Just in case I didn't have enough to think about, the Scottish legal system decided it would be fun to pick my name out of their hat for jury service availability.  Unlike the English system (as I experienced 20 years ago) you aren't sent a fortnight in which you must be available, you are simply told they need you to be on standby for two years.  English law changed a few years back to remove the 'inelligiblity' of clergy for jury service; in Scotland I am eligible but have the right to be excused.

So, I am now awaiting a medical certificate from my GP to support my request to be excused - and will give them the double whammy that, even if I am fully fit within that time I'm a clergy-woman so am entitled to be excused anyway.

Wonder how many letters they get with two reasons to be excused?!

Thanks A for the new photo for my blog.  I like that it captures my tendency to slight dishevelment, the half-smile and stubborness of my personality.  Not sure how long this one will be up - it will be all change again in a few weeks.  Hopefully I will retain enough self-confidence to keep a photo of me rather than an object or an animal, but only time will tell.

Yesterday I had the gift of a day without responsibility, over and above the nine I'm entitled to, as I prepare myself physcially, mentally, emotionally, spiritually for the coming weeks and months.  It being a glorious morning I walked in to Kelvingrove Park where I ate raspberry ice-cream and drank a full fat latte - maybe the last for a very long time (the drugs may make coffee unapallatable and there are various opinions on the detrimental effects of milk for people with cancer...).  Alas the swings were full of children, and I didn't have the heart to oust them so it was a walk on in to town instead.

I enjoyed the simple pleasures, but I really missed church.  I was passing near our 'mother' church at about ten to eleven and wondered about going in but decided that I couldn't face having to explain who I was or the questions about I wasn't at my own church, so I walked on.

This morning I listened to the podcast of our service on line - slightly odd of course because I got mentioned quite a lot - but at least I felt a sense of connection with my people.  Oops, I forgot, ministers aren't meant to talk of 'my people' or 'my church' because they are "God's" and "Christ's" respectively.  But you know what I mean.

I know that some of our folk use the pod-casts to catch upwith  sermons or services they've missed, and that there occasionally passersby who listen in to find out what we're like.  We also have the option of CD recordings for people who don't 'do' internet and each of these is an important ministry.

I constantly find that a lot of housebound people use 'Songs of Praise' and 'Sunday Half Hour' as means of staying connected with church in a wider sense, and there is clearly a real place in contemporary society for pod-church not as an alternative to real church but as a means of blurring its boundaries.

On Saturday morning I decided to visit the old cathedral in Coventry, a place I have loved since childhood.  There is something about its defiance and vulnerability that has always struck me, and the various statues of reconciliation are beautiful and meaningful.  I took time to walk to the stone altar - I recalled it being barred by railings but there was no sign of them - and felt the charred timber of the beam-cross against my hands.  I imagined the various priests and bishops who had stood there, looking out at the congregation.

Then I moved on to pay homage at the grave/memorial of the person who might or might not have been a distant relative of mine, Bishop Neville Gorton (the connection is disputed among my rellies and I haven't a clue of the truth).  To my horror, right next to his memorial stone was the very ugly entrance to a museum of wartime stuff from which 1940's music emerged at high volume, and two guides or stewards laughed and joked as they awaited customers.  In a second the preciousness fractured... I was affronted on behalf of my maybe relative and in that instant something changed irrevocably.

It's still a lovely place, and the statuary is no less beautiful but the sounds of piped 1940's music and gales of laughter, for me, changed everything.

And here's the thing I've been puzzling over since: I have no high theology of place and have no problem with multi-functional buildings, indeed I am very much for church premises being employed effectively.  I found myself wondering what Bishop Neville might have made of it - would he have minded?  Would I mind if it was my final resting place?  In the end I deduced it was less the 'what' than the 'why'.  Why is there a museum in the ruins of Coventry Cathedral?  What is its purpose?  If it is to educate and to challenge the fear and hate that lead to violence then it's OK.  But if it is to provide income, no matter how well intentioned, then I'm not so sure.

So, plenty to think about - the dangers of inadvertently trampling others' precious memories, the challenges of motive and the appropriate use of places of worship.  And perhaps it is this last where the nub lies - the old Cathedral, so far as I can ascertain, is still officially a place of worship, or at least a place of stillness, not a tourist attraction to generate revenue through entertainment.

My memories are not what they were, but it remains a place I love, and which in its wounded beauty still has stories to tell to those who can hear the quiet whisper beyond commercialism's roar.