I stopped being a priest on Sunday. We’re in Sussex, the home of English Catholicism, with the Norfolks in Arundel and all that. But reformative lava bubbles up every Guy Fawkes night, especially in nearby Lewes. So, in our Anglican parish, the gags about burning a few Catholics to celebrate my departure have been well worn.
I never wanted to be a rural parish priest. Or, more kindly, I didn’t intend to be. My ministry took place during the week in the City of London, at St Bride’s in Fleet Street, the journalists’ church. But we sold my interest in a PR company in town and moved here almost twenty years ago to renovate a house that belonged to Charles Digby Harrod, a department store owner in Knightsbridge (I guess that gave nothing).
And I went to church locally as a civilian. Then the rector left and they were broke and said they needed an unpaid priest – that’s the kind of priest the Church doesn’t pay and doesn’t have a presbytery. This would be the moment in a funny B-movie where the penny dropped and I said, “No way – absolutely not.” I said that. Cut to the bishop who installed me in the parish of Waldron a few months later, further proof, if any were needed, of the divine sense of humor.
This is how this God-com went. I quickly learned from my fellow priests that there are stereotypical caricatures in every parish, as if there was a Dibley Central Casting Agency. After a few coffee mornings, I had to stop myself from saying (and I changed the descriptions to protect the guilty), “Oh, so you’re the needy widow.” I was wondering when you would come, for I have already met the major with the white tweed hands and the son of labor with the horny hands.
It’s been a little over 10 years now and I’m a little surprised that I loved it. Driving through country roads on a spring Sunday morning to take Holy Communion at 8 a.m. takes some antidepressant time. And it is no less true, although cliché, that it is a privilege to be welcomed as close as possible to families in moments of their greatest joy (weddings, baptisms) and their deepest sorrow (funerals). , burials). We know intimately what’s going on in every other house we pass in that zip code.
But the time has come. The parish and I need refreshments. There is no set term for a parish priest, but you need to know when to go. The gospel may not need refreshing, but we do. I’ve gone through the Book of Common Prayer lectionary 10 times now and, while there always seems to be something new to say, I wonder if the congregation privately thinks they’ve heard one of my stories at least twice previously.
It’s been a good decade, locally and nationally. We have lost a monarch as supreme governor of our Church and crowned a new one.
When I started, an old friend gave me a Victorian copy of the Prayer Book, first compiled by Thomas Cranmer and his editors in the 16th century, in which all the “Our Queen” prayers for Victoria had been carefully changed to “our king” and she/her pronouns to he/him, first for Edward, then for George.
I didn’t take Tippex, but I remembered, even at 8am on Sunday, to change them for Elizabeth. Now they are good sex for Charles again. It’s good to know that pronoun sensitivity isn’t limited to woke people.
We survived the totally shameful episode where, while the country was confined due to covid, we closed our churches under lock and key. After medieval epidemics and modern world wars, when our churches steadfastly remained open for the comfort of their worshipers, we closed when we needed them most. I celebrated Communion under the evil eye of a laptop, home alone, streaming the sacrament. I am really sorry.
After that, we didn’t bring everyone back to church. But, going against the trend, we relied on figures. And now it’s time to leave him. And then, I don’t know – for the Church or for me.
Like an amicable divorce, I guess, once you’ve decided to move on, you can’t wait for it to be over. But I know I’ll miss it. Ontologically, it is part of my identity. It will be very different at the pub. But at least I can punch horrible people again, I guess, if I want to.
I wonder what the scriptures tell me to do. When Christ sends his disciples, he tells them that where they are not welcome, they must leave and “shake the dust from their shoes.” I have been (for the most part) very well received here. But it’s time to shake off the dust.
