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January 23, 2012
Men dressed as women
Rev Life: Episode 4
Men dressed as women
I'm sitting in St Pauls Cathedral at some important service or other. The importance of a service is gauged by how many men are dressed as women up at the front and there are loads of them.
These days, there are women dressed as women as well, of course, though somehow they end up looking like men. It's a perverse alchemy. But as a portly man mixes well-crafted anecdote and advice from the pulpit, my mind wanders back across eternity to when I was ordained in this very place. Ordination is the commissioning service for priests, when traditionally two things happen: the bishop lays hands on you and your backbone is removed. I could remember it like it was twenty six years ago, which it was.
Ordination services bring out the worst in the institutional church. I recall a lot of pomp and a lot of prancing around by clergy old enough to know better. Like Ascot, there's a gorgeous sea of large hats on display and that's just the bishops. There's also a great deal of ceremony, a host of proud mums and an equal number of weeping dads, wondering what happened to the future England striker they'd once held in their arms. What was he to say in the office on Monday morning?
'So what does your son do, Mike?'
'I'm sorry?'
'I said, what does your son do, Mike?'
'Well, he's a - he's a - I mean, the important thing is, he's happy.'
'Great, Mike, that's really great - but what does he do?'
'He's a - er - he's a cl - (choking cough) - man.'
'Sorry, Mike, I didn't catch that. He's a what?'
'He's a cl - (more coughing) - man.'
'Let me get you some water, Mike and then you can tell me all about what your son does for a living. Hey guys, I'm just getting Mike some water and then he's going to tell us all what his son does for a living. Gather round!'
The organ's playing, of course. It may have been Mozart's favourite instrument but it isn't mine. I loathe its dominating noise and here in St Pauls it dominates all over the place, killing the silent seeds. And then there's the very high ceiling which I remember the preacher gazing towards as I set out on my priestly career all those years ago. Perhaps he too was surprised at just how high it was. Or maybe he was seeking inspiration. If he was seeking inspiration, I can confirm that he never found it. He would have done better to join the congregation in checking his watch - or a calendar. He was a long way from being brief and to the point.
To be honest, instead of a service with such a vastly inflated ego, I'd have preferred a little chat with the bishop over a cup of tea and a slab of fruit cake. After which he could give me a hug and send me out into the world with the words:
'Simon, you old bugger - it's time to go. You're a follower of Jesus who was on the wrong side of the powerful but on the right side of life and love. So hang in there. Take people seriously but don't take the church seriously. Risk everything and fear nothing! And remember always - you are beloved of this earth.'
Once upon a long time ago, that may have been the commissioning service, verbatim, but no longer. Now the service is just one more example of the church's ability to make the simple complicated, the interesting, dull and the profound, religious.
'Give me your first blessing, Father, I need your first blessing!'
These are the first words you hear when the Ordination service is over. There are those who imagine special power in a priest's first blessing and gather round the freshly ordained like the pigeons in Leicester Square around the bread man, kneeling in cooing expectation.
The needy soul who approached me had touched down at least three yards too early and slid the rest of the way on his knees. With such confidence, you sensed he'd done this before.
I'm shocked from my reverie of remembrance by my phone going off. It's a book publisher and not wishing to miss the moment, I mutter - 'Hang on a sec' as I make my awkward way along the row towards the side aisle. I hope the message on my face is: 'I've just been informed of a terrible tragedy.'
In the shadows of the pillars, I can speak at last.
'This isn't a bad time, is it?' asks the publisher.
'No, not at all, not at all - it's very good time.'
For freelancers the world over, there's no bad time to be offered a job; though fair's fair - had I been listening to the Sermon on the Mount, I'd probably have said, 'I'll call you back.'
'Who's the man speaking?' asks the publisher.
'Oh, it's just some nonsense on the radio,' I say uncharitably as I nestle by a tomb in a quiet cathedral enclave and try to avoid the verger's disapproving gaze. 'Now, to business...'
Posted by Mr Bojangles at January 23, 2012 11:46 AM