Month: March 2014

And here’s the news on the home front —

First, Margaret is safely across the Atlantic on her epic migratory pass through the Northeast, the North Side (of Chicago), and North Carolina. She indicates that she’s begun work on a scholarly treatment of the Christian ethics of reclining seats on airliners. Me? I’m catching up on Taggart.

Next, the housepainter arrived this morning. Our house is due for repainting, and it was deemed the best idea for the painting to take place while Margaret is out. Today was spackling day. Paint starts tomorrow. There is a communications gap between the housepainter and me; he may suspect that I’m prying or something, but he keeps reticent about his plans. I think he’s starting on the guest bedroom and the second floor room, but I won’t be sure till he starts painting.

Spring has left again, presumably for only a short spell away.

As I said yesterday, I participated in some recreational cricket in the Close between Sunday Dinner and my afternoon’s marking and awaiting the arrival of my best beloved. Some will no doubt have scoffed at this news, as the only other time I’ve attempted to play cricket — decades ago, at the Duke Graduate Religion picnic — I was utterly confounded by the rules (this matter of not bending one’s elbow when one bowls is incomprehensible to a baseball player). Naetheless, facts is facts, and I hereby offer photographic evidence (generously provided by a friend of St Stephen’s House).

 

This depicts Greek scholar David D’Silva snickering at the leg-break pitch he intends to unleash at his cruel tutor. One can also see and appreciate the glories of Moberley Close, the medieval (or at least 1970s-ish) stately home of families and flatmates who study at St Stephen’s House. A careful eye will notice the throngs of admiring cricket supporters who have packed the balconies for this epic match of decrepit old novice immigrant batsman against muscular, youthful, experienced bowler.

Here the drama begins! David has released the ball and it hurtles toward the wicket, which is being visibly guarded by Patch, Father Damians’s superannuated Jack Russell terrier. Although I am not a dog enthusiast as my brilliant wife is, I would not knock Patch for six (as it appears from this photo that I’m about to do); we OAPs have to stick together. Solidarity, Patch!

My well-timed strike defied our photographer’s shutter, so sudden and forceful it was, but here we can see me about to touch the crease, as David looks on in dismay. Tharsei, young man; your day will come. I retired without having been dismissed, before the unaccustomed sun burned my unprepared skin. Next, football.

I could, if I so wanted, point out that as today is a feast day, I’m entitled to not blog as part of Lenten discipline. I will, however, leave this post anyway.

We had a lovely Mass this morning. Margaret is home for thirty-six hours. I’ve done a some marking. I played cricket (well, not regulation cricket — garden cricket). I was not dismissed before the bowler gave up on trying to bowl me out. I was promised a photo, which I will post here when, if, it arrives.

My model for ministry has been Mr Septimus Harding, the Warden of Hiram’s Hospital, since The Warden was assigned for a long-ago class. I think I have a copy of The Warden in a box in North Carolina, but when I saw the Everyman’s Library edition for only ¢2.49 at Oxfam, I couldn’t resist. (The BBC production of The Barchester Chronicles that combines The Warden with Barchester Towers is definitely worth a rental, download, or purchase as well. Donald Pleasance makes a moving Mr Harding, and Barchester Towers’s Mr Slope marks an early appearance by Alan Rickman!)

 

There may be better guides to pastoral conduct than “What would Septimus Harding do?” — but I venture to suppose that if all clergy were manifestly guided by that question, we would all be a lot better off.

Today St Stephen’s House (and those who observe the black-letter feasts of the Church of England) commemorate the Right Reverend Edward King, the founder of St Stephen’s House, Regius Professor of Pastoral Theology and Canon of Christ Church, and former Principal of another theological foundation.

 

He is identified as a confessor because he was prosecuted for liturgical offences under the Public Worship Regulation Act 1874; Bishop King transgressed for mixing water with the wine during the preparation of the elements; making the sign of the cross when blessing the people; keeping lit candles on the altar through the entire service; leading the service ad orientam, facing toward the altar and away from the congregation; and singing the Agnus Dei (among other offences).

I’m pretty proud to work on behalf of the House that Bishop King founded — not primarily for his defence of the catholic cause in the Church of England, but particularly because, as much as he was opposed violently for his catholic ritual, he was widely admired for his humility, gentleness, his devoted ministry to men in prison, and for his commitment to serious theological education. On the 100th anniversary of King’s death, Archbishop Rowan Williams observed “King was a deep man, and he believed that clergy ought to have depth; that they ought to have the kind of training that allowed them to go deep in their own faith, and the resources of the tradition, and of the Bible, and I think he would have said that we’re very much at risk of crowding that out, of creating people who are problem-solvers rather than thinkers and reflectors.” Amen: ad multis profundi.

After protracted, intense gestation, an Ash Wednesday sermon did come forth. I’ll tuck a link to the PDF of it in the “Continue Reading” link, as usual.

Work here is still intense (first year through a new system, new tutorials and lectures); Margaret is away from Oxford for about four weeks after having a triumphant tutorial of her own; Spring is in the air.

Maybe I’ll make a Lenten discipline of blogging, instead of Facebooking. (Maybe not.)
Continue reading “Ash Wednesday 2014”