09/09/2026
TOO OLD TO BEHAVE. TOO WISE TO IGNORE
I am a blessed Vicar.
I have a small team of retired clergy who are usually delighted to take the odd service — especially if it enables me to disappear for a weekend in my caravan. They appear to regard my absence from the parish as a Good Thing. Possibly for me. Certainly for them.
I think of them collectively as the Progressives. They have served their time at the altar-face and are now progressing into a retirement of quieter contemplation, distilled wisdom, and saying what they really think. Lucky sods.
Eventually — many years hence, we fervently pray — they will embark on the greatest progression of all, as they shuffle off their mortal coil, as must we all. But before that, there are still rotas to be filled.
My particular trio are well known in Havnot, of course. But it feels right to introduce them properly to you, dear Online Congregation, who (given our parish church's saint name, I'm beginning to think of 'The Faithful').
First: Ken.
Properly, Kenneth. Or rather, the Rt Revd Kenneth Somerton, former Bishop of… somewhere important. Best not say. He still knows people.
Ken is what we call 'a bit of a lad'. He enjoys a good joke, has been known to enthusiastically embrace a ribald one, and positively thrives on unsettling people’s expectations of what a bishop should be. Mitre? Optional. Mischief? Mandatory.
I once went to a dinner at his house with some parish folk. At the end of the meal, Ken produced a box of enormous ci**rs and began offering them round the table — solemnly, deliberately — as though administering Communion.
One by one, people declined. Polite refusals followed him as he processed round the dining table, cigar box held reverently before him. Returning to his seat with the box still full, Ken shrugged, produced a lighter, and set fire to a cigar himself. After an impressively ecclesiastical puff, he surveyed the room and announced:
“Miserable buggers.”
You could have served the silence with custard.
Theologically, Ken is very Catholic. Which perplexes me.
Whenever he’s in the congregation and I’m preaching, I become acutely aware of every theological shortcut I’m taking. He has never once publicly challenged me — but the knowledge that he COULD, and would do so with footnotes, keeps me alert.
Ken provides Catholic heft. He reassures those who find my progressive instincts mildly alarming. He is ballast. He is gravitas. He is the reason I double-check what I say about the Eucharist.
Then there’s Meg.
The Revd Megan Hardacre — who, in flagrant contradiction of her surname, is the gentlest, kindest human being I think I’ve ever encountered.
Meg has an almost supernatural ability to detect relational fracture. A raised eyebrow. A slammed hymn book. A passive-aggressive cough during the Peace. She senses it all.
So when Mrs Rivers — Head Server — can be heard banging a candlestick on the vestry table in time to her chant of “No. You. Can. Not. Wear. Sandals!”, Meg will psring from her pew, like a whippet out of the gate, glide into the vestry, and restore peace, order, and the unity of the Church.
Forgiveness sits at the heart of Meg’s theology. She puts it like this:
“Failing to forgive another person is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.”
Mrs Rivers is, as you might imagine, resistant to this sort of thing. But Meg is unfazed by resistance, sarcasm, or deeply held opinions about footwear. Eventually — always — Meg wins. Not by force. By kindness. Which is somehow more irritating.
And finally, Father Fred.
The Revd Frederick Hassleton.
Fred spent his ministry in parishes and chaplaincies — building hostels for the homeless, caring for the sick, and walking alongside prisoners. His theology has been forged in those places. Theologically speaking, he is somewhere to the left of Don Cupitt, waving cheerfully from the deep end. My own instincts swim in progressive waters. Fred has removed his armbands and dived straight in.
He is wonderfully honest. As he once said to me: “I get it. You still need the stipend and the house. That gives the Church power over what you say. I’m retired. I can say what I like — as honestly as I like — and no one can stop me.”
He’s not wrong.
I do sometimes wonder how many paid clergy say what they think they SHOULD say, rather than what decades of prayer, study, and real people have taught them about God. Very few of us retire with the same theological certainty we started with. But uncertainty is frowned upon. Woolliness is condemned. So we nod wisely and keep stumm.
And so, dear Faithful Onliners, there they are.
Three holy souls.
One pulling me back towards my Catholic roots.
One urging me further into progressive thought.
And one — dear Meg — endlessly reconciling us, holding us to ‘The Peace’ we exchange every Sunday, whether we feel like it or not.
I am a very blessed man.
Also: I now have absolutely no excuse not to go away in my caravan more often.
Revd Dr Tim Keen
Vicar
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This article was previously published in Volume 2 of The Parish Life. It has been slightly modified in places where the Author thought he could be funnier. He was probably wrong.
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Enjoyed your visit to Havnot?
If you would like more parish life everything begins here: http://www.tomkennar.com
There you will find books, e-books, audiobook, merchandise and Substack, all gathered together in one alarming but useful place.
Print books are also available — in person only — from St Faith’s Charity Shop, 4 North Street, Havant.
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A final word about Artie Fischal.
Some readers have asked whether the stories are written by a real human being, especially because Facebook sometimes labels them “AI content”. For the avoidance of doubt, they are. The label appears because we use AI—known in Havnot as Artie Fischal—to create the illustrations that help our stories travel on Facebook.
Artie is our illustrator and occasional assistant. He is not our author. The ideas, characters and final words remain stubbornly human.
We trust that clarifies the matter.
Judith M. Crowther
Parish Administrator
