Being Reverend

Matt Woodcock

Description

Matt Woodcock returns with this sequel to the bestselling ‘Becoming Reverend’.
Follow Matt’s journey as he starts work at one of Hull’s oldest, biggest and emptiest churches. It’s a shadow of its former self, with a small congregation and huge bills to pay. Adding the entrepreneurial (and somewhat excitable) Matt to their clergy line-up is the last throw of the dice for this 700-year-old institution.
But is Matt ready for such a tough first assignment? Are his new flock – or his new colleagues – ready for the whirlwind that’s about to descend? And can Matt realize his vision of a thriving church without wrecking his home life in the process?
As this real-life diary reveals, Matt’s life being Reverend can be every bit as fraught, funny and fascinating as it was becoming one.

Informations

• Publié par: Hymns Ancient & Modern
• Date de parution: 29 octobre 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781781402030
• Langue: English

Extrait

Matt Woodcock is a former newspaper journalist. He now lives and ministers in York. Matt is a regular contributor to Pause for Thought on the Radio 2 Breakfast Show .
Follow Matt on Twitter @revmattwoodcock



Praise for Matt Woodcock’s first book, Becoming Reverend: A Diary :
‘an irreverent, often squeamishly honest account that… reveals too the trouble Woodcock and his wife had trying to conceive … Woodcock wanted his account of the process to be “earthy”. It certainly is.’ The Sunday Times
‘hilarious and surprisingly human … an unlikely trainee vicar’s laugh out loud memoirs’ Daily Mail
‘a typically hilarious and yet at times quite poignant read. Because the thing about Woody – sorry, The Rev Matt Woodcock – is that he never holds back.’ The York Press
‘In his new book, Becoming Reverend: A Diary , Matt spills all sorts of truths about his trials as a trainee vicar, while also attempting against the odds to become a dad. His diary is… devout and raucous, funny and serious, earthy and spiritual.’ The Yorkshire Post
‘ Becoming Reverend [sets] out to lift the lid on what life is really like to be a 21st Century vicar – dealing with everything from his struggles with life … at vicar training college and low sperm counts.’ Hull Daily Mail
‘Refreshingly honest, frequently hilarious and genuinely moving, Becoming Reverend is a surprising and inspiring read. Even if you think church isn’t for you – in fact, especially if you think that – this book probably is.’ The Reverend Kate Bottley
‘It is laugh out loud funny in places, but also moving and humbling as Matt’s outrageous honesty and witty self-deprecation take you along with him in his journey … inspiring, challenging, humbling and very funny.’ The Reverend Jules Middleton, pickingapplesofgold.com




Also by Matt Woodock
Also by Matt Woodock
Becoming Reverend: A Diary





Being Reverend
A diary
Matt Woodcock






Being Reverend: A Diary
Church House Publishing
Church House Great Smith Street London
SW1P 3AZ
ISBN: 978 1 78140 201 6
Published in 2020 by Church House Publishing
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or stored or transmitted by any means or in any form, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without written permission, which should be sought from the Copyright Administrator, Church House Publishing, Church House, Great Smith Street, London SW1P 3AZ. Email: [e-mail]
Matt Woodcock has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the Author of this Work
The opinions expressed in this book are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy of the General Synod or the Archbishops’ Council of the Church of England. British Library Cataloguing in Publication data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Cover design by www.penguinboy.net
Cover photo by Jerome Whittingham
Typeset by ForDesign
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
CPI Group (UK) Ltd





For Neal and Irene x



Prologue
Saturday 22 December
B*gger. What have I done?
That was my first thought as I stood in the deserted Hull Trinity Square this morning.
It was my lowest moment.
Just a couple of hours before the curtain went up on our Live Nativity. The greatest story ever told, about to start in Hull city centre – with real camels, sheep, a donkey and a large cast of reluctant local characters. Road closures in place for the procession from Queen Victoria Square to Trinity Square. Police and stewards in hi-vis jackets and walkie-talkies ready to manage and direct the hordes.
Months of planning, fundraising and mouth ulcers. Front page headlines. My confident boasts of a ‘Christmas spectacular never to be forgotten’ being spouted in radio and TV interviews.
Now here we were – finally.
It was absolutely slinging it down. Beyond torrential.
Of course it was.
This was the day my promise to God 18 months ago to do church in a new way was supposed to come to pass. The Bible kept shouting at me back then to ‘make a way in the wilderness and streams in the desert’. ‘Here I am Lord – send me,’ I’d arrogantly prayed, echoing the words of the prophet Isaiah.
I can’t remember a time when I felt more sorry for myself. More furious with God. More regretful that I had ever had this stupid idea in the first place. Now I was struck with the painful realization that I was about to be humiliated in front of a city I’d grown to love and admire with all my heart.
I’d be a laughing stock. No one would come. The sodden streets would be empty.
I allowed myself a few self-pitying tears. Tilted my head back to let the massive rain drops wash them away. They were unrelenting, noisily slapping onto the Old Town cobbles.
My shepherd’s costume was already soaked. I was a picture of drenched hessian. I took a despairing look round the square – our ‘Bethlehem’. The hastily-erected stable at the front of Holy Trinity Church looked as if it was about to take off in the strong wind. Hay was swirling everywhere. Large puddles had formed where our Mary (Lyndsey, a barmaid) and Joseph (Gareth, a welder) would be huddled with baby Jesus (Sidney, their son). I’d have to get them to bring some wellies. Wrap the Saviour of the world in a swaddling cagoule.
A text message pinged onto my phone from one of my friends. Loads of them had promised to come and support me. Now they weren’t going to.
‘Too wet’, it read.
‘Sorry, Woody. Break a leg.’
I wanted to crawl away and hide. I felt sick with a sense of crushing disappointment and failure.
I’d given this job everything. Worked relentlessly to try and grow Holy Trinity and make things happen. This was supposed to be the big crescendo. The moment of it all being worth it. The time of harvest after months toiling in the fields.
I could feel all my hope, confidence and optimism draining away. I foraged for my wallet photograph of my wife Anna and the twins. Our girls.
The sparkly-eyed, full-of-life faces of Esther and Heidi stared back at me. I felt better. They wouldn’t care if no one turned up. Anna would wheel them down in the double buggy however relentless the rain. I imagined them in their cute pink splash suits pointing and waving at the camels as if they were the most fascinating, amazing thing they’d ever seen.
But I hadn’t gone to all this trouble to entertain my own kids. I checked the time, swallowed hard and looked to the heavens again for some inspiration …
In the Beginning…
As a Church of England minister, there are probably some things I should never admit to.
Like the fact I sometimes don’t particularly like going to church. Or the clothes we wear, the traditional hymns we sing and the prayers written for us to pray. Too often the C of E’s ways, rituals and culture feel as alien and uncomfortable to me as accountancy.
Or wearing a monocle.
I’m Sky Sports News and Oasis in a world of Radio 4 and Shostakovich.
At least I actually believe in God. That often seems to be the only thing I have in common with my clergy colleagues.
And even then it’s not straightforward. There’s a myriad of views on what we think God is like and what he thinks about all aspects of human existence. Enduring difference and tension are part of the deal in our expression of Christianity. It makes my head spin.
Thank heavens, then, for Jesus. Finding him – or him finding me – is still the very best thing that’s ever happened to me. (And I was at Bootham Crescent in 1985 when York City beat Arsenal 1–0 with a last-minute penalty in the fourth round of the FA Cup.)
I’ve never found a better, fuller, happier, more challenging, adventure-filled way to live than the Jesus way. Since we got acquainted I’ve never been able to shut up about him.
The truth is though, despite that, on many Sundays I’ve been perched on the wooden razor we call a pew, daydreaming about lying somewhere hot while sipping something cold, wondering why I’m an Anglican at all.
I’ve always felt a bad fit for the Church of England. My boredom threshold is too low. My excitement threshold is too high. I don’t like organs.
I remember having a moment of epiphany at a service I attended a few years ago. The whole experience was like a Mr Bean sketch. Arriving at the church, the ‘welcome’ was as stiff and hostile as if I’d walked into my grandma’s front room with my shoes on. The grunting old guy handing out the hymn books made me feel as if I’d shot his dog. The shuffling priest at the front looked forlorn and preoccupied. His reciting of the prayers and flowery liturgy reminded me of the begrudging and irritated way I used to ask for directions to the train station in school French tests.
As I walked out from the cold gloom into the glorious morning sunshine, I made a promise to myself. When I became a reverend I’d do things differently. I wouldn’t