Clerical Dress

I began the day by asking the Lord to make use of me. This is a good way to open all days, but I tend to forget to do it. Having successfully made this request in the mornring, I proceeded to forget that, too.

I found myself in Putney. I was looking around the church, taking photographs, when the rector appeared in his vestments, advising that a service was to begin. Out of a mixture of respect, curiosity and spiritual desire, I sat down with a dozen others to hear divine service. I had asked how ‘high’ it was likely to be, but it was a foolish question, as he and I had likely different starting points.

There was certainly several instances of crossing and bowing to the chalice, so I decided to abstain from the bread and wine (which is proper for one ‘unconfirmed’). Nevertheless, I enjoyed hearing the Bible readings and prayers and the general interval from sightseeing. The rector and I chatted briefly afterwards, and of the two places in Lancashire that he knew, one, bizarrely, was Nelson, just a few miles south of our chapel. It was not my preferred style of worship, but I was glad it had taken place; too many parish churches are little more than museums. As I departed, I pondered the need for Anglican ministers to wear special clothes for services.

A few hours later, I was on the train between Rotherhithe and Islington. Another clergyman joined the train at West Ham, sitting opposite, and proceeded to get out his laptop to do some work. A young man a few seats down from me started to berate him for believing in God and proceeded to rant about imperialism and slavery; the vicar repeatedly indicated that he wished to mind his own business. I leaned over and asked the young man to leave him alone, to let him get on with his work. I then became the focus of his ire, he loudly demanding to know what business it was of mine, and that he could talk to whomever he likes. I suggested that it was unfair, and that the vicar could also talk to whomever he likes. For the next 6-7 minutes, he angrily demanded to know my views of Covid and lockdowns. He was twice my size and half my age, and was so angry at my intervention that a woman went to sit next to him to calm him down and prevent him from getting up and doing who-knows-what. I refused to debate him, recalling Solomon’s advice about answering a fool according to his folly. Thankfully, his stop came, and off he went, chuntering and gesturing, looking over his shoulder several times. I will confess to being relieved, and living 240 miles north.

Once he was gone, various passengers thanked me, and the vicar shook my hand. I share this now, not to look tough, for I wasn’t, but because I learned two things. The first is a greater instillment of respect for clergy in clerical dress. Although I am still suspicious of anything hinting at a priestly caste, those who wear the collar are sometimes marked out for the entrainment and derision of the mentally challenged, the spiritually dead and the demonically driven. I in my jeans and check shirt was camouflaged in that carriage; my reverend neighbour was a sitting target.

The second is that if you ask God to use you, He shall, whatever you happen to be wearing, and regardless of recalling the offer.