Is God calling me to be a priest?

The following is adapted from reflections I shared this weekend at the Diocese of Chester’s annual vocations event: Called to Serve.

Every person is called to serve God in some way – vocation is always part of our discipleship. Ordained ministry is one way among many to serve God as a disciple, and it is by no means the best way, the purest way or the holiest way. It is certainly not the only valid ministry within the church and the world – and I hope you’re getting a sense of that today.

One of the things candidates for ordination wrestle with is the question of what is distinctive about ordained ministry. No longer is it the case that ordination is the only way to have a full time ministry – many lay church based ministries can also be full time, and many who are ordained have a full time ministry away from, and not within, the church, in their communities and places of work.

So what is distinctive about ordained ministry? I always encourage candidates to look at the Ordinal – the liturgy for ordination – when they’re considering this question.

Deacons share in the pastoral ministry of the Church and in leading God’s people in worship. They preach the word and bring the needs of the world before the Church in intercession. They accompany those searching for faith and bring them to baptism. They assist in administering the sacraments; they distribute communion and minister to the sick and housebound. Deacons are to seek nourishment from the Scriptures; they are to study them with God’s people, that the whole Church may be equipped to live out the gospel in the world. They are to be faithful in prayer, expectant and watchful for the signs of God’s presence, as he reveals his kingdom among us.

Priests are called to be servants and shepherds among the people to whom they are sent. With their Bishop and fellow ministers, they are to proclaim the word of the Lord and to watch for the signs of God’s new creation. They are to be messengers, watchmen and stewards of the Lord; they are to teach and to admonish, to feed and provide for his family, to search for his children in the wilderness of this world’s temptations, and to guide them through its confusions, that they may be saved through Christ for ever. Formed by the word, they are to call their hearers to repentance and to declare in Christ’s name the absolution and forgiveness of their sins. With all God’s people, they are to tell the story of God’s love. They are to baptize new disciples in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, and to walk with them in the way of Christ, nurturing them in the faith. They are to unfold the Scriptures, to preach the word in season and out of season, and to declare the mighty acts of God. They are to preside at the Lord’s table and lead his people in worship, offering with them a spiritual sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving. They are to bless the people in God’s name. They are to resist evil, support the weak, defend the poor, and intercede for all in need. They are to minister to the sick and prepare the dying for their death. Guided by the Spirit, they are to discern and foster the gifts of all God’s people, that the whole Church may be built up in unity and faith.

For some people, this way of life – as a deacon or a priest – is what God is calling them to as part of their discipleship. Vocation to ordination always begins with discipleship – with a deepening of your relationship with God, and a growing or nagging sense that God is asking more of you.

So you might be here today because of that growing or nagging sense – because you’ve felt it in yourself or because someone else has seen it in you. Or you might be here because you’re really unsure what you’re feeling, and you simply want to know more.

How might a person know that God is calling them to ordination? Well – the short answer is that there are no quick answers! Vocation to ordination travels through us in two directions, and it takes time to sense this movement of God and discern what is going on.

The first direction is from within. A person called to ordination has to sense and own that vocation for themselves. If everyone else around you tells you that you would be a good vicar, but the thought fills you with dread and loathing – then it’s probably not your vocation! Of course, there are always a few Jonahs – those dragged into this way of life begging for it to be otherwise. But, on the whole, if you can’t get to a point where you articulate yourself why you think God is calling you to this, then it’s probably not the right path for you.

Of course, the other side of this is that if ordained ministry is something you really would like to offer your life to, then we need to hear that desire and take it seriously. So often in the church we believe that God wouldn’t possibly ask us to do anything we actually want to do! But discipleship and vocation, at their heart, are not chores to be endured, by a joyful and freeing way of offering the whole of our life to God. Desire and vocation always go hand in hand.

So vocation comes from within and flows out of us – we sense it and we own it and we become open to where it will lead us.

But vocation also comes from out here – from the world around you. It might be someone else who firsts recognises your call to ordination – your vicar or a friend or family member. Or it might be that as you begin the process of exploring the possibility of ordination, that others see in you a growing vocation to this. It might be that in the process of exploring your vocation, the church begins to affirm and recognise that calling. And so what other people say matters too.

When a candidate for ordination comes to see us, we look at an early stage for this movement of vocation – moving out to the church from within you, and moving towards you from others in the church.

And the vocations process is designed to help you grow in these two ways: candidates exploring ordination will find that their inner sense of vocation grows and deepens as they journey through the process. And they will also find that outer confirmation increases too – that others encourage them and see that deepening calling as they explore it.

So how might we know that God is calling a person to ordination? It all comes down to the word “yes”. A candidate’s “yes” to God, the church’s “yes” to the candidate – which comes through the vocations process, and then in both of these we find God’s “yes” – to the candidate and to the church.

What sort of person is called to ordination? There’s another short answer to this question – and the answer is “anybody”! Those called to ordination will usually already be serving their local church or community in some way – although some may not be. They will have a growing, attractive faith. They will be people of integrity who can be trusted. They will have a love for God, for God’s people, and for the Church (despite its shortcomings). They will have a passion for the flourishing of the Church, and for sharing God’s love with the people around them. And they will almost always suffer from imposter syndrome!

But people of all ages, genders, nationalities, occupations and backgrounds are called to ordination – and thank God for that!

So what next? I hope today is a helpful early step for you as you begin to work out where God might be calling you. The first thing we always look for is this sense of vocation. We are looking for a sense of vocation which, as I’ve said, is coming from within you, and from around you. We are looking for a sense of vocation which is changing you and drawing you nearer to God. And we are looking for a sense of vocation which is informed, obedient, and realistic. Informed – in that you’re willing to learn more about the life to which you think you’re called (which I’m guessing is why you’re here today!) obedient – that is, that you are ready to make sacrifices as a response to God’s calling, and to follow it through wherever God leads, and realistic – that is, that what you are offering for at this point in your life is do-able and deliverable. Informed, obedient, and realistic.

So some questions that might help your reflections today are:

  • Am I sensing any stirring of vocation within myself to this way of life?
  • Does what I am hearing today leave me feeling excited and enthusiastic, or exhausted and drained?
  • What might my desires tell me about any vocation I may have?
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The well-keeper: Clergy in an age of busy

I wrote recently about self-care, with this caveat:

I am a champion of the importance of self-care. Wellbeing, resilience, self-awareness, wholeness – call it what you like but whatever term we use, it’s important. And it’s important not solely for our own sake, but so that we can be a resource, a wellspring to those around us.

And I’m grateful to David, who left this thought on the post:

I love the connection you have made about the importance of self-care and being a wellspring. Wellspringing- could that be the refreshing replacement for the overused “wellbeing”?

Some months ago I was part of a conversation with clergy colleagues about how Church of England clergy can – and should – grow a deeper awareness of what their congregations do when they’re not in church. As the conversation inevitably meandered, the question arose:

“What’s the point of clergy?”

There are a million different ways to hear this question, never mind answer it. In this instance, it arose out of an understanding that those who are not clergy (“the “laity”) – that is, the majority of people who walk into churches – might be nurtured by, and grow through, not just activities that happen “inside” churches, but in a life beyond church.

Forgive me if I say that this is a frightening thought for clergy in a church which has at times, however inadvertently, failed to hear, understand, nurture and liberate its members through previous decades (think: sheep and shepherds, children and fathers, ekklesia and presbyter – all metaphors with both deep value and severe limitation).

But if clergy are no longer to be (only) shepherds, fathers and presbyters, then what metaphor might serve a church which is intentional about “Setting God’s People Free”? The Ordinal offers powerful and deep descriptions of priestly ministry, and these deserve much meditation, consideration and reflection (I often tell candidates I see for ordination to spend time reflecting prayerfully on these images).

Priests

 

Father doesn’t know best

Well, not always. For a fleeting time, I used to catch my 5 year old up to no good. Responding to his amazement at my 360 degree omniscience, I would say “Well, mummies know everything”.

I stopped that pretty quickly. One day soon he’ll discover it’s not true, and I’d rather have my integrity intact when he does.

How tempting is it for those of us in priestly ministry to assume an air of “the ministry professional knows everything?” I suspect most of our people know that’s not true, even if we’re adamant that it is!

Institutions are wrecked. We have moved past the point where authority itself is license to speak or act or persuade.

And amazingly, how few of these priestly metaphors are about knowing everything? How few are about authority (at least in a worldly sense) and power and control and knowledge?

Watching, walking, telling stories, discerning, sustaining, delighting, searching, offering: what intense metaphors these are for the awesome and impossible task of holding a community of faith together!

The well-keeper

Ever since that conversation with my colleagues, I’ve been musing on the metaphor of well-keeper. In an age where 90% of Christian ministry happens outside the church building, where Christians spend perhaps just a few hours a week coming into church, where the church as institution is dying while spirituality unfettered by religion is booming, then what’s the point of clergy?

Perhaps clergy are the well-keepers. They are the ones who might find life-giving water, and share it round. They start with no special knowledge or strength: it is their own thirst which drives them to the well. And when they find it, they have no monopoly on the water. The water is a free-flowing gift, although it might be that clergy have the time and resources to dig a little deeper and set the flow going.

To those who seek rest and sanctuary, clergy might offer peace, a sounding board, a listening ear. To those who live frenetic lives, they offer attentiveness and availability. For those facing uncertainty and doubt, their listening and their words instil value and build confidence, renew vocation and discern God’s voice.

Clergy are the well-keepers. They find the water and build the wells. They maintain them, and repair them when they’re damaged. They signpost others to them. And they draw from them themselves.

The pun is deliberate, and this brings us full circle.  It is only from the path to wholeness that we can call others to join us. There is a calling on clergy to keep well as they keep the wells. Of course, wholeness and wellness are destinations yet to be reached. Sometimes they feel far away or only mirages. But clergy must be committed to their own self-awareness, self-management, and self-care. Not only for themselves, but for the flourishing of the whole people of God.

In busyness and panic and chaos and simple everyday life, in the mutuality of lay and ordained vocations, perhaps it is clergy who have – or should have – the gifts, the time, and the tools to stop, to dig, to drink, and to call others to do likewise.

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The downward spiral of spiritual apathy…

…or why we all feel so tired, unfulfilled and sad.

Do you ever have moments of emptiness that are impossible to fill?

Times where you pour good food, great sex and extravagant purchases into a black hole that refuses to be satisfied?
Feelings of inexplicable guilt that are impossible to assuage for more than a fleeting hour?
A desperate need to flee your circumstances in your quest for happiness?

The problem might be acedia.

Acedia is a disease of the soul. We are so ignorant of its existence, never mind the damage it can inflict, that we probably have never heard its name.

Acedia is the spiritual apathy that leads us away from what gives us life.
It is a neglect of the soul, a hardening of the heart, and an embrace of everything that stops us from knowing ourselves.

In his book Finding Happiness, Abbot Christopher Jamison unpacks why acedia is such a problem for us. He examines it in terms of monastic life:

“I know that a monk can be overwhelmed by spiritual exhaustion; is it worth persevering, they wonder. The thought grows that this way of life isn’t valid for me any longer, that my companions are not right and that I should be doing something else, not wasting my life here. As the discipline of the monastic life becomes distasteful, so it is slowly worn away: less prayer, less self-awareness and a growing rejection of the life of the community. Alongside this is often found the impulse to replace spiritual exercises with more and more good deeds.”

The symptoms of acedia include:
– restlessness
– downheartedness
– exhaustion
– a lack of peace
– a yearning to escape
– anxiety
– feeling uncentred and unfulfilled.

Jamison argues that disdain for the familiar and a desire to give up are at the heart of acedia.”

Sound familiar?

Whether we are religious or not, we neglect the inner life at our peril. We are part of and we perpetuate a culture where profit and success are cherished above everything that is sacrificed for them: relationships, peace, rest, fun, prayer and stillness. When we feel unfulfilled or guilty or restless, the temptation is to continue to flee from our inner self.

We fill our lives when we should be emptying them.
We stay on the treadmill when we should be hitting the stop button.

I have started to identify what I think is an acedia cycle in my own life:

acedia cycle

It starts well (1). I give time to prayer, stillness, contemplation and reading.

From this place of rest and refreshment, I am able to live and minister effectively and happily (2). A healthy inner life feeds a healthy outer life, and an active outer life is rooted in a healthy inner life.

But then eventually I will begin to neglect the inner life (3).
Perhaps a busy week or a change of routine means that my times of stillness are pushed out.
Perhaps I lose the discipline of regular reading, and I forget the value of words that nurture my soul.

This neglect takes me to a place of acedia (4).
I feel increasingly unfulfilled, and I seek fulfilment in my work.
Working hard means I start to feel tired.
When I feel tired, I feel guilty and frustrated.
I try to deal with my guilt by working harder (5).
When I work hard I feel self-satisfied, and perhaps smug.
And then I feel tired and guilty again.
The drive to work harder means rest and stillness become of little value, and I enter a downward spiral of guilt and overwork that leads eventually to…

Exhaustion, illness and burnout (6), which necessitate rest and recovery (7). In the past, it hasn’t been until this crisis moment that I have become aware of my habit of overwork.

I am learning to recognise the warning signs, but the moment this downward spiral begins is the moment that I need the greatest self-awareness, humility and discipline. It’s also the moment I most need to hear the challenge that comes from God and others: How did you get to be so busy?

And so I am left wondering:

  • What other destructive cycles have acedia at their heart?
    Greed and over indulgence?
    Consumerism and affluenza?
    Gambling and other addictions?
    Infidelity and unhealthy attitudes to sex?
    Others?
  • Are there people who live consistently in the downward spiral of acedia and never find freedom from it?
  • If you recognise yourself in any of this, what are the warning signs that you need to be aware of to regain a balance and nurture your inner life?

Jamison offers two remedies for acedia:

  • The first is to fill our minds with things that will nurture us: resist gossip, and don’t read rubbish. Instead, read books that nourish, and talk about things that build up.
  • The second is to devote time to prayer, meditation or reflection. This should be regular and disciplined. But I don’t think it has to be onerous. Halfway through the morning, I make a cup of coffee and take it in the garden. The ten minutes I spend there, silent and contemplative, give my soul enough nourishment to get through the rest of the day. In this way prayer becomes a time to be cherished, and not a millstone.

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Acedia afflicts us all, and it will take each of us a lifetime to overcome. However much we fall into its grasp, let us not be so ignorant of its dangers that we cannot even name the source of our unhappiness, our unsettledness, our guilt and our anxiety.

Five things that parenting is teaching me about leadership

Five unformed thoughts on being a parent, being a leader, and how the one informs the other…

1. It’s going to get messy!
My kids are messy: it’s how they learn.

They are most engaged with pretend play when I let them empty 8 boxes of toys all over the lounge, sit in the midst of it all, and act like I’m grateful for the plate of squashed plastic food I’m offered. But it teaches them social skills.

They are most likely to eat dinner when I turn a blind eye as they tip their food off their plates, rub their hands through it, and wave it around in the air. But it teaches them to be at ease with food.

They often need my best efforts at comfort when they’re at their dirtiest: blood and tears staining my clothes as I sit in the mud that they slipped on while I hold them and soothe their fall-induced sobbing.

Parenting is messy. But in the untidiness, my kids learn and thrive and grow. In the mess, they need my intimate involvement: sleeves rolled up and hair pushed back. I have to be in the mess with them.

We don’t lead from the margins. We can’t stay squeaky clean. The most effective leaders I know are the ones who jump down from the pedestal, roll up their sleeves, and get elbow-deep into the mess of their people. It’s not glamorous, there’s not much glory in it, but it’s where people grow.

Leadership: It’s going to get messy!

2. I learn as much from them as they do from me
Father never knows best. Neither does Mum. Sometimes I pick a battle with the kids and realise a split-second too late, actually, they’re right. Trumped by a three year old. Our relationship is at its best not in our head-to-head battles, but in our learning to listen, negotiate, understand, and see a different perspective.

The kids teach me something new every day. Simplicity, attentiveness, joy, kindness, acceptance and inquisitiveness are all gifts that I am growing into, because of their examples.

It takes courage for a leader to admit that their people have things to teach them. It’s one thing to say it – we all say it – but to live it and model it, especially when we have to admit that we’re wrong, requires gutsy humility. My leadership feels more genuine when I am both teacher and pupil. In this way leadership becomes a dynamic interaction that enables mutual flourishing, and we grow together through it.

Leadership: Leaders still have a lot to learn20160512_193707

3. They will not grow into a mini-me
How I am gripped by the temptation to sculpt my kids into small statues of my own self! They already look like me, talk like me, act like me. I want the best for them, and “the best” is everything that I didn’t quite acheive or experience. What is middle age when one can relive one’s youth through one’s offspring?

But they are not me. They will have their own hopes and dreams. Their own gifts and vocations. These things are not mine to snatch and sculpt. To speak into them, even when invited, is to tread on hallowed ground.

Leaders can be tempted to form our people into miniature versions of ourselves. Without great care, Christian leadership may turn into “helping people to become more like Jesus me”. The overwhelming urge to correct those who dare to voice an opposing opinion, or to belittle those whose faith story is alien to my own, is an all-present danger.

Good leadership is about providing safe space. Space in which people can explore, ask questions, and grow more deeply into their God-given self. It requires great trust from the leader: “Will my people be okay if it turns out that they are not like me after all?”

Leadership: Breaking the me-mould

4. Interruptions are hidden treasure
Parenting is one long interruption. From the positive pregnancy test, to the sleepless nights and the sick days away from school: kids go through crises on a daily basis. In a moment plans have to adapt and fit around this tiny person who wields such surprising power.

It’s frustrating, exhausting, and one of the greatest gifts of parenting. So there’s a full day of work planned and the toddler’s running a fever? Work has to adapt as home boundaries are drawn in. The central heating is turned up, blankets are pulled out of drawers, and pyjamas are worn. Jobs are done in-between cuddles. Phone calls are made to the soundtrack of cBeebies. Meetings are rearranged, and the space and stillness created for this little body to repair itself becomes like hidden treasure. The interruption becomes a golden moment for nurture, care, bonding and comfort.

We leaders have great plans for our people. The trouble is, the people keep interrupting the plans! And yet the inconvenient interruptions – the personal crises and pastoral fall outs and undiaried encounters – become golden moments in leadership. It these interruptions, unprepared and unscripted, which create space for God to be at work without me applying my own agenda and solution. The more experience I gain as a leader, the more I cherish and search for interruptions.

Leadership: The interruptions are everything

5. It’s all about the love
My kids are good kids. I think I’m a pretty good parent: the best, for these particular kids. We have good systems, boundaries, rules and strategies in place, and we all live within these.* But none of these are parenting at my most effective. At the heart of our family life is a self-giving, unconditional, honest love. Boundaries can be moved, rules broken and systems blown apart.  The time we spend together, and the attention we offer to one another, are the glue that holds us together. We create memories, share secrets, walk a long way together; we laugh and cry and gossip together.

*Sometimes.

But it’s not all idyllic. We bicker and argue. Sometimes we might be aggressive, verbally or physically (the kids are very good at fighting with their feet). We all have our selfish moments. Sometimes the kids make me so irrationally angry that by their bedtime I am reduced to stony, exhausted silence when I should be singing songs to soothe and comfort them. My oldest is only three: apparently it just gets harder from now. Every parent knows the heartache of loving their kids. Love hurts.

Strategies, boundaries and systems are great tools for leaders. But they are not leadership. When the fancy structures fall away, leadership is about building relationships, falling into steadfast love with our people, and committing to the flourishing of everyone in our care. It’s about offering a self-giving love so strong that it makes our hearts ache.

Leadership: It’s all about the love

 

 

The night that God let go

A reflection for Christmas Eve, adapted from that shared at Holy Cross Timperley.

Tonight we recall that holy night when God took on our human life with the most fragile of beginnings.

God himself became a helpless bundle of tears and gurgles.
God himself identified with human beings at one of the frailest moments of our existence: the moment of our birth.

Our Christmas carols sing of this wonderful truth, but how often do their words pass us by?

He came down to Earth from Heaven
Who is God and Lord of all.

So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of his Heaven.

Veiled in flesh the Godhead see,
Hail the incarnate deity.

And of course, John, in the prologue to his Gospel, puts it like this:
In the beginning was the Word.
The Word was with God.
The Word was God.
The Word became flesh.

Here is the God who created the stars and the planets and the oceans and the mountains.
Here is the God who is so holy that the Israelite people could barely stand in his presence and live.
Here is that God choosing to leave his Heavenly throne to come and live among his people.

Tonight we find our God lying in a feeding trough: the tiny baby of a peasant girl and her fiancé.

What is this, if not the ultimate divine act of letting go?
God let go of the Heavenly realms, to come and live among his created beings on Earth.
God let go of divine power, to begin life here as each of us has done: weak, vulnerable, helpless.

Welcome to Christmas night. The night that God let go.

We all know what it is like to have to let go of something, or someone. We have all known loss. Human experience calls us back to this well trodden path of letting go. We may have had to let go of childhood, of possessions, of ambitions, of past hurts, of good dreams and bad memories, of relationships, of health, of our home, of dear friends and family members, or even of our very selves.

Letting go can be beautifully liberating, or crushingly painful. Sometimes it is both. Many of us here this evening have walked some very difficult pathways of loss and letting go this year. And in all that we have to let go of, in all our experience of loss, God has been there before us. He knows what it is like to have to let go.

He was little, weak and helpless,
Tears and smiles like us he knew.
And he feeleth for our sadness
And he shareth in our gladness.

The incarnation, and this tiny baby who is the centrepiece of our nativity stories, is a reminder that God knows what human life is like.

We can never justly accuse God of not knowing human suffering, because he came to Earth and lived it for us.
We can never justly accuse God of not stepping into our shoes, because that is exactly what he did.

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I wonder what we see when we look at the nativity scene. Mary and Joseph, yes. And a baby. Shepherds and sheep, wise men, perhaps a donkey and an ox. Not forgetting the angels.

I wonder how often we look at that scene and see God? We know the baby is the baby Jesus. We know this baby is God, taking on human form. But do we really see him?
Do we truly grasp the full significance of this tiny baby laid in a feeding trough?
Do we look upon this baby and remember all that God let go of, in order to come and live this life of frailty and humility?

The nativity is not a fairy tale to make us feel warm and fuzzy at Christmas time.
The nativity is not, primarily, a script for a school play.

The nativity is an account of loss and pain, of flesh and blood.
The nativity is an account of life’s interruptions and injustice crashing headlong into God’s love and mercy.
The nativity is an account of our frail and fickle lives becoming intimately entwined with the awesome, majestic, eternal life of God.

On this holy night, we give thanks to God that he let go of everything to walk in our shoes: to feel our pain and to know our helplessness.
On this holy night, we commit to God our own acts of letting go, our pain and our loss, and we ask for his gentle love to enfold us.
On this holy night, we gaze upon the Christ child, and see that the Lord has drawn near to the broken hearted.

On this holy night, the Word became flesh, and he lives among us.

Back in the pews

(Or, more accurately, in the Children’s Corner, on the floor, at the back, pushing a pushchair down the aisles… anywhere but the pews..!)

I’m now four months into my second stretch of maternity leave. Taking a time of extended leave from parish ministry is a bit of a contradiction in terms: as ministers we live incarnationally and try and share every aspect of everyday life with the communities we are placed within, and I can only ‘leave’ that way of life to a limited extent.

Both of my mat leaves have given time for reflection and a change of pace to my ministry, as well, of course, as the cherished time it allows us as a family. Here are three things I am learning this time around:

The view from the pew is very different to that from the priest’s stall
There is currently a photographic exhibition running in Florence which exposes what worship looks like from a priest’s point of view. More information here.

As clergy, we forget that our view is a unique one, not shared by those in the pews. We may look down upon a sea of faces, but there is much that we can’t, or don’t, see from the front. And unless we take time out and delegate some of our ‘up front’ ministry, the pew perspective is one we will never have.

This is when constructive feedback is vital and valued. Banner blocking your view? Sound system dead spot? Notices too long? Preacher incomprehensible? We probably have no idea. I’ve noticed all of these things since I started maternity leave, having been previously completely unaware. Of course, this works on a different level too, and it’s not just about minor logistics.

Getting to church with two kids is HARD
Getting out of the door complete with shoes, coats, blankets, pushchair, hats, gloves, snacks, drinks, baby milk, nappies, wipes, dummies, entertainment, keys, phone, money, muslin cloths and two children is hard enough. It becomes almost impossible when we’re aiming for a set time, and one kid has an explosive nappy while the other kicks and screams because they wanted the other coat on.

The walk to church is full of worry. Will there be room for the pushchair? Will someone open the double doors for me? Did I remember the baby milk? Are we going to be late?

And then through the service, keeping a baby and a toddler quiet at the appropriate moments is exhausting. Seriously. I rarely manage it.

I am endlessly thankful to the kind parishioner who turned to me after a midweek service of Holy Communion and said: “I love having your boy here, and I don’t care how much noise he makes. It makes us like a family”. A profound moment. We are a family. And I know that we are a parish who welcome children, and who understand that “if there’s no crying, the church is dying”. This support for me as a mum helps me to keep bringing the kids, week on week.

But it’s still hard, and clergy are not exempt from the stress of parenting in public.

Sometimes, it’s easier to be a pastor without the dog collar
Without many of my usual duties, I find I have more time to chat and listen. I really value this time, and it’s challenged me to reflect on why it doesn’t happen as much when I’m working. Do the demands of professional ministry sometimes get in the way of effective pastoral ministry? Does the dog collar become, at times, a barrier? Is the perception of others that “the vicar’s too busy for a proper conversation”? I hope that when I return to work in June, I will still make it known that I have as much time and space to give to conversation as I did on leave.

~

Few clergy have the luxury of taking a time of extended leave, and yet still be fully present within their ministry contexts. It’s a great gift to be able to take this step back for a different perspective, and I hope the gift will be as much for the parish and the wider church, as for myself.

Out of the chancel

The chancel is the domain of the parish priest. It’s where I am seen in my most public moments. It is the place I minister in, and from, on Sunday mornings and through the week. It is the place where I dump my priestly paraphernalia, tucked away on shelves and ledges: service books, scribbled notices, carefully typed sermons, bottles of water…

The chancel is the domain of all of us. It is a place of passage. Through it we journey up, to receive from God as we share in the sacrament of Holy Communion. Through it we journey back down, ready to continue our work as Kingdom builders out in our communities.

CCchancel

The chancel is not my home, nor yours. It’s a corridor; a stopping place; a conduit. Out of the chancel we flow; through that passage which links our Sunday worship and our spiritual nourishment with whatever we choose to do in the other 6 and a half days of our week. Our journey through the chancel is a reminder of the dynamic nature of God’s love: responsive, engaged, incarnational.

Some will know that we priests spend very little of our working time in the chancel. And now on maternity leave I find myself, in new ways, very much out of the chancel, and fully engaged with the gritty, fleshy world of parenting a newborn.This blog is a place to share, to reflect, and to engage, by one priest spending time out of the chancel.