As far as the UK's concerned, whether or not one agrees with her immediate solution (a complicated second referendum) ex-Education Secretary Justine Greening is surely right in pointing out that the House of Commons is completely deadlocked on the Brexit issues. There's no course of action open to it which can ever find anything approaching Parliamentary consensus, or find acceptance with a sufficiently large proportion of the population or media. Personally I'm desperate for us to stay in Europe, but I fear the consequences of frustrating the hard core leavers. I think it's even possible there might be violence on the streets if we do. Stewart Jackson, a convinced 'Brexiteer', and once a Northamptonshire MP, was unwisely filmed (with Peterborough Cathedral in the background!) talking about an 'establishment coup' last evening, because of Teresa May's attempts to find compromise. Everyone needs to mind their language.
On Radio 5 some grassroots Tory activists and supporters of 'Leave' were interviewed at a Kent fundraiser. One said: 'I thought we'd just sign a piece of paper and that would be it'. How could someone with even the sketchiest idea of politics think such a thing? - and she was probably on the committee that selected their MP.
Meanwhile on the far side of the Atlantic this strange man who's come to be President preens and blusters, saying whatever flits through his head or suits his own individual interests at a particular moment. I've never before watched a public statement by world leaders as I did the post-Helsinki 'summit' press call, thinking that both protagonists, Putin and Trump, 'their' man, and 'our' man, were simply lying, repeatedly and blatantly. Trump's subsequent claim, 24 hours later, that he mis-spoke is belied by context, speech pattern and lack of corroboration elsewhere in what he said. Is he mad or bad? It doesn't matter much, because again, given the inexplicable devotion he inspires in middle America, any action taken against him would have the direst consequences. Only an election will fix it, if in turn the election's not fixed. Impeachment or assassination would simply mean martyrdom. And yet what he's doing by undermining international relations('disrupting' as one time aide Steve Bannon approvingly characterises it) may have malign repercussions for decades to come. If I ever make jokes about him, it's because I'm scared. This isn't the first time in living memory folks have worried about the American President. Check out Don Henley's 'End of the Innocence' written about Ronald Reagan - and how nice and cuddly he now seems - 'But now those skies are threatening/They're beating ploughshares into swords/For this tired old man we elected King/Armchair warriors often fail/And we've been poisoned by these fairy tales/The lawyers clean up all details/Since Daddy had to lie...
However, this President's brain isn't just missing (remember Spitting Images?) It's been stolen by the Russians or the Devil, I don't know...
Both these situations have come about because of the 'will of the people', expressed incautiously through the ballot box in the UK and the US, and so have done harm to our confidence in the notion of democracy, hitherto so apparently secure and certain in our national mindsets, but actually now so fragile and adequate in post-internet practice. And what does this say about the government of the Church? Compare and contrast, as they used to say in exam papers.
Guilsborough: chancel steps
The 'borough' part of this large village/small town's name is related to the word 'bury', meaning a large mound, as in a castle mound, but in King Alfred's time a 'burh' acquired special significance as a fortified town strategically placed to defend against Viking raiders. The mounds in Guilsborough pre-date Alfred, and maybe in one instance have a connection to the ubiquitous Roman governor Ostorius Scapula. At an elevation of nearly six hundred feet and with good views of the surrounding countryside, this would have been a good location for a safety-minded community. Who the eponymous Gyldi was, I don't think anyone knows. What succeeded him or her was a settlement which caused a lot of spacious, gracious houses to be built: Guilsborough has the air of a small spa town. Since the turn of the century the population has declined to about 700, but when the local comprehensive school buses its pupils into town that number almost triples. The pub is the Witch and Sow. There are various hokey local legends about witches riding around on pigs ( a sort of medieval Hell's Angels?) which may have some vague connection to actuality insofar as two of the five women hanged for witchcraft in Northampton on July 22nd 1612 came from Guilsborough. Through the centuries the village's children - and perhaps would be young lovers looking for a bit of peace and quiet - were scared away from a local pond with tales of the witch Black Annis who'd be sure to drag them to their deaths in its murky waters.
In her church I meet Trevor. I spot a pair of shiny black shoes on the organ bench, and ask if he's the owner, thinking he might be the organist. 'Oh no,' he says, 'I'm just the dogsbody...' And indeed Trevor is clearly very busy with church admin today. I see lovely floral tributes in the porch and guess there's a funeral later. Quite possibly a large crowd is expected because there's a loudspeaker rigged up to relay sound into the churchyard. I learn the deceased is Nigel, and he was either a cricketer himself or a cricket supporter. One of the tributes expresses the wish that he may find matches to watch on the heavenly playing fields. It's a hope I share.
I retrace my steps down the Teeton lane and pass the same horserider (who seems to have forgotten our first encounter), and a cyclist I also saw an hour previously. All cyclists look much the same in their shades, helmet and dayglo kit, but I know I've seen this one before. As he whizzes by he leaves a distinct waft of Armani eau de cologne in his wake. At the crossroads I turn onto a diagonal path and gently descend through the fields to St. James, Hollowell, a little Victorian chapel at the top of the real hill down to the village. (The gradients hereabouts are steep enough that Hollowell used to be regularly cut off in times of snow). I sit inside and read Psalm 75, thinking of Trump. God says to the boastful 'Do not boast', and to the wicked, 'Do not lift up your horn; do not lift up your horn on high, or speak with insolent neck...' If ever there was a defining example of an insolent neck, it's the Donald...
There's a sweet little organ in St. James, and I tootle for a few minutes, then gather up hat and stick and trot on down past the quaint bus shelter on the corner of Church Hill. I remember that Jude and Geoff Cook, one time captain of Northants Cricket Club, used to live in Hollowell and wonder exactly where. We knew Jude because she taught with Sue, and we met Geoff occasionally. He's been a marvellous servant of the game, a humble, largely unsung hero at both Durham and Northampton.
Encountering celebrities is a funny business. I tend to watch and worship from afar. One day this week I'm at my regular London studio haunt recording the audio for a course to teach Egyptian kindergarten children English (and get your head round that!) In other studios within the complex all sorts is going on. I do an 'after you, Claude' in the loo with someone I think to be Keith Allen ( a one- time marvellously evil Sherriff of Nottingham on telly). Richard Wilson (aka Victor Meldrew) is holding court in one corner of the Green Room. I share the coffee pot with a silent Sir Ian McKellen, and there are other names I could drop if only I could remember who they are. Yes, well, I'm overly star-struck - always have been - but then with 'fifteen minutes of fame' ringing in our ears, which of us isn't, if we're honest? My engineer for the day, the excellent Shane, who recently came to the UK from Austin, Texas, says a year ago he wouldn't have believed he could ever find himself chatting to Sir Ian over best Colombian roast (Shane's evidently bolder than I am!) Some celebrities can be fascinating company. Most are not, in my limited experience.
Some Anglicans are in celebrity-awe of bishops, and even of clergy. Worst of all, I think that throughout history the Church may have exaggerated or played upon this tendency. In consequence they call the shots, and we do as we're told. Right now we need more ordinary people doing extraordinary things. More Trumpton, less Trump. But it's pot and kettle. Show me a writer or musician who doesn't like a bit of that stuff and I'll show you a liar. Where are the boundaries of the humility into which Jesus encourages us? And how does blogging relate to this?
A preacher's eye view: Cottesbrooke church
I climb away from Hollowell on a green lane up towards the old A50 Welford Road, which runs attractively along the ridge. As I near the top, I hear the sound of what I'm sure is a Merlin aero engine, throaty, muscular and regular, and through the trees get a brief glimpse of a heritage Spitfire having some aerobatic fun overhead before it speeds away to an air show somewhere. I'm on the Macmillan Way again, and as so often with this path you have to make it up as you go along. Trusting to my instincts I end up where I want on the road in Cottesbrooke not far from the main gates of the Big House. If it had been a Thursday afternoon, I could have gone in and paid too much money for a cup of tea, but it isn't. The church of All Saints is more than adequate compensation. It only merits one star in Simon Jenkins 1000 Best Churches but I'd give it five. Granted, it's not in a perfect state of tidiness despite a sixties' renovation, but that's part of its charm and there are wonderful things to see. The three tier pulpit is perfect, the funerary monuments beautiful and moving, but best of all is to climb some wooden steps opposite the pulpit, open the little gate and enter a mezzanine gallery. I guess this was once the toffs 'box' from which they could watch worship, but it later became a school room, and there's still an open fireplace there, something I've not seen anywhere else. Beyond the gallery is the 1604 tomb of Sir John Rede. He's flanked by a little marble procession of his ten children, a mini 'terracotta army' in Tudor dress, mourning their late dad.
The rest of today's ramble is almost an anti-climax. There's a hike through barley fields wonderfully scented in this toasting heat, and then a disappointment at Creaton where St. Michael and All Angels is shut, too vulnerable, too near the main road. I cross and walk the next undulation back to the Teeton Road. I've saved myself a treat, a warm-down for the final third of a mile, dropping back gently to the car down the metalled lane. Northampton is ahead of me across the glowing fields. I see the Express Lifts Tower raise its single rebellious finger to the sky, thus saying everything about our town that you need to know. A single column of black smoke rises vertically: there's a fire somewhere, and thinking of Saddleworth Moor and Wanstead Flats in recent days, I hope it's at least not arson. I remember the days when late summer was blighted by farmers burning off the stubble, and am grateful it doesn't happen now. But have the alternatives made more work for them?
Some philosophers dealt with the problem of the material world's existence by suggesting that when we're not around to witness things, they simply 'disappear'. Bishop Berkeley countered this by positing that they didn't, because God was always there to monitor them. While I'm walking and not listening to The News, I can kid myself that Trump, Brexit, the whole ghastly shebang is just a series of phantoms or bad dreams. Sadly not...Tallies on the stick: 17 km. 5.5 hrs. Sunny with a little cloud building. 21 - 24 deg. C. Breeze in late morning fading thereafter. 210 metres of ascent - and descent! 4 churches. A 3-tier pulpit. A tuppeny-happen King George VI stamp. One rabbit (as ever, my that guy does get around...) One squirrel. Mucho rustling in the undergrowth. A few mozzy bites. 11 stiles. 8 gates. 3 bridges (even though we're not in Sussex).
Lord
You know how I kick against
All routine
All drudgery
Every day being the same
The calling to be Humble and Meek
The ordinariness of Now.
Forgive me
My pride
My vaunting ambition
My overriding desire
To be a special case
And be thought better than other people.
I know I should be confident
That you made me
As you made everyone around me
Unique and precious.
I know that everywhere
There are diamonds in the rough
Of everyday experience.
Please give me grace to look more carefully
And to trust you.
Amen.
