Licensing of John Franks at St Matthew's, Bridgemary
7th February, 2005
Readings: 2 Cor. 4: 3-6; Mk. 6: 53-end
I am sometimes asked to describe the job I do, and several (different) answers spring to mind. A confirming machine? Yes, in part, but every time I lay my hands on a person kneeling or standing before me, I am conscious of how very different that person is to the next candidate in line. Perhaps I am an e-mail receiver? Yes, but we are all in that game; and I sometimes dream up a particularly annoying one like, ‘Dear Bishop, I am sorry not to get this draft order of service to you until the last minute, but I do live a very busy, hectic life, and my machine has just been (conveniently) down. I look forward to receiving it all back, perfectly proof-read, by last Monday.’
There is, however, one particular self-description that seems to fit, the longer I am doing this job. That is a kind of spiritual nomad. I am always on the move, most of the time within the narrow compass of South East Hampshire and the Isle of Wight, with regular forays into London for central Church business, and the odd trip to the Nordic-Baltic world for our Anglican-Lutheran relations. Nomad is a good word: it speaks of rhythmic movement, but also a basic familiarity, with seasonal stopping-off places, a bit like the Sami people of Lappland.
From such a vantage-point, I get glimpses, but better ones each time, of what different communities are like. St. Matthew’s, Bridgemary thus means a bit more to me now than when John Railton came to see me shortly before he departed for the Salisbury diocese nine years ago. Since then there have been a number of visits during Jacqui Jones’ time, including to Bridgemary School; and the memorable trip on the Sunday morning before Christmas. So far from getting the impression of a depressed community, on its knees with exhaustion, I felt a real atmosphere of determination, of commitment, of wanting to make sense of where God has put us now. The link with Rowner was going to be no threat; it had some coherence to it; and the two parishes could learn from each other, not just by sharing clergy, but also by sharing a great deal more.
What is God saying to us in all this? The spiritual nomad in me will always try to make some points of comparison with somewhere else. There has been a reduction in the number of stipendiary clergy in recent years in the Church of England, but nothing like that experienced in other churches. I do not crow in saying that: I am simply stating facts. But we have also seen an increase in the number of non-stipendiary candidates, some of whom, like John Franks, move over to stipendiary ministry. Our system really is quite flexible. Nor must we forget the invaluable work of readers, with their contribution to mission and teaching. Nor still must we overlook the work of the retired clergy – without whom ‘the system’ would break down.
I’ve just used that word ‘system’, and as I did so, part of me wanted to say that, for all the gifts these wonderful people bring, it might be no bad thing for our ‘system’ to creak rather more. Are we not beginning to hide behind all these clergy, and quasi-clerical figures, like readers? When people talk about bishops (and I know they do, because you would be surprised what gets back to me!), the two qualities people tend most to want are a visible public presence, followed by a tactical withdrawal in order to let others get on with their jobs. To put it another way, a bishop who is invisible, but always interfering behind the scenes, is a frustrating figure! So tonight, I come here, do my bit, take the service, work the Church Hall afterwards, and then it is into the car and back to Fareham – and tomorrow night it will be the commissioning of the new full-time Children and Young Peoples’ Officer in the Cathedral. Every minister, every altar server, every reader, every deacon, every priest – needs to bear exactly those questions in mind: to do our bit, and then leave well alone, but always in the context of good relationships, so that we are, in the true sense, ‘available’, sometimes as a ‘go-between’, sometimes as an encourager, sometimes as a gentle scolder – but seldom, seldom as someone who does things instead of others. The nearest we come to that is in the work of prayer: but here there is a difference, which is perhaps worth exploring.
Every ordained minister is supposed to say morning and evening prayer every day; and many commissioned ministers, such as readers, as well as other lay people, do the same. In fulfilling that obligation, we are praying not instead of the rest of you, but on your behalf, and in company with the whole Church. The forms can vary, just as they do according to our own context. Everywhere I go, I take a small, black leather zipper holder, in which are to be found a small bible, and the pocket edition of Celebrating Common Prayer, together with a small pile of photocopied lists, with the parishes of the diocese, their clergy and readers; the Anglican Cycle of Prayer, which takes us to a different part of the Anglican Communion each day, and then there is my own personal list – Gosport, its Mayor, its Chief Executive, its Leader of Council, its Member of Parliament and Rural Dean get prayed for every Wednesday. The fact of the matter is that I couldn’t live without this little package. I depend on it. The forms of morning prayer are probably much simpler than what some of the clergy use, but that’s another symptom of my spiritual nomad life – everywhere from my chapel, to the car, the Isle of Wight ferry, the London train, or the family room with the dog on my day off. There will be times when the words and the names are fresh, and leap at me with a verve that is enervating, just as there will be times when the set psalms mean nothing to me, or the cycle of prayer brings me face to face with parish x, and I might inwardly grown, ‘Oh not him again!’
People who say they do their Christian discipleship – or their praying – only when they feel like it are deluding themselves. The first step of discipleship is about being aware of ourselves, and what we are getting up to, just as the first step towards praying is about being aware of Someone Else far greater than oneself. Once we have crossed that threshold, there can be no going back: we have tasted something new, which may not always retain that fresh savour, but we have become in some sense different. Having fewer clergy just means discovering more for ourselves, being less dependent on them, and asking more questions about what we can do – and be. It also means that we may learn to value the eucharist, the central act of prayer, even more than we sometimes do.
It is in this ‘creaking of the system’ that KAIROS has been launched, and Rowner and Bridgemary are joined together. As Paul tells us in tonight’s first reading, the gospel is no longer veiled, for it is not ourselves that we preach, mysterious and shady figures that we are, still on the road to self-discovery, but Christ crucified. It is not we who are the engine of the gospel, but (as we learn from the gospel-reading) Jesus himself, teaching and healing by the lakeside, and aware, too, of when we touch his garment, in order to gain the strength to do what we are called to do. We all stand – all of us – in need of both these callings: to preach not ourselves, our egos, our pet versions of the gospel, but Christ crucified, no less; and to touch his garment in the dark and doubtful moments of a confusing and reckless world of which we are part. And all that also holds true for spiritual nomads – like yours truly.
+ KENNETH PORTSMOUTH
