So, here I am, back home after the Ministers' Conference which was good fun on the whole, and also a privilege to be part of organising.

I enjoyed listening to two very different speakers, each of whom made me think about different things in very different ways and to different extents.  It was pleasure and privilege to take responsibility for the quiet room, which proved to be a haven for people who needed to hide away at various times; some left behind art work which expressed profound emotions and struggles, and the depth and breadth of theological understandings and spiritual yearnings which for them, made parts of the conference difficult or uncomfortable.  I am glad they felt safe enough to express and then to leave behind these items.  My task is not to agree or disagree with the sentiments expressed but to offer the creators needs to the Creator of us all.

We shared in some profound acts of worship, we shared some struggles and tensions of ministry, we laughed with each other and at some of the ridiculous aspects of church life.  There were 'moments' of course, because we are human and finite, we did not all agree on everything (as Baptists don't) but I do believe that for all our diversity, and all our struggles with come issues and some people, we all care about each other and long to serve Christ where we are located.  And for that I'm truly grateful.

A few things that made me smile...

• Someone mistaking my glass of apple & blueberry J2O for half a pint of red wine and being rather shocked (... as if; it'd have to be a pint (not))
• Someone commenting on the use of scripture to close down arguments and then alluding to comments on specks and logs with the words "I seem to recall Jesus saying something about that" (... albeit with a slight twinkle in his eye at the time)
• The very concept of mouth to mouth resuscitation on a frog!

There were a few deeply privileged moments too, moments when the nature of ministry is clearer and I am reminded that this is not what I do, it is who I am.

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!