The ‘jolly vicar’ of Kuwait

It’s a sweltering Sunday evening. After a day’s work – Sunday shouldn’t be a vacation in Kuwait – the congregation awaits the beginning of Evensong at St Paul’s Ahmadi. The organ strikes up for the opening hymn and in strides a brief procession: two ladies (the choir) ahead of a portly priest whose flapping cassock reveals khaki shorts and stocky bare legs beneath.  

There isn’t any doubting the source of the booming Welsh baritone in the primary and subsequent hymns – the Rev Michael Jones, the holder of the Anglican benefice within the emirate. St Paul’s was the gift of the Kuwaiti Oil Company in the times when the UK protected the little state from its avaricious giants round the corner.

The church remains to be utilized by eight or nine different Christian groups drawn from the massive population of mostly sub-continental and fourth or fifth class residents. 

Not so different from the poor attending church in nineteenth century England, the weekly services were, still are, light relief from the humdrum existence many disenfranchised ‘expats’ should put up with. One Filipino servant I knew was told by her employer that she was in Kuwait to work, to not be a Christian who desired to go to church.

Michael ministered to this diverse congregation from a bungalow not far away 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 far loved wife, perhaps one of the best vicar’s spouse I actually have had the privilege to satisfy.  Evensong was not complete without retirement to the vicarage for refreshment, never without consumption of home-brewed alcohol, in addition to a cup of tea or coffee.  Jean Jones had a recipe for nearly every libation under the sun.

A good distance from his bishop in Nicosia or his archdeacon in Bahrain, Michael’s ministry was a lonely one. For years, nonetheless, he and Jean remained at post in an increasingly hostile environment, including the primary Gulf War from 1980 to 1988.  

He was at all times cheerful; he chuckled rather 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 lift money for charity, but come Easter Sunday he was back to feasting on an enormous leg of pork he had someway smuggled into the country. 

I’ll always remember the party one hot night on the vicarage during which Michael appeared dressed as Suleiman the drunkard whom he had invented in an effort 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 delivered to mind “where two or three are gathered together …”!

There got here eventually a time when Michael and Jean felt they need to pass the baton. A successor was appointed and farewell parties were already in full swing. Then, nonetheless, 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 youngsters as much as Baghdad; with many others they became hostages for several months. During the 26-hour drive they led the community in singing and comforted the numerous that were near the tip of their tether. At times, within the Iraqi capital, Michael was allowed to guide services at St George’s.  One of his proudest achievements, he said, was to be readily available to baptize one or two looking for refuge within the Christian message in very difficult circumstances.

Back within the UK, he and his wife joined Missions to Seamen, now the Mission to Seafarers, including at Christmas, but bizarre parishes were not likely their cup of tea. Eventually, he was put out to grass in Norfolk taking care of a bunch of 5 parishes, one among which had a tower as tall because the length of its nave. Michael nicknamed it the Scud-launcher.

Ill-health dogged his final years, but this didn’t cut off his stream of excellent jokes told in regular correspondence. Finally, one Christmas a number of 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 stays firmly in my memory.