Jersey Illustrated: The First National City Bank comes to Jersey (1969)

The First National City Bank

First National City Bank (now known as Citibank) established a presence in Jersey in 1969, making history as the very first United States bank to open an office on the island. This piece is from the late 1960s. Operating today under its modern name, Citibank N.A. (Jersey Branch), the institution maintains its long-standing presence on the island.

"Jersey Illustrated" talks to G. B. Finneran, Managing Director, First National City Bank (Channel Islands) Limited.

Q. Can you tell us why your Bank came to Jersey?

A. In answering your question, I sup-pose I should point out that our Bank is a wholly owned subsidiary of First National City Bank of New York. With assets of f11 thousand million, our parent company operates through branches and affiliates in some 84 countries. In so doing the Bank identified the need to provide additional services for our high net worth clients around the world; and after studying the advantages offered by many of the other low tax area countries, it was decided that Jersey would best suit our requirements.

Q. What are the main advantages offered by Jersey?

A. Foremost, of course, is Jersey's political and economic stability — ad-vantages not found in many of the lower tax areas although their tax structures are often more favourable than here. Tax is not to be dismissed, however, as the absence of Estate and Death duties in Jersey are essential to our holding many of our non-resident accounts. While income tax at 20% and no capital gains tax are important to the resident investor, they are not major considerations in our operation.

In addition to the other factors, Jersey offers communications facilities to the U.K. and Europe which enable us to keep on top of the Sterling and

Eurocurrency markets. Other low tax areas such as Malta, Gibraltar and Bermuda must operate with time lags which mean that they are forced to quote exchange a deposit rates which are a day old. Thus their quotations must allow for time lag and are there-far less competitive. Accordingly many cut out their own local institution and place their money in Jersey.

Q. What proportion of your business is non resident?

A. As I've said, our object in coming to Jersey was not to carve up the same financial pie with the other twenty-five or so financial institutions in the Island. The business we have generated to date is approximately 80% non-Jersey business. And out of that 80%, a significant proportion is foreign currency business. I would estimate that all in all, our Bank here is approximately 60% a foreign currency bank and 40% a Sterling bank.

Q. What about the future of finance in Jersey?

A. I think finance is the growth industry of the Island. If you look at the other industry groupings which exist, farming, tourism and light manufacturing, they are all limited by the physical confines of Jersey. You have an 8 by 5 mile Island whose infra-structure can only support x number of people. If you try to increase industry, agriculture and tourism, you eventually reach a situation of diminishing returns. But in the financial industry the world is your market. You are only really limited by the ability of your accounting machines to put the numbers down on paper as the number of personnel engaged is not directly proportionate to your assets or profits. We are continuously evaluating the business we do to see how we can increase productivity and profitability without increasing demands for additional staff.

Q. Does the United States welcome the prospect of Britain going into Europe?

A. To answer your question I would be expressing a personal judgement since I do not believe the U.S. government has ventured an opinion on the subject. I generally attempt to remain apolitical, particularly as a guest in a particular country. But each country and government has a right and probably duty to act on its economic or any other best interest. Parliament has taken the decision to join .the EEC and I, not that it matters, think it is the right one for the U.K.

Q. If we do not get the terms we want for entry into the Common Market, does this mean that a lot of financial institutions will leave Jersey?

A. This must depend on the legal details which finally emerge. If the high net-worth or wealthy residents decide to leave the Island for fiscal reasons, then I suppose that some of the Institutions, which depend more than we do on this type of business, might have to scale down their operations. But I would not expect any of them to leave altogether.

Q. On a rather different subject, can you tell us something about the present problems of the international monetary system and, in particular, why we do not have fixed exchange rates at this time?

A. To date, the nations of the world have felt fixed exchange rates were needed to have trade go on without the uncertainty as to whether there might be profit or loss at the end of the day for the exporter. With the rates floating as they are now, many traders have been seriously affected. We have seen this in particular in the Japanese shipping industry which has found itself with millions of dollars worth of shipbuilding contracts denominated in U.S. Dollars which, when sold for Yen at completion, will yield fewer Yen and mean a possible loss for the builder.

The reason for the present floating of major currencies is that countries like people have different propensities for producing, spending, saving etc. The simple fact is that the U.S. has been living beyond its means over the last decade and, therefore, the Dollar became overvalued to the other major currencies. At the other end of the spectrum, the Japanese Yen whose value was set shortly after the war has become considerably undervalued. Thus the balance of payments results of the major countries of the world went into disequilibrium and the floating has been designed to permit the currencies to find their natural level.

Warning Signs to Spot in Clergy Leadership

I've been looking at the Torrance Report on Bishop Anne Dyer. There have been several cases of leadership issues within the Church - locally impacting on Jersey, the fallout between Tim Dakin and Bob Key, in which many of the same issues surfaced. Tim Dakin resigned after a breakdown of trust and governance in Winchester Diocese. 

After presenting some key snippets, I outline a list of warning signs.

"At a theological level, I am disappointed by such apparently arbitrary and ‘parochial’ behaviour by a new and inexperienced bishop... "

"There is another aspect to the issue of governance and authority. This is one of strikingly increased centralisation under Bishop Dyer. It is maintained that side by side with this there has been a lack of
the pastoral dimension of episcopal ministry."

"At all meetings (so submissions inform me), the Bishop herself sets the agenda and usually any proposed additional items are rejected or ignored. This also applies at Synod, when no space was allowed for any other business and questions were only permitted if submitted in advance. Such centralisation raises concerns over how it is possible for the Standing Committee to work effectively."

"Behind all of these questions lies what to me is the simple and fundamental issue: Does the Bishop have the personal capacity to bring about healing and reconciliation in the diocese? This is a matter of trust and confidence. "

"I am afraid I do not believe that the Bishop has these capacities. Nor do I believe she any longer enjoys the trust and confidence of a number of the priests in the diocese. Awareness of her history in Durham makes me even less confident of her chance of success. Without colluding in what I much fear is a repetition of the past, I cannot recommend the continuation of a tenure in which I fear that more people will be made to feel diminished and discouraged."

This is a powerful critique, and it highlights several recurring themes that can serve as warning signs when evaluating clergy leadership. Let me distill the main failings and red flags that emerge from the text:

Key Failings Highlighted

• Arbitrary or Parochial Decision-Making
• Decisions appear personal, inconsistent, or narrow in scope rather than grounded in theological or communal discernment.
• Signals immaturity or lack of broader vision.

Excessive Centralisation of Authority

• One person sets agendas, controls discussion, and limits participation.
• Synod and committees become rubber-stamp bodies rather than genuine forums for shared governance.

Weak Pastoral Dimension

 

• Leadership is managerial or authoritarian but lacks empathy, listening, and care for clergy and laity.
• Pastoral absence erodes trust and morale.

Suppression of Dialogue and Transparency

 

• Rejecting additional agenda items, restricting questions, and limiting open debate.
• Creates a culture of fear, silence, and disengagement.

Deficit in Healing and Reconciliation Capacity

 

• Inability to mend divisions or restore confidence.
• A bishop (or any clergy leader) must be a reconciler; failure here undermines the very essence of ministry.

Loss of Trust and Confidence

 
Once clergy and laity no longer believe in the leader’s integrity or competence, authority collapses.

Warning Signs to Spot in Clergy Leadership

• Authoritarian control: Always setting the agenda, rejecting input, limiting questions.
• Isolation from pastoral realities: Focus on governance mechanics but neglect of human care.
• Resistance to accountability: Avoidance of open discussion or scrutiny.
• Repetition of past failures: A track record of unresolved conflict or diminished communities.
• Erosion of trust: Priests and lay leaders openly express lack of confidence.
• Discouragement in the community: People feel diminished, unheard, or disempowered under their leadership.

The failings here are not just about style but about substance of ministry: when authority becomes centralised, pastoral care is side-lined, dialogue is suppressed, and reconciliation is absent, the warning signs are clear. A clergy leader who cannot inspire trust, empower others, or heal divisions risks leaving a legacy of discouragement and fragmentation.

More Short Stories: For Those In Peril on the Sea

A look at the rescue mission of the Carpathia and linked to the "Sailor's Hymn", "Eternal Father, strong to save from the perspective of its Captain.

For Those In Peril on the Sea

Captain Arthur Rostron stood at the forward rail of the RMS Carpathia as the first grey wash of dawn broke over the North Atlantic. The sea was unnervingly still, as though creation itself held its breath. Only the icebergs, silent, jagged and deadly, caught the early light. And among them, scattered like broken prayers, drifted the lifeboats and the dead bodies.

He felt the hymn rise unbidden in his mind, “Eternal Father, strong to save”, the mariner’s song of the sea. He had sung it countless times, but never had its words carried such weight.

Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm does bind the restless wave,

It had begun hours earlier, when the wireless operator Harold Cottam hammered on his cabin door, breathless, pale, clutching the message from Titanic like a lifeline. CQD… SOS… struck by iceberg… require immediate assistance. Rostron had read it twice, then once more, as if repetition might soften the horror. It did not. Immediately he ordered the ship turned around, and then he asked Cottam to check once more. In those precious minutes, while Cottam confirmed the desperate situation of the Titanic, the Carpathia was already underway to the rescue.

He had ordered full speed ahead, engines straining, boilers roaring, the ship trembling as though resisting the madness of charging into an ice field at night. He deployed six extra lookouts, bringing the total to seven men simultaneously scanning the dark waters for the glimmer of treacherous icebergs. This dense net of lookouts allowed the Carpathia to safely dodge several massive icebergs in pitch-black darkness while pushing its engines well beyond their normal limits.

And as the Carpathia raced north, he prayed the hymn’s first verse under his breath, asking the Almighty to bind the restless wave and keep the ocean’s appointed limits. Ice loomed in the darkness, monstrous shapes sliding past the bow. More than once he felt the cold finger of fear trace his spine. The bridge crew saw him silently speaking the hymn. But the ship held fast and made it through. And dawn was coming. As the ship approached the coordinates, Rostron ordered the crew to fire flares to encourage survivors.

O Trinity of love and pow'r,
Your children shield in danger's hour;

Now, as the light strengthened, the scale of the tragedy revealed itself. A lifeboat drifted close, its occupants slumped, exhausted. Another held survivors huddled together, faces hollow, eyes wide with the shock of having watched their world vanish beneath the sea. Rostron remembered the moment they first came aboard: shivering women clutching children; men staring blankly into nothing; crewmen from the great liner whispering, “She’s gone… she’s gone…”.

He had spoken gently to each, though his own voice felt foreign. He had listened to accounts of the collision, the rising water, the music playing even as the decks tilted. He had heard of bravery—officers standing firm, husbands stepping back so wives might live, lifeboats lowered into a night filled with screams. And he had heard of the silence that followed.

Later, when all 705 survivors were aboard and the ship turned away from the graveyard of ice, Rostron gathered many in the first class dining saloon, for a memorial and thanksgiving service. Because the Carpathia's dining saloon was originally designed to seat only about 200 people at dinner tables, the crowd had to stand shoulder-to-shoulder, filling every square inch of available floor space. 

He asked everyone present to quietly bow their heads, first to give profound thanks for the lives that were saved, and second, to pray for the peace of the 1,500 souls left behind in the Atlantic. He praised the Carpathia's crew and original passengers, thanking them for working through the night to turn the ship into a hospital. And he reflected on how the Carpathia had navigated a field of icebergs at night without crashing. He told those around him, and later wrote in his official reflections: "I can only conclude another hand than mine was on the helm."

The air was thick with grief, yet also with a strange, fragile gratitude. He opened his Bible, though his hands trembled, and read from the Psalms. Then he led them in prayer, mourning the dead, giving thanks for the living, and asking the Holy Spirit to brood over the waters dark and deep, granting peace to those lost souls where wild confusion had reigned in the death throes of the mighty Titanic as it sunk.

And bid their angry tumult cease,
And give for wild confusion peace;

He recalled the faces lifted toward him, some streaked with tears, some blank with shock, some quietly resolute. And he remembered how the final verse of the mariner’s hymn had seemed to rise from every soul present: O Trinity of love and pow’r, Your children shield in danger’s hour… It was not sung aloud, yet he felt it in the room like a tide.

The service ended in complete silence, with many of the survivors weeping quietly before returning to their makeshift quarters.

The sun broke fully over the horizon, casting gold across the waves. The Carpathia steamed onward, carrying the rescued toward safety, carrying the memory of the lost toward eternity.

O hear us when we cry to Thee
For those in peril on the sea.

Church going

Like many of my poems, I really had no idea where this one was going. The third stanza was actually the first, and then things just changed around, so we start in one place, have a transitional verse, and a final verse in a new home. It was going to be about something else entirely!

Church going

Of lost hope paths, and stranger ways
With a false and softly smiling face
And unseen anger there dismays
And where, O where is grace

Parting is sadness, deeper sorrow
Rejection hid behind the smile
Grace will find a new tomorrow
For the Spirit moves, awhile

Joy is the hymn, the song of love
Found deep in prayer and praise
Come gentle descent of dove
And bread and wine do raise

Church going, but not an ending
But new home of healing, mending

Jersey Life 1967: A View on Jersey's Richest

From JERSEY LIFE, March 1967, this curiosity. 

Although very rambling, it is a wry, satirical essay arguing that Jersey’s booming millionaire class thrives through tax advantages, financial manoeuvring and relentless ambition, shaping the island’s economy and society while quietly supporting local causes. Beneath a pop lyric lies a critique of wealth, aspiration and Jersey life.

Millionaires, the essay concludes, quietly sustain Jersey’s economy and social institutions, making their presence ultimately beneficial to the island. 

This was, of course, the 1980s, when Bergerac had been portraying for almost a decade, the notion of Jersey as an island of millionaires!

A Shot of LSD
By JAMES WEBSTER

Ain't got no gold,
No use for money;
Ain't got no girl,
Don't need no Honey;
I'm satisfied
For all the world's my own . .

Sitting in the Bay one Saturday evening watching life gyrate around walls awash with loud music and soft, soft darkness, crossing platitude with platitude and downing drinks quickly before they evaporated with the heat, a face as long as this sentence and I heard my favourite lyric from the Top Twenty.

Beautifully sung, I may say.

Immediately I felt better. My kind of music has the same effect on me as a large shot of LSD. Or so it would seem from the television programmes I have watched I hasten to add for my Centenier's benefit. And I sensed that here was the Truth. The first verse of this lyric contained, if one was prepared to bear with the somewhat idiomatic grammar, a bond with Plato and Comenius and Wordsworth. A philosophy of life worth examining.

To the naive, the literally minded, the honest sons of the soil as I would be if my doctor would allow it, the general idea seemed to be to stroll through life hand in hand with one's guitar, without a care in the pretty little head. A crust of bread (by kind permission of Amys). A tetrapack of florinated water is all that is needed to establish a complete and lasting rapport with Mother Nature. Satisfaction with one's little lot, complete disregard for worldly goods and concern for birds in the ornithological sense only.

Admirable yet bitterly, cunningly false, I concluded the next morning, eyeing the inevitable Sunday downpour from a warm and unsleepingbag like bed. Despite unaccountable attempts on the part of my stomach to thump sense into my head I got the message. The real one. In fact, the simplicity of this lyric, now recorded, apparently on a tape powered by perpetual motion somewhere in the back of my brain, concealed the secret Freudian rooted ambitions of the knave, the literary minded and honestly, the sons of the soil as well. And probably the rest of Jersey to boot. Getting hooked on LSD once and for all. To become an ordinary, solid, bourgeois run-of-the-mill millionaire. Like the rest of one's friends. Or so it seems.

`Ain't got no gold', at the present moment, is a prerequisite of any self-respecting millionaire. Gold shares have all but halved in value during the past few months as Britain staggered away from the quagmire of devaluation. Doubtless those clairvoyants amongst professional men, the stockbrokers and portfolio consultants (same thing but they charge for losing you money), advised those approaching the million pound barrier to unload gold at the top. Such transactions are not clouded by capital gains tax in an Island sympathetic to the aspiring millionaire's precarious position.

Yet for every seller there must be a buyer. Who is it that so gratefully acknowledges the nods and winks of the Boys That Know and plunges in to the three figure limit of their wretched resources ? Why, you and I and the fellow from St. Clement's.

But it is something of a consolation to realise that in manfully taking our losses as we sell back again on more nods and winks from the Great Men who will even call us 'Sir' and `madam' from time to time, each of us, in our pitifully small way are actually helping to create a millionaire. And this warm glow in the pit of the stomach as we give, collectively of course, a million pounds worth of stock to the neo-millionaire who originally paid half and sold it to us for twice what he now pays is not to be construed as anger.

And still the millionaire ain't got no gold. He has divided earning, script—and rights bordered bits of paper. Gold nuggets may be all right on television, but they do not earn interest. Definitely non-M.

`No use for money'. Why, then, enquired the uninitiated, are banks bursting at the seams, rebuilding, enlarging, opening new branches ? Why are finance houses and merchant banks springing up like mushrooms all over the Island? Why is such a high proportion of the Evening Post given over to enormously discreet advertisements referring to the extra 3/19th per cent to be gained as a result of investing with Arhodbard & Co. instead of White, Ben & Son?

The answer is obvious enough to be overlooked. Millionaires can be slight, worried-looking little men or fine, well-built figures as substantial as their assets. Even money is out for these. But they are simply not equal to the physical problem implicit in carrying about the pounds and pounds avoirdupois of the pounds and pounds sterling that they fritter away from minute to minute. Instead, they slip half a dozen cheque books into one pocket and a quarter of assorted Parkers into another.

To the really rich, then, 'pocket money' is a contradiction in terms. But in any case, the soil, as it were of their financial farmland is something they do not care to have clinging to their fingers.

Watch a couple of millionaires strolling back to the clubhouse from the eighteenth at Grouville, and you may witness the splendid sight of each turning spontaneously but simultaneously to the other and exclaiming piously: 'I say, old boy; wouldn't happen to have a couple of bob handy by any chance . . .' The reply in any case being lost in the polite, appreciative laughter conveying that of course no gentleman millionaire would bother with money. And so they disappear like a couple of Falstaffs through the club doors, waving their thanks to a glum faced caddie who has seen it all before, chanting, 'Chalk it up to me, laddie—no Charles, I insist . .

`Ain’t' got no girl' is at first sight a little more difficult to explain. But there are a number of acceptable possibilities. The cook/housekeeper/nannie/maid/au pair/cleaner/secretary/secretary’s/assistant/secretary's assistant's help/general help/general woman/treasure has left suddenly. This then would be a cry of defiance. 'I can manage, with the aid of the E.P.'s tele-ad service, which should bring a veritable army of female labour to my door by luncheon time. And all willing to work for the honour of being associated with my household rather than on the sacrificial terms of the union'. Dailies can be worse than dockers over working to rule. And they don't need cranes to break things of value, either. Besides, they have this absolutely terrifying superhuman strength which if not sublimated by scrubbing and dusting could come out in anti-social behaviour like throwing the deep freeze into the swimming pool.

I'm satisfied,
For all the world's my own .. .

Here again is the double entendre, since it is only through being thoroughly and continually dissatisfied, no matter how much he has or how well he is doing that the millionaire becomes a millionaire. Notwithstanding this, control of the Clore empire, or even taking over the common market, (which in passing would let everyone in Jersey breathe freely again), is, to the man with tycoon's blood in his veins, a strictly limited objective. Inside his fat-flanked bosom ticks a time-bomb of ambition. To be chairman, managing director and majority shareholder of a worldwide financial organisation in a quite literal sense. The individual countries would become giant supermarkets for this one all-powerful firm.

What really intrigues the impartial if impoverished observer is that millionaires seem to be settling in Jersey faster than flies on rotting meat. Is it possible that this rather unhappy comparison applies equally to the reasons concerned ? Nest eggs deposited here, to judge from the attractive terms offered by such firms as Whyte Gasc, Hill Samuel, Lombard, Hodge and Arbuthnut Latham, should grow very steadily indeed. And no matter how they do grow they will remain hidden in layers of Jersey legislation safe from the ravenous scavengers of the English Inland Revenue.

Income tax at a maximum rate of four shillings in the pound is attractive enough to the wealthy resident, especially when this is literally the top rate and there is no question of super tax or surtax. But to the millionaire, what must matter most of all is the preservation of the capital he has fought so hard to win from his less astute fellows. It is the threat of death duties that lies behind the flight of the millionaire from the U.K.

He could, of course, choose to live elsewhere. The Bahamas, possibly Spain, Gibraltar, South Africa. But the millionaire is potently a man of some intelligence. He has considered these possibilities from the day he first opened a second bank account. He has weighed the cost of living, housing and travel. He has looked at variations in climate and the taxes which are on the way to being introduced. He has calculated how long it would take him to get to London or Paris, and he has found out how many of his friends are already in the area—or coming back. He has assessed scenery, atmosphere, currency, restrictions, political risk, helicopter parking facilities, golf courses and the chances of making a further million in situ.

Jersey may not top the poll on every single question, but on average this sunny little lump of agricultural land paddling its feet in the approaches to the Channel is a millionaire's paradise. And the more money you have, the truer this becomes, because it is when buying Bentleys and green chartreuse, pantellas and private planes that tax is most conspicuously absent.

The result of all this is that Jersey can boast roughly one millionaire to the square mile, give or take the odd hundred thousand pounds or vergee of foreshore. Some of them do have other bases as well, but they are almost embarrassing in their patriotic insistence that they are resident chez nous, sending Christmas and Mother's Day Cards to the Commissioners of Inland Revenue to this effect.

Again, for every millionaire by definition there are possibly fifty or so people in Jersey who are more than half way there. And a further two or three hundred who have the kind of money that makes working for a living an academic proposition. Plus, of course, the honourable company of Jersey Farmers whose agonised complaints of disastrous seasons and mounting debts conceal the kind of financial success that many a millionaire elect might do well to study.

Farming apart, the success stories in the community are as varied and fascinating as the personalities themselves. Lord Louth was once a young A.A. patrolman. Deputy Maldwyn-Thomas who built up an airline that he is said to have sold for his million began, as he is happy to acknowledge in his gentle, unassuming manner, as an A.C.2 in the Royal Air Force. Mr. Haynes, now a millionaire as the result of seeing the potential of TV. rental, returned from a Japanese P.O.W. camp and became a fireman. Garage magnate Ken Jackson started off as a Guernsey butcher. Bill Knight who with Arthur Owen founded Lynwood Ltd. which made their millions, was selling second hand cars in the 'fifties. Even, then, I remember, his personal charm and lean, honest locks lured buyers like moths to the candle, and marked him as a man who would go far. As far as Quennevais, where his foresight led him to provide properties and the Bahamas where unhappily he is forced to spend some of his time on further developments.

Walking through the Royal Square down Kings Street and Queens Street, round Bath Street and then on to the older part of the town with its treasure trove of junk shops I think it would be best to forget about this verse. The shop windows of Hettich & Sons, Maines, Assinders, and the like reflect in addition to the envious faces of those unable to afford their gorgeous contents that good jewellery is a fine investment. Most millionaires' wives confirm this every time they appear at a cocktail party. Again, Oh Joy! Oh Bliss! Oh, Felicity! (though I confess I do not know a girl called Bliss)—no purchase tax. And let's face it, second-hand jewellery is acceptable currency in pretty well any part of the world.

Fine homes, antiques and valuable pictures I tend to connect with those whose background, possibly, gave them something of a natural lead in the world of wealth. Jersey's telephone directory is reminiscent of Debrett in some parts, yet I suppose it is true to say that there are more scrap iron barons and condiment kings amongst our millionaires than archetypal aristocracy.

The tiny Island of Jersey cannot but acknowledge the presence of her affluent society. Houses change hands at astronomical figures, reflecting not so much, perhaps, their intrinsic worth so much as the fact that they are sitting on death-duty-free soil. Since Labour came to power in England there has been mounting competition for top class properties as more and more people realised that, once domiciled in the Island, they could live like millionaires even if they weren't. This miniature invasion is partly responsible for the quite vicious competition at auction sales for antiques and quality furniture. Firms like Le Gallais of Bath Street and Langlois of Don Street, providing auction sales which attract dealers from London and Paris as well as local millionaires.

These firms have showrooms which no millionaire would be ashamed to use as his club. Some do. They negotiate property sales, purchases and rentals. They keep stocks of superb furniture, curtains, materials, garden equipment and what have you. And because they know their clients and themselves probably belong to the treble double-0 club, they give discount for cash.

Are our millionaires, I asked my reflection as it wavered back at me in the bathroom mirror, a bad thing?

Silly question, really. From the financial point of view Jersey might rise four inches if they took their wealth out of the Island, but she would risk foundering as the result of losing the tax, trade and traditional kudos of these people. Boat-builders, house-painters, store-keepers, stock-brokers, private school teachers, car-insurers, every double-barrelled occupation in the book would suffer.

From the social viewpoint the loss, though less obvious, is infinitely greater. Quietly, unobtrusively but nevertheless effectively, every millionaire or man of moment is doing something for this Island. I would not embarrass them further by bringing their good deeds into the open, but for the doubting Thomas let me quote just one example. The Jersey Association for Youth and Friendship, responsible for the flourishing hostels in St. Marks and Clarendon Road has on its committee names which everyone in the Island will readily recognise. 

And work of this nature is not just a matter of writing an occasional cheque to ensure sound sleep at night. It can only be undertaken by those who are concerned personally with the social injustices and problems contained in our Island. It may even be disconcertingly true that the well-to-do give proportionately far more in every way to the well being of society. To the furtherance of the Arts, as the local society would gratefully acknowledge, thinking this time of a lady. To the mentally handicapped. Or to a helicopter hospital service.

Looking around Guernsey 1972 – Part 2

Looking around Guernsey 1972 – Part 2

How Guernsey is governed

[This has changed considerably. The States of Deliberation now consists all of Deputies, all elected on an Island wide vote, plus two representatives from Alderney]

WE HAVE already explained that Guernsey is self-governing, and has enjoyed a very real degree of independence ever since it became associated with England through William, Duke of Normandy. This is why it has developed laws and customs over the centuries that are different from the United Kingdom.

Her Majesty's Government, however, is responsible for the island's external affairs — although not Her Majesty's Government, however, is responsible for the island's external affairs — although not without first consulting Guernsey's government

The island parliament is, called the States of Deliberation, usually referred to simply as "the States". Although the majority of its members are elected by popular vote, the States has a constitution different from that of the House of Commons: Members of the States are elected in four main ways, as follows:-

1. Twelve conseillers, who are elected by an electoral college called the States of Election, which is composed of the Bailiff, who is President; twelve Jurats, twelve Conseillers, the Rectors of the ten parishes, Her Majesty's Procureur, Her Majesty's Comptroller, thirty-three People's Deputies, thirty-four Douzaine Representatives and four Alderney Representatives.

2. Thirty-three deputies who are elected by persons of full age (20 years) who are not subject to any legal disability.

3. Ten douzaine representatives elected from among their own members by the douzaines (or parish councils).

4. Two representatives of the States of Alderney.

Then, in addition, there are the Law Officers of the Crown H.M. Procureur (Attorney-General) and H.M. Comptroller (Solicitor-General), who are members of the States and can take part in debate but have no vote.

Presiding over the assembly, and with a casting vote, is the Bailiff, who is also civil head of the island appointed by the Crown, but whose traditional duty is to speak for the island and represent the views of the insular authorities to the Crown. The Bailiff also presides over the Royal Court, and for that reason is now invariably a lawyer by profession.

The Lieutenant-Governor of Guernsey is the Queen's appointed representative in the island, and .takes no part in civil or legal administration.

The work of the States is handled by a number of Committees set up to deal with various fields such as Housing, Finance, Health and Island Development. Some conseillers and deputies may serve on three or four of these Committees, and are responsible to the States for their administration. In addition, the Committees are served by a permanent civil service. 

The States meet on the last Wednesday of every month except August. An agenda in book form, called a Billet d'Etat, is circulated to each member about ten days before the meeting. The Billet that excites the most public interest is the annual one that outlines the budget proposals for the coming year. Taxes and duties are levied by the States, and these differ considerably from those in the United Kingdom, as the visitor will find to his pleasure.

There is no purchase tax in Guernsey; liquor, petrol and tobacco duties are much lower than in the United Kingdom; there are no surtax, capital gains tax or death duties, and income tax is much less than the British rate:

If there is a meeting of the States while you are in Guernsey, you can go along and listen to the debate from the public gallery. The formalities and voting, carried out in French, underline the Norman origin of the island. The debate, of course, is in English

Justice of the Royal Court

PEOPLE who fall fold of the law in Guernsey (serious crime is comparatively rare) appear before the Royal Court unless their offence is trivial — like a motoring offence — in which case they will be dealt with by the Magistrate's Court in a smaller court-room in the same building. The Royal Court is concerned not only with the trial of criminal offences, but also with civil actions involving legal disputes with citizens.

In both criminal and civil cases those involved can take their cases for retrial, on certain grounds, to local Courts of Appeal.

The President of the Royal Court is the Bailiff, the head of the island's judiciary. There is no jury system in Guernsey; instead, there are 12 Jurats who now constitute, in effect, a permanent jury. Jurats are elected by the States of Election, and election as a Jurat is one of the highest honours Guernsey can confer on her sons [now daughters as well!]. Jurats used to be elected for life, but nowadays there is an age limit, of 75.

Looking around Guernsey 1972 – Part 1

Looking around Guernsey 1972 – Part 1

What makes Guernsey different?

TO MANY UK visitors, the pleasant feeling of being both "abroad" and "at home" is one of the attractions of Guernsey.

They come to the island by sea or air, but have no passport problems. They can buy low-duty cigarettes, drinks, and luxury goods such as perfume at well below the UK price. Yet everyone speaks English, habits and food are much the same as in the UK, and familiar British chain stores and banks line the main shopping centres of St. Peter Port and St. Sampson's.

Nevertheless, Guernsey is "different" in many ways, and visitors often find these differences both fascinating and puzzling. Like the rest of the Channel Islands, Guernsey is part of the British Isles, but unlike Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland, not part of the United Kingdom.

Guernsey has its own government, makes its own laws, fixes its own taxes — and has no representatives in the UK parliament at Westminster. The basis of Guernsey's Constitution is its chosen loyalty to the English Crown. In return, it has been allowed for centuries to go its own way but to export freely into England — and later into the United Kingdom.

 

The Bailiwick of Guernsey includes the smaller Channel Islands of Sark, Alderney, Herm and Jethou, which all acknowledge the Bailiff of Guernsey as their civil head and chief of justice.

As you will see on page 29, however, where these islands are described, they are independent of Guernsey in varying degrees, standing in something of the same sort of relationship to this island as Guernsey stands to England.

According to the 1971 census the island's population then was over 51,000 — and over 35,000 residents were Guernsey-born. Population of the Bailiwick as a whole was over 53,000.

One of the differences here that visitors spot quickly is that street names are in French as well as English. This is because Guernsey was originally Norman-French. Many older islanders are bi-lingual and still speak the Guernsey-French patois of their ancestry, which can also be traced in hundreds of Guernsey family names.

In following pages of this booklet you can discover more about what makes Guernsey different. We have touched lightly on these subjects, because this has been written for visitors who would like to know more about us.

How Guernsey became British

GEOGRAPHICALLY, Guernsey is much closer to France than to England — lying only 30 miles from the Normandy coast as against 80 miles from Weymouth. But when islanders talk about "the main-land", they mean the United Kingdom, to which they are bound by centuries-old ties of sentiment, economics and politics.

How has this allegiance to England rather than to France, the island's closer powerful neighbour, come about?

To answer this question, we have to go back to 1066, when William, Duke of Normandy, landed his conquering army in Sussex and became William I of England. His Duchy of Normandy included the Channel Islands — Les Iles Normandes — and these became part of the combined realm of England and Normandy. A hundred and thirty-eight years later, King John lost most of the Duchy of Normandy, but Guernsey and the other Channel Islands remained loyal to the English Crown.

From that time, the island became a focal point of the strife which was to rage for several hundred years between England and France. The French made many raids on the island and at times established temporary occupation, only to be driven off subsequently by the sturdy islanders, aided by the forces of the English King.

The frequency of these raids led to the mounting of heavy fortifications all round the coast, and the remains of these fortresses can still be seen — silent reminders of Guernsey's stormy history.

During this time, the island developed its own parliamentary institutions and legal system, which survive in modified form today, so that it is really a self-governing, -independent country. Despite the island's long loyalty to the English Crown, it must be remembered that Guernsey's origins are Norman-French, and there are still traces of this early character about its life and people.

The German invasion of the Channel Islands in July 1940 and their occupation for five dreary years by Hitler's troops did more than anything else in Guernsey's history to "anglicise" the island. Thousands of local people were evacuated to the UK, and a generation of children grew up in mainland towns and villages.

Guernseymen are proud of the fact that their fealty to the Crown has been by choice and not by dominion. Indeed, as islanders sometimes good- naturedly point out, Guernsey was part of the land that originally conquered England, so that they can call England their oldest possession.

Our ancient charters  

AT THE top of Smith Street in St. Peter Port is the Royal Court, where the island's parliament meets and where the law courts are held. In one wing of the building is the Greffe or Record Office, and probably the most important documents kept here are the island's old, original charters. The Greffe is open to the public and you can see these treasured documents for yourself.

The charters, renewed on occasion by each succeeding English Sovereign, are the foundation for the special privileges that enable the islanders to fix their own rates of taxation. Further, under the provisions of the Customs and Excise Act, relief from duty on entry into the United Kingdom is granted to such important exports as tomatoes, flowers and cattle.

On a more warlike note, the charters establish that the islanders may not be called upon for military service outside the island except to rescue their sovereign if he is captured by his enemies, or to re¬conquer his kingdom if he is dispossessed of it.

Another interesting document at the Greffe is a copy of the famous Neutrality Bull of Pope Sixtus IV, which was later embodied in the Royal Charters. By the Bull, the Channel Islands "as far as the sight of man goes or the eye of man reaches" was declared a strictly neutral zone.

The Bull was posted for all to read on the cathedrals of Canterbury, London, Salisbury, Nantes, St. Pol de Leon, Treguier and the Church of St. Peter Port. It constituted a very valuable privilege for an island in the favourable trading position of Guernsey, and did not lapse until the reign of William III when privateering became a very popular and highly lucrative occupation.

More Short Stories: One More Step along the World

This week it is a look at "One More Step along the World". I like the way Sydney Carter views faith as an unpredictable journey. Lines like "Round the corners of the world I turn, / more and more about the world I learn" present the Christian life as an open-ended exploration rather than a finished destination. I wanted to contrast this with Bethel & Vineyard songs which lean into a triumphant note where pain, doubt, and suffering are overwhelmingly defeated by a surge of praise.

One More Step along the World

Thomas had slipped into the back pew hoping to disappear. The church was already humming, hands raised, lights low, the worship band building towards another victorious chorus. He had heard this language all morning: breakthrough, victory, claiming the promises, stepping into destiny. It was confident, exuberant, almost defiant. Yet as he sat there, shoulders drawn in, he felt the distance between the room’s triumph and his own inner landscape widen with every beat of the drum. Like his namesake, he saw faith and doubt interwoven through the messy world in which he lived.

The preacher spoke of conquering fear, of marching forward, of living as “overcomers.” People nodded, murmured assent, some stood to receive prayer for boldness. 

Thomas watched, grateful for their sincerity yet unable to join them. His life had not been a march of victories. It had been a slow, uneven walk, through grief, through doubt, through the quiet work of trying to remain faithful when nothing felt simple. His faith was not a blazing fire, but a candle blowing in the wind, yet still a light in the darkness.

He found himself whispering the opening line of “One More Step Along the World I Go”, the hymn he had loved since childhood. He loved the gentle cadence of its first idea, the sense of moving forward not with trumpets but with trust. The hymn’s world was not a battlefield to be won but a road to be walked, hand in hand with a God who travelled beside him rather than pushed him from behind. As the hymn said, “Keep me travelling along with you.”

As the band swelled again, Thomas felt a tightening in his chest. The triumphant approach was beautiful for those who could inhabit it.  But he could not. His faith had never been a shout; it had always been a quiet conversation. He did not need to “claim victory.” He needed companionship. He did not need to “step into destiny.” He needed the next small step.

And he realised, sitting there in the back pew, that this difference was not a failure. He thought of the German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer writing in Tegel prison in 1944:

People turn to God in God’s own need,
and find God poor, degraded, without roof or bread,
see God devoured by sin, weakness, and death.
Christians stand with God to share God’s pain.

He remembered the hymn’s humility, the way it asked for guidance rather than guaranteed success, the way it trusted God to be present in the unknown rather than to remove it. That was the Christianity he recognised. Not triumphalism, but pilgrimage. Not certainty, but companionship. Not victory, but perseverance. 

Give me courage when the world is rough,

keep me loving though the world is tough.

The preacher invited the congregation to come forward for prayer and power. This was certainty; this was a known way. But Thomas stayed seated. He felt no judgement, only clarity. This was not his spiritual home. He needed a place where faith was not measured in volume or confidence, where the journey mattered more than the destination, where God was found in the quiet steps rather than the victorious leaps.

He stood slowly, slipping out before the final song began. Outside, the morning was cool, the sky pale with early light. He breathed deeply. The road ahead was still uncertain, but he felt something like peace. 

He thought of the words of King George’s great wartime speech - "Go out into the darkness and put your hand into the Hand of God. That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way".

On Words and Autism

This poem takes a few words from a well known duet and weaves them into something different. I have always thought of the first few lines "if I had words..." as almost (if seen apart from the song) about autism and the limited nature of language that some autistic people have. The imagery of “crumbs” instead of “bread” evokes scarcity, but also resilience: even fragments nourish. 

It’s a portrait of communication as both struggle and grace, a quiet assertion that meaning can emerge from the smallest utterances. For it is amazing how much they manage to communicate with just those fragmentary words, not structured like you and I speak, but still, miraculously, making their needs known, telling us about the world, and bringing joy to all who hear them.

On Words and Autism

If I had words to make a day for you
I would, but only fragments come
Speech is hard, the words are few
It is not bread but left over crumb

I'd sing you a morning golden and new
And I can sing, remember just so well
Old songs my memory is just so true
New I cannot, but old can always tell

I would make this day last for all time
But time worries me, the days laid out
Each hour, I wait for clock to chime
The pattern sooths, fixed turnabout

I have some words, and precious they
They help me navigate every day

A 1967 Jersey Profile of Three Citizens

JERSEY PROFILE

From 1967, Jersey Life, a Profile of three prominent citizens of Jersey.

CAPTAIN DERECK MORGAN

Captain Dereck Morgan, of Hickling Oak, St. Mary, has been a pilot with the Jersey base of British United for the past seven years, with more than 5,000 flying hours to his credit. Captain Morgan served in the R.A.F. from 1949-1953. He is married with three children, and his hobbies include gardening and home-improvement.

Mr. JOHN AUBREY DAVIES

Mr. Davies has been appointed manager of the St. Helier branch of Barclay's Bank Ltd. as from next month. Born in Aberdare, Glamorganshire, he joined Barclay's in London in 1930. At 54, he is married and has two daughters and a son. He enjoys golfing in his spare time and is a member of several sports and social clubs in the Bournemouth area where he was at one time manager..

Mr. A. J. SCRIVEN (“Jim”)

Jerseyman and Old Victorian, Mr. Striven has for 12 years been in charge of the news desk at the 'Evening Post'. After leaving college he joined the Overseas Trading Corporation Ltd., and for seven years was their travelling representative in the whole of the Mediterranean area with headquarters in Spain. He joined the 'Evening Post' office staff in 1935 and in 1945 became secretary, later Deputy News Editor and took over from Mr. W. Troy in 1955, subsequently being made a director. A founder member and subsequently president of the Sub Aqua Club of Jersey, president of the Jersey Cage Bird Society for 30 years, founder president of the Jersey Sea Cadets Parents' Association, and charter president of the Lions Club of Jersey. Mr. Scriven's chief hobbies are swimming and underwater fishing.

More Short Stories: Morning has Broken: After the Storm

Taken this time juxtaposing Eleanor Farjeon's great hymn to creation's dawn against the backdrop of one the the great storms climate change has unleashed on our world, and drawing on my own memories of the night.

Morning has Broken: After the Storm

Diary Entry — The Night of the Great Storm

“Morning has broken… like the first morning.” I write those words now, though when the storm first rose at dusk, I doubted I would ever see another dawn. For the storm was on.

That Great Storm was upon us as the long night began and increased throughout the night. In the early hours just past midnight, winds reached over 110 miles per hour, a force that felt less like weather and more like a living creature battering the world. The windows shuddered in their frames, each gust a fist against the glass. I could feel the walls vibrating with the gusts of wind. Slates tore from the roof and crashed down like iron hail. The whole building shook, trembling as though it feared what the night might bring. I could imagine colossal speed of the storm as it came bearing down on us.

I lit a single candle. Its flame bent sideways in the draughts, a fragile thing, yet stubborn. “Praise for the singing, praise for the morning,”, I whispered, not as a hymn but as a hope. If morning came, I would praise it indeed.

Hours passed. The storm roared like a creature circling the house, searching for a way in. Sleep was impossible. I sat by the computer, watching the reports unfold in real time. Police warnings. Trees down. Damage to roofs. Fences buckled and broken. Here I could watch, looking at the world being torn apart. The storm colour was an angry red on the weather radar.

I thought of the hymn’s blackbird, singing “like the first bird,” singing at creation’s dawn. Tonight no bird sang. No creature dared. The world belonged only to the wind. This was the uncreation of our world.

Midnight had long gone, and the night wore one. Time had no meaning in the storm’s grip. I felt the hours only as a tightening in my chest, a longing for stillness. The candle guttered low. I feared the roof might lift away entirely. I feared the windows might burst inward. I feared, most of all, that the night would never end. But storms, even great ones, cannot hold the world forever.

Somewhere around four, the wind began to falter. Not stop, just hesitate. The house no longer trembled with every gust. The rain softened from furious sheets to scattered drops. I dared to stand, dared to look out through the warped glass.

A faint grey touched the horizon. The promise of dawn. By five, the storm had spent itself. The sky was bruised and torn, but no longer raging. Dawn crept in shyly, as though afraid to disturb the wreckage. And then, slowly, gently, the first true light broke over the ruined garden, over the fallen trees, over the scattered slates, the broken fencing, as if mighty giants had been trampling through our world, leaving wreckage where their feet trod, and incompleteness where their feet passed.

“Praise for the morning… fresh from the world.” I said it aloud this time. The storm is over. The day has begun. And despite the wreckage, I heard the blackbird start to sing once more. “Praise for the singing, praise for the morning”. We have survived.

A Tropical Heatwave in London

A Tropical Heatwave in London

The air so hot this summer day
Sleep comes poorly in the night
It is now our own inflicted blight
Changing climate comes this way

Baked in a kiln, our human clay
A fragile pot, in fires so bright
The air so hot this summer day
Sleep comes poorly in the night

The wrath of gods is now to stay
Our poor lands all dry in sight
We are cursèd with this blight
A cooler breeze, I pray, I pray
The air so hot this summer day

1986 - 40 years ago - July - Part 2

 

1986 - 40 years ago - July - Part 2

July 14-20

A YOUNG father is released from prison so that he can travel to the UK to visit his nine month-old baby son who is in hospital with serious burns. Kevin Doublet has his six-week sentence for malicious damage reduced to five weeks and one day by the Appeal Court so that he can make the journey.

Jersey Zoo scores another success when Kishka becomes the first captive-born lowland gorilla in Britain to give birth.

Clearing bank staff working in Jersey call for a four per cent increase in their local allowance to bring it up to 16 per cent.

A 57-year-old man and his 53-year-old wife are given suspended jail sentences and fined £2,000 by a UK Court which hears that they tried to finance a Jersey holiday by smuggling cigarettes. Customs officers in Weymouth found that a car belonging to Robert and Betsy Hanley, of Bolton, was full of secret compartments containing the cigarettes.

St Clement Deputy Tony Perkins is found guilty in the Police Court of committing an act of gross indecency in the Weighbridge toilets. The 42-year-old Deputy says that he will appeal.

A former Constable of Trinity, Mr John Dorey Richardson, dies one day after his 76th birthday.

The Isle of Man government decides to seek the closure of the Sellafield nuclear reactor in Cumbria. French nuclear installations are nearer to Jersey then Sellafield is to the Isle of Man, but the Island's civil emergency controller, Col. Bill Clayden, says that Islanders have nothing to fear.

 July 21-27

THE Education Committee reveals plans to replace Haut de la Garenne children's home with a much smaller establishment on the site of flats on the corner of Bagatelle Road and Bagatelle Lane.

It is suggested that another way in which Jersey could contribute to UK defence spending would be for the States to pay for existing Island skills and facilities to be used to carry out repair contracts for the Ministry of Defence. The suggestion comes from the chairman of Aviation Jersey, Mr Charles Evans.

Two employees of Le Riches Stores are clubbed to the ground in Colomberie by robbers who snatch a night safe bag containing £3,000. The attack occurs just outside the National Westminster Bank on the corner of Little Green Street where Mr Clint Lawrence (24), and Mr Matthew Dent (18), were about to deposit the money.

A 76-year-old woman who received serious injuries when she was struck by a car while crossing the road at Beaumont dies in hospital. Residents and shopkeepers in the Beaumont area press on with the road safety petition they were preparing before Mrs Lucille Egre was knocked down.

Committees are formed on behalf of Victoria College and the Jersey College for Girls to fight the Education Committee's plans to abolish the colleges' sixth forms and create a sixth form college instead.

Mr Geoffrey Hamon, the former Comptroller of Income Tax, is sworn in as a Jurat by the Royal Court. Jurat Hamon fills a vacancy left by the retirement of Jurat Clarrie Dupre.

 July 28—August 3

A REPRESENTATION made in the Royal Court alleges that a miscarriage of justice occurred in the case of Mr John Patrick McLaughlin, who is serving a three-year sentence for robbery. The representation names three of the officers suspended from the States Police — Det. Chief Insp. Charles Quinn, P. Insp. Barry Blenkinsop and Det. Sgt. Brian Follain.

The former head of the Jersey teachers' pay negotiating panel, Mr Mike de Bourcier, is appointed States Employment Relations Manager, a post which carries a salary of around £20,000.

The Island Development Committee publishes Volume 2 of the Island Plan, Jersey's "blueprint for the future". It includes plans for over 2,000 new homes, new traffic schemes and proposals for preserving the countryside.

 The Jersey Electricity Company says that it would like to build a giant coal storage yard at La Collette Power Station. The coal would be used to fire new boilers so that the Island would not be dependent on oil for the generation of electricity.

A decision by the UK Aviation Minister, Mr Michael Spicer, means that air services linking Heathrow and Jersey are to remain. Senator Bernard Binnington, the president of the Harbours and Airport Committee and a senior member of a delegation which met Mr Spicer, says he is delighted by the decision.

Education Committee president Deputy Phil Mourant denies a claim by Miss Isobel Stevenson, the headmistress of the Jersey College for Girls, that the school is being run down with a view to closure.

The Jersey Hotel and Guest House Association plans to spend £25,000 on a survey to find out how the local industry can be improved.

Where has all the lament gone? – Part 2

Where has all the lament gone? – Part 2

Overview

Vineyard, Bethel and charismatic worship songs often intentionally trade traditional verse-chorus structures for circular, chant-like formats, verse, chorus, bridge. This design prioritizes emotional intimacy, spiritual reflection, and prolonged corporate focus over standard musical progression.

This time I am looking a song which while close to those songs, has significance differences. It is Refiner's Fire.

Refiner's Fire

Refiner’s Fire (written by Brian Doerksen in 1990) is arguably the most important archetype of the early Vineyard movement. It acts as a perfect theological bridge between the old and the new hymnody.

Unlike Cornerstone, which is an anthem of personal triumph, Refiner’s Fire goes through suffering to get to victory, in a realistic way. It does not rush to an immediate, easy resurrection victory. In some ways it is a song of Purgatory.

C.S. Lewis, while rejecting the Middle Ages view of purgatory as a place almost of torture, looks upon it as a kind of cleansing, and this links with the ideas in Refiner's Fire:

Our souls demand Purgatory, don’t they? Would it not break the heart if God said to us, ‘It is true, my son, that your breath smells and your rags drip with mud and slime, but we are charitable here and no one will upbraid you with these things, nor draw away from you. Enter into the joy’? Should we not reply, ‘With submission, sir, and if there is no objection, I’d rather be cleaned first.’ ‘It may hurt, you know’ – ‘Even so, sir.’

I assume that the process of purification will normally involve suffering. Partly from tradition; partly because most real good that has been done me in this life has involved it. But I don’t think the suffering is the purpose of the purgation. I can well believe that people neither much worse nor much better than I will suffer less than I or more. . . . The treatment given will be the one required, whether it hurts little or much.

My favourite image on this matter comes from the dentist’s chair. I hope that when the tooth of life is drawn and I am ‘coming round’,’ a voice will say, ‘Rinse your mouth out with this.’ This will be Purgatory. The rinsing may take longer than I can now imagine. The taste of this may be more fiery and astringent than my present sensibility could endure. But . . . it will [not] be disgusting and unhallowed.

Refiner’s Fire is a rare exception in charismatic music because it does not rush to an immediate, easy resurrection victory.

The Lyric: "Purify my heart / Let me be as gold and precious silver... My heart's one desire / Is to be holy."

The song acknowledges that closeness to God involves pain and loss (the "refiner's fire" burns away the old self). It frames this particular suffering not as a sign of spiritual defeat or a lack of faith, but as the very location where divine transformation takes place.

The song's core theme is a desperate cry for holiness and cleansing.

The Lyric: "Set apart for You, Lord / I choose to be holy."

The Cappadocian Fathers defined holiness not as legalistic rule-following, but as a total transformation of the human character into the likeness of God (theosis). Refiner’s Fire captures this desire for inner ontological change. It asks God to reshape the believer's actual character, rather than just asking God for material blessings or emotional highs.

Where the song becomes brilliant, and shifts is the final line of the chorus. For the first 90% of the song, the focus is entirely vertical and individual (my heart, my desire, my sin). But the final line shifts the entire purpose of the purification:

The Lyric: "...Ready to do Your will."

This line rescues the song from pure narcissistic escapism. For the only reason to ask God to purify your heart is so that you can leave the church building and fight for justice, feed the hungry, and love your neighbour. The song explicitly states that inner holiness is not the final goal; holiness is fuel for outward action.

Refiner’s Fire sits right on the border. It uses the traditional Vineyard musical structure of intimate, repetitive worship, but its lyrics contain a weightier, more classical theology of suffering and holiness that a traditional theologian can deeply respect—provided that the person singing it actually walks out the door to "do His will" in the real world.

Note: Brian Doerksen wrote this song out of a period of intense personal brokenness and financial collapse. It was born of experience.

More Short Stories: A Chronicle of Lithou Island

"God Moves In A Mysterious Way". I am using the text of this hymn as it appeared in Reginald Heber’s “Hymns Written and Adapted to the Weekly Church Service of the Year” in 1827. This short story is set in the near future in 2034.

A Chronicle of Lithou Island
Written by Abbot Petrus, Year of Our Lord 2034

The world beyond our narrow sea groans like a wounded creature. China’s fleets crowd the Taiwan Strait; Ukraine bleeds into another year; the Middle East burns with a fury that seems older than history; oil convoys vanish; Europe suffocates under a heat so fierce that forests ignite without flame. Men speak of a Third War as though it were already unfolding.

And yet here, on Lithou Island, we have been given a strange peace.

It began six months ago, when our fledgling Order of the Holy Interpreter approached the Government of Guernsey. We had no wealth, no patron, only a conviction that God was calling us to a place of watchfulness. We asked to serve as caretakers of Lithou, this forgotten rock of wind and gulls, with long abandoned the ruins of the Priory of St Mary. I expected a polite refusal.

Instead, after weeks of deliberation, the States agreed. They said the island needed “quiet stewardship” and that our presence might deter vandalism. I believe, though I cannot prove it, that Providence had already prepared their hearts. As the hymn says, His “never‑failing skill” works in deep, hidden places.

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill,
He treasures up His great designs,
And works His sovereign will.

Entry I — Arrival in the Storm

We arrived three days ago, twelve brothers and two sisters, carrying crates of books, tools, and the Rule we wrote together. The tide covered the causeway. The sea was raging. Waves crashed against the rocks as though some vast presence were striding across them. I thought of the hymn’s image of God planting His footsteps in the sea. It felt almost literal.

The priory was half‑ruined, although workmen had been hard at work restoring it for habitation but we gathered there anyway. Rain poured down, beating upon the roof. When we prayed the line about God riding upon the storm, the wind tore at us and the building shook.. Some of the brothers trembled. I felt only awe.

God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm!

Entry II — News from the Mainland

The radio crackled with grim tidings this morning: drone incursions over Taiwan; a Ukrainian dam destroyed; riots in Paris as temperatures reached fifty degrees; wildfires in Bavaria; fuel rationing in London. The announcer’s voice broke when he said “continental destabilisation”.

Brother Matthias asked whether we should flee if the Channel Islands become a target. I told him monks do not flee. We stand where we are placed. The hymn reminds us that the clouds we dread are “big with mercy” and may yet break in blessings.

Still, I confess privately: I fear for the nations.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take!
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head!

Entry III — Clearing the Chapel

We spent the afternoon hard at work fixing the Priory and Chapel and the new but simple annex for our quarters. As we worked, Sister Helena began humming the verse about fearful saints taking courage. Soon we were all singing. The words felt heavier now, forged by the world’s suffering, yet strangely hopeful. The bud may indeed taste bitter, but the flower will be sweet.

Entry IV — Pilgrims at Low Tide

This evening, as the tide retreated, we saw figures crossing the causeway from Guernsey, pilgrims, perhaps a dozen of them. Word has already spread that a new order has settled here. They came barefoot, walking the wet sand in silence, as though approaching holy ground.

We welcomed them into the half‑repaired chapel. One woman wept as she prayed. Another asked whether the world was ending. I told her gently that God’s purposes ripen fast, even in days like these, and that He hides a smiling face behind the frowning one.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for his grace;
Behind a frowning Providence
He hides a smiling face.

Entry V — The Great Silencing

A strange, heavy quiet has fallen over our rock. Yesterday at midnight, the calendar turned, and the strict laws of this island became our own monastic rule. By decree of the States, all heavy work on the Priory must cease until the summer ends. We laid down our hammers, packed away the iron crowbars, and watched the last tractor retreat across the causeway before the tide swallowed the stones. We are now entirely on our own, locked in a pact of silence with the earth.

The law of the land says we must not disturb the nesting oystercatchers and shags that claim these shingles. But for us, this restriction feels less like a government mandate and more like a holy invitation. We have banned all artificial lights after dusk, saving our precious oil and keeping the windows dark so as not to panic the birds. When we gather in the half-roofed chapel, we do not project our voices. We chant the offices in low, rhythmic whispers.

The absolute silence of Lihou is our shield against the madness of the world. We must trust that the same hand guiding the wild birds to their nests is holding the fractured nations together, working His sovereign design in the quiet.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan His works in vain;
God is His own interpreter,
And He will make it plain.

Entry VI — The Red Sky

At sunset the sky turned crimson, stained by smoke drifting from the fires in Europe. It should have been a sign of doom. Instead, it felt like a veil lifting. Perhaps this island, this lonely, wind‑scoured rock, is one of the bright designs God has treasured up for a new dark age.

Tonight the sea is calm. The lantern burns steadily beside me. And though the world trembles on the brink, I sense a quiet assurance: God is His own Interpreter. He will make it plain. And if it needs be, this place will be a quiet haven of sanctuary against the raging world,. We will keep alive a flickering candle of hope as the lights go out slowly across the world, and mankind tastes the bitterness fruits of war and climate change, and later we will sow the seeds of a new creation amidst the ruins.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.

Owl Dreams

One from the archive, from 28/04/2005.

This strange poem came about as follows: I helped back then to moderate a Yahoo Group called "Norviscensian Seekers", and one of the members posted a very strange dream about an Owl on the site, and asked for help in interpreting it; after making some suggestions, I was also asked to turn the dream into a poem, and this is the result.

Owl Dreams

I dreamed of night, the coolest air
Fresh breezes, night sounds here
I looked out through the window
Then came rush of air, an inflow
Bring with it a black bag blown
A portent perhaps, for me shown.

I looked inside, bird was flapping
Trying to free itself, so struggling
To get out of the bag. I set it free
An owl, so very beautiful to see
Black and white feathers, eyes
Glowing and yellow, scrutinise.

Out flew the owl, happy but weak
It landed on my desk, as if to seek
A place of rest. Then its back broke
Somehow, and suddenly it spoke
Saying "Thank you", lay quite still
As if a task was finished to fulfil.

The owl lost its feathers, lay bare
I stroked it with pity, held it near
Suddenly it gave a loud cry, died
I saw it broken, bare, and I cried
It passed away within my hands
Departed now to promised lands.

A priest came to my room, he said
That this owl had been sacrificed
And must be offered up, held high
In Holy Mass, the time draws nigh
It must be given up for so many
This was a miracle for all to see.

I dreamed of night, moon so bright
I was on a road, within my sight
Thousands of people on this way
Family and friends too, so to pray
All going to church, a pilgrimage
To see the owl, so wise and sage.

Upon the altar, there was the owl
And ancient peoples wearing cowl
To modern people from the present
All came to see the owl ascendant
On the altar, and we are rejoicing
Then I awoke, and it was morning.

I dreamed this night, owls fleeting
To a parliament of owls meeting
There was praise and adoration
Three owls there were, and one
Feathers white as wool or snow
Renewed, I saw my owl once more
In the opening of dream's door.