Good morning. As Archbishop of Canterbury, I am constantly being amazed and inspired by all sorts of things. It is very much part of my job. Whether it be a glorious Norman cathedral or a humble Fair Trade cheese sandwich, the mystery and majesty of God's kingdom is ever-present in our lives.

It is often said that the church is like a family, though seldom that the family is like a church. I suppose the less charitable among us might joke that with the advent of the Asbo, more families have "knaves" these days, but that would be both unkind and not terribly funny. I apologise profoundly on behalf of the Anglican Church.

Yes, the family and the church have much in common. Unless there is love within the family, society will produce dysfunctional "infant adults". Likewise, unless members of the clergy get plenty of "love action" they are in danger of turning into "adult infants", unable fully to conceal those big nappies beneath their holy vestments.

Families need Dads, don't they? Yes. They do. The annual celebration of Father's Day - marked up and down the country by gifts of beer and DVDs - reminds us that EVERY day is Father's Day. I refer of course to Our Father who art in Heaven.

I know some of you are under the impression that Our Father is a bit old-fashioned. Like skiffle music. Or the typewriter. Or - and here I AM going back a few years - offal puddings steamed in muslin bags by my big-bosomed Auntie Joan in the scullery. Housewives' Choice is on the Light Programme. At her feet plays Sambo the cat, dressed in a little girl's smock, a mewling counterpoint to Auntie Joan's tragically barren womb. And yet, even today, infertility is in the news. So you see, God is not old-fashioned at all. He is very much alive and "down-with-it".

Of course, not all modern Dads are bad. Yet I wonder if it is not true that all bad ones are modern. There must be a link, there always is. Perhaps it is football. Yes, football. That is modern, isn't it? The former England captain David Beckham is an excellent role model. Truly a "proper Dad". Not just because he actually has children, but because he has a moral centre of gravity around which his little ones may orbit.

Admittedly, Mr. Beckham has had his critics (haven't we all!). There are those who adduce the Ten Commandments, specifically the one about not commiting adultery (or "playing away" in modern soccer parlance). Let us say that is 1-0 to the critics. But what about the Commandment to honour thy mother and father? Did Mr. Beckham not buy his Mum and Dad a big house? Let us say the score is 1-1...

Dads. Football. God. What can all this teach us? A very good question. And the answer is "something". And "everything". I am sure I am not the only one to have noticed those marvellous Latin American footballers making the Sign of the Cross before taking a penalty, or after winning a match. I believe certain Scottish players do it too, during the famous Christian Derby games in Glasgow.

Of course, sometimes players will make the Sign of the Cross and go on to lose the match, but then God (like footballers) often moves (and passes) in mysterious ways. So I hope that's THAT "little conundrum" cleared up once and for all!

I was at an eclectic dinner party the other night. After supper, the conversation became heated on the subject of "footy". A guest to my right insisted that the orthodox middle class liberal view - in other words, the Christian one - is that England football supporters are all "thick, vicious, fat thugs".

I demurred. It is very much part of my job. "With respect" I said, very slowly, "I think that is a generalisation. I have seen some of them on the television and they are not all fat. And in any case, should we not show compassion to people of girth?" I went on to explain that in my opinion football is absolutely FINE. It is part of England's living heritage, like folk music or parish churches...

"Oh, that's right, you dozy bearded cunt", came the rejoinder. "Yeah, what's the fucking difference between sea shanties, choral evensong, and gangs of pissed, topless men roaming the fucking streets mooing like tattooed abbatoir cattle and slipping around in their own fucking vomit?" 

I remained silent a whole three minutes, for effect. "The difference, I submit, is cultural snobbery". And I made a mental note to wear my Archbishop of Canterbury clothes next time, so people will know whom they are dealing with.

What was it Ezekiel said? "Lift up not thine countenance upon the darkness, for thou shalt comprehendeth it not. Lift up rather thine countenance upon the organic vegetable, which flourisheth from a tiny seed. In the land of the Shittites. And in Judea, and Samaria".

May God bless you and keep you in these times of uncertainty, now and forever, Amen.