Labelled disabled
THERE has been a flurry of delivery vans at British Home — the result of internet shopping for Christmas. The packages that arrive expose a secret. British Home might now, thanks to the marketing bods, have a sparky logo, but there is no disguising an uncomfortable truth exposed by our postcode.
When postcodes were introduced in 1974 (I learned the date from watching Pointless), our full nomenclature was “British Home and Hospital for Incurables”, and it has stuck: each letter and parcel guided by the postcode reminds us that we are the incurables, a status that today causes acute embarrassment.
I find, however, that, rather than bothering me, this non-negotiable reality brings a perverse comfort as I applaud myself for occupying the status that others expect with dread, knowing all too well that it will inevitably creep up on them.
Crowning glory
I HAVE managed to get to some real shops before Christmas, in Kingston-upon- Thames: good shopping, a great “festive season” vibe, Father Thames rolling through, and an exceptional historic site — the magnificent Parish Church of All Saints, where seven Saxon kings were crowned, including Athelstan, the first recognised king of England. A fabulous revitalising of the once dark and inhospitable building was achieved by Jonathan Wilkes, the then Rector.
Today, All Saints’ is a glory to God and to humankind through time. It is an example of the Church of England at her best. Take a shufti at its website to warm your heart during this gloomy period in our Church’s life.
Royal tribute
HAVING enjoyed coffee and cake, and the spaciousness of Sarah’s Café, at the east end of All Saints’, I trundled off in my hefty powered wheelchair to fulfil the real purpose of my visit to Kingston: to pay homage to Queen Anne. Her gilded statue in the Market Place — put there by local merchants, grateful for the prosperity that they enjoyed during her reign — is one of very few statues of this extraordinary monarch.
l have spent an embarrassingly long time reading Anne Somerset’s biography of Queen Anne, and my understanding of English, Scottish, and church history has improved no end. The publishers promote the 600-page tome as the basis for the sexually charged filmic depiction of this much-discomfited monarch, The Favourite.
This has contributed to the gross underestimation of Queen Anne, who, during her reign, oversaw the creation of the United Kingdom, the then crucial Protestant succession, and the continuation of the Church of England. As we sup from her Bounty like never before (alert to its dubious sources), surely this monarch deserves to be held in higher esteem?
Language lessons
TALKING about things being sexually charged, I have been following the ups and downs of the newly “married”, courtesy of the TV programme Married at First Sight UK, or MAFSUK, as Channel E4 terms it.
I know that many recoil at the very thought of such a caper, but let me speak in its defence. There are three relationship experts who use their skills and intuition to match a dozen couples — not unlike a nayan, the matchmaker called on by families in India. Each participant has owned that they have been disappointed, or have completely failed to find the love of their lives; most are in their late twenties or thirties.
The stakes are high, as the couples commit themselves at their “wedding” to sharing their lives for 90 days. And just a nod to the elephant in the room: although consummation of the marriage is part of the enterprise, you may be surprised how chaste many of the couples are.
I have learnt so much from MAFSUK. It provides a thoroughly useful seminar on how to mess up a relationship, or hold on, make up, and sustain that flimsy thing called love. It is a reminder — especially at this time of year — of just how blessed are those who have and hold to the love of their lives.
As is now routine, MAFSUK comes with warnings of strong language and adult themes, but the language is not just fruity: it is also innovative. Try these neologisms: “lipsing”, as in “them two ’ave lipsed”, or “muggy”, which has nothing to do with the weather but is a description of someone who is a tad untrustworthy. To these novelties, add “ick” (just attach an “s”), and “hench”, to describe what in my youth would have been called a dreamboat.
Life lines
THERE was an Advent resonance in the MAFSUK episodes. Towards the end of the 90-day experiment, some were confronted by their repetitive behaviour. They were stuck, unable to change. Bingo! This is why we make the Advent call, “Come, Lord Jesus!”, because it is when we are stumped that we know our need for a Saviour.
It was my old schoolfriend Judith who made this thought come alive to me, through the words of Maria Boulding, in her book The God Who Comes — words so apt that even the MAFSUK participants would own it: “When you know yourself to be sterile, helpless, unable to deal creatively with your situation or change your own heart, you know your need for a Saviour, and you know what Advent is.”
Judith and I speak regularly on the phone, not least to discuss the vagaries and delights of our respective football teams (Everton and Liverpool). Like me, Judith comes from Bootle, but she was rehoused from a prefab to an estate that’s nick-named “Dodge City”. Today, Judith is not only ordained, but also has a doctorate and a first-class degree in biblical studies — some going, for someone who grew up in a prefab down by the docks.
Judith has allowed me to up-end her modesty to enable me to make a point: our Church may seem benighted, but let’s not neglect the fact that it is by far the largest provider of adult education in the country. It also, at its best, opens its doors to the disadvantaged, rough and ready, and unlikely — which may well prove less foolish than investing in those already well provided for.
Baby face
IN MY pre-disabled days, I would have fulfilled an annual Advent preaching slot for Simon Grigg, Rector of St Paul’s, Covent Garden. The sheer mental and physical exertion of preaching now defeats me — as does the thought of being made ready by the night staff at some outrageously early hour.
Guest preachers through Advent help Simon to navigate his way through 26 carol services and concerts, in addition to Christmas itself. Numbers and enthusiasm for church at Christmas time seem not only undiminished, but perhaps actually increased. Even in my own parish, St Leonard’s, Streatham, the carol service has had to be ticketed to cope with numbers.
Why this enthusiasm? Maybe because, deep down, our easily beguiled species knows what is necessary for its well-being. Amid heightening anxiety — personally, nationally, and globally — we all search for respite. It is as if our God knows our proneness to distressing anxiety, and provides a most unlikely antidote; for, when we look on the face of a baby, almost without exception our gaze softens, we are set free from our troubled reptile brain, and for a moment we can park and escape the anxiety that otherwise entraps us.
Perhaps this is one of the reasons that we can join with people everywhere to say “Happy Christmas!”
Ann Morisy is a community theologian.