International Women's Day

International Women's Day. Rock on!

In church, we had an elderly, male, guest preacher. Yes, a man. An elderly man. He was also a Canon.

He started talking about Darwin, and this caught my attention after the weird Darwin-related conversations of recent days.
He told us that Darwin had been going to be an Anglican priest, but thank God he didn't become one, because Darwin went on to do far more important work.
The white-haired man went on to tell us that Darwin's ideas were pretty much what Christianity was all about anyway, that Humankind is part of Nature, of which we are stewards, and that Darwin's work, like that of Christ, showed us how equal we all are.
He talked about inequalities suffered by women. He talked about the ridiculous stance of some members of the Anglican communion who liked to claim that homosexuality was wrong. Neither Christianity nor Darwinism could support this.

And then he said it....
'The Bible is NOT a science textbook,' he said, 'it is ridiculous to make claims about science by reference to the Bible.' He went on to show how the Bible is our spiritual book, but in terms of science, we have learnt so much since the times it was written. And it never claimed to be a book of science anyway.

He was no greater a speaker than our vicar, Margaret, but sometimes, someone else reinforcing your point can be immeasurably powerful. This elderly, white-haired man, probably got the attention of the more conservative elements in our congregation, but he gave the same message as the women speakers.
All hail.

In honour of International Women's Day, here is a poem by Welsh poet Gillian Clarke, from her collection, 'Making Beds for the Dead'.

'Front Page'.

It's the photograph that does it.
A man howling for his child.
You can't forget it
despite a let up in the rain,
sunlight on a river,
a flight of geese over an estuary.
It's a rucksack of sorrow
on your shoulder, on your mind.

Try leaving it on the platform
to be defused like a suspect package.
Try leaving it on the train,
personal belongings
they remind you to take.
Try to lose, bin, burn it,
indestructible as the polythene
of flowers in a filthy stairwell.

Maybe just this once
we should forego the minute's silence.
Maybe this time, in supermarket,
street and school and public square,
studio, station, stadium,
standing together, eyes closed,
we should throw back our heads
for a one-minute howl.