picture frames...   I stood at the shop window for a couple of minutes thinking. How many curtains and candles and the like can one city really make use of in a year? How much of this stuff is being replaced while perfectly serviceable stuff is consigned to the bin?

Now don't mistake me for a complete curmudgeon when it comes to shopping. Only last month a friend's grown-up daughter pronounced me  "absolutely the BEST shopper" after I introduced her to the delights of Oxford Street and found her at least half a dozen items of clothing that she definitely couldn't live without. I know sometimes it's therapy, and that clothes and home stuff is good for you. But there's also this worrying trend - the kind of shopping-mall disease - where you shop because you are bored, or your life isn't full enough of other things.  There's a version of shopping which is about filling a big emotional hole;  where shopping is no longer a trip to get things you need, or a few seasonal treats, but a "leisure activity". It's a fine line, but one side of it is definitely a sad prospect. I think there are too many cushions and curtains on sale in Cambridge. We need to do more walking in the country and making our own jam.

"Would the ordination of women to the episcopacy in England get through synod quicker if all the likely candidates were drop dead gorgeous?"

Mad Priest asks for nominations .  And the results so far appear at Miss Worldwide Anglican Bishop - Kate Moss carrying the most amusing caption so far....

best present ever

my son is in a Playmobil phase.  Vikings and Barbarians with forts and battering rams, that kind of thing. The usual thing is that he gets a big set for birthdays and special stuff, and in between whiles buys the little stuff with his pocket money. This week he had some pocket money to spend, and he had two figures he wanted. I told him he'd have to choose - buy one today and get the other one next week.  Off we went to the toy shop, and he went to investigate the Playmobil section and consider his choice. A few minutes later he re-appeared at my elbow.  "Can I buy two, Mum? Can I?"

Hmmm. Kids regularly do this thing where you put a boundary down for them and they challenge it just to see what happens, to establish who's really in charge. The adult has to figure it out in a few seconds - is this a non-issue, one to change your mind over? Or is it one of those moments when you need to put your foot down? You'd be a monster never to give in to their reasoning, but if you change your mind too often, they don't learn the boundaries. It's a fine line.

"We already said that you can have one this week, and get the other one next week," I said. "Don't worry, there are lots and lots there, they will still be there next week."

Long-ish pause. He's thinking what to say next. I wait to see whether there will be an outburst, or an argument, or whether he's going to try and talk me into it.

"It's not greedy, Mum. It's special."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I want to buy this Knight on a horse for me. But you don't have any Playmobil at all, and I have loads, and there is this pink princess with a hairbrush, so I want to buy her for you so you'll have one to play with."

Later, in the tea shop:

"I chose her for you because she's pink, and that's good for girls. "

do mobile phones ruin family life?

Alas, a blog asks the question.

I shan't be getting rid of my mobile - it enhances family life because I use it to juggle all the bits of my life and remain contactable when necessary. But it would certainly ruin family life if I didn't know and practice these four things:
1. the mobile has an off switch; the landline has a volume control and a plug you can unplug.
2. you don't have to answer the phone if you are mid-conversation with someone you love.
3. if it's a cold caller, you don't hesitate, you just put the phone down. You also get yourself on the Call Preference list.
4. it is not only possible and acceptable, but essential to learn how to say "thanks for phoning - I can't talk right now, but when can I call you back?".

Harry Potter

My son and I did a Harry Potter tour a couple of weekends back. It was truly fab...  starting at Alnwick Castle, home of the Duke of Northumbria, we were shown around the castle by none other than ...

...Madame Hootch,  who offered my Son a photo opportunity and promised to teach him to fly next time we go...  It's a top trip, with a full afternoon's worth of entertainment for primary age kids. And grown ups, obviously.  Go there, as soon as you possibly can.

Next day to Durham Cathedral where my son distinguished himself by being asked (very politely) not to wear his Sorting Hat inside the house of God (V. Glad I was unidentifiable as clergy at that point... !)

We found the monastery cloisters, and the door behind which Fluffy was known to lurk.

Gloucester was too far flung to fit into one weekend. That's a trip for the summer then.

get naked

Richard is doing a little liturgical risk-taking here. Sounds like fun!  :)

St Megingaud's Day

No posting. Just feasting.

what have I done now?

So my first ride-a-bike lesson is tomorrow.

Why did I say yes? I could have just said "no thanks, I've changed my mind. I like my car after all." 

Breathe, breathe...

ecological footprint update

I think I'm going to sell my car.  I'm currently looking into the possibilities of car-sharing, and of simply hiring a car when I need one. Either option would certainly be a great deal cheaper over the course of a year than owning one. And it would take away the temptation to use the car just because it's there, or because it's cold and raining.

Cambridge is not all that big, is well-provided with train and bus links, and a nearby airport, and there are plenty of taxis and car-hire firms for when the need arises. I use my car more than I strictly need to, just because it's there.

One thing I've never mastered, though, is the art of riding a bike. Last time I tried it I attempted a novice run down a not-very-busy street, and a car turned left straight across my path. I fell off, unhurt apart from surface scratches, but pretty shaken in near-miss terms. Riding a bike, though, is probably an essential skill for surviving car-free in Cambridge. Last week two of my friends rashly offered to teach me how. One of them I somewhat mistrust on this issue because he said several times over how easy it is. I know he's wrong about this. He's never seen me trying to ride a bike. The other one, however, I'd trust with my life. So the car-free household is under serious consideration, and I am breathing into a paper bag while working up the courage to get on a bike again.

love chips

It's National Chip Week.  We're going to see my mum this evening. She has promised us Chips. (For USA readers - I think you call these French Fries. What you call chips we call crisps.)

The evils of the National Curriculum in primary education have induced ridiculous anxiety levels  in my son re. normal food. He has to be reassured that he will not be ill if he eats chips (something that happens about once a month or less in our house). He also came downstairs the other night and found me sipping a small glass of wine while a read my book.  He had a terrible look of consternation on his face as he said "What are you doing? Don't you know that wine is drugs? You might DIE!" and promptly took my wine away from me.  He learned this in school, apparently...

Back to chips, though, as any good northerner knows, Fish and Chips are among the healthiest forms of fast food you can find. Less fat, and way less salt than a pizza.  Check out more facts about Chips  here, and treat yourself to a trip to the chippy.

broadband and time wasters.

I have spent an amazing number of hours in the last few weeks sorting out muddles that are NOT MY FAULT!!!!!  Errors - even quite bad ones - are quite forgiveable if the perpetrator puts their hands up, says sorry, and fixes it. Last month my Bank began to pay out my annual Direct Debits monthly. Now that's some error. But hats off to them for swift action and a courteous, apologetic  tone. It only took 20 minutes on the phone and it was sorted.

A different experience altogether, however, has been the ongoing saga of getting broadband. It began in November, when I decided to let the great internet revolution interrupt my precious home life as well as the interminable hours I spend at work. Well, in fact, if I could just check on a few things at home, I wouldn't need to spend nearly so many hours at work. So it makes sense.

Anyway, I inherited my phone line along with the house I am renting. And some time in the distant past a previous occupant had an account with Tiscali. Tiscali had carelessly left their "marker" on the telephone line when the house occupancy changed. Trying to get my line cleared has been an epic. Tiscali were obstructive, inefficient, rude and useless. In November they promised to clear it, and asked me to wait 21 days while they did so. In December they said it never had been marked by them, and they knew nothing about it. I applied to BT, who said I must go back to Tiscali who had a marker on the line. Tiscali said they would clear it, and wo8uld I wait 21 days. In January they said it was marked by them, but only BT could clear it...

Well, you get the picture. One of my friends who has been coaching me through the world of geekery said "go to Ofcom".  Ofcom said, "We'll give you a code and you can give it to Tiscali and they can clear the line." I said, "I am not speaking to Tiscali any more. Please overrule and do something about it."  (I learned something here, BTW: if you are getting nowhere on the phone, STAND UP while you're talking. It's supposed to make you feel and sound more authoritative. I don't know whether it's true, but at any rate it makes me feel taller.) Anyway, either because I was sounding authoritative or possibly because I was now on that dangerous edge of angry-almost-going-to-cry,  Ofcom sweetly agreed to take over. They cleared my line. Seven Days. A.N.Other server is now in the process of connecting me up. I reserve judgement, but so far they have been polite and efficient.

By the time I actually get broadband, I suspect it will have been superceded by something much more technologically advanced. Anyway,  I'm disgusted with Tiscali. Nul points. But hooray for Ofcom.

sex and preaching

Hugh (regular commenter and IRL friend) ask whether homiletics courses should take this into consideration... 

kissing underwater

One of my New Year resolutions - one I make most years, I must confess - was to learn to do a few things I've never done before. A few years back, having made it all the way to adulthood without learning to swim, swimming was the objective of the year, and having conquered an enormous fear of water, I absolutely loved swimming. This year one fo my Resolutions was to learn to swim underwater.

I was surprised (especially remembering the fear of going down under the water and never coming back up) to discover that it's really, really hard just to stay down there. Like driving, skiing or riding a horse, it's a knack, and you just have to keep trying until you suddenly "get it".  Anyway, this week I made it down almost a complete length of the (rather short!!!) pool I swim in. Hurrah!

My son, meantime, thought underwater swimming looked rather interesting, and has followed suit.  He promptly figured out how to do somersaults underwater, and he then decided we should try all kinds of other stuff to see what it looks like/feels like underwater. We tried waving, shaking hands, laughing, hi-fives, singing, running... all pretty interesting. But the funniest of all was when he said "now let's try kissing underwater!" It really is funny - we laughed so much we nearly drowned.

Off side rule

Someone explained it to me at lunch. Perfectly simple. What's all the fuss about?

The quest for the historical wardrobe...

this little theological/Narnia joke cheered up my morning.

Happy New Year

Five things to improve 2006:

Achieve domestic bliss. Never forget anything, ever again. Sign up with Remember the Milk.
Think about your faith. Read this.
Make your own bread.
Re-connect with a lost friend. Make the effort to make at least one new friend.
DO something you've never done before. (Fly a plane, ride a bike, swim in a real river...  Add your suggestions in the comments!)

I must down to the sea again...

I love the sea. Hard to say exactly why, but it's absolutely therapeutic. I love a calm, sun-baked sunny day at low water on a shallow beach like Marazion in Cornwall - the smooth sand littered with hundreds of those funny little worm-coils, and the challenge of getting out to the island and back again before the tide's up. Or a similar challenge, but in a different weatherscape and landscape, crossing over to Holy Island on the north east coast. There you really have to read the tide-times, or take a tent with you.

In England you are never more than 74 miles or so from the sea shore. It really is possible, wherever you live, to get to the coast and back in a day. Easier from some parts than others of course. For me it's an hour and a half's drive to some coast line that is particularly lovely in the winter, its bleak mudflats somehow seeming particularly suited to a winter frost. Sometime in the next few days we will wrap up warm and go for a big beach walk.

In a much harsher and more volatile climate, one of my favourite sea memories was a fishing trip in a Norwegian Ffjord. I had intended to go to Norway for six weeks but ended up staying a year and a half.  A few weeks into my visit, some of the locals decided that I should be properly initiated into an understanding of the local industries, and that began with a fishing trip. We set out on a small boat with about 20 people on it, on smooth seas just glinting a little as the sun caught the movement of the water beneath the boat.  We had the appropriate fishing gear on, but it was warm and dry, a very promising day.  On the way out I was shown various fishing techniques; as this trip had in part been set up for my education, they were going to let me fish with a line on one side of the boat. Much technical stuff that I have long since forgotten was explained laboriously, my early attempts at the Norsk language being supplemented with odd bits of English and a lot of sign language. Eventually we got the thing set up and various lines and nets and what have you were spread about the place. I was pleased, of course, to catch a moderate sized fish - big enough to take home and eat - but pulling it in and landing it I did not enjoy at all. As we fished, the sun began to fade, the clouds began to gather a little - nothing much to worry about, I thought, so I was surprised when the guy in charge suddenly announced, rather urgently, that we should pack up and go home right away.  We packed the stuff down and began to stow everything in the right place as the boat began to turn. Suddenly - really, within a few minutes - the whole picture changed. The clouds grew dark and forbidding, the light dropped dramatically, the rain began to come down, and the smooth, calm sea suddenly began to chop about. The storm blew up so fast that even these experienced fishermen went into emergency mode. Language games and niceties were abandoned - they just pushed me down on the middle of the boat and tied me on to something with big ropes. They tied themselves together and on to the boat, and we began to head - slowly and scarily - through enormous waves towards land. I don't remember being afraid, I just remember willing the sea to calm down, and trying to find a point of focus to stop my head from spinning into uncontrollable nausea. A long time later we came in to land. The quayside was lined with people waiting with blankets and hot stuff to drink. I think it wasn't until some time later that I registered the information that not only had I been in serious danger that day, but that these wives on the quayside waited there pretty often, with their arms full of blankets and their hearts in their mouths.

I love fish. Occasionally when I eat it I remember the toil and danger that some people go thorugh, and the worry of those who wait on shore, in order to bring it home to the table.   

kitten heels and shallow things

I am fascinated, and ever so slightly miffed, given the thoughtful attention that I give to my theological postings, that the post that out-runs all the rest on this blog is the completely shallow and forgettable Kitten Heels. Every single day there are half a dozen people who arrive at my site via a search for kitten heels.  Clearly my theological insights are not so interesting as my shallow side. Furthermore, kitten heels are now definitely passe, and I'm getting anxious in case anyone thinks I'm still wearing them... ;)

snow

I hear it's snowing in Yorkshire.

maggi needs...

Gareth posted this silly thing a couple of days ago. You go to Google, and type in "(your name) needs" in quotation marks - for me that makes "Maggi needs". Then you give the blog world the first 10 sentences that come up. I followed Gareth's instructions in an idle moment, although knowing that "Maggi" is a name I share with a popular brand of soup, an Italian politican, and a Pr*n star, I must admit I thought the results would not be promising. I only got 10 to choose from, and ha've omitted the smutty ones. The rest raised a smile - either because they are so stupid, or because, in a couple of cases, such a random activity pulls up sometyhing that really could have been written about me.

All of that made me think about why it is that horoscopes are so perenially popular. The reader ignores the 90% of irrelevant fluff, and only sees the one line that, coincidentally, could have been written for them.  Me? I would never turn down a large injection of cash, monotony I have never liked, hugs and kisses I could seriously do with, and as for curtains - well, horoscope away! I have just been sewing and hanging curtains this very week. You see? Google is the new Big brother...

Maggi needs large working capital facilities and investment loans.
Maggi needs to continue to take the herbal preparation throughout the English winter.

"Maggi needs ME!". Hugs and Kisses!
Maggi needs to convince the Democratic congressional campaign Committee That he can raise money on his own before The Committee will commit funds to help...
Maggi needs some more curtains.
Maggi needs to be kept stimulated with tasks that challenge and inspire and cannot successfully manage monotonous tasks over a set period
Maggi needsto go ASAP

On earth as it is in heaven...

Here's a silly joke for weekend cheering up.

On their way to get married, a young couple is involved in a fatal car accident. The couple find themselves sitting outside the Pearly Gates waiting for St. Peter to process them into Heaven. While waiting, they begin to wonder: Could they possibly get married in Heaven?  So when St. Peter shows up, they ask him.

St. Peter says, “I don’t know. This is the first time anyone has asked. Let me go find out,” and he leaves.

The couple sat for a long time waiting for St Peter to return with an answer. A couple of months went by, and the couple began to think about the prospect of being married forever, not just for life. What if St Peter said they could get married in Heaven? “What if it doesn’t work?” they wondered, “Would  we be stuck together FOREVER?”

After yet another month, St. Peter finally returns, looking tired, harrassed and somewhat bedraggled.
“Yes,” he informs the couple, “you CAN get married in Heaven.”
“Great!” said the couple,  “but before we do, we were also wondering, what if things don’t work out? Could we also get a divorce in Heaven?”

St. Peter's face turned red with anger, and he slammed his clipboard to the ground.
“What’s wrong?” asked the frightened couple.
“OH, COME ON!!” St. Peter shouts, “It took me three whole months to find one single priest up here to take a wedding! Do you have ANY idea how long it’ll take me to find a lawyer?”

er...

"Once I had a rose named after me and I was very flattered. But I was not pleased to read the description in the catalogue: "No good in a bed, but fine up against a wall."

~ Eleanor Roosevelt

general holiday silliness

I've been spending most of this week eating, sleeping, staring into space and getting relaxed and still enough to remember my own name. There are moments when the stresses of life, the tasks we have to do, the deadlines we have to meet, take over to the extent that we forget who we are and what we're living for. Deep stuff, I suppose, but often the practice of retreat isn't so much about being deep as it is about being still, relaxed and away from the pressures of work. It's impossible to have deep visions and great dreams when you're burned out.

Approaching the subject of identity and vision in an entirely frivolous frame of mind, however, here's a little quiz thing I did. It's supposed to tell me whether I'm in the right job. Mostly I think I am. Occasionally I throw a wobbly fit and convince myself that i've wasted my WHOLE life not being myself...

Of course at the back of the quiz someone is trying to sell me a supposedly in-depth analysis of my life - who knows whether this one would be full of insight, or about as much use as a Sunday Paper Horoscope. A cursory read of the analysis here seems quite accurate, yet these things are like horoscopes - whatever you read you can see yourself in them if you want to badly enough...  Anyway, it seems a suitably frivolous post for an off-duty moment.

The greatest Philosopher

Last week a listeners' vote on Radio 4 (for the intellectual In Our Time programme) concluded that of those philosophers throughout the ages that had been offered as "the Greatest Philosopher of all time" , the greatest of all was Karl Marx. I can completely understand the appeal. He said some very smart things, and now his thought has been rehabilitated after being separated from the not very Marxist Marxism that was the focus of the Cold War, his observataions and ideas repay careful attention.

What I liked the most was Melvyn Bragg's observation that the attraction of Marx is that he is a philosopher not just in the abstract - someone who creates an ideology you can think about - but like the ancient philosophers, he thought philosophy was about real life.  Hadot's book - Philosophy as a Way of Life - is a brilliant read if you're interested in thinking about that one.

Meantime, I still champion the poet-philosophers of our age, whose peircing one-liners on life in all its fullness appear fairly regularly on this blog.  Here's Paul Simon describing a common pastoral dilemma perfectly in just three lines:

She said, Losing love is like a window in your heart,
Everybody sees you're blown apart,
Everbody feels the wind blow.  (Paul Simon)

and here's Joni Mitchell giving us John A T Robinson in a nutshell:

I send up my prayer, wondering where that will go?
with heaven full of astronauts, and the Lord on death row...

...with the millions of the lost and lonely ones
I call out to be released,
Caught in my struggle for higher achievements
and the search for love that don't seem to cease.

Crossing the Red Sea... in the 21st Century

check this out

age

Was talking to a friend earlier in the week about ageing (cheerful subject, no?) ... and reflecting on the fact that one mutual friend of ours - same age exactly as both of us - has the appearance, the attitude and the gravitas of a man 10 years older than us. The gravitas we envy. The rest...

Speaking of age, I posted recently a clip from Frederica Matthewes Green on "Old Married Sex" and was a bit taken aback by some of the response. I guess I didn't make it clear that I don't necessarily post stuff because I agree with every word, but because a) I want to keep it, and b) I find it thought-provoking.  For the record, I know that Frederica M-G is way more conservative than I am, and there are lots of things within her commentary that I don't agree with. I also don't fit any of her social categories. I've been the pastoral observer of several dozen sad and despairing marriages - some because it takes two to make a marriage and only one was willing to make the effort; some because they were catastrophically badly suited; one or two because they were pressurised by well meaning conservatives to get married in the first place; one or two because although everything else was OK in principle, the relationship couldn't stand the extrernal pressure that were thrown at them in the shape of deaths and disabilities beyond their abiity to cope. I've also, on the happier side, officiated at the weddings of one or two rather wonderful second-time-around couples, and rejoiced with some middle aged single friends who find that living alone is a whole lot more fun and liberating than living with someone who despises/ignores/beats them.

Having said all that, I stil think that Frederica M-G does highlight something worthwhile - that sex doesn't belong to Hollywood, and that if you are lucky enough to land in a relationship that has the potential (given all the love and care that is required) to last a lifetime, then old-married-sex has a lot to say about love, and may offer some wisdom to the vacuous feelings of those who are having lots of sex but can't understand why love has eluded them completely.

Speaking of ageing, Paul Simon once put it like this:

Now the years are rolling by me, they are rocking easily
I am older than I once was, and younger than I'll be,
but that's not unusual.
Lord, isn't it strange,
after changes upon changes we are more or less the same,
After changes we are more or less the same.

Paul Simon

laughter in heaven

Need cheering up? Try the Ship of Fools Laugh Judgement

soooooo tired

THe Ball was truly lovely - even possibly better than last year's, I think. A fab meal, fireworks, live comedy, all kinds of music from jazz to Ceilidh to Salsa, champagne on tap, and - of course - a rerun of the battle with Serena, the Queen of the dodgems. Now, I may not be a scientist, but I did count. She bashed us 6 times, and we bashed her 7. But did I win? No, Serena says she won again. So what are the rules there exactly?....  ;)

I fell into bed and instant sleep about 4am. The birds were already singing and it was getting light. I think I registered momentarily that it would be approximately 2 hours before my son got me up for our promised Lego buildathon, followed by a fitting session to fix his Darth Vader suit up for the School Fete, in time to actually BE at the School fete by noon. I am happy to say that he won a prize for the outfit - pictures soon - but I am now so jet lagged. I can't wait for bedtime. If only I was an undergraduate and could sleep all day...

having a ball

Tonight is the party of the year.  Hope it doesn't rain.  Hope I manage to stay awake, at least till midnight.   

little quizzes

On-line quizzes seem to be in vogue in this corner of blogworld at the moment. I don't know whether (in this part of the world at any rate) this has anything to do with the fact that so many people are just starting, in the middle of, or just finishing real-life quizzes in the form of exams? I've also mused a bit on how strange a result you can get from a quiz - like the one I did the other day - when the potential answers are so limited. It would have been impossible, for instance, to identify how much I owe to Julian of Norwich, or Athanasius, or...

And, of course, how you interpret the question affects (perhaps in a skewed way) what result you get - "Does God exist" might be taken as a question about the nature of God, or about whether you believe God is there at all - two quite different issues.

All the same, I'm pretty happy to see that the result of that particular quiz is that people are acutally going off and reading Tillich, Moltmann, Schleiermacher (read the Speeches or Christmas Eve, not the Christian Faith if you're a newcomer to Schleiermacher).

I haven't yet found five mintues to take the quiz that tels you what Church Tradition you most identify with - but am intrigued to see that almost the whole world, whether they are high scorers on Modern Liberal, or on Reformed Evangelical, or whatever, almost ALL come out as Emergent/Postmodern. Is this a conspirac? Is there something we should be told? When I do get round to it I'm going to answer al the questions as a Fundamentalist just to find out whether it's possible.

Happy THursday!

I am the child of Schleiermacher...

...no surprises there, then.

You scored as Friedrich Schleiermacher. You seek to make inner feeling and awareness of God the centre of your theology, which is the foundation of liberalism. Unfortunately, atheists are quick to accuse you of simply projecting humanity onto 'God' and liberalism never really recovers. Friedrich Schleiermacher 87% Paul Tillich 73% Jürgen Moltmann 60% John Calvin 60% Anselm 53% Martin Luther 47% Karl Barth 40% Jonathan Edwards 27% Augustine 20% Charles Finney 7% Which theologian are you? created with QuizFarm.com

office irreverence

I found this on thinkingthejourney...

and although I'm happy to admit that champagne or a nice sauvignon blanc, or possibly a couple of litres of Bombay Sapphire would be more my choice of upended office nectar, there are days when I could cheerfully chuck all the paper off my desk to make space for my feet...

and speaking of too much paper on the desk, thinkingthejourney also has this excellent (though rude) cartoon on her blog...

 

duck density

So happy to read today that Cambridge University ranks in the top five British Universities - only behind York and Loughborough - not, this time, in academic rankings, but in Duck Density. We have 8.1 ducks per rood...  I know you'll be relieved to know that.

what exactly is wrong with being compared to a cat?...

...asked Rowan, after yesterday's comedy moment...

"...what exactly is wrong with being compared to a cat? Sleek, elegant, self-sufficient, wise, enigmatic and secure of their place in the universe - how many ordained people can you say all THAT about?!"

Heh.

Trinny and Susanna? Are you out there?

Technically, black-tie-with-gowns requires a floor length dress. Anyone out there clued up enough on sartorial etiquette to tell me whether four inches shorter is OK?

who am I now?

J wrote from the States asking whether (like her) I ever get freaked out by the way your identity seems to get remodelled through the public space of a blog. I have to say that it has its moments - at least with the books and albums I've published I don't KNOW, for the most part, what people think about them! But more often than being freaked out I have moments to pause for a smile in my coffee break.

Yesterday, for instance, I received an e-mail yesterday from a blog reader who offered to marry me - but only if I convert to Catholicism and resign my orders. After all, he reasoned, I am part of a heretical sect, and "about as ordained as a cat!" ... but still worth marrying (all in jest, I assume!) since,  "still, you are a nice-looking chick."

Very flattering,k of course, although I'm inclined to think I'm not that desperate to get married, esp. not to someone who, even in jest, compares me to a cat! But in any case, if I resigned my orders I'd be in no position to take up my forthcoming role - in Richard's nightmare - as the Bishop of Liverpool...  ;)