Curate contemplations

On Sunday I called my Dad to say Happy Fathers’ Day. I’d posted a card too, one of those Purple Ronnie ones with a silly poem on the front about how he pays for everything. But of course it was all a bit of a ritual and my bashful message inside didn’t come close to articulating how fortunate I feel to have such a supportive male figure in my life, especially as I’d just read a new report by The Centre for Social Justice  saying that a million children in the UK are now growing up without a father. The research contains some devastating data about the number of children who have no male role models, pointing to areas of the UK which have become ‘men deserts’. These findings inevitably prompt a response from Christians, but the problem is that the established church is suffering from exactly the same problem. I explored this phenomenon in a recent article for the Telegraph which argues that, despite accusations that the decline in male church attendance is due to rising numbers o

“But to Hannah he gave a double portion, because he loved her, and the Lord had closed her womb.” 1 Samuel 1: 5 Elkanah’s face was steeped in heat as he plucked his benison of meat from off its stick - a two pound steak settled on her plate, the fat and blood running out together in a pink juice which the child beside her mopped up with bread. “Why not?” his mother seethed, her tongue ploughing gristle from between her teeth, “It’s not as if she’s got her own to feed”. Hannah said nothing. A sinewy bolus perched on the edge of her throat. She could barely swallow, replete with an absence so long considered it was now a chimeric lump in a stomach as hollow as a shell that holds its shape long after its life has crawled away. At times her phantom child would bump about and flood her head with thoughts of a womb soupy with blood, water, bile, limbs; she brooded over lists of names. But in the end it always came, with bright flecks that sen