Not Born yesterday visits The Church of St Margaret's in Myre

Easter Sunday Sermon

Good morning, and first of all on this crisp, snowy, windy, wet, and utterly miserable Easter Day, allow me to read the parish notices.

I publish the banns for the third time of asking in favour of Damien Scowl (bachelor,  nefarious Hoodie and amateur sperm bank of the parish of St Gawayne, Offaldyke) and Bianca Feltup (singularly multiple mother, recovering crack addict and spinster of this Parish). If any of you know cause or just impediment as to why these two young people should not be joined in Holy Matrimony, please give all relevant details to Police Sergeant Chip Buttee at Myre police station, or alternatively to Ms Sandra Fluff at the Basildon branch of the Child Support Agency. Also, on a personal note, I should just like to add that if anyone knows the whereabouts of Damien’s father Greg Scowl, could they communicate to him that seven hundred and eighty pounds is my final offer in relation to the potentially  miraculous return of the vestry lead.

At the Church Hall tomorrow afternoon, there will be a Bring-and-Buy sale beginning at 2.30pm. Might I just repeat to all those taking part that whatever you bring should be your  property, and not something that would otherwise be destined for the shadowy attentions of Mr Keith Squire the infamous pawnbroker of Adverse Camber.  Sergeant Buttee has in turn asked me to remind all contributors that anyone bringing MP3players, DVD recorders, plasma televisions and late registration motor cars will be treated with the utmost suspicion.

That concludes the notices.

‘O  joy, that mine house should be filled with those who worship the Lord’.

This extract is taken from the Gospel according to Saint Gaderene the Swine, and while it is one of the lesser-known books in the New Testament, I think it sums up my feelings today as I look out upon a packed congregation at our parish church. Yes, here at St Mag’s, what our local publican Mr Ted Poker might call ‘a full house’ is not something we experience that often – and very rarely, one with so many aces and kings in it. I am delighted to see so many of Myre’s great and good taking a day off from moving and shaking.

Naturally, the failure of our railway connections to, as it were, connect anyone to anywhere during the Easter weekend has reduced the number of activity options open to parishioners. Also, a repeat of last year’s unfortunate floods via the original Victorian Sewer under Tithe Street has almost marooned the village. Whether this be due to serendipitous fate or a quite indescribable level of braindead incompetence I could not say. Still, you are all here – and all most welcome.  And if we saw you a little more often, you’d be very welcome. Even when the wind-chill factor isn’t Minus-One outside,  and snow drifts have not closed all exits not already blocked by flood water.

In fact, this is the theme of my sermon today: ‘it is an ill wind that blows nobody any good’.

I have always thought this saying to be full of wisdom at several levels. Our Saviour Jesus Christ might have wondered – as he slumped nailed to a cross, centurions piercing his side for no apparent reason, on our behalf – that it was extremely difficult to see how such an ill-wind might blow him any good whatsoever, but that is not what Pontius Pilate thought, oh no: Pilate saw this as a way out of his dilemma with Caesar ……as Mr James Nesbitt showed quite clearly in his most original television portrayal of the Roman leader as a neurotic Ulster policeman suffering with a tertiary case ofpiles.

And so an ill wind has blown you all into St Margaret’s. And let me tell you that – given the Bishop is with us today – it cannot be but a gold star on my cv. The Bishop of Suffix is, as you all know very well, a tremendous supporter of inclusivity as regards the Christian flock, and those members of our society choosing to kneel at the Temple of The Eighty Slappers in Heaven, who arrived there following some unfortunate stone-throwing incidents down here onEarth. Well, the Bishop will, I’m sure, regard today’s flock as very inclusive indeed. St Margaret’s is not, I think, up there in the listings as one of Cool Britannia’s more exclusive venues, and we have never felt the need for bouncers of a Sunday morning.

But if the wind has blown me some good, what about all of you? Will you leave the House of God this morning cleansed of those sins he is always so willing to forgive? Ofcourse, I cannot say – but as with all good spiritual guides, I should like - as I speak to you now – to perhaps nudge a few people back onto the paths of righteousness.

For example, I am always glad to welcome Mr Neal Giviteare, the manager of Westlays Bank, a man who has donated a great deal of mortgage money to our community  in recent times, much of it at a most philanthropic rate of interest during the first two years.  Indeed, the decision to lend Billy Tench and his significant other  Lotus Bingley £27,000 to extend their static trailer down by the disused railway yard was an outstanding act of largesse. Sadly, the Westlake Bank now finds itself an innocent victim of the sub-prime credit accident. Thus, Neal has of late been forced to refuse other equally worthy loan requests from the likes of the Women’s Institute, the Myre Scrubbs Prisoners’ Rehabilitation Society, and the St Margaret’s Steeple Underpinning Fund. How unjust this material world is to deprive Neal of employment at this normally happy time – a man who exceeded his sales targets four years running. Like the wisdom of our Lord, it passes all understanding.

I am also delighted to see  local entrepreneur Jimmy Caldercops among us once again.  Despite his great wealth following the sale of Myre Broadband to ISP conglomerate  Gobble, young James remains as discreet as ever. So discreet, in fact, that he has not answered a telephone message since  2004, and prefers to communicate via the unanswerable email system installed shortly after his purchase of Missile Silo Three at the old US Air Base just beyond Frassledon. Of course, his violent entry into St Margaret’s at seven-fifteen this morning screaming ‘Sanctuary!’ was just another of his lovable japes: and I can reassure him that the armed mob of Myre Broadband fans remains waiting patiently – and, I rather think, determinedly - outside.

Many of us here in Myre will never forget  the recent painful decision made by locally-based senior Royal Mail executive Mr Adam Croupier. Forced by his conscience to confirm the closure of our Sub-Post Office without any whiff of favour, Mr Croupier  courageously removed the community’s main focal point – despite the local furore (and national bonus) he knew this would bring down upon his head. Not for Adam Croupier the hypocritical ‘Nimby’ syndrome, oh no – even though the decision means he will stand about as much chance of getting through the eye of Heaven’s Needle as Mr Alistair Campbell.  

Yet, Adam is here among us today - showing his undiminished loyalty to Myre, and (I dare to hope) ready to make a substantial contribution to the Offertory collection, having already given most generously to my newly-created Myre Estate Unproven Paternity Fund.

Adam is such a giving soul that it requires only the mildest passing request from a man of the Cloth to extract a few shekels from his chest of gold. I had but to mention the words ‘Denise  Pinfield’ in order to leave with a cheque for £40,000 – and his pledge to attend St Margaret’s every Sunday from now on.

And talking of matters congregational, I could not give this special sermon today  without mentioning one of St Margaret’s most steadfast attendees, local MP Sir Sandy Spencer-Davis. During his eighteen-year tenure as the Conservative Member for  Frassledon & Anklechayne (West), Sir Sandy has  been responsible for introducing new jobs to Myre on an unprecedented scale.  Also seated a discreet distance away from him is the local Councillor in charge of Rural Preservation, Mr  Eric Pint. Eric has spared every consideration in his eagerness to  maintain the necessary balance between conservation and development, and a healthy balance in his account with Westlays Bank – without which poor young Giveitere would indeed have been given the heave-ho rather earlier than he was.  So it is that these two fine parishioners  have brought us the Lazy Dice Casino & Pole-dancing Centre, as well as the soon-to-be-opened Tesco Gigastore. Together, these two welcome additions have eradicated unemployment in our community, as well as the greengrocer, butcher, tennessee chicken takeaway, liquidity, savings, the Council fitness centre, and a deserted black swans’ breeding  ground on Anklechayne Marshes. Why the swans deserted this site last year remains a point of conjecture, although last time Martha and I dined with Sir Sandy, we could not help but admire his fine collection of Purdey shotguns…….along with  the very high standard (and extraordinary size) of the table-bird on offer.

Bearing all this in mind, I am reminded on this important holiday – which after all commemorates our Lord’s deliberate self-destruction - of just how closely most of our community is following in his footsteps. And also, exactly what sort of special people live among us here, ready and willing to oil the wheels of this process. As I hinted earlier, I am particularly pleased to see the Bishop of Suffix here to witness my recognition of their role. You see, not only is the Bishop what young people today might call my ‘Section Head’, he is (as I said) also a staunch supporter of the modern inclusive tendency in the Anglican Church. In fact, I can confidently assert that there is no known form of person he is unwilling to embrace.

Currently for example, the Bishop is engaged in embracing Mr Shane Penge, a young man handed into his care by  Dunkitsch social services . And although this degree of tolerance is incredibly – nay, unnaturally  - inclusive, I for one shall be resigning my membership following today’s service. And if I may, I should like to give you what our American cousins call the ‘heads up’ on this one.

I know it will be found shocking by many of you listening to this odd, increasingly decrepit priest committing career suicide from the pulpit, but the fact of the matter is, I don’t approve of ‘gay’ priests. To be honest, I cannot bear the word ‘gay’ at all.  I do have many male friends with male partners, and like any good Christian I welcome all worshippers at St Margaret’s, regardless of their predelictions when it comes to sexual intercourse. Such people are probably homosexual, but I don’t know for sure because I’ve never had the temerity or rank bad manners to ask them.  I like most of them for their sensitivity and artistic appreciation, and I’m sorry that their early lives were often suffused with guilt. But most of those who tell me they’re ‘gay’….well, if the Lord will forgive me in this House…..they get on my nerves to the extent that I cannot turn the other cheek. I think perhaps I shall change that parallel when I finally publish this letter in the Myre Parish Gazette.

I do draw the line, however, at sexually deviant priests. For in my old-fashioned way, I think we’re all supposed to be setting an example in this great Anglican movement ofours. I cannot – no matter how hard I grope for enlightenment – see how or why (or indeed, ever) a Bishop knocking up a rent boy is setting an example.

Now, I can tell you that despite a great many appearances to the contrary, the Bishop ofSuffix is a very forgiving man. He has yet to forgive my outburst at the Diocesian Conference last July on the subject of gender politics in Angola. And he has barely spoken to me since the sermon of two years ago on Songs ofPraise: perhaps not unnaturally, he felt that a fifty-minute demolition without notes of Patricia Hewitt was entirely the wrong tone to strike at that time of a Sunday evening. But being a forgiving man, I am sure he will come round in the end. He may, indeed, one day forgive today’s flooring of the irony pedal by his reckless and ungrateful employee – to whom, after all, he gave this vital appointment here in Myre (population 96) some ten years ago.

So I’m not taking any chances. I’m going to burn all boats irrevocably…….by telling the boss how to do his job.

I’m afraid I no longer know what ‘inclusiveness’ means. I know that I want to include anyone in my congregation who feels regret at their sins, contrition for thoughtless actions against others, and a desire to try harder as a good Christian and citizen in the future. But I don’t want to look down ever again from the pulpit at a single innanely grinning fat-cat who has devoted his or her brainless life to treading on everyone else’s face.  And it would have been nice, over the last decade, if my keen amateur proctologist Bishop had spent more time publicly questioning the sincerity of these worshipful reptiles, and rather less time on promoting his media profile as a devoted supporter of everything the modern world has to offer – be that reckless borrowing, self-seeking hegemony disguised as  multiculturalism, or readily available rent boys hidden under the cassock of inclusiveness.

For what it’s worth - and it’s worth an inestimable amount to me -  I think the modern world has almost nothing to offer the intelligent person in search of something that might pass as ‘The Plot’. I think the job of this or any other religion is to accept the rough ride, and not just ‘go with the flow’.  Religious leaders don’t ‘go with the flow’: this is what lavatory contents, dead fish, seaweed and  things going over waterfalls do. ‘Going with the flow’ has brought the Church to where it is today -  a building in which most people have water, confetti and eulogies bestowed upon them, but precious little else….a minute, ephemeral oasis of anal wind in an ethical desert fashioned from relativist excretia.

This is, indeed, a most foul wind that has never done anyone any good at all.

It is not the job of any of us in the Church – least of all influential Bishops – to remain ‘on message’ about events in Iraq or lesbian workshops in Haringey.  It is our job to spread the message that Man has succeeded by a cooperation and sympathy every bit as important as competition, exploration and the desire to do things ‘better’. It is our thankless task to tell lunatic Creationists that they are spouting drivel,  and chaos-theory physicists that the data is against them. It is our unpopular mission to remind amoral politicians that they lack a higher-order goal, and Devil-take-the-hindmost Globalists that their ideas are both flawed and antithetical to Christian belief. And in the age ofquantum mechanics, it should be our aim to show how the intuition of Mohammed, Christ, Buddha and Moses came to very similar conclusions about the nature ofTime and Space as the philanderer Hawking.

The last Christian leader – a courageous East European -  to follow such a path became Pope. But then, that’s the Poles for you – they wind up running  everything.

May I wish you all a most enjoyable Sunday lunch later. And now, Hymn No 332, ‘Be Thou My Vision’, in which I would encourage all the congregation to sing most lustily during the politically incorrect verse three, ‘The feckless berk may fornicate/And every maiden impregnate/ But pitching up at Heaven’s Gate/He should be told to bloody wait’.