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The philosopher Sir Roger Scruton passed away the Sunday before last. As well as being one of the foremost Conservative thinkers of his generation, Scruton was also a philosopher of wine, having had a wine column in the New Statesman for several years. And the two are not unconnected, because, for Scruton, both wine and conservatism are intimately related to a love of place. Good wine comes with a date and the name of a place. To use the current political jargon, good wine is a somewhere and not an anywhere. Having written a column about all this, I was delighted last week to receive the anonymous delivery of a bottle of Chateau Trotanoy, the very vineyard that first converted Professor Scruton to the joys of the grape. And feeling a little uncomfortable with the thought of drinking the whole thing myself, I decided to consecrate it on Sunday morning, at my parish Eucharist. Roger Scruton once kindly played the organ at my church, and he had a soft spot for Anglicanism, so it seemed like an appropriate way to mark his passing. But the experience of consecrating so valuable a bottle of wine had some unexpected consequences, both for me, and I think for my congregation. When I explained its provenance, the congregation sat up intrigued, eager to have a taste. I opened the bottle with particular care, nervous about removing a 44-year old cork in one go. As I filled the chalice and raised it heavenwards - “do this in remembrance of me” - I was aware of concentrating extra hard not to spill a drop. And when the congregation came forward to receive the wine there was a palpable sense of anticipation. That was the point I began to feel just a little conflicted by what was going on. After all, why were we approaching this undoubtedly great wine with such particular reverence when the ordinary wine that we have every Sunday becomes, we believe, the blood of Christ - that which He shed for us all and for the salvation of the world? I felt slightly shamed that I seemed to be treating a wine that undoubtedly had enormous aesthetic value as though it were somehow of greater significance than the ordinary stuff we use every week. And so, I for one learned a valuable lesson. Yes, the Chateau Trotanoy was a useful show and tell for a sermon about the extravagant love of God, way beyond what we can afford yet a gift freely given. For Christians, this is the heart of the Gospel. But what I also learned was how easy it is to confuse aesthetic or financial value with spiritual value. And it was an important reminder. From now on I am going to concentrate so much more on approaching the ordinary wine in our chalice as though it were the most valuable wine in the world – which, of course, is exactly what it is. Priceless.