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Stained reminder

21 June 2013

ISTOCK

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.

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