Something Imaginative

So, I was just watching “The Bible: A History” by Ann Widdecome. It wasn’t long before it become obvious that this was a polemic from the slightly fundamental side of Christianity, one that slips a little over that line into Phariseac interpretation of the Bible.

After riduculing Biblical Scholarship, and wrongly citing it as “Secular” (obviously ignoring the fact that the quest for the historical status of the Bible has been done alternatively by believers and non-believers for varying different reasons), she then went to attempt to show Secular Heros, one of whom was Stephen Fry as being unreasonable. The entire program smacked of being very well edited, and the camera spent an innordinant amount of time on Ann.

Her experts were generally people of faith, as opposed to people of faith who had status, by that I mean it was a Rabbi and Priest, but not, say, a Rabi well known for his exegesis of the Bible, and the Priest, though learned, was not one of the many popular ones that would have no-doubt been available for such a program.

My main concern is that damage that such a program does to an already beleaugered Christianity. The entire program, billed as a documentary, rather than as a polemic, would no doubt irritate the “fringe” Christians who watch programs like this and don’t see in it the morality that they follow, that they believe. This then makes them more disenfranchised, and less likely to step foot in church. This, then, lets the conservative gain a bigger hold, and well.. it’s just one big Spiral.

Not all of us want to see things that way. Some of us want to interpret the Old Testament through eyes of love, which understand the context, which want to see that yes, the laws today seem barmy, but frankly, any law laid down that long ago would seem barmy. They are to be stories about how these people understood their world, their place in it, and the their palce in relation to God. They are, if you like, the Myths and Ledgends of Christianity. Perhaps if we were to treat them with the same respenct, reverence, and understanding that we treat other Myths and Ledgends we might have a better understanding of how to read the Old Testament.

Let me unpack that a little. Myths and Ledgends are the stuff of Stories. The stuff that we remember, that influence us in subtle ways, that live with us, and becomes part of our culture. The Stories of Aruthur giving us examples of leadership, being fun to read, watch, retell, reinvent, relive, and at every step a simple moral truth shining through. If you’ve watched and enjoyed the recent BBC Merlin, then you’ll know what I mean.

Ultimately, the Old Testament is full of many layers, those that were there when it was written, those that we have added, and those that appeared in public conciousness which are not always true, or accurate. With a bit of luck, this blog, and the posts on it can do a little something to counter-act it.

~BX

Popularity: 3% [?]

Just before Christmas I served time as a Prison Chaplain in a Prison. It was only a week, part of the palcements that those of us at Theology College do to ensure that we have a well rounded understanding of the options that are open to us. It was a very strange experience, something that I think will haunt me for a very long time. I also hope that it will make me more understanding of the plite of those who are in Prison.

The first thing that struck me about being inside was the helplessness. I could have been asked to be let out at any time, but still following people, and having doors locked and opened for you, knowing that you can’t leave under your own recognicance. There was something terrifying about that. People who say that we are too soft on prisoners really need to feel what that’s like. What it’s like to be locked in. That is definately punishment, especially for those of us used to going where we like, doing what we want when we want it.

The job of the Chaplain is essentially to be a voice that is primarily on the side of the Inmates, and also to explain the establishment to the inmates when it doesn’t make sense. It essentially fills that grey area where infromation needs to reach all inmates, but there isn’t really a sensible way to make sure that it does. They are also, more and more, taking on the roll of councellors, as the prison service has cut down on the number of councellors available in its’ prisons, and there wasn’t as single councellor in the prison I attended, but we’ll come back to that.

The day for chaplains starts in the same way. There are 3 places that require a visit from a chaplain every day. The first is healthcare. This is the place where inmates go if they are feeling ill, it is also the palce where they go when they are feeling suicidal, or have attempted to take their own life. They are then watched 24 hours a day, in a cell with a plastic front. Two of the people who were there on watch, one seemed very disturbed, the other was just excessively sad. At the point when he needed some profiessional help.

The second place that chaplains go is Segregation. This is the palce where inmantes go who have been separated from the main prison population. This is normally as punishment for actions such a fighting or smuggling. These cells only contain a bed, and they are not allowed books or anything else to entertain them, as such, it is imperative that the chaplain comes down to check on them, make sure that this sudden and stark loss of even the small number of priveleages doesn’t push them to wanting to take their own life.

The third place that someone goes is to Detox. This is the palce where people go who are comming down off various drugs. These are normally those that come into prison still addicted. Sometimes, even high. Obviously these need to be watched because the pain and mental confusion that can occur from cold-turkey might drive someone over the edge.

While on Placement, we were to partake of various different types of activities that the chaplain does. I got to go to “initiate” inmates. On arival all inmates are asked a barrage of questions, ranging from “have you been in prison before” to “do you have any disabilities”. Some questions are asked by a variety of people, but these are the ones that I remember the chaplain I was shadowing asking. Of course, amoungst that, the question “Do you feel suicidal”, which was asked in several subtle ways. While walking around shadowing the chaplain, we met a guy who was made up to be getting out. He was (as all inmates do), promising to go straight. He had a child that had been born while he was on the inside and he was desperate to go and look after him. We talked to him a few times, because we were mostly wanting to talk to his cell mate that was in “education”. One of the people we met while doing this was an inmate who told us that the reason he was in was that he was opsessed with his Ex Girlfriend. It was violating the restraining order that had landed him in prison the 3 times he’d been in. It occured to me that we should perhaps refer this guy to a councellor, to help him with the obsession, and stop him re-offending, and deal with the heartache. When I told this to the Chpalain, he agreed, but then told me that there were no councellors, which was probably why he’d ended up re-offending in the first place. Seemed a bit barmy to me.

During my time there the men (as they were referred too) were rehersing for their Carol Service that was happening on Sunday. This was something that they were putting together with the help of some volunteers, and a Conductor from the BBC. The men had written a nativity sketch, which was meant to show what the nativity meant to them, written from their point of view. IT contained some amazing lines, like “Your from the East and you don’t know Karate?”, and “Gold, Frankinsens, and Murr, and your walking around Bethlehem at night without knowing how to defend yourself? that’s not very wise is it?” (to which the wise men responded “Wise men don’t fight”). The thrust of the play was the shepherds, who were “ordinary men”, with flaws just like the men in prison (there was a shephard who was addicted to a “poppy potion”, for example), and yet the birth of Christ was for them as well. They also had a Choir for this service. It was made up of men who volunteered (though it was difficult to see if it was “to sing” or “to get out of the cell” for some of them. A lot of them came because their friend was comming). It was impressive to see the change from their Thursday Practice (where they sounded like drowning cats), to their Sunday performance, where they were almost sounding like a Choir. It was amazing, and I found myself being proud of them.

It was, by and large, a very strange experience, as you can tell from this slightly meandering reflection. These men who were so used to having other men around would suddenly tell you things in near-public, with their eyes focused on you that you probably wouldn’t tell your best friend of several years. It is a very odd experience.

The one thing I learned about it all was how normall these people were. It’s easy to think that those that are in for life are in some way some form of inhuman monster, but their not. By and large, they are sweet, and sometimes gentle, and just like you and me. That, I think, was the scray thing. The ones I met were indeed just like you and me. They told stories and you thought.. if I was there.. then yes, perhaps I would have done the same.

I spent a lot of the week thinking “there but for the grace of God go I”. The results of spending a week thinking about that sentance are a reflection in itself.

~BX

Popularity: 13% [?]

I’m a fan of Max Boyce. I have to be. I’m Welsh. The thing is, that people who are not from Wales don’t understand. He talks to a part of Welsh culture that doesn’t really exsist any more… that singing in the bar. The kind that probably died when they closed the Pits, so before my time. Yet it still there.. part of that love of Wales that is very hard to shift. To know, whereever I go in the World I will be WELSH, through and through. You cut me open and it’ll say “A present from Barry Island”. See… a joke that’s only funny if your Welsh.

It’s not that, in hindsight, perhaps the closing the Pits was a good idea, but not the way that it was done. Not stabbed in the back by some woman meglomaniac from England. It was this betryal that caused us to re-start the push for the Welsh Assembly. Yet you can’t talk about the closing of the Pits without feeling anger and sadness for a part of Wales that died. It makes no reall sense, probably in the cold light of day there are no men dying in collapses, there are not people suffering from Miners Lung. People don’t get the anger if their not Welsh. I suppose there is a generation growing up now who don’t understand.

Max Boyce sings about Rugby trips. He sings about Rugby Games. I don’t watch rugby often, infact, I’ve not caught a game in sevaral years. I’ve never been on a Rugby trip, beacuse well, I’m not the kind of person that got the rest of the culture that went with it. That isn’t necessary to understand Boyce. If you’ve ever been on the terraces, and cheered for Wales (if you havn’t, not even once, you may not be really Welsh. Try it sometime. Get someone to explain the rules of Rugby to you, watch Wales vs. England and sing Calon Lan and Cwm Rhondda with everyone else) then you know what it’s like. It speaks to something deep inside you. I can understand why people support Rugby, I’m just a practicalist. I don’t like the cold.

Again, that isn’t necessary to understand Max Boyce. His stuff is essentially Welsh Folk Music, at least, Modern Folk Music… it speaks to the Welsh about things we know, and most people know parts of a few songs by Max Boyce, like “Duw It’s Hard”, “Up and Under”, and of course “Hymns and Arias”. If you don’t know them, head to youtube and enjoy. What you’ll notice about most of his recordings is the people. There are people singing along. Normally by the second chorus people are joining in, loudly. It’s something that we do. A room full of the Welsh joining in the singing is quite something. You get it occasionally when you find a local pub and join in. People are normally friendly, and by the end of the night your outside with the smokers talking about this and that like you’ve lived there all your life. IT’s the reason why people don’t leave the villages. It’s because they have lived there all their life, and being part of that community is what most people long.

The thing about it is that there’s a naturall connection with Christianity. Not one about people actually going to Church, but about a belief that seems to be as much part of the Culture as Rugby. His track 10000 instant Christians talks to that, though a lot of the others talks about God just the same way as he talks about Dai.

I suppose it’s difficult to explain Max Boyce if you don’t know what it’s like to raise to the cry of “I’r Gad!”, or don’t know how to belt out “Hen Wlad Fy’n Nhaday”(first verse), or at least “Calon Lan”(first verse). You probably know “Cwm Rhondda”(at least the first verse ) or (as it is now more commonly known) “Bread of Heaven”. The kind of song that comes out with a few good-natured pints when the Welsh get together. Is it any wonder I’ve always wanted to sing?

I suppose if you still don’t get it, go and listen to some of Max Boyce. Try to imagine what it’s like to be there. If you love your country, that’s how the Welsh feel, that’s what Boyce is talking too.

What are you still reading for! Go!

~BX

Popularity: 13% [?]

The first few months had been nothing but rage. Each time, each stake, had been revenge. The number of times he had paid back his father’s death on one of the monsters was incalculable. Just like the times he had avenged his mother by slowly pulling one out into the daylight. They were simply monsters, thins that didn’t deserve to be using the bodies. Evil energy in a body that once loved, sang and danced.

Each night he had sat by her bed, watching her, waiting to see if this was the night that she was going to turn. Night after night, month after month, and still she lived a strange twilight life. Occasionally she would call out in a voice that was not entirely her own, and other times she would sob in her corner, begging to be held, and loved, for the chains that held her to be removed. Sometimes she begged to die.

There were times when James would have happily ran unto her embrace. There were times when he would have taken her life. It was times like that when Marcus would pull him out of the van. They had had many arguments, some of them that had reduced to blows. Mostly James had rained down blows on Marcus who would only raise his arms to cover his face while James vented his rage on him. James didn’t know why Marcus stayed, but there were times when James thought that Marcus understood, like Marcus had lived it.

The months of rage had been a blur of tears and blood. Some of it his. Something was different today. He had woken up feeling… calm. He had discovered that he had slept for three days, and perhaps that had attributed more than anything to his good mood. James rested his right foot on the dashboard and looked out at the cold blue sky.

“What’s different about today?”
“en?”
“I feel.. better today”
“You have finally reached de island of reason”
“The what?”
“De Island of Reason. It is dat feeling dat finally you are back in charge of tings. It means dat somewhere inside you’ve decided to stop bein’ de victim, and start bein’ in controll, to make a difference”
“That’s deep”
Marcus Shrugged. “Just callin’ it how I see it”
“I’m going to make a difference am I?”
Another shrug. “I’m not that special. I’m just… ”
The scentance hung in the air. “This is no longer world I grew up in. There’s all this stuff that comes from fairy-tales, that comes from books written about ledgends, and now I find out that the’re.. not exactly true, but there’s enough there that could keep you alive long enough to find out what you don’t know.”
“You sure bout dat?”
“It’s worked for me so far.”
“dumb luck”
They lapsed into silence. “How long do you think it will last?”
“what?”
“The Island of Reason”
Marcus shrugged. James nodded, and began to smile.

The scrape of chains across the floor from behind him chased the smile from his face.

Popularity: 19% [?]

He stumbled over the stones on the mountain, and put his hand out to steady himself. He sighed, and pulled his dirty jacket around him. He looked towards the small grey line that winds through these hills. He liked the silence of the mountains. He liked the soft tinkle of the water. Most of all he liked that there were no people. He always got overwhelmed in towns. He heard a cry, somewhere far off, deeper in the mountains. Someone in pain. He tilted his head to listen to the cry as it echoed around inside his head. He took a glance at the gray road. He knew that the time had come when he had to return. To move back amongst the people. He had forgotten so much, his head was full of a deep gray fog, but the voice cut through it. He turned, reluctantly away from the road, and headed back into the mountains that had become his home.

He trekked along the paths that he had made. The occasional rambler thought they were made by the sheep, or perhaps the goats. They were made by him, as he wandered the hills, trying to remember. As he made a small jump down, the tarnished chain around his neck clinked against his skin. He frowned, and pulled it out from his tunic. How did that get there? He looked at the strange metal circle with a faded purple gem in the center of it. It looked familiar, somehow. The wind blew at his coat, and looked at it like it was the first time he’d seen wind move fabric, he looked at it with innocent curiosity, and the medallion slipped from his fingers, forgotten. The cry in his head got fainter, and he began moving towards it again.

He saw the man lying on the side of the mountain. The man had obviously slipped, and from the way he was lying his leg had been broken, probably in several places. He stood and watched the man desperately holding onto the bush that was stopping him from slipping, and falling to what would be, from that hight, certain death. He could feel panic rising in the man, and it cut him. Slowly he began to climb up the hill towards the man, each step the pain inside him getting stronger. This man was alone in the mountains because he was running away from something. He reached his side and looked down at him, his face full of compassion. The man looked up at him, surprised.
“Please, Help Me…”
“Do you really want me to help you?”
“Yes, please.. I”
“But you came here to get lost. To die amongst creation”.
“I.. what?”
His voice was soft, seeking understanding. “Why did you come here to die?”
“I… I feel so alone.”
“So you want to get away from here?”
“I… I don’t know.. yes.. I suppose”
“Where do you think you go too?”
“I hadn’t given that much thought.”
“I remember a place, it was warm and shining. It was safe. I don’t remember where that is any more. Have you seen it?”
The man shook his head. Fear rising in him. He wasn’t sure if this man was here to help him, or hurt him.
He knelt next to the man. “Your leg.. it’s broken”. He reached down towards it. The man paniced, and tried to move his leg away. “Don’t touch it!”. The quick movement caused the shale to slide, and the man slipped a little down the hill.
“I’m sorry.” He said.
The man looked up at him, his face fill of despair and fear. He looked down at the man, the fear penetrating into his very bones. “I only wanted to see you smile”. He turned to go.
“No, wait, please….”
He turned around and looked at the man. “You don’t really want me to wait. Your afraid of me. You just want to be better. You no longer want to die.”
The man simply stared at him. He turned round, and leaned towards the man. “Take my hand.” The man stared at it, terrified. “Take my hand. ” The man reached up and took ahold of it, and he pulled him up, resting him against the mountain. “Your leg is fine, it may be a bit stiff, but I’m sure that it will hold. ”
The man looked at him, then looked at his leg, bending it experimentally. The man then scrambled to his feet and looked at him with abject fear, that felt like hot pokers running through him. The man whimpered, and then took off down the hill at a scrambling run. He watched the man run away, and his heart broke. If he knew what tears were he would have wept.

“I only wanted to see you smile”

~BX

Popularity: 21% [?]

Popularity: 22% [?]

Michael stamped his feet against the cold, and blew into his cupped hands. Not for the first time that night he contemplated his warm flat. He pulled the collar up on his coat, and went back to contemplating the window. This was becoming a little tedious. All he wanted was to be able to take a picture of the woman in the house with a certain celebrity and he could go home. He’d managed to follow the celebrity here on a number of occasions, but had never managed to get the money shot. Truth be told,he hated this kind of assignment. He felt it demened both him and the newspaper. The thing was, a dead-line was a deadline. He had often thought of going freelance, but freelancers with morrals didn’t get printed, which essential meant that they didn’t eat.

It was a fruitless line of thought. He had run around the tracks so often they were probably burned into his brain. A light turned on in his precious window, and he raised the digital camera to his eye. Many purists insisted that the only way to get the best shots was with old fashioned film. He wasn’t one of those purists. The woman walked passed the window taking off her top, revealing her blue bra. This caused Micheal to raise an eyebrow. No matter how many times he had hid in similar bushes or trees, he always expected the sexy woman to be wearing a black lacy bra, rather than a plain cotton blue one. At least, he mused, if you were in the habbit of taking your top off infront of an open window, you should at least put sensible under ware on. The woman paused with her back to the window, and then slowly turned, and walked towards the window, staring out into the night. Mechanically, her hands raised to the window catch, and she pushed opened the window wide. Micheal frowned. This was not what he was expecting on such a cold night. He lowered the camera, and saw a man climb in through the window. Finally, some action. He raised the camera to his eye, and the man dissopeared. Micheal frowned, the woman was still standing there, staring out into the night. Micheal pulled the camera down, and the man had vanished. Curious, he made his way through the foliage closer to the house. There was a dark shape moving through the house, but the woman still stood there staring out the window. He made it up to the window, and cupped his hands around his eyes so he could see in.

Inside there was a man, moving in a funny shambling gate moving through the room. Picking up various ornaments, bringing them to his face, pausing for a while, and then discarding them without any thought. The man moved along the mantlepiece, and finally found one that he didn’t discard. The man raise it twice to his face, and then nodded to himself, and slowly turned towards the window where Micheal stood. The Micheal stared at the man, who seemed to have a melting, mottled green face, and large, pointed bottom teeth, which it smiled eviliy at him. At the same time a scream from upstairs startled both of them, and Micheal took off into the night.

He didn’t stop running until he had made it to the bright lights of the city center, and even then he didn’t feel safe. He got into the first taxi, and rode to his office, where he knew there would be a night-guard, and others like him working on a deadline. He signed himself in in the brightly-lit lobby, and rested against the walls of the metal elevator as he rode it to his floor. Arriving in his cubicle, he hung his coat up, and flopped into his chair. He sat there for many long minuets, simply trying to gather his breath. He flicked his computer screen on, it’s not like anyone ever shut their computers down here. He opened up an editor, and stared at the large white space. He took a deep breath, and began typing. The words tumbled out in a flood, almost falling over themselfs to make it to the page. In what felt like no time at all, he had a full story. The only problem was that no-one was going to believe him. No photographs, a “thing” that he couldn’t see in his digital camera, and a story which essentially ends with him running away from a place he shouldn’t have been in the first place after being seen by someone there.

He leant back in his seat, and stared at the story. He leant forward and pressed print anyway. He pushed his seat back, listening for the whirr of the printer warming up. A sudden loud ringing made him jump so hard he knocked his chair over. He stared at the phone on his desk like he’d never seen it before. He lifted the receiver like it was going to bite him, and held it to his ear.

“hello?”
“Ahh, Hello Micheal?” said a young voice on the other end of the phone in an almost impeccable British Accent said.
“umm… Yes?”
“We hear you had an encounter this evening” the voice continued. It seemed soft, and reassuring
“Who….. Who is this?”
“That’s not really important right now, we are just here to give you an offer. You have probably just printed a story that you think no-one will believe. That story may be important. ”
“Pardon?”
“I understand, your head will be swimming. It’s a lot to take in. Go home, get a good night’s sleep, take your story with you. If you would like to find out more, meet me in the smal Cafe at the end of your road at 10 o’clock.”
There was a click and the line went dead. Micheal shook his head and put the phone down. Whoever the stranger was, he was right about one thing, Micheal needed to sleep. He picked up his story, and headed home.

Micheal spent the tossing and turning, the memory of the face sneaking into every dream he had, turning it into a nightmare. As the grey light of dawn spilled through his grubby curtains, Micheal gave up on sleep and made his way to the kitchen, and began a fruitless search for a clean cup. He picked up one hopefull cup and tipped the cigarett buts out of it, and looked at the sink overflowing with days old dishes. He added his mug to the the precarious pile and staggered back to his bedroom to get dressed.

The Streets were busier than he would have expected at this time of the morning. In the same way that the Cafe on the corner was busy than he would have expected. He ordered a cup of coffee and sat himself down in a corner, staring off into space. Several hours, and cups of coffee later, Micheal was still sat there, when a man in his mid-twenties with shaggy blond hair, a suit and trainers slid himself into the chair oposite him. Micheal looked at the new-comer. “I’m waiting for someone”
“Yes, you are. He’s here” the young man smiled.
“What is this all about?”
“You wont really believe me if I told you”
“Try me”. The young blond man smiled and reached into his jacket, pulling out a folded manila envelope. Over the following hour, the young man explained how things worked. How people who had seen things very often went on seeing strange things, and how there was a choice, at least, for some of them. The young man explained how different people had different roles to play, and how Micheals was one of reporter. Micheal would submit his stories, in the usual way, using the pen name “Erin Sacks”. The story would then be then be picked up by some local sensationalist news-papers, things that had the names like “Strange and Mysterious Weekly”, and he would get paid for them. Sometimes, he might be asked to go on strange assignments, which would result in a story for Erin Sacks, but above all the young blond cautioned him, he was a reporter, because the world needed to know. Micheal added another cigarette but to the overflowing ash-tray.
“What’s in it for me?” Micheal asked. The deal didn’t really seem to do him any favours.
“Once the story is submitted, no-more nightmares.”
“Of any kind?”
The young man looked at him. “You know what I meant. The personal demons you already have you’ll have to deal with on your own”. Micheal nodded, and pulled out another cigarette.
“Most of what you’ve just told me isn’t true, is it?”
The young man simply looked at him, his eyes impassive. “You’ve just told me what I need to know. Offered me the carrot, with the implication of a stick. Perhaps parts of what you’ve told me make sense, but it’s not the full story, is it?”
The man stood up, and tapped the manila envelope that contained the details that they had gone over. “I don’t know, your the Journalist, you tell me”
Micheal nodded, and lit his cigarette. “You’ve not even told me your name”
Micheal glanced up to where the man had been standing, and noticed that he was already half-way to the door. He nodded to himself and picked up the envelope. Somedays life doesn’t just kick you to the ground, once your there, it jumps all over you.

The thing about being a journalist like Micheal is that no-one batted an eye-lid when he showed up in work in the middle of the afternoon. There was a pile of mail on his desk, most of which were the letters from what he affectionately called the crazies, which he slid into his bottom draw. Amoungst them was a memo from his editor congratulating him on the pictures that he’d taken, and the story that went with it. The memo didn’t really surprise Micheal, as he had that feeling of his life sliding in a way that he didn’t really understand. He also got the feeling that this was the only time he was going to get helped out like that. He flicked his monitor on to find the story that he had written, edited slightly, and pictures, taken from a few meters to the right of where he had been hiding. It showed the woman in the blue bra kissing the celebrity he’d been waiting for. A closer look at the embrace showed it was deep, and tight. The woman was probably terrified when the picture had been taken. He felt a pang of guilt, and once again cursed his conscience. He closed the story, and sat back in his chair, the gnawing sense of guilt growing. He looked at the drawer full of letters from crazies, and after a pause, reached down into it.

Popularity: 25% [?]

Hello All,

It’s a very proud day for me. After 10 years of Coding, Birch has finally made it to BETA. I know that sounds a bit crazy, but I keep moving the goal-posts for what it needs to do to be a release client. Essentially it has to do the same as the other major IRC clients out there. However, it is a very functional client, which runs on Java. This update adds the first ever requested feature from a user, the ability to automatically join channels when you connect to IRC.

This update brings to the end a mad amount of coding recently done on the client. You can now change the font, the font size, the text colour, and of course, set an image for the background of your the “Desktop” of your IRC Channel windows. I’ve not yet managed to get the windows to be transparrent, but that may happen soon.

As you can see, it’s been fairly close to the last release of BIRCH. That is how quick turn-around is on most new requested features (being as I’ve only had one….). So, if you enjoy using the client, please tell me, and if you want it to do anything funky, just ask!

~BX

Click the link to go to the Download Page:

birch-0.5BETA

To run, simply unzip everything into a directory,
change to the directroy, and type
java MainProgram

~Thanks, BX

Popularity: 31% [?]

I needed to do this as a quick presentation for a Class, so I thought I’d post it here for people who may be looking for a quick over-view.

Church In Wales’ View of Ordination
Anglican View of Ordination

There are three main orders in the Anglican Church, two of which a person is traditionally ordained into, and a third to which one is consecrated, though the wording has changed a few times over the history of the Anglican Church.

The first order to which a person is ordained is the Diaconate. This role is primarily one of service, and to some ways of thinking, they Mediate the Word of God. The second order is that of Presbyter, more commonly known as Priest. They are seen to mediate at the Eucharist. Traditionally the role was seen as representing God to man, and Man to God, though a lot of people feel uncomfortable with this description today. The third order is that of Bishop, to which one is Consecrated. Each of the higher orders “contain” the lower orders. That is, a Bishop is still a Deacon, but is also a Priest and Bishop. They are not replacement orders, but a growing sphere of responsibility. If the Deacon is seen as Mediating the word, then the Priest can be seen as Mediating the Eucharist, and the Word and the Bishop can be seen as Mediating the Church, the Eucharist, and the Word.

Ordination, then, is the passing on of this Authority to Mediate from the Bishop downwards. Some still believe in Apostolic succession, which is an unbroken line of Authority being passed on, traceable all the way back to Christ. An Ordination is a Sacramental Rite, (that is, not everyone holds it has a sacrament in and of itself), and is therefore the outward sign of the work of the Holy Spirit, in this case, it is an outward sign of the Calling of God upon a person. This calling has been tested, and has been formed through training. During the Rite the Bishop lays his hands upon the person to be ordained, and confers upon them the Order of Deacon or Priest, and all the Authority that comes with that office.

So where does this idea come from? The roots can be seen in the Bible. The idea of the laying on of hands, for example, can be seen in Numbers, Chapter 27:18-19, where God tells Moses to take his Son Joshua, and lay his hands on him :

“So The LORD said to Moses, “Take Joshua son of Nun, a man in whom is the spirit, and lay your hand upon him; have him stand before Eleazar the priest and all the congregation, and commission him in their sight”

There are also examples in the New Testament, Acts 6:6, in the story of the calling of the seven to wait the tables, “They had these men stand before the apostles , who prayed and laid their hands on them.” There are also many examples of laying on of hands, with a consecratory prayer in the writings of St. Augustine, as well as in the Apostolic Tradition of Hppolytus. It is in this laying-on of hands that some divine effect comes into affect1.

When it comes to the office of the Deacon, to which people are first ordained, their office as one of a servant is typified in the Gospel that is read during their Ordination. For example, in the Alternative Service Book of 19802, The Gospel is Mark 10:35-45. The bit that summarises the role of the Deacon can be found towards the end, at verse 43 “But this is not so among you; but whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant”. What is interesting, is that the ASB lists the reading for those being Ordained as Priests as being John 20:19-23, which reads (from verse 21) “Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you”. When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.”3

As you can see in this last reading there is the idea of some form of Authority being convayed to the Apostles, the idea of being able to loose sins. This is something that, in the Catholic Tradition became the Sacrament of Confession, and in the Anglican Tradition can be seen as being worked out in the General Confession, where the Priest pronounces Absolution at the beginning of the
Eucharist Service.

That said, the Ordination service is by necessity a public service, to which anyone is welcome to attend. There is a part of the service where the Bishop asks the congregation if they consent to the Ordination of the person. Though it is the Bishop who has the Authority to Ordain, it is only with the permission of the people do they do so. Those to be ordained are presented to the Bishop, and their names read out. The Bishop then says: Those whose duty it is to inquire about these persons and examine them have them to be of godly life and sound learning, and believe them to be duly called to serve God in this ministry. Is it therefore your will that they should be ordained. To which the people, hopefully, answer “It is”.

Of course, like most Faith Groups, Anglicans, by and large can’t completely agree to what extent, and how much of the above holds true for them all, however, in general (as much as you can for Anglicans):

Ordination happens to a person who’s calling has been tested and proofed through training, or other suitable method. During the Ordination, a Bishop lays their hands on the head of the person to be ordained, and it is this element that makes the ordination valid. All of this must take place in the presence of the People who give their verbal consent to the ordination.

Notes:
Mostly taken from Haffner, Paul: The Scaramental Mystery, 1999,Gracewing, Herefordshire.
Alternative Service Book, 1984, SPCK. Cambridge University Press
All Bible Readings Taken from the NRSV

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Here’s a quick place-holder where I can upload the Snoop, a more permenant home will be with us snoon!

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~BX

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