Anger recollected in tranquillity

I went nowhere near the place on Sunday's opening service. The ever-anxious leadership had provided the Cathedral security guards with a large photo of me, posted at the security checkpoints, presumably to keep me from "crashing the gates" of the opening service. No one believed that I would be true to my promise to the Archbishop not to attend.

I took the above from Canterbury Tales from the Fringe, Bishop Gene's blog, which I've been following throughout the Lambeth Conference. As a result, I was less surprised than my companions, less shocked, when he alluded to this absurd criminalisation in his sermon on Sunday, because I'd had time to absorb the information. But seeing him, listening to his calm voice as he described this dreadful treatment at the hands of fellow-Christians, I found myself becoming angry.

And so I want to know this: did the Archbishop of Canterbury know that this had been done? If he didn't know, then whose bright idea was it? Some uppity/anxious/over-zealous steward? And when he found out, if he didn't know before, did ++Rowan send an apology? Or is he going to do so now that he's got the conference out of the way?

I found myself remembering "wanted" posters: have you seen this man? - posters to identify criminals. Or the kind of document provided at Customs points to prevent criminals/terrorists/drug-smugglers from entering/leaving the country. And then I looked again at a little man with a brave smile and a refusal to be beaten, and I didn't know whether to rage or weep.

Probably both.

Out of Africa

Today, I'm glad I'm not a bishop. I can't help feeling that these jet-lagged men and women must feel rather as I used to on the school French Exchange, when our hosts had all sorts of socialising and sightseeing lined up for us and all I wanted to do was sit in the sun with a glass of kir. And tomorrow they all head south for Lambeth - in a bus. Apparently the Bishop of Karimnagar balked at this, but maybe he was thinking of a different type of bus. I hope theirs is a classy one.

However, the Bishop of Central Tanganyika was with us at Holy T yesterday, and made a huge impression. This youthful-looking man has already been a bishop for 19 years and still manages to exude joy and strength. Among the many things I learned was that his stipend is only enough to live on for 15 days a month. For the rest, he farms. I don't mean he owns a farm which someone else works: he takes off for three days at a time to live in a small hut on the farmland while he plants, tends and reaps. So when he preached on the day's gospel - the parable of the Sower - he really knew what he was talking about. The metaphorical weeds which choke his people's flowering are those of worry and survival - though, as he pointed out with some force, we are choked by wealth. Over lunch, we heard that most of the priests ordained in his diocese are non-stipendiary - they are encouraged to live off the land as they minister to those around them - but there is no shortage of vocations, with young men - and women - coming forward in droves.

The picture I came away with was of a country where people - Christian and Moslem - talk about God in the same way as we talk about the weather, where life is hard and precarious, where the scourge of HIV/Aids is still growing and has left 50,000 orphans, where clergy live and work alongside the people to whom they minister, sharing their lives and their worries. No wonder the church in Africa is growing. It must seem a great deal more relevant if you've been sweating alongside your priest one day and listening to what he or she (there are 15 female priests in Central Tanganyika) has to say on a Sunday. And it was good to know in the run-up to this Lambeth that there are people like Bishop Mdimi, assuring us that Africa is a huge and diverse country and that not all African bishops are like Bishop Akinola. So I shall be praying for someone I feel I know just a little in the weeks ahead - and feeling rather less ambivalent about the whole shebang.

Now, what jabs do you need to visit Tanzania?

A high old time

The group photo
Originally uploaded by goforchris.

One of the joys of being a musician is that in the middle of ordinary life you can take off and spend a day working your socks off and having the greatest fun - and then being thanked for it at the end of the day. Yesterday was such an occasion. As the bishops of the Anglican Communion - or at least, such parts of it as don't think the rest of us are all bound for Hell in a handcart - began to arrive in the UK for the Lambeth Conference, they were whisked off to the various dioceses for the weekend, and three of them, with their wives, fetched up on the Isle of Cumbrae at the Cathedral of The Isles. Doubtless they were allowed to go to bed early after the rigours of their journeys, but first they had to attend a Festal Choral Evensong - and this, dear reader, is where yours truly came in.

This, it has to be said, was one of the best incarnations of Cumbrae Cathedral Choir that I've experienced. Eight voices, nae passengers, old friends from University Chapel Choir and early days in teaching, sopranos without a wobble, either mental or vocal. We were able to sing through everything and concentrate on unanimity, and no-one lost their cool for so much as a flicker. And in between we giggled like school kids - remember, only two of us were under 60 - and the years vanished.

The service was joyous - clouds of incense, some great music (from Boyce's All the Ends of the Earth through to Britten's wonderful Festival Te Deum), +Martin's address of welcome. At the end, we watched with interest as a small pipe band appeared over the lawn: would they strike up before Jonathan Cohen had finished his Vidor? But no; they were well-briefed and there were no hiccups other than a degree of mild hysteria.

Afterwards, of course, there was the photo-op (I handed my Leica to Frank, fresh from Texas via Aberdeen). This was another flash-back moment, as it was this kind of event which propelled me into the arms of the Piskie Church in the first place, and when I have more time I shall scan a similar but ancient photo for comparison. (If you click the pic, you can see who was who). And people thanked us, over and over again. What do you say? It seemed wrong, somehow, to be thanked for having such a good time.

But the last word belongs to Martin, Bishop of Argyll. Emerging from the cathedral to the choir waiting in the porch at the end of the service, he punched the air: "Yes!" he said. "Amen!". Amen indeed.

Ugly sisters only

So Bishop Gene Robinson won't be invited to Lambeth 08? Great. What sort of message does that send to the wide, uncaring world? Always assuming that the non-Anglican world can summon up the interest to take any notice of this news item. And then there are the people who do care, passionately, and who feel marginalised yet again, and the people who care passionately and feel scunnered.

I come into that last category. I use the word "scunnered" because of my origins and because it's absolutely the right word for the moment. After a day spent reading the papers for the forthcoming Synod I found myself wondering why I bother. This sort of politicking has nothing to do with the faith that illuminates my life, and seems to have very little to do with the injunction to love one another.

All this desperate holding on to unity at all costs tells me one thing: the cost is too high. And the exclusion of even one properly consecrated bishop from the party means that unity has gone already. Or am I somehow missing something clever?