Coal-heaver

The blog is called English Pulpit but we don't use the pulpit in the church where I pastor.  Or rather we do, but as a platform for a large white screen.  Not great for the architectural purist, but a cheap projection solution. 

It must be time to write about someone who did have an English Pulpit.  William Huntington SS had one.

Long before William had a pulpit he had a hand cart for carrying coal.  This earned him his nickname THE COAL-HEAVER PREACHER.  William was the name his mother gave him.  Huntington was the name he gave himself after accruing a kind of dirt other than coal dust through a scandal with a local young lady in his home county.  Having run away and changed his surname he was converted.  That's where the SS comes from.  In mockery of divinity degrees he awarded himself the initials SS for Sinner Saved.

William became a preacher.  However, while many a preacher has wished for more attentive hearers, William expected it with a vengeance.  If one unfortunate made a noise he was likely to abandon any attempt at the prophetic to cry, "Silence that fool!".  Fool was one of his politer insults.  Divine providence placed William prior to age of social media.

His prayers were legendary and very rewarding.  If he needed meat he would pray for meat.  If he needed a horse and carriage he would pray for that.  Of course we are talking public prayer here.  Whether the good Lord answered him, his followers most certainly did and he died a very rich man.

All of which goes to show that an English Pulpit is not as boring, as unproductive or as unnewsworthy as the observer may be tempted to think.

Or as inherently respectful and virtuous as a preacher might like to assume.

Second City Story

It was great to meet Steve in Birmingham this week.  We were visiting to publicise NextMeal.co.uk, the web facility for finding free food and more for homeless people in London and beyond. Steve, who works for the Birmingham City Mission, knows a thing or two about such needs, as you'll see in his story:

‘I didn’t grow up wanting for anything. My family worked in Africa, so a brief part of my childhood was spent there until we returned to Birmingham. My parents divorced when I was 14. I did reasonably well at school; I played football and golf to a fairly high standard and after further education I went on and found a job within the recruitment industry. Most of my twenties was spent working hard, playing hard. I was never a bad person but I often made bad decisions. Often selfish. In 2010 I was offered a job in Australia and whilst this was a wonderful experience, the work hard, play hard lifestyle continued. I returned from Australia in 2014 and very quickly entered a downward spiral of depression.
In January 2015 I made the decision to take my own life. I gave up all my possessions, I gave up my place to live and I purposely lost touch with all my family and friends. Obviously I was unsuccessful in my attempt but I awoke in hospital disappointed that I was still here. Then reality hit me that I was homeless. Embarrassed, ashamed and still depressed with no idea what to do next. The hospital released me into a homeless hostel which was a completely new experience to me. I was living with ex-offenders, people struggling with addiction and others with mental health issues. I very quickly had to adapt to my new surroundings.
The hostel pointed me towards Birmingham City Mission Resource Centre to obtain a food parcel. I remember asking them if they needed any help volunteering and thankfully they said yes. I began working the following week. Out on the van, collecting donations and delivering furniture. It gave me a new sense of purpose and I was surrounded by good people. A year later I went to help collect the Mission’s lighting and audio equipment after a church service. We arrived early so decided to sit at the back and listen to the service and everything clicked into place for me that night. I became a Christian that very evening!
I would like to thank everyone who has helped me in my journey of faith whether through conversations, services, prayer or simply through their actions and it’s an honour to spend every day offering the same in return to others.’

An Inspector Calls

Recently returning from a couple of Study days in Wiltshire I sat reading on the Waterloo-bound train.  It had begun its journey out west in Exeter.  We were travelling in Wessex, so it was appropriate that I was reading Thomas Hardy, a respite from theology and the like.  I was perhaps too engrossed when a man breezed past.  He was the ticket inspector.

I missed what he said, but it was something like, "Any tickets from Salisbury?".  Yes, me (following in the wake of some infamous Russians earlier in the year). I fumbled around and eventually found my ticket when he was half way down the carriage away from me.  I left my ticket in my pocket.

Andover . . .  Basingstoke . . .  After Basingstoke he returned and I was more attentive.  "Anyone from Basingstoke?  Tickets please"  he said.  I wasn't from Basingstoke but dutifully put my hand toward my pocket again.  He was off, gone to an older lady in mid carriage who gained his attention after getting on the train relatively recently.

This is what I wondered.  Why is he inspecting tickets by request?  If I had no ticket would I be likely to speak up - "Excuse me sir, I boarded at Andover without a ticket.  Would you kindly fine me now?"

I figured this is a little like the way people approach the Judgment Day (if, they muse, it ever comes).  God the Inspector walks among the millions - "Anyone here who shouldn't be?  Any sinners to go to the Other Place?  Anyone want to confess anything?".  The silent hordes let the Day pass and quietly slip through the gaping net into the Everlasting Rest of the Blessed.

As if.  The South West Trains ticket inspector may have imperfect knowledge, limited time and lazy technique but this isn't going to be the experience of meeting the omniscient, eternal God in whom we live and move and have our being.