Fr Geoffrey has died. He must have been one of the longest serving priest of the Diocese in Europe. When I joined that Diocese in 1988, the Bishop asked me to go to Turkey and help Fr Geoffrey. I said: “Why does he need help” and Bishop Satterthwaite said “Because he is the only Anglican priest left in Turkey and he’s the Archdeacon of the Aegean and the Danube”. Well, how could I resist that?
At that time, the Church of England had only three chaplaincies in Turkey, Ankara, Istanbul and Izmir, and Fr Geoffrey was the Chaplain in the last of these. But the Chaplain of the British Embassy in Ankara had moved, and the Chaplain in Istanbul had died suddenly, so only Geoffrey was left. I flew with the Bishop to Istanbul and we went to the British Consulate-General where we were staying. It is a majestic collection of buildings dating from the time of the Ottoman Empire (much grander, in fact, than the Embassy in Ankara).
It was there I first met Fr Geoffrey. Those who knew him will appreciate that I was underwhelmed by the rather scruffy, spare figure with wild hair, clutching an enormous bag, full of strangely shaped objects. But it did not take me long to know that under that outward appearance, Geoffrey was a very special person. The first indication of this I had was when we went to the apartment of the priest who had just died. It was sparsely furnished, but all over the place, in drawers and cupboards and stuck between files, were large sums of money in British pounds, German and Swiss Marks, American dollars, and other more obscure currencies. Geoffrey saw nothing unusual in this, but simply scooped it all up into his shapeless bag. ” I can do lots of good things with this”, he said. Later on, I saw some of it disbursed to many needy people.
This followed from the fact that first of all Geoffrey was a priest. H head done no other job: straight from University and Theological College, he was ordained. And his whole life had been devoted to the Church, whether in his native Wales, or in the wilds of Guyana, or in his beloved Turkey. I’ll never forget his tale of when the Bishop visited his parish in the jungle, the little boat collapsed and Geoffrey and His Lordship were left struggling in the murky waters of the great South American river. Geoffrey said, with that wicked grin of his: “I was worried about crocodiles and snakes, and all the Bishop could do as we swam for the shore was shriek that his precious mitre had sunk to the bottom!” “Silly ass”, he added.
Geoffrey had a love/hate relationship with Turkey. On the one hand he loved the country and its various peoples, but he either couldn’t or wouldn’t learn the language properly. He would shout or mutter the primary form of any Turkish word, and then express incredulity and impatience that no one understood him. But whether they understood him or not, they loved him. His own parish was Izmir, and during the times I stayed with him there, I saw countless people shake (or kiss) his hand, tell him their troubles and ask a blessing. They may have been Muslims or unbelievers, but they recognized a holy man. Most of his ministry was quiet and unremarkable, but there were high moments, such as the time when he saved St John’s Anglican Church from being demolished to make way for a wider road: he confronted the workmen sent by the town council and physically lay down in front of the bulldozers.
To see Geoffrey celebrate Mass was an experience. He was perfect in all proper Anglo-Catholic ritual, but he could never be still. If a lesson was being read, Geoffrey would rush out into the sacristy and come back with a purificator or a book or nothing. Yet again this did not detract from the fact that here was a man of God doing what he was ordained to do, and which he thought was the most important thing in the world. I was often left to say the next bit of the liturgy while Geoffrey rushed up the aisle to welcome someone who had just come into the church.
On the wider Church scene, Fr Geoffrey was known not just as the Anglican Archdeacon of the Aegean and the Danube, a title which he mischievously cherished, but also in the wider Church in Turkey. He led many pilgrims, including several Archbishops and Bishops, to Eastern Turkey to visit the Syrian Orthodox communities which were often in grave danger and openly persecuted. Many of them fled and relocated in Sweden, and when I was Chaplain of the English Church in Stockholm, I was very moved at an ecumenical gathering to be told by the Syrian Archbishop how much Fr Geoffrey had done for his community. “Without Fr Geoffrey”, he said “many more of our people would have perished.” I knew he was always collecting money for the Syriani, but had no idea it had been so vital.
And now he has gone on into the eternities, which will be a merrier place for his arrival. I doubt if he will be able to rest in peace, but have no doubt that his limitless energies will be put to even greater use.
I must have preached on the Resurrection of Our Lord Jesus Christ a hundred times, but I don’t think I have ever tried to write a short piece on what it is.
I have always emphasized that Jesus appeared (with one great exception, which I believe ultimately was no exception) only to those who already loved him and believed that was the Messiah of Israel and/or the Son of God, to those who had put their trust in him.
He appeared quietly and intimately to Mary Magdalene who loved him dearly. He appeared to his terrified apostles in the upper room where they had four days before eaten the Last Supper. He appeared to Thomas, who loved him but could not believe he was alive. He appeared to two disciples (and I vividly remember G.B. Caird in a lecture in Oxford in a throw-away line saying “And I don’t suppose it has occurred to many of you that they were probably a married couple”!) walking sadly away from Jerusalem to Emmaus, grieving his death.
And the results of these appearances were all the same: they found that their grief was dispelled, their doubts were gone. Mary Magdalene’s tears were dried and she was wild with joy. The frightened apostles, huddled behind locked doors were liberated from their fears and turned into the bold, confident men we see teaching the Good News of the Resurrection “in spite of dungeon, fire or sword”. Thomas turned from sad doubt to joyful certainty, which led him to shout the first Creed of the Church “My Lord and my God”. All those who saw the Lord would certainly have maintained the reality of his rising from the dead, but what really convinced them that this was not just an inexplicable miracle was that these experiences brought them not intellectual certainty, but a deep sense of joy and peace that only the assured perpetual presence of the Lord could bring.
Equally important is to remember those to whom Jesus did not appear after his Resurrection, Pontius Pilate or Herod, the chief priests, the scribes and the pharisees. He appeared to some frightened men and women, some disillusioned fishermen, some heart-broken friends. His Resurrection appearances were never intended to force belief – the devil tempted him to do that in the desert (if angels caught him when he threw himself from the top of the Temple, the people would have to believe he was at least someone special); the pharisees taunted him to use the same ploy as he hung on the Cross (“Come down and we will believe your claims”). But to them all he said “Get behind me, Satan”.
And that brings us to the seemingly glaring exception to what I have been saying: the appearance of the risen Lord to Paul on his way to Damascus. Paul hated the followers of Jesus and wanted them all in jail or executed, and yet the Lord Jesus appeared to him and, as we put it, converted him. But (to take an example from a widely different time and age) those who want homosexuals persecuted or imprisoned or even put to death are often the ones most likely to be gay themselves, some deeply repressed, others hypocritically practicing until led in handcuffs from a public restroom! So I think it was with Paul – he was a deep scholar and knew all about the claims of Jesus to be the Messiah. I believe he must have seen him in Jerusalem, perhaps even on the Cross: it was a small society. He had heard Stephen’s testimony to Jesus the Christ, and watched him die bravely proclaiming the Resurrection. I believe the “sudden” conversion on the road to Damascus had been brewing and tormenting Paul for years, and that it took only a few days of earnest and exhausting conversation with loving disciples in Damascus before the scales fell from his eyes and he saw why Jesus had said he was persecuting him. He saw that if he persecuted the followers of Jesus he was persecuting him because baptism made them one Body. This great doctrine is all over his epistles, as is the doctrine that God chooses the weak and seemingly foolish things of this word to confound the strong and seemingly wise.
Paul saw Jesus risen, ascended, glorified, and began a life of joyful toil to proclaim the Resurrection. He was tortured and died for that as were thousands of others, because they all believed love was stronger than death. And really that’s all we need to know about the Resurrection.
To help me recover from my latest hip operation (which has been very successful, thank God), I decided to visit some old friends for a couple of weeks.( I have to confess that I am enjoying being able to say this so casually, without any thought of finding priests to fill in for me while I am away, and the hundred and one other routine matters needing to be foreseen in running the parish.)
I first went by train to Washington, D.C. The two hours on Amtrak are very pleasant, and it was especially interesting at this time to see the green appearing on the leaves of trees in the woods, with here and there a tree in full white blossom. There are also three crossings of bits of the Chesapeake Bay where the water can be calm and full of little boats or grey and choppy with just a few gulls braving the wind. The saddest sight on this particular journey is the back view of some awful slums in Baltimore. Thankfully, since I started riding this route, many of them have been torn down and replaced with new dwellings, but there are still too many half falling down houses which remind me of bits of the so-called Third World.
In Washington, I stayed with a friend whom I have known for almost fifty years. We met in Europe and have kept in touch ever since. He is a generous and welcoming host, and the kind who just includes me in whatever he is doing – but only if I want to be included. A long-term member of St Peter & St Paul’s, the National Cathedral’s congregation, I went with him to some of the glorious services there for Holy Week and Easter. The High Mass on Easter Day was packed to the doors, and they can seat 3000. The choir and organists were, as always, superb, and there was a splendid sermon from the Bishop of Washington on how we must be “poised for resurrection”. It was not St Clement’s (where is?) but it was beautiful Catholic liturgy, with the Dean and two other priests celebrating, incense being used in all the proper places, and a joyful (and swift) distribution of Communion to all who came to the several Stations. Of course I disliked the streaming ribbon at the end of a bendy pole, but there were also many beautiful traditional banners carried in the procession.
After six days in D.C. where the cherry blossom was out in its glory, I flew to Palm Springs, California, changing planes in Denver, Colorado, and was soon flying over arid desert land criss-crossed with canyons. The only running water I saw was the river in the Grand Canyon, which I believe never dries up. Palm Springs and the other desert places such as Rancho Mirage and Palm Desert are an astonishing green when the plane crosses the San Jacinto Mountains and swoops down into the little airport. Everywhere there are green lawns, waving palms, bright beds of flowers and many beds more sensibly planted with desert cactuses, some in flower. The temperature was in the nineties but the air was dry and my friends met me at the airport with their car minus its roof, so that we drove to their house with a lovely warm breeze keeping us cool (if you see what I mean).
I stayed a week with these friends, one of whom I went to school with at the age of eleven, so even more long-standing friends than my host in Washington. Both are retired and have also a very charming house in London, off Clapham Common, so they have six months in each. I caught them in Palm Springs just in time before they went back to London for the summer and, not having seen them for quite a while, we had a lot of news to catch up with. I confess I did little but swim in their pool and lie in the sun, and I’m sure both of these did my hip a world of good. Of course we went out to dinner with other friends’ homes and to great restaurants, but on the whole I simply read the Divine Office (in Spanish, to brush up my Spanish) and a few mystery novels, and that was all. A great rest with good old friends. I did my bit for the Californian drought by drinking wine instead of water wherever possible.
And now I am home, having flown (rather oddly) via San Francisco, and I must say it is great to be back in Philadelphia and my new loft apartment. The city is full of vigor, with every cafe and restaurant getting their tables and umbrellas out to cover the sidewalks. The more I live here, the more I love Philly. In my eleven years here, I have seen so much growth, with fine modern skyscrapers rising to form a changed skyline, and so many wonderful restaurants opening up all over the place. And then there is St Clement’s, where I will be sitting in Choir on Sunday, happy to see the congregation developing and grasping new opportunities for mission and outreach. Like Philly itself, it is growing and opening up the old rites and music of the Church to both the local community and to people who travel quite a distance to be there. I am happy to worship with them in the beauty of holiness.
What an alive city Philadelphia is. There are always half a dozen things going on at the same time.
Today there was a bizarre clash of cultures, with Center City being jammed to capacity with green-clad Irish folks celebrating their Patron Saint, St Patrick, whose feast is on Tuesday. Having just had a hip replacement last Tuesday, I was hoping to have my usual very short bus journey to and from St Clement’s. But no way! Buses were rerouted to the most improbable routes, and eventually I had to take a cab both ways. My benevolence towards the Irish crowds was much tested by the time I got home.
However, an hour or so after returning home, a quite different kind of procession wound its way past my apartment. It was a procession to mark the end of the Chinese New Year, and was made up of the most colorful costumes. There were golden and scarlet dragons, a complete Temple on wheels, fearsome giants on stilts (unless there are some extremely tall Chinese guys in Philly), marching bands and lots of girls in ribbon-bedecked dresses. This was all accompanied by the beating of drums and the clashing of cymbals.
Reflecting on the two celebrations, I was far more in tune with the Chinese one than the Irish one. In the latter, there was no sign of St Patrick or a Catholic priest (though they may have been one somewhere else in the procession). The people were often dressed as red-haired green-clad leprechauns (which is an Irish fairy). It all seemed very secular. Yet Patrick wasn’t secular: he took the Irish by storm, making them give up their heathen ways and turn to Christ. This is hinted at by the legend that he drove all the snakes out of Ireland, though a priest friend of mine said once “Aye, he certainly did, and they all went to New York City and became policemen”! (And no, it was not the late Canon John Andrew – he would never have said Aye”.
The Chinese procession was much more clearly religious, though a religion rather different from my Anglicanism. They beat drums and clashed cymbals and sounded gongs to keep devils away from their homes. The temple was full of incense and was clearly more than just a stage prop. And come to think of it, I have seen very similar processions through the streets of Spanish and Italian towns and villages. Once I was invited by the parish priest of San Colombano near Milan to follow the head of the saint (in a beautiful jeweled casket) though the streets of his village on that saint’s day, and the noise and the costumes were as joyfully religious as today’s Chinese procession. Interestingly, St Columbanus was one of the first Irish missionaries to move out from his island to help the missionary work in Italy. But I’ll tell you about that great day when his festival comes round again.
I have been going to confession since I was twelve, and have been hearing confessions since I was 25, when I was ordained priest. Well that is the official story. But in fact, I heard one confession the year before, when I was still just a deacon.
Shock, Horror! I hope not.This is why. In my first parish, the unlikely named St Salvador’s in Edinburgh, the Rector and I were the Episcopalian Chaplains to Saughton Prison. I visited every week and got to know some of the prisoners well. One was due to be transferred to another prison in the north of Scotland and when I went to see him, he asked if I would hear his confession. Of course I explained that I was just a deacon, and that I would tell the Rector to come in, though it would be a week or so, since he was unwell. The young man said “No, I have to do it now: they are moving me tomorrow.” So I heard his confession and absolved him with the words “Our Lord Jesus Christ, who hath left power in his Church to forgive all sinners who truly repent and unfeignedly believe in him, of his great mercy forgive thee all thy sins. And by his authority WHICH IS ABOUT TO BE COMMITTED UNTO ME I absolve thee from all thy sins; in the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen”. He went off the next day to his new prison in peace of mind. I, however, went to see the Bishop and confessed what I had done. He listened to the whole tale and then said, with a twinkle in his eye “Well, I suppose I’ll just have to ordain you priest now, or that absolution will never take effect!” Since then I have heard confessions for the 47 years of my priesthood, but have never been as sure of God’s merciful presence as in that first “illicit” one.
That is not a typical experience of the Sacrament of Penance but it points me in the direction of not being too eager to make hard and fast rules about the sacrament. It is a sacrament that fell into great disrepute in living memory. In Scotland, I can remember men who would regularly get roaring fu’ (in England this is referred to as “awfully drunk”) every Friday night after getting their wage packet, which often resulted in domestic violence when they got home from the pub. And there they would be every Saturday night at the local RC church in long lines waiting for a couple of minutes in the Box, where they would confess the same old sins and be assigned three Hail Marys for their penance. Some would say: “Well, that was surely better than never going at all”, but it wasn’t – it gave them a get-out, that God took their sins as lightly as they (and the official Church) did.
Thank God that fewer people are going to confession now than used to, or that they go less frequently. My RC priest friends tell me what a weight has been lifted off their shoulders that they no longer have to spend long boring hours listening to weekly confessions, where almost everything that was confessed was a minor fault or no sin at all. We Anglo-Catholics never had the very long lines that the RCs did, since we never said that this sacrament was compulsory, though I have been in churches where I dared not take too long with any one penitent because of the queue forming in the pews. And one great advantage we had over our RC brethren was that we hardly ever needed to question the sincerity of anyone who came to confession, since they almost all came from a great need and not out of sheer routine. Now, most of us hear confessions only at the great seasons, before Christmas and Easter or on Shrove Tuesday, though I hate to see a church notice board which says only “Confessions by appointment”. That can be one step too far for some tormented soul. Even half an hour a week, if advertised, is a very good thing.
Finally, since I am sure the Society of Catholic Priests wants only a variety of short reflections on this subject, I am happier calling this sacrament the Sacrament of Penance rather than the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Reconciliation with God needs no sacrament; it can be effected the minute a soul turns back to God and says “I’m sorry”. But sin is not just something between a soul and God: it has repercussions on the whole community, and especially the whole Church. So this public owning up to sin is an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace that has already happened before a person entered the confessional. The Form of this sacrament is the confession of sins, the absolution pronounced by the priest, and the penance imposed by the priest on the penitent. And the three Hail Mary’s for a penance are often not a good idea. Of course, it is right that the penitent should say some prayers in thanksgiving for his absolution, and I often tell them to say the General Thanksgiving from the Prayer Book (whose page number I have long ago memorized!), but in some cases I have suggested that a real penance might be to go and do a kindness for someone. After all, kings and nobles were sometimes told to go on a barefoot pilgrimage to Jerusalem for their penance – so calling on some poor lonely person or sending a gift to someone in need is not such a hard task.
“All may, none must, some should” is a great Anglican slogan. Those of us who should know who we are.
Since then I have heard confessions for the 47 years of my priesthood, but I have never forgotten that first “illicit” one.
I am re-reading some of George MacDonald’s novels, and this sentence (from “Robert Falconer”) caught my attention: “When Miss St John would worship God, it was in music that she found the chariot of fire in which to ascend heavenward. Hence music was the divine thing in the world for her; and to find anyone loving music humbly and faithfully was to find a brother or sister believer”.
This is true of many of those who worship at St Clement’s. Since my retirement I have had the privilege of sitting in Choir and thus being able to listen, without the distraction of having to think about playing my part in the liturgy, to the glorious music produced week after week by our organists and choir. And truly, the mind set free and elevated by such music is a “chariot” which carries one closer to the perfect beauty and harmony of the “Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus” of the angels in heaven. Before the final chariot swings low to carry me home, the music of St Clement’s has often swung me high (well, it is St Clement’s!) into the ante-chambers of heaven. Whether it be a Mozart setting of the Mass, or the haunting tones of the Latin propers, or the rousing hymns of Charles Wesley, the music is indeed a divine thing.
In my eleven years as Rector of St Clement’s, there was never a service in our area marking the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity. But this week there was, and the hero of the change is Father Gill, the new Rector of the Basilica of St Peter & St Paul. He took the initiative and called the local clergy together, inviting them and their congregations to a service of prayer for Christian Unity last Tuesday evening.
I have been to dozens of such services all over the UK and Europe, and some of them were tedious and banal! Bt this one was admirable both in its presentation and sincerity. Rather than trying to get all the participating churches to do bits of their own tradition, which usually results in a liturgical mess, Fr Gill used a beautiful form of service prepared for this Week of Prayer by the Atonement Friars. The music was sung by a splendid choir, and included the Herbert Howells’ anthem “Like as the heart desireth the water brooks”. The psalm was also sung beautifully to Anglican Chant.
Fr Rick Alton and I represented St Clement’s, and we processed in with a monsignor and the curate of the basilica, the minister of Arch St Methodist Church, the minister of First Presbyterian Church and Mother Erika Tacaks and two other priests from St Mark’s, Locust St. St Clement’s was also well represented in the congregation. Fr Gill conducted the service, and several of the clergy took various parts of it. Fr Gill’s sermon dwelt on the wonderful fact that we were all baptized into the Body of Christ, surely the first and most important thing to be recognized in Christian gatherings. Pope Francis himself said the same thing this week. The congregation was small, but of course the size of the basilica and its chapels dwarfs all but the vast congregations who gather for great feast days. Also, this was, as I said, the first observance of the Week for a long time in our area. The service itself was so moving that I am sure many more will assemble next year.
At one stage I mused on the extraordinary service on top of a Norwegian mountain when I thought I was about to become the first martyr to Christian Unity, when I was the Archbishop of Canterbury’s representative to the celebration of the 1000th anniversary of the Church of Norway. But that is another story, which you will find if you scroll back in this blog to the entry for January 27, 2010. I think you will find it amusing!
One of the joys of being semi-retired is that I no longer have to go to Mass every day. I know that may shock some of my faithful readers, but the priests among them may know what I mean. In a parish which has a daily Mass, and especially when there is no curate or other priestly help, the duty of saying Mass every day can become wearisome. And this is multiplied by those days when one has to say two or even three Masses. I know many a priest – and especially Roman Catholic ones – who have told me that there is something wrong with a system which leads them to groan when the next Mass rolls round. What was a joy and delight in their youth has turned into an oppressive duty.
Of course, this is far less of a lay phenomenon. A layman can choose when he or she wants to go to Mass, and so usually the Eucharist remains a delight. But over the centuries the Western Church has developed a discipline which insists that it is a grave sin not to go to Mass on a Sunday and on certain other days of the year, which it calls “Days of Obligation”. Now, any properly formed Catholic Christian will want to go to church every Sunday and for the great feasts of the year, and indeed may want to go much more often, but it is far healthier that he or she feel they are going for the love of Him who instituted the Eucharist, and not because of any church rule.
The Anglican Church, from the Reformation onwards, broke free from this trap. In fact, the pendulum swung too far, so that in some churches you could find the Mass only once a month. But it swung back, and in the church where I was brought up, St Peter’s, Galashiels, the pattern was that of the majority of Scottish Episcopal churches of the forties and fifties – 8 a.m. Holy Communion; 11 a.m. Choral Mattins; and 6.30 p.m. Sung Evensong. Once a month, Mattins was replaced with a Sung Eucharist. And from the sixties onwards, that pattern changed again: the Mass in most parishes was restored to its proper place as the main service on Sunday. Sadly, along with that welcome recovery of balance, the practice of having a choir to sing Evensong on Sundays became rarer and rarer.
Meanwhile the Roman bit of the Western Church, after Vatican II, moved rapidly towards making the Mass so much the centre of communal parish worship that it also began to downplay all the other forms of worship such as Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament, Vespers, Compline and the other parts of the Divine Office. In Europe, and I have no doubt in America, Cathedral Chapters voted to suspend the practice of having the Canons sing the office in public. But alongside this, a Saturday evening Vigil Mass was added in many parishes. At the same time, and due to many reasons, the number of vocations to the priesthood began to fall, so that the healthy position of having one priest with one parish and one church was superseded by a parish of , for example, and especially in Europe, seven churches run by just one priest. And the poor man, through sheer faithfulness, was run ragged trying to give each parish a Mass every weekend. Is it any wonder that the Mass may have become tedious to him?
The Eastern Churches have, on the whole, maintained the primitive custom of celebrating the Divine Liturgy just once a week. Of course, being the conservatives and traditionalists they mostly are, nothing has ever been allowed to be cut out from the Liturgy and lots of extra bits have been added, including much of what we in the West would call the Divine Office, so that their Liturgy is a magnificent production of many hours’ duration. But at least it is only once a week, and the danger of the priest getting fed up with it is much less than in the West.
There are signs that the Western Church has realized the mistake of multiplying Masses in a time of declining vocations. The offices of Morning and Evening Prayer are being celebrated in many churches publicly, and are helping the laity, giving them a new kind of piety. Lay members of churches are being trained to lead non-Eucharistic worship and especially to take the Sacrament to the sick and housebound, sometimes straight from the Parish Mass, and at other times from the Tabernacle when they have time after their secular work. The modern notion that every priest has to say Mass every day is being phased out, with priests who are overstretched nevertheless realizing that their ministry will be greatly strengthened if they have a genuine day off. And for the weaker brethren who still hold to the view that a priest should say Mass every day, concelebration has been introduced to help them feel they have fulfilled the letter of the law.
To conclude, there are large city parishes which have every reason to preserve a daily Mass, said at times convenient for different groups in their congregations. And I believe it should be emphasized that if someone has attended a weekday Mass, that may give him or her a perfectly good reason not to go to a Sunday Mass. When I was Priest-in-Charge of St Michael’s, Cornhill, in the City of London, I found a lovely Sung Mass every Sunday (sung by a boys’ choir imported from a school in Kent) to which only about twenty people came. This was because although the City had a couple of million people working in it during the week, at the weekends there were only about fifty thousand there, and apart from St Paul’s Cathedral, they had the choice of a dozen or two churches within the Financial Square Mile, as well as hundreds of churches in other parts of London. While keeping this Mass going (St Michael’s was, after all, a parish church – though I had only two resident parishioners at that time, the caretaker at the Bank of England and his wife, both Roman Catholics!) I decided to put on a Sung Mass also on Fridays at lunch time, which I called the “Thank-God-It’s-Friday -Mass”. The format was: a small professional choir; a Missa Brevis of Mozart or some such, with the emphasis on the Brevis; a sermon by someone well known in either Church or State, a Bishop or a Member of Parliament, all firmly warned that they had only seven minutes; and a cheese and wine reception afterwards. I wanted it to be kept well within one hour so that people could return to work afterwards, though I soon discovered that many shared the happy-go-lucky attitude which resulted in the acronym “POETS Friday”, standing for (excuse the French) “Piss Off Early; Tomorrow’s Saturday”, and the wine and cheese element grew longer and longer! Well, the first TGIF Mass had about a hundred people, and after that it was standing room only, and I soon found myself being asked if attendance at this Mass would excuse someone from not going to their parish church two days later. It did not take me long to see that my answer could only be yes. Some of these people were returning to a weekly Mass after missing their Sunday Mass for quite a while, and I could only rejoice that I had helped them find a way of doing this.
I love the Mass in most of its different forms, and I’m happy to say I have seldom felt “scunnered” at having to celebrate it. (“Scunnered” is a very expressive Scots word meaning a strong form of “fed up”. You can “take a scunner” at something, which means you can barely face it.) I’ve usually been spared that, but know very well what some of my colleagues mean when they confess that they are finding too many Masses a problem. One solution to this is the strengthening and widening of the ministry of the laity, and most churches seem to be taking this seriously, thanks be to God.
I just came across this word in a book I’m reading, referring to a guy from Iowa. I wonder if the author made it up or if it is the usual word for inhabitants of that state. It made me think of some British equivalents, and I began to see that the knowledge of some of the names we give to those who live in certain cities or areas would be a good test of a person’s grasp of British English. Here are a few.
I am from Edinburgh and so I am an Edinburger, but if I were from Glasgow I would be a Glaswegian. Someone from Manchester is a Mancunian, one from Liverpool a Liverpudlian. Returning to Scotland, if you are from Aberdeen you are an Aberdonian, if from Inverness an Invernesian, from Dundee a Dundonian.
These are all perfectly respectable words used by all and sundry, not as nicknames. But there are others, which only a person from a certain region would use and understand. I’m sure this is true of almost all areas, but the only one on which I could pass a test is my own original home, the Scottish Borders. Now we leave what are just odd endings to the original town name, and enter another world. Here are a few examples.
I was born in Hawick, and so I am a Teri (pronounced teery). An inhabitant of Selkirk is a Souter (pronounced: sooter); one from Galashiels is a Braw Lad (or Lass). This male/female name reminds me of one of the most hilarious of them all which comes from Linlithgow, where the inhabitants, male and female, proudly call themselves Black Bitches! This comes from the town’s coat of arms which features a black greyhound bitch against an oak tree (If you want to know why, you’ll have to google Linlithgow – it is a lovely story) and the local pub is called the Black Bitch.
But pub names are a wonderful topic, needing a study of their own. My favourite is the Salutation in Perth, which almost no one these days will know comes from the Archangel Gabriel’s greeting to Our Lady and reveals the hotel’s pre-Reformation origin. Just as the Dykes Bar in Liberton, an Edinburgh suburb, reveals its naming in a more innocent age!
“We’re not in Kansas now” or Iowa for that matter.
It has been a couple of months since I wrote in this blog, the reason being that either I had nothing much to write, or too much to write.
But now that I have a new home, all looks different. I have an apartment, and just being able to say that makes quite a difference, as those of you who have moved home will testify. If you have a period between jobs, with no settled base, it can produce a feeling of insecurity and almost amazement at how vital it is to have a place you can call home. My experience has been off-set, of course, by the fact that, during this period of waiting, I have been able to travel to Scotland and England and to several places in the USA to stay with old friends. However, lovely though that has been for the last four months, it is wonderful to have a place I can call my own again.
The new apartment is a spacious, airy loft conversion in a fine 1907 building in Center City, Philadelphia. It is on Arch St at 11th St, just opposite where the Convention Center ends, almost opposite the Reading Terminal Market. (For those of you not familiar with Philadelphia, I must explain that the Reading Terminal Market is not a place where old books go to die, but one of the best indoor markets in America, occupying the grand space that was once the terminal building for the railway to Reading, Pennsylvania). I am on the fourth floor, so have a fine view of William Penn sitting on the top of City Hall, and also of some of the highest skyscrapers of Center City. These are all illuminated at night, sometimes in startling colors.
Apartment living is something I have never done before, and I am enjoying it very much. Thinking back, I realize that, apart from a few years in London, when the Diocese in Europe allowed me, as Vicar-General, to buy a house in Islington, I have lived all my life in buildings owned by the Church (and even the Islington one was partially owned by the Diocese). I was thirty before I lived in my own Rectory and had to feed myself. Till then, it was one College after another: Edinburgh University, Edinburgh Theological College, Keble College, Oxford, Cuddesdon Theological College, Salisbury Theological College. And in the one job where I might have had to look after myself – my Curacy at St Salvador’s, Edinburgh – I had rooms in the house of a great lady of the parish, who fed me as though I was in imminent danger of starvation.
Thereafter, I lived in a succession of houses and apartments, all owned by the Church. And some of the apartments were bigger and grander than the houses. The Rectory in Stockholm for example was, it is true, on one floor only, but it had thirteen main rooms, plus staff quarters off the kitchen; the Deanery in Gibraltar had been the Officers’ Mess for the Royal Engineers in the 19th century when they were constructing the miles of tunnels that exist inside the seemingly solid Rock. I don’t know how many officers it accommodated, but it consisted of two large houses joined by bridges and with multiple additions outside and in the lovely garden, which was full of tall palm trees. I did have to look after myself in these Rectories and Deaneries in Edinburgh, Inverness, Ankara, Stockholm, London, Gibraltar and Milan, but in all of them I had domestic help. Indeed, in Gibraltar, whenever I had a cocktail party or big dinner party, the Royal Navy base would always be able to supply sailors who cooked, were waiters, and cleaned up – Dean of Gibraltar seemed to be a naval rank!
So for the first time I am on my own and responsible for feeding myself. But if you could see the piles of fruit and vegetables, the stalls full of fish and meats of all sorts, the Amish stalls with home-made pickles and jams, and all the other things in the Reading Terminal Market, you would see that I am unlikely to starve! I can cook a few things, and now I think I will learn to cook many more, with the help of some great cook books, such as those of the delightful Elizabeth David (the aunt of a great friend of mine, incidentally), I should begin to enjoy what up till now has been just a chore. Those of you within reach will be invited to be the subjects of my experiments – you have been warned! As for cleaning, I know a splendid team of young ladies who descend on a place like locusts and in a very short time have it polished and cleaned within an inch of its life. Once a month should be enough for an apartment this small.
“Small” is a relative word, and my loft space is about 1200 square feet and the ceiling about 16 feet. All the duct-work is exposed, so there is one huge silver pipe and some black ones. My bed is in a balcony up some open stairs – one of the oddest places I have slept, but fun. It is over the kitchen, which is part of the main space, and the bathroom, which is not, I’m glad to say! All in all, with a laundry space and two large closets, I have more than enough room. The space under the stairs now holds the bar, so come and have a drink if you are near. My address is 1027 Arch St, #406, Philadelphia, PA 19107. Happy New Year to you all.