Lutterworth

Cathy and I had a day off today, and drove down the M6/M1 to Lutterworth, in Leicestershire. There were a couple of reasons for doing that today.

The first is that today was the final day of a highly successful exhibition in the Chapter House of Lichfield Cathedral to mark the 400th anniversary of the publication of the King James' Bible. For the last five weeks, visitors have been treated to a display of some of the key treasures from our own historic library, including not only two first edition 1611 Bibles, but also four other manuscript and early printed English Bibles, which together tell the 200 year 'backstory' to the Authorised Version: a Wycliffe manuscript dating from about 1410, a first edition Henry VIII 'Great Bible' of 1539, the 1540 version with Archbishop Thomas Cranmer's famous preface about the value of the vernacular Bible, a sixteenth century Geneva (or 'Breeches') Bible.

That 200 'journey' might be said to have begun in Lutterworth -- that is, at least, where John Wycliffe was vicar for the last decade of his life (he died in 1384). It was there that his bones were dug up and burned when he was declared a heretic in 1408, before the dust of his remains were scattered into the River Swift so that his followers would have no shrine to visit. We still managed a little pilgrimage and were offered a warm welcome at St Mary's Church by a 'reader' who took time to show us a cope believed to have been worn by Wycliffe, his pulpit and chair. She was refreshingly at pains to point out that St Mary's is not a museum, however, but a thriving place of worship today.

The second reason for our visit to Lutterworth is that I have a new book due out in a couple of weeks, which is to be published by 'Lutterworth Press'. The press is 'one of the oldest independent British publishing houses' and must surely be so-named somehow in Wycliffe's honour. My book is a sequel to one which was published by Paternoster a couple of years ago, called 'Walking the Walk: the Rise of King David for Today'. This one is, inevitably, called 'Talking the Talk: the Fall of King David for Today'. It's an attempt to provide a literary and theological reading of the well-known bible story, with an eye on contemporary application. It'll be 'launched' at a party here at the Cathedral on Saturday 30 April in the evening, and anyone wishing to get an invitation can contact sales@lutterworth.com.

A sermon preached at Lichfield Cathedral on Sunday 13th June 2010

A meditation on the story of the sinful woman who anointed Jesus (Luke 7.36-8.3)

Anyone who has anything to do with Jesus of Nazareth ends up asking, ‘Who is this?’. So here’s how that question came into focus for me.

My name is Miriam. Like half the women in Galilee, I’m named after the sister of Moses. I’m also a sinner. A public one, I mean: shut out of the synagogue on account of my lifestyle. You don’t need to know the details. Let’s just say that all my adult life I’ve got used to men treating me as an object and women regarding me as a threat. I’ve got used to living without much intimacy or friendship in my life. I’m not asking for pity though. I’ve made choices knowing the consequences – and financially, anyway, I’ve done alright. But always to be an outcast, never to belong, that was hard. It’s different now. I could never have imagined doing what I’ve been doing these last six months, living the way I’m now living, or belonging the way I now belong. Now the men I’m with treat me with respect and the women have embraced me as a friend, as a sister even. I can’t tell you what that means to me. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I’d heard of Jesus weeks before he turned up in our city. He’s been preaching and teaching in the region for a year or so and he’s widely thought to be… well what exactly? That’s disputed. A rabbi obviously; no-one argues about that, because he teaches with such authority. Most people also regard him as a prophet because he’s not afraid to challenge authority or defy convention. That’s not normal for rabbis, at least round here. But to me, he’s more than a prophet. And here’s why.

The day Jesus came to our city, there was great excitement. People flocked to hear him in the synagogue, to which I of course couldn’t go. To be honest, I don’t usually have any desire to go where I’m not wanted; but that day I felt left out. You see, Jesus has a nickname. He’s called ‘the Friend of Sinners’. He eats with tax collectors and touches lepers, which most religious leaders won’t do. That intrigued me and I did want to see him.

Then I heard he was eating that night at the house of Simon the Pharisee. Simon more or less runs the synagogue. He’s the most devout religious leader in the city. And he’s rich enough to lay on a feast. Plus his house is big enough to hold a crowd -- and loads of people would be there. The great and the good would be invited; but in our culture, at big banquets, the door is left open so neighbours can just turn up and sit around the edge of the room, listening to the chatter and soaking up the atmosphere. So I decided to go. I knew I’d not be very welcome. But I also knew it wouldn’t be easy for them to throw me out. This way, I’d at least get to see Jesus and maybe hear him too.

Then I had a mad idea. I was thinking about that nickname, ‘Friend of Sinners’, and how weird it is for a holy man. There has to be some danger, surely, that Jesus will be misunderstood and that because of the company he keeps, he will be dismissed as a sinner himself. I’m not a religious person and I don’t claim to know about these things, but to take that sort of risk seems like the mark of a true prophet. So I got this urge to do something for Jesus, to thank him, to let him know that his stance matters. But what do you do for a prophet? Well, in our tradition, you anoint him. Sometimes an idea hits you which leaves you no real choice: as soon as you think of it, you know you have to do it.

I had some perfumed oil. In my line of work, I needed it. I laughed out loud when I realised I was planning to anoint a holy man with oil I’d bought with um… immoral earnings. It seemed fitting somehow for a 'Friend of Sinners'.

I waited until I knew the meal would be in full swing. I could hear the noise of the dinner two streets away. Once or twice I nearly turned back. But then there I was, at the door of the house: on the outside, looking in, as ever. I waited a second to get my bearings, scanning the room as I leaned against the doorframe. It wasn’t hard to work out which was Jesus: he was immediately on Simon’s right hand side, and he was speaking.

It would have been so easy just to stand there and listen, but I knew that if I didn’t act at once I wouldn’t act at all; so I crossed the room. The murmuring, as people caught sight of me, was predictable. The hubbub grew as they realised I was approaching Jesus; that was predictable too. What I hadn’t anticipated was how hard it would be to get to Jesus’ head. I knew the guests would be reclining, heads towards the table, feet stretched out behind. But the dinner guests were packed together so tightly that short of climbing over a forest of legs, I couldn’t get near Jesus’ head. I ended up stranded a bit helplessly at his feet. I was feeling a bit foolish about that, and in my embarrassment, I couldn’t even get the stopper out of the perfume bottle. And I panicked. I’d so wanted to do this. It’d seemed important to do it. But now I felt I’d made a mess of it, like I’d made a mess of my life. So I burst into tears. Floods of tears. Great rivers of tears streaming down my face, and falling on his feet. At which point I lost all my inhibitions. If I had a reputation as a loose woman before that moment, I had it twice over afterwards. On impulse, I let down my hair (at which there was an audible gasp, which I can still hear in my head, because we don’t do that in our culture, not outside the bedroom). Simon actually flinched. I saw him draw back and wince, as if my actions were physically hurting him. I fell to my knees and – I know this sounds silly – started trying to dry Jesus’ feet with my hair and then I was kissing his feet, which I probably shouldn’t have done, but I did, and then I remembered the oil, and I poured that on his feet as well. And the most wonderful thing was: Jesus didn’t flinch.

As you can imagine, by then all conversation had stopped. Everyone else was in complete silence. They were all waiting, I was waiting, for what Jesus would say. I remember thinking, now we’ll find out if he’s a 'Friend of Sinners' or not. If I’ve got this wrong, I’ll have to leave the city for good. Jesus must have rumbled my reputation. He’ll have read it in the faces of the other guests the moment I entered the room. I had meant to anoint him with dignity but now I’ve gone and acted with such abandon. If Jesus rejects me, I was thinking, I’ll never live it down.

But he didn’t reject me. He told off Simon. It took a moment or two for me to realise that’s what was going on, but by the end it was dead clear. Jesus compared me with Simon, and applauded me.
In all, Jesus spoke five times. I can remember every word. First, he turned to his host and said, ‘Simon, I want to say something to you’. That was odd in itself. There we were, waiting for Jesus to pass judgment on me, and he just got our attention by telling us he had something to say. By then my hopes were already rising. My gut instinct was that if Jesus was going to condemn me, he’d have done it at once. So when he said he wanted to speak to Simon, my heart began to pound in expectation.

The second thing he did was tell a story. I think I knew where the story was going before Simon. It was a story about two debtors. No; really it was about an unlikely debt collector who freely forgave two debtors, simply because they couldn’t pay. One owed about two months’ wages and the other nearly two years’. I knew at once which one was me. ‘When the creditor cancelled the two debts’, Jesus asked Simon, ‘which one loved him more?’. Simon didn’t answer very confidently; but we all knew it must be the one with the greater debt.

When Jesus spoke a third time, you could have heard a pin drop. He started to compare Simon’s behaviour with mine. I was still kneeling there, not daring to look up, still clinging onto his feet. Three times, Jesus pointed out the meanness of Simon’s welcome, and each time he drew attention to something I had done. ‘You gave me no water for a footbath, but she has washed my feet with her tears and dried them with her hair; you gave me no kiss of greeting, but she’s not stopped smothering my feet with her kisses; you gave me no olive oil for my head and face, but she has anointed my feet with her perfume. Why?’, he asked, ‘In her case, it’s because she senses her sins are forgiven: this great outpouring of hers is an outpouring of love and thankfulness. This is an act which is only possible for those who have felt the touch of God’s forgiveness. But someone who has never known that forgiveness (or thinks they have no need of forgiveness), shows little love and still less thankfulness’. You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife.

And then Jesus spoke to me. Twice actually. Until then he’d been speaking about me, gesturing at me. Usually I resent being treated as an object. But this was already different, and then, as I say, he did speak to me. He addressed me personally, tenderly. First, he said the thing I most needed to hear in all the world, and he said it for all the world to hear: ‘Your sins are forgiven’. That startled everyone; me included. That’s when they began asking ‘Who is this?’. A few meant, ‘Who is this, who seems so at ease even declaring God’s forgiveness?’, but others meant ‘Who does he think he is, claiming to forgive sins? That's God's job’.

Now here’s a funny thing. I looked up at this point. I was pretty sure I’d see Simon grabbing the opportunity to reassert himself by ridiculing Jesus’ right to declare forgiveness. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t looking outraged at all – just thoughtful.

And then Jesus spoke again. To me, a second time. ‘Your faith’, he said, ‘has saved you. Go in peace’. I don’t know much about faith. But I do know this: Jesus has set me free to become the person I was created to be – by accepting my tears and my kisses, by reading my heart and blessing what he read there, by telling me I was forgiven, he set me free. He said my faith saved me. I say, he saved me. Is he a rabbi? No question. A prophet? Surely. But to me, he’s now my Saviour.

One last thing. My story doesn’t end there. You see, I’ve joined his community. There are about twenty of us on the road with him. I was right in a way that anointing Jesus would require me to leave my city. But I was wrong to think I’d leave because I could never again belong. In fact I’ve left because I’ve now found a community where I fully belong and am completely accepted.

The extraordinary thing is, it’s a mixed group, men and women. On the road, travelling together. And the contribution of the women is valued. A few of us are actually using our wealth (me now included) to provide for Jesus and the Twelve. He calls us (the women) his partners, co-workers with him in the mission to proclaim the good news of God’s kingdom. He says we minister to him. After what I’ve been used to, it’s a bit of a shock to be in a community where women are taken seriously and treated as equals. Following Jesus is going to be like that, I reckon: pretty much constantly a bit of a shock. I’m not naïve. I know there will be dark days in times to come; but the vision of the coming kingdom of God, of a day when love will finally drive out fear, when women and men, rich and poor, Jew and Gentile will feast together at God’s eternal banquet, well that’s a cause to live and die for. For that, I’ll follow my Saviour come what may. I wouldn’t do it for a rabbi. I wouldn’t even do it for a prophet. But for a Saviour… Well, wouldn’t you?

Good Friday Electricity Fast

The Wilcox household experimented last week with a new (to us) way of observing Good Friday. Well, Good Friday afternoon to dawn on Easter Day actually. We kept an 'Electricity Fast'.

We owe the idea to a childhood friend of mine, Dave Bookless. Dave is National Director of Arocha UK -- a Christian nature conservation organisation. Forty years ago he and I were sandpit playmates in Bangalore, South India (where our fathers were colleagues on the staff of an Anglican Theological College). We haven't been in regular contact over the years, but last month he kindly agreed to deliver one of a series of Lent Lunchtime Lectures we had arranged at Lichfield Cathedral. It was a memorable occasion (in fact all five lectures were excellent). In the course of his presentation he happened to mention that he and his family had for some years now found the practice of an annual electricity fast something challenging and rewarding. It was one of those moments for me: as soon as he'd said it, I knew I'd want to try it.

Cathy didn't take much persuading. Maybe she's used to my mad schemes. The boys were less enthusiastic; but they are astonishingly loyal to their Dad and patient with me, and in the end both entered into the experiment pretty whole-heartedly. Broadly, the plan was to mark the hours in which Jesus was dead (ie, 3pm on Friday to dawn on Easter Day) by doing without electricity. The idea was not only that the subdued atmosphere in the home and longer hours of darkness would fit the time of the Christian year, but that in the process we would make a small gesture of protest at our consumer society and its heedless use of the world's resources. The two things felt like a good fit.

We didn't prepare carefully -- Holy Week was pretty hectic and Good Friday came up on us in a bit of a rush in the end. In advance we did agree not to cut off the power from the fridge or the freezer, but that we would do without computers, lighting, dishwasher, washing machine, microwave and kettle etc. Once we were underway, it became clear that we hadn't thought through the question of battery power. We hadn't gone round removing batteries from clocks and I decided not to remove my watch. That might be a useful experiment in itself some time, but it felt like the sort of thing which would take some thinking through and couldn't easily be tackled spontaneously. We didn't unplug the landline telephone -- but we did agree that we would make no outgoing calls except in an emergency. We would still answer incoming calls however. Not wanting to impose my own spiritual disciplines on the boys, I also suggested that the front room might be an amnesty area, where (with the door closed etc) they could retreat to watch tele, boot up a laptop etc. The mobile phone was a tough one. Again, we decided no texts or outgoing calls and no recharging either!

As the weekend unfolded, we did cut ourselves a bit of slack. Our shower is electrically operated and while it would have been possible to do without (our bath water is gas heated after all even if the thermostat which controls it is electric), we decided to make an exception of it. And I confess to using my mobile phone to keep in touch with the football results on Saturday afternoon... (I hadn't worked out in advance that our 'fast' hours included a period in which it was possible that my beloved Newcastle United might clinch promotion to the Premier League -- and in the end I couldn't bear not to follow progress. Shallow, I know.)

What was the impact? Well, our evening meals on Friday and Saturday were wonderful: candlelit and special somehow. I missed the kettle -- though boiling up water for tea and coffee was easy enough on our gas cooker. Six times during the fast I inadvertently flicked a light switch and had at once to turn it off again. I didn't realise how much of a reflex this is. I enter a dark room and reach out for the switch. It's even a reflex to turn 'off' a light you've remembered not to turn on. Twice I did this leaving the bathroom. Even though the room was dark and I was carrying a candle, I pullled the the light cord as I went out and filled the room with light. I missed the electric blanket. We live in a big house and the bedroom is hard to heat. Getting into a cold bed was probably the biggest hardship. And I was quite sobered to discover how much time I spend at my computer, especially dealing with emails. It has become instinctive to me, whenever I return home, to head into my study and check the state of my inbox. It was good to interrupt that pattern long enough to take note of it. To their credit, the boys disciplined themselves considerably: they didn't use their computers (as far as I'm aware) or their keyboards and electric guitars. The tele did get some use, but only after 6pm. That was a refinement introduced by the TV user himself, not by his parents!

And of course, on Easter morning it was wonderfully to be able to use the kettle and to switch on the lights -- and a CD player. Recorded music was the other thing we hadn't used for 36 hours and the combination of the CD player and the lights felt like a fitting celebration of Jesus' resurrection.

Classic fm at Lichfield Cathedral

We hosted a tremendous event at the Cathedral on Thursday night -- though I suppose I would say that, wouldn't I? Actually, I wasn't sure about it beforehand; but in retrospect I'm convinced. It was really worthwhile.

It was the CLASSIC f M Christmas Concert, in association with John Lewis. That's to say (and I hope I've got this right!), it was a charity fund-raiser concert (raising funds for the Music Makers charity), organised, funded and broadcast by CLASSIC f M, sponsored by the John Lewis partnership, and (for the first time in the Midlands) hosted at Lichfield Cathedral.

'Carol Concerts' are a fairly new phenomenon. I have instinctive reservations about them. They are defined, I suspect, in opposition (or in contrast anyway) to 'Carol Services'. So they represent a secularising trend. It can feel as if they attempt to wrest Christmas free of its Christian moorings, and yet to keep those elements of a 'traditional' Christmas which at best resonate with our yearning for meaning, and at worst appeal to mere sentimentality.

But last night's event was moving and will work well on the radio, I think. We'll know on the night of Monday 21 December (at 9.00pm) when it will be broadcast (on CLASSIC f M, of course).

Maybe it was the sense that the performance was being recorded which gave the occasion an atmosphere of reverence. A cynic would say that that too is a sign of the times: it isn't the presence of the living God which evokes a sense of awe and wonder, but the presence of the microphone. And yet there was a sense of reverence -- and my impression is that, ultimately, it derived from the setting. The Cathedral somehow asserts itself on these occasions as a sacred space.

In truth, the event probably has to be a 'concert'. After all, it's not appropriate to charge people to come to an act of worship in the Cathedral. So if you're going to have a charity fund-raiser, with attendance ticketed (at prices which while, 'not knowingly undersold' were not bargain basement either), it's right to make it a concert. People expect to pay to attend concerts.

But (and this was my conclusion in the end) as a concert, it was a distinctly spiritual occasion. The 'programme' was led (extremely ably) by one of the CLASSIC f M requests team, Jamie Crick. It comprised a series of readings (two from the Bible, and two not -- all superbly read), with about eight choir items, all religious (mostly sung by our own Cathedral Choir, sounding terrific, conducted by Philip Scriven and accompanied by Martin Rawles; but also by 'Enchanted Voices' -- a group of female singers convened and conducted by Howard Goodall, composer of the 'Vicar of Dibley' theme-tune) and four 'congregational' carols. The mix was completed by the uplifting participation of 'Deco' (the Darwin Ensemble Chamber Orchestra), led by Alex Laing. The point is that however the event was billed, it felt to me throughout the evening, that we were more of a congregation (ie, at a service) than an audience (at a concert).

So it felt entirely appropriate when, at the end of the evening, the Dean stepped up to the microphone and pronounced a blessing. This may not make the broadcast. I believe 80 minutes of recording will be reduced to 60 minutes of broadcast and I won't be at all surprised if the blessing (like the Dean's helpful introduction) fails to make the cut. But 'live' it was entirely fitting.

And just by the way: behind the scenes (on site all day yesterday and in some cases most of the day before) the staff from both CLASSIC f M and John Lewis were exemplary in their cheerfulness and courteousness. The culture of the two organisations is impressive. There may be those who sneer at the polite middle-classness of it all; but if the individuals we met are typical of their employees, these firms are getting something important profoundly right. So thank you, CLASSIC f M and John Lewis. Please come again.

The Staffordshire Hoard

I was fortunate enough, this morning, to be among the first visitors at the Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery to view a sample of pieces from the extraordinary treasure trove of Anglo-Saxon gold, news of which broke yesterday.

The national media has been full of this story today. On the 5th of July this year, a local man (Mr Herbert), using a £2.50 metal detector bought at a car-boot sale, struck gold on a friend's farm (Johnson's Farm near Burntwood). He'd been an amateur treasurer hunter for years, teased by his friends for chasing pennies. The find will turn him and the landowner into millionaires.

If, as is being reported today, their friendship has run into difficulties as a result, it will be no great surprise. Huge wealth, suddenly acquired, has a way of souring relationships. And yet, huge wealth, unexpectedly discovered, also remains a powerful metaphor for spiritual enlightenment. Mr Herbert's story calls to mind one of Jesus' parables. It's in Matthew's Gospel, chapter 13: 'The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field, which someone found and hid. Then in his joy he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field'.

After a few days, Mr Herbert reported the find to the proper authorities, who have now concluded a professional excavation of the site. They have been able to record the find and have conducted the kind of investigations which will enable scholars to interpret it -- the results of which are expected to transform our understanding of Anglo-Saxon England, and especially of the kingdom of Mercia (as this part of the world was known in the 7th-8th centuries). There's plenty which remains a mystery: who assembled the hoard and buried it and why?

In all, the hoard comprises more than 1500 pieces. Almost all are gold (about 5kg in all) or silver (about 2.5kg), and most appear to be parts of military equipment (sword-hilts and scabbards, and helmet clasps and checkplates etc), suggesting that this was war booty, probably taken from a battle involving royalty. Up close, the pieces (all of them small, some of them tiny) are spectacular: intricately decorated with celtic patterns and superbly crafted.

There are some Christian items: a few crosses (were they carried into battle as standards?), and a strip of gold (pictured) inscribed with some words from Psalm 68: 'Rise up O Lord, and may thy enemies be dispersed and those who hate thee be driven from thy face'. Presumably, some 7th century warrior carried that biblical text into battle, as a symbol of the support of the Christian God which he imagined himself to have.

For most Christians, it is acutely troubling that the God revealed by Jesus Christ to be a God of love has been pressed into service in this way, as a tribal-god in warfare. In the light of Jesus, there are many other verses in the Psalms which seem to speak much more fully of the nature of God: 'The Lord is gracious and merciful', for example, 'slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love'. That's Psalm 145.

For those of us in Lichfield, and perhaps especially for those of us associated with the Cathedral, the find is tremendously exciting. For one thing, Johnson's Farm is only 5 miles away. For another, the find seems to date from exactly the period which gave rise to our Cathedral. The indications are that the trove was buried in about 700. That's just the time the first Cathedral on this site was dedicated, as a place of hospitality to pilgrims visiting the shrine of St Chad -- who had died just a generation earlier in 672. The Cathedral has two great artefacts already, which date from about that time: the Chad Gospels (an illuminated manuscript only a little younger than the Lindisfarne Gospels and considerably older than the Book of Kells), and the Lichfield Angel (a limestone carving thought to be part of the original tombchest for the bones of St Chad, at his first shrine).

There must be some association between the Staffordshire Hoard and Lichfield Cathedral: the trove was buried within sight of the three spires. At the very least, we can expect some renewed interest in the decoration of our Gospel book and some further consolidation of the emerging consensus that Mercia was a centre of considerable wealth and culture during the 8th-9th centuries.

Happy Birthday, Sam

Today is an important day in Lichfield: we are marking the 300th anniversary of the birth of the city's most famous son, Samuel Johnson.

Johnson is best known for his compilation of the first truly comprehensive English Dictionary. It was published in 1755, after a decade of work. For each word, he offers an etymology (where the word comes from), a definition (what the word means) and then some examples of the use of the word in literature. It was an extraordinary achievement, and all the better for the flashes of humour to be found in it. To take only the most obvious examples: he defines oats, for example, as a cereal 'which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland supports the people'. A patron (he himself having had traumatic personal experience of patronage in the production of the dictionary) he suggests is 'commonly a wretch, who supports with insolence and is paid with flattery'. As for a 'lexicographer' (ie, a compiler of dictionaries) -- he describes him self-deprecatingly as 'a harmless drudge, that busies himself in tracing the original and detailing the signification of words'.

He was a devout Christian believer -- but one who (to judge from the tone of his prayers in particular) struggled with a profound sense of his own unworthiness. It doesn't sound as if he ever achieved much sense of assurance that he was accepted and loved by God. But his faith was nevertheless lively and sincere. Here is the very last of his recorded prayers:
Almighty and most merciful Father, grant that my hope and confidence may be in Jesu’s merits and thy mercy. Confirm my faith, stablish my hope, enlarge my charity, pardon my offences, and receive me at my death to everlasting happiness; for the sake of Jesus Christ. Amen

Our celebration of the anniversary began last Sunday, when BBC Radio 4's 'Sunday Worship' was broadcast live from Lichfield Cathedral -- an act of worship in which our Cathedral Chamber Choir sang a setting of that prayer, and in which my colleague Wealands Bell, the Canon Precentor, delivered a fine homily combining some glimpses into Johnson's life and faith with some reflections on the following day's feast of Holy Cross. A recording of the service is available for two more days on iPlayer at http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b006qnds.

The celebrations continue this weekend. Tonight there is a 'son et lumiere' in the city Market Square, with images projected (I believe) onto the exterior walls of the Samuel Johnson Birthplace Museum. Tomorrow, in addition to the annual wreath laying and cake-cutting (also in the Market Place, at his statue) at midday, and the Johnson Dinner in the evening, there is a small commemoration at 3.30pm at Speakers' Corner, Lichfield: there will be a brief costume drama by Intimate Theatre, followed by some short speeches by (among others) the President of the Johnson Society. On Sunday, the Bishop of London will preach at a special evensong in the Cathedral at 3.30pm, in the presence of members of the Johnson Society.

Johnson had numerous character flaws, of which he himself was all too well aware. But a capacity to celebrate the good things in life was not one of them, and we will be attempting to do him justice this weekend!

The Lichfield Dash

'It's like Chariots of Fire' - that's the usual way to explain the Lichfield Dash.

Chariots of Fire was the 1981 film about the achievements at the 1924 Olympics of two remarkable men: Harold Abrahams, a Jew seeking to confront prejudice; and Eric Liddell, a committed Christian, running for the glory of God. In one particular scene, Abrahams attempts the Trinity Great Court Run: to run around the perimeter of the Great Court of Trinity College, Cambridge (a distance of 341 metres) in the 43 seconds it takes for the college clock to strike 12.

Well, the Lichfield Dash is some sort of equivalent. As it happens, the perimeter road around Lichfield Cathedral is a 430 metre circuit. So it's considerably longer than Trinity Great Court. But, as it happens, it also takes a bit longer for the clock of Lichfield Cathedral to chime 12 noon: almost 62 seconds in fact, which is just long enough for an elite athlete to get round.

So, each year in July, Lichfield Cathedral Close is given over to a foot-race. Actually, it's given over to a series of foot-races, the culmination of which is the Lichfield Dash itself at 12 noon. Earlier in the day there are age and gender differentiated races, some of them (for younger athletes) only cover the length of the Close. This year there was an innovation in the form of a cycle race.

The main event is usually won by a semi-professional male, who usually does manage to get round inside the time of the chime. But the highlight of this year's event was not the Dash itself, but the race which preceded it: the novelty relay. There were three teams: one representing Ansons (a firm of local solicitors); one (surely the favourites) representing the Lichfield Harriers (a running club); and a third, 'First Class Males', representing - you guessed it - Lichfield Cathedral. And the winners were - you guessed it - First Class Males.

Why 'First Class Males'? Because this time last year, the Post Office issued a set of stamps featuring images of some of Britain's finest Cathedrals. And the image selected for the first class stamp was an image of - you guessed it - Lichfield Cathedral. So we had some T-shirts printed up, complete with the image and the slogan 'First Class Male'.

So let's hear it for Lichfield Cathedral, a first class building; and for our first class relay team, the First Class Males.

The Lichfield Mysteries

Choral Evensong at Lichfield Cathedral last night turned into an impromptu 'son et lumiere'. It wasn't planned -- but from my point of view it was dramatic and pleasing. The choir was in good voice, and sang the service to Tudor settings. The 'sound' bit of the 'sound and light show' was, then, entirely as expected. The 'light' was provided by a technician, experimenting with special effects on some rigging temporarily installed in the Nave. Thus, as the choir sang the Magnificat, the ceiling of the west end, usually white, turned blue, then red, then gold, back to blue, then red, then gold, and so on. A bit more co-ordination with the music, and we may have stumbled upon a new and exciting development in the English Cathedral Choral tradition.

This, you see, is the weekend of the Lichfield Mysteries. It's an extraordinary triennial event, with a claim to being the biggest piece of amateur dramatics in the country.

Mystery play cycles are a fabulous part of our heritage, dating back to the high middle ages. (I found myself wondering if the Tudor musicians who had composed the settings the choir sang last night ever performed in mystery plays, or wrote music for them.) Fragments of the original Lichfield Cycle survive in manuscripts dating back to the fifteenth century -- though the modern version has in fact only been going for 15 years.

A typical cycle (and our cycle is typical) attempts to trace the whole sweep of the Bible story from Creation to 'Doomsday'. This year's performance comprises 24 plays, including 'the killing of Abel' and 'Noah's Flood', 'Joseph's Doubt' and 'the Dream of Pilate's Wife', 'the Harrowing of Hell' and 'the Resurrection'. The sequence involves some performances of near professional quality (including some stunning choreography and costumes), with some pantomime moments and the kind of hiccups generally associated with amateur dramatics. But the event is breath-taking in its scope and ambition and should be much more widely celebrated than it is. It's good to think that these stories, about Abraham or the Exodus, the Prophets or the Nativity (and the values they cultivate, and the faith they imply), are still part of the public imagination.

If you want an epic today, forget the four hour 'marathon' that was Federer versus Roddick (terrific as that was: a historic achievement eclipsing a heroic effort). For a true epic, take in the six hours (24 plays x 15 minutes) of the Lichfield Mysteries. After all, Wimbledon comes round every year, but for this you have to wait until 2012.

Who confirms what exactly?

We had a 'Confirmation Service' in Lichfield Cathedral last night. A big one. There were several hundred in the congregation, and the atmosphere was full of excitement and joy. And we had 56 'confirmation' candidates. Yes, 56.

Those who don't know about 'confirmation' won't appreciate how unusual that is. Those who do, will be wondering how on earth the Bishop of Lichfield managed to 'confirm' 56 people in a single service without the whole thing feeling like some sort of conveyor-belt or production-line. Well, he did.

In the Church of England, 'confirmation' is the ceremony through which adults - or at least, young people old enough to know their own minds and to speak for themselves - take their place as full members of the Christian community. Usually, they've been through a process of preparation, exploring what it might means to live as a follower of Jesus today. Often, the candidates are a bit nervous. The service involves them answering a series of formal questions put by the bishop about their beliefs and intentions. And at the climax of the service, the candidates kneel in turn before the bishop, who places his hand on their heads and prays 'Confirm, O Lord, your servant with your Holy Spirit'.

It could be argued that in answering their questions, the candidates confirm that they wish to take their place within the Christian community. It could be argued that it is the Bishop who 'confirms' that the candidates are ready to take that step. But his prayer suggests that in fact it's God who does the confirming, 'strengthening' the candidates for their spiritual journey with his own Spirit.

Last night, the service was for the whole 'Deanery' of Lichfield. (What a lot of jargon we do use in church! A 'deanery' is a unit of organisation in the Church of England, an area made up of say twenty or so 'parishes', often roughly equivalent to a local authority borough or district.) The candidates ranged in age, I suppose, from about 10 years old to, shall we say (I'd better be careful here...), 'retirement age plus'. Each candidate has their own story, about what this step means for them and what has led up to it - but for all of them, there is a recognition that they are responding to the call of God. That's really what gives these services the edge of exhilaration. Certainly, there was a real buzz in the air last night.

I've been to lots of confirmation services over the years. Often there are a dozen candidates, or maybe 20. I've never been to one with 56 candidates before. And if I'm honest, I thought it would be too many. I thought it would take for ever for the bishop, assuming he gave each candidate their own moment of attention, to pray over each one. I thought it would be hard to concentrate and to stay prayerful throughout. But actually, it was fine. Actually, it was great. There was a real sense of the presence of God.

I had the privilege of talking this evening to some of the candidates, 24 hours later. Several spoke of finding it very moving. The wonderful thing is, it wasn't just moving for the candidates. It was also moving for those of us who have been disciples of Jesus for years, to see these new additions to our community, our new companions on the Way.

HRH and the Chindits

I went for a walk out of the Close this morning. On my way, I counted 20 police vehicles. Why, because this afternoon we've had a visit from an HRH. Prince Charles, as it happens.

The occasion was a 65th anniversary service, to celebrate the second expedition of the Chindits, and to mark the laying up of the Chindits' standard.

The who's? The Chindits. A Chindit is a mythical dragon-like Burmese beast -- statues of which (Chinthay) guard Buddhist temples. The Chindits were the SAS of their day: the largest of the allied Special Forces fighting in the Burmese jungle during the 2nd World War. They were formed and lead by Major General Orde Wingate DSO -- an exceptionally brave soldier, and incidently a thoroughly convinced Christian, whose religious views led him to support the establishment of an Israelite state in the 1930s. Theirs is an inspiring story of courage and of victory against the odds -- but I must say at various points today I found myself wondering what Wingate would have made of the service, and the preparations for it.

For one thing, it was necessary to close the Cathedral to the general public all day today. This always grieves me. It seems to me that an open door is a fundamental statement about the nature of the Christians gospel -- Jesus extended a welcome to all. But from dawn this morning, the Cathedral (and indeed the Close) has been accessible to the privileged few.

It's good to know that our royal family are so effectively protected. There's no doubt at all that the police offer thorough service. Every drain cover was lifted, every bin emptied, every parked car inspected, every visitor challenged. But I'm sure I wasn't the only person left asking how much the overwhelming police presence must cost, and I was startled to think of operations on this scale happening not just daily, but -- assuming each member of the royal family receives something like the same service wherever they go -- several times a day.

Then there was the service itself. I'm quite a patriot really. I sing the national anthem with gusto. I'm profoundly grateful to be living in an era of peace, and I'm easily moved to think of the sacrifices made for the cause of freedom and liberty by previous generations. I'm also a bit of a sucker for ceremonial and pageantry. So I quite enjoyed part of the afternoon today. I'd not met Prince Charles before and was glad to see him in the flesh.

But I have to admit to being a tiny bit disappointed by the address. I'm sure Viscount Slim is a good and sincere man. But he managed to get through an entire address from the pulpit in our Cathedral, without every refering to God or Jesus -- and from the litte I know about the founder of the Chindits, my impression is that would have frustrated Orde Wingate every bit as much as it frustrated me.

If we are going to hold these services in our Cathedrals, it is vital that we do so in a robustly Christian context. We must at least address the question, it seems to me, what is the God's eye view of the events we are commemorating? How does the history we are celebrating relate to the life, death and resurrection of Jesus?

Walking the Walk launched

My new book, 'Walking the Walk: the Rise of King David for Today' is duly published. It can be ordered now from Lichfield Cathedral Bookshop and will be available on general release from 3 July.

I do count myself fortunate. The party on Friday night was great fun and I felt very privileged to have the support of such a generous group of friends and colleagues, who came along. It was especially exciting to see some old friends, including members of the amazing church in Walsall (St Paul's at the Crossing in Walsall), of which I was fortunate enough to be the vicar until a few years ago.

I'd managed to find a terrific harpist, Kathryn Lewis, to come and play, which gave the event the perfect focus. And the sale of books was encouraging. Of course, I forgot to arrange pictures...

The Editorial Director of Paternoster, Dr Robin Parry, came along and said some kind words about the book. Then I got to say some thanks to those who've supported and encouraged me in the writing of the book, as well as a few words about the point of the book. The way I read it, the story of David's rise is as much as anything about the value of restraint. That's a quality we've had to cultivate here at Lichfield Cathedral over recent months, so it was a pleasure to be able to dedicate the book to my clergy colleagues here: the Dean (Adrian Dorber), Canon Precentor (Wealands Bell) and Canon Treasurer (Chris Liley). They're a great example of godly restraint.