Stained reminder
THE ordination season being on us again, I hoiked out my old
ordination stole from the back of the cupboard where it normally
lives. Sadly, I don't really like it any more. It is very old
fashioned - not in a fetching, 1930s, made-by-holy-nuns sort of
way, but in a clunky, 1980s,
Alexis-Carrington-Dynasty-shoulder-pads way: white damask,
wide like a kipper tie, and skimpily embroidered. Moreover, it has
brown water-stains on it, but, strangely, these are what make it
precious to me. Let me explain.
I was made deacon on Saturday 1 July 1989, and started my curacy
at St Margaret's, Ifield, in Crawley, the Sunday after. Four weeks
later, my training incumbent vanished for the month of August,
leaving to me, dewy eyed and freshly minted, the pastoral care of
the parish.
Chief among this care was looking after Hazel, a greatly loved
member of the congregation in the late stages of cancer. She had
nursed her husband through years of debilitating illness, and had
found that far harder to deal with than her own imminent death,
which she was facing with courage and acceptance.
It was on a Friday (my day off) that I got a call to go round to
see her. She was conscious, but uncharacteristically agitated, and
I just sat on the bed, held her hand, and prayed with her. I told
her that all was well; that she had done all she needed to do, and
was safe in God's hands, and her family were, too.
After the Lord's Prayer and a diaconal prayer of blessing, I
went off to meet friends for lunch, as had been arranged. When I
got home, there was an answerphone message: Hazel had died some 20
minutes after I had left.
I was shocked, not that she had died, but at how quickly; having
once nursed in a cancer hospice, I had thought that she still had a
day or so. It was then that I realised what ordination really
meant. I had been with many people as they were dying, saying words
of comfort, but this was the first time as a repres-entative of the
Church, being a channel for God to bring about peace and
serenity.
It was after her funeral, as I sat in the driver's seat of my
car, still in cassock and surplice, that the ends of my stole fell
out and into a puddle. It was symbolic for me; it is only when the
pristine whiteness of ordination gets messed up by the realities of
Christian service that we really start to be who we are called to
be.
I will wear my battered old stole with pride at the ordinations
to come.
Warning: raffle ahead
I DO not think that enough notice is taken of the potential
hazards of church raffles.
I am not talking about the ethical considerations around
gambling, which can, I know, traumatise curates freshly released
from the sort of theological colleges that disapprove of such
things (sometimes, a newly hatched deacon's whole theological world
can be shaken by the realities of parish life, when faced with a
church worthy cheerfully asking if he or she would like a strip of
tickets for the summer draw).
No, I'm talking of the dangers of actually winning them. First,
there is the guilty feeling if you win the first prize - if it is a
hamper of groceries, you feel that there are others more deserving
of them than you; if it is a cash prize, you feel that it should
not be seen as such an in-house business. I remember once winning
the £50 first prize at our summer fête, and salving my conscience
only by giving away free cream teas to all and sundry.
Then there is the next level down: wine, biscuits, and
chocolates. I happily top up the rectory wine-rack with the odd
bottle of red or white that I win, but the rest can be somewhat
hazardous, and I try to get them off my hands as quickly as
possible. If they stay in the house, I hear their siren voices
whispering "Eat me! Eat me!" I am capable, in moments of crisis, of
demolishing a whole box of Thornton's Continentals.
Little perforations
RAFFLE prizes of toiletries, bath salts, and essences are also a
problem. At present, I am working my way through a trio of gels in
strawberry, mango, and passion fruit; so I come out of my morning
shower smelling like an exotic fruit-salad. Giving them away to
other people, though, has its hazards; they can suspect that you
have a poor opinion of their standards of personal hygiene.
Similarly, I once had to be very careful how I disposed of an
improbably won pot of chocolate-scented body-butter, lest my
motives were misconstrued.
Then there is all that stationery. There are only so many
messages a clergyman can write on Forever Friends animal notelets,
or things to remember on sheep-shaped Post-its. The most obvious
thing to do with all these prizes is to give them back for the next
raffle. But that seems like cheating: some things (cup-and-saucer
sets, photo albums made of palm leaves, scented candles) have been
doing the rounds for years, in a sort of sad lottery limbo, and
should be allowed to rest in peace.
Once in a while, you win something that breaks the mould, such
as the prize I won the other day which sparked all this off: a
voucher for a therapeutic back, neck, and shoulder massage, which I
am trying to build up the courage to use.
I am not sure whether to be relieved or sad at missing a prize
recently by one number - a voucher for the piercing of a body part
of your choice in a Brighton tattoo parlour. That, too, would have
been an experience. Belly-button ring, anyone?
The Revd John Wall is Team Rector in the Moulsecoomb Team
Ministry in Brighton.