This coming week definitely has a focus on ministers.  Most of my peers from college will be attending their five year refresher course, those of us who settled 'late' have to wait another year, such are the vagaries of any system based on dates so that a 2003 ordination doesn't automatically make one a 2003 minister as it is induction dates that count.  I am no longer annoyed about this (though can feign a fine sulk!), but still a little sad that these people with whom I shared the highs and lows of college life, and with whom I was 'handshaked' are now perceived as a year 'older' than I, and that I will perforce refresh with relative strangers a year out of sync.  Perhaps I should have made a fuss about it, but that would not have been to be 'me.'  I hope to catch up with them albeit briefly as I arrive at the same venue for our Association ministers' conference just as they finish.

Our ministers' conference - like others I'm sure - is a special place for ministers where, as diverse in theology and personality as we are (and we ARE diverse, trust me), we can share time together.  It isn't a totally 'safe' space but it is 'safe enough' and manages never to descend into little huddles of fundies in one corner and liberals in another.  This year I am again responsible for the quiet room, which is an interesting blend of fun and freedom and responsibility and restraint all at once.  Trying to create something will stretch but not offend, will engage and not alienate, will connect with but not duplicate the main sessions is something I both relish and fear.  I am looking forward to hearing what our speakers have to say, and I'm also looking forward to praying with and for other ministers, some I know well, some I meet once a year.  I am less looking forward to being called 'dear' and getting demands for extra towels, alterations to name badges or being expected to know and understand everything there is to know and understand about The Hayes, Swanwick, Alfreton and north east Derbyshire in general.  One of my most profound memories - and I share this tentatively - was the year I led the closing communion service - when a lay pastor, whose theology frankly terrifies me, came to me and asked, quietly if were using grape juice or wine because he is a recovering alcoholic.  I was deeply humbled by the honesty and vulnerability of this person, and felt it was indicative of the depth of security that he felt safe enough to ask rather than opting out.  For the record, we use grape juice (usually with a common cup).  If you happen to know the person, please don't embarrass him, if you don't please don't try to guess who he is; as for me, I was challenged and changed by this experience (in a good way!).  So, I am looking forward to Wednesday to Friday.

A minister's funeral.  Tuesday is an early morning drive almost to Heathrow airport to be a vicar - in the true sense of the word - a vicarious representative of my little church at the funeral of one of my predecessors.  I don't think I ever met him, he'd been and gone from here whilst I was still a school girl, and he only ever held two pastorates, a six year one here and a lifetime one there.  It is intriguing pondering the role I am taking, its necessity (at least in my mind) and its implications for me, for them, for us.  I suspect ministers are always a little intrigued by other minister's funerals, knowing the funny mixture of flawed disciples and public figures that we all are. As with the annual In Memoriam at Baptist Assembly, I find myself drawn to imagining the hours spent writing sermons, the times when meetings drove him nutty (and when they were great!) the God-moments, the dark days, the highs and lows, joys and sorrows.  It feels right to be there, to say that in Dibley he is not forgotten, and to thank God for what he did with and for us.

Refreshment and rest seem to be the words for the next week, then.  Refreshment of skills and knowledge for some, the refeshment of time away for others, rest to be be strengthened to go back to work or rest for eternity after a lifetime of service.  The week will be blog light (no bad thing) and thought 'heavy.'  I hope to see some of you gentle readers at some point during the week - just please don't ask me what time the bar at the Hayes closes cos I don't know!

Why do many retired (and some not), male (Baptist) ministers insist on calling me 'dear' and assuming that I am some sort of secretarial assistant...? Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.  I am sorely tempted to start calling them all 'love' (in my best north west of England accent, viz 'luv') or 'mi dook' (in my best south Dibley accent) to see how they like it.

Rant over!

CAUTION plot spoilers.

Yesterday I went to see The Boy in Striped Pyjamas at the shiny new Showcase cinema in Leicester.  It wasn't cheap, even with my student discount (evidence carefully checked by someone half my age!) it was £5.50 but the seats were comfortable, with enough leg room (if you're 5'4", not so sure if you're 6'4") and the experience was pretty positive.  Unusual to be shown to you seat by an usher(-ette) complete with torch and even more surreal to be asked afterwards 'did you enjoy the movie?' by another one whose job was clearly to ensure we all left!  She seemed a bit thrown when I said "well, I don't think'enjoy' is the right word" so I added "it was a good experience"

The film reflects its certification - at 12A it isn't going to show too horrendous, and maybe in an odd way that is a strength.  In an age where we have become accustomed to seeing extreme violence, explicit sex and every second word expletive, there was something refreshing about the resort to implication.  The review in the Baptist Times a week or two back seems to have been very fair - the Hollywood thunderstorm signifying encroaching menace wasn't really necessary, indeed I can't help feeling a clear blue sky might have heightened the tragedy that any adult viewer would have been anticipating; afterall in real life tragedy doesn't wait for the right weather conditions.  Seen mainly through the eyes of an eight year old boy (who reminded me somewhat of the younger of my brothers at that age; maybe that's the idea) there are one or two moments that are really striking - such as his observation about the Jewish doctor working as a household servant "he used to be a doctor but he gave it all up to peel potatoes."  The image of the mother kneeling in the rain and mud, clutching his clothes and weeping uncontrollably brought to mind words from Matthew 2/Jeremiah 31: "A voice is heard in Ramah, weeping and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because they are no more."  The irony of course is that this was not a Jewish mother, but the wife of an army officer, a woman who struggled with what the final solution meant and what was happening to those she loved as a result of the third reich.

The film didn't quite cut as deeply as I'd hoped it might, but it did raise questions about the demonisation of 'otherness' and it is very rare that a film renders the audience so silent that no one speaks as they leave - at least until the usher asks 'did you enjoy the movie.'

Stepping out into bright autumn sunshine and a busy multi-cultural city he contrast was stark.  Muslim men still dressed for Friday prayers chatted at a taxi rank, office workers clutched take away Starbucks coffee, mothers chastened their toddlers, some black evangelical Christians announced tomorrow was a great day when they would be telling people what God really thought of them (!) and a young man told his partner that he didn't have the f*ing money to pay for a new skirt.  Asian, African, black, white, fundamentalist, liberalist, agnostic, atheist, theist, young, old all mixed up together in a British city.  But who is 'other' for them?  And do we poison our children's minds as we seek to protect ourselves? And who are the Rachel's of our day?

Watching or reading accounts of the Shoah (final solution) always challenges me and reminds me of my Jewish grandmother and my rabbi great-great-grandfather (is there a preaching gene perhaps?).  It also reminds me of my Scottish forebears, which include both Campbells and MacDonalds - both sides in a bloody and destructive campaign.  I find myself reminded of the words of another rabbi 'whoever has no sin, let them cast the first stone' and realise that for all my desires otherwise I, too, am guilty and there, but for the grace of God, go I.

This hilarious cartoon from ASBO Jesus brightened my morning considerably!

Funerals for people we’ve never met make us vulnerable – vulnerable to the whims of family who may choose to omit certain details (for which we will be blamed), vulnerable to the wiles of funeral directors who have schedules to maintain, vulnerable to our own sense of inadequacy and/or the odd buttons that might get pushed or phantoms disturbed.  But at least where there is family there is something to hear and so something to say (as well as not to say).  The really tricky ones are those where all we have is a name, an age and a date of death, along with a time and a place for the funeral.

This has been occupying my mind a lot this week, and was brought into stark relief this morning when I received the ‘standard’ fee from the funeral director for tomorrow’s service, which I can’t see lasting more than ten minutes (though has taken several times that to work through).  Looking at the rectangle of paper that is a cheque, laid alongside two sides of white typed A4 including prayers, a Bible reading, an eight line tribute and words of committal, it all felt very, very sad. 

I thought again of the funeral with no mourners and the sense that all I could really say of the person was ‘known unto God.’  And is that enough?  On one hand, it is all that is needed, all that, ultimately, matters but it seems so inadequate to sum up a life, especially a long life.  And if the funeral is reduced to three words, twelve letters, that works out at around £9 a letter, £35 a word, which is at once obscenely expensive and cheap sentiment.

Recalling a simple wooden coffin, topped by a small wreath, in which were held the mortal remains of an elderly woman arriving alone at a crematorium, and anticipating something similar tomorrow in a hillside cemetery, these thoughts arise:

Known Unto God

Is it enough to say of her, ‘known unto God?’

What is expressed when I say of him ‘known unto God?’

What were her girlish dreams,

His boyhood ambitions?

Known unto God

What made them laugh?

Did they dance or sing?

Known unto God

What was her proudest moment,

His greatest day?

Known unto God

Who did they love – and who loved them?

Who broke their hearts – and whose did they break?

Known unto God

What secret longings were never fulfilled?

What painful regrets were never addressed?

Known unto God.

Who now will mourn them, and who is left?

Who will remember the life that was theirs?

Known unto God

Inadequate sufficiency,

Essentials fulfilled:

Known unto God

‘Jim’ and ‘Mabel,’

John Doe, Jane Doe,

Unknown soldier,

Unnamed foetus:

Known unto God

For ever