A note from the Vicarage...

October 2024

Well, it was a struggle to write this. I’m not very good at goodbyes! But, here we are - my final

‘From the Vicarage’ piece before I retire later this month.

There’s plenty I could write about; reminiscences by the score. The connections that I’ve made

here are deep and too numerous to mention. It’s been a fantastic privilege to share in so many of

your lives and stories; to be able to walk alongside you through significant happenings and life

events; to have been accepted so warmly into these communities that I was called to serve.

So, summing up my time here in just a page is frankly impossible. And, being a pragmatist, I’m not

going to attempt it. But I do want to reflect on the word ‘retire’.

Many people think that to retire means that you just stop doing anything. Now, I know enough

retired people (that would be a lot of you reading this) to know that that’s not true! A lot of people

tell me that they’re busier in retirement than they were when they were working. Family projects,

grandchildren, volunteering, and so on.

But what about the situation that you leave? Are they left in the lurch? Let’s think about where the

word ‘retire’ comes from. It actually comes from the French ‘re-tirer’, which means ‘to draw back’.

Having recently watched the Olympics, there’s an image that comes to mind. It’s an image of a

relay race. One person carries the baton, and then hands it to the next person - after which the

first person draws back. ‘Retires’. They’ve done their bit, and now it’s up to someone else.

And, think about the changeover. It’s critical. It has to happen within a particular zone, for a start.

The job of the first person is to present the baton to the next runner at precisely the right moment.

And the job of the next runner is to reach behind them to take the baton, but to keep looking

forward, and to focus completely on the task in front of them - the next leg of the race. It’s the

golden rule of relay racing - never look back.

So, I’m handing on the baton. In the fullness of time there will be, I’m sure, a new Vicar. But, in

the meantime, it’s up to you. Keep looking forward, and know that the God who has been running

with us all the time that I’ve been here (and who is more invested in you all than I could ever be)

will carry on with you into the future.

With every blessing, and my sincerest thanks for your friendship,

Nick

September 2024

Sometimes, you come across things that make you sit up and take notice.

For instance, last year Anita and I holidayed in West Yorkshire, near Holmfirth. You know,

‘Last of the Summer Wine’ country. It’s an area we hadn’t explored before. And one day,

while we were driving around, we drove through a village called ‘Haigh’. And then we came

across ‘Haigh Lane’. And then we had a telephone call with my sister, who had been doing

some family ancestry research, and found out from her that my great-great grandfather

(and his father before him) came from a place called Almondbury, which just happened to

be a mere two miles away from where we were staying. Then we attended a local village

church one Sunday and, chatting to one of the congregation after the service, happened to

mention our family name. ‘Haigh’. And she said, “Oh yes, we’ve got loads of those buried

outside in the churchyard!” And then, visiting Anita’s sister, who lives in that area in a

village called Shepley, we drove past a firm of accountants called ‘Haigh Hudson’; and Anita

jokingly said to me, “Do you think it’s a sign?!”

You see, when you get to a certain age, you start thinking about retirement. And that, for a

Vicar, means thinking also about where you might retire to. Because one of the downsides

of being a Vicar is that, when you retire, you have to move out of the Vicarage (and, indeed,

at least fifteen miles away from the parishes you have served).

By the way, I can confirm that the rumours are true – I will be retiring later this year, in

October. My family and I have had a wonderful time here with you, and it will be very

difficult to leave. But, age catches up with you, and leave we must….

Well, we returned from our holiday with much to think about. We realised that we quite

liked that area, and started looking at houses for sale in earnest (without much success).

And then Anita’s sister said to us, “Have you seen this one?” and sent us a picture of a house

that we’d somehow overlooked. Which had been reduced, and looked very promising. The

house, in fact, that we’ve now actually bought, as a place to retire to. Right next to… Haigh

Hudson Accountants of Shepley. Remember them? And the people that were selling the

house – well, the husband was brought up and went to school in… Haslemere.

God doesn’t often speak to us with flashes of lightning and thunderbolts and a booming

voice and all that sort of thing. It’s often – usually, in my experience – those small nudges

that make us sit up and take notice. We just have to have our ears and eyes open.

With every blessing,

Nick 

April 2024

I’ve been doing a lot of shredding recently. You know, that thing where you feed documents into the top of machine that greedily grabs them, makes a groany-whiny-scrunchy sort of noise, and showers them into a bin underneath in lots of little bits. My one is called a ‘confetti cut’ shredder, although the tiny pieces of paper it produces are smaller than any real confetti I’ve ever seen (and, trust me, I get to see a lot of confetti in my line of work).  Any document that falls into that machine is well and truly destroyed, annihilated, obliterated, wiped out, exterminated, eliminated, and lots of other things that my thesaurus suggests but which I can’t use here.  In other words, permanently gone.

Shredding of ‘sensitive information’ is encouraged, of course, and not just because of GDPR.  We are told that it’s important not to let our personal details and all that sort of thing fall into the wrong hands. And that it’s important not to put very much at all about ourselves on social media sites like Insta-Snap-Whats-Tumble-Twit-Face, either.  Indeed, it’s seen as a virtue to be paranoid about this sort of thing.   Our privacy may be invaded. Our bank details may be stolen. Our very identity may be stolen.

All sadly true.

But all this raises an interesting question: just how much should we reveal about ourselves to the world at large?   In any given situation, how much is too much?  How little is too little? 

We’ve all met people who give us far too much information about themselves at first acquaintance.  And we’ve all met people who remain a total enigma no matter how long we’ve known them.  The truth is that it’s very hard to relate to either kind of person.  If we are to connect with others in a meaningful way (which is a large part of what makes us human), we need to move beyond purely functional communications, or the ‘have you come far?’ sort of small talk.  And that inevitably involves some sort of self-revealing.

Of course, this is potentially risky.  There are risks involved in revealing what’s on your mind (your opinions), or what’s on your heart (your feelings).  What if people don’t like what you think or feel?  What if you get rejected?  Isn’t it better to keep yourself closely guarded, so that you don’t get rejected, hurt, or taken advantage of?

The answer is, yes, there are risks to showing others what you’re really like.  But there is also immense potential.   

We live in a world of contrasts, particularly the stark contrast between divulging all sorts of personal things far and wide on one hand, and being suspicious of everything and everybody on the other.  Neither of these things actually build community.  What does build community is the willingness of people to be open with one another ; in fact, to be intentionally, but appropriately, vulnerable with one another.  The strong senses of community and belonging that we all so deeply desire can come about in no other way.

Personally, I don’t think that there’s a shred of doubt about that.

With every blessing,

Nick 

March 2024

So, how many sound engineers does it take to change a light bulb?

Answer: One. Two. One. Two. One. Two. One. Two. IS THIS MICROPHONE

WORKING?!

In virtually any public gathering these days you’ll find some sort of amplification.

Speech and music need to be heard clearly by everyone. So, there’ll be a sound

system. Microphones. Loudspeakers. That sort of thing. And where there’s a sound

system, there’s usually a sound engineer to operate it. We usually see them, if we

see them at all, at the back of the venue, sitting behind the mass of knobs, sliders

and dials which make up the sound mixing desk. Their work has often begun long

before the event started – they’ve set everything up, often heaving all the equipment

around themselves; they’ve plugged in dozens of cables, and they’ve done all sorts

of sound checks. Their work goes on long after the event finishes, too – it all has to

be unplugged, dismantled and packed up again.

I think that sound engineers are the unsung heroes of the entertainment industry,

and I always try to thank them if I can.

Here’s the thing about sound engineers. You never notice the good ones. The few

bad ones you do notice – they make themselves known by unwanted squeals,

squeaks and pops, by microphones not being switched on (or off) when they should

be, and by sound levels which are too quiet, too loud, distorted, or indistinct. You

don’t notice the good ones because they make the sound system ‘transparent’, so

that you hear only the true performance, and don’t really notice that it’s amplified at

all. But even the best sound engineers can be caught out by equipment failures and

so on – and also by performers misusing the equipment. So, often, their only contact

with the public is when the complaints come. And they’re almost never given the

benefit of the doubt. Whatever the problem with ‘the sound’, it’s the sound

engineer’s fault. One absolutely essential requirement for any sound engineer is a

thick skin.

There are many jobs like that. We, the great British public, have been encouraged

to expect perfection wherever we go, and also encouraged to complain whenever we

don’t get it. This leads to very competent people in all walks of life being put under

great pressure. Why? Because perfection is impossible. We’re all imperfect human

beings. The fact that so many things in our society are actually done to such a high

standard, by many very talented people, perhaps just reinforces the myth.

Now, I’m not saying that we should be content with poor standards. It’s reasonable

to expect that all of us should aim for the best in everything we do, at least

professionally. But not at the expense of our humanity, or by being inhuman to

others. Let’s not allow the modern self-obsessed ‘moaning malaise’ to rob us of our

humanity, or our appreciation of what others do for us – whether they’re on the stage

and in the limelight, or backstage, hidden, making it all happen anonymously.

There’s only one Person at work in this world who is perfect.

And it’s not me – or you.

With every blessing,

Nick

February 2024

I have to admit, it took me a bit by surprise.

My piece in this magazine last month on how I became a vicar generated a

considerable amount of interest. You, know, me falling and breaking my back

and all that. A number of people asked me if I could write a bit more about my

story. So, being an obliging sort of chap, I will…

I suppose the seed might have been sown when I took my driving test. I

remember it well, even though it was, er, some time ago. I remember the

tension of the whole thing. I remember seeing the examiner’s fingers and

knuckles whiten on the dashboard as I performed a very satisfying emergency

stop. I remember doing the best three-point turn of my life up to that point. I

remember being held up by, of all things, another learner driver who was

crawling along at twenty miles per hour in front of me. And I remember the

examiner turning to me after he had asked me to pull up by the side of the

road (I didn’t realise at first that it was the end of the test) and telling me that

I’d passed.

Then, while I took in this momentous announcement, he paused and said,

“You’re a very serious-looking young man. Are you going to be a vicar when

you’re older?”

Well…

Of course, it was probably his standard way of breaking the ice at the end of a

successful test. He’d probably said it to hundreds of young people who, like

me, had been concentrating fiercely during their tests and inevitably looked

rather serious about the whole thing.

But it stuck in my mind. At the very least, from then on I filed ‘vicar’ mentally

under ‘vaguely possible life choices.’ Reflecting on it later, though, I started to

think, why should being a vicar mean looking serious all the time? Had the

examiner known a particularly grumpy vicar? Why should ‘religion’ be

equated with a lack of humour and humanity? And, of course, it shouldn’t,

even though there have been many through history who have tried to be ‘holy’

by being glum and boring. Christ most definitely wasn’t like that. He spent a

lot of his time at parties. He said that he came to bring us life in all its fulness.

And that life that he brings to us as he breaks the power of death on Easter

Sunday is full of godly and holy hope and happiness, despite what life may

throw at us. All things become possible through his love and power.

Even becoming a vicar. With a sense of humour.

With every blessing,

Nick

January 2024

This year, 2024, will mark the twelfth year that I’ve been the Vicar of Fernhurst.  Amazing, isn’t it?

But, as a lot of you will know, I haven’t always been a vicar.   I’ve had previous careers.   Leaving aside the interesting fact that one definition of ‘career’ is ‘to run uncontrollably downhill’, I regularly find myself being asked how I actually became a vicar.  Not, notice, how ‘one’ becomes a vicar – the formal process involved – but how I came to be a vicar, recognising that this will have been a big step for me to take. 

Well, it all started with a water leak.  Yes, really.  I’d come downstairs early one morning, in my pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers, to make a cup of tea for Anita and myself, and I noticed that there was water on the floor in the utility room.  So I looked up, and I saw a very wet patch on the ceiling.  And sighed, because and I knew that immediately above that wet patch were the main central heating pipes, and that they must be leaking. So (being a typical man), I got a stepladder there and then, and climbed up to the ceiling hatch to investigate.  And all I remember after that is that, as I was pushing the hatch upwards and sideways into the roof space, the stepladder went one way, and I went another. I ended up falling from ceiling height flat on my back on to a concrete floor.   The pain was unbelievable.  I couldn’t move.  An ambulance was called.  The paramedics took me to hospital strapped to one of those spinal boards.  Scans were done.  The verdict: I’d broken my back.  To say that this changed my plans for the day would be a massive understatement.  I spent the best part of a week in hospital, and then six months convalescing.

Which gave me time to think and reflect…

When I was well enough to leave the house, I started to have lunch with my vicar every week in the local pub.  We talked about this and that, faith, the church, and all sorts of things.  And one day he said to me, “Have you ever thought about becoming ordained?”   And I said, “Yes – but I’ve always kind of discounted myself.”  And he said, “Why?”   That was the question that changed the course of my life in a very unexpected way.

I found that it’s not easy becoming a vicar. There’s an immense amount of work involved, much of it academic, and lots of in-depth interviews with bishops and the like.  Not unreasonably (in fact, very sensibly!) the Church wants to be assured that this is a genuine ‘call’.  But I sailed through it all, probably because the passion for being a priest that developed in me grew from that time of enforced reflection, together with the perceptiveness and prompting of a friend.

There’s more to tell of course. Lunch in the pub, anyone?

With every blessing, 

Nick