Not a post on the current national campaign in the UK to ban the smacking of children, even by their parents. Nor am I complaining that I'm tired, though Sunday's the best day of the week for a lie in and another nap later- it's well named the day of rest.
My "whacking" came courtesy of that magnificent beast which is Google, who own the gigabytes of storage space you're now reading alongside the world's most popular search engine. I've been Googlewhacked!
Laud Google as we may, it's not a perfect search engine, if such a commodity can ever exist. I think it would be a sad day for mankind, really, if just by inputting a word or two into a computer you could find the sum of all knowledge on everything known to man. When I was a young lad of 9 or 10, I remember the dreams I had with my friend Michael over the road about putting together a book which would contain absolutely every bit of knowledge ever, ever, ever. Maybe at that tender age, we were just aspirant encyclopaedia salesmen both.
Algorithms and sophisticated computer code can do its best, but it can still be beaten. That's the fun and the challenge of the strange new pursuit of "Googlewhacking". The object? To find any two search terms which, when grouped together, produce only a single hit on Google.
Much to my amazement, that's what happened to me after a quick check on the sitemeter at the bottom of this page a week ago. Someone somewhere had keyed in a search in cyrillic for "Andry Moneyphilia": Anglicise that, and much to my amazement it brought up only a page in this blog which contained the words "Andrew" and "Moneyphilia" in close proximity.
Of course, it won't work now, because I've done the search myself- there should be at least two hits there. But maybe it shows the way to win the game- come up with a neologism or a contrived word like "moneyphilia" and link it with a common or garden male name! Try it and see- it's a great way to waste time on a chilly Sunday morning.
Yet there are still so many things I find you can't always track down on Google. My question to leave you with this morning is: whatever happened to Tivvy? Does anyone remember him? And can you Google me an answer? I'm not talking about Tiverton Town football club either!
But the truth is out there, or should it be out, where? It's been a week for a lot of revelations which some would say have no place in the public domain- nobody's business. Does it all really matter what politicians get up to in their private lives, or when closeted together with other wannabees and nobodies in an ersatz house on a studio lot in Elstree close by the faux square which masquerades as a part of Walford, E20.
What really matters is how we behave towards each other in this brief span of years we get given on this planet, in other words how we love, not who we bed. It's how we show Respect towards our fellow men and women and above all to God. It's turning the other cheek when we are whacked, literally, or going the extra mile when we are tired and whacked, figuratively. It's the most rewarding thing on earth, and that's why I must leave you now to go and learn a little bit more of the googol of things there are to know about Him which make Sunday morning the time for church. Thank Heavens that his search engine always hits the heart with delightful, life-changing results!
Sunday, 29 January 2006
Friday, 27 January 2006
Forty
No, my heading doesn't come because I'm celebrating reaching two score years, sadly. Read my profile and you'll soon be disavailed of that notion. Nor is it the number of this post- apparently, I've now committed 132 collections of my verbal meanderings to cyberspace. Quite prolific I suppose, but nothing like the output of some of the world's most famous musicians and writers. It's over two centuries since his death, but there can scarcely be a country where this musical superman's works are not being played somewhere right now. If my words could stand the test of time the way his symphonies, operas and sacred musical compositions have,I'd be a happy bunny indeed.
Friday was Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's 250th birthday, but in Salzburg the party's only just begun. Were he not buried in a pauper's grave, he'd be remarkably well preserved for his age. But his music, if not his body, certainly is. The attention and the adulation that will be showered on Austria's most famous musical son this next year are more than justified by the quite extra-ordinary range of his music, made even the more magnificent by the prodigious age at which he started composing and playing it.
There was, of course, much media coverage of the anniversary yesterday, and BBC Four TV whiled away the night hours with a five hour concert hosted by the EBU (European Broadcasting Union) featuring a wide selection of the great man's output. Among the more interesting Mozart matters though was the little known connection between WAM and my late musical mother's birthplace of Kent. Mozart passed through here in his young life and played concerts in the Garden of England in between his appearances before royalty and an adoring public in London. Meanwhile, yesterday in a Canterbury primary school, children as young as six were being introduced to the finer nuances of Mozart's symphonies, much to their enjoyment.
For many of these children, the head said, it was their first experience of live classical music. But I bet it wasn't their introduction to Mozart; how many of them, for instance, had been singing "Twinkle, twinkle, little star" since they were tots, unaware it was composed by the Austrian wunderkind? I was a little bit older than them, however, when I first started to enjoy the music of Mozart, thanks to a one-hit wonder called Waldo De Los Rios. His interpretation of "Mozart Forty" had the rare distinction for a classical composition of reaching the top ten, sometime in the seventies I think.
Unless you're a (Nigel) Kennedy or a Mylene Klass- just awarded the prestigious Sunday morning slot on Classic FM recently vacated by one-time boy treble Aled Jones who's defected to Radio Two- it's likely that the musical preferences of most kids soon turn to boy bands or girl groups, rebellious rock and loud lyrics. I then must have seemed something of a weird kid when the kind of music that soothed this Savage breast through my teen years was generally the light music that was filling most of the airtime on BBC Radio 2 , and still does if only on a Sunday evening when the grey zone takes over with music to soothe the more mature audience over their cocoa and biscuits. Melodies for You, Your Hundred Best Tunes and the seemingly ageless David Jacobs are the kind of programmes I mean. As long as they continue to be there, like a warm bath on the sabbath evening before school the next day, there's hope for civilized life.
Music unites like few other emotionally-led factors can, which is why two centuries after Mozart's birth, his life and his story is still Salzburg's biggest, albeit most expensive, tourist asset. I've never visited Austria, but maybe this might be the year to do it. From Mozart to Von Trapp, the Eastern Kingdom has a musical legacy which will last forever and to share in it is a pleasure open to all through the simple joys of making music together.
But music can also be divisive of course, at least of the generations. Was it fear that my parents might not approve which meant I was 25 before I really got into listening to rock music seriously? Living at home til I was 28 certainly made me more wary of discovering and enjoying my own tastes than I can now, but yesterday I made a point of having a bit of a music fest with my trusty turntable while I was at my flat in Sussex. Of course I'd had plenty of exposure to the more populist stuff through my radio listening hobby, and the assistance of the likes of Mike Read and Steve Wright on the kitchen radio, making my pot-washing labours a little more endurable while I worked in catering for seven years. Boy George I guess is the sound I most remember from that era, and a beautiful but rather dippy girl colleague who was forever singing Karma Chamelon. Now whatever happened to Gary Davies, another star DJ of that era,I wonder?
Interestingly, it was at the same time that I became a Christian I first got into some of the names my contemporaries had been enjoying among their chums for nearly a decade. Slightly ironic, that, but that period of my life, like now, seemed to release in me an ability to be myself and enjoy life to the full too - in music and in companionship. Had I been a more sociable schoolboy, I expect I would have done so much earlier while at school too, though I remember well the oft-repeated sound of Peter Frampton and Genesis on the sixth form record player.
Then, circa 1985, my mate Andrew introduced me to a certain Irish group called U2 and said one reason he liked them were that they were Christians. As he was working in the radio industry at the time, Andrew had a unique opportunity to listen to all the best sounds, as well as some of the worst- the chuck outs from some of that period still populate my record and CD library! But it's funny how these musical memories can stick so much and you get a sudden urge to listen to or sing them again; on Thursday morning, in the shower, another "Forty" came to mind, and I desperately wanted to sing and hear it again! U2's unique treatment of one of the Psalms is brilliant. It kind of sums up in minim, quaver and semi-breve what I was doing while I was only semi-breathing spiritually until a few weeks ago, how I quavered or maybe quivered at who I thought I was and being too minimalist in my understanding of the riches of God's love for me, and for you, too.
I couldn't get my fix of U2 in Middlesex, as most of my record collection is still in my other place, so I was glad yesterday to make a point of listening to it when I was in Sussex. But still no Forty. Where is it- I want it! Never mind, the day was full of musical surprises and delights, as I listened again to the first LP I was ever given, on my sixteenth birthday- more of that light music stuff but especially the original piece with its funky phasing used at closedown and start-up by Radio One- called, you've guessed it, Theme One. Of course, there had to be some Mozart yeterday too, and when I put on a U2 EP of The Unforgettable Fire- betraying its age by the pre-barcode Boots price sticker - I got my first hearing for a while of Bass Trap, a wonderful instrumental by Bono and Co. When it comes to U2 favourites though, can I name one? Difficult. Close contest between New Year's Day, Forty and the one which I think best describes my own experience: I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For.
Some now question the present Christian credentials of U2, especially since Bono became world superstar and joint expressor supreme with Sir Bob Geldof of the plight of the poor of the world. He's been on the campaigning trail again this week, in pursuit of the great and the good at Davos, Switzerland at the World Economic Forum- not so very far from Salzburg, Austria where some rich folk will let go of their Euros for the rest of the year, unheeding of the irony that it takes music to fight poverty, yet this greatest of classical geniuses himself died penniless. Maybe his own requiems can serve as his eulogy,but as long as poverty and human depravity remain, as remembered on Holocaust Memorial Day which also fell on Mozart's birthday, the world will need the solemn sounds of the Hebrew prayer for the
dead too in its songs to counteract the joyful exclamations of Mozart at his most lyrical and his operas at their most comically absurd, like life itself. Until the Lord comes again, we will need to wait patiently for him, when we can sing a new song. He inclines to us, and hears our cries, in music whether of exaltation or mourning. And he sets our feet on a rock every bit as permanent as a Salzburg, a mountain of salt.
.This posting's dedication is for my mate Brian Draper, U2 fan par excellence and regular contributor to their official sites. He's currently doing the Saturday Thought for the Day on Radio 4 -one more to go in the current series- and is imminently approaching his 37th birthday. Ah, I remember that- alright for some for whom forty has yet to come! Brian's new book Searching 4 Faith is a recommended read if you're asking questions about Christianity- but meanwhile, if you want to share any thoughts or indeed have a burning question you want to express, hit that comments button right now!
Friday was Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's 250th birthday, but in Salzburg the party's only just begun. Were he not buried in a pauper's grave, he'd be remarkably well preserved for his age. But his music, if not his body, certainly is. The attention and the adulation that will be showered on Austria's most famous musical son this next year are more than justified by the quite extra-ordinary range of his music, made even the more magnificent by the prodigious age at which he started composing and playing it.
There was, of course, much media coverage of the anniversary yesterday, and BBC Four TV whiled away the night hours with a five hour concert hosted by the EBU (European Broadcasting Union) featuring a wide selection of the great man's output. Among the more interesting Mozart matters though was the little known connection between WAM and my late musical mother's birthplace of Kent. Mozart passed through here in his young life and played concerts in the Garden of England in between his appearances before royalty and an adoring public in London. Meanwhile, yesterday in a Canterbury primary school, children as young as six were being introduced to the finer nuances of Mozart's symphonies, much to their enjoyment.
For many of these children, the head said, it was their first experience of live classical music. But I bet it wasn't their introduction to Mozart; how many of them, for instance, had been singing "Twinkle, twinkle, little star" since they were tots, unaware it was composed by the Austrian wunderkind? I was a little bit older than them, however, when I first started to enjoy the music of Mozart, thanks to a one-hit wonder called Waldo De Los Rios. His interpretation of "Mozart Forty" had the rare distinction for a classical composition of reaching the top ten, sometime in the seventies I think.
Unless you're a (Nigel) Kennedy or a Mylene Klass- just awarded the prestigious Sunday morning slot on Classic FM recently vacated by one-time boy treble Aled Jones who's defected to Radio Two- it's likely that the musical preferences of most kids soon turn to boy bands or girl groups, rebellious rock and loud lyrics. I then must have seemed something of a weird kid when the kind of music that soothed this Savage breast through my teen years was generally the light music that was filling most of the airtime on BBC Radio 2 , and still does if only on a Sunday evening when the grey zone takes over with music to soothe the more mature audience over their cocoa and biscuits. Melodies for You, Your Hundred Best Tunes and the seemingly ageless David Jacobs are the kind of programmes I mean. As long as they continue to be there, like a warm bath on the sabbath evening before school the next day, there's hope for civilized life.
Music unites like few other emotionally-led factors can, which is why two centuries after Mozart's birth, his life and his story is still Salzburg's biggest, albeit most expensive, tourist asset. I've never visited Austria, but maybe this might be the year to do it. From Mozart to Von Trapp, the Eastern Kingdom has a musical legacy which will last forever and to share in it is a pleasure open to all through the simple joys of making music together.
But music can also be divisive of course, at least of the generations. Was it fear that my parents might not approve which meant I was 25 before I really got into listening to rock music seriously? Living at home til I was 28 certainly made me more wary of discovering and enjoying my own tastes than I can now, but yesterday I made a point of having a bit of a music fest with my trusty turntable while I was at my flat in Sussex. Of course I'd had plenty of exposure to the more populist stuff through my radio listening hobby, and the assistance of the likes of Mike Read and Steve Wright on the kitchen radio, making my pot-washing labours a little more endurable while I worked in catering for seven years. Boy George I guess is the sound I most remember from that era, and a beautiful but rather dippy girl colleague who was forever singing Karma Chamelon. Now whatever happened to Gary Davies, another star DJ of that era,I wonder?
Interestingly, it was at the same time that I became a Christian I first got into some of the names my contemporaries had been enjoying among their chums for nearly a decade. Slightly ironic, that, but that period of my life, like now, seemed to release in me an ability to be myself and enjoy life to the full too - in music and in companionship. Had I been a more sociable schoolboy, I expect I would have done so much earlier while at school too, though I remember well the oft-repeated sound of Peter Frampton and Genesis on the sixth form record player.
Then, circa 1985, my mate Andrew introduced me to a certain Irish group called U2 and said one reason he liked them were that they were Christians. As he was working in the radio industry at the time, Andrew had a unique opportunity to listen to all the best sounds, as well as some of the worst- the chuck outs from some of that period still populate my record and CD library! But it's funny how these musical memories can stick so much and you get a sudden urge to listen to or sing them again; on Thursday morning, in the shower, another "Forty" came to mind, and I desperately wanted to sing and hear it again! U2's unique treatment of one of the Psalms is brilliant. It kind of sums up in minim, quaver and semi-breve what I was doing while I was only semi-breathing spiritually until a few weeks ago, how I quavered or maybe quivered at who I thought I was and being too minimalist in my understanding of the riches of God's love for me, and for you, too.
I couldn't get my fix of U2 in Middlesex, as most of my record collection is still in my other place, so I was glad yesterday to make a point of listening to it when I was in Sussex. But still no Forty. Where is it- I want it! Never mind, the day was full of musical surprises and delights, as I listened again to the first LP I was ever given, on my sixteenth birthday- more of that light music stuff but especially the original piece with its funky phasing used at closedown and start-up by Radio One- called, you've guessed it, Theme One. Of course, there had to be some Mozart yeterday too, and when I put on a U2 EP of The Unforgettable Fire- betraying its age by the pre-barcode Boots price sticker - I got my first hearing for a while of Bass Trap, a wonderful instrumental by Bono and Co. When it comes to U2 favourites though, can I name one? Difficult. Close contest between New Year's Day, Forty and the one which I think best describes my own experience: I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For.
Some now question the present Christian credentials of U2, especially since Bono became world superstar and joint expressor supreme with Sir Bob Geldof of the plight of the poor of the world. He's been on the campaigning trail again this week, in pursuit of the great and the good at Davos, Switzerland at the World Economic Forum- not so very far from Salzburg, Austria where some rich folk will let go of their Euros for the rest of the year, unheeding of the irony that it takes music to fight poverty, yet this greatest of classical geniuses himself died penniless. Maybe his own requiems can serve as his eulogy,but as long as poverty and human depravity remain, as remembered on Holocaust Memorial Day which also fell on Mozart's birthday, the world will need the solemn sounds of the Hebrew prayer for the
dead too in its songs to counteract the joyful exclamations of Mozart at his most lyrical and his operas at their most comically absurd, like life itself. Until the Lord comes again, we will need to wait patiently for him, when we can sing a new song. He inclines to us, and hears our cries, in music whether of exaltation or mourning. And he sets our feet on a rock every bit as permanent as a Salzburg, a mountain of salt.
.This posting's dedication is for my mate Brian Draper, U2 fan par excellence and regular contributor to their official sites. He's currently doing the Saturday Thought for the Day on Radio 4 -one more to go in the current series- and is imminently approaching his 37th birthday. Ah, I remember that- alright for some for whom forty has yet to come! Brian's new book Searching 4 Faith is a recommended read if you're asking questions about Christianity- but meanwhile, if you want to share any thoughts or indeed have a burning question you want to express, hit that comments button right now!
Sunday, 22 January 2006
You'll never swim alone
It's not exactly the sweet, silver song of a lark that has got me thinking of that most inspiring of tunes from Rogers and Hammerstein's Carousel today. Nor am I chanting from the digital terraces of the antics and indiscretions of England's beleagured football manager, Sven Goran Ericsson, who perhaps wishes right now he'd never stopped selling mobile phones in the family business ( I jest, of course).
Something more profound and primeval brings me to my blog today, as the thoughts and attention of the nation have at least for a few hours been diverted from the life- mocking twaddle that has so dominated the scandal sheets these first few weeks of a new year, to the pitful fate of a juvenile cetacean whose death wails if inaudible to the ears, at least filled the hearts and no doubt emptied the tear ducts of readers and viewers across the world this weekend.
The drama all started around rush hour on Friday morning, when a passenger on board a train on London's Waterloo railway bridge said he thought he was hallucinating but he'd seen a whale in the River Thames below him. Understandable reaction, but not caused by any magic mushrooms on this occasion but a fact. An eighteen-feet long (six metres, for the benefit of those not schooled in imperial measures), Northern Bottle-nosed whale had apparently taken a wrong turn at the Thames estuary at Southend-on-Sea and, instead of following his mother to the cold, deep waters of the Artic, found himself stranded in the shallow tideway of London's river, next to some of the most well-known sites in the world.
The image of this magnificent young beast attempting to stay in the swim to find his way home, is in marked contrast to the Church Times- sorry, I mean News of the World causing another would-be political leader to drown with its scandalous revelations about his private life this morning. Mark Oaten, MP for Winchester, must at least be grateful this Sunday that he has been displaced on most other front pages by an animal whose species frollicked in the world's oceans centuries before man even feigned to beach lives on the questionable altar of 'truthful' journalism.
London's whale's fate could perhaps have been foreseen from the moment he raised his awe-inspiring head above the waters of Old Father Thames. His natural fountain as he spouted salty water skyward, offered a more magnificent sight to watchers on the London Eye observation wheel than anything nearby Trafalgar Square could offer. These giant mammals were created to swim in deep waters, enjoying those dark, vast depths still largely unexplored by us. Though pursued, persecuted and exploited by its only real enemy, Greedy Man, for centuries, at least in these environmentally sensitive times the whale has been given a fighting chance of survival as human beings finally recognise the folly of their careless and senseless exploitation of the natural world.
But river-journeying tourists they are not. The shallows of London's waterway could never support a mammal weighing in excess of seven tons (metric or imperial) for very long. This poor animal never even got given a name, as so often we have a tendency to do, and yet his care and his loss was followed and sadly mourned by the thousands, perhaps even millions, who had followed his attempts to survive even when precedent and circumstance made this seem an unlikely outcome. The noble efforts of divers, vets and mariners to return the baby whale to deeper waters on the back of a barge seemed to have brought out the best in people who so often want to see the worst in others.
What a peculiar, almost obscene, species we can be. Yet what beautiful acts and compassion we are yet capable of. Why this paradox, this constant stasis, in the human condition? A writer I am currently reading, Gerard W Hughes, suggests in his book God in All Things, that it's because of the heats of our desires, or rather the conflicts of them. What St Paul I guess referred to as the conflict between what I "know" I should do, think, feel and what so often I do instead. I should be compassionate, caring, selfless, my mind set on people -even marine mammals- beyond myself. Yet so often, I am reduced to gloating at or criticising the failings of others. Surely such miserable creatures as we are deserve the wrath of God and to meet our ends without pity! Yet thanks to Amazing Grace , as written in the words of one-time slave ship captain John Newton, the sweet sound I hear this afternoon is not of larks, heavenly though their sound may be. It's instead a sweet sound that saves a wretch like me- for I'm no different to any other reader of this blog, I'm a miserable sinner, let's make no whalebones about it!
Maybe the fate of this whale, and our hopes for him, awakened in many the longing for a connection with a long-drowned past, when nature was at one with her maker. Some have likened it to our fascination with dinosaurs, but for me there's an obvious connection with the story of Jonah and the "whale" portrayed in the Bible. Some commentators point out this is a story teaching about obedience, willingness of spirit, gratitude and compassion, together with God's patience and mercy.
Was God merciful to a beast who died at Gravesend, despite the best efforts of bargemen and specialists to save him? Quite plainly, yes. Jesus said (quoted in chapter 10 of Matthew's gospel and also in Luke's account that sparrows -now also rarely seen in London, sadly- were sold for two a penny, making them almost worthless in human terms, yet not one falls to the ground without God's knowledge. So when many worry about life and what the future holds, whether anyone cares any more anyway, maybe a beast of ancient stock should tell us that we are safe and have no cause to worry, whether we flail in the shallows or are overwhelmed by the depth of our troubles. Our father loves and cares for us as he does for the sparrow and the whale, and most certainly the lark, whose heavenly song will be heard again in the summer. These creatures matter to God. But we are far more precious to him than any of them. We need not sink or swim, but fly on eagle's wings into his loving arms. Now that's something worth singing about!
Something more profound and primeval brings me to my blog today, as the thoughts and attention of the nation have at least for a few hours been diverted from the life- mocking twaddle that has so dominated the scandal sheets these first few weeks of a new year, to the pitful fate of a juvenile cetacean whose death wails if inaudible to the ears, at least filled the hearts and no doubt emptied the tear ducts of readers and viewers across the world this weekend.
The drama all started around rush hour on Friday morning, when a passenger on board a train on London's Waterloo railway bridge said he thought he was hallucinating but he'd seen a whale in the River Thames below him. Understandable reaction, but not caused by any magic mushrooms on this occasion but a fact. An eighteen-feet long (six metres, for the benefit of those not schooled in imperial measures), Northern Bottle-nosed whale had apparently taken a wrong turn at the Thames estuary at Southend-on-Sea and, instead of following his mother to the cold, deep waters of the Artic, found himself stranded in the shallow tideway of London's river, next to some of the most well-known sites in the world.
The image of this magnificent young beast attempting to stay in the swim to find his way home, is in marked contrast to the Church Times- sorry, I mean News of the World causing another would-be political leader to drown with its scandalous revelations about his private life this morning. Mark Oaten, MP for Winchester, must at least be grateful this Sunday that he has been displaced on most other front pages by an animal whose species frollicked in the world's oceans centuries before man even feigned to beach lives on the questionable altar of 'truthful' journalism.
London's whale's fate could perhaps have been foreseen from the moment he raised his awe-inspiring head above the waters of Old Father Thames. His natural fountain as he spouted salty water skyward, offered a more magnificent sight to watchers on the London Eye observation wheel than anything nearby Trafalgar Square could offer. These giant mammals were created to swim in deep waters, enjoying those dark, vast depths still largely unexplored by us. Though pursued, persecuted and exploited by its only real enemy, Greedy Man, for centuries, at least in these environmentally sensitive times the whale has been given a fighting chance of survival as human beings finally recognise the folly of their careless and senseless exploitation of the natural world.
But river-journeying tourists they are not. The shallows of London's waterway could never support a mammal weighing in excess of seven tons (metric or imperial) for very long. This poor animal never even got given a name, as so often we have a tendency to do, and yet his care and his loss was followed and sadly mourned by the thousands, perhaps even millions, who had followed his attempts to survive even when precedent and circumstance made this seem an unlikely outcome. The noble efforts of divers, vets and mariners to return the baby whale to deeper waters on the back of a barge seemed to have brought out the best in people who so often want to see the worst in others.
What a peculiar, almost obscene, species we can be. Yet what beautiful acts and compassion we are yet capable of. Why this paradox, this constant stasis, in the human condition? A writer I am currently reading, Gerard W Hughes, suggests in his book God in All Things, that it's because of the heats of our desires, or rather the conflicts of them. What St Paul I guess referred to as the conflict between what I "know" I should do, think, feel and what so often I do instead. I should be compassionate, caring, selfless, my mind set on people -even marine mammals- beyond myself. Yet so often, I am reduced to gloating at or criticising the failings of others. Surely such miserable creatures as we are deserve the wrath of God and to meet our ends without pity! Yet thanks to Amazing Grace , as written in the words of one-time slave ship captain John Newton, the sweet sound I hear this afternoon is not of larks, heavenly though their sound may be. It's instead a sweet sound that saves a wretch like me- for I'm no different to any other reader of this blog, I'm a miserable sinner, let's make no whalebones about it!
Maybe the fate of this whale, and our hopes for him, awakened in many the longing for a connection with a long-drowned past, when nature was at one with her maker. Some have likened it to our fascination with dinosaurs, but for me there's an obvious connection with the story of Jonah and the "whale" portrayed in the Bible. Some commentators point out this is a story teaching about obedience, willingness of spirit, gratitude and compassion, together with God's patience and mercy.
Was God merciful to a beast who died at Gravesend, despite the best efforts of bargemen and specialists to save him? Quite plainly, yes. Jesus said (quoted in chapter 10 of Matthew's gospel and also in Luke's account that sparrows -now also rarely seen in London, sadly- were sold for two a penny, making them almost worthless in human terms, yet not one falls to the ground without God's knowledge. So when many worry about life and what the future holds, whether anyone cares any more anyway, maybe a beast of ancient stock should tell us that we are safe and have no cause to worry, whether we flail in the shallows or are overwhelmed by the depth of our troubles. Our father loves and cares for us as he does for the sparrow and the whale, and most certainly the lark, whose heavenly song will be heard again in the summer. These creatures matter to God. But we are far more precious to him than any of them. We need not sink or swim, but fly on eagle's wings into his loving arms. Now that's something worth singing about!
Thursday, 12 January 2006
A Little Application
Avez vous un cuppa? I'd drink Britain's favourite brew til it was coming out of my nostrils if I could. Whatever the hour of day or night, you can't beat a good hot, strong cup of tea and the nation's most popular brand is Brooke Bond PG Tips, or "the tea you can really taste", the one-time strapline accompanied by images of cheeky chimpanzees up to all sorts of antics. Follow my link (click on the post title) for more info on them and some fascinating facts about the makers and packers of Britain's best beverage. I never knew til tonight, for instance, that PG Tips comes from a place better known for Footie than tea, Trafford in Manchester.
The PG Tips chimps were the longest running advertising campaign on British TV, but sadly somebody in the advertising agency managed to convince Unilever, the parent company of Brooke Bond, they were no longer cool enough to advertise hot tea and they've now been replaced by a peculiar plasticine species known as the T-Birds. But in the wake of Avian flu, now apparently claiming young victims in the ironically-named country of Turkey, could the days of these clawed clay interlopers be numbered already? And could chimpanzees be in the ascendant once again?
You might well think so, judging by the attention paid to this species of ape on prime time BBC ONE television these last few days. It's Chimp Week, and the ever-intrusive lens of the wildlife cameramen has sought to venture further into the daily doings of this fascinating primate than has ever happened previously. However, I've not had much time to watch myself, since I have been either too shattered to stay awake to view after work, or too busy dealing with other practical things. Yet chimps themselves are remarkably intelligent and capable animals, perhaps one of the reasons their commercial cavortings entertained the nation for so long. "Mr Shifter" is surely the best remembered of the many films made over fifty years, and who can forget Michael Robbins' immortal voice-overed line in response to the question "Dad, do you know the piano's on my foot?": "You 'um it son, I'll play it" - and tinkle the old joanna the chimpy thespian did, but not apparently without a little bit of cheating, such as removing the innards of the piano!
Sometimes, achieving the desired result in any endeavour-be it shooting a TV commercial with wild animals or seeking to best sell yourself for a new job, takes a lot of effort. It's something I in particular find very difficult. But there's no gain without pain and often the best results are only achieved through a lot of work-or a little application if you like, to quote one of Mr Shifter's other catchphrases.
Certainly the Christian life's like that: it can be an uphill struggle, like pushing the pedals on a racing bike ("Can you ride tandem"?) with all your might as you press on to claim the winner's yellow jersey. But there's no room to turn a cowardly yellow, nor reason to become sickened and jaundice when things don't happen quite as quick as you hoped. The taste of victory awaits those who press on to the end, pausing as often as necessary along the way to consult the personal trainer par excellence. With God, we're more than just imitative, dumb animals; instead, we're the crowning glory of his creation and there's no apeing that.
The PG Tips chimps were the longest running advertising campaign on British TV, but sadly somebody in the advertising agency managed to convince Unilever, the parent company of Brooke Bond, they were no longer cool enough to advertise hot tea and they've now been replaced by a peculiar plasticine species known as the T-Birds. But in the wake of Avian flu, now apparently claiming young victims in the ironically-named country of Turkey, could the days of these clawed clay interlopers be numbered already? And could chimpanzees be in the ascendant once again?
You might well think so, judging by the attention paid to this species of ape on prime time BBC ONE television these last few days. It's Chimp Week, and the ever-intrusive lens of the wildlife cameramen has sought to venture further into the daily doings of this fascinating primate than has ever happened previously. However, I've not had much time to watch myself, since I have been either too shattered to stay awake to view after work, or too busy dealing with other practical things. Yet chimps themselves are remarkably intelligent and capable animals, perhaps one of the reasons their commercial cavortings entertained the nation for so long. "Mr Shifter" is surely the best remembered of the many films made over fifty years, and who can forget Michael Robbins' immortal voice-overed line in response to the question "Dad, do you know the piano's on my foot?": "You 'um it son, I'll play it" - and tinkle the old joanna the chimpy thespian did, but not apparently without a little bit of cheating, such as removing the innards of the piano!
Sometimes, achieving the desired result in any endeavour-be it shooting a TV commercial with wild animals or seeking to best sell yourself for a new job, takes a lot of effort. It's something I in particular find very difficult. But there's no gain without pain and often the best results are only achieved through a lot of work-or a little application if you like, to quote one of Mr Shifter's other catchphrases.
Certainly the Christian life's like that: it can be an uphill struggle, like pushing the pedals on a racing bike ("Can you ride tandem"?) with all your might as you press on to claim the winner's yellow jersey. But there's no room to turn a cowardly yellow, nor reason to become sickened and jaundice when things don't happen quite as quick as you hoped. The taste of victory awaits those who press on to the end, pausing as often as necessary along the way to consult the personal trainer par excellence. With God, we're more than just imitative, dumb animals; instead, we're the crowning glory of his creation and there's no apeing that.
Sunday, 8 January 2006
Why Can't Life Be More Like The Movies?
It was Shakespeare who said "All the World's a stage, and all the men and women on it merely players". Were he writing today though, he'd probably have to modify his wording a bit :"All the world's a sound stage, and all the men and women in it merely CGI copies".
Well, maybe it's not quite as synthetic a medium as that yet, but it's quite astounding what has been achieved in the world of cinema even in the past ten years, through the development of computer techniques and digital imaging. Nineteenth-Century Fox (Talbot) would be incredulous as to what the mighty megabyte has managed to do to his humble exercises with light. It's truly an industry full of magic thanks to technology, as if it hasn't always been.
It's rare to find a movie these days where the name of George Lucas's benchmark-setting digital effects company hasn't had a hand. The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe is no exception. But can ILM do anything about the awful British climate and the general gloom in early January, once the magic of the Christmas lights has disappeared for another year, apart from the odd tree which some council contractor has forgotten to de-luminate? Probably not, but thank heavens their handiwork, and that of talented directors, can bring a little sparkle into the glumness which afflicts me and many others this time of the year.
After church this Sunday morning, I decided it was high time I went to see this long-awaited epic adaptation of the C S Lewis Classic which fired my imagination and illuminated many a childhood day for me. Dashing down to my local children's library to catch up with the adventures of the Pevensie children was a highlight of that wonderful period of young life when nothing is impossible and the only limits are determined by your mind's horizon. Thirty-seven or so years later though, could the magic and the message be conveyed just as well by the silver screen (or whatever other material they make them from these days)?
I needn't have worried. Although I confess there was the odd moment when I was dozing off - but then that's what I always do on a Sunday afternoon- this was 140 minutes of sheer enchantment and creative genius which C S Lewis would, I'm sure, have been proud to put his name to. The mere fact that his stepson Douglas Gresham is co-producer must say something for the faithfulness of the cinematic adaptation to the spirit of his original.
Quite apart from the digital imagery which created battle scenes claiming to be among the most fantastic ever seen on screen, or animals vivified by the combined power of the animators' art and the voice talents of such luminaries as Dawn French and Ray Winstone, the performances of the juvenile cast were scene-stealing. Georgie Henley, no more than 9 when the film was shot, captivates as little Lucy in a way I've seldom seen a junior achieve and which for me was one of the most memorable performances in a fine film. No less worthy of praise though was the performance of William Moseley as Peter, the eldest of the Pevensey children and a kind of surrogate father to his younger siblings while their father is away fighting in World War II.
But what of the much-mentioned Christian allegorical components of the film, much maligned by humanist critics but equally lauded by many Christian groups? Well, for those looking for them, clearly they were there- though I doubt I would have spotted them as an eight-year old and I suspect few primary schoolers would today either. This is entertainment and fantasy which can be enjoyed as much by believers as by those sad souls who have nothing to believe in their world beyond the existence of the here and now. But young Peter in the story could be as much the life-changed disciple of the Christian accounts as the strong and sensitive hero every child wants to find triumphing in their literature. It doesn't really matter, does it?
Returning to the rain-drenched streets of Feltham after the film was like stepping back through a cupboard door to the dreary reality of everyday life for so many of us. Of having to consider the possibility of new employment, of paying the post-Christmas bills, of finding enough hours in the day to do all those things that need to be done, let alone that which I would most like to do, and particularly to write more. But am I really any different to a million and one other souls around the world every day of their lives who have to face the same issues? Indeed, it can be very easy to overlook the blessings of life in all its fulness, particularly the life redeemed from the nihilist, going nowhere outlook which seems to be the ultimate lot of the non-believer. Eat drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.
Someday, the feasting has to stop, just as Friday brought the official end of the Christmas season in the Western World with Epiphany. There can be no more Turkish Delight for a while. But that's not to say the rejoicing has to stop. Life is there to be lived in all its fulness, and for Christians it's there to be en-joyed, literally filled with joy. C S Lewis was the proponent of this par excellence, particularly when in a marvellous literal irony, he was surprised by joy- both in emotion and the person of the true love he found in his sixties- there's hope for me yet, then!
For when you do count your blessings, indeed you will be surprised by what the Lord has done. Yesterday was another of those moments for me, when dashing over to my local Saturday branch of Barclays desperate to pay some money in to my current account, I discovered that a certain much-coveted "glittering prize" was on display in the branch, and you could have your picture taken with it for a small donation to the Shooting Star Children's hospice. When I moved on for a pot of tea and a frangipan tart in The Bridge centre within Holy Trinity Church, reading about precious young lives likely to be shortened by the grip of serious illness, outside a busker played Eric Clapton's Tears in Heaven (qv in this blog's archive), I could do nothing but weep, for them and with them, but count my own blessings indeed.
Well, I may never again be within touching distance of the Barclays Premiership Trophy, although maybe there's a delicious irony that in what little knowledge or understanding I had of soccer as an eight-year old - I couldn't play it for Everton toffees, and perhaps my sensitive little mind was always scarred by the handicap this was in your average class of lively boys- Chelsea were my team. The blues of Stamford Bridge now seem invincible under Ronan Abramovich's bottomless wallet, but I guess like all human institutions, they are destined to fall eventually- certainly that would be the hope of reigning European champions Liverpool, who put up a superb performance in a thrilling F A Cup tie against Luton Town yesterday.
But for those who put their hope in the Lord, life doesn't need to be like a movie with a perfect but fabricated happy ending, nor a long hard slog to re-born Wembley stadium for the cup final in May. Every step of the road can be an adventure every bit as exciting as that enjoyed by Peter, Edmund, Susan and Lucy. Sure, there will be heartaches, sorrows and struggles along the way, but always there's the promise. Of a strong lion coming again to save all his people, and holding all the attention of all his "audience" for all time, not just two and a half hours on a soggy Sunday. A better script than this has never been written, and I'd rather be an extra in the live movie house of the Lord than on a directorless stage any day.
Well, maybe it's not quite as synthetic a medium as that yet, but it's quite astounding what has been achieved in the world of cinema even in the past ten years, through the development of computer techniques and digital imaging. Nineteenth-Century Fox (Talbot) would be incredulous as to what the mighty megabyte has managed to do to his humble exercises with light. It's truly an industry full of magic thanks to technology, as if it hasn't always been.
It's rare to find a movie these days where the name of George Lucas's benchmark-setting digital effects company hasn't had a hand. The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe is no exception. But can ILM do anything about the awful British climate and the general gloom in early January, once the magic of the Christmas lights has disappeared for another year, apart from the odd tree which some council contractor has forgotten to de-luminate? Probably not, but thank heavens their handiwork, and that of talented directors, can bring a little sparkle into the glumness which afflicts me and many others this time of the year.
After church this Sunday morning, I decided it was high time I went to see this long-awaited epic adaptation of the C S Lewis Classic which fired my imagination and illuminated many a childhood day for me. Dashing down to my local children's library to catch up with the adventures of the Pevensie children was a highlight of that wonderful period of young life when nothing is impossible and the only limits are determined by your mind's horizon. Thirty-seven or so years later though, could the magic and the message be conveyed just as well by the silver screen (or whatever other material they make them from these days)?
I needn't have worried. Although I confess there was the odd moment when I was dozing off - but then that's what I always do on a Sunday afternoon- this was 140 minutes of sheer enchantment and creative genius which C S Lewis would, I'm sure, have been proud to put his name to. The mere fact that his stepson Douglas Gresham is co-producer must say something for the faithfulness of the cinematic adaptation to the spirit of his original.
Quite apart from the digital imagery which created battle scenes claiming to be among the most fantastic ever seen on screen, or animals vivified by the combined power of the animators' art and the voice talents of such luminaries as Dawn French and Ray Winstone, the performances of the juvenile cast were scene-stealing. Georgie Henley, no more than 9 when the film was shot, captivates as little Lucy in a way I've seldom seen a junior achieve and which for me was one of the most memorable performances in a fine film. No less worthy of praise though was the performance of William Moseley as Peter, the eldest of the Pevensey children and a kind of surrogate father to his younger siblings while their father is away fighting in World War II.
But what of the much-mentioned Christian allegorical components of the film, much maligned by humanist critics but equally lauded by many Christian groups? Well, for those looking for them, clearly they were there- though I doubt I would have spotted them as an eight-year old and I suspect few primary schoolers would today either. This is entertainment and fantasy which can be enjoyed as much by believers as by those sad souls who have nothing to believe in their world beyond the existence of the here and now. But young Peter in the story could be as much the life-changed disciple of the Christian accounts as the strong and sensitive hero every child wants to find triumphing in their literature. It doesn't really matter, does it?
Returning to the rain-drenched streets of Feltham after the film was like stepping back through a cupboard door to the dreary reality of everyday life for so many of us. Of having to consider the possibility of new employment, of paying the post-Christmas bills, of finding enough hours in the day to do all those things that need to be done, let alone that which I would most like to do, and particularly to write more. But am I really any different to a million and one other souls around the world every day of their lives who have to face the same issues? Indeed, it can be very easy to overlook the blessings of life in all its fulness, particularly the life redeemed from the nihilist, going nowhere outlook which seems to be the ultimate lot of the non-believer. Eat drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.
Someday, the feasting has to stop, just as Friday brought the official end of the Christmas season in the Western World with Epiphany. There can be no more Turkish Delight for a while. But that's not to say the rejoicing has to stop. Life is there to be lived in all its fulness, and for Christians it's there to be en-joyed, literally filled with joy. C S Lewis was the proponent of this par excellence, particularly when in a marvellous literal irony, he was surprised by joy- both in emotion and the person of the true love he found in his sixties- there's hope for me yet, then!
For when you do count your blessings, indeed you will be surprised by what the Lord has done. Yesterday was another of those moments for me, when dashing over to my local Saturday branch of Barclays desperate to pay some money in to my current account, I discovered that a certain much-coveted "glittering prize" was on display in the branch, and you could have your picture taken with it for a small donation to the Shooting Star Children's hospice. When I moved on for a pot of tea and a frangipan tart in The Bridge centre within Holy Trinity Church, reading about precious young lives likely to be shortened by the grip of serious illness, outside a busker played Eric Clapton's Tears in Heaven (qv in this blog's archive), I could do nothing but weep, for them and with them, but count my own blessings indeed.
Well, I may never again be within touching distance of the Barclays Premiership Trophy, although maybe there's a delicious irony that in what little knowledge or understanding I had of soccer as an eight-year old - I couldn't play it for Everton toffees, and perhaps my sensitive little mind was always scarred by the handicap this was in your average class of lively boys- Chelsea were my team. The blues of Stamford Bridge now seem invincible under Ronan Abramovich's bottomless wallet, but I guess like all human institutions, they are destined to fall eventually- certainly that would be the hope of reigning European champions Liverpool, who put up a superb performance in a thrilling F A Cup tie against Luton Town yesterday.
But for those who put their hope in the Lord, life doesn't need to be like a movie with a perfect but fabricated happy ending, nor a long hard slog to re-born Wembley stadium for the cup final in May. Every step of the road can be an adventure every bit as exciting as that enjoyed by Peter, Edmund, Susan and Lucy. Sure, there will be heartaches, sorrows and struggles along the way, but always there's the promise. Of a strong lion coming again to save all his people, and holding all the attention of all his "audience" for all time, not just two and a half hours on a soggy Sunday. A better script than this has never been written, and I'd rather be an extra in the live movie house of the Lord than on a directorless stage any day.
Tuesday, 3 January 2006
One Hundred, and Eighty
Darts commentator Sid Waddell was one of the "celebrities" on the last Celebrity Mastermind of the Christmas holidays, last night on BBC ONE. Not that he seemed to have much idea of the rules of the quiz, mind you, as he kept interrupting questionmaster John Humphrys with his answers. Nothing like enthusiasm, but this is England, old boy, where you have to play the game, play the game, there's a good chap.
Mr Waddell may not shine at marginally challenging quizzes, but at least he has scored his claim to fame by his elongated exaltation when someone at the oche hits the Bullseye with the perfect score. Numbers are the name of the game for him.
However, I digress, since tonight's excursion is not to a world of smoke-filled bars but to family memories on what would have been my dear Dad's eightieth birthday, had he lived another six years or so- which he might well have done had he been able to quit the evil weed rather than succumb to emphysema.
Some time this year, if the government has its way, smoking in many public places will be banned, just as it has been in Ireland now for a year or so. The massed ranks of libertarian puffers will of course be out in force to cry "foul", but the most foul thing about our society's continued tolerance of tobacco hitherto has been the air that non-smokers so often have to put up with in pubs and restaurants (which, actually, are probably about the only public buildings which haven't banned smoking already). Everybody should have the right to enjoy clean air and somebody else's "liberty" should never be allowed to compromise the health of others.
And the One Hundred? Well, it's the time of year for remembering anniversaries, isn't it, and this year will have its fair share of course. Last year brought us many military-related ones; this year we may not have that so much, but there will be reminders a-plenty of Britain's past engineering greatness with the bi-centenary of Isambard Kingdom Brunel's birth, while on the classical stage all lights will be shining on the memory of Mozart.
Worthy figures of commemoration both, for their contributions to the growth of the railway system in the UK and the musical enrichment of generations respectively. But for my part, I'm turning my thoughts back to a relative now gone who was as much a celebrity to my younger self as any wannabe starlet on today's TV might be to others- and much missed still. 30th December last year marked the 100th anniversary of the birth of my maternal grandmother, to whom I was close- and without her of course, well you wouldn't be reading this, I guess.
Indeed, when I interviewed my grandma for an English project in the third year of secondary school, not only was my best English teacher, Mrs Dudley, most impressed but I added a few more coins to the precious currency which is my memory bank and learnt just a little more of the earthy, human side of history. It's the stories of real people, told by real people, that make the study of the subject so enjoyable- and important.
Grandma Wallace meant much to me, and I sigh that longing sigh of temps perdu, if I may borrow from Marcel Proust, as I think of her lovely house, built for a railway worker and his growing family in the thirties, which the short-sighted council housing policies of the seventies saw demolished. But at least I and grandma's surviving relatives have a point of reference to return to should we so wish, a still-standing house in a neighbouring road which was at the bottom of grand-dad's much-loved garden.
Time without reference points, personal and communal, becomes meaningless. For everything, there is a season, said the writer of Ecclesiastes, sometimes the biblical equivalent of Marvin the Paranoid Android. The trouble is, in our world where our own actions, it would seem, have so upset the natural order of things, it can be hard to spot the marker posts of each season's coming and going. It's no longer a straightforward task to know when to sow and when to reap, and who the sowers and reapers are.
Certainly in my personal life, I'm wrestling as to whether I should try to sow a new seed in my current workplace, or accept that the time has come to be plucked up from there after a six-month season, before I become a "weed" through inadequate capacity to serve as well as I would wish in my present role. It's the sort of question maybe many are asking at this time of the year too: January is apparently a peak time for recruitment and therefore, logically, for people to change jobs. Maybe I need to reap my harvest elsewhere. It's not easy,though, as there are folk there who have become really treasured examples and friends to me and who I do not want to lose- just as I wished I'd never had to lose my loved ones. Likewise, there is much I think I could still offer and do to help my current employer thrive. But wanting and having are not always mutually compatible, just as some plants will never thrive in acid soil and yet blossom in alkaline.
Thank heavens, then, for one who knows the times and seasons far better than we do, and yet can be relied on as the faithful gardener who knows exactly what needs planting, or should that be who, and where, and when. Alan Titchmarsh may currently be working his way through the gardening year on TV, but God's been working as the gardener supreme through the generations from Abraham to Jesus. 42 of them in fact, which according to Douglas Adams, was the supposed answer to life, the universe and everything.
Strange such a significant number should come from a non-Christian mind in a work of science fiction, but numbers are far more significant, perhaps, than we give them credit for. Maybe Thirty Three years, the lifespan of a young man called Jesus, who knew the seasons far better than we and used many a horticultural example in his timeless teaching, is the number that matters more than any other. And the life- and more significantly, death and resurrection- that should be remembered every day of every year, not just once every one hundred and eighty or so.
Mr Waddell may not shine at marginally challenging quizzes, but at least he has scored his claim to fame by his elongated exaltation when someone at the oche hits the Bullseye with the perfect score. Numbers are the name of the game for him.
However, I digress, since tonight's excursion is not to a world of smoke-filled bars but to family memories on what would have been my dear Dad's eightieth birthday, had he lived another six years or so- which he might well have done had he been able to quit the evil weed rather than succumb to emphysema.
Some time this year, if the government has its way, smoking in many public places will be banned, just as it has been in Ireland now for a year or so. The massed ranks of libertarian puffers will of course be out in force to cry "foul", but the most foul thing about our society's continued tolerance of tobacco hitherto has been the air that non-smokers so often have to put up with in pubs and restaurants (which, actually, are probably about the only public buildings which haven't banned smoking already). Everybody should have the right to enjoy clean air and somebody else's "liberty" should never be allowed to compromise the health of others.
And the One Hundred? Well, it's the time of year for remembering anniversaries, isn't it, and this year will have its fair share of course. Last year brought us many military-related ones; this year we may not have that so much, but there will be reminders a-plenty of Britain's past engineering greatness with the bi-centenary of Isambard Kingdom Brunel's birth, while on the classical stage all lights will be shining on the memory of Mozart.
Worthy figures of commemoration both, for their contributions to the growth of the railway system in the UK and the musical enrichment of generations respectively. But for my part, I'm turning my thoughts back to a relative now gone who was as much a celebrity to my younger self as any wannabe starlet on today's TV might be to others- and much missed still. 30th December last year marked the 100th anniversary of the birth of my maternal grandmother, to whom I was close- and without her of course, well you wouldn't be reading this, I guess.
Indeed, when I interviewed my grandma for an English project in the third year of secondary school, not only was my best English teacher, Mrs Dudley, most impressed but I added a few more coins to the precious currency which is my memory bank and learnt just a little more of the earthy, human side of history. It's the stories of real people, told by real people, that make the study of the subject so enjoyable- and important.
Grandma Wallace meant much to me, and I sigh that longing sigh of temps perdu, if I may borrow from Marcel Proust, as I think of her lovely house, built for a railway worker and his growing family in the thirties, which the short-sighted council housing policies of the seventies saw demolished. But at least I and grandma's surviving relatives have a point of reference to return to should we so wish, a still-standing house in a neighbouring road which was at the bottom of grand-dad's much-loved garden.
Time without reference points, personal and communal, becomes meaningless. For everything, there is a season, said the writer of Ecclesiastes, sometimes the biblical equivalent of Marvin the Paranoid Android. The trouble is, in our world where our own actions, it would seem, have so upset the natural order of things, it can be hard to spot the marker posts of each season's coming and going. It's no longer a straightforward task to know when to sow and when to reap, and who the sowers and reapers are.
Certainly in my personal life, I'm wrestling as to whether I should try to sow a new seed in my current workplace, or accept that the time has come to be plucked up from there after a six-month season, before I become a "weed" through inadequate capacity to serve as well as I would wish in my present role. It's the sort of question maybe many are asking at this time of the year too: January is apparently a peak time for recruitment and therefore, logically, for people to change jobs. Maybe I need to reap my harvest elsewhere. It's not easy,though, as there are folk there who have become really treasured examples and friends to me and who I do not want to lose- just as I wished I'd never had to lose my loved ones. Likewise, there is much I think I could still offer and do to help my current employer thrive. But wanting and having are not always mutually compatible, just as some plants will never thrive in acid soil and yet blossom in alkaline.
Thank heavens, then, for one who knows the times and seasons far better than we do, and yet can be relied on as the faithful gardener who knows exactly what needs planting, or should that be who, and where, and when. Alan Titchmarsh may currently be working his way through the gardening year on TV, but God's been working as the gardener supreme through the generations from Abraham to Jesus. 42 of them in fact, which according to Douglas Adams, was the supposed answer to life, the universe and everything.
Strange such a significant number should come from a non-Christian mind in a work of science fiction, but numbers are far more significant, perhaps, than we give them credit for. Maybe Thirty Three years, the lifespan of a young man called Jesus, who knew the seasons far better than we and used many a horticultural example in his timeless teaching, is the number that matters more than any other. And the life- and more significantly, death and resurrection- that should be remembered every day of every year, not just once every one hundred and eighty or so.
Monday, 2 January 2006
Lights Out
Well, here we are at 23.00 on 2nd January 2006 and, at least for those of us South of the (Scottish) border, the party's over for another eleven and a half months. Another Bank Holiday Monday draws near to its close, and the rest of Europe no doubt asks itself again how Britons get away with so many of them, plus informal time off on an individual basis, at this time of the year. Well, next year with a weekday Christmas and New Year, we'll be as back to normal as we can be :-(
Returning to work tomorrow will come hard. Isn't it perverse that while the evenings rapidly become lighter after the Christmas celebrations end, dark mornings linger on well into January and rising at 6.30 is no pleasure for most of us. But do it we must, and soon all the festive lights, decorations and other accoutrements of the season must be consigned to the dustbin or storage boxes once again. Unless you're an Eastern Orthodox getting ready to "keep the feast", or having a twelfth night party (a shame nobody does these days!), "normal" life must begin again.
But what is normal life? For many, it's a dull, repetitive, often lacking meaning kind of affair,which is so sad because that's not the way its meant to be. The truth of the Christmas message is that we carry with us a light in our darkness: the message of one of the epiphany hymns you might just be singing this coming weekend re-affirms that.
In that heavenly country bright
Need they no created light...
So most gracious God may we
Ever more be led by thee.
One of my final reflections on Christmas 2005/6, as if in a Christmas tree's shiny bauble, is that Christ is the light of the world indeed, whatever the season. For we'll have dark days and struggles always,in any month, but we needn't fumble like a miner who's safety lamp has failed. God has poured his light on several issues in my own life this last fortnight: if you're stumbling around looking for the matches right now, don't live your life like a candle in the wind but let the divine spark be your tinderbox! Who needs a nightlight? Sleep tight.
Returning to work tomorrow will come hard. Isn't it perverse that while the evenings rapidly become lighter after the Christmas celebrations end, dark mornings linger on well into January and rising at 6.30 is no pleasure for most of us. But do it we must, and soon all the festive lights, decorations and other accoutrements of the season must be consigned to the dustbin or storage boxes once again. Unless you're an Eastern Orthodox getting ready to "keep the feast", or having a twelfth night party (a shame nobody does these days!), "normal" life must begin again.
But what is normal life? For many, it's a dull, repetitive, often lacking meaning kind of affair,which is so sad because that's not the way its meant to be. The truth of the Christmas message is that we carry with us a light in our darkness: the message of one of the epiphany hymns you might just be singing this coming weekend re-affirms that.
In that heavenly country bright
Need they no created light...
So most gracious God may we
Ever more be led by thee.
One of my final reflections on Christmas 2005/6, as if in a Christmas tree's shiny bauble, is that Christ is the light of the world indeed, whatever the season. For we'll have dark days and struggles always,in any month, but we needn't fumble like a miner who's safety lamp has failed. God has poured his light on several issues in my own life this last fortnight: if you're stumbling around looking for the matches right now, don't live your life like a candle in the wind but let the divine spark be your tinderbox! Who needs a nightlight? Sleep tight.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
