From The Rector
Vittoria’s most recent letter is here, followed by some of her previous letters.
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Rector’s Letter April 2024
Dear Friends,
One of my habits when I am having a paperwork day is to stop every 30-40 minutes and go for a stroll around my garden. It gives my body a break, allows me to mentally recharge, and gives my eyes something different to look at. These last few weeks, I have been watching as the crocuses slowly emerge from under the grass, poking their way upwards and opening up into a carpet of purple, white and yellow. The snowdrops are still clinging on under the shelter of the beech hedge, and the daffodils are showing their buds, even if they haven’t opened up as yet. This morning I spotted the first tiny knob of the rhubarb pushing its way up from under the soil. Spring is such a hopeful season. Full of life and energy. I find myself planning what I want to do in the garden, projects to do around the house. Making lists of where I start spring-cleaning. Thinking about places I want to visit, tasks I want to do. After the darkness of winter, the spring seems full of light, even on the wet dreary spring days. I know the rain promotes growth, so I am happy to live with it. If I am in a good mood, I put my wellies on and go and splash in puddles. If I’m not feeling quite so upbeat, I snuggle up on the sofa and listen to the rain from the warmth of my living room. In spring, there is hope for the future, when other things seem barren and devoid of life.
I was asked a while ago what Christianity had to offer that other belief systems do not. My answer was hope. Hope in and through Christ. Hope for the future. Hope that life on this earth is not all there is. Hope because there is nothing we can do that can push God away from us. Hope because new life in Christ is not dependent on us and our actions, but on Jesus and his. We don’t need to pray five times a day, or sacrifice on an altar, or follow a dress code. We are not saved through what we can do, but because someone else – Jesus – has done the work for us.
We are saved because he was willing to give his life in place of our lives. That does not mean we shouldn’t pray, or give alms, or fast. But it means that when we do it, we do so out of a sense of gratitude and appreciation, out of wanting to build a relationship with God, out of love and service to others. That is far more valuable than doing something just to tick the boxes. How do you live in Christ? Do you live and pray and serve out of obligation, or out of love and gratitude?
I wonder what you think the unique selling point of Christianity is. What is it you can tell friends and family about Christianity that might encourage them to explore it? What is it that turns you to Christ, instead of another faith? Easter is fast approaching as I write this letter. We will soon be celebrating that great festival of hope, and love, and joy. Such a wonderful celebration. It reminds us of the reason we can rejoice as Christians – God loves us so much that he gave his only Son for us. So let us rejoice together this Easter.
Every blessing,
Vittoria
Rector’s Letter February 2024
Dear Friends,
As I write this on a cold and snowy day in January, I am also mulling over my talks for the retreat I’m leading down in North Devon. This year the topic for the talks is Obscure Saints. Which rather leads to the question – what is an obscure saint? A saint who might be rather obscure in the south of England might not be obscure up here, and so on. So far I have written talks on Kentigern – not particularly obscure in my mind – Illytd, Melangell, and Beuno. What I have found in my research is that while they may now be considered saints, some of their actions are a little on the unholy side.
Illtyd, supposedly a cousin of King Arthur, started life a soldier, before insulting an Abbot (St Cadoc), who managed persuade him to repent and come back to Christianity. Melangell ran away from Ireland to Wales to escape an arranged marriage, and then established a hermitage in one of the local princes forests. Beuno seems to have spent his time cursing people and then running away to a different place – alongside restoring people to life. He was supposedly a son or nephew of a prince. Other saints have similar tales to tell. Most of them, in this day and age would be considered eccentric, to say the least.
They were not always good or holy. They made mistakes, they got things wrong. They lost their tempers. But they were evangelists, teachers, healers, intercessors. They love and cared and hoped and dreamed. They have left us a legacy, as Christians. A legacy of a time when people were not afraid to proclaim the gospel. A time when to become a Christian meant a change of life, a willingness to leave home and family and go wherever God might send you. A time when, walking among those who were not Christian, or followed other gods, speaking of the God of Christianity was a dangerous act. No-one wants their status quo to be
rocked, their beliefs and practices to be swept aside. The old Celtic saints lived in a time when Christianity was something new, something radical.
And they demanded of their followers that they live lives which were equally radical. We live in a day and age which seems, on the surface, to be increasingly secular. But there is also a rise of interest in things spiritual, things ‘other’. There is a need for something – but what? Perhaps we need to turn again to the age of the saints, when Christianity was new and fresh and radical. When to become a Christian meant a change of life, a change in the way of living, a refocusing of commitments and priorities.
Valentine, who has become the patron saint of lovers, was martyred for continuing to evangelise his faith. This year his day coincides with Ash Wednesday, a day when we turn again to God, when we dedicate ourselves to seeking his will, and, over the next 40 days, commit ourselves to spending time asking questions of God and ourselves, that we might fully proclaim the Gospel, in both words and deed. As we head towards the season of Lent, how are you going to use this time to refocus heart and mind and soul?
Every blessing,
Vittoria
Rector’s Letter, December 2023
Dear Friends,
After the last couple of months, I suspect I may soon develop webbed feet. We seem to have had rain and rain and more rain, and every few days the phone rings with yet another flood alert from SEPA. In Ballater in October we had more than five times the usual amount of rain for the month, and November seems to developing the same way. This Tattler letter is being written accompanied by the sound of rain outside and the dripping from an overflowing drain-pipe. Not exactly the weather conducive to writing about Advent, Christmas, and New Year. As I write this letter however, the date marks the start of Celtic Advent – the forty days leading up to Christmas. This evening I will close the curtains against the dark and the wet, put on a Christmas CD, and commence wrapping Christmas presents in preparation for the annual Hancock gathering. I do find that year on year I am buying fewer things, and more experiences, or food based presents. I am receiving the same. Last year in my stocking was a voucher for a helicopter ride, and another one for a falconry experience. I haven’t yet managed either, but I haven’t forgotten about them. My old friends down south didn’t want more stuff this year, but really appreciated the on-line cheese tasting I got them a couple of years ago, and so are having a festive cheeseboard delivered. My aunt likewise doesn’t need more things, so afternoon tea for two will be winging its way to her.
Advent is an odd time of year. Sometimes it seems as though we leap from Remembrance to Christmas without pausing in-between. As I have written before, I think myself fortunate in having been brought up with Advent traditions as well as Christmas ones. We celebrated St Nicholas on the night of the 5th December. We remembered St Lucy – St Lucia on the 13th. We had our Advent candles at home, when we were old enough not to set the house on fire. The Christmas tree went up usually as close to Christmas Eve as was manageable.
Advent is not the same as Christmas – it sounds obvious, but all too often the two seem to run into each other. Advent is a time of penitence. A time of preparation of our hearts for the coming of the Messiah. A retelling of the story of faith through time. Technically it used to also be a time of fasting. Perhaps we ought to bring that back. Not necessarily a fasting from food and drink. But a fasting from excess. A fasting from the expectations pressed upon us by this world. A fasting from the mad rush towards Christmas. This is what the prophet Isaiah says about fasting – we are to ‘remove the chains of oppression and the yoke of injustice, and let the oppressed go free. Share your food with the hungry and open your homes to the homeless poor. Give clothes to those who have nothing to wear, and do not refuse to help your own relatives.’ That strikes me as a good way of holding the Advent season.
Advent is the beginning of a new year, in church terms. It is a time to reflect, to assess, to think and pray about what is important. Christmas guides us to a great celebration, and Epiphany to a great revelation. But to get there takes time and thoughts and planning. The Christmas celebration is just a party without knowledge of God. Epiphany is a chance for that God to speak to you. This festive season I encourage you to pause, breathe, explore. What might God be showing you? What might be revealed to you? What will you find to celebrate? Pause, take hope, and rejoice in the peace and love that is a gift of God to you and all.
Wishing you every blessing at this season and in the New Year,
Vittoria
Rector’s Letter, October 2023
Dear Friends,
This week seems to have been one of extremes, encompassing the whole spectrum of my work and life. Monday I had choir practice, ready for the Evening of Praise, followed by helping to teach computer programming at the Cromar Future Group. Tuesday was the Ghillies Ball. For once there were more men than women. At school, being one of the taller females in my class, I always had to dance the man’s part (I still have to resist the attempt to lead when dancing!). So it made a change to find myself flung around the ballroom by a succession of burly soldiers, some of whom were reciting the steps under their breath as they danced. The quickstep rather caught them out – I don’t think they’d been taught that over the last couple of weeks. My toes have just about recovered. But all good fun. Wednesday was the Diocesan Mission and Ministry Board. Thursday was visiting. And Friday I zip-wired merrily across the Clyde. It was a beautiful day – if not the day to be trussed up like a turkey with a helmet on! Sue Burgess was my companion and bag carrier. We lunched at the Riverside Museum in Partick, not far from the zip-wire site – in fact, you could see the crane from the museum. The crane. Oh yes. The one bit of the experience I was not looking forward to. Thankfully it was a very calm day, but even so, the cage I went up in and was launched from was swaying gently to and fro. I have zip-wired from stable platforms previously – cliff edges, buildings. A moving surface was a little unsteadying. It was actually far less disconcerting to step off the edge and feel my weight being taken by the harness. Off I set, waving to the bystanders and admiring the view, and five minutes later it was over and done with, save for the walk still harnessed up back to the start. Would I do it again? Definitely! Was it worth it? Yes.
As many of you know, this was a charity zip-wire in aid of Alzheimers Scotland. Thanks to all the sponsors, I raised about £700. There are so many good causes out there, all asking for our support, but this one was close to my heart. My Aunt was diagnosed with Alzheimers last year. Our identity is tied up with who we are in time and space; with who we relate to; with who our family and friends are; with what we do. My mother once told me she got very frustrated because she was always described and seen as either Ken’s wife or Steffan’s / Catthrina’s / Vittoria’s mother. She felt that she had lost her own identity. It’s why when I introduce her, or speak to her in company, I often address her as ‘Thelma’.
The question is, who are we when we are stripped of those connections? When we cannot remember who we are, or where we are? When we can no longer do what we used to do? Are we still the same person? With my aunt, whether she remembers me or not, she is still my beloved aunt. I have all the memories of growing up with her around. Of Boxing Days spent in the old house, full of family and friends. Of a home full of love and laughter. Of care for a rather gawky child. I know her capability for numbers and mathematics. Her love of music and dance. Her ability to welcome, to listen, to embrace whoever I was, and whatever I wanted to do with my life. No judgment. I can remind her of all those things.
And I know that beyond all this, she, as I, am something else. She is a beloved child of God. Even when her memory fades, and her sense of time and place diminish, she is still held fast in the hands of God. This is something for us all to cling on to, and something which cannot be taken away. No matter how far we travel, how remote we become from God, we are still his beloved children. It does not matter if we have wandered away from him. If we have failed him in thought, words or actions. It does not matter if memory fails. It does not matter if we can no longer do those things we used to do. If we cannot serve him with body or mind any more. What matters is that we are still his children. We can return to him at any point, from any distance. Our welcome is not dependent on what we can physically do for him, or what we are able to do mentally. It is not dependent on behaving in a particular way. It is not based on some sort of scales of judgment. What is important is that we are loved by him, and in return we are called to love him. And he will open his arms wide and welcome us in.
With every blessing,
Vittoria
Rector’s Letter, August 2023
From the Rector, Rev’d Canon Vittoria Hancock
Dear Friends,
I am sat writing this with a view of my garden – flourishing rapidly, especially the weeds. It is definitely going to need a good chopping back soon. After the last few weeks on sunshine and warmth, the temperature has turned distinctly autumnal. In the rainy weather, I have been doing some experimentation in the kitchen. Spring rolls, samosas and vegetarian sushi. An attempt to somewhat vary my diet and the contents of my lunch box. I tried Vietnamese spring rolls first. They are made with rice paper, so gluten free. Rather odd, since they are opaque, so you can see the filling through the roll. There is no satisfying crunch when you bite into them either. While being tasty when eaten immediately, I have discovered they are not really portable. So moving on, I managed to source some Chinese spring roll / samosa pastry online. The problem with both these items if bought from a shop is the onion content. So I had fun making both home-made spring rolls and home-made samosas. Very tasty they were too. I have discovered that sticky rice is indeed very sticky, and that rolling sushi is more difficult than one imagines.
My tastes have changed over the years, to the astonishment of my parents. I was quite a picky eater as a child and as a teenager. Yet nowadays I am willing to try most things (bar chilli, fish, tripe, and onions). I cannot imagine me, thirty years ago, being willing to try vegetarian sushi, or samosas, or spring rolls. Possibly not even twenty years ago. Sometimes we – and those around us – forget that we are allowed to change and grow. That not only our appetites but our perspectives, our viewpoints, and our beliefs may shift. It is a sign of growth and maturity to say ‘I don’t know’: to say ‘I’m not certain’. To apologise for things we may have done or said in the past and to acknowledge that we are all still works in progress.
I am not the same person I was when I came 9 years ago. I have grown and developed. Parts of who I am have become more flexible, and I’m sure other parts have become more fixed and rigid – although I try not to let that happen. Rather like physical exercise, we need mental and spiritual exercise to stretch us, to allow us to be transformed. It can be very easy to relax into the mentality of been there, done it, and to entrench ourselves in the past.
In this season of growth and fruitfulness, where are you growing? Are there parts of your life and behaviour which you need to reevaluate? Parts which need to develop further? What do you need to grow into the person which God sees in you? I encourage you to spend some time thinking, praying, and reflecting.
With every blessing,
Vittoria
Rector’s Letter June 2023
From the Rector
Rev’d Canon Vittoria Hancock
Dear Friends,
Easter has been and gone and hopefully with it the tail end of the snow. My baby vegetables are in outside, the petunias in the summer house window box are flowering, and the rhubarb is growing in every direction. All hopeful signs. I have had a week away in South Uist where the sun shone, the wind blew and we had a little rain. I have returned with sun-tanned face and happy memories. I went with two close friends, and we spent time walking, admiring the scenery, watching the wildlife, and pottering gently on the beach. Wonderful beaches. Twenty miles of silvery white beach, backed with machair, and fronted by turquoise blue sea. We mostly had the beaches to ourselves. A busy stretch was if there was another couple of people on it. We investigated the various ancient remains – a bit difficult not to, as there is so much archaeology. From bronze age roundhouses to 18th century blackhouses
On one particularly blustery day we headed out across the machair to the most westerly point of South Uist, an isthmus called Rubha Aird a’Mhuile (Ardvule). We walked from Bornais past a herd of cows to the Viking remains, then continued on to the promontory, which has a small loch in the middle, a trig point at the end, and various military remains, along with a Iron Age broch, Dun Mhuile. Parallel walls still standing up to shoulder height after all these years. We went through the original entrance way and found a small room to hunker down in with our morning cuppas. The sea directly to the south, with views down to Barra, and across the loch to the sea in the north, with views up to Lewis. Out of all the places we saw, the wildlife we experienced, that morning is one which ranks in all our minds as one of our top three experiences – sitting in a Iron Age broch drinking our morning cuppa, sheltered from the wind and the elements.
It is odd what remains in your memory or strikes a chord with you. The broch had been built in the Iron Age, had later had a Pictish roundhouse built within it, and later still a small settlement built near it. The Vikings had chosen the area to settle – the name for their place, Bornais is from the Viking meaning the fort (borg) on the promontory (ness). The small settlement of Bornais is still lived in today. It is an area which has been continuously occupied for over 2000 years, possibly longer. Imagine the stories which have been told and handed down. Where do the beginnings lie? Where do stories end? Did the coming of the Picts and then the Vikings mark a new start, or was it a more gradual integration? It is the stories of the people, told in the stones, which catch the imagination.
Despite living in our more scientific age, the power of story still holds strong. The story of Christianity and its church was written down in the Acts of the Apostles as early as 70 AD. But Christianity was transmitted mostly orally for many centuries – witness the Mediaeval mystery plays. It was transmitted through the stones of the buildings, and the people who entered those places. Through the stories of the saints, through ancient hymns and prayers, still said today. For 2000 years, this story has been told. It is a story which is still be added to today. On the last Sunday of May, we will retell the story of the birth of the church, as we celebrate Pentecost together. We will become ourselves part of that great story of faith.
Part of our task as Christians is to tell the story of faith. To communicate the truth in ways which are understandable. In ways which are relevant. In ways which call both heart and mind together. In ways which are evidenced by how we choose to live our lives. The story of faith continues to be written in our lives, and shared with those we meet today.
With every blessing,
Vittoria
Rector’s Letter April 2023
From the Rector
Rev’d Canon Vittoria Hancock
Dear Friends,
A few weeks ago we had the pleasure of welcoming three classes of pupils from Aboyne Academy to St Thomas’. As part of their studies this term they are studying Christianity, and had been given the project of creating their own documentaries about the story and meaning of Easter. So in they trooped, cameras – or rather – mobile phones in hand. Most had never been in the church before – some hadn’t been in a church before at all. They explored all the nooks and crannies of the building, got to listen to and play the organ, tried on some of my clergy robes (alb, stole and chasuble), practised ‘preaching’ from the pulpit, and seemed to have fun. They were intrigued by the ship at the back, and surprised at the weight of the lid to the font. But they also had to interview me as part of their documentary. What was the significance of Easter, how important was it, what was the story, and how did we celebrate it? What is different about Christianity in comparison with other faiths?
They only wanted short answers, something which is often harder to give than a long one. And they are important questions for us to consider. What does Easter mean for you? For me, Easter is the centre around which the rest of Christianity rotates. Without Easter there would have been no Christianity. Without Easter, Christmas and Pentecost do not make sense.
The central point of our faith – and the difference between Christianity and other faiths – is the belief that Jesus, the son of God, was born as a human, walked and talked, laughed and cried. Was accused and condemned of a crime he did not do. Was put to death on the cross, despite being innocent of all sin. And in doing so died for all we have done wrong. On the third day he rose again into the new life of the resurrection. This is the faith we profess, Sunday by Sunday, week by week. The difference between us and other faiths is that our salvation does not depend on how we act, or what we say or do. We do not have to earn our way into heaven. We do not have to observe strict rules, or worship in a certain ways. Christianity is not a tick-box exercise. Our salvation is assured if we acknowledge and accept the action of Jesus in dying for us on a cross. If we respond to that act of love with love, for God, for neighbour, for self. Through that comes life eternal.
This winter seems to have been long and hard. We are theoretically into spring now, but the snow falling outside my window seems to belie that fact. I am tired of digging snow. Of either having to wrap the car up or defrost it in the mornings. Of having to wear hat, gloves and scarves. It isn’t just the weather. The news is not promising, with strikes and rumours of strikes. With the ongoing rumbles of war in Europe. With natural disasters and man-made ones. The swirl of the current economic crisis affecting our communities. And for some of us, our own personal grief and sorrow. Yet in my garden the snowdrops are blooming under the beech hedge. The crocuses are fighting back against the snow. My Lent discipline of time in the summer-house with God has moved from winter dark to spring light, and the sound of bird-song grows louder day on day. The time of new beginnings, new hope, is upon us. New life as we walk through this life to the next one. The promise of hope, life and light eternal shines out in this world, beckoning us on to the glories of the next.
It will be interesting to see the documentaries made by the pupils when they are done. To see what parts of St Thomas’ they choose to highlight and why. But hopefully the message will shine through that Christianity is a faith based on love and acceptance. That through Christ we have a hope and future which extends beyond the boundaries of space and time.
With every blessing,
Vittoria
Rector’s Letter February 2023
From the Rector
Rev’d Canon Vittoria Hancock
Dear Friends,
I am sat in St Thomas’ writing this, away from distractions of phone, doorbell and internet. The soup is bubbling away in the slow cookers, and the tables are set to welcome anyone who might appear. I must confess, by the time Christmas came, I was fed up of the sight and smell of soup, having been making it twice a week in Advent – but I seem to have recovered from that. Soup tends to be universally comforting, whether it is leek and potato, chicken, or – the best type of soup in opinion – fridge soup. What, you may ask, if fridge soup. Well, fridge soup – in the Hancock household, anyway – is made of whatever is in the fridge that needs using up, from veg that is perhaps looking a little elderly, to the remains of last nights casserole. This year I had Christmas lunch delivered to my door by a friend. And very much appreciated it was as well. But there was enough left over turkey, veg, and pigs in blankets to go into a soup the following day. It was wonderful. The problem with fridge soup is that you can never quite repeat the recipe, delicious though it might be.
Anyway, it is back to the soup making. Why is soup so comforting, and so satisfying to make? I think it provides warmth to body and soul. It is satisfying knowing that things are not going to waste – good for using up odds and ends. It is wonderful to come into the kitchen to the aroma of soup. But I think what I appreciate most about soup is that it can be stretched to fit however many people you want. It fulfils a need inside me to do something practical for others. One of my great pleasures in life is feeding people. Most of the time I can’t be bothered to cook for myself. But for other people – it’s wonderful. I like expressing my love in practical ways. I like the premise of hospitality that says ‘if I’ve got it, you can have it – and if it doesn’t look like enough, we’ll make it stretch.’
Part of this is how I was brought up – it was and is very much the policy of my parents that if you sit still long enough you’ll be fed. That food can be stretched (the only problematic meal is chops, but even that can be overcome). It doesn’t only extend to food – if there is something you need, or something practical that needs doing and they can do it, it will be done. It is a practical outworking of their calling as Christians to serve others. It is their way of showing hospitality. My parents are not the most social of creatures. You won’t find them at pubs and clubs. But their home is an open home. Anyone is welcome. From hospitality comes welcome, and through welcome they are loved.
This is how our churches should be, as well as our homes. They should be a place of hospitality and welcome. Places that gives warmth to body and soul. I think that sometimes where we struggle to welcome is in our services. I am not speaking of how we welcome people into our building, or how accepting the congregations are. But how welcoming and hospitable is the format of our worship to those from outside? Our music? Our teaching? What does our worship tell people about our God? What can we do to improve these areas?
We are good at offering hospitality and welcome in very practical ways – snow-digging, soup making, supportive phone-calls, offering lifts, tea-making. We are good at helping others when we see – or are told – what the need is, if we are capable of fulfilling that need. What does our practical service tell people about our God? How do those two pictures slot together?
As we head into the season of Lent, I encourage you to stand back, to examine your life and your worship and to ask – ‘what does this say about God to any looking on?’ Is this the message I want to communicate? Through hospitality and welcome we love and are loved.
With every blessing,
Vittoria
Rector’s Letter December 2022
From the Rector, Rev’d Canon Vittoria Hancock
Dear Friends,
Every year, as the deadline for the December Tattler approaches, it is time for the annual Hancock pre-Christmas get together. It started out with just my mother and me, then my sister joined in, then my aunt and my cousin. I usually kidnap my mother and whisk her off to a hotel somewhere, abandoning my father to a diet of sausage sandwiches, chips, bananas and a packet of crisps. Don’t feel sorry for him – he really wouldn’t appreciate joining us for festive fun. You see, we normally try to find somewhere with a Christmas market, a good place for afternoon tea, and good places for a wander among shops with some history thrown in. It would be my father’s idea of hell. He does not do browsing in shops, spending long periods of time walking around, or sightseeing. Nor does he really do Christmas – as in all the paraphernalia surrounding the festival. My mother, sister and I all do. We like the twinkly lights, carol singing, the atmosphere. This year is different. Due to my mother having back problems, my aunt’s dementia getting worse, and me not being entirely fit, we have placed our trip to Carlisle on hold until next year. I have descended on my parents, and my mother and I will indulge ourselves in mixing the Christmas puddings, accompanied by the sound of carols on the CD player. It will be a different family get together this year.
Advent and Christmas is an odd time of year. I find it rather like the curate’s egg – good in parts. Too full of Christmas events in Advent, meaning that Christmas Day almost seems lost in a morass of holly and tinsel. Not withstanding the Hancock gathering – which functions as our Christmas – I much prefer a slow and steady build-up to the day, so that Christmas is the crescendo. The Christmas events seem to carry with them expectations, while often the day itself seems rather like a deflating balloon in comparison. I think that is partly why my father dislikes
Christmas so much. It isn’t the day so much as all the hype surrounding it. There is a societal expectation that we will all be happy families, gathered around the table for lunch together, with smiling children and presents under the tree. The reality is that for some, Christmas day is a struggle. Either because there is the obligation to see family, or because there is no family to be seen. It can be the worst of times, full of forced bonhomie – when really we might prefer to be curled up in a corner with a book. For those who are estranged from family, or those who have no family or friends, it can be a lonely time. If there are tensions in a family, time with each other can be when those tensions explode.
How did we get from the birth of a child to this? To a feast with such expectations that it can literally make or break a family? Centuries of tradition and a moving away from the fast of Advent and the faith of Christmas means a misplaced emphasis on one day among many. Advent is a time of preparing hearts and minds for the coming of Christ – not just the coming of Christ at Christmas as a baby, but the second coming of Christ. It is a time to examine our hearts and minds, to look at where our lives are heading, what our focus is – and why. To evaluate what has been, to look at where we are, and to imagine what might be. It is a time of sombre joy – sombre because we acknowledge how far we have yet to travel, joy for we know what is to come, the promised Messiah.
Christmas should be the culmination of this time of preparation. A time when we acknowledge that Christ has come to this earth, lived, breathed, walked, talked, laughed and cried. When we recognise that in true humility, God came as a small baby, defenceless and needy, that he might experience all that we do. When we celebrate with the shepherds and angels as they sing ‘Peace on earth and goodwill to all’. When we praise the God who was and is, and is to come.
Alleluia! Glory in the highest heaven, and peace to all on earth! Alleluia!
Every blessing,
Vittoria
Rector’s Letter October 2022
From the Rector, Rev’d Canon Vittoria Hancock
Dear Friends,
Autumn is always a time tinged with sadness. A time of mellow
fruitfulness. It has within it new beginnings, but also has endings. It is with
sadness that I heard of the death of Her Majesty The Queen at Balmoral. A long
life which was faithfully lived. We pray for the repose of her soul, and for
His Majesty, King Charles, the Queen Consort, and the members of the Royal
family as they mourn the loss of their loved one. It feels fitting somehow that
she died up here in Deeside, in one of her favourite places, where she was seen
not only as monarch but also as a member of this community. Many of
us will have our own personal memories of seeing or meeting the Queen, and such
memories are important, reflecting the interweaving of personal and public.
How does one react though? I find myself saddened, but not upset. I am
saddened by the loss of a faithful servant to this country, by the death of a
mother, grandmother, great-grandmother. I am saddened by the thought of the
wisdom, strength, and joy which has been lost. I am not sure however, that it
would have been kind to pray that she keep going longer. Much as we valued and
appreciated her, there was no retirement for her. But I also
rejoice. I rejoice that for Her Majesty this was not a long drawn-out lingering
death. That she is with her God and King in heaven. That she will be welcomed
in with open arms ‘Well done, thy good and faithful servant’.
With that, we welcome King Charles III as our new King, after a long
apprenticeship. He will not be a male version of the late Queen, but will forge
his own way into the role. He will undoubtedly do things which will be
criticised, and others which will be praised. He will have the loving support
of the Queen Consort, Camilla, and of his family. But everything he does will be carried out and judged in the public eye,
even more so than previously.
Both Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth and King Charles have spoken publicly
about the faith which sustains them. This faith is expressed in their service
to their country. It gives us an example to follow – both in service, but also
in being willing and able to speak of the relevancy of a God and a faith in an
increasingly secular society. Speaking of God in current times is not an easy
task but it is one that both King Charles III, as Defender of the Faith, and we
as Christians are called to do. We are called to proclaim a God of love. A God
who guides, reassures, strengthens and inspires. A God of peace and mercy.
This is the God in which Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth believed. May she
rest in peace and rise in glory. This is God in which King Charles III has
professed his faith. May God help and save the King.
Every blessing,
Vittoria
Rector’s Letter, August, 2022
Dear Friends,
It has been an odd few weeks in the Rectory. First a horrible chest infection, then four days away – hooray! – then back for a week, then the dreaded Covid-19 hit. I am not back to normal just yet. I can’t remember when I last did so much sitting around doing not a lot.
The negatives – well, the lack of energy, the lingering cough, etc. – I won’t bore you with that. I have missed visiting you. I have grumbled about the fact that now I have time, but I don’t have energy to do all those things I want to do – finish revarnishing and upholstering the dining chairs, for example. The emails have continued to come in, and the phone continued to ring.
The positives of this are plentiful. I have wonderful congregations who have delivered various goodies (chocolate, strawberry tarts,
dessert pots…), offered to do my shopping, and guarded my time and space. Thank you. I have spent time in my summer house, just being, watching the path of the sun across the lawn, and pondering weeding the garden. I have caught up on various radio programmes – The Museum of Curiosities and the Curious Cases of Rutherford and Fry to name a couple. I have rediscovered the joy of a nap. I would say an afternoon nap, but at the moment it’s an ‘after any exertion nap’. My walks have of necessity been slower and gentler, which means I have seen more wildlife. From a stoat darting across the path in front of me, to a small vole scurrying ahead, to a buzzard taking off and flying over my head, so close I could feel the down-draft from it’s wings. While my holiday was of necessity a little more leisurely than planned, that meant I stopped more often and for longer, sat in the back of my car, eating oatcakes and cheese and just watching the world go by. From dolphins in the Moray Firth, to sparrows hopping ever closer, hoping for a crumb of oatcake. I have quite literally sat and smelt the roses.
I would love to say I had used my time in deep prayer and reflection, but the fact is, I haven’t. Not in the way a lot of people would describe prayer. Prayer is often seen as active – when we say ‘let us pray’ in church, we all bow our heads, close our eyes. We use words – or struggle to find the right words. We pray for things or people– world peace, climate change, healing, government. We strive to connect, to feel. We plead or implore, interceding on behalf of others. We search for guidance and direction. Sometimes prayer feels like a battle-ground. And to be honest, I haven’t had the energy for that type of prayer.
But prayer can equally be just spending time with God.
Although this is not how I would have chosen to use this time and space, there has been a gentle awareness that God is with me, walking alongside, sitting in the summer house, in the scent of the roses and the sound of the sea. I have noted his presence with me. And this acknowledgement that he shares this time and space with us is prayer. A knowledge that he is with us, and we are with him. In this ‘being prayer’, being present, there is a source of peace, of comfort, of tranquillity, of strength. Sometimes we need to be quiet – both
physically and mentally – be still, and just be. There is no need to strive to meet with God, for he is there already. Stop. Rest. Breathe. And be in the presence of God who loves us.
With every blessing,
Vittoria