The day I wore the full works

Nowadays, I’ll wear anything.

It wasn’t always the case.

Nearly fifty years ago — gosh — we were being rehearsed for our ordination in Liverpool Cathedral when the Dean, the redoubtable Edward Patey, strolled past. Hearing us discussing our robes, and what we would be wearing on our big day, he exclaimed that this was where the Church of England was at its most exciting.

You may need some background here.

In those far-off days, what you wore said a great deal about how you understood your ministry — and, in particular, which camp you belonged to. Evangelicals, like me, wore the standard vicar outfit: black cassock, white surplice and, above all, a black scarf.

By complete contrast, high church ordinands would wear a stole — a narrow scarf, rather like a bookmark — in the colour appropriate to the liturgical season. For ordination this would normally be red, the colour of the Holy Spirit.

So, just by looking at someone dressed for ministry, you would have a fair idea of how they understood their calling. Evangelicals emphasised preaching; high church clergy placed more emphasis on Holy Communion — or, as they would usually call it, the Eucharist.

For many of us, it was a matter of principle. Like most evangelicals, I would simply have refused to wear a stole, and certainly the paraphernalia that usually went with it: alb, amice, cincture and chasuble. You can look them up.

Sadly, it could sometimes spill over into open warfare, especially when evangelicals felt their low church practice was under threat. It was very much low church versus high church. We called ourselves ministers of the Gospel; they called themselves priests. Again, this was in a now bygone age.

All this changed for me in April 1979.

I may have told the story before, but I did not want to go to Heswall for my second curacy — and yet it turned out to be the most important strategic move of my entire ministry.

Everything seemed to argue against such a decision. The Rector was about to retire, the theology was liberal, and above all it was a high church environment. But over a period of nine months or so, God managed to change my mind. It is the only time I can recall when the Holy Spirit persistently prompted me towards a complete reversal.

So we moved house to Castle Drive and, that Wednesday, before I had actually begun my ministry at the Good Shepherd, we went to their midweek service of Holy Communion, conducted by a lovely retired priest, Canon Daintith.

After the service he took me into the vestry to show me how to wear the vestments — the full works. Yes: alb, amice, cincture and chasuble. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I was horrified. To say I felt I had gone over to the enemy might be an overstatement — but that is how it felt.

I felt trapped. I could hardly pull out now.

Later that day, feeling somewhat despondent, I turned to my daily Bible reading, using the Scripture Union notes — though I was a few days out of sync — and found myself in the Acts of the Apostles.

The passage for the day was from chapter 21: that rather strange episode in which the apostle Paul takes four men into the temple in Jerusalem to complete their rite of purification, including the shaving of their heads, with Paul even paying their expenses.

When I read the Scripture Union notes, suddenly everything fell into place. They observed that, for the sake of the Gospel, the apostle was willing to set aside his own principles. And that was me. God was affirming that I was in the right place, at the right time — and that what I happened to be wearing was of no consequence.

It is so different today.

Yesterday, arriving at St Paul’s to take their midweek Holy Communion, I asked what they wanted me to wear. My robes were in the car. “Don’t bother,” they said. “Just take the service as you are.”

Other churches — most, I think — prefer me to wear the standard vicar outfit of cassock, surplice and scarf, although my black scarf is colourfully embroidered, a gift from Jacqui on the 25th anniversary of my ordination, as seen in the photo.

Then again, when I was at St Cuthbert’s the other week, I wore the full works, complete with a colourful chasuble.

Whatever works.

For myself, I now prefer not to use robes at all: just smart casual, with a dog collar. This has been my instinct ever since watching a news broadcast after the resignation of Pope Benedict XVI, when attention turned to the election of his successor.

Some Vatican official proudly showed three different sets of red shoes: a small pair should the new pope be small, a middle-sized pair for a middle-sized pope, and a large pair for a large pope.

It was almost laughable — ludicrous, even. And yet, I realised then that this is how many people, young people especially, see us in our liturgical finery.  And so for the sake of the Gospel, I dress down.

As it happened, Pope Francis insisted on keeping his own black shoes, which his sister had persuaded him to buy before he travelled to Rome, replacing his old worn-out pair. “The carnival is over!” he proclaimed.

And perhaps that is the point.

In the end, what matters is not whether I wear a scarf, stole or chasuble, but whether we wear the humility of Christ.