"Today I will go to church in full body armour and dog collar," says vicar of Baghdad
A British man who is the vicar of Baghdad tells us about his life in Iraq.....
Today I will go to my church in full body armour and dog collar. But our hymns will be full of hope
by THE VICAR OF BAGHDAD - The Reverend Andrew White
7th April 2007
I know I have the best parish in the world. Yes, it is rather different from most, but it is wonderful.
My journey to church is unlike that of any other vicar. I leave my mobile home wearing my body armour and armoured helmet.
My bodyguards surround me as I climb into an armoured vehicle. We drive through the International Zone through army checkpoints and finally into the ordinary streets.
Five minutes later, we are at the church, protected by razor wire and bomb barricades. Special Forces will have surrounded the building, cutting off the road.
My security team search the area and ensure, with our church guards' help, that there are no unknown people inside.
They give me the all-clear and at last I can go into my church: St George's, Baghdad.
Under attack: But British vicar Andrew White says Easter is the 'light in the darkness' for his congregation
Many people have called it the most dangerous in the world, but I beg to differ. For this Easter Sunday when I cry out in Arabic, Alleluia Al Masiah Kahm! (Alleluia, Christ is risen!) the people will reply, Kahma Beltakid, Alleluia! (He is risen indeed, Alleluia!).
It is a message of peace and hope, and they will mean it.
A few months ago, as I waited in the International Zone for a helicopter to take me to the other side of Baghdad, I suddenly realised that it was 20 years almost to the day since I had been asked where I wanted to be in 20 years' time.
It certainly wasn't in the middle of a war zone! My answer then was that I wanted to be a vicar in London. I achieved that aim - and then later became a canon at Coventry Cathedral. I loved both jobs.
But now I am in a war zone, I love that, too - although I miss my wife and two young boys back home.
It was while I was at Coventry nine years ago that I started coming to Iraq. I led the cathedral's International Centre for Reconciliation which, after many years focusing on Eastern Europe, was starting to look at the Islamic world, my own speciality.
I got to know many of the previous Iraqi leaders. When America published the 'pack of cards' showing Iraq's most wanted, I knew 22 of them well and had eaten dinner with eight of them in the previous year.
This knowledge is now vital to my work with the Pentagon and the Iraqi government, helping them reduce the impact of religious sectarianism.
Our congregation is all Iraqi, though not Anglican. There have been Christians in Iraq from almost the beginning of the faith.
This is where Jonah preached after escaping the belly of the whale and where doubting Thomas stopped on his way to India.
To this day, the greatest saints here are Jonah and Thomas and many of the Christians still come from Nineveh (today called Mosul). We have Chaldeans, Syrian Orthodox and Assyrian Christians.
Coming to church is dangerous - some of my parishioners have been killed on their way. Each week I hear terrible stories: friends killed at the market, work places blown up, death threats to members of my congregation because they are Christians.
Last month, a member of my own staff was unable to get his pregnant wife to hospital because there were so many checkpoints. She gave birth in the car.
Christians, like all others in Iraq, are constantly under attack, but they do not give up their faith. It is the thing that gives them hope in all the chaos. The persecution they suffer is sadly increasing continually, yet our congregation is 1,300-strong.
As my parishioners arrive, I greet them all with three kisses and if I leave one person out I am told off in no uncertain terms.
Then the children come in from their classes. There are well over 100 each week. They all expect a hug and a kiss as well.
They then start the worship - singing and singing and singing. An hour passes and we can commence the main service.
Today there will be a slight interruption as I distribute the hundreds of chocolate eggs I have brought from England.
Countless women in the congregation wear black. Their husbands have been killed, many since last year, and I know that for these widows the message of Easter is very real.
We sing the song 'Because He lives we can face tomorrow, because He lives all fear is gone, because I know He holds the future and life is worth living, just because He lives'.
For us in Baghdad, Easter is not just a matter of turning up to church, it is the very heart of hope and light in darkness.
Our church is not plagued by the worries and problems of many churches. The issue of sexuality has never been even mentioned.
Here, the only worries are: will there be food on the table tonight, will my loved ones survive the day and will my children return and not be kidnapped?
I have spent much of the past decade in war zones, and what you see on TV is usually worse than the reality. But here it is the other way round.
Reality is 100 times worse than anything you ever see on TV - so the reality of Easter is far greater here than you can ever imagine.
As we think of what our Lord has suffered, there is a real understanding of the nature of the cross. For people here, suffering is the reality of daily life.
The other day I asked my parishioners who among them had had a loved one killed or injured in the past two years. All of them had suffered in this way.
For them, death is in the midst of life, therefore resurrection is their only hope. For them, the fact that on this day they celebrate Christ rising from the dead means they are certain that this is what will happen to their loved ones and themselves.
So the worship continues, and there is such joy. There is even laughter in the midst of this suffering. Sometimes you realise that if you don't laugh you will just cry.
The other week we had our service in one of the Government offices. Ali turned up and wanted to know why I had not told him all the children were coming.
Now, Ali is a leader in one of the major terrorist groups. Of course, I don't usually tell terrorists where our children are going to be. But he told me he wanted to give them all presents. He left the room and returned a few minutes later, this time with piles of children's Bibles.
A few hours later (services are long!) I looked at the Bibles more carefully - only to discover they were ones that had been recently stolen on their way into Iraq.
For the children this was part of their Easter story. One little girl told me the Bible had come to them because Jesus was alive. Because he was alive he would ensure that whatever was meant for them would be given to them.
I see the same belief among my other congregation at the American Embassy. There, most of the congregation are from the military. Beside them on the floor are their body armour and their guns, but for them, too, the truth remains that 'because He lives, they can face tomorrow'.
Each death in Iraq is terrible. But today, our own little church will ring to the rafters with words and hymns of hope and transformation.
And that is a message for every day, not just for Easter.
dailymail.co.uk
A British man who is the vicar of Baghdad tells us about his life in Iraq.....
Today I will go to my church in full body armour and dog collar. But our hymns will be full of hope
by THE VICAR OF BAGHDAD - The Reverend Andrew White
7th April 2007
I know I have the best parish in the world. Yes, it is rather different from most, but it is wonderful.
My journey to church is unlike that of any other vicar. I leave my mobile home wearing my body armour and armoured helmet.
My bodyguards surround me as I climb into an armoured vehicle. We drive through the International Zone through army checkpoints and finally into the ordinary streets.
Five minutes later, we are at the church, protected by razor wire and bomb barricades. Special Forces will have surrounded the building, cutting off the road.
My security team search the area and ensure, with our church guards' help, that there are no unknown people inside.
They give me the all-clear and at last I can go into my church: St George's, Baghdad.
Under attack: But British vicar Andrew White says Easter is the 'light in the darkness' for his congregation
Many people have called it the most dangerous in the world, but I beg to differ. For this Easter Sunday when I cry out in Arabic, Alleluia Al Masiah Kahm! (Alleluia, Christ is risen!) the people will reply, Kahma Beltakid, Alleluia! (He is risen indeed, Alleluia!).
It is a message of peace and hope, and they will mean it.
A few months ago, as I waited in the International Zone for a helicopter to take me to the other side of Baghdad, I suddenly realised that it was 20 years almost to the day since I had been asked where I wanted to be in 20 years' time.
It certainly wasn't in the middle of a war zone! My answer then was that I wanted to be a vicar in London. I achieved that aim - and then later became a canon at Coventry Cathedral. I loved both jobs.
But now I am in a war zone, I love that, too - although I miss my wife and two young boys back home.
It was while I was at Coventry nine years ago that I started coming to Iraq. I led the cathedral's International Centre for Reconciliation which, after many years focusing on Eastern Europe, was starting to look at the Islamic world, my own speciality.
I got to know many of the previous Iraqi leaders. When America published the 'pack of cards' showing Iraq's most wanted, I knew 22 of them well and had eaten dinner with eight of them in the previous year.
This knowledge is now vital to my work with the Pentagon and the Iraqi government, helping them reduce the impact of religious sectarianism.
Our congregation is all Iraqi, though not Anglican. There have been Christians in Iraq from almost the beginning of the faith.
This is where Jonah preached after escaping the belly of the whale and where doubting Thomas stopped on his way to India.
To this day, the greatest saints here are Jonah and Thomas and many of the Christians still come from Nineveh (today called Mosul). We have Chaldeans, Syrian Orthodox and Assyrian Christians.
Coming to church is dangerous - some of my parishioners have been killed on their way. Each week I hear terrible stories: friends killed at the market, work places blown up, death threats to members of my congregation because they are Christians.
Last month, a member of my own staff was unable to get his pregnant wife to hospital because there were so many checkpoints. She gave birth in the car.
Christians, like all others in Iraq, are constantly under attack, but they do not give up their faith. It is the thing that gives them hope in all the chaos. The persecution they suffer is sadly increasing continually, yet our congregation is 1,300-strong.
As my parishioners arrive, I greet them all with three kisses and if I leave one person out I am told off in no uncertain terms.
Then the children come in from their classes. There are well over 100 each week. They all expect a hug and a kiss as well.
They then start the worship - singing and singing and singing. An hour passes and we can commence the main service.
Today there will be a slight interruption as I distribute the hundreds of chocolate eggs I have brought from England.
Countless women in the congregation wear black. Their husbands have been killed, many since last year, and I know that for these widows the message of Easter is very real.
We sing the song 'Because He lives we can face tomorrow, because He lives all fear is gone, because I know He holds the future and life is worth living, just because He lives'.
For us in Baghdad, Easter is not just a matter of turning up to church, it is the very heart of hope and light in darkness.
Our church is not plagued by the worries and problems of many churches. The issue of sexuality has never been even mentioned.
Here, the only worries are: will there be food on the table tonight, will my loved ones survive the day and will my children return and not be kidnapped?
I have spent much of the past decade in war zones, and what you see on TV is usually worse than the reality. But here it is the other way round.
Reality is 100 times worse than anything you ever see on TV - so the reality of Easter is far greater here than you can ever imagine.
As we think of what our Lord has suffered, there is a real understanding of the nature of the cross. For people here, suffering is the reality of daily life.
The other day I asked my parishioners who among them had had a loved one killed or injured in the past two years. All of them had suffered in this way.
For them, death is in the midst of life, therefore resurrection is their only hope. For them, the fact that on this day they celebrate Christ rising from the dead means they are certain that this is what will happen to their loved ones and themselves.
So the worship continues, and there is such joy. There is even laughter in the midst of this suffering. Sometimes you realise that if you don't laugh you will just cry.
The other week we had our service in one of the Government offices. Ali turned up and wanted to know why I had not told him all the children were coming.
Now, Ali is a leader in one of the major terrorist groups. Of course, I don't usually tell terrorists where our children are going to be. But he told me he wanted to give them all presents. He left the room and returned a few minutes later, this time with piles of children's Bibles.
A few hours later (services are long!) I looked at the Bibles more carefully - only to discover they were ones that had been recently stolen on their way into Iraq.
For the children this was part of their Easter story. One little girl told me the Bible had come to them because Jesus was alive. Because he was alive he would ensure that whatever was meant for them would be given to them.
I see the same belief among my other congregation at the American Embassy. There, most of the congregation are from the military. Beside them on the floor are their body armour and their guns, but for them, too, the truth remains that 'because He lives, they can face tomorrow'.
Each death in Iraq is terrible. But today, our own little church will ring to the rafters with words and hymns of hope and transformation.
And that is a message for every day, not just for Easter.
dailymail.co.uk