The Proms

A group of older friends mentioned that the Proms were starting today. Stories began to flow.  One friend described how for his first date with a young lady (now his wife) he bought tickets for the Proms, but his car burst into flames destroying the tickets.  Strangely, she could remember the seat and row numbers so they still turned up and after much explanation were allowed to wait to see if those seats remained empty. When they did, they claimed their first date together. 

I contributed two stories. The first was my father's cycling as a fifteen year old from the E. End of London to the Royal Albert Hall because he had never heard classical music and wanted to sample it as a promenader for 1 penny. (I think that was the current cost for standing on the main floor). The beauty of the music made him weep and that began his love for classical music which he passed on to the rest of the family. 

For my sixteenth birthday he decided I needed my own initiation into the Proms.  The Royal Albert Hall inspires visitors but especially this teenager. We were seated in one of the lower boxes. Playing that night was someone about my own age.  Jacqueline de Pre was to become famous as a world renowned cellist. Little did I know that we were present for one of her first Proms as she played Elgar's Cello Concerto. The conductor was Sir Adrian Boult, already famous, and a hush fell as soloist and orchestra prepared to play. Baton was raised and just then in the corridor behind our box a loud voice called out in conversation.  The door to our box had come open. Sir Adrian stopped and looked up at us with his baton pointing, accusing us of interruption.  Hundreds of eyes swiveled in our direction. It was excruciatingly embarrassing.  Of all the things that could happen. Why our door, and such noise at that precise moment?

The performance soon erased discomfort.  I still have an LP of her playing that concerto. It remains one of my favourites.  I was glad that group reminisce brought the memory back.

Chess Massacre

 It is always a joy to see our London grandchildren. Last weekend they visited, the two older lads now at six feet two inches and, though much smaller, the 11 year old holding his own!

At one point he brought out his travelling chess set. Apparently he belongs to an intergenerational chess club and enjoys its meetings when they learn fresh moves and then challenge each other in games. I last played in the early 70's when a neighbour in Oxford shared regular evening contests.  David and I were surprisingly equal in skill, which meant the bar was pretty low for both of us.  To put it politely we had mastered few impressive strategies and played it one move at a time with only hazy hopes for the next move.  It made for surprisingly long games with deep pauses for thought.  

I knew that playing with Milo was risky.  Not only had he triumphed before my eyes by beating his older brother in short measure but the rest of the family was obviously amused. I recognized humiliation was round the corner. As we began, I was white and moved first, I tried to be unconventional.  He admitted this slightly threw him, though he still managed to check my king in four moves.  I could wriggle out of that and, with relief, plundered some of his pieces.  However, the net was inexorably closing.  Other members of the family gathered around....they knew what was coming. Out of the blue he exclaimed CHECKMATE.  And that was that!

He explained how visualizing two or three steps ahead was really helpful and he was very gracious in victory. It was one of those delightful moments when the next generation shows what it can do.

Country lanes

In the 60's my uncle, who had worked at quite a high level for Rabone-Chesterman in Birmingham, (manufacturers of measuring equipment) felt called to the mission field. He came to live with us as he prepared for his new life, which turned out to be the Administrator for Chandragona Hospital in Bangladesh.  He wanted a toehold in property here while he served away and his search for a place coincided with the need for our family to find a new home within the area, because my father's church appointed an associate minister who was moving into the church house.

It turned out to be a glorious experience. We found a cottage in a very small village to the south of Cambridge, called Hildersham.  Called the Corner Cottage its thatch, crowning white dung and wattle walls, was picture postcard rural England. I loved my tiny room tucked under the rafters with its window looking down the hill and I reveled in the walks with our dog Snowball in the lanes and fields.  Often accompanied by my mother, these country walks were rich in sights and conversation.  Within a few weeks of meeting Carol I brought her home (on my motorcycle - another story!) and, as a born and bred Londoner  living off the South Circular, she fell in love with it too.

Why trouble you with these details? Because on Sunday I was preaching in Linton Free Church which is in the next (much) bigger village to Hildersham.  I had never been to this church before and was interviewed in the service beginning with a question about whether I had lived in Hildersham.  When I reflected (briefly) on my few years living there with my joys of being in the countryside you could see the congregation warmly agree. I know how fortunate I was and how grateful I am today for that time in my life.

The church is experiencing renewal with some wonderful stories as people come to faith and new families join in.  It was a special Sunday worship experience. All together a memorable time.

 

College Reunion

Yesterday Carol and I went to the annual Jesus College Garden Party.  When you arrive you are given name cards with the year when I matriculated - 1964.  On the list of attendees I searched for others from the same vintage and found only one other name.  I remembered Andrew but had never seen him since we graduated in 1967.

In the marquee as we chose some delicate sandwiches and scones (though Carol found nothing dairy and fruit free) Carol suddenly called me from across the tables and pointed out this man next to her  He had seen her name badge and asked where I was.  It was long time no-see Andrew. He rushed up to me saying that he just had to talk with me because he had been thinking of me the previous week. Really?

Once he had chosen his food he followed me out to the lawns where seats were placed in circles of eight. I commented how little he had changed. White hair yes but so much like the fresh-faced teenager I met all those years ago.  He reminded me of the big beard I had back then.  And why had be been thinking of me?  Well, he was reading the biography of Jim Ede who bequeathed his art collection Kettle's Yard to the city. The book brought back memories of how I had introduced him to Jim in our first year, setting off his life-long love of sculpture - practicing as well as admiring. 

Jim ran a generous open house for any student who would like to see his art collection.  Just knock on the door and wait.  I couldn't believe my fortune when I heard about his work and welcome and took full advantage, benefitting from his wisdom and encouragement.  He was a joy of a man. Could I remember that I introduced Andrew to him?  Only vaguely.  But as we chatted together all the memories of him loaning us valuable paintings and even a sculpture for our college rooms and being a positive presence came flooding back.  It was exhilarating.  I guess that happens at the best kind of reunions.

Strange isn't it how old memories come to life like this.  I hope you've experienced some happy surprises thinking back

  

Last Funeral 4)

Two days before the funeral I heard that the vicar was not allowed to bury Robin on his farmland as it was unconsecrated land. So, as a Baptist though unable to officiate in the church I was given this unusual responsibility. At least for me it was unusual. My last funeral but the first time I was involved in a private land committal. When we processed out of the church behind the wicker coffin I squeezed into the hearse as we drove to the farmyard.

There the coffin was loaded onto a trailer behind a temperamental tractor which managed to start up, after problems the day before.  To hold the coffin in place, 5 grandchildren clambered onto the trailer. They were needed!  I joined one of the families in the 4x4 as we pitched up and down on the rough ground as we started driving over the fields. Through one large one, then another with the children holding the coffin from falling off the trailer's open rear.  Parking, we then walked through to the corner of what will soon become a wildflower meadow.

The rain held off, birds sang sweetly and we completed the sad task of saying farewell prayers and making the committal.  I had been told that two of his dogs were nearby.  Sure enough their grave was clearly marked and very close. Reuben and Briar were greatly loved by Robin, especially Reuben, a black Labrador.  In one of those strange near death experiences, Robin suddenly spoke and told the family gathered around him that Reuben had come to be with him.  That he was there in the room.  It is extraordinary what can happen when someone is dying and comfort comes.

As we turned back to join the guests I felt a wave of sadness.  Someone asked me a few days ago which I found the more difficult to conduct - weddings or funerals.  I remember at theological college being told that weddings were more difficult because they marked the beginning of a relationship in the knowledge that ahead they faced all the complexity of making marriage work.  What a responsibility! Well, yes.  But for me coping with the grief of the bereaved has always been much more difficult.

I end this chapter of responsibility with gratitude to God that I have survived this ministry. Real gratitude. 

Last Funeral (3)

Yesterday, in boiling heat, I took part in my last funeral.  As expected Robin Page's funeral had a packed church with seats in the surrounding graveyard, as speakers relayed the service. I mentioned earlier that he was a colourful, controversial, local character with a high national profile.  Obituaries in most daily papers described his highly active life as countryman, farmer, pioneer conservationist, TV presenter, friend of royalty, journalist, author, broadcaster, political activist, campaigner, international naturalist - specially Africa, National Trust Board member and so on and on.  Robin had asked me to take his service but since he also wanted it in the parish church, as a Baptist minister I was prevented from leading, which the delightful vicar took over.

A friend of the family and another character conservationist was asked to give the tribute.  He took this extremely seriously, phoning me at length about the content of his address.  Initially there was a misunderstanding because he thought he was giving the main address and I was saying a few words at the beginning!.  You can see where this is going can't you?  It was well-crafted with humour and good content. When he had asked me how long he should be I had gingerly suggested around 10 minutes.  Well, it took 25 minutes but the congregation applauded him.

The difficulty was that in my address I too was reflecting on Robin before going onto a particularly relevant theme (he loved his sheep) of The Good Shepherd who moves Psalm 23 into reality at Easter. As you can imagine he had beaten me to several details.  So, I asked the Spirit to wield an editor's blue pencil while I was speaking and cut out sections but keep the essentials. Not for the first time!  And, nobody noticed the slicing and dicing. 

His first hymn was his favourite: In the bleak midwinter.  with that last verse: If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb.  Years ago, in one of his columns he had written that even if his funeral is in the middle of a heatwave in July he wanted it sung.  Well, one month out!

Perhaps, since this is my last funeral and this service marks the end of this responsibility in my ministry I can post one or two more details.  You don't have to read them.

Trinity

Interrupting thoughts on funerals I am glad to report that I preached my first sermon this year last Sunday. Yes, it's been a lean year for preaching. Carol has agreed to monitor my levels of competence as I shuffle through my late 70-s.  She deemed it acceptable though, because it was Trinity Sunday and doctrinally somewhat heavy, she said she would have liked more illustrations.

Interestingly, my son saw me preach on zoom.  Before I began I greeted everyone on zoom by a wave which pleased him as a personal gesture.  He commented on the way I had preached on the Acts 2 sermon and brought out the power of God the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.  But he said he could remember one of the illustrations and picture it.  On our back lawn, worn in places by the boys playing football, the verges were full of tall grass, brambles, weeds.  Our contribution to wilding.  I found a deflated football flat in the weeds. To my astonishment a little further on I found another. Even more astounded I found a third.  I cleaned them up, stuck them in a bag and was ready for the Pentecost Children's talk.

As I pulled them one out of the bag one-by-one and dropped them splat on the floor the point became obvious that they needed air.  Filled with air they would have bounce and purpose again.  This led to connecting with one aspect of the Holy Spirit is that he is the breath of God. But the point of my illustration was that we needed to see the fuller picture that Jesus gave in John 16 of the Counsellor being being sent once Jesus was ascended as God to work everywhere, all the time just like Jesus.  

Oh, how difficult Trinity Sunday can be!  But understanding more of who God is shouldn't be easy! Worshipping him should! Someone said to me afterwards that most Christian heresies have come from people oversimplifying God. Anyway, I passed Carol's test to be able to preach again.