Author: wonderfulexchange

Kimberly Bohan is a priest in the Diocese of Lincoln, less surprised by angels than by being so far south.

first impressions

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This morning I have taken my office outside and am working from the Butterfly Garden in New Waltham. This is one of the many surprises of the past week. The villages are lovley. Waltham itself (village? town?) is gently busy and bright. New Waltham is the least likely place to seek quiet. It is on the edge of Cleethorpes, and much more suburban. But someone here understands sacred space, and there is a well crafted garden slowly growing into a sanctuary.

My first impressions of Lincolnshire led to thoughts of Oz. But there is no ambiguity now: this is England.

In the week before my institution, the community police officer dropped by to say hello; the local take away hand delivered a menu (probably on the rumour that my cooker had not arrived); the local papers had articles welcoming me, and apparently I was the talk of the town, from hairdresser, to news agents, to pub.

I kept my head down till the licensing, and people were remarkably respectful of that. But as soon as I went out in my dog-collar, the energy was released: people wave from their cars as they pass; I get stopped in the street; there is a growing list of people and places where I am supposed to drop in because they want to meet the new ‘vicar’.

Learning what it means to be the parish priest will not be a problem. I have four villages and two small towns ready and eager to teach me.

For the first week, I spent most of my time going around the churches: tea, chat and worship, in half-day blocks. It was good to meet people in their own environment, and to begin to realise how different these churches are. In one village, I was introduced to The Protestant Reformation Society. Remember them? I thought they’d passed out of existence a century ago, but apparently, the issues are still live. The 39 articles are firmly defended. Surplice and stole are the norm. Opinions vary widely in the congregations, but everyone knows that Calvin and Cramner are never far away.

On the other hand, I found a pink chasuble in one of the churches last night. Glory be.

What strikes me is this: there are a huge number of people here who are deeply committed to the churches. Some of those people would never dream of worshipping, and would find it mildly surprising to think that might be what church was about. And yet, they organise rotas to mow the graveyard. They swoop in to clean the church and dress it in fairy lights for fundraising dinners. They come when the new priest says ‘I’ll be in the church’ and they ask about weddings and blessings and prayer.

The nature of worship is sometimes ambiguous but the role of prayer is not. More people have spoken to me about prayer in the past week than in most years of parish ministry.

So that’s where we’ll start: with prayer. And with cleaning the sacristies — and the fonts and altars too.

Butterfly_Garden_New_Walthan.JPG

the Lincolnshire wood-pidgeon

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Pigeon like, she sits on the road, drawing all warmth to herself.   But there is strength here, and courage not to flinch as drivers race the Red Arrows overhead.

Sometimes, bravery is mixed with contemplation.  The pigeon sits, with an impossibly long branch in her beak, and wonders ‘can I fly?’

This is not a question to test too hastily.  One should not rush off, just because a car is fast approaching.  The pigeon knows that even humans can learn to wait, if really they must.

So she sits pondering the branch, and pondering her path.  There is a good route there, straight ahead.  Plenty of space to land if the branch proves too resistant.  She lifts her head and beats her wings, and flies — down the dotted line.

There are no wood-pigeons here.  Just feathered lions, the fearless angels of time.

waves of grain

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I have come to a land of poppies.

Huge fields of them, swaying in the wind, holding their own against the rape seed, dancing more demurely with the grain. The landscape is said to be flat — and sometimes, it truly is so — but as often as not it swoops gently and reminds me of New England farms.

And that is the great surprise of Lincolnshire. Here I am in a place I do not know, have hardly ever been to, and it feels already known. Sometimes, it is New England. Sometimes, Kentucky or Virginia. Sometimes Oz. But one way or another, I turn a corner and think: this is a place I have always known.

My first Sunday here, I went to Boston. I hadn’t meant to go to there, but after many a frustrating hour driving around central Lincolnshire looking for a 5th Sunday Eucharist, I gave up, and decided to go to a church I knew would be open.

St Botolph’s — the tallest parish church in England — is known as The Stump. The tower rises octagonally and once would have been lit to help map and navigate the fens.

Did I know that Boston gave us Boston? I suppose I did — but I hadn’t thought about it. Did I care about the links between one place and another? Perhaps, but not as much as one might assume. I went for the eucharist, and that seemed to be enough.

I am not much of an historian, and I have little sentiment about pilgrim roots. And yet, as I stood there and began saying the Collect for Purity, I could hear the echo of those who had stood in the church all those years ago and said the same prayer before boarding the ships and crossing the ocean and saying it again — in time — at Old North Church.

Later, I read of a Forth of July celebration in one of the towns along the coast, and found that the local Tesco’s sells Hershey’s cocoa, Crisco, Kayro and Butterfingers.

It is all unexpected, and slightly strange — but quite delightful too.

Boston Stump