Reflecting: In the News....

The American Journalist Erwin Knoll once said "Everything you read in the newspapers is absolutely true except for the rare story of which you happen to have firsthand knowledge." That quote is one of the things that's been in my head as I've thought about the places I have lived and worked recently.

In my time in Ministry, I've twice had a Journalist reach out to me regarding something for their Newspaper. If you find yourself in this situation - or think you might - the Methodist Church has a Media Office that has someone on call for advice if you need it. And these days, you never know when you might find yourself in the eye of the storm, in ways that admittedly I have avoided, but others I've known haven't: for example, I recall one Presbyteral Synod where someone retiring mentioned how their local Doctor for a while was a certain Harold Shipman - when his crimes were revealed, the local Methodist Church found itself opening their doors to the community that had been completely blindsided and suddenly found itself in the spotlight.

My own involvement with such things has been more slight. The second time was arguably the slightest of all - the local paper in Whitchurch asked about some vandalism at the church due to a photo on Facebook. The "vandalism" consisted of some Bedding Plants having been dug up and some soil scattered - a few minutes with a broom was all the cleanup needed, and there was speculation that it was crows searching for worms! Nevertheless this made a paragraph, with the local photographer despatched to see if it was worth a picture. Much as I was a regular reader and purchaser of that paper, I did sometimes think that they'd turn up to the opening of an envelope...

I suspect that the breach of the Llangollen Canal back in December has kept them going ever since. It was odd to find that a place less than half a mile from where you lived was suddenly making international news; we'd walked along that stretch so many times in our eight years in Whitchurch. The advent of phones and drones meant that the whole thing was documented (and continues to be) in some detail - even now some of the updates about it appear in my News Feed. What was a bit of a five day wonder for the world though continues to be a problem - what about the boaters who almost ended up at the bottom of the breach, their homes sliding away before their eyes? What about those trapped on the Whitchurch side of the breach? How is the Cafe at Grindley Brook doing given how much of its passing trade can no longer pass? Behind the headlines, there are people.

And in some ways that makes me think of the first time I was contacted by a journalist. That was a particularly grim and notorious time in Manchester; in August 2012, a feud between figures in the local underworld saw someone already suspected of killing one man's son using a grenade and gun to kill the father. He then went on the run. It was close enough to one of my churches that one member had to get in and out of her home by going through the police cordon. A month later, he would achieve even more notoriety by killing WPCs Fiona Bone and Nicola Hughes. In the days that followed the grenade killing though, a journalist contacted me on what I still think of as a fishing expedition: did I have anything to say? Although I got the impression that she too found this a little distasteful, it was fairly obvious that the newspaper was hoping I could back up what is often the line taken: to sensationalise and scare. If you believed some of the reporting, there were Police on every corner, while gang members skulked in the back alleys with grenades at the ready, and every resident locked their doors and peeked out from behind the curtains in case they were next. 

All of this was of course far from the truth. If you weren't tied to the gangs - like the vast majority - you weren't a target; you'd have had to have had incredibly bad luck to be caught in the crossfire. My line about the area being full of ordinary people wanting to go about their everyday lives did get included in one report, but it wasn't what they wanted. 

Having lived in Croxteth at the time of another notorious murder - this time an innocent boy, Rhys Jones, who tragically was in the wrong place at the wrong time as two local gangs indulged in a long-running turf war - I had seen this sort of reporting before. I remember being contacted by a friend, assuring us of their prayers; I recall reading a "colour piece" about the locked doors and police patrols, while outside I could hear a group of teens walking along chatting and talking, and no sign of any police at all - ironically, given those eventually charged lived closer to where I was than to where the killing took place. Again - behind the headlines, there are people. Demonising an area can become a self-fulfilling prophecy; it can become something of a dumping ground, a place where it's harder to get a decent job because of your address, a place where certain assumptions will be made about you. Did we have problems while we lived there? A couple of incidents, yes - the shed got broken into, and there was an attempt to steal petrol out of my car. But we got on well enough with our neighbours, and most of the people there were, like most, just trying to get on with their lives as best they could.

As a Methodist, I look back to John Wesley, and his "Four Alls": 

All need to be saved

All may be saved

All may know that they are saved

All may be saved to the uttermost

When we see people as other, when we treat them as sidekicks to the news, when we treat the places they live as if they are No Go Zones, when we see their stories as commodities to be bought and sold, we risk forgetting that "they", just like "us", are included in those "Alls". Wesley railed against those that sought to value themselves more highly than others; railed against the reserving of the best Pews for those that could pay the highest fees. If we diminish others because of where they live, if we don't see the humanity we share rather than the man-made divisions we are so often presented with in our news, wouldn't he be railing against us as well?

Which made me think of a song by The Young'Uns, inspired by the time when the TV Show Benefits Street came to film in Stockton - and found not everyone was happy at how it made the area look. Some places are better to live in than others - I've lived in places bad and good on that front - but if places are given up on, abandoned, and the people still there are told they are worthless, why should we be surprised if they then take no pride in them? How about we try a different, more positive way? 

31 May: Whitchurch

I'm a firm believer that, as a Minister, you will never be more beloved than a few years after you have left. It's enough time for people to forget all the things that drove them up the wall, but not enough to forget the things they liked about you. 

Possibly for this sort of reason, there's an unofficial rule that you shouldn't go back to somewhere you've served for at least twelve months afterwards. It has however been almost five years since I left Whitchurch, and so I thought that I might risk not only going back there, but also attending St. John's, the closest and largest church I served in my years there.

St. John's, Whitchurch

 In some ways it was a strange departure when I left; we were only just post Covid, and it had left its mark on both me and the congregation. One thing I'd done during the first Lockdown was to grow a beard; I still remember the slight buzz in the distanced congregation at our first service back, when I peeled my mask off to reveal it! 

I was, despite now having shaved it off again, spotted as soon as I walked in, and it felt like everyone wanted to say hello; I had hoped to maybe sneak in a little bit and not be a distraction from the worship for Trinity Sunday. No such luck it seemed, and there were plenty of conversations over refreshments afterwards. 

I spent eight years in Whitchurch, and they were ones of much growth and development in my ministry, and in the family - when we arrived, we had two primary-age children, when we left one was waiting for GCSE results and the other was reaching Year 9 - and Fiona was in Pre-Ordination Training! When we moved, it was never particularly about the people - family-wise it made sense, but I think also as a Minister you have to be aware that you can have a sell-by date and it felt that I was rapidly reaching it by the time I moved. All of us in Ministry have different gifts, different strengths, different approaches; when Stationing works well, it allows that point of reflection as to whether you are still what the churches and circuit need. It doesn't have to be a falling-out; in my case, it was more that I could see that while I had been what was needed for a spell, it was time for someone else to have their turn. 

I did my best to not really get involved in conversation about my successor; I'm not the Minister there any more, and while it doesn't mean I don't care what's happening there it's also nothing I can or should have any influence over. I wouldn't want a predecessor sticking their oar in, so why should I try and do the same to someone else? I know in my own mind that I was far from perfect in my time there. Though I also wouldn't be human if I didn't enjoy being made a fuss of.

A walk through the Town Centre to go and see some old friends; some time later, a walk round to see another. Later again, a walk down to the Canal to see how close I could get to the infamous Canal Breach from just before Christmas last year; we used to walk down there often, especially in the summer, and it was also one of my regular running routes, which made it strange to see the pictures last year. Less than half a mile back to the Manse, and then back to town along the Sandstone Trail.

Again, things have changed. One of our favourite Cafes has gone; the Civic Centre and Library are currently awaiting their fate due to the discovery of RAAC and their closure. There are now no Bank Branches at all, although one of the vacant shops has become a Banking Hub. There were a few empty shops when we left; there's probably at least the same number now, although they're not all the same ones. 

On the way to see some more friends for Tea, I went past Tallarn Green; later on, on the way back to my hotel near Wigan, I went past what had been Malpas High Street Church, and then Brown Knowl. In some ways I wished I'd spent more time down there - there were others that I'd have liked to have seen, but there just wasn't time.

It felt more positive than some of my visits, despite some of the same themes coming through. What made the difference? Well, I saw and spoke with people. I spent significant time with several of them. I was reminded of how they, and others that we talked of, had been part of my journey. It was less about place, more about people; and with more of those people still around, I couldn't help but feel that bit more thankful. 

Interlude: Manchester

One or two people have asked me on my travels when I'm visiting Manchester - the place where I trained for and started Ministry. It's a fair question - but actually, the answer is that I've already been. When I was thinking about this topic of Pilgrimage, and visiting places, for my next Sabbatical I decided to try it out by going there - so, in January last year, I spent a couple of days there.

Clayton Methodist Church

I was blessed with decent weather for the most part - it wasn't freezing cold, and didn't rain. I was able to leave my car at the hotel and get around on food and via the Metrolink, although at one or two points my navigation (based on memory of a place I'd left a dozen years before) were slightly faulty.

Nevertheless, there were quite a few things that fitted the pattern that some of my visits have followed: things have changed. I knew a little about it before I arrived - in particular, that Clayton - the church I had for longest - was no more. Ironically, this wasn't because of a lack of membership, but developing structural issues with the building! Almost overnight, they'd gone and joined the congregation at Church of the Epiphany, the LEP in a new building just a little further away and which I'd been at the opening of back in my days in the Manchester Circuit. The building was still there, waiting for whatever happens next. 

In some ways, my decision to leave Manchester had been about me leaving some of my mistakes behind me. I'd arrived there as a student, without much time on placement behind me, and to be honest I played on that a bit too much; it meant that even when I was ordained, after a student year and then two years as a Probationer, there was still a perception that I was new, still learning the job. Now, as I prepare for my 19th year in Circuit, I know that I am to a degree still learning, and will never stop! While it's no longer the standard advice or expectation that a Probationer will move on at the end of their first appointment, in my case it was always going to be the right thing to do. Some Ministers make a point of never seeking an extension, and I respect that they subject themselves to that discipline; for me, I think there's maybe a difference in emphasis that I've developed - at the first reinvitation I ask "what are the things saying I should move", and the second one "what are the things saying I should stay". As someone that's moved around a fair bit - Great Ayton is the seventh address I've had where I've lived for five years or more in my life - maybe I find the idea of staying in the same place for 15, 20 years a bit daunting? 

I walked past what had been "my" churches then, but knew as well that so many of the people I remembered would no longer be there. I wasn't there for a Sunday, didn't really feel the need to meet up with people. I think there's something about a large town or city that encourages a sort of anonymity in any case; I used to go into the City Centre reasonably often, but it was rare to be walking around the Arndale, or from the Tram to the Methodist Central Hall, and bump into someone I knew. In my other appointments, although I sometimes miss the opportunity to be a bit more incognito, I have also appreciated that it feels much more of a community.

One of the other differences, reflecting back now, between Manchester and some of the other places I've visited, is that while there were plenty of changes there too, it felt that demolition was often being followed by reconstruction - the cranes hung over the city, signs of rebuilding as I approached the City Centre on my way to the Art Gallery to see again some of my favourite paintings. Tearing down, building up - is there something about recognising that an ending can also be a new beginning? 

Another song that's been in my head since the weekend is Simple Minds' "Belfast Child" - a big hit in my teenage years. But while in some ways the opening verse - "Someday soon they're gonna pull the old town down" - is quite appropriate for many of the places I have been to, it's the line close to the end that has resonated: "Life goes on...."

30 May: St. Helens

Wesley Methodist

It's been a busy few days, and so I'm only just writing things up now - a few days later than planned. Over the next couple of days (writing this on Weds 3rd) there will be at least a couple more posts as well! Saturday saw me revisiting the place where I lived after Uni, trained as a Local Preacher, and Candidated from: St. Helens, the place I called home from 1995 to 2003, and had connections with until leaving for Manchester (and my first appointment) in 2008. I mentioned in the post about Billingham about it being a Company Town, and in many ways the same can be said about St. Helens. 

It's a bigger place, and has in the past had other strings to its' bow: there used to be lots of Coal Mining in the area, it was where Greenalls Brewery was until the 1970s, and was also home to Thomas Beecham's pills and powders. Of the Brewery, all that remains are some of the pubs - the Greenalls name is now long gone, except for a brand of Gin; the frontage of the Beechams building now forms part of St. Helens College. But it was the third that brought me to St. Helens: Pilkington Glass. I started in their IT Department as a Graduate in 1995, and lived and worked in and around St. Helens for the next 13 years - mostly at the Head Office, but also at the Technology Centre out near Ormskirk. 

In parallel, I was a member at Wesley Methodist in the centre of town; it was there that I had a conversation with Mona, the Minister at the time, about Local Preaching; it was the St. Helens and Prescot Circuit that nurtured me as a Preacher; it was at Wesley that I was recognised as a Fully-Accredited Preacher in 1999. It was from there as well that I was sent on my way to Manchester after successfully candidating for Ministry.

Now, almost 20 years later? The church no longer meets, and although the building still has the signage up I have the feeling that, together with the Council Building it is part of, it could well disappear completely in the not too distant future.

The same fate is already undergoing a large part of the Town Centre, with demolition in progress as I wandered round. As in so many other places, what's left is also changing much; Cafes, Vape Shops, Opticians, Hairdressers - the things that have to be in person or simply can't be waited for to arrive from online retailers; others moving to the retail parks on the edge of town where it's easier to park your car.  I'm as guilty of that as many others: we live in a world now where the convenience of knowing that a supplier has the exact item and can have it in your hands the next day - and for cheaper than a shop - is very hard to resist. 

I walked up to the Town Hall, because there was a Heritage Event running - and representing a local Park was someone who'd been my Boss for a while in my days at Pilks. I say Boss, but Les was always more than that; he was a friend and helper too. We hadn't seen each other for a long time, but the years seemed to melt away - we both found it funny when someone tried to recruit us for a local Choir...

It was great to talk, albeit it did at times feel like we were remembering those who've now passed on. It's inevitable in a way - it's more than 30 years since I started at Pilks, and I was a fairly callow youth of just 22; even those in their mid 30s when I joined will now be retiring and of course time isn't always kind.

As I walked on, I found some of the words of Paul Simon's song "The Obvious Child" sprang to mind: in the song, Sonny, the character in it, as he has grown older, looks back: 

Sonny sits by his window and thinks to himself

How it's strange that some rooms are like cages

Sonny's yearbook from high school

Is down from the shelf

And he idly thumbs through the pages

Some have died

Some have fled from themselves

Or struggled from here to get there

Sonny wanders beyond his interior walls

Runs his hand through his thinning brown hair

In some ways it feels that that's part of what I've been doing. Going backwards and forwards, thinking of places and people, and discovering that for all I can be thankful of them, that you cannot press pause on the ever-flowing stream of time, let alone rewind. And beware of those that tell you that they can bring the good old days back - they were probably never as good as you remember them being....

At the same time, when changes seem to be making things worse, you can understand why stopping the clock seems attractive. A couple of years before I left, Pilkington was taken over by a Japanese Company half its size - the way it was sort of presented was that it was easier to do it that way round than for Pilkington to take over its Japanese Partner. For a while, it looked like a case of not a lot of real change - by the time I left, I had shirts that were branded NSG Pilkington rather than just Pilkington. Driving past the Technology Centre, I noticed that it didn't have the Pilkington name on the board at the entrance anymore; Les told me as well that there are moves afoot for an American Asset Management Company to take the whole group private, and what that means for the 200 year old Pilkington, and its remaining employees in St. Helens, no-one is quite sure. Even when I was there, it no longer employed nearly as many people  as it used to; the Head Office Site is now so empty that the Bird i'th Hand, the Pub that was a regular haunt on a lunchtime for those at Head Office, closed down two years ago. 

When NSG bought Pilks, I remember there being campaigns to try and stop it; one of the members at Wesley, who'd been one of the foremen when the company developed the Float Glass Process now used for almost all flat glass, was among those who felt strongly that it shouldn't be allowed to happen. There was more than sentimentality to this: Pilkington had a strong history of innovation and development, and St. Helens had fostered and benefitted from that over a long period of time. If a major multinational company was now owned by distant overseas interests, what value would they place on that history? Would they retain their paternal interests in the town? What would be left if and when the jobs that had sustained the local economy went away? 

The street where I lived

Like so many places, St. Helens has a feeling of being left behind. Some families have lived, worked and died in the place for generations and never felt the need to leave. Two people I know of moved to houses so close to their parents that a Cordless Phone would have worked in either place; one tale I heard through the churches was of someone upset that her daughter was moving away, and she wasn't going to see her as often. Where was she moving to? Haydock - the neighbouring town, a 20 minute bus ride away. I struggled to understand this way of thinking, living 150 miles away from my parents in a terraced house of my own; and yet, not that many years before, it was pretty much the norm. In these towns where you could live in the same street as much of your own family, go to work for the same company, and keep that job your whole life long, the world might now seem a very uncaring and unsympathetic place. When you could say that you came from somewhere with good jobs, world-renowned industry, a Rugby League team up there with the best in the world, you could be proud of it. Do people feel the same way about the place now? Do they yearn for the "good old days"?

Not that it was always a great place to be when I lived there. I bought a place I could afford, but in hindsight maybe I should have looked harder; I was burgled twice in my years there, and that was far from unusual in that area. When some of the more modern (60s era) houses in the neighbouring street were being cleared for demolition, some of the local youths were more than happy to help the process along with petrol cans and matches. For all I know, as I walked those streets again, some of them were still there. I didn't go past the shop known to one and all as the local fence of stolen goods; even that may have moved its business online these days. 

Was it better earlier? Maybe - but I have my doubts. I suspect even the Golden Age that people might look back to was never more than a thin coating of gilt. Thursday was still the night for going out in St. Helens when I arrived, even though hardly anyone was still getting paid weekly on that day; how many back in the day drank most of their wages that night? How many would want to do some of the hard, physical, and sometimes dangerous work that was part of heavy industry in those days? Be ready to do without the modern conveniences of our life now? Live with the social mores of the time that meant hardly anyone would get a shot at higher education or to better themselves, that saw women expected to give up work upon marriage, and live with who knew what going on behind closed doors without protest? Even so, it still seems more attractive to many than a reality that suggests a job in a Cafe might be the best their son or daughter can hope for. And that makes space of course for those that try and promise a return to the old times and old ways, even if they have little idea on what would really be involved in bringing them back.

What do we in the church have to say into this? We can offer a hope in something that's more constant than the vagaries of human political systems, but what more concrete hope can we bring? Can we stand up for the dignity of work, the need for people to be valued and not just treated as a commodity? For the wealth to not be concentrated only in the hands of a few? To offer a voice to those who feel left behind, without patronising them, but also without blaming the other, the outsider, for the way our world is? 

To quote HL Mencken, "For every complex problem there is an answer that is clear, simple and wrong." We seem to have some people prepared to offer those clear and simple answers at the moment - but we do have to wrestle with the fact that those complex problems exist, and we in the church need to seek God's wisdom on how to be part of the solution. 

For me - well, St. Helens helped nurture me, nurture my faith, and helped it grow to the point where I was accepted into Ministry. It was a significant waymark on my journey. For that, I will always be thankful.

26 May: Billingham, by Bike

 Can you really go on a Pilgrimage to somewhere you visit most weeks? I had planned to go from my childhood home to my current one; alas, Northern Rail were not cooperating. No matter - I reversed my route, got on my bike, and planned to get the train back instead.

Billingham was my home from the age of 10, until 22 - albeit three of those years were spent much of the time away at University. Even so, part of it still felt like home - my Mum only moved (round the corner, almost literally) in 2010, and until she died in 2012 I was still a fairly frequent visitor. For the last five years, a Church Hall at the other end of town has been where I go to for a Woodcarving Group most Fridays. 

The advantage of having an e-Bike is that the prospect of cycling about 20 miles isn't a particularly daunting one - even less so when you're navigating mainly on quieter roads and cycleways. Being a leisure cyclist rather than a commuter or more serious speedster, I'm generally a big fan of the separated cycle path: many of them are shared with pedestrians, which means you always have to be a bit more careful and tearing along at 20MPH or higher is not recommended. They also seem to me so much safer than the ones, often on a busy road, where the existence of a dashed white line can often be seen as some sort of magical force field to protect the cyclist from the backwash of a close pass... Sometimes it seems that road users of different types can be very tribal - from the "Two wheels good, four wheels bad" crowd, to the "If you want to use the road you should have insurance/number plate/pay road tax" brigade, with many variations in between. How about we all just say that the important thing is to keep an eye out for each other, and keep everyone as safe as we can regardless of vehicle or lack of it? I have found, since getting the bike about four years ago, that I'm much more aware of cyclists even when in my car - after all, one of them could be me, or my son! Was I less careful before? Maybe. Walking (or in this case pedalling) in someone else's shoes can't help but promote empathy.

I was musing on some of these things, gliding serenely along Dixon's Bank on the shared path next to it, when, CLONK! I don't know if something was on the Tree Branch, or whether it was just the branch itself  - but it made me glad I had the helmet on. And this is the sort of thing that really gets on the goat of many cyclists - how long would a low branch last if it was hitting the top of a van? By the time I reached my destination, I'd had to duck or squeeze past a couple of other bits of undergrowth. I'd also had to navigate round six vehicles parked on cycle paths I was trying to use, and virtually stop once when one walker in a large group either couldn't hear or simply refused to acknowledge my politely-rung bell, meaning the whole, double-width, path was taken up. Poor maintenance, poor enforcement, lack of consideration by others, lamp-posts in the middle of them - next time you see a cyclist not using a cycle path, bear in mind there are probably good reasons why...

Ironically, as I pedalled through Coulby Newham, one of the hazards to be avoided were some people doing some path maintenance - so some at least is being done!

Down, skirting Albert Park, and the towers of the Newport Bridge looming ahead of me. I'd cycled across it before... I couldn't help but recall it: the year was 1992, I'd watched some of the previous editions of the Tour de France, and now some of the top riders were taking part in the Tour of Britain - one of the stages starting in Middlesbrough. I'd just bough a second-hand bike to use to get me to and from Uni the following term, when I'd be living off campus; so off I set, discovering that I was nowhere near as fit as I thought, to cycle through to watch the start. I recall Greg LeMond, a cycling hero of the time, pulled out that morning; others were signing in, and I utilised my AS-Level German to persuade Olaf Ludwig, Olympic Gold Medalist in 1988 and winner of the Tour de France Green Jersey, to sign my autograph book. I still have it somewhere I think. I watched the start, cycled the ten miles home, and lay exhausted on the sofa for about two hours to the consternation of my Granny. A motor makes the journey a lot easier!

After a not particularly pleasant stretch parallel to the A19, I arrived in Billingham; the route brought me out at the back of the Town Centre, past Billingham Forum, and then on past John Whitehead Park. Billingham Town Centre used to feel vibrant, especially on Market Day; now, large parts of it await demolition, with empty shops galore. I've been there occasionally over the last year or two, so felt no need to visit; I carried on. Down Low Grange Avenue, picking out the odd landmark.

St Luke's Church

Low Grange Shops, nothing I remember has survived.

St. Luke's Church, where I used to go in my late teens and early 20s - now, it seems, more used by the RCCG than the Anglicans, who don't even have a Sunday Service there.

Where I went to Junior School for one year - buildings completely gone, and a new one in its place.

The Road Names, mainly named for Battles - Naseby, Tunstall, Bannockburn, Neasham... I was surrounded by history that I had very little knowledge of. 

Low Grange Club, of which my parents were members, for what I think was the sole reason that they ran an excellent Children's Party close to Christmas, with presents and selection boxes all round. Now? An empty building, waiting for redevelopment apparently. 

The Bungalow my Mum moved to.

The house that I lived in for a dozen years... Garage converted, a skip on the drive - looking like the garden being redone, a major undertaking as it's on the outside of a corner and the garden felt huge, with about eight possibilities if the ball went over the hedge.

The other local shops, and something the same: although it's now branded as a Premier, the convenience store is still called Boltons.

The back entrance to my Secondary School, the muddy gap now fenced off.

The Merlin, now looking rather smarter than it used to.

The front entrance to what used to be Billingham Campus - I was in the first year when it was called that, 1984, as before that it was two schools - Brunner and Furness - on the same site. Even earlier it had been four... All that seems to be left of the buildings I remember is the PE Block - home to four sports halls and a Swimming Pool complete with Diving Tower - now apparently a Community Sports Centre.

On the Opposite Side of the road - Billingham North Methodist Church, mainly known to me as the place I did a lot of my exams as the school had an arrangement with them. 

Further along Marsh House Avenue - Bede Sixth Form, where I did my A-Levels. Back then it was a fairly small concern - now, it seems to have grown considerably, with shiny new buildings that dwarf the one in my memory.

Back towards the station to catch the train, and stopping off at Tesco - once upon a time it was where Dunnes Stores opened their first mainland UK Supermarket. Food, Clothes, the St. Bernard branded Rich Tea Biscuits that I maintain to this day were the perfect size and thickness to dunk. 

It felt strange to see so little that I remembered, to see so much changed. I have to remind myself that it's now 30 years since I lived there, almost 15 since I was a regular visitor. Billingham is the sort of place that there are so many of, especially across the North; a town that grew up around a specific industry or company (in this case ICI), struggling to find an identity now that the company, and so many of the jobs, have gone. Someone at the Woodcarving group tells the tale of how he finished school, and was looking forward to having the summer off - only for his parents to have spoken to ICI, who sent a recruiter round and told him he could start as an apprentice the following week! 

I've lived in a couple of what you might call "Company Towns" - often, those companies were far more than employers, they were paternalistic creators of modern society. Social Clubs, Leisure Facilities, Sports Teams - all part of keeping the workforce happy and productive. Parts of ICI are still there - but there's no unifying company, and the facilities are disappearing. Even Billingham Synthonia FC - "The Synners", named after one of ICI's key products, no longer play in the town; after a nomadic few years that even saw them playing at Stokesley, they are now ground sharing a little closer to home in Stockton.

It's one of those places which you really feel is being left behind. Locals will tell you that Stockton Town Centre, whose council also cover Billingham, is getting all the attention and money while Billingham moulders; it feels like they have a point given even the planned demolition is running months behind schedule, never mind the promised developments on the site. "Change and decay in all around I see" as Henry Francis Lyte wrote in "Abide with me". What is there to bring people to Billingham? It's not exactly bursting with tourist potential. And yet, it was the place I lived in for a dozen years, and so many of the people and places helped shape me. As I wandered into Tesco to buy some lunch to eat on the train, I couldn't help but wonder: were some of those walking the aisles people I went to school with? Their children? Grandchildren? How many of my schoolmates never left?

Reflecting now, one of the things that comes to mind is that when it comes to being part of the Itinerant Methodist Ministry, I've been well prepared. West Midlands, North-East, North-West - all were places I lived for a number of years before I ever thought of candidating. That can be quite a powerful thing, as you get used to a sort of approach which, to quote a song made famous by Paul Young, "Wherever I lay my hat, that's my home." You have to be prepared to love the place you live, to make the best of it, especially in Ministry; to trust that God has led you to this place, and that it's the right place for you to be. 

It's not always an easy thing, and I know colleagues who have found stationing (as we call allocating Ministers to places seeking them) a painful process - it certainly doesn't work out well for everyone every time. By the grace of God, it has worked three times for me - and I pray that it will do so for all of those who are preparing to move this Summer - including of course Deacon Jo, who joins us in September. 

Sometimes the attitude of those you come to serve is as important as the place where you live. The attitude of those who come to serve can also be a factor. Getting back to something from my cycling musings earlier - a bit of care and compassion might make all the difference.

Retreat: A Poem....

 The following was written as part of a Retreat at Wydale Hall, led by Donna Worthington, based around John 4:1-26, the encounter between Jesus and a Samaritan Woman at the Well.

In the heat of Noon

Water welling up, source of life and hope 
A promise made from ages past 
Weary Woman in the heat of Noon 
Seeking Water 
Seeking Solitude 
Seeking relief from the trials of her life

He greets her, seeks help to draw 
How can he ask? How can he speak? 
Man, Jew, outsider in the heat of Noon 
Seeking Water 
Seeking Conversation 
Seeking those who will hear his words

She needs only water 

Or so she thinks 
She needs far more 
For so he knows

Like water welling up from deep 
Emotions rise - anger, wonder;
Dare she ask the question in the heat of Noon?
Seeking knowledge 
Seeking Hope 
Seeking understanding and to be truly know

Truths spoken, Truths known 
Transforming torment to true worship 
She runs from him in the heat of Noon 
Seeking others 
Speaking hope 
Sharing Good News -The Messiah comes!

Reflecting: Walking the Labyrinth

I'm currently on Retreat at Wydale Hall (near Pickering), with other members of staff from districts across Yorkshire and the North East. The theme is the Woman at the Well (John 4), and as part of that, we walked the Labyrinth in the grounds at Wydale. Below is a sort of "stream of consciousness" reflection on the experience....

I stand at the grass on the start, wondering what I am doing here. Ahead of me, a winding and narrow path. My instinct is to just walk it, at my normal pace, but this is supposed to be an opportunity to reflect; to contemplate; this is not a race. Although most of the group are already on their journey, we are all making our own way along the narrow paths. I take the first step, and begin my walk,

The Labyrinth at Wydale

The Woman at the Well. When she sees there is someone else there, in the heat of noon, what does she do? Make boldly for her destination? Wait? Circle cautiously, hoping he'll go - or at least not notice her?

The path turns. Pause. What weighs heavy on me at the moment? What am I bringing into this time and place of contemplation? I move on, slowly.

Another turn. Jesus and the Woman at the Well have a discussion, in which she in particular seems to be taking a winding path; not wanting to get too close to the heart of things, but not wanting to walk away either. She circles the centre, not wanting to get to close.

Turn again. This time it's one of the longer paths, moving from one quadrant to another; you cover a semicircle before you need to turn again. One of the things about a Labyrinth is that it has this mixture of long and short paths; is this like following God, where everything has its season, and some are there for longer and others shorter times? 

Turn.

Turn. I'm skirting the centre now, but I know there's still far to go. I squeeze past some of the plants growing. There's Lavender planted around and in the Labyrinth; in this late springtime, the strong new growth is springing from the older, woody stems, but isn't quite hiding them. New springing from old.

Turn. I'm following a path that many have trod before me. That sounds like Pilgrimage... 

Turn. But each one seems to be taking me further from the centre that I had been so close to. One step forward, two steps back? But actually, if I keep following the path before me, it will take me to the centre. 

Turn. What am I praying for? Who am I praying for? Those who walk closely with me? For health and happiness...

Turn. Another longer path between quadrants, a narrow gap between the Lavender. Can I quiet my mind for a while, just listen? What is God saying to me now? I linger, and wait for inspiration.

Turn. The Woman at the Well didn't want to let Jesus get too close. Was a lifetime of disappointment, of being discarded, of being an object of derision and gossip the reason why? Was she wary of letting him in, because she knew what that led to? Does she stand for so many hurting people, who have grown hard from the scars life - and other people - have left on them?

Turn. Disorientation. Have I walked this path before? Have I been in this quadrant yet? I'm losing track. All I can do is keep walking, trusting the process - and the Labyrinth's builders. Turn.

I can hear birds. The wind in the trees. What I think are the sounds of children doing some sort of Forest School activity. Even in the contemplative space of the Labyrinth, I am aware of the world around me. I am part of it, not separate from it; but for now at least, it feels like a more harmonious place to dwell. Turn.

I've been on the Labyrinth for a while now. I haven't looked at the time, haven't really done anything except let my thoughts wander occasionally, and tried to let my feet slowly wander while I try and devote my mind to the things of God.

Turn. The Woman at the Well. Meeting Jesus changes her life. She then changes others, as she boldly heads off to tell her neighbours about this man who seems to know everything about her, and has yet not cast her off as so many others have done. Turn.

...and suddenly, there ahead is the centre. The path has led me true. Back and forth, round and round, twisting and turning, and yet every step has moved me closer to the heart of it all. I join my companions in the centre. And, for a while, I sit, in the companionable silence, in the centre. Soon I will have to leave; but not just yet...