show time

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Last night I saw The Producers.

Some of you will know that I am a theatre snob. My formative experiences of theatre were mostly on Broadway and I spent my teenage years at a school where the theatre budget ran to five digits which rather spoiled me for anything second rate.

There was nothing second rate last night. It was the most professional show I’d seen in years. And that was despite several technical glitches (first stop outside the West End?), three serious brushes with the giggles on Joe Pasquale’s (Bloom’s) part, and an increasingly troublesome sore throat on Cory English’s (Bialystock’s) part.

Or maybe it was because of these things. A less professional company would have come undone at the seams. Instead, they kept it alive by a thousand perfect flourishes and sheer skill.

Once upon a time, I could be totally lost in a show. Despite many hours spent backstage and a fair working knowledge of most aspects of production, the actor’s role was always beyond me and therefore retained its mystery. So it was with some sadness that I realised that had changed last night.

Early in act two, Bialystock has a solo scene in the jail. In a song that takes most of ten minutes, he summarizes the whole show and wears his heart on his sleeve. It was a stunning performance. It was one of those moments when I thought, ‘this is what the theatre is all about.’

But even as I held my breath in admiration, I was sad. Because it was not Bialystock I was admiring, but Cory English. I knew what was going into the performance and what it was taking out of him. I knew that for this moment, he would have to pay.

It reminded me of Christmas Liturgies — of wild moments on feast days when every ounce of the priest’s energy is need to hold focus, to carry the weight of the liturgy, to bear truth.

It is a different sort of performance. A different sort of truth.

But it leaves me marvelling at Cory English, all the same.

evangelism

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chocolate

Continuing the theme of the week.

For the first time in 17 years, I have found Baker’s Chocolate in Britain.  In Dunoon, of all places.  Those of you local:  it’s the little shop that does sandwiches and odds and ends near the fruit shop.  ‘Something dairy’ maybe?  Look for the tins of pumpkin in the window (another source of rejoicing).

This is the chocolate you need for American brownies.  It is unsweetened, solid chocolate which gives the intensity of flavour and squidgyness essential for proper brownies.  The recipe is on the box and the trick is, once you add the flour to the wet ingredients, you should use no more than 25 strokes (wooden spoon) to blend it in.  It’s OK if there are a few small lumps left.   Oh, and I’d leave out the nuts.

I’m hoping that if everyone reading this near to Dunoon will raid the shop looking for chocolate, he’ll keep stocking it.

Go and make disciples.

who knew?

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Well, it has been a girly week, hasn’t it? Posts on

  • pink hot water bottles
  • home made jam
  • high-heel races
  • rabbits
  • ‘beauty tips for ministers’

And tonight, while bravely purchasing women’s clergy shirts on line, I found my way to a web site/ community for young women clergy. I can think of only two other people in Scotland eligible to join the group (one of whom is Methodist). Oh, and a few who meet the category ‘women in waiting’ for those not yet ordained.

Most of the time, I would say that the double jeopardy of being young and a women in the priesthood doesn’t bother me. But tonight, my wistfulness at seeing the group photo at Fidelia’s Sisters suggests otherwise.

Time to curl up with a cat, a cup of tea and a silly magazine, I think.

Then hopefully back to proper theological posts soon.

tree of life

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I shamelessly stole the central image of my All Saints’ sermon from the rector’s letter from my former church’s magazine. ‘My training rector’ (he will always be that, I suppose) wrote movingly of an altarpiece of the tree of life, emerging from Adam and Eve, and growing up into the glory of Christ, with its branches filled with Saint after Saint.

The image was evocative because I’d spent the afternoon being distracted by fifty or more chaffinch who were rejoicing in the two new bird feeders in the tree. So, as soon as I began to read his letter, the image began to grow in my mind: branches furling out and up, forming a perfect illuminated page in jewel tones, with gold glinting and saints perched all around, talking, debating, wandering, praying. Imagine Hogwart’s paintings crossed with the Lindesfarne Gospels.

And then I went on line to find a picture of the altar my friend had seen. If I’d thought about it, I’d have realised I’d translated baroque altar into illuminated manuscript. But I didn’t think, so it came as a shock.

My training rector is a great fan of the baroque, and I could imagine him standing there in delight as theological complexities distilled in his mind. I’d have looked at it, thought ‘tacky’, and walked away.

So now, my mental image of the tree of life contains an ornately carved branch covered in shining gold for my training rector to perch on. But he and his branch are carefully hemmed in by clean black lines and carefully coloured knots and beasties– luminous, but not shiny, in their perfection.