The next meeting of the Cell of Our Lady of Walsingham takes place on June 8th at St Mary’s Church

O holy house of Walsingham!
Here would we ever dwell
but Jesus calls us to the strife
and tumults of our daily life
Our Lady’s Shrine, “Farewell”

We sing those words at the end of a pilgrimage to the Shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham as we look to the image of Mary and Jesus huddled in the Holy House.

They are words of deep affection and desire. How we would love to stay, just a little while longer, just one day more. But, alas, all good things come to an end and we have to return to the norm, the everyday, the tumults, the strife, our daily life.

We’ve all had that feeling at times.

Meanwhile, when we arrive home, we look back at the benefits and blessings we received on pilgrimage, share memories, and maybe plan and look forward to the next pilgrimage.

Throughout the country (and indeed in many countries around the world) local ‘Cells’ of Our Lady of Walsingham offer pilgrims an opportunity to strengthen and renew the spiritual benefits of their pilgrimage.

The Cell is a focus of prayer for all, and can also serve to encourage others to push out on pilgrimage.

Here, in South Cardiff Ministry Area, the next meeting our Walsingham Cell takes place on Saturday June 8 at St Mary’s Church in Butetown.

Mass will be celebrated at 1130am, but you’re also invited to come along a little earlier for the Rosary which we pray from 11am. After Mass it’s time for coffee and then the Rite of Sprinkling with water from Walsingham’s holy well.

Whether you’re a Walsingham pilgrim or not, you’re welcome to join us for a few hours of prayer and fellowship, as we honour Mary, pray for the Shrine, and seek to live a holy life through prayer, scripture and sacrament.

Fr Dean reviews a book by Martyn Snow, the Bishop of Leicester. “An Intercultural Church for a Multicultural World” is a book which explores the theme of gift exchange in a diverse and multicultural world and how we might think and act with greater cultural sensitivity.

I often tell a story or two. The same ones. Things that stick with me and illustrate a point, stories that are ready to be pulled from my sleeve like a magician’s flower, slipped into a homily or a presentation.

I’m standing in the school dinner hall. A young lad points at me, shouts at me. “You’re Christian!” he exclaims. That’s all I need, a theological debate with a six year old. I lean closer. “That must mean that you’re Muslim,” I reply. “Yes!” he shouts proudly. And then silence. We lock eyes. And then he continues. “Christians and Muslims love God!” He joins the queue which brings him closer to the kitchen.

Some of the stories that Martyn Snow tells in his book, I’d gratefully heard before. He was a guest speaker at the ‘Ecumenical and Interfaith Officers Network’ meeting of the Church in Wales in Builth Wells in December 2022. It wasn’t long after the unrest experienced in his home city of Leicester when groups of Muslims and Hindus clashed just a few months before. He told us that his presentation would be very different if he had met us before this happened.

In his book, he talks of the self examination which followed in a city which had previously experienced good community relations, and he begins to explore some of the causes and lessons learned.

His book is based both on personal experiences of a city which is now predominantly of the Global Majority, and theological research and reflection.

He tells stories, and reaches out to the work and thoughts of others to deliver a book that speaks to the heart of our identity and what it means to build a community where each of us has something to give and receive. We are a gift to each other. Diversity is a gift. This is the heart of his book.

Admittedly, the experience he shares is from the English context, and there is much in Wales that is so very different but there is that common ground, too. Like a garden, which is a metaphor he uses to express a common space of encounter, a place to play and explore but which has its own boundaries and where there are possibilities of engagement and openness.

He starts the book tentatively, though, walking that fragile ground which has been marred by colonialism and white, middle-class privilege and suggests that his book is “an offering to a bring and share meal, a chance to contribute to the conversation. We are all invited to the table to eat. Even more than this, we are all invited to the kitchen to share in the cooking.”

The book also gives way to other voices, each of which brings their own cultural perspective to the kitchen in chapters which tie up what had been explored in the previous pages.

He argues a for a church that should take seriously an engagement and inclusiveness of different cultures through ‘gift exchange’. This itself is a loaded term and one that has often been abused and marred by conquest and colonialism, a belief that our gift is what you need to live better, a power struggle between the giver and the receiver. But he suggests a different way.

I loved the story he told us at the meeting of Officers in Builth Wells, and which is repeated in the book, when he was living in Guinea in West Africa among the Susu people. A woman knocks at the door, accompanied by her three children. They exchange the ritual greeting. And then there is silence between them. He invites her in. The same exchange is repeated. And then silence. This time more uncomfortable. She repeats the ritual greeting. And then more silence. When she eventually leaves, he rushes to his his local language teacher, afraid that he has insulted her or done something wrong.

“No, no, you are fine,” he says. “In our culture, it’s normal to greet someone new by going to the house, welcoming them and presenting a gift. My guess is that she is too poor to bring you a material gift, so she gave you something more precious. She gave you the gift of her time.”

The book explores what it means to give and receive gifts, and how we can be gifts to each other in a country that has been skewed by soundbites and caricatures of “the other.”

It’s also important to appreciate the different ways in which our gifts are exchanged, to understand the cultural differences of how we live and encounter one another, what we have to offer and what we can from receive others.

The author isn’t shy of dealing with some of the difficulties of immigration but he does open up the possibilities and the need to see life from a different perspective.

“This book is intended to argue that it is possible to preserve cultural distinctions even if there is bound to be some process of hybridisation with all cultures being changed though encounters with other cultures,” he writes. We enrich one another.

So many of the divisions which exist in our world come from never encountering someone different from us which means we never discover what we also have in common.

The book is a challenge not just to the Church but to Government and to society as a whole to create those spaces of encounter, to be able to give and receive in a mutually beneficial and enriching way.

Or perhaps it’s not a challenge at all, more an invitation to a “bring and share meal”, discovering that opportunity of giving and receiving, and rubbing shoulders in the kitchen.

And so I’m back, near the kitchen in the school hall where that young lad has expressed so eloquently a deep sense of his own identity. He knows what or who he is. He knows we are different. But he can also identify what we have in common.

Perhaps he will never remember the conversation we had. But, in that moment, he was a gift to me. And I’ve dined on it ever since.

An Intercultural Church for a Multicultural World is published by Church House Publishing.

‘The Body of Christ.’ We hear those words each time we receive Holy Communion. Corpus Christi, the Body of Christ.

Like so many gifts regularly given we can take it for granted, forget the great Mystery of Faith. And so we need some reminders, something to make us think. A feast will do just the job.

The feast of Corpus Christi emerged in the thirteenth century when St Thomas Aquinas made the proposal to Pope Urban IV to create a festival which celebrated the Holy Eucharist as the Body and Blood of Christ.

A distinctive feature of the Feast of Corpus Christi is the procession of the Blessed Sacrament. We are a people on the move and the Eucharist is our food for the journey, our manna in the wilderness.

During the procession, those who take part or stand by and watch on will see the Body of Christ moving through the streets. We hold what we are, carry what we become, the body of Christ in the world, united to him who is our Head.

Whilst the feast takes place on the Thursday after Trinity Sunday, many churches have begun to celebrate it on the following Sunday which is what happens in South Cardiff Ministry Area.

At the end of Mass at St Mary’s there’s a procession into the gardens ending with Benediction, a blessing, with the Blessed Sacrament.

But in the evening, our celebrations continue, and many of us travel to St Theodore’s Church in Port Talbot for their Corpus Christi celebrations with Vespers (Evening Prayer), Procession and Benediction. This year, the guest preacher is Fr Richard Green.

Corpus Christi Sunday is on June 2 with Mass across the churches in the Ministry Area at the usual times in the morning, and a celebration in Port Talbot in the evening.

I have just the one cat now. He’s sat next to me, washing away after a dish of food. He’s been driven from the garden by the onset of the forecasted storm. Slightly damp yet satiated, he brings me some delight.

Like the other two cats he used to tolerate and with whom he shared this house, he was once a stray who turned up, and wouldn’t go away.

When he first arrived at the patio doors he was in a rather poor state and I remember one day having to capture him and take him to the vets. It was a snowy day. My hand bled after he attacked my hand as I waited for the bus. He took exception to being caged in a cat carrier.

Since those days he has discovered a more serene sense of trust and is rather more content and controlled in his outbursts.

A grateful response

At the time I was grateful to the Cats Protection charity who paid for his treatment. Likewise for the involvement they had in the other two cats I adopted, and who have since died. I didn’t have to pay for their treatment or the chipping, the neutering or the spaying.

As a result, I decided to set up a regular donation to them. It was just £10 a month but I wanted to show my appreciation for them and their ongoing financial commitments.

Cats are not everyone’s thing, of course. And the £10 a month forms just one part of my regular charitable giving, ten per cent of the ten per cent. I give to others too. I’m just reminded of this particular charity because “Whitey the cat” is sat next to me, lapping away. For you, it may be the Air Ambulance or Cancer Research, a Homeless Charity or Christian Aid. There’s a whole array of charities needing support.

Giving to the church

The vast majority of my financial giving though goes to the church of which I am a part.

During Lent and Easter we’ve been encouraging members of our congregations to review and renew their giving in a regular and realistic way as part of their Christian faith and discipleship.

I know, though, there are many people who are not part of the congregation but who call on the church at times. Those who value the presence and availability of the building for celebrations throughout their life, or call on the ministry of the priest and others at times.

Maybe those who get in touch with the priest for a baptism, or the many who gather for funerals of friends and family. Those who enjoy the heritage and history and ongoing presence of a building which tells the story of a whole community, a history which clings to the stones.

But more than that, our churches are involved in the strengthening of our local communities, working with others to bring change and serve those in need. This takes many forms whether through Foodbanks or faithfully working alongside others in our communities to address issues and concerns, and to work for social justice.

Each of our church communities, the work we do and and the buildings we inhabit, incur costs and, for the most part, they are wonderfully met by those who worship there, week by week.

When I received the help of Cats Protection for each of those three stray cats, my gratitude was expressed by wanting to contribute to what they had given me, and I wanted to ensure that the charity was there for others who needed their help.

Cats. It’s not everyone’s thing, of course. But perhaps the Church, whose work is more than worship, may sometimes get overlooked or simply be expected to always be there when people need us the most.

Be the gift

You can be part of the life we lead, the service we offer, the need we try to address, the buildings we seek to maintain, being a constant presence in our community when all around us changes.

So, if that’s you, and you’d like support and encourage the work of your local church so that’s it’s always there doing what it does, to help there when you need it, you can do so very easily through the Church in Wales’ Gift Direct scheme (as well as in other ways).

Every donation will enable us to continue to be a presence in our community. It will maintain and develop a building, yes. But it will also help us to continue to be an important part of our community, reaching out and bringing change, standing alongside those in need, and playing our part in changing the world.

You can find out more about how you can give at our Giving pages below. But for those who just like a cat pic, here he is, looking far from white, but rather grey and dirty after a fun and sunny roll in the dust. He knows how to enjoy himself.

The third and final reflection from Llandaff Diocese’s Clergy School in York

This time, the journey seems longer on the way home which is strange as the experience, for me, is often the opposite.

We stop a few times for food and comfort breaks although the traffic is unusually kind, and the time it takes is a little over six hours.

The Mass which sent us on our way, as food for the journey, was simpler and quieter than the others through the week. A reflective moment at the end of a few days away, nestled by the city of York, washed in the sun.

Fr Mark Preece, the Archdeacon of Margam, gives a tender homily which gives a focus to haircuts. He’s not giving barber tips or free beauty products, says in self deprecating terms that he’s probably had the same hairstyle himself since he was six. We laugh, but he turns to the Acts account of Paul’s trim.

“At Cenchreae he had his hair cut off, because of a vow he had made,” we hear from the first reading, read with gentleness and a soft pace.

The trim comes with a pledge, it’s an expressive move for something which lay deeper in Paul’s heart. It’s a cut with an edge.

Fr Mark reflects on what we have gained and learned these last few days.

Like a hairdresser’s assistant, he brushes up the lost locks from the floor, hands them back to us and pats us on our way, perhaps feeling a little better about ourselves.

After Mass, there are some gratitudes shared. These kinds of events don’t just happen. Not everyone is able to be mentioned by name but hopefully everyone who has played a part will know the part they have played and, through the gifts they have given, feel a little bit different.

Earlier, we listened to Professor Simon Oliver of the University of Durham who talked about exchanging gifts and took us on a detour from the Ascension of Jesus and round about to the Pentecost Gifts of the Spirit. He explored with us how Jesus is known now by those who have not seen and not heard, left us with the question: how do we make Christ known today?

Each speaker this week has brought their own style and study to us in an engaging and sometimes entertaining way. It’s been an enlightening and yet ‘light’ time away together. There have been no dead ends or cul-de-sacs.

I know about cul-de-sacs. I was brought up in one. A straight line of 26 Council homes but with an escape route of a lane where we could sneak to the shops or play in the Chicken Lanes (there were no chickens) or crawl beneath the factory fence, climb the drain pipe and eventually fall into a vat of water, coming away with a fractured arm.

I was in my twenties when I told my parents the truth of the incident of the factory fracture.

Since the plastered-arm days of my seven year old fall, my right arm has served me well. The time seems to have flown by. Sometimes, the journey has felt quick. But there have been many water falls and factory fractures along the way.

There have been just two memorable haircuts I’ve received in my life. The first was at the age of eleven or twelve when I began my crew-cut days. As a self conscious idiot of a kid I immediately regretted it, convinced that people were looking and laughing at me as I walked home. So I took that walk of shame with my jacket over my head.

People looked at me.

At the beginning of our week, on the first night, in the lovely little church in Bishopshill in York, where Christians have worshipped for a thousand years and more, Canon Ian Mcintosh shared some personal stories which drove him to desire a church that was turned upside down and inside out.

Quite often we have every right to feel bad about ourselves, as individuals and a Community of Faith. We want things to be different, to wish and want that life was not as it is. But our fractures need time to heal. Water falls are often only talked about years later. And I learn not to cover my head in haircut shame although the need is always there.

Earlier in the week, Canon Michael Leyden said something like, “The Incarnation is not God wanting to know what it means to be human. He doesn’t. He invented it! God wants us to know what it means to be human.”

So that’s our calling. To discover what it means to be human with all its haircuts and covered heads and fractured arms.

Within an hour of returning home, I do a quick turn around, change my clothes, adorn the black and the collar, pick up the oils and the Blessed Sacrament and move on to give the Last Rites to a dear parishioner whose journey through this life is drawing to a close.

But this is no cul-de-sac. No dead end. Something else and something more feels tangible. All we’ve gleaned this week, the life of Jesus, risen, ascended, glorified seems somehow closer. The journey home is not so far away.

Sometimes, though, the journey home does seems long and lingering. Like today. But, like today, I had great company as Fr Ben took to the wheel, and wound his way along the way home. There are always travelling companions. I’ve been blessed with mine.

“Through this holy anointing, may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit,” I say as I anoint our dear friend.

This week, as we loitered in York, another dear friend died. Fr Terry Doherty. He had been my training Incumbent. I remember the first time I met him, as I stepped off the train in Barry, just a few months before my ordination. I was, at that time, without a Title Parish, and time was ticking by. He took me out to Lunch. Probably each of us was checking out the other, trying to work out if this would work.

It seemed to work and I’m grateful for the time I spent in that parish with him and the other fantastic travelling companions of Merthyr Dyfan. In the days of his dimming, Fr Ben has cared for him so well.

Oh, the second haircut of significant memory? I’m at St Stephen’s House, just a year before meeting Fr Terry, as I try to train to be a priest, thirty years ago, with long hair, ponytailed and proud, grown since I was an undergraduate.

It drops to the ground in long locks, and I’m left with cropped hair and a French fringe.

Then, I didn’t make the connection with my eleven or twelve year old self. I didn’t walk home with my head covered. Didn’t care if people looked at me.

But, if I’m honest, I did feel a little bit different

Anyway, I’m home now.

And I feel a little bit different.

The second part of Llandaff Diocesan Clergy School in York as we explore the high places.

The queue begins to mount outside the Minster. Not just clergy from Llandaff Diocese but others too. Tourists and the like who have brought themselves here.

Leaning against the tree outside is a sign indicating this is also the place for the “Witches Women Warrior Tour”. It’s one of many different tours which take place through the streets of York, by day and night. Ghost tours also abound. You can be taken on a journey of the supernatural, if that’s your thing. Today, I opt for the Minster.

We get fast tracked, we’re already booked in, our place reserved at the table. It’s the second celebration of the Eucharist of the Clergy School.

We gather beneath the high East window which dominates us, a confusion of lines and colour. It’s the largest expanse of medieval stained glass in England. Three hundred glass panels, playing out, in painted glass, the beginning and the end, leading us from the Creation to the Apocalypse, yet to be revealed. At 78 feet tall, it’s about the size of a Tennis Court.

Fifteen-Love.

Today is the Solemnity of the Ascension of the Lord which has lent itself to the theme of our week away at the Diocesan Clergy School.

We sing a metrical version of the Gloria to the tune of Blaenwern. Again.

It’s the third time we’ve sung a hymn to the tune this week, twice during yesterday’s Mass. Maybe it’s someone’s favourite tune or just an oversight as they busily navigate their way through the liturgical planning and the printing and folding of booklets.

Blaenwern.

Blaen. Welsh for extremity or beginning: prefix of a place at the head of a valley, a high place.

This week, we’ve been looking to high places as we’ve explored the Ascension of the Lord and that mountain-top disappearance, shrouded in clouds and mystery, but where there is a mighty moving on to the right hand of the Father, and which causes us to move on too.

After the Eucharist, Tim Jones, the Director of Ministry, gives us clear directions of how to make our way to the Guild Hall for our next session. We are to evacuate the Minster, down the South aisle, turning left, and exit through the shop.

We exit through the shop.

We do it well. No stopping for souvenirs. No fridge magnets or fudge.

Thirty Love.

We navigate our way to the Guild Hall for our second session with Dr Michael Leyden, entitled, “Navigating the life ahead of us, or how to live between Ascension and Parousia.’

He’s still in lively form. He’s far from boring.

He begins by sharing an antiphon or prayer from St Thomas Aquinas, the Sacrum Convivium. It’s one I’m familiar with although the translation differs slightly from the one I know by heart which jumps to the rhythm of “How holy is this feast in which Christ is our food. His passion is recalled, grace fills our hearts. And we receive a pledge of the glory to come.”

It’s a prayer I learned when I was eleven or twelve years old, gleaned from a book of prayers given by my parish priest on the occasion of my confirmation.

I’ve said it after every single occasion of receiving Holy Communion. Thousands and thousands and thousands of times, over forty years of feasting.

The Eucharist is “an event of the Holy Spirit” says Michael Leyden.

Taking the prayer of St Thomas, we get beautifully wrapped up in the past, the present and the future, the beginning and the end, like that Tennis Court window of York Minster, full of confused colour and lines. Leyden refused to be drawn into how Jesus is present in the Eucharist. Just that he is.

He quotes theologian Alexander Schmemann, and akins the Eucharist to a kind of liturgical ascent, a journey to the high place, to the heads of the valley. We’re back to the Blaen. We’re singing again.

Forty-Love.

Tonight though, after a free afternoon (and an ice cream and a sleep for me) we’re back at the Guild Hall for our final dinner together. A Last Supper.

Bishop Mary delivers thanks to all who have delivered this week as she herself dashes, post-dinner, to Bangor for a meeting of the Bench of Bishops tomorrow. We all move on.

The meal is served. I eat duck for only the second time in my entire life. Both times unwittingly and through not wishing to be impolite to the host.

I don’t usually eat duck. My childhood aversion to meat eating still clings a little. I’m a conservative meat eater and wonder what my eleven or twelve year old self would think of me whilst he was busy learning the Sacrum Convivium.

Thirty-love

On the way home from the evening dinner at the Guild Hall, I pop into Tescos. On the way out, someone tries it on, places his hand across my chest, tries to stop me. “Have you got a fiver?”

I don’t have a fiver. I move on.

A few steps later on the street, as I cross the bridge over the River Ouse, someone else is in my path. “Have you got any change you can give me?”

I don’t have any change. I move on

They move on.

This never changes.

Here and across the country, and back home in Cardiff, there are those who navigate their way through the streets.

There are more beggars and more evidence of homelessness at night time here in York than you seem to find in the day time. Or, perhaps, they are just assuaged and made more invisible by the streams of tourists and sightseers.

Outside the hotel, I stop and chat to an older guy from Cumbria who has beeped and glided his way along on his mobility scooter for a cigarette at the smoking station.

He’s left the Lake District for a few days. Just the two of them, him and his wife. “We eat, we drink, we sleep,” he says. “Then we go home.”

He’s already been to the nearest restaurant to the hotel which happens to be Brazilian. They’ve already eaten. And I know he’s had a drink.

“I told the manager, stop being creative with the food. Just do simple food. Am I right?” he asks, looking for some agreement. It’s best though not to disagree.

He’s gone to a Brazilian restaurant. But wants simple, English food.

What do I know about food? After all, I’ve just eaten duck, for only the second time in my life of five decades. I don’t eat duck.

Tomorrow it’s French for him.

Back to “the feast.”

Through the Eucharist we navigate our way from the Ascension to the Parousia. It’s an ascent to the heights, an encounter with Christ. But there’s always a moving on.

Meanwhile, at times, we seem to be stuck in the streets where people seem to want something simple, so they say. A fiver, some change, familiar food. An exit through the shop.

Although there’s always the need for a tour, a search for the supernatural, a need for something more. Another Blaenwern. The head of a valley. A high place.

We eat, we drink, we sleep, and then we go home.

Deuce.

This week, the clergy of Llandaff Diocese are in York for ‘Clergy School’ for a few days of learning and worship together. This is something of the first full day from Fr Dean

I slipped in early for breakfast, got there an hour before the crowds for an antisocial breakfast. No one speaks to me. At that hour of the morning, it suits me well.

So whilst the other clergy eventually take to their breakfast, I’m sat in the park which straddles the hotel and All Saints Church where Emma Raughton of fifteenth century fame lived alone behind the grill, her eyes set only on the altar, and finally blessed with a vision of Mary.

The park peeks across the brown-watered Ouse where the early morning mist persists. A solitary Greylag goose pecks at the grass, unperturbed by the passing people or the flapping pigeons which flutter at footsteps but never fly too far away.

The geese need to feed for much of their time, grazing on grass for the most part. It’s flown in here from its winter home in North Africa although some make their way further north to Norway and the likes.

It’s to Norway’s Patron Saint that we’re off to next, or rather to the church which bears his name, St Olaf. It’s the earliest recorded church dedicated to him.

A battery of bells chime across this city, signalling something from the tirade of scattered churches which hide behind the shops and shambles.

To get there we walk together through York Musem Gardens, sloping lawns and trees which begin to suck in the sun now.

We meander in and out of each other’s conversations as the slow trail of clergy splits and merges.

A woman stands alone, feeds the birds and the squirrels who scurry close to her. One swims across the grass, takes a peanut from her hand. She talks to them. Seems to know them, a regular visitor.

We arrive for Mass which celebrates another anchoress, Julian, who lived a hundred years earlier than her less famous friend but likewise, alone, looked through a gap in the wall to see the moments of the Mass which fed her.

As Bishop Mary takes to the pulpit, hazelnuts are passed around. Like squirrels. Each one of us holds a kernel in our hands.

“He showed me a little thing the size of a hazelnut, in the palm of my hand,” wrote Julian, and quoted by Bishop Mary with gentleness and warmth,” and it was as round as a ball. I looked at it with my mind’s eye and I thought, ‘What can this be?’

And the answer came, ‘It is all that is made’. I marvelled that it could last, for I thought it might have crumbled to nothing, it was so small. And the answer came into my mind, ‘It lasts and ever shall because God loves it’. And all things have being through the love of God.”

In Julian’s supposed deathbed, her eyes squinting at the crucifix, she thought, “This is death,” but death was standing in the wings, gave way to an encounter with Christ where all is Love, for Love.

After Mass, we retrace our tracks together through the gardens. The squirrel whisperer has gone and so have the squirrels, for now. I throw my hazelnut to the trees, hope the squirrels return, which they will. Grey squirrels are stubborn.

We’re back at our tables to listen to Dr David Moffitt, Reader in New Testament at St Andrews University. He takes us on a tour of “Sacrifice”, leads us from Leviticus in the direction of the Ascension as Jesus takes the gift into the presence of the Father.

“Jesus is seated but he is not silent,” he said as he spoke of Jesus being seated at the right hand of the Father. “Jesus saves completely because he always lives to intercede for us.”

“You’ve addressed our Ascension Deficit Disorder,” jokes Bishop Mary, as she thanks him, alludes to the paucity of clergy back home who can celebrate the feast. She owns the irony in our theme for Clergy School this year which takes place during the week in which the feast falls.

“The Ascension orientates us towards the New Creation,” says Dr Michael Leyden of Emmanuel College. He’s this afternoon’s speaker, and he fills the slot after lunch during which we had laughed a lot. I’d finally left the table as Fr Ben was making me crease and cry with a story he’ll one day regret telling me.

“What does it mean,” asks Michael Leyden, “to be the church that anticipates the turning of the world upside down and the right way up?”

I’m back in the park. People come and go, some sit on the benches or the low stone walls, kill some time, check their phones, look at the world through a gap in their screens, sometimes see things through the eyes of others.

I wonder what they see.

One older man makes his way through the bin, finds cans and tins, pours out the dregs, bags them, and moves onto the next bin.

A homeless guy asks for a cigarette. He’s the only one who speaks to me. I ask him if he’s ok. He nods and smiles.

Across the way, a solitary Greylag goose basks in the sun. I know it’s probably not the same one from this morning. But I imagine it is, guarding her grass, a book end to my day, Creation’s Daily Office.

I speak to her as I pass by. Wonder if someone has seen me, and what they will think.

She mutters something.

It suits me well.