The Sunday Archive: The Pilot, August 1997 - Part 12

The Sunday Archive: The Pilot, August 1997 - Part 12

SHORTLY after his arrival in a new parish, the vicar was asked to conduct a funeral service.

In the service he announced: "I'm sorry that I cannot pay tribute to the deceased as I did not know him. But if any of you would like to say a few words, please feel free to do so."

There was complete silence. "Now don't be shy," continued the vicar, "I'm sure some of you would like to say a kindly word about your friend." Finally a voice from the back muttered: "His brother was worse!"

—Rev John Dodd, Grouville

St Luke and St James
From
DAVID JONES Priest-in-Charge

The Winds of Change and the Challenge to Share

THE twentieth century crept closer to the Established Church in the Bailiwick of Jersey last month, yet the Deanery Synod again ran away from facing the need to look at the present conditions of the Church of England and what the future held and the challenge to change. Ours is the last Deanery in our Diocese to face the challenge! The "Other Island" has already done its job. Why is Jersey last? What a reputation, when we could be leading the way with imagination and flare! A lot was said about history and the need to preserve, and not in "my parish," and why not next door?

For those of you unaware of the issue, it was the need to release two clergy posts in the Island, so that places with greater need may benefit on the mainland. This is something new for us here but very common for the last twenty years in the UK. Back in the 70's it was realised that most of the Church of England's clergy were in the rural areas, when most of the population lived in urban areas. 

So a process of better use of the manpower of the Church was undertaken and the number of clergy, serving relatively small populations, was reduced by the uniting of parishes under one priest. Added to this there were, and are, less men (and now women) offering themselves for the Ordained Ministry and less money to pay for them. Thus there was a growing need, with less resources. Since those days country and town parishes have had to cut their cloth according to the means available.

I came to Jersey from three rural parishes of the size of St Mary's and St John's, scattered over 30 square miles. We had three church schools to run and to be chairman of the governors and trustee of. Three church councils to run. Three parish councils to attend and the raising of funds to maintain all three church buildings, and pay the Quota, and give to mission. Yes, with the visiting and the growing of congregations. That group of three is now, like many others, to increase to five parishes soon. Still with only one Rector. My situation was far from unique, as there were Rectors nearby with five, six and seven parishes.

Yes, I know that Rectors on Jersey are different and play a part in the civil parish administration, but they, unlike their UK fellows, get their church and rectories maintained by the civil authorities and don't have the burden of work, raising funds to do the repair and restoration, themselves (like, I might say, the district churches here do!).

The challenge all of the Anglican churches in Jersey have, is to take our part in the wider Church of which we belong (a wider Church that supports those parishes here who do not pay their full Quota, by subsidising them.) We have more than our fair share of clergy. We need to share our priests, and at the moment release two for service elsewhere. To somewhere with a great need (and population). We may need to release more, only time will tell. But this surely is part of being Christians together, helping where there is the greater need.

We face a challenge, country parishes and the parishes and churches around the town of St Helier; are we making the best use of our limited manpower resources? Let us make the creative choices, rather than have them imposed on us, because we have run away from the challenge. This time, is not a time of doom and gloom, though, but a time of opportunity. Sharing a priest can release the ministries of other people, as is evident in many a parish church in the UK where one man has charge of a group of two, three or four. It is a time to seek a new vision from God as to what is His task for His people in this generation.

The talking will go on, let us pray that we Anglicans in this Island may not duck the issues, but meet them with courage, imagination and the Spirit of Christian generosity. That come November we may have a plan for our future development, worthy of those who follow the God who makes all things new and is ever moving onward.

Much more can and will be said, but we cannot get away from the fact that we have more than our fair share of clergy. Let us meet that truth together. And together rise to the challenge.

DIARY DATES FOR AUGUST

1st-4th: Choir Tour singing in Sherbourne Abbey. 4th: Prayer School, 7.30 pm.
7th: MU Overseas Coffee Morning at church, 11 am-12 noon.
10th: Fun Day and Barbeque at the Vicarage from 2 pm.
17th: Songs of Praise in support of the Children's Society.
31st: Church Picnic and Scavenger Hunt at Gorey.

REGISTERS

HOLY BAPTISM. 1st June, Alexander Lopes; 15th June, Kerry McFarlane; 22nd June, Katherine Veitch, Samuel Allen; 6th July, Jamie Larbaliester, Sean Herbert, Luke Piziura; 13th July, Oliver Bybarezuk.

HOLY MATRIMONY. 28th June, Timothy Marsh and Jocelyne Le Guerne; 12th July, Michael Arnold and Tracey Huggett.

St Brelade, St Aubin on the Hill and Communicare

HOLY BAPTISM. 1st June, Robyn Wellman; 15th June, Fraser Barlow, Jemima Hill; 29th June, Stacy Benstead.

HOLY MATRIMONY. 7th June, Matthew Ahier and Silke Viola; Jonathan Williams and Sarah Mallet; 14th June, Robin Ovenden and Lucy Hackett; Andrew Chamberlain and Victoria Duckett; 21st June, Alun Evans and Sarah Pinel; 28th, Stephen de Gruchy and Fiona Macintosh.

 

The Font

I wanted to write a poem about the font in St Brelade's Church to show how the Eastern Church Fathers speak about infant baptism. The Fathers consistently describe baptism as grace given, new birth, entry into the family of God, and a participation in the Church’s living continuity across generations. This is something lost in the sacramental minimalism and iconoclasm of the Reformation.

The Font

Carved from granite, with loving prayer:
It stands in the church, and brings near,
The past, the ages gone, of babies brought
To be baptised, because they ought;
Forbid not little children, said our Lord,
And so the priest, the water poured,
Upon the child, and made the sign
Of the cross, of the love so divine;
Generations came on such a day,
To bless the child, to love and pray;
What do you see? To see mere stone,
Or the place where faith once shone,
And does now, not just times past,
But a sign in stone of faith to last,
Of baptism into the family holy;
Water and faith, to one so lowly,
Pregnant with the Spirit above,
Descending with grace and love,
As water is poured over the head,
A tapestry gains one more thread;

Heaven descends upon the earth:

A sign of grace, of second birth.


Appendix: The Font as Stone and Sign

The poem’s meditation on the font as both “mere stone” and “a sign in stone of faith to last” matches the Eastern sacramental imagination. The Fathers often speak of material things (water, oil, stone, bread) as transfigured bearers of divine grace. The granite font in the poem becomes a witness across centuries, just as they describe the Church’s sacraments as living memory embodied in matter.

Baptism as new birth: The poem speaks of “second birth” and heaven descending to earth. Eastern Fathers, from Irenaeus to Cyril of Jerusalem, speak of baptism as regeneration, a true birth from above, not merely symbolic.

Grace given to the lowly: The line “Water and faith, to one so lowly” resonates with their insistence that baptism is God’s action, not human achievement. Origen explicitly says infants are baptised  because they too need the healing grace of Christ. 

The child welcomed into the family: The poem’s sense of being woven into a “tapestry” mirrors the Fathers’ understanding of baptism as incorporation into the Body of Christ, the household of faith. [Here I have also drawn on Oscar Cullman's "Baptism in the New Testament".]

Generational continuity: Eastern tradition emphasises the Church as a living organism across time. The poem’s movement through “ages gone” and “generations came on such a day” reflects that same sacramental memory.

The font as a place where heaven touches earth: This is deeply patristic. Chrysostom, for example, describes the baptismal waters as “pregnant with the Spirit,” a place where divine life is poured out.

The Font as Stone and Sign: I wanted to place the font as both “mere stone” and “a sign in stone of faith to last” to match the Eastern sacramental imagination. The Fathers often speak of material things (water, oil, stone, bread) as transfigured bearers of divine grace. The granite font becomes a witness across centuries, just as they describe the Church’s sacraments as living memory embodied in matter. 

1986 - 40 years ago - March - Part 1

1986 - 40 years ago - March - Part 1

March 3-9

A MOTORIST is killed when his car crashes into a wall at Gorey in the early hours of the morning. The dead man is named as Mr Darrell William Gluyas (27).

A Jersey Evening Post inquiry reveals that motorists are paying at least 20p a gallon more than they should be for petrol and that garages are imposing a mark up three times greater than their UK counterparts.

As a result of the disclosures, the Economic Adviser is to look into the Island's petrol prices.

A 49-year-old man, Mr Norman Spence, is taken to hospital with serious injuries after he was trapped under a tractor which overturns on a St Ouen cotil.

Plans formulated by St Paul's Football Club to turn a near-derelict nursery in St Saviour into a football pitch are rejected by the Island Development Committee, but the club says that it intends to appeal against the decision.

Deputy Margaret Beadle is to select a committee to investigate the possibility of St Brelade returning to compete in the Battle of Flowers. The parish last entered a float 14 years ago.

The results of a survey carried out during the summer of 1985 reveals new geological information about the formation of the Channel Islands early in the history of the Earth.

Farmers throughout the Island use polythene sheeting on a larger scale than ever before to protect early potato crops. It is estimated that 3,000 vergees of Royals will ultimately be grown under wraps.

March 10--16

THE Constable of St Saviour, Mr Len Norman, collapses at work and dies shortly afterwards. Aged 64, he had only just been re-elected to serve a fourth term in office.

Vandals leave a two-mile trail of destruction along the east coast. Road signs are uprooted, equipment at Les Viviers de Ste Catherine is smashed and cars are damaged.

A Jersey Evening Post appeal results in donations of almost £2,000 in cash which will allow 20-year-old Graeme Humber, who is handicapped, to remain at home with his mother.

Miss Phyllis Haines, the former head-mistress of Helvetia House School, dies at the age of 80.

The Jersey Electricity Company's accounts are published and show that profits of nearly £3 million were made in the first nine months of 1985. This is almost £800,000 more than the entire profits for 1984.

Workmen resurfacing Vine Street reveal wooden cobbles lain before the First World War. The assistant town surveyor says that attempts will be made to preserve the cobbles.

A report from the Agriculture and Fisheries Committee shows that total borrowings under the States Agricultural Loans Scheme more than doubled in 1985 to more than £1.2 million.

It is announced by Public Works Committee president Deputy Don Filleul that a memorial to Islanders who were interned in Germany during the Second World War is to be erected in Howard Davis Park.

A Short Story: Integrity

My short story today is based on a poem I wrote, itself based on Ezekiel 18:22, another tale for Lent.

Integrity

A thin rain drifted across the dunes at La Pulente, soft as breath, barely enough to blur the footprints on the sand. Thomas Le Brocq walked with his head lowered, hands deep in his coat pockets, as if the wind might read the shame he carried. He had come here because the tide was turning, and he needed something in his life to turn with it.

He had spent years building a reputation as a dependable man in the parish. He chaired committees, read lessons on Sundays, and always had a ready smile. Yet beneath the surface he had been cutting corners in his work, telling small lies that grew into larger ones, and letting resentment shape his choices. When it all came to light, the shock in people’s eyes had been worse than any punishment. They had trusted him. He had trusted himself. Now both felt broken.

He stopped beside a rock pool where the water lay still and dark. His reflection wavered in the shallow basin. It looked like a stranger. He whispered the words he had avoided for weeks. “I did this. No one else.”

The tide pushed forward with a long sigh, filling the edges of the pool. The sound steadied him. He remembered a line from the prophet he had heard as a child: Turn from wrong, and you will see that life in truth is harmony. He had always thought repentance was a single moment, a dramatic turning. Now he saw it was slower, like the tide itself, advancing in small, persistent movements.

He walked on until he reached the slipway where the fishermen kept their boats. An old man was mending a net, his fingers moving with the ease of long practice. Thomas hesitated, then greeted him. The old man nodded, neither warm nor cold, simply present.

“You’re Thomas,” he said after a moment. “Folk have been talking.”

Thomas felt his stomach tighten. “I know. And they’re right.”

The old man tied off a knot and looked up. “A net tears. You mend it. Takes time, but it holds again. Folk are the same.”

Thomas let out a breath he had been holding for weeks. “I don’t know where to start.”

“Start by not hiding,” the old man replied. “A man who lives a lie is already halfway drowned. Stand in the open. Let the truth breathe.”

They spoke a little longer, nothing dramatic, just simple words that settled like pebbles in the mind. When Thomas turned to leave, the old man called after him. “Integrity isn’t about never falling. It’s about choosing the next right step.”

The rain eased. A faint light broke through the clouds, touching the wet sand with a pale shimmer. Thomas walked back along the beach, feeling the weight inside him shift. He could not undo what he had done, but he could choose what came next. He could apologise without excuses. He could rebuild trust without demanding it. He could let truth shape him, not fear.

As he reached the path home, he looked once more at the sea. The tide had risen, covering the rock pools, smoothing the beach into a clean, unbroken sweep. It was not a promise of ease, but it was a sign of movement, of renewal, of the quiet work that reshapes a shoreline.

He stepped forward, carrying within him the first small piece of a renewed hope.

A Short Story: Not on Bread Alone

Based on a poem I wrote, which itself was based upon Deuteronomy 8:3.

Not on Bread Alone

The wind had been against him for days.

Elias trudged along the narrow path that wound through the barren hills, each step a small act of defiance against the ache in his legs. His pack was nearly empty now, just a crust of bread wrapped in cloth and a waterskin that sloshed with more hope than water. He had set out from the village with confidence, certain that the journey would be straightforward. But the road had stretched longer than he imagined, and the silence of the wilderness had begun to press on him like a weight.

By the third day, he felt the strain in his bones. Hunger gnawed at him, but he rationed the bread carefully, breaking off pieces so small they barely touched his teeth. He told himself he could endure it. He had endured worse. Yet as the sun dipped behind the hills and the cold crept in, he felt something inside him falter.

That night, he sat by a small fire, watching the flames flicker like fragile dancers. He held the last piece of bread in his hand. It was hardly enough to sustain him through the next day, and he knew it. The thought of eating it now, of surrendering to the simple comfort of food, tempted him. But something in him resisted.

“Remember the long road,” his mother had said before he left. “Not just the one beneath your feet, but the one within you.”

He hadn’t understood her then. He wasn’t sure he understood her now.

As he stared at the bread, a memory rose unbidden: his father, years ago, standing in the doorway after a season of drought. Their fields had withered, their stores had dwindled, and the whole village had felt the sting of scarcity. Elias remembered the fear in the adults’ voices, the whispered worries at night. But he also remembered his father’s calm.

“We do not live on bread alone,” his father had said, placing a hand on Elias’s shoulder. “We live on trust: on the words that remind us who we are and who walks with us.”

Elias had been too young to grasp the weight of those words. Now, in the wilderness, they returned with unexpected clarity.

He set the bread down beside him and closed his eyes. The fire crackled softly. The wind shifted, carrying with it the faint scent of pine: fresh, clean, alive. He breathed it in, letting it fill the hollow places inside him. He whispered a prayer, not for food or rescue, but for strength to continue.

When dawn broke, he rose with a steadiness he hadn’t felt in days. His hunger remained, but it no longer ruled him. He ate half the last piece of bread, tucked the rest away, and stepped back onto the path.

By midday, he reached the crest of a hill—and there, in the valley below, he saw the roofs of a village. Smoke curled from chimneys. People moved about like small, purposeful figures. There was life, a community and at last shelter.

Relief washed over him, but so did something deeper: gratitude. Not for the bread he had saved, but for the lesson the wilderness had carved into him.

Strength was not found in what he carried, but in what carried him.

And as he descended toward the village, he whispered the words aloud, letting them settle into his bones:

“Not on bread alone.”

More Short Stories: At the End of Remembrance

At the End of Remembrance

A westerly wind was moving in from the Atlantic when the old man reached the Dolmen of Mont Grantez. The stones stood as they always had, massive, patient, older than history. Even though the large capstone had been blasted to rubble, turned into chaotic fragments, the rest remained and held fast. He placed his hand on one of the capstones, feeling the cold grit of lichen and salt. The sea far out in the bay was restless, but the stones were steady, as if they remembered something the waves had forgotten.

He whispered the line he loved, the one that had followed him since boyhood: “For our God hath blessed creation, calling it good.” The words felt true here, where the land rose like a shoulder against the wind. The dolmen was a monument to ancient hunger for meaning, but also to the world’s own goodness, stone shaped by human hands because the world was worth shaping.

He walked along tracks toward St Ouen’s Church, its steeple stubborn against the sky. Generations had prayed here while storms raged, while armies landed, while the sea tried to reclaim the marshes. The old man paused at the gate. The church was not grand, but it was faithful. It stood as a witness that destruction was never the final blessing, that the world was not abandoned to the spirit that “blessed destruction with his hand.”

Inside, the air smelled of wood polish and old hymnals. A single candle flickered near the altar. He sat for a moment, letting the quiet settle. The church was a reminder that goodness endures, not because the world is gentle, but because God is. He thought of Irenaeus, who said that creation was not a mistake to be escaped but a gift to be healed. The church, with its weathered stones and stubborn presence, seemed to agree.

When he stepped outside again, the tide was turning. He went down the hill, and across the bay, round La Pulente headland, and followed the road toward Corbière, where the lighthouse waited. It was the edge of his known world. The sky was bruised with cloud, and the sea was a heaving grey. Corbière rose from the rocks like a white promise, its lantern ready to cut through whatever darkness came.

He reached the causeway just as the first drops of rain began to fall. The old man climbed the steps of the lighthouse and stood beneath it. The wind whipped at his coat, and the waves crashed against the rocks below. He looked up at the lantern room, its glass catching the last of the daylight as dusk fell. It felt like standing at the hinge of the world.

Chesterton’s final lines rose in him like a tide:

“Yet by God’s death the stars shall stand
And the small apples grow.”

Here, at Corbière, the words felt literal. The lighthouse was a small echo of a greater truth, that the world held together because Christ held it, that the stars kept their courses because the cross had steadied them, that orchards inland still bore fruit because creation was being renewed, quietly and faithfully.

He turned back toward the St Ouen’s bay. The rain had begun in earnest, but the dunes glowed faintly in the dimming light. Somewhere behind them, in sheltered gardens and old farmsteads, the small apples were indeed growing.

The old man smiled. The world was wild, wounded, and wind‑torn, but good. And on this coastline, where stone, church, and lighthouse stood like sentinels, he could feel the truth of it: creation blessed, evil unmasked, and hope anchored deep as bedrock.

321 Lent Course: Existential Questions and Thomas Aquinas.

Why are you here? On this planet?
What makes you ask the big questions about life?

It is interesting to look at these questions on the 321 course from a Thomistic perspective, using the philosophical tools used by Thomas Aquinas. I found this exercise very helpful. 

My own reading on Aquinas is limited, but enough to see his profound way of shaping understanding, bringing together Aristotle's philosophy and Christianity in a synthesis which I still think is relevant today.

Here are some good books which I read in the 1980s:

G.K. Chesterton, "St. Thomas Aquinas" is the best general book. Chesterton gives a vivid, witty portrait of Aquinas that makes complex ideas feel human and alive. It’s often called the best short book ever written on Aquinas because it focuses on the man, his character, and the drama of his thought rather than technical theology. I read it at University.  His "Francis of Assisi" is also brilliant.

Frederick C. Copleston, "Aquinas: An Introduction to the Life and Work of the Great Medieval Thinker"A clear, thoughtful overview of Aquinas’s life, context, and major ideas. It’s praised for being readable while still philosophically serious.

Anthony Kenny’s "Aquinas" in the Past Masters series is a short, reliable, and very approachable introduction to Thomas Aquinas. I have a collection of the Past Masters series which are brilliant introductions, although probably more 

Why are you here? On this planet?

To truly understand why you are here from a Thomistic perspective, we must look past simple biology and see you as a masterpiece of four intersecting "whys." Here is how Aquinas would explain your presence on this planet using his fourfold framework:

The Material Cause - what you are made of?

The material cause is simply the physical stuff that makes you a living, embodied person. For Aquinas, you exist here and now because you have a body made of flesh, blood, and bone. That body gives you the ability to take up space, move through time, see the sun, feel warmth, and interact with the world.

He doesn’t see matter as a prison for the soul. Instead, he sees you as a unity of matter and form—your body and your soul together make one complete human being. Your physical body isn’t an accident or an obstacle; it’s part of what makes your earthly life possible.

The Formal Cause - What gives you your shape or identity?

The formal cause is the inner pattern that makes you human rather than anything else. For Aquinas, this is your rational soul—the principle that shapes your body, gives it life, and makes you the kind of being who can think, choose, and reflect. Your soul is the “form of the body,” the thing that organizes your physical matter into a living, human person. It’s what makes you a rational animal, different from trees, stones, or any other creature.

The Efficient Cause - What brought you into being?

The efficient cause is whatever brings you into existence and keeps you going. On the everyday level, that’s your parents: they are the biological agents who caused your birth. But Aquinas goes further and says there must also be a Primary Efficient Cause. Since nothing can give itself existence, he argues that you exist right now because God is continually sustaining you. Your life isn’t just the result of something that happened years ago; it’s more like a song that exists only because the Singer keeps singing.

The Final Cause - What are you here for?

The final cause is your ultimate purpose: the end toward which your life is directed. For Aquinas, nothing in nature is aimless; everything moves toward some goal, the way an arrow flies toward a target because an archer aimed it. Your own goal is Beatitude, the deepest kind of happiness that comes from knowing and loving the source of all truth. Your life isn’t a random accident but a purposeful journey shaped by this pull toward meaning. This purpose acts like a magnet, drawing you toward growth, good choices, and the search for what truly fulfils you.

What makes you ask the big questions about life?

The drive to ask the “Big Questions” comes from the way the human spirit is built. Aquinas would say your curiosity isn’t just an evolutionary accident, it’s your mind naturally reaching beyond itself toward something unlimited. A finite mind stretching toward infinite truth is, for him, exactly what humans are made to do.

The Natural Desire for Truth

Your mind has a built‑in desire to understand reality. Aquinas, following Aristotle, says that just as your body naturally hungers for food, your mind naturally hungers for truth. Because you are a rational animal, you’re not satisfied with small, practical facts. Your intellect reaches for the universal, pushing you to ask questions like “Why does anything exist at all?” rather than just “Where can I find shelter?” This restlessness comes from the way your mind is shaped: it’s a limited, finite power that is always reaching toward something unlimited. It won’t fully settle until it reaches the first cause of everything.

The Spark of the "Agent Intellect"

Your ability to ask big, abstract questions comes from what Aquinas calls the Agent Intellect—an inner light in the soul that can pull meaning out of your physical experiences. An animal sees a sunset and simply reacts to the fading light. You see the same sunset and can lift from it the ideas of Beauty, Time, or change itself. This power lets you move from the material world to the world of concepts.

Because of this, Aquinas says you are a kind of border creature: rooted in the physical world through your body, yet able to reach into the immaterial through your intellect. This inner light keeps nudging you to look beyond the surface of things—to search for the deeper causes and purposes that give reality its shape.

The "Trace" of the Creator

Aquinas would also suggest that your questioning is a form of Remembrance or a "trace" (vestigium) of your origin. Since you were created by a Supreme Intelligence, your own intelligence naturally seeks to return to its source. Every "Why?" you utter is effectively a search for God, even if you don't use that language. He would argue that the "Big Questions" are the way your soul finds its way home. This inherent "teleology" or goal-directedness ensures that you cannot remain indifferent to your purpose. You ask why you are here because you are built to reach a goal (Telos) that is currently beyond your reach, and the question is the first step of the journey toward that final satisfaction.

The Awareness of Contingency

Your questioning, in Aquinas’s view, comes from a built‑in memory of where you come from. Because your mind was created by a Supreme Intelligence, it naturally leans back toward that source. Every time you ask “Why?”, you’re reaching toward that origin, even if you don’t name it as God. These big questions are your soul’s way of moving toward its true goal. You’re made for a purpose you haven’t fully reached yet, and the act of questioning is the first step on that path.