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A thought from Revd Paul Lanham.

Dear Friends,

While clearing out a filing cabinet during August I discovered my school reports that my parents had given to me before they died. The earliest was (mind bogglingly) 71 years ago where the matron noted that I was four stone nine pounds wringing wet (a third of what I am now). The Headmaster commented quaintly of me in 1955 that 'he is a most acceptable member of the school'. One year I am recorded as being a first class shot. This was rather surprising as I was short sighted and had not yet begun to wear spectacles; when the relevant test took place I remember that I was blazing away at a blur and amazingly hit the target several times (more appropriately I once shattered a bottle with my first shot using my brother's air pistol, only to discover that I had aimed with my left eye and fired with my right hand). But the most memorable remark came from my history master. He was a retired colonel of ferocious mien, and if my memory is right he had a faint physical resemblance to the Gestapo supremo Heinrich Himmler. I can still hear his slightly stuttering voice in my head as he wrote of me 'He s-s-seems teachable'. Since my university degree is in ancient and modern history (and theology) he must have succeeded - unlike the master who told me I would never learn Greek, only for me to pass a university exam six years later. 

From this you can grasp that in spite of the belief that school days are the happiest ones of your life, mine weren't. In a school (which I shall not name) that had its fair share of high achievers my only success was as scorer for the First, Second and Colts school cricket teams. For the rest it was a case of being a total nonentity, except that being in a deeply Christian school I ended as a priest. But it was fascinating to look back at these reports, seeing what I was like and how I developed as I am now. Lanham R, (as opposed to my younger brother Lanham P), is rightly forgotten as a former pupil. 

Thank heavens that Jesus did not choose the twelve disciples on the basis of worldly merit and status but looked for something more than that. At school I feel I would have been more comfortable with Andrew than the others; he would have hovered quietly in the background than the more gifted in the school. Or perhaps Thomas who was always asking questions and being honest without being a prize winner. Both would have been very 'acceptable members of the school' rather than anything special. I love the ordinariness of the Twelve. Not an intellectual, nobody of high rank, just twelve highly idealistic young men who were prepared with Jesus to turn the world upside down and believed in Him so much that they were prepared to die for Him. I love their vulnerability, their confusion, their innocence and their courage. Jesus could have chosen almost anyone to be His closest circle but He chose them. A reassurance that God calls all of us, in all our ordinariness to serve Him as we are, not to be special. My thought for the month!

A personal note. I have been unable to minister in the parish since my stroke last year and then losing Judy. I have missed you all very much but my voice needs to be strengthened before I can resume, while life has had to be reassessed. However, we have been helped enormously by your thoughts and prayers, with special thanks to Ginni (not least for being Ginni!). Hopefully I will be back soon; you can't get rid of me that easily! 

With my love,

Paul

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St Hippolytus - A Sermon by the late and very much missed Howell Davies

Howell Davies, our late and very much missed reader and friend preached a sermon about St Hippolytus on 15th August 2021. As it ius now the festival of our patron saint it is appropriate we remember Howell's sermon.image.jpeg

230813 H Davies Sermon re St Ippolyts 2nd page

230813 H Davies Sermon re St Ippolyts 3rd page230813 H Davies Sermon re St Ippolyts 4th page

 

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A thought from Revd Paul Lanham

Dear Friends,

Two wheeled sports fascinate me at the height of the summer – both of them mad in their very different ways. June brought the Isle of Man TT motorcycle races, where people hurl their machines around a 37-mile circuit of country roads at speeds that approach 200 mph in places. As one of the probably few clergy to have reached 80 mph on both two wheels and four (in both cases many years ago on deserted motorways when the police were mercifully absent) I know how exhilarating both experiences were but also how conscious one is of the narrow line between life and (at best) serious illness so how anyone can make a living doing that speed is beyond me.

In July there is the month long Tour de France cycle race. Not because I am a cyclist, because I'm not. Incidentally it is a myth that you never forget how to ride a bicycle. I learned how to do so on a narrow lane bordered by ditches full of stinging nettles and have had 70 years with a scarred knee as evidence that at least I tried, but I don't now. I love the race for many reasons. One is that it is fascinating, like chess on wheels – teams working together for their leaders to try to win. A second is the scenery which varies from the mundane to the sensational. But the madness for me lies in the amount of suffering the riders are prepared to endure when all but a tiny few have the slightest chance of being noticed, still less winning. Why anyone would do this willingly is beyond me – but in a very different way people think we clergy are mad to be ordained.

So many lessons for this column to ponder about. The first is the importance of teamwork. There is no such thing as an isolated cyclist in the Tour. Each belongs to a team with a particular role to play. Each relies on the others and is important. Fine, if that isn't a picture of the Church as the Body of Christ, I don't know what is. We each have a part to play, the Church and each individual congregation is composed of people with different skills, different roles, each valuing the others and working together to extend God's Kingdom in the area – and none is more important than the other. We have value in the sight of God because we are ourselves, not necessarily by doing important things.

I'll byepass the second because it is so obvious. It is the sheer beauty of the country, particularly the mountains.  Watching the Tour day by day is a reminder of the wonder of God's creation as it gradually unfolds hour by hour.  Not much fun for the participants but a pageant of nature at the height of the summer.

But the real thing is that in a sense the Tour is a journey. As the last rider crosses the line it must give them a sense of achievement that they have gone all this way and endured so many things but they have endured to the end. I always think of Christianity in terms of a pilgrimage, a progression. It's not something static, it is moving. Like that ride there are obstacles in the way, there is sometimes pain, there are joys but there are also sorrows. We move onwards towards God, reaching out, upwards and onwards towards Him. Some of us find it easier than others, but we need one another, we need the support and encouragement of God. We may find ourselves having to take spiritual risks but that is how our pilgrimage will go. Nothing can be achieved by being a passive Christian; it's a contradiction in terms.

So, enjoy the summer. As for me, my cycling and motorcycling days are long over. But don't telephone me when the Tour is on television; I won't answer it!

Very best wishes. 

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HOWELL DAVIES – EULOGY

HOWELL DAVIES – EULOGY

My father’s Eulogy has changed a great deal over the past weeks, because of so many kind messages - from family, his friends of 60+ years or just acquaintances, with such a strong common thread of admiration and respect that it would be presumptuous to present this Eulogy simply from my own perspective.

Howell Davies was born in Dinas Powys, South Wales on 5th July 1939. A proud Welshman and Davies all his Life, he was schooled at Swansea Grammar, then Clifton College, Bristol. He joined the CCF’s RAF Section, and, bitten by the flying bug, won an RAF Scholarship, gained his PPL in a 1930’s bi-plane Tiger Moth, before heading to London’s Kings College to study Medicine in 1959. And at London University Air Squadron (UAS) he flew what stayed his favourite small-piston aeroplane, the Chipmunk off RAF White Waltham’s grass airfield.

Our parents met in London, where Pa’s passion for flight overcame his interest in medicine; he started his RAF Officer Training, not as a medic, but as a “potential” pilot at RAF South Cerney in February 1962, and they were married months later on 28th May … I was there in spirit if not quite yet in person!  Daddy was commissioned ‘Pilot Officer’ and posted for pilot training on Jet Provosts to RAF Leeming in June.

Too junior to qualify for a married quarter, Howell and Mouse rented a tiny unheated cottage in Carthorpe, North Yorkshire, where they endured the infamously cold winter of 1962-1963.

They only had one car in their early years, and Mummy drove Pa to work daily; no fun in that abominable winter. One day, Mummy drove Pa to work in her nightie, a cardigan and slippers, but returning home spun the car into a snow bank, and had to flag down a farmer’s tractor who thought it was his lucky day to find a shivering blonde damsel in distress in just a nightie … until Mother leaned back into the car to retrieve me, her 5-month old baby son.

“Oh My Life!” Daddy would sigh, as in her defence Mummy insisted that ‘a baby-doll nightie and fluffy slippers’ were a faster solution to roadside assistance than AA or RAC Membership!

Dadz earned his RAF “WINGS” on 19th April 1963, was posted to RAF Swinderby to train on Vampires, then 5-years training on the Avro Vulcan, and his first operational tour started in January 1967 for 3-years at 50 Squadron RAF Waddington, part of NATO’s front-line Cold War Nuclear V-Force.

Daddy’s passion for flight led him to the RAF Central Flying School and instructing for 3-years at UAS Liverpool. Then his first desk-job at RAF Brampton, when we ‘landed’ at Gosmore House in 1974. Next, he was operational again with 35 Squadron Vulcans based at RAF Scampton for 3-years before lean flying years from 1978 - 1986; 4-consecutive Staff roles ‘flying a desk’ at HQ Bomber Command RAF Bawtry, Joint Airmiss, Staff College Bracknell and at Brampton HQ RAF Support Command – all commuting from Gosmore.

In 1982, Vulcans deployed to the Falklands on the daring long-range bombing mission to disable Port Stanley’s runway on 31st May in ‘Operation Black Buck’. Air Chief Marshal Sir Michael James Beetham, was planning the raid when, Howell tells, he knocked on the door to tell him that “I am one of only two Vulcan pilots current at air-to-air refuelling, and my bag is packed Boss…” to which Sir Michael retorted “Oh bugger off Howell, I’ve got a bloody war to run!”.

An instructor again from 1986 on Chipmunks, Grobs and Bulldogs, Howell manged to broadly avoid a desk-job until his retirement on his 55th birthday in 1994, after 32 years’ service. But to no surprise he joined the RAF Reserves the next day to spend another decade sharing his experience with the next generations of young potential RAF pilots.

Howell’s four packed RAF flying logbooks are meticulous and precise, with 5,228.5 total hours in aircraft ranging from the humble Tiger Moth to the mighty Vulcan nuclear bomber, detailing every imaginable military training and operational exploit across the USA, Africa, Europe, various aircraft emergencies, instruction in aerobatics and smuggling Christmas presents and Canadian Moonshine in the Vulcan bomb bay.

Mummy loved giving presents, especially surprises, and as a belated 50th Birthday present in anticipation of his retirement she presented Pa with a pile of pre-WW2 bi-plane parts - so he wouldn’t get bored! Over 18-years, continuing his local flying with family and friends, Howell restored the now exquisite K8203 Hawker Demon so it could be displayed at Old Warden, Duxford and Goodwood.  His first flight in it was as Rear Gunner on 13 August 2009 … Hopefully we’ll see K8203 flying overhead after the service.

Some of the messages we have been privileged to receive deliver a collation of Pa’s character and of what made him so very special to so many of us:

“No one has the perfect words to make our sadness go away …But you may find comfort in knowing how many people wish they did.”

“I will remember him as a true Gentleman. A man of great dignity who had a wealth of amazing life experience and stories to tell. Always the most entertaining man and definitely the one to draw for sitting next to at lunch!”

“I only got to know him during the last year at Sunday morning Choir at St. Ippolyts. If we were signing Cwm Rhondda he would indicate to me with signs or whispers to sing the rising bass part in the chorus, which adds so much to the Welsh spirit and fervour of this rousing hymn.”

“I will miss the chats with your father and interesting tales of his time in the RAF. However, I will not miss the ravaging hangovers from his hospitality and bottles of Calvados.”

“Howell was a font of knowledge. The Services he took for us at St, Mary’s, Great Wymondley were memorable – especially Remembrance Day at the Lychgate. He gave such moving accounts of the 5 who died in WW1 from our tiny village.”

“The rarest of men - always genuinely interested and interesting, in equal measure. And uniquely, always interesting or interested at precisely the right time!”

“Although I only knew your father in his later years, he always had a smile on his face and clearly never happier than when surrounded by his family. He had a wonderful ‘DASH’” (The Dash Poem, by Linda Ellis)

Daddy loved Gosmore and Gosmore House, and as a family we had the happiest time with Mummy Mouse running a fun-filled home; always busy with RNLI and Church Teas, Open Gardens, village swimming days and Daddy always a welcoming host. Since Mouse passed, father has enjoyed his friendships in the Parish, at Monday Club, Almshoebury shoot, BOBs, Probus, his walking group, his dear church St. Ippolyts, and amongst this aviator, sailing and Welsh rugby debenture seat friends at Cardiff’s ‘Cathedral of Glory’ and visiting his beloved Gower Peninsula. And since his retirement, he completed two Open University degrees, and was working on his 3rd at 83!

We have all been blessed to have Howell/Daddy/GrandDadz in our lives; he truly was a gentle and wise man, a good, steadfast and loyal friend to all, generous, kind, humble and gracious. We will miss him dearly.

There is no doubt he had great DASH, and happily he is on his final journey to join our beautiful Mother, his beloved wife Mouse; though I suspect not for the peaceful rest that he deserves, but most likely to be met with party poppers, beer and champagne at Heaven’s most riotous reunion party - for which Mummy has been preparing for 21 years!

Peter Davies

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A thought from Revd. Paul Lanham

Dear Friends,

There is the (doubtless apocryphal) story of the bishop visiting a Sunday School and seeing a small child industriously drawing. When asked what he was doing, the child replied that he was drawing a picture of God. 'But nobody knows what God looks like' said the bishop piously, to which the child imperturbably replied 'They will when they have seen my picture'. The moral is of course that children have a nasty way of cutting you down to size, especially if you have a bit of plastic around your throat.

June begins with the most mysterious of all the festivals of the year, Trinity Sunday. 'Firmly I believe and truly God is three and God is one' wrote Cardinal Newman. God is three separate 'entities' and yet each together is one, inseparable from the other two. Fortunately we no longer use 'At Morning Prayer' in the Book of Common Prayer (Quicunque Vult' if you want to use its posh Latin title). In one section it makes this statement about the Holy Trinity: 'The Father incomprehensible, the Son incomprehensible and the Holy Ghost incomprehensible' to which you might add 'the whole thing incomprehensible' – which if course it is. The Trinity seems essentially to be for theological professionals trying to make sense of the inexplicable. It seems to have nothing to say to congregations in tiny village churches or in huge Victorian churches in inner cities where only a handful gather to worship. It has nothing to say to a living vibrant 21st century Church. That begs the question of whether we need one Trinity Sunday, still less all those Sundays after it that begin in the high summer and end with the onset of winter. 

Simply we must continue them because of what they stand for. I am very glad that the experiment of having Sundays after Pentecost instead of Sundays after Trinity was abandoned, because the mystery of the Trinity reminds us of who God truly is. Call me an old fogey (which I am but don't tell anyone) but rightly or wrongly we seem to have blurred the gulf between God and man. Amid the recreation of my spiritual life after having to give up as a parish priest I came up with the challenging concept of 'God made in the image of man' as opposed to the message from the Garden of Eden where man is created in the image of God. We seem to have watered down God, concentrating on his being Father rather than the Almighty creator of heaven and earth. It is as though we have made Him almost a cosy shadow of who He really is. Trinity reminds us of the mysteriousness of God, that He is far beyond us. We use words that try and explain the inexplicable by using such terms as 'Father' because our language lies beyond its power to explain. The Trinity reminds us that we must allow God to be God and not belittle His greatness.

That for me is why Trinity Sunday and all those Sundays after Trinity must remain. It's not just looking back on those warm summer days in my childhood as I roamed the fields and lanes of my beloved Gloucestershire, where the bells of the church beside our house rang so often in the balmy evenings. It is that Trinity Sunday sets ourselves and God in their true perspective and reminds us in our proper place of things. But it also reminds us that the same God who created the heavens and the earth loves and cares about our needs as individual people. That for me is the true mystery of the Holy Trinity. He is not a blur on a child's picture on a Sunday School sheet of paper. Nor is He a debating point for the theologians.  He is here, beside me, beside you - here and now. You as you matter to Him.

Warmest good wishes,

Paul

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