Yes, yes, I know. I have been a very bad blogger indeed. And I'm afraid I'm not all that likely to make a particularly rapid - or permanent - recovery either. Sloth is an incurable condition, I'm afraid. But I hope the same is not true of a certain degree of bewilderment which has also contributed to my reluctance to commit my thoughts (such as they are) to the ether.
Retirement for a parish priest can be really quite bewildering, certainly to start with. Along with the relief at never having to find another sidesman (or woman) for the Solemn Eucharist ever again, and the pure pleasure of living in a delightful house in which dawn never comes before 10am, there is the little problem of what to do on Sundays. In my case, I grateful to say, Tuesdays are OK. On Tuesday mornings I celebrate the Holy Eucharist (and preach, what's more) in the beautiful chapel of an Anglican retirement home not far from where I live. Futhermore, as well as the excellent sermon there is also the excellent liturgy (1928 - more or less!) and I even get to face the east wall during the Prayer of Consecration. What more could you ask?
But there is still the little problem of Sundays. On the first Sunday after my retirement I decided to snoop around a bit. In the church notices in the Saturday edition of the Otago Daily Times I looked for a service which didn't start too early the following morning, and lo and behold! there was a mass at St Patrick's Basilica in South Dunedin which was due to commence at 11am. Perfect! So along I went, rather apprehensively, I must admit. What if they had all been reading this blog, and come across my somewhat less than charitable effusions about the office of the Roman Pontiff? Would they understand that I am really Mr Valiant-for-Truth, or would they publicly rebuke me as an incorrigible heretic?
Surprisingly, however, they did neither. The parish priest (Gerard Ainsley) whom I have known and liked for years (we were police chaplains together) greeted me warmly as I entered, and when I found a place in the back pews I discovered an old family friend sitting next to me, who also welcomed me most kindly, and even seemed pleased to see me.
St Patrick's is most certainly not a small church, but it was fairly full in what was liturgically speaking a fairly unremarkable Sunday. And the congregation included not just young people but what seemed to be a fair number of young families as well, something of an endangered species in many Anglican parishes.
The mass itself closely resembled an Anglican celebration of the Eucharist, as I had found was also the case even in St Stephen's Cathedral in Vienna when I was on holiday in Austria last year. And the sermon, delivered without notes by Fr Gerard was simply excellent, so much so indeed, that I was moved to tell him afterwards that he was very likely the second-best preacher in Otago and Southland - high praise indeed, as I'm sure you will agree.
In my next posting (should there be another one before the parousia) I will have something to say about the thoughts and ideas which my attendance at St Patrick's stimulated and provoked.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Thursday, March 03, 2011
Making Up
Just before I go to bed I usually have a look to see if I have any new emails. This is generally fatal for the 'just before' bit, since an hour or more often passes before I can drag myself away from other people's blogs. And what a fascinating collection they are. My favourite is 'Reid and Write' which belongs to Canon Gordon Reid, the Rector of St Clement's Episcopal Church in Philadelphia.
Canon Reid is a man after my own heart, a true Gallican Anglican. He presides over the most splendidly Anglo-Catholic Church you can imagine, in which the traditional Roman Rite (in English, with the Gloria et cetera in Latin) holds pride of place. The sacred ministers face east (i.e. God), the music is wonderful, the preaching (to judge by the video I have seen) properly pastoral, and the vestments excessive. But it is the details which count. These include such delights as the gremial veil and the scotula, things which I have never seen outside the pages of a book, not even when I was on the staff of All Saints Margaret Street. And the churchwardens (to judge by their processional clobber) would appear to be Knights of the Garter, or Daughters of the Revolution, or something equally splendid and startling. Looking at it all, you realise that it was for this that Cranmer died - even if he was not entirely aware of the fact at the time.
But Canon Reid has had to endure the slings and arrows of outrageous papalists. Some of the comments on his blog take him firmly to task for a perceived lack of devotion to the Roman Pontiff even although he prays for him (somewhat inaudibly, it is true) in the (silent) canon of the mass. This is obviously felt to be inconsistent, although it doesn't seem to me to be half as inconsistent as being a full-blown papalist in the Anglican Church. Canon Reid is merely doing what I believe any good Anglican, Gallican or otherwise, should do. Just because the the papacy needs to be saved from itself it doesn't mean that other parts of the western Church should abandon the liturgical tradition and culture which is the common heritage of us all.
But it does hurt. I love the Book of Common Prayer (as does the Rector of St Clement's) but I also feel at home at mass in a RC Church - hardly surprising since they seem to have become rather Anglican in recent years! I would love to see an agreement between our Churches which would at least allow intercommunion (as with the Old Catholics and the Church of Sweden) and I suppose I get rather impatient because, so far at least, it's not even on the horizon. And that is all their fault, of course.
But perhaps as well as being Anglo-Catholic I should also try to be rather more Anglo-Christian about these matters. After all, Christianity and Catholicism go together, don't they?
Canon Reid is a man after my own heart, a true Gallican Anglican. He presides over the most splendidly Anglo-Catholic Church you can imagine, in which the traditional Roman Rite (in English, with the Gloria et cetera in Latin) holds pride of place. The sacred ministers face east (i.e. God), the music is wonderful, the preaching (to judge by the video I have seen) properly pastoral, and the vestments excessive. But it is the details which count. These include such delights as the gremial veil and the scotula, things which I have never seen outside the pages of a book, not even when I was on the staff of All Saints Margaret Street. And the churchwardens (to judge by their processional clobber) would appear to be Knights of the Garter, or Daughters of the Revolution, or something equally splendid and startling. Looking at it all, you realise that it was for this that Cranmer died - even if he was not entirely aware of the fact at the time.
But Canon Reid has had to endure the slings and arrows of outrageous papalists. Some of the comments on his blog take him firmly to task for a perceived lack of devotion to the Roman Pontiff even although he prays for him (somewhat inaudibly, it is true) in the (silent) canon of the mass. This is obviously felt to be inconsistent, although it doesn't seem to me to be half as inconsistent as being a full-blown papalist in the Anglican Church. Canon Reid is merely doing what I believe any good Anglican, Gallican or otherwise, should do. Just because the the papacy needs to be saved from itself it doesn't mean that other parts of the western Church should abandon the liturgical tradition and culture which is the common heritage of us all.
But it does hurt. I love the Book of Common Prayer (as does the Rector of St Clement's) but I also feel at home at mass in a RC Church - hardly surprising since they seem to have become rather Anglican in recent years! I would love to see an agreement between our Churches which would at least allow intercommunion (as with the Old Catholics and the Church of Sweden) and I suppose I get rather impatient because, so far at least, it's not even on the horizon. And that is all their fault, of course.
But perhaps as well as being Anglo-Catholic I should also try to be rather more Anglo-Christian about these matters. After all, Christianity and Catholicism go together, don't they?
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Understanding elephants
Anyone living in this country at this time who decides to write about what has happened and is continuing to happen in Christchurch would need to be particularly careful if he intended to make specifically religious observations about the situation.
And yet I cannot see how a Christian could possibly avoid making such observations - if only under his breath in the privacy of his own room. (Or the privacy of his own blog.)
The earthquake in Christchurch is what it is to all of us because it has brought suffering and death. Of course, it has also occasioned the bravery and selflessness of many, and I have no doubt that voices (Christian and otherwise) will be raised in their praise. But that won't be enough to make sense of it all. The elephants of suffering and death will still be in the room.
Very often religion is seen as a form of magic, as a supernatural (and therefore increasingly ineffectual) insurance policy. When there was so little knowledge of the natural world, and even less chance of controlling it, relying on prayers and holy relics to prevent earthquakes was as good a policy as any.
But not now. Which leaves us without a policy at all. And without an explanation. But at least Christianity has had one of those. Earthquakes are visited on hapless sinners by the divine wrath - that's why they happen, and indeed that's why they should happen. Except that they seem a bit morally haphazard (to put it mildly) and the whole business co-exists rather awkwardly with an infinitely kind and loving God.
However, I am relieved to tell you that Christianity has a rather better explanation for elephants than the above, and it concerns us rather than God. I would put it like this. Death is the reason for life. We are born so that we can die. In the earliest strata of the bible I doubt that that is so. There, we are born so that we might live, so that we might be happy, prosperous and well respected, and see our children's children in the midst of a grateful and admiring community. After that there are only the shadows of sheol.
But not in Christianity. Here life is a 'vale of tears,' here we long to depart and be with Christ, here we know that our treasure is in heaven, not on earth.
Except that we don't. There is a story by H. G. Wells (I think) in which a rather grand archbishop ends his bedtime prayers each night by telling the Lord to come and take him to Himself. The archbishop's valet finds his master one morning stiff and cold beside his bed, with a look of indescribable horror on his well-bred features. His prayer had been answered.
It seems to me not just that we are a bit vague about God, but that we have also tended to overlook the true nature of human beings, made in the image of God, who simply cannot cease to exist as conscious persons, even if they wanted to. Death is only the means by which we enter more fully into life. In some ways, this is risky. We need to prepare for it as we would prepare for any great change in our existence and experience. But in the sense in which we commonly mean it, we cannot die - we are just not made that way. And that is an integral and essential part of the Christian faith without which Christianity is no longer Christian.
As for the other elephant, we have overlooked at least one of the most important characteristics of the Christian understanding of God. Put simply, in us He suffers. He demonstrated this fairly conclusively on His Cross some two thousand years ago. This implies (to me at least) that suffering is not meaningless. If God is prepared to share in it, it must have extraordinary worth - even if that worth is largely concealed from us at the present time. But it won't be so for ever. Beyond the grave we shall know as we are known.
I recognise entirely that all this is not the sort of thing you can just shove down the throats of those who are so terribly caught up in suffering and death at the present time. In such circumstances it would sound merely glib and self-serving. But I do believe we should proclaim it clearly in the good times so that it can bring meaning and strength in the bad times, when there are too many elephants in the room.
And yet I cannot see how a Christian could possibly avoid making such observations - if only under his breath in the privacy of his own room. (Or the privacy of his own blog.)
The earthquake in Christchurch is what it is to all of us because it has brought suffering and death. Of course, it has also occasioned the bravery and selflessness of many, and I have no doubt that voices (Christian and otherwise) will be raised in their praise. But that won't be enough to make sense of it all. The elephants of suffering and death will still be in the room.
Very often religion is seen as a form of magic, as a supernatural (and therefore increasingly ineffectual) insurance policy. When there was so little knowledge of the natural world, and even less chance of controlling it, relying on prayers and holy relics to prevent earthquakes was as good a policy as any.
But not now. Which leaves us without a policy at all. And without an explanation. But at least Christianity has had one of those. Earthquakes are visited on hapless sinners by the divine wrath - that's why they happen, and indeed that's why they should happen. Except that they seem a bit morally haphazard (to put it mildly) and the whole business co-exists rather awkwardly with an infinitely kind and loving God.
However, I am relieved to tell you that Christianity has a rather better explanation for elephants than the above, and it concerns us rather than God. I would put it like this. Death is the reason for life. We are born so that we can die. In the earliest strata of the bible I doubt that that is so. There, we are born so that we might live, so that we might be happy, prosperous and well respected, and see our children's children in the midst of a grateful and admiring community. After that there are only the shadows of sheol.
But not in Christianity. Here life is a 'vale of tears,' here we long to depart and be with Christ, here we know that our treasure is in heaven, not on earth.
Except that we don't. There is a story by H. G. Wells (I think) in which a rather grand archbishop ends his bedtime prayers each night by telling the Lord to come and take him to Himself. The archbishop's valet finds his master one morning stiff and cold beside his bed, with a look of indescribable horror on his well-bred features. His prayer had been answered.
It seems to me not just that we are a bit vague about God, but that we have also tended to overlook the true nature of human beings, made in the image of God, who simply cannot cease to exist as conscious persons, even if they wanted to. Death is only the means by which we enter more fully into life. In some ways, this is risky. We need to prepare for it as we would prepare for any great change in our existence and experience. But in the sense in which we commonly mean it, we cannot die - we are just not made that way. And that is an integral and essential part of the Christian faith without which Christianity is no longer Christian.
As for the other elephant, we have overlooked at least one of the most important characteristics of the Christian understanding of God. Put simply, in us He suffers. He demonstrated this fairly conclusively on His Cross some two thousand years ago. This implies (to me at least) that suffering is not meaningless. If God is prepared to share in it, it must have extraordinary worth - even if that worth is largely concealed from us at the present time. But it won't be so for ever. Beyond the grave we shall know as we are known.
I recognise entirely that all this is not the sort of thing you can just shove down the throats of those who are so terribly caught up in suffering and death at the present time. In such circumstances it would sound merely glib and self-serving. But I do believe we should proclaim it clearly in the good times so that it can bring meaning and strength in the bad times, when there are too many elephants in the room.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Crossing the Tiber
It has been some time since my last posting, largely because my mind has been occupied with other things like moving house, packing and unpacking, getting back on line, and trying to find all those things which I had thought had gone missing in the meanwhile. So now, having more or less got through the upheaval, I must try to return to more important matters, such as the recent realignment of John Broadhurst, Keith Newton, and Andrew Burnham, formerly flying bishops in the Church of England, who have now flown the coop altogether, winging their way across the treacherous waters of the Tiber.
I cannot say that I know any of these three gentlemen personally, but I have read some of their more occasional writings, particularly those of Andrew Burnham, which I have found to be both predictable and puzzling. His enthusiasms are not those which I would expect of an Anglican bishop, although having been trained for the priesthood as he was at St Stephen's House, I can't say I am surprised. He seems remarkably keen on the Sacred Heart, the Cure d'Ars, and Our Lady of Lourdes. Perhaps he is just an enthusiastic Francophile (I myself once had a third-class relic of St Margaret Mary Alacoque) but I rather doubt that mere francophilia could be the real reason for his enthusiasms, nor for his frequent and devoted references to the Bishop of Rome, whom he insists on calling the Holy Father, and from whose 'detestable enormities' loyal members of the Established Church in a more theological age prayed devoutly for deliverance - or they did until the rather tactless suffrage was deleted from the English Litany.
Another of Andrew Burnham's great enthusiams is John Henry Cardinal Newman, which is no surprise. Anglican papalists have been sobbing at the latter's somewhat overcrowded grave for years. (The cardinal insisted on being buried with Father Ambrose St John Cong.Orat. you will recall.) I find the papalists' grief highly suspicious, and I rather think the recent beatus would too. Given some of the terms like tyranny which he used in reference to it, Newman would hardly have shared Forward in Faith's unblinking adoration of the papacy. Indeed, if he were alive today, I confidently predict that he would be an enthusiastic supporter of the Movement for the Ordination of Women, and might even have entered into a civil union with Ambrose St John. He wasn't described by a member of the Roman curia as 'the most dangerous man in England' for nothing - and that was after his conversion.
Perhaps the defection of the flying bishops and those like them will be a blessing in the long run. It should certainly help to restore the honesty and integrity of English Anglo-Catholicism. The whole concept of the Two Lost Provinces of the Western Church, torn from the bosom of the Roman Pontiff, and longing to return to it, is an unhistorical fantasy we can well do without.
I cannot say that I know any of these three gentlemen personally, but I have read some of their more occasional writings, particularly those of Andrew Burnham, which I have found to be both predictable and puzzling. His enthusiasms are not those which I would expect of an Anglican bishop, although having been trained for the priesthood as he was at St Stephen's House, I can't say I am surprised. He seems remarkably keen on the Sacred Heart, the Cure d'Ars, and Our Lady of Lourdes. Perhaps he is just an enthusiastic Francophile (I myself once had a third-class relic of St Margaret Mary Alacoque) but I rather doubt that mere francophilia could be the real reason for his enthusiasms, nor for his frequent and devoted references to the Bishop of Rome, whom he insists on calling the Holy Father, and from whose 'detestable enormities' loyal members of the Established Church in a more theological age prayed devoutly for deliverance - or they did until the rather tactless suffrage was deleted from the English Litany.
Another of Andrew Burnham's great enthusiams is John Henry Cardinal Newman, which is no surprise. Anglican papalists have been sobbing at the latter's somewhat overcrowded grave for years. (The cardinal insisted on being buried with Father Ambrose St John Cong.Orat. you will recall.) I find the papalists' grief highly suspicious, and I rather think the recent beatus would too. Given some of the terms like tyranny which he used in reference to it, Newman would hardly have shared Forward in Faith's unblinking adoration of the papacy. Indeed, if he were alive today, I confidently predict that he would be an enthusiastic supporter of the Movement for the Ordination of Women, and might even have entered into a civil union with Ambrose St John. He wasn't described by a member of the Roman curia as 'the most dangerous man in England' for nothing - and that was after his conversion.
Perhaps the defection of the flying bishops and those like them will be a blessing in the long run. It should certainly help to restore the honesty and integrity of English Anglo-Catholicism. The whole concept of the Two Lost Provinces of the Western Church, torn from the bosom of the Roman Pontiff, and longing to return to it, is an unhistorical fantasy we can well do without.
Monday, December 06, 2010
Ave et vale - well, sort of
I have been a very bad blogger again, I'm afraid. As my excuse I offer the fact that I shall be retiring near the end of next month, and the business of doing so is very time-consuming, to put it mildly. With the exception of my first year in England, I have never had to worry about housing myself - and even then I found a bedsit easily enough in Holland Park within a week of my arrival.
But selling one house (from my late father's estate) and buying another (with the proceeds) I found to be a somewhat daunting prospect. However, I had the wonderful experience of walking into a house in order simply to speak to the estate agent and realising immediately that this was The One. First seen on Sunday afternoon, and purchased by the following Thursday evening. But not paid for - not until the other house was sold. If you have ever been in this position (and I understand many have) you will know it has a certain anxiety associated with it!
However, the other house did sell (just in the nick of time) and now I can look forward to living in a wonderful wooden house (good in earthquakes, I think) with a proper galvinised iron roof (so you can hear the rain) and a splendid view over the city. It even has polished (and insulated) wooden floors throughout. What more could you want?
In such a satisfactory setting, I may even become a better and more reliable blogger as well. However, only time will tell, I fear.
But selling one house (from my late father's estate) and buying another (with the proceeds) I found to be a somewhat daunting prospect. However, I had the wonderful experience of walking into a house in order simply to speak to the estate agent and realising immediately that this was The One. First seen on Sunday afternoon, and purchased by the following Thursday evening. But not paid for - not until the other house was sold. If you have ever been in this position (and I understand many have) you will know it has a certain anxiety associated with it!
However, the other house did sell (just in the nick of time) and now I can look forward to living in a wonderful wooden house (good in earthquakes, I think) with a proper galvinised iron roof (so you can hear the rain) and a splendid view over the city. It even has polished (and insulated) wooden floors throughout. What more could you want?
In such a satisfactory setting, I may even become a better and more reliable blogger as well. However, only time will tell, I fear.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Vive la difference
Yesterday English Roman Catholics observed the feast of Saints Cuthbert Mayne, John Houghton, Edmund Campion, Richard Gwynn and Thirty-Six Companions, aka the Forty Martyrs of England and Wales. Now as it happens, I am very distantly related to the first of these, although I suspect that fact would have brought the blessed Cuthbert little joy had he known of it. He wasn't too keen on Anglican clergymen, even though he had been one himself for a brief period before he saw the light and took himself off to Flanders for the real thing. The unreal thing - his Anglican orders - he referred to at a later time as the Mark of the Beast. Not terribly ecumenical, as I am sure you will agree.
During my first week in Oxford, the principal of St Stephen's House thought it would be good for all of us if we spent a few days learning about the importance of community - a fashion which has taken off in no uncertain terms as you will be aware. To this end Fr Allen invited representatives from a number of particular communities to spend some time with us and tell us all about it. One of these was a remarkably handsome young man in jeans and a woollen sweater who turned out to be The Very Rev'd Fergus Kerr, Prior of Blackfriars, the Dominican House of Studies in Oxford, whom I remember from this time because the representative of the Prostitutes' Collective (yes, really) took him to task at lunch for being so attractive and so unavailable at the same time. And it wasn't even a question of the money.
I remember Fr Kerr for a rather more important reason, however, because we saw him again (this time in his dominican habit) at a service in the conventual church at Blackfriars during the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity and at which I was greatly struck by his observation that we had no business taking our denominational differences lightly, since better men and women than we were had seen fit to endure torture and death for them.
I don't think I am much of a believer in ecumenism, at least not in the type which expects what Ronald Knox (his tongue firmly in his cheek) called Reunion all Round. Perfect unity seems to me as attainable in this world as perfect charity, or perfect kindness, or any other perfection. And a mere majority will most certainly not do. While one believer remains outside the fold, the Body of Christ is as divided as if it were a billion. Mob rule is not a part of the Gospel, not now, not ever.
Furthermore, it seems to me that the real goal is to accept those who do not belong to our group, and who do not share our opinions. Like a good Anglican, I want to have my cake and eat it. Of course apostolic succession is an expression of the divine will for the Church, along with the doctrine of the real presence, prayer for the departed, and so on. But that does not mean to say that those who do not share these beliefs are not part of the Church. (They are wrong, of course, but that is not quite the same thing.) However, don't expect them to change their views soon - such as any time before the rapture.
'All colours agree in the dark,' said the seventeenth century Calvinist Francis Bacon, and I can't help but agree.
During my first week in Oxford, the principal of St Stephen's House thought it would be good for all of us if we spent a few days learning about the importance of community - a fashion which has taken off in no uncertain terms as you will be aware. To this end Fr Allen invited representatives from a number of particular communities to spend some time with us and tell us all about it. One of these was a remarkably handsome young man in jeans and a woollen sweater who turned out to be The Very Rev'd Fergus Kerr, Prior of Blackfriars, the Dominican House of Studies in Oxford, whom I remember from this time because the representative of the Prostitutes' Collective (yes, really) took him to task at lunch for being so attractive and so unavailable at the same time. And it wasn't even a question of the money.
I remember Fr Kerr for a rather more important reason, however, because we saw him again (this time in his dominican habit) at a service in the conventual church at Blackfriars during the Week of Prayer for Christian Unity and at which I was greatly struck by his observation that we had no business taking our denominational differences lightly, since better men and women than we were had seen fit to endure torture and death for them.
I don't think I am much of a believer in ecumenism, at least not in the type which expects what Ronald Knox (his tongue firmly in his cheek) called Reunion all Round. Perfect unity seems to me as attainable in this world as perfect charity, or perfect kindness, or any other perfection. And a mere majority will most certainly not do. While one believer remains outside the fold, the Body of Christ is as divided as if it were a billion. Mob rule is not a part of the Gospel, not now, not ever.
Furthermore, it seems to me that the real goal is to accept those who do not belong to our group, and who do not share our opinions. Like a good Anglican, I want to have my cake and eat it. Of course apostolic succession is an expression of the divine will for the Church, along with the doctrine of the real presence, prayer for the departed, and so on. But that does not mean to say that those who do not share these beliefs are not part of the Church. (They are wrong, of course, but that is not quite the same thing.) However, don't expect them to change their views soon - such as any time before the rapture.
'All colours agree in the dark,' said the seventeenth century Calvinist Francis Bacon, and I can't help but agree.
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
Ad Limina
I watched with some interest Pope Benedict's recent visit to the United Kingdom. And with some mystification as well. Just why did it have to be a state visit? While it is true that Vatican City and its outlying territories (the Lateran Basilica and its palace, the summer residence at Castel Gandolfo, etc) you could hardly say that the papal state is in any real sense a people or a nation, anymore than the similarly sovereign Knights of Malta are, who also have patch of Rome on which to raise a flag.
However, beyond the cost to the British taxpayer of His Holiness' ad limina visit to The Protestant Island, there was a detail which I found rather more important. Apart from praising (and indeed beatifying) Cardinal Newman for a miracle he probably didn't perform, and for views which he apparently didn't hold, the Holy Father's tone was generally very negative.
Now, there are lots of things to be negative about, and the pope has been duly negative about most of them. But is that enough? Can you lead people to Christ without showing them why it would be a good, joyful, and life-affirming thing that they should be so led? I rather doubt it.
If I remember rightly, St Francis de Sales had something to say about a spoonful of honey being rather more attractive than a barrelful of vinegar. But what is it that is attractive about Christ - and how can it be effectively conveyed to our contemporaries?
However, beyond the cost to the British taxpayer of His Holiness' ad limina visit to The Protestant Island, there was a detail which I found rather more important. Apart from praising (and indeed beatifying) Cardinal Newman for a miracle he probably didn't perform, and for views which he apparently didn't hold, the Holy Father's tone was generally very negative.
Now, there are lots of things to be negative about, and the pope has been duly negative about most of them. But is that enough? Can you lead people to Christ without showing them why it would be a good, joyful, and life-affirming thing that they should be so led? I rather doubt it.
If I remember rightly, St Francis de Sales had something to say about a spoonful of honey being rather more attractive than a barrelful of vinegar. But what is it that is attractive about Christ - and how can it be effectively conveyed to our contemporaries?
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