Getting Loose

Amazing

I was turned on to this by my cousin.

 

Simply amazing.

The Mecca of Methodism

You could hardly be a Methodist and come to London and not see Wesley’s Chapel, right?

Well, we did the very thing! 

We even got to take Holy Communion in the Foundery Chapel.  We sat on pew benches which were part of the original ones used in Wesley’s lifetime.  We got a private tour of Wesley’s home and saw the room in which he died.  We saw his grave.  Across the street his mother is buried and next to her is Isaac Watts.  Also in that Bunhill Fields graveyard is Daniel Defoe.  It was all astonishing. 

The Foundery was once upon a time way outside of the city limits, but that is not at all true today.

It was like being at Mecca for the Muslims.

Connection

It is very difficult to join a congregation—I don’t care what size it is—and stay assimilated unless you are part of a small face-to-face group.

 

Many times, Sunday School classes, being a part of a choir group, or a drama group can serve this purpose.  But here in these English Methodist Churches there are “home groups.”  They function in an uncanny way very similarly to what I know as a ChristCare group.

 

A ChristCare group is a small group that has a limited life of about 2 months.  There is a meeting in which there is an ice breaker, worship, a study on some topic or book, and some involvement in a mission project of the group’s own choosing.  After a couple of months, the group breaks apart and new groups may form centred on different topics of focus or mission.  It is constantly renewing.

 

There are some very large churches based on small group principles like this. 

 

John Wesley was a pioneer in small groups as a tool of renewal—classes, bands, covenant discipleship groups.  They deserve a closer look.

 

Ivy hosted a group that was studying the supernatural gifts of the Spirit.  It was a serious, probing, deliberative study as to what they really are, what they mean, and how might they be applicable to our lives.

RandomRant.1

Commenting about a nephew who was leaving the Pentecostal Church and becoming ordained as a deacon in the Church of England, his auntie (who is a Methodist) put it this way:  “He’s going from tap & clap to smells & bells.”

Hampton

In Houston, we’ve got the Hampton Inn near the Galleria and Reliant Park.  We’ve got  the Hampton older adult living centre at Post Oak.  We’ve even got a short-term nursing facility called the Hampton.

I don’t know.  I just thought it was some quaint name that a lot of folks used thinking it would help to sell their services.  But it wasn’t until I got to our stopping place on the Thames that I discovered what it originally meant. 

The name is connected to King Henry VIII’s favourite court palace, a mammoth structure that completely blew my mind.  I had no idea we were going to end up there.   It was way to the west of London:  way out in the country.

It started off belonging to the Revd. Thomas Wolsey who worked his way up to become King Henry’s chief minister and cardinal to the pope at Rome. 

But when Cardinal Thomas fell from favour, Henry took over the palace and greatly expanded it to accommodate his wiles and whims. 

We got to see the kitchen area, the throne room, the bedroom, and the privy, all sorts of antechambers, the gardens, the inner courtyard, and many more.  And yet, we only saw a fraction of the thousands of rooms.

Walking around, knowing that Henry walked some of the very places that I did, and trying to soak up a little of the history, I could better sense how paranoid rulers might have become.  Their lives could so very easily become a target by some unscrupulous worker within the compound.  I wondered why so far out in the country.  But if a waterway was the best way to get there, wouldn’t that be safer?  Besides it was a great area in which to hunt and throw lavish parties.  A trip from London to the Hampton could take several days with the royal retinue stopping at other royal residences along the way to the Hampton.

Lagniappe

I’m not sure it is truly a French word.  I think it is more an American French word, which is a polite way of saying that it is Cajun.  It basically means something added.

We were on our way to the Museum of London when I happened to look across the street and see something about Aldersgate.  Mind you, we were never setting out for Aldersgate, but crossed the street to read the sign.  Lo, and behold, without even designing it, we were at the very address where John Wesley had the most famous of his many conversion experiences.  I could not believe it!  Talk about a pilgrimage spot for Methodists!

The Clerical Collar

Over here in JOE (Jolly Ole’ England), all denominational clergy wear a clerical collar.  

I knew that before I came over, and I wasn’t sure what I thought about it.  I tend to wear clerical collars only very occasionally—like for a funeral in a funeral home (which they call crematoria over here), or an occasional wedding, or when I have to act  in some official capacity at a public event, or very, very occasionally when I go to the hospital, or when I get my driver’s license picture made.

But to come to JOE, I went ahead and bought 2 additional clergy shirts (one black and one grey--both long sleeved).  Here, I use them exclusively for Sunday service, going to residential homes (i.e., nursing homes), and other sundry activities. 

I’ll have to admit it does tend to make me feel a little more official somehow, like I have on a costume that people recognize the credentials that go with it. 

What will I do when I get back?  I just am not sure.  I like travelling incognito in a lot of ways, yet on the other hand, wearing a clerical collar opens a lot of doors.

I’ll just have to see.

Brecon

It absolutely for me, was a coincidence.  An off chance.  I had never heard of Brecon, Wales before I came to England.  It was the closest town to the Boys Brigade encampment.  But the three older gents—Graham, Dave, Les—and I decided at about 11:30 a.m. to go into town.  It wasn’t a requirement, but it would be a mini-outing.  Besides, I thought I might get to hear some Welsh being spoken.

It was, in many ways, a typical small town, though the buildings, while old, looked far more substantial than I see in most small towns in America.  We stopped at a little café to have a spot o’ tea (though, I was the only one drinking tea—the rest of them had coffee), and the leader of our group, Graham, was eyeing a substantial wedge of chocolate cake.  He kept trying to hint to me that perhaps I might want one myself.  I declined, thinking after all the ridicule about cream tea, I’d much rathe’ ‘ave a scone, thou knowest, but I knew that we’d be back at the camp in a little over an hour, and for once in my life, I decided to have some scruples against gluttony and forgo the food.  My, aren’t I the ‘oly one?

After a nice conversation around the table, we decided to walk through town.  The central focus of the town in some ways was the cathedral.  Now over here in Wales, they do not have a covey of radical Protestant churches like we do in America.  The main church is the Anglican Church.  And it was old looking indeed.  I feel quite certain that it was over 200 years old. 
And that is old contrasted to the standards of a culture from which I come in which anytime a building gets over 50 years old, there is some real doubt about its viability.

Well, it was decided to walk up one side of the drag, and then down the other.  We went down town, and then on our way back up, we passed by the outside of the church, which as I stated was quite old looking.  There was a nice little fenced in lawn beside it and a plaque and a marker commemorating those who had been killed in WWI from the village of Brecon.  I glanced at it and walked on.  But Les stayed behind and was reading some plaque on the outside near the church.  I really hadn’t given it a second thought.  But I decided to go back to where Les was, to see what was so interesting about the plaque.

As I looked closer, I could see it was a plaque about a Thomas Coke (that’s pronounced Cook in these parts).  I thought, “How interesting.  I know that name.  Couldn’t possibly be the man of whom I knew a little.  After all, what good ever came out of Wales? (besides coal and slate)”

Well, reading the marker a little closer, and in the middle it read, “ . . . a supporter of the Methodist movement.”  Then I looked closer still, and it said, “ . . . founder of the Methodist Episcopal Church of U.S.A. . . .”

I said, “Holy cow!  That man was one of the two general superintendents that John Wesley ordained to come to America to begin the Methodist Church.  I know who he is!  He is a very important man in the tradition of Methodism in which I was reared!  And you mean to tell me he was mayor of this town at age 23?  And he was baptized at this church? 
I cannot believe what I am seeing!  I NEVER knew he was of Welsh origins!”

Absolutely serendipitous!  I would have never guessed that a treasure like this awaited me in Brecon, Wales!

BB

There is a rather successful youth ministry whereof the Kingsdown Church engages.  It is called the Boys Brigade.  It is a much older organization than my beloved Boy Scouts.

From what I understand, it started in Scotland in the late 19^th century and is only affiliated with churches.  Its mission is to advance Christ's kingdom among Boys and to promote the habits of Obedience, Reverence, Discipline, Self-respect and all that tends towards a true Christian manliness.

I left Wednesday with a group of older gents about 6 a.m. in the morning and we spent three hours traveling by car to Wales where they speak Welsh.  Once you cross over the bridge ,
 the signs are printed in two languages—English and Welsh--
.  Welsh words look funny.  Lots of double dd’s and double ll’s.  (Wouldn't you know that that sign has neither . . .  but then in Welsh it also reads, "I am not in the office at the moment. Send any work to be translated".  The person who made the sign thought that that was the translation!)  CWM is pronounced koom as an example.

When I arrived at the camp, they had the USA flag
just underneath their Boys Brigade flag in honour of my coming.  I was deeply touched.

Their food was good and adequate; they played games like pillow fight, and went into town to play soccer and hockey.

The boys were well behaved and the leaders were full of enthusiasm and energy.  They feel a natural rivalry with the Scouting movement.

Notice the patch work quilt country side on the hill overlooking this camp.  The group of boys at this camp won the band (drum & bugle corps) contest for all of London.

Pitshangar

The Methodist Church of Great Britain is quite a different animal from the United Methodist Church.

 

With exceedingly few exceptions, by definition, a Methodist Church in England is part of a circuit to which might be appointed 3-4 ministers.  I am taking the place for five Sundays of a clergyman who is appointed to a 10 point circuit for which he has the pastoral care of two churches—Pitshanger and Kingsdown. 

 

Pitshangar has approximately 30 members, and Kingsdown has around 100.  Both have members who can remember when there an additional 100+ more people in worship decades ago than today, yet there is a liveliness and vitality that is refreshing to me when compared to so many churches of which I know that are that size in the states.

 

My first service was at Pitshangar (pronounced PITTS hanger).  They all sat on the south side of the sanctuary in front of the pulpit, and as soon as I came out to start the service, they applauded.  I can only remember that happening twice before—once when I preached in an exchange with the St. Luke’s Catholic Church at Houston.  After I finished my sermon they applauded.  I wasn’t clear if they really liked it, or if they were relieved that I was finally done.

 

The other time was when I was pastoring a church and I announced that the bishop would be moving me to a different church come June.

 

At 10:30 in the morning, Pitshangar was attentive.  They sang with unusual gusto and verve.  I think I would have difficulty finding another United Methodist Church of that size that could do that well.  Not only that, because I did not know most of the tunes to their hymns, I was of zero help in trying to lead any singing.

 

Because it was the first Sunday of the month, we celebrated holy communion.  The services are amazingly similar, but the customs that surround that familiarity can really throw one off  who is used to somewhat being in autopilot.

 

I have never really used much of public transportation except in NYC where it is a virtual necessity, but I rode one of those red double-decker buses in order to preside at worship at Pitshangar.

They were a delightful group.  I was glad to be there worshiping with them.