Reading the airwaves
In an attempt to post on something non-churchy–yes, shocking–I decided to share some big news. Not only do we have a TV this year, we may be able to get more than the five channels we currently receive.
Conversations with Katie and Sam led us to Freeview, a free service that somehow reads all those signals flowing around outside and translates them into entertainment, news, music, and radio channels on the TV. All we have to do is buy a Freeview box (I’m plugging next month’s budget bigtime) and we’re off. As an added bonus, the Freeview box comes with a remote which will almost be worth the $40 on its own since we don’t seem to have a remote for the TV here.
For those of you who know me well, this may all seem a bit strange since Megan and I don’t have a TV in Decatur–and other than football Saturdays, I don’t miss it. Here, though, I am more likely to watch TV since 1) we have one, and 2) I like to think I’m analyzing Scottish culture when watching.
Time will tell, but I don’t think the fancy new box will change my viewing habits too much, just broaden my options the handful of times I do want to watch. Last I heard, the average American watches 3.5 hours of TV a day. At home, I’m more like 3.5 a month and here, less than 3.5 a week. Still, the question arises: how much is too much?
How does this sound as a general rule: time spent watching TV should be less than time spent reading.
Coping with the Collar
Yep, the whole clergy collar thing is a pain. I’ve tried to be optimistic about it, but I really find them quite annoying. Unlike another Adam, I never really looked forward to wearing a collar. Maybe it’d be different if I didn’t have to wear one every single day. But, at my church at least, a clergy collar is required: every day.
So as far as I can tell, there’s at least two sides of the clergy collar debate. Here’s one: wearing a clergy collar (more affectionately known as a “dog collar” here) marks one as a minister in the church, as one who has undergone certain theological training and is called to a particular form of ministry. A collar shows a minister as being a clear representative of the church, employed for a certain type of service. So, the logic goes, a stranger might approach a minister in collar with theological questions or for help through personal turmoil.
Muriel Armstrong makes the case for collars in her “The Last Word” column in July’s issue of the Church of Scotland magazine Life and Work.
Why are so many ministers today afraid to wear a dog collar except at funerals (and that is not always the case)? Are they afraid someone might come up to them in the street and ask them a theological question? I know of an old lady whose new minister arrived on her doorstep for a pastoral visit. He was wearing jeans and trainers and, in her eyes, didn’t look like a minister, so with a ‘not today thank you,’ shut the door firmly in his face.
Armstrong then recalls the “good ole days” when collars went so far as to communicate doctrine–deep collars for conservative theology, narrow for liberal.
In support of Armstrong, I have had at least one significant pastoral conversation that I doubt would have taken place had I not been wearing a collar. On the way back from making visits at the hospital, I stopped in a secondhand shop to buy something for the manse. The owner (who turned out to be a non-practicing Catholic from Northern Ireland) saw my collar and, over the next 45 minutes, shared his life story and current struggles with alcohol and relationship with his wife. That holy conversation would not have happened if I stopped in the shop wearing a suit and tie. The collar led to a valuable opportunity for ministry.
On the other hand, the Rev. Michael S. Goss responds to Armstrong’s article in the September issue of Life and Work. Goss writes:
Quite apart from the delight I would have in being sought out [for theological questioning on the street], the collar is a barrier, not an open door to many. I well remember a senior member of the clergy recounting his use of the collar on board trains as a way of ensuring peace and quiet–nobody would speak to him while wearing it.
Later, Goss writes responding to ministers being required to wear the correct “uniform.”
My children are taught by excellent professionals who never wear the gowns I saw on some of my own teachers’ backs. My GPs are never in uniform, and I trust them. The people who sit in [the government] running the country (for good for ill) don’t wear a uniform. Why should we?
… Continue Reading
Speaking of Scotland
It is often said that George Bernard Shaw described the UK and US as two countries divided by the same language. After many a hesitation while trying to translate Scots speak into American English, I’ve begun to understand what Shaw might have meant.
Here’s a few words and phrases to support my point:
- “Oh you look smart” a Scot might say. Much to my chagrin, such a comment refers not to one’s intellect, but how well one is dressed. “Smart” clothes mean dressy, good-looking, or stylish clothes.
- Fraser sometimes seems like he’s from another century, so when I first heard him use the word “outwith” I thought it was just a Fraser-ism. But no. “Outwith” comes up in speech fairly often. I take it to mean not having to do with the things here, things outside, apart or away. Strange.
- “Do you have a family?” The correct answer is “no.” Megan and I do not have “a family” because we do not have children. Having “a family” means one has children. I don’t think this one sends the best message, but nobody asked me.
- “That’s you.” “That’s us.” “That’s me.” These phrases are used when something that was being waiting on becomes complete. For example, if you’re waiting in a queue (a line) and fail to notice your turn is up, the person behind you might say, “That’s you.” Or if a waiter brings your food to you–at a casual restaurant–she might ask, “That’s you then?”
- A church example. Worship does not include announcements, or notices, but “intimations.” To some ears, “intimations” perhaps sounds proper, important, weighty. To me “intimations” sounds rather haughty, old-school, and dusty.
And not specifically related, but along the same lines. Why when given tea and biscuits (“cookies” in America) do Scots rarely if ever also offer a napkin? What, pray tell, is a visiting young minister supposed to do with messy hands while wearing a smart suit and explaining he doesn’t have a family. Lick them? Sometimes I wish I could just intimate: “To all outwith: when serving the assistant minister crumbly cookies or melty chocolate, offer a napkin for goodness sake!”
Proper Football
Megan and I attended, as Kathryn says, “a proper football” match this past weekend between Hearts (of Edinburgh) and Kilmarnock (of Kilmarnock).
Unfortunately, the family team Hearts lost 3-1. I can’t exactly say it was a well-played game, but I’ll blame that on the soggy pitch and windy weather.
Viewing the match as an example of Scottish ritual, however, is fascinating. Just as college (American) football in the south is often called a religion, so too might Scottish football. One certainly feels affirmed when rooting for a win with hundreds of others. Wearing the particular colors of a team identifies one as a true follower. And the liturgy. Well, let’s just say I haven’t heard phrases that colorful in church.
We hope to attend another match or two, perhaps in Edinburgh the true mecca for Hearts fans. Until then, I might be stuck with Ayr United games.
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