It’s a sweltering Sunday evening. After a day’s work – Sunday is not a holiday in Kuwait – the congregation awaits the start of Evensong at St Paul’s Ahmadi. The organ strikes up for the opening hymn and in strides a short procession: two ladies (the choir) ahead of a portly priest whose flapping cassock reveals khaki shorts and stocky bare legs beneath.
There is no doubting the source of the booming Welsh baritone in the first and subsequent hymns – the Rev Michael Jones, the holder of the Anglican benefice in the emirate. St Paul’s was the gift of the Kuwaiti Oil Company in the days when the UK protected the little state from its avaricious giants next door.
The church is still used by eight or nine different Christian groups drawn from the large population of mostly sub-continental and fourth or fifth class citizens.
Not so different from the poor attending church in 19th century England, the weekly services were, still are, light relief from the humdrum existence many disenfranchised ‘expats’ have to put up with. One Filipino servant I knew was told by her employer that she was in Kuwait to work, not to be a Christian who wanted to go to church.
Michael ministered to this diverse congregation from a bungalow round the corner from St Paul’s, about twenty kilometers south of Kuwait City. He was also chaplain to the hundred or more British servicemen and their families sent to advise the Kuwaiti armed forces.
He was loyally supported by a loving and much loved wife, perhaps the best vicar’s spouse I have had the privilege to meet. Evensong was not complete without retirement to the vicarage for refreshment, never without consumption of home-brewed alcohol, as well as a cup of tea or coffee. Jean Jones had a recipe for nearly every libation under the sun.
A long way from his bishop in Nicosia or his archdeacon in Bahrain, Michael’s ministry was a lonely one. For years, however, he and Jean remained at post in an increasingly hostile environment, including the first Gulf War from 1980 to 1988.
He was always cheerful; he chuckled a lot as he delivered his oft-used phrase “many blessings”. It was this that caused my daughters to dub him the ‘jolly vicar’. During Lent he fasted to raise money for charity, but come Easter Sunday he was back to feasting on a huge leg of pork he had somehow smuggled into the country.
I will never forget the party one hot night at the vicarage during which Michael appeared dressed as Suleiman the drunkard whom he had invented in order to regale those present with a cooked-up tale of a sot’s life. More seriously, he led a Christian mission under the protection of the embassy, which brought to mind “where two or three are gathered together …”!
There came at last a time when Michael and Jean felt they should pass the baton. A successor was appointed and farewell parties were already in full swing. Then, however, Saddam Hussein sent his troops in to annex Kuwait. Everything was turned on its head.
Michael and Jean joined a convoy of 105 women and children up to Baghdad; with many others they became hostages for several months. During the 26-hour drive they led the community in singing and comforted the many that were near the end of their tether. At times, in the Iraqi capital, Michael was allowed to lead services at St George’s. One of his proudest achievements, he said, was to be on hand to baptize one or two seeking refuge in the Christian message in very difficult circumstances.
Back in the UK, he and his wife joined Missions to Seamen, now the Mission to Seafarers, including at Christmas, but ordinary parishes were not really their cup of tea. Eventually, he was put out to grass in Norfolk looking after a group of five parishes, one of which had a tower as tall as the length of its nave. Michael nicknamed it the Scud-launcher.
Ill-health dogged his final years, but this did not cut off his stream of good jokes told in regular correspondence. Finally, one Christmas a few years ago, I received a card with the words: “This is my first Christmas card from Heaven.” Michael had no doubts about life after death. Sadly, I haven’t heard from him since, but his merry example remains firmly in my memory.
