Heavenly Duties: Tony Davies and the Art of Preaching the Unpreachable In the grand tapestry of clerical life, where piety meets paradox, one man stands out like a saint holding a neon sign—Vincent Anthony Davies, or Tony, as those who dare to be saved by his sermons affectionately call him. Born on September 15, 1946, Tony’s life has been a careful choreography of sanctity and splendid absurdity, culminating in his tenure as Archdeacon of Croydon. A title that sounds impressive until you consider that "Archdeacon" basically means "Head Preacher Who Really Loves a Good Story." Tony's journey toward ecclesiastical eminence kicked off at St. Michael's College, Llandaff, where he undoubtedly learned the ancient art of dodging theological landmines while delivering a heartwarming sermon or two. One can only imagine the clerical setting: a dimly lit hall filled with aspiring rectors practicing their best "let us pray" gestures and debating the finer points of a resurrected three-part harmony, all while trying to stay awake during lectures on the nuances of Genesis. Ordained in 1973, young Tony took to the church not unlike a duck to water, except this duck was armed with a Bible, an insatiable desire to save souls, and probably a slightly overcooked roasted lamb for Sunday potluck. His early career started out in the curacies of St James, Owton Manor and the ever-stalwart St Faith, Wandsworth, where it’s said his sermons could make the most hardened parishioner weep—or roll their eyes, depending on the day’s theme. By 1981, Tony was the Parish Priest at St Faith, reversing the loss of faith among parishioners with one electrifying sermon after another. “Salvation is like a good roast,” he would announce from the pulpit, “it requires patience, the right seasoning, and the occasional miracle of resurrection when the gravy goes wrong.” Truly, this was a man who understood both culinary arts and divine intervention. After further ecclesiastical adventures in St John Walworth, where sermons transformed into theatrical performances that could rival Shakespeare—complete with dramatic pauses and rhetorical flourishes—Tony found himself donning the hat of Rural Dean of Southwark and Newington. Who knew being a rural dean didn’t require a tractor and an innate understanding of cow herding but rather a finesse in managing the delicate politics of parish life, akin to a divine episode of "Survivor"? As the Archdeacon of Croydon from 1994 to 2011, Tony took the art of preaching to new heights—or perhaps new comedic lows, depending on your perspective. His preaching style had all the subtlety of a thunderstorm at a picnic. He had a knack for tackling the "unpreachable," those social issues better left unmentioned: church politics, budget cuts, and, horror of all horrors, the church potluck that resulted in more digestive distress than community bonding. His sermons often resembled stand-up comedy routines veiled in scripture, leaving audiences torn between spiritual enlightenment and uncontrollable laughter. “My dear brethren," he would bellow, "the Good Book teaches us to forgive, but may I suggest we draw the line at sharing a meal with anyone who believes pineapple belongs on pizza?” The congregation, caught between shock and chuckling, knew they were witnessing the preacherly equivalent of a tightrope act—sin, salvation, and an occasional slip of the tongue about questionable baptism practices. Tony’s true genius lay in his ability to tackle the unwieldy and formidable topics. Climate change? “God’s creation is like our church roof—leaky and in desperate need of repair!” he would preach, invoking images of parishioners fishing for their communion wafers from puddles that had formed in the aisles after a particularly rainy Sunday. Politics? “If Jesus could turn the other cheek, perhaps we could at least face each other without rolling our eyes!” He spiced up weekly services with theological tidbits that made attendees question whether they were in Church or attending a TED Talk on ‘Finding the Divine in Everyday Disasters.’ It was a brilliant move, recasting the sermon as a life hack seminar on how to navigate spiritual crises with a side of wit. But let us not forget the true allure of Tony’s legacy—the swords he wielded against the proverbial giants of unparented children, unbaked casserole dinners, and unresolved pew disputes. His messages, infused with humor, transcended the mundane and averted the fatal pitfall of preaching becoming a sleepy affair. Underneath the hilarity was a profound truth: the church should exist to uplift, inspire, and at least provide a good laugh while grappling with existential dread in inflatable pews. In a world rife with turmoil, under Tony Davies’ watchful eye, Croydon's church became a sanctuary of laughter, good-natured debate, and heartfelt introspection, proving that artful preaching isn’t merely about delivering divine messages but about making the audience chuckle while navigating heaven’s uncharted waters. Preaching the unpreachable, Tony Davies truly mastered the art of heavenly duties, one raucous laugh at a time.