Not my favourite liturgical event (or more in truth non-event) to hand this Sunday: 'Harvest Festival.' No Saint Harvest in any hagiography I've ever encountered. No record of martyrdom by scything as I recall.
Not that I have anything against a touch of paganism in our celebrations to remind us of our roots. You'll not find me harrumphing about Hallowe'en being a new-fangled American import - far from it indeed as the Feast of All Saints deserves at least a day's preparation, and what is a good sharp, chill November for if not to remember and mourn the dead?
But I've never quite recovered from seeing the film The Whicker Man - which was not as I had imagined a medley of favourite travelogues - thence left wondering whether some, if not many, of my congregation secretly yearn to burn me alive as an offering to the Corn God.
Setting aside though concerns for my personal safety or even any theological quibbles about the validity of the feast, I find it so depressing to see our nave stuffed with seventeen bushel of peas sent over by the local agrindustrial conglomerate, accompanied by three left-over parsnips not fit for the London market and the inevitable tins of produce long past their Jurassic sell-by date. It may be a harvest of a sorts but we are not its home; we are just a way-station on its journey.
I shall play them 'John Barleycorn Must Die' on the harmonium - that should scare them up a bit.
Roll on 'The Day of the Dead' - All Souls and my birthday too by happy / grumpy coincidence.
And so to checking the parish accounts - please God let the petty cash balance this month!
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