The Annunciation. The Birth of John the Baptist

Waltz with Bashir

It was my day off yesterday - interrupted a bit by a funeral (that I was attending but not officiating at) so I hit the cinema afterwards. I see films on Mondays which I don't think my lady wife would like. Last week it was The Baader-Meinhof Complex which I may write about later this week since it's still percolating in the back of my head.

Waltz with Bashir is probably one of the better films I've seen for a while. An animated film provoked, as its creator explains, by his inability to remember large segments of his military service in the Israeli army in West Beirut at the time of the massacre of Palestinians by Christian Phalangists in the refugee camps of Sabra and Shatila.

It's not until an old army buddy recounts a series of enigmatic dreams which he has been having that the narrator realizes that other than a scattered series of visual images he can remember almost nothing about his proximity to a horrifying event which took place over a period of 24 hours only hundreds of yards from where he had been deployed as a young soldier. It simply wasn't 'stored in his system'.

Rather than leave it in the shadows he begins a pilgrimage through Israel and across Europe to remake the acquaintance of everybody he served with who had survived the '82 war in order to put the pieces back together.

The mind, you see, is creative. It both erases and supplements. It protects us from what could not possibly be the case since we are moral creatures. As such, memory itself needs to be judged and checked. There are moments of considerable violence in the film - softened by the fact that this is animation.

As cliche as it may sound - the medium here is the message. Memory draws reality quite roughly - bends bits of it - is primitive and plastic - it lightens the load of what would, if filmed or, worse, experienced again in its full brutality, be too heavy a load to carry.

A good film. Worth seeing.

Something for Advent

This video from the dashboard-cam of an Edmonton, Alberta police cruiser caught a meteor strike in the area. It seemed vaguely seasonal: A city, slumbering - life carrying on as usual - the suddenness of the light.

The Piano in the Woods

- From CNN

Was it a theft? A prank? A roundabout effort to bring some holiday cheer to the police? Authorities in Harwich, Massachusetts, are probing the mysterious appearance of a piano, in good working condition, in the middle of the woods.

Discovered by a woman who was walking a trail, the Baldwin Acrosonic piano, model number 987, is intact -- and, apparently, in tune.

My money's on elves. It has to do with the elves. You know the old story: the sounds of delightful singing in the forest. Humans trudging and tripping through the bracken to discover the source of the music - they get just a glimpse of the charming circles of elves dancing and singing and the *poof* and the elves disappear leaving the humans with a story which everybody else pooh-poohs and attributes either to drink or an overabundance of childish credulousness.

Well sir, in a day when, curiously, Churches and Cathedrals respond to dwindling congregations by installing massive tracker organs against their west walls and spending mega-bucks on professional music programs it appears that the elves too have fallen victim to the mantra of 'standards, standards, standards'. No elf choir is complete nowadays without its Baldwin Acrosonic.

Except that when the elf choir goes *poof* the evidence remains. Once again the pursuit of excellence finds itself in conflict with First Principles.

It's gonna take some re-thinking, this one.

Conrad Black writes from the hoosegow.....

I suspect that were a parole board asked to determine whether Mr Black had 'reformed' in any way the response likely be a unanimous chorus of ..........."maybe not quite yet".

Some howlers from the article he's written from prison "From my cell I scent the reeking soul of U.S. justice" which appeared in today's Sunday Times:

"Many of the other co-residents are quite interesting and affable, often in a Damon Runyon way, and the regime is not uncivilised."

"I wish to advise Lord Hurd that when I return to the UK I would like to take up more energetically than I did initially his request for assistance in his custodial system reform activities. "

"Obviously, the bloom is off my long-notorious affection for America."

Like any good psychopath, Mr Black remains completely convex in his being. He bulges out and not in. He is undaunted. The hyperbole continues to spew forth in a veritable torrent. He will be vindicated - he will advise governments - the crowds will come flocking and the money will come flowing in.

This acquiescence to the will of his enemies is merely temporary. His case is 99% won already. The letter confirming this is in the post.

The membership list of the British National Party was recently leaked to the internet. It contained the usual coterie of thick-necked individuals with a single eye in the middle of their foreheads. It also contained the names of a few police officers, a couple of doctors, a nurse and three vicars.

Bishop Alan writes that none of the three are CofE vicars and that one name was simply erroneous. More here on one of the named vicars with additional comments about the list in general.

Everything is being either downplayed or played up depending on who you are but it did bring to mind the famous scene from Father Ted where he stands behind an unfortunate smudge on the window and gesticulates towards a couple of Chinese visitors who he has invited to the rectory on Craggy Island.

The first clip is HERE. It makes the following video more comprehensible.

If you have a favourite Canadian (even expatriate Canadian) religion/philosophy blog you can vote for it HERE. Your humble servant's meagre offering appears somewhere on the list of about twelve nominees.

We are now in round one. I guess they'll come up with a short list so you might need to check later to see how the Rabbit has fared in the first round.

Should you tell your friends to tell their friends? You might want to do that.

I could not possibly comment.

Thought for the Day

When I was the port chaplain in Montreal I sat around with a Filipino crew who described the precautions they had had to take against pirates in the Straits of Malacca.

I’d thought pirates were a thing of the past.

 

Right now there is a standoff taking place on the East African coast where an immense oil tanker has been hijacked by Somali pirates. It’s being anchored off a coastal region which has now become dependent on piracy and its by-products. Houses are being built, children are being schooled and infrastructure developed based on one single industry – the seizing of valuable goods and the ransoming of the lives of seafarers.

Many of Jesus’ parables are stories about human need. An outmatched king is forced to negotiate with an opposing army. A poor widow loses a valuable coin. A man walks through a field and discovers a hidden treasure in the ground that is his for the seizing. Rich and poor – there’s something we need and for which we will expend tremendous energy to either gain it or retain it.

Any parable written about this act of piracy would doubtless link three needy groups of people: the seafarers, first of all, not knowing what will become of them in all of this. Then there are the ordinary people of poor and war-torn Somalia who had long watched the riches of the world passing in front of their shores just beyond their reach. 

The third group of desperate people? That would be you and me. Much of the optimism of the last twenty years has been based on the idea that the world is one big market and that all our lives are bettered by global prosperity.

Well – it seems not to work that way. The rising tide hasn’t floated all ships. Quite naively we have paraded our wealth in the face of crushing poverty and then wonder why somebody would simply seize what comes within their grasp.

This bit of history has reminded us how needy we are too and how fragile our way of life has become.

A comic strip about today's Gospel reading from the folks at AgnusDay

Not that I'd win or anything but I could be nominated for the Canadian Blog Awards even though I'm an expatriate. There is a religion and philosophy category.

Just saying......

When we had behaved ourselves in school we were allowed to watch films sometimes on a Friday afternoon. It was a different age - boys were allowed to play with knives, lonely men operated light houses on the East coast of Canada and small boats fished for codfish in the Gaspe. It's one of the two or three bits of primary school education that I remember. The film is called 'Paddle to the Sea' (National Film Board 1966) and it's based on a book of the same name which was written in 1941.



Part Two is HERE
Part Three is HERE

or the whole film (slightly better quality) can be found HERE

A later generation's NFB childhood can be found HERE - an animated film called 'The Hockey Sweater'

Updated to include a link to the sermon



Frances McLean was buried today from St James' Episcopal Church here in Penicuik. The coffin was welcomed into the church last night, covered with the funeral pall and installed in the chancel with the Easter Candle. A number of people who were unable to get away from work for the Requiem elected to show up last night along with a few who just wanted to be there. We had about 35 in attendance. Tony Bramley conducted a brief service which included the Sentences from the Burial Office along with a few prayers - both formal and informal. It was Bonfire Night here in the UK as well. As Tony led the coffin in there were bursts of fireworks coming from the hill behind the church - 21 gun salute? Celebrations in heaven? A good touch all round.

The Bishop celebrated the Requiem Mass today, I preached and the ample congregation was in full voice. The hymns had all been chosen with an eye to Christian Mission. I hope she'd have approved.

Frances was buried by Philip Crosfield (our now most senior Nonstipendiary priest) in Rosebank Cemetery in Edinburgh where her grandfather and great grandfather are buried. It was a cold and clammy day - lots of mist in the air and very grey. It was everything a burial in a Scottish graveyard ought to be. No worry, though: there has been enough light and warmth over the years and even during the day itself to cover any amount of clammy mist.

An article from the Edinburgh Evening News.

Comments from one of the choristers at today's funeral about the placement of bodies in the chancel.

Clergy Conference at Pitlochry

It's an annual affair here in the Diocese of Edinburgh for the stipendiary clergy of the Diocese. Though we're not spread out all over hell's half-acre like the clergy of some regions of the Canadian north it is nonetheless true that we hardly ever get to see each other and this is one opportunity when we do. A few clergy never show up. I guess that's par for the course. We had about 35 clergy in attendance this year.

We get some sort of off-season deal at the Atholl Palace in Pitlochry. The conference has been there each year since I arrived and I must admit I rather like the venue. There was a nice break in the rubbish weather for a couple of days (though it was rather foggy in the mornings) and we took our traditional long walk along the Tummel River up to the reservoir behind the dam, followed by an equally traditional trip to the Whisky Shop on the High Street.

Some years we've had speakers. This year it was decided that we wouldn't and the jury is still out on whether that was a good idea.

There was to be a discussion on the Anglican Covenant followed by or at least mingled with discussion about the professional development of the clergy and pastoral care of same. It was clear on the opening evening that the programme needed some tweaking/revision and the gathered clergy made their views on the subject known. The programme was duly tweaked.

Discussion of the Anglican Covenant was limited to about 30 minutes in the course of the three day conference which is about 20 minutes more than it deserved (my opinion).

Issues relating to the pastoral care of clergy got most of the remaining program time. It became clear (and I guess that we all knew this beforehand) just how lonely a life many of our colleagues lead. That, along with the fact that we don't take very good care of each other in the Church, are the sorts of things things that you know to be the case but which people are reluctant to talk about. Sorta like an 'elephant' in the room.

The word 'elephant' was used rather a lot - referring always to those things which a substantial presence in the room but which are simply not spoken about.

Malcolm Round, the Rector of St Mungo's Church in Balerno thought it a shame that he actually has a picture of himself riding an elephant and no blog to show it on.

I received it in an email last night and I include it below. Think of it as part of a programme of informal pastoral care of the Rector of Balerno.

R.I.P

Frances Ellen McLean
1921-2008

Frances McLean died in the Royal Infirmary last night at about 7:30 pm. She has been a non-stipendiary minister at St James and St Mungo's for many years - ordained to the priesthood in her sixties following a long and varied ministry including many years as a missionary nurse and midwife in South Africa.

Frances underwent a major operation on Tuesday for an aneurysm of the aorta. She rallied initially and then began to fail on Wednesday morning. She was visited by the Bishop at around lunchtime and received the Sacrament later in the afternoon. She'd had occasion to ask her nurse whether it was expected that she would survive and was told that there were grave concerns as to whether this would be the case. She was surrounded by friends up until the time she died. At nearly 87 years old, Frances died "in the saddle" - involved in an active ministry to "old people" for whom she was an enabler and a source of spiritual comfort and with questions as to who will do her work now that she's gone.

I'd say a pretty good innings by any estimate.

One of my colleagues here in Edinburgh Diocese mused in a public forum the other day about whether she should abandon her Parson's Pocketbook (that comforting symbol of God With Us when carried in the hand of a clergyman/woman on the rounds of the hospital or the neighbourhood - for a Filofax (probably a black one looking like the monolith in the opening of 2001 A Space Odyssey).

I have no doubt that there are even other clergy eager for preferment with eyes darting back and forth who've switched to something electronic, allowing them not only to manage their contacts and arrive at appointments in a timely manner but to profit from those long walks along hospital corridors by finally achieving the status of Jedi Knight of Orath-Ping in world seven with extra ammunition for their Circadian Orc Slayer.

It never ends, does it? All this innovation!

Real priests carry paper! No pasaran!

Proud owner of a greenhouse

After all these years. I purchased it second hand on Ebay and drove down to Livingston today to disassemble it. I have absolutely no clue if I'll be able to put it back together again. On the plus side, there was no glass breakage. On the minus side - I note that there were a few bits which had bent nicely together and belong together so that even if most of the uprights and roof slats are identical they now belong in a certain relationship to each other.

I will let you know how it goes. I shall be heading off to my yearly clergy conference on Sunday and returning on Wednesday. That's when the fun begins.

It was once said of Canada that, had we played our cards right, we could have had British government, French culture and American know-how. Instead we got French government, American culture and British know-how.

With respect, then, to the latter: Citizens of the very same nation which invented Spam (the luncheon meat) and scattered their Mars explorer in tiny bits across the dusty surface of the Red Planet are now turning those prodigious skills (normally reserved for taking a common-sense approach to road repairs) to tackling God. The British Humanist Association, Richard Dawkins and an assortment of other luminaries are conducting a campaign during the Christmas shopping season to get the 'atheist' message slapped on to the sides of busses in London for four weeks. It will cost around £11,000 and they are raising £5,500 by way of donations from the general public. Dawkins, I gather, is putting up the rest.

At first glance one is not struck by the ... um.... boldness of the campaign. I could sit down with a few of my vicar chums and we could come up with something witty and memorable and which meant what it said.

"There's probably no God?"

And that's the best they can come up with? That would be like a church commissioning a great big banner to evangelise the neighbours and carefully printing out the words

"Jesus is quite possibly Lord, don't you think?"

or

"Your mother might have been right - someone could be watching"

I'd have loved to have been a fly on the wall at the planning meeting.

So what do you say - in the spirit of Ecumenical good will just prior to Advent shall we give the atheists/agnostics a hand and come up with some better slogans for them? I mean we'd have no scruples about attending a Presbyterian Coffee Morning or sitting on an eco-justice committee with the local rabbi!

The atheists have raised all the money they said they needed and the charity regulator will get all fierce and thump them if they spend much more than they (clearly!) have already on creative work. They need our help!

Approachable? Possibly not....

Yet more hopeless overstatement from a man in a woolly jumper: an article in the Telegraph says that, according to a 'leading theologian', all the regulations forcing clergy to wear robes are clearly out-of-step with the 21st century. Clerical robes reinforce the hierarchies of a bygone age and make clergy less approachable.

Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain, however: "Leading theologian" morphs seamlessly in the course of the article into "Tutor at Wycliffe Hall, Oxford" where the woolly jumper and the beaten down trainers are taken as a sign of holiness and a rich inner life.

Robes, we are told, build barriers.

Bollocks!

My daughter Hannah, aged 16 months sat on the carpet at the back of the church where the then Bishop of British Columbia was decked out in his best duds waiting for the processional hymn to begin. She grabbed a handful of his costly and well-embroidered cope, stuffed it into her mouth and began to chew.

Overdressed or not he seemed palatable enough to her at the time!