Namebearing

This week I'm off to a Sports Chaplaincy Conference.  It has come at a very difficult time . . .

Now even a cursory knowledge of Sports Chaplaincy would surmise that its conversations and pastoral care are exercised without regard to the position or performance of the Club in question.  There might be nuances but whether the chaplain to Lancashire Cricket Club or Gloucester Rugby or Wycombe Wanderers Football Club or Manchester United - the essence in each case is surely the same and equally worthy?

After all, we all know that the Lay Pastor of the chapel with 12 members (the same as the number of the apostles) is to be as honoured as the Senior Executive Supreme Leader Pastor of Multiple Campus Mega Church of London, Paris, Sydney and Los Angeles.  (Though we really only want to check out the website of the latter actually.  And ask him (it would never be her) to write books.  He speaks at World Prayer Events too).  But that's not to honour him above the Lay Pastor of course (or Jesus).  Anyway . .

 

The thing is, Wycombe Wanderers aren't doing very well.  Is the Chaplain responsible?  In my defence they have managed an unlikely Cup Semi-Final and promotion on my watch.  No, of course I'm not responsible.  But there is this strange association thingy.  When I go with other slightly chuffed chaplains whose Clubs are doing things like winning games and scoring I sense a pastoral pity descending upon me.  As though I needed to be chaplained!  This has happened in the League above but now, as the team in the second-worst position in mainline English football I feel the enveloping pastoral sympathy from 48 hours away.

Never mind that we had a great Harvest Celebration today, that I spoke to people about faith last week, welcomed in new members to our Church, visited a young family moving closer to God, had a great Elders Meeting, even had a great day of conversations at the said Football Club.  All these pastoral joys are submerged at the Chaplains Conference as I wear the badge.  It says REV JOHN ROBERTS.  And then.  WYCOMBE WANDERERS.  You can see it in their pastoral eyes.  "Poor old John".  "You're having a hard time, aren't you?".  "What's gone wrong?"  The sympathy is so strong - it hurts!

When heaven looked at the Word made flesh - what was his name? Yeshua of Nazareth - it must have been hard not to feel an overwhelming sympathy that he should have taken upon himself such a name.  The good news is, he took the name and led its humanity to salvation.

The bad news is - I don't think I'm going to be able to repeat that for the name I bear!

Inductions

Last week I went to two Inductions in local churches.

At one I was offered a small round wafer and some wine; at the other a piece of cake and a cup of tea.

 

At one the Presider wore an extraordinary white hat and a very large white frock with gold trimmings; at the other the Presider wore a suit and tie.

 

At one the Mayor, Imam, several ex-mayors, the Town Clerk, some local Funeral Directors and wotnots were present; they didn't make it to the other one.

 

At one there was a choir and the organist played Widor's VIth Symphony; at the other there was a violinist and the opening hymn had the wrong introduction.

 

At one the inducted was given the keys of the Church door after swearing allegiance to Her Majesty the Queen; at the other the inducted was given a handshake.

 

It was hard, overall, not to notice the difference between an ancient Parish Church and a Baptist congregation of recent establishment.

 

Hard for me not to notice that is - I doubt that God noticed much and certainly wouldn't care. After all, he did some inductions on the Galilean beach in just two words with no dressing up at all . . .

 



Andrew Bailey

Today was the end of Andrew Bailey.

Andrew is still alive (as far as I know) but disappears into history for most of us as of today.

 

For it is his signature, as Chief Cashier of the Bank of England, that has changed pieces of paper into promissory notes - or, as we might say, real dosh.

 

 

 

Now, moving to another highly-paid job, we rely instead on the signature of Mr Salmon.  I do not know Mr Salmon either of course.

 

It is at least a little bit interesting that in the history of the Bank of England its notes have always been guaranteed by the signature of a man.  There may be irony there: it is certainly a pattern that also exists in the localised environment of our family . . .

 

Of deeper interest may be the continual reproduction of new signature notes (now somewhat inconvenient with electronic notereaders) as one office holder passes to another - a kind of economic never-ending relay race.

 

Casting a Biblical eye over it reminds me that the priesthood operated like this before it ended: Now there have been many of those priests, since death prevented them from continuing in office; but because Jesus lives for ever, he has a permanent priesthood.   Therefore he is able to save completely those who come to God through him, because he always lives to intercede for them.  The Lord is a better guarantee of everything important than anyone else is of anything.

Anne Frank

There are few more haunting places in Western Europe than Anne Frank's House in Amsterdam.
 

That is not to say that there are not worse places.  Massacres have littered the history of Europe; massacres on battlefields, in gas chambers, on hillsides and God knows where else.  Europe, whilst being a very nice continent to live as supplied by God through Mother Nature has also been turned into killing fields very many times and the sites are there to visit (together with a Tourist Office of course).

 

Anne Frank's house touristic too.  Annexes have turned it into a veritable museum and although there is a reality about it in some ways there is also a sense (with the Restaurant and Bookshop at the end)  that this could have been recreated from scratch in, say, Las Vegas.

 

Except for me it couldn't.

 

When we visited it on our vacation it was not the House itself that haunted me - though it is despairingly poignant.  It was just one (black and white of course) picture combined with our experience of visiting.
 

Duly warned, we had turned up early - a very strong recommendation given that there was an eye-poppingly long line waiting by the time we exited.  We lined up for no more than ten minutes and next to the canal and the Great Western Church we watched the cyclists scuttle by, the barges and boats glide past under a summer's sky.

The haunting black and white picture in the House was of exactly the same kind of Amsterdam canalside scene.  Only this time there were Nazi security forces and a line of Jewish families being rounded up for deportation.  The same canals, churches, sunshine, and another line of people out on the street.  These apparently glorious delights buried beneath human hatred.

That a setting that delighted me was a terror to Anne Frank: that I was pleased to linger in a place that she was for years terrified to step into; this showed me that the human heart is far more important than architecture, church buildings, summer weather and lining up.

The Baptism of Children

I'm not a fan of this because

a) Infants cannot profess repentence and faith
b) Young children express learned phrases and their profession is less secure
c) There are enough things that can go wrong at the front of a church without introducing another one . . . !