Step inside, love
LAST month, we hired a cottage in Worcestershire with some friends, and went to church at Pershore Abbey. We’d hardly stepped inside before we were spotted as newcomers, and were warmly welcomed by various people, including the Priest-in-Charge, the Revd Claire Lording. That’s always impressive in a substantial congregation.
It wasn’t the Gestapo-like Ministry of Welcome that I’ve known in some places, where you’re questioned within an inch of your life; we were enfolded, but not smothered.
Our companions were Jane Hedges (former Dean of Norwich) and her husband, Chris. Our anonymity was blown after the service, when Jane and I were each recognised by different members of the congregation. At least we knew our welcome wasn’t the result of anyone’s spotting a retired bishop or dean beforehand (though, these days, that may not guarantee a welcome, anyway).
It was cheering to see a congregation that was so happily relational. “How these Christians love one another!” is frequently said ironically. Not at Pershore, we guessed, where the people clearly loved their Vicar, and she loved them.
Strangers and pilgrims
AT THE time, Jane and I should have been co-leading a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Everything was planned well before 7 October last year. So, we unexpectedly had a clear week in the diary, and decided to explore a part of this country none of us knew well.
The Malvern Hills may not resemble Mount Tabor, or the Mount of Olives, but we enjoyed the walking. Inevitably, we travelled in imagination to Bethlehem (where we would have stayed), wondering about some of the people we’ve met there on previous pilgrimages. We’ve usually visited one of the refugee camps on the West Bank, occupied since 1948, and which now look like permanent settlements, even though the people born in them speak of “home” as somewhere else.
The internet makes possible contact with the wider world (provided there’s no power cut), but the lack of face-to-face encounter is a deprivation on both sides. A second Christmas in Bethlehem without tourists and pilgrims means more economic and spiritual hardship. “How long, O Lord, how long” will it go on? The Psalmist, as usual, has said it already.
In the vernacular
I HAD never thought of my wife, Julie, as a sportswoman, but, recently, she has become a keen member of the Truro City Bowling Club.
She’s found the club to be warmly welcoming (a few churches could learn from them, as well as from Pershore Abbey). It’s also rather good for me to experience being the supporting cast. We attended the president’s lunch, at which an array of silverware was awarded with an alacrity and absence of long speeches rarely imitated at church gatherings.
Courtesy of the internet, I thought I’d look up the terminology of lawn bowls so that I understood what was being said. There is a whole new language to learn: “backhand”, “bias”, “bank”, “ditch”, and “wrecked” have a new range of reference in my mind, while a few terms, such as “wick off”, are probably best used only in context.
England expects
LAST month, as Trafalgar Day approached, it was reported that HMS Victory needed repairs, and that the wood was coming from France. This disturbed those who thought it distressing that Britain could not provide the appropriate seasoned timber. “What would Nelson think?” a journalist asked, assuming that it was obvious that he would disapprove.
More striking for me was that Horatio Nelson could be mentioned on TV and radio without any explanatory information. There cannot be many people who died more than 200 years ago and are still regarded by the media as household names. No wonder the signs on the roads into Norfolk simply remind visitors it is “Nelson’s county”.
First responders
THERE is a big annual Trafalgar service at Madron, near Penzance, a very long way from Norfolk. It is accompanied by a large parade, with naval ratings and sea cadets, as well as the top brass. People line the streets to see the salute taken.
Why Madron? After the Battle of Trafalgar, the schooner HMS Pickle (love the name) was dispatched to carry news of the great victory to England as quickly as possible. An indiscreet encounter with some Cornish fishermen meant that Penzance was the unplanned place where both the victory at Trafalgar and Nelson’s death were first announced on home soil.
A service was held on that day at Madron (the mother church of the town). Revived in 1945 by the town’s imaginative vicar Canon Michael Hocking, it has been observed annually ever since. I last preached at it in the 1990s, and the tradition remains as strong as ever.
Turning the tables
NELSON’s courage, tactics, and sacrifice deserve remembrance. But he would not have had much of a navy to command were it not for someone who died just a few days after Nelson’s state funeral.
William Pitt is no longer a household name, despite setting Britain on a new course after the loss of the American colonies. His actions to put the economy back on track make Rachel Reeves seem timid. Reducing the massive 119-per-cent tariff on tea ruined the smugglers, while eventually helping the government coffers.
Imposing an increased window tax to balance the books in the interim meant that the wealthy were alienated as well. Meanwhile, the decision to command the seas with a powerful navy made sense for an island nation, even if the army felt hard done by.
Nelson knew what Britain owed Pitt, and yet Pitt’s statue in Hanover Square is small by comparison with the Norfolk man’s great column. Perhaps we are not very good at recognising political courage — something the world once again needs badly.
The Rt Revd Graham James is a former Bishop of Norwich, and now an honorary assistant bishop in the diocese of Truro.