There’s something wonderfully British about the way we cope with a heatwave, which we now find ourselves in the middle of. For eleven months of the year we stare mournfully out of rain-splattered windows muttering, “Wouldn’t it be lovely to have a proper summer?” Then, the moment the temperature rises above 24 degrees, the nation descends into gentle chaos. Suddenly we are all experts in survival. Supermarkets run out of ice lollies and barbecue charcoal. Some of us arrive at church carrying enough bottled water to cross the Sahara. Clergy everywhere begin discreetly googling whether cassocks were originally designed for Arctic exploration (and whether shorts under our vestments might be a sin!)…a clue…don’t ask…don’t tell!
And here we are in late May — not even properly into summer — already behaving as though we are living somewhere between Jerusalem and the surface of the sun. The great British heatwave brings out the best and worst in us. We complain endlessly about the temperature while simultaneously insisting we “must make the most of it.” We roast enthusiastically in gardens because “it might all be over by Thursday.” Sleep becomes a distant memory. Fans are rediscovered from the loft with the reverence usually reserved for holy relics. Even the dog refuses to move! Bear and Lola as I write are comatose under the apple trees in the Vicarage garden.
Of course, the Bible has plenty to say about heat. The people of Israel wandered for forty years in the wilderness under the blazing sun. Jonah sat grumpily beneath a withering plant desperate for shade. Even Jesus himself knew what it was to be thirsty, tired, and worn down by the heat of the day. Perhaps that is why one of the loveliest images in scripture is that of rest and refreshment. “He leads me beside still waters,” writes the Psalmist. Not beside a broken oscillating fan from Argos or something delivered from Amazon. Not beside an empty paddling pool. Still waters. Coolness. Peace. Restoration.
There is something deeply spiritual about discovering our limits. Heatwaves remind us that, despite our best efforts, we are not entirely in control. We can’t order the weather about. We can’t demand permanent comfort. We are creatures, not creators. And perhaps that is no bad thing. The Christian faith gently reminds us that grace often arrives through small acts of kindness during uncomfortable times. A cold drink offered to someone. A shaded seat given up. Checking on an elderly neighbour. Sharing an ice cream with grandchildren. Opening church doors simply to provide a cool quiet place for people to rest and pray. And the offer of an iced glass of Whispering Angel never goes amiss! (especially to the Vicar!).
Even in the sweaty comedy of a British heatwave, God is still at work. There is also something wonderfully hopeful about these blazing days. Gardens burst into colour. Children stay outside longer. Laughter drifts across parks and gardens late into the evening. For a few brief days the country seems to exhale. And perhaps that is one of the hidden gifts of these unusually warm days… it slows us down, I hope, just enough to notice the goodness around us. Though preferably while standing near an electric fan!
So if you see your clergy looking slightly wilted this month, do be kind. We are doing our best. And if our sermons might be a little shorter than usual, please recognise it not as laziness but as a deeply pastoral response to the weather! After all, even the Holy Spirit arrived at Pentecost as fire as it did on Sunday…. Though perhaps right now, we might respectfully request a little less of it!
Keep Cool!
With every blessing,
Fr A xx
