So often the news from the Middle East and Persian Gulf these days is dominated by heart-breaking headlines telling of yet another bombing, murder, skirmish or outbreak of the evil exchanges which it would be easy to imagine are the permanent currency of the region. How good it is today then to be sharing in the worldwide joy which greeted news yesterday of the release of 74-year old Norman Kember, and two of the other Christian peace activitists kidnapped with him last November.
How much more encouraging to people of faith though, like Mr Kember, to see God's hand in their release, and not just the well-honed skills of the world famous British Special Air Service (SAS) who apparently liberated Mr Kember and his Canadian co-workers from their captors.
Truly this is prayer answered, and I am so glad I joined the Trafalgar Square vigil last month to pray for their release and to stand up for what is right. Some may see their actions as foolhardy, and entering into strife-torn danger zones may not be the first choice of activity you associate with a Pinner pensioner. Nevertheless, these angels have rushed in where fools so often tread, and thank heavens for voices of sanity like theirs.
Even if the outcome was not a storybook ending- weeks of intelligence work and an outcome free of bloodshed did not spare Tom Fox, who was found dead two weeks earlier by a Baghdad roadside- here is an example for the scoffers and the doubters that the good fight can be fought with all might in the 21st century as much as the first, but without force of arms. Love and prayer can still be weapons of mass instruction.
Jesus Christ gave up his life and experienced the horror of the most painful and merciless of deaths, just that those he gave it for might live. Thank the Lord then, literally, that those who follow him do not always have to sacrifice their precious human existence as they stand up for what is right, and peace in our time.
Thank God for answered prayer, and may Norman Kember and all who work for peace in a world riddled by hatred always know Jesus' words of comfort and re-assurance: "blessed are the peacemakers"
Friday, 24 March 2006
Tuesday, 21 March 2006
Last of the Winter Whine
I guess I wouldn't be a British Blogger if I didn't hark on about the weather once in a while! It seems to be our most well-known national characteristic, and is a surefire conversation starter whenever meeting someone new- readers outside the British Isles take note if you've never yet visited these shores but intend to some day.
Today is officially the first day of Spring here in the Northern Hemisphere, with yesterday being the vernal equinox when the hours of day and night were roughly equal. From here on in, lightwise at least we're coasting up to the summit of the year and the longest day in my favourite month, June- I can't wait for the longer evenings, especially when Summer time clicks in as the clocks go forward on Sunday.
Unfortunately, though, the climate's got a long way to go yet before it catches up, and today it is still as bitterly chilly as it seems to have been since the end of last year. Everywhere in the media and in the daily chatter of chilly choppers, the topic's the same: when IS Spring going to arrive this year? Even the poor daffodils are staying in hibernation for want of a bit of sunshine- though ironically in South-East England, it's rain we're needing rather more after the driest winter since 1933.
The BBC's weather experts are blaming it on a late autumn, knocking on to a delayed winter and hence a tardy spring. First time I've heard that one, I must admit, but it's a plausible theory.
Life often mimics the seasons in the same way, and indeed the writer of Ecclesiastes, often seen as one of the gloomiest books of the Bible, said that for everything there is a time, and a season for every activity under the heavens (New International Version translation).
Trouble is, it's not always so easy to read the signs of the changing seasons in our own lives- when we should be moving on from one place, activity or relationship, to another. If only we had the same clues, like the previously naked pussy willow now putting on its spring garb with the tree's soft and furry catkins, or the blackbird chirruping away in sheer joy as well as mate-seeking.
In fact, the clues are all around- and in less than a month, Christians will be replacing the long period of reflection, repentance and withdrawal of Lent with the dark events of Christ's passion followed swiftly by the annual marvel and revelation of the April opening of the empty tomb- and the resurrection! I've no doubt that Jesus's resurrection was an actual physical event, but how much more is it- especially with its timing in the Spring of the year in the place it occurred- the realisation of God's promises to us, and the hope that each new Springtime brings.
Why worry about the passage of the years and the fact we're all getting older? Why should age anyway be any barrier to achieving what you want to, or perhaps are even destined to do by the almighty? Why not instead be like the old codgers in Last of the Summer Wine wandering the idyllic countryside of West Yorkshire without a care in the world, taking each day as it comes and making the most of this extraordinary gift called life, as long as it endures. Surely that's no cause for whining, nor for pining, but rather for shining. There may be no sign of the sun, but we wait to be reminded that the dying son became the risen son-and that puts a spring in my step every day!
Today is officially the first day of Spring here in the Northern Hemisphere, with yesterday being the vernal equinox when the hours of day and night were roughly equal. From here on in, lightwise at least we're coasting up to the summit of the year and the longest day in my favourite month, June- I can't wait for the longer evenings, especially when Summer time clicks in as the clocks go forward on Sunday.
Unfortunately, though, the climate's got a long way to go yet before it catches up, and today it is still as bitterly chilly as it seems to have been since the end of last year. Everywhere in the media and in the daily chatter of chilly choppers, the topic's the same: when IS Spring going to arrive this year? Even the poor daffodils are staying in hibernation for want of a bit of sunshine- though ironically in South-East England, it's rain we're needing rather more after the driest winter since 1933.
The BBC's weather experts are blaming it on a late autumn, knocking on to a delayed winter and hence a tardy spring. First time I've heard that one, I must admit, but it's a plausible theory.
Life often mimics the seasons in the same way, and indeed the writer of Ecclesiastes, often seen as one of the gloomiest books of the Bible, said that for everything there is a time, and a season for every activity under the heavens (New International Version translation).
Trouble is, it's not always so easy to read the signs of the changing seasons in our own lives- when we should be moving on from one place, activity or relationship, to another. If only we had the same clues, like the previously naked pussy willow now putting on its spring garb with the tree's soft and furry catkins, or the blackbird chirruping away in sheer joy as well as mate-seeking.
In fact, the clues are all around- and in less than a month, Christians will be replacing the long period of reflection, repentance and withdrawal of Lent with the dark events of Christ's passion followed swiftly by the annual marvel and revelation of the April opening of the empty tomb- and the resurrection! I've no doubt that Jesus's resurrection was an actual physical event, but how much more is it- especially with its timing in the Spring of the year in the place it occurred- the realisation of God's promises to us, and the hope that each new Springtime brings.
Why worry about the passage of the years and the fact we're all getting older? Why should age anyway be any barrier to achieving what you want to, or perhaps are even destined to do by the almighty? Why not instead be like the old codgers in Last of the Summer Wine wandering the idyllic countryside of West Yorkshire without a care in the world, taking each day as it comes and making the most of this extraordinary gift called life, as long as it endures. Surely that's no cause for whining, nor for pining, but rather for shining. There may be no sign of the sun, but we wait to be reminded that the dying son became the risen son-and that puts a spring in my step every day!
Thursday, 16 March 2006
Wintry Wesleyan Walking
I wonder if John Wesley was ever frozen to the spot? Unlikely that one of the greatest preachers ever froze with fear with as he preached to the masses, but it must have been chilly atop his horse on his famous jaunts, totalling a couple of hundred thousand miles in all, spreading the Word of God throughout the British Isles. There were no centrally heated equines with all the latest accessories for foot and bottom comfort back then: being one of Ye Servants of God on the move was a jolly uncomfortable lot.
Yet Wesley carried on his world-changing work with incredible stamina, right up to the age of 88 when he died. He did so because he sensed a purpose and God's hand on his ministry. Beyond that, however, many historians believe John Wesley saved Great Britain from revolution in the mid-eighteenth century.
"My Hero" -spiritually at least- came much to mind on Thursday afternoon this week, as I trekked the famous streets of the City of London on a fascinating "Christian Heritage Walk" with my fellow Toolboxers on the penultimate afternoon of this fascinating and stimulating course. Unfortunately, it turned out to be the coldest mid-March afternoon for many years, but despite the discomfort we chilly pedestrians had to bear, the tour included a couple of warm churches and even a flame- of the Spirit, at least, warming the heart if not the body.
Having seen the memorial commemorating the Wesley's conversion on one May evening, as close as possible to where it happened, our tour then took us on to the Labyrinth which is the Museum of London complex and a fascinating memorial- which I'm ashamed to admit as a good Methodist I knew nothing about. The "Wesley Flame" outside the Museum of London is an impressive represnation of the kind of faith Wesley had, which motviated him throughout the second half of his life. Beyond this, there were many impressive and unusual sights, including the oldest church in London, St Bartholomew's, where in the mind's ear it was almost possible to hear the monks chanting. A very different world to the Wesleys, but all part of the rich tapestry which makes up Britain's spiritual past.
If the Christian Heritage walk took us back to London's spiritual past, Toolbox has been an education, and insight and an inspiration to help those of us who believe the time is right for a new spiritual revolution in the UK. A rewarding week gave the hope that we may yet see it happen, and the resources and ideas to help do it. Thank heavens for men and women of vision, faith and commitment.
Yet Wesley carried on his world-changing work with incredible stamina, right up to the age of 88 when he died. He did so because he sensed a purpose and God's hand on his ministry. Beyond that, however, many historians believe John Wesley saved Great Britain from revolution in the mid-eighteenth century.
"My Hero" -spiritually at least- came much to mind on Thursday afternoon this week, as I trekked the famous streets of the City of London on a fascinating "Christian Heritage Walk" with my fellow Toolboxers on the penultimate afternoon of this fascinating and stimulating course. Unfortunately, it turned out to be the coldest mid-March afternoon for many years, but despite the discomfort we chilly pedestrians had to bear, the tour included a couple of warm churches and even a flame- of the Spirit, at least, warming the heart if not the body.
Having seen the memorial commemorating the Wesley's conversion on one May evening, as close as possible to where it happened, our tour then took us on to the Labyrinth which is the Museum of London complex and a fascinating memorial- which I'm ashamed to admit as a good Methodist I knew nothing about. The "Wesley Flame" outside the Museum of London is an impressive represnation of the kind of faith Wesley had, which motviated him throughout the second half of his life. Beyond this, there were many impressive and unusual sights, including the oldest church in London, St Bartholomew's, where in the mind's ear it was almost possible to hear the monks chanting. A very different world to the Wesleys, but all part of the rich tapestry which makes up Britain's spiritual past.
If the Christian Heritage walk took us back to London's spiritual past, Toolbox has been an education, and insight and an inspiration to help those of us who believe the time is right for a new spiritual revolution in the UK. A rewarding week gave the hope that we may yet see it happen, and the resources and ideas to help do it. Thank heavens for men and women of vision, faith and commitment.
Monday, 13 March 2006
Give us the tools.
Why do we lionise our heroes to the extent we can't recognise they are still only flawed humans? For surely, in their weakness can often be found their strength.
Winston Churchill is an unexpected example of flawed humanity who nevertheless achieved great things. Controversy has been stirred up this week over a new statue of Britain's great wartime prime minister. Nothing special in that, you might think; "Winnie" has been represented in bronze and stone in numerous locations. Except the new statue in Norwich shows Churchill in anything but the famous "V for Victory pose". Instead, he's shown in a straitjacket, representing the depression, or "black dog" as he called it, which he suffered with throughout his life.
Churchill frequently suffered bouts of dark meaninglessness in his life, yet this was the same man who said "Give us the tools, and we'll finish the job" when war was at its height. The public saw not his weakness, and indeed this and his strokes and heart attacks were kept from them to keep morale high. Instead, they saw Churchill inspiring them, stirring them on to great service and pride in what they could achieve, given the right tools for the job.
This week, I'm trying out a new toolbox myself, the popular regular course run by LICC for anybody in Christian service. I may not have to face the same battles as Churchill, but the tools of effective Christian service are the only way to ensure we can all play our part in winning a new battle, against apathy and nihilism, to finish the job for Christ.
Winston Churchill is an unexpected example of flawed humanity who nevertheless achieved great things. Controversy has been stirred up this week over a new statue of Britain's great wartime prime minister. Nothing special in that, you might think; "Winnie" has been represented in bronze and stone in numerous locations. Except the new statue in Norwich shows Churchill in anything but the famous "V for Victory pose". Instead, he's shown in a straitjacket, representing the depression, or "black dog" as he called it, which he suffered with throughout his life.
Churchill frequently suffered bouts of dark meaninglessness in his life, yet this was the same man who said "Give us the tools, and we'll finish the job" when war was at its height. The public saw not his weakness, and indeed this and his strokes and heart attacks were kept from them to keep morale high. Instead, they saw Churchill inspiring them, stirring them on to great service and pride in what they could achieve, given the right tools for the job.
This week, I'm trying out a new toolbox myself, the popular regular course run by LICC for anybody in Christian service. I may not have to face the same battles as Churchill, but the tools of effective Christian service are the only way to ensure we can all play our part in winning a new battle, against apathy and nihilism, to finish the job for Christ.
Friday, 10 March 2006
TW3
No, TW3 is not my postcode area, though it's not far away and the "Jubilee Mail Centre" through which the pedestrian post passes is even closer to where I sit as I type. This TW3 though was the short acronym affectionately adopted for the BBC's first serious attempt at TV satire in the mid sixties: That Was The Week That Was.
TW3 was daring stuff, even in that decade famed for liberation, though it started before the height of free love and flower power from 1967 onwards. Instead, TW3 blossomed in the wake of the Cuban Missile Crisis at a time when the Cold War was at its peak and concerns about 'Reds in the Bed' were everywhere. No more so in fact than when those reds might have the wrong sort of connections with both KGB officials and Tory Government ministers, as a certain John Profumo -who has just died at the grand age of 91- was to discover at the cost of his career after his brief dalliance with call girl Christine Keiller.
"It's over, let it go", intoned Millicent Martin each week, I gather, at the end of each TW3 show. I say I gather, because I've only seen the show in archive footage, being too young to remember its original screenings. Satire has a long tradition in British life, and indeed my birthplace in the next postcode area was home to one of the most famous political cartoonists of his era, William Hogarth.
Some things in the news though are always more tragic than funny, and to treat them as satire is of very questionable taste. The news in the last seven days has featured two very different groups of people, but each of them precious to the God who made them and so they should be to all right-thinking human beings with any sense of the dignity and sanctity of human life.
At long last, the obscenity which is apparently Guantanamo Bay, the US holding facility in Cuba for alleged terrorist suspects, is back in the public eye. In the face of worldwide condemnation at the indignity of the detention facility and the purported tactics of its staff, the American government has been forced to release the names of detainees, if not the prisoners themselves. Meanwhile, the inmates of "Gitmo" as it has become known are said to be enduring a regime of torturous force-feeding as they attempt to make their protests in desperation by hunger strike.
A week ago, I first heard about this latest outrage on BBC Radio 4's Today programme: for its effect on me, follow the link by clicking on the title of this post, which directs you to the following Saturday's Thought for the Day on the same programme. It was delivered by a friend of mine who knows how to use both humour and the power of the Word as occasion dictates. On this occasion, it's nothing to laugh about.
The same week saw an overdue reminder in the media of other captives equally precious and needing to be remembered. It's now just over one hundred days since the 74-year old British Christian peace campaigner Norman Kember was abducted, along with three of his fellow workers, in the tragic hell hole which is post-war Iraq. Supporters of Mr Kember and his compatriots had been gathering regularly near London's monuments to hard-won liberty to pray and pursue this case of four human beings only seeking the peace and freedom of their fellow human beings. They do so regardless of creeds and colours, or ideologies and isms. They do so out of love.
On Sunday afternoon, I knew I just had to join these supporters. It was the natural complement to my actions last Friday. The fact the vigil ended up being shown on Tuesday's TV news, a day when a recently-filmed video of Mr Kember and the others gave new hope was not what motivated me. Maybe what did, instead, was looking over to the peak of the building opposite the square where around 100 souls stood in liberty to remember four others who are not at liberty.
That building was South Africa House. What greater sign can there be of the ability of a higher power than avarice and hatred to overcome evil as once reigned in that country which became so villified by the world for its policies of division and apartheid. That peak had two words "Good" and "Hope", either side of the embossed image of a sailing ship presumably rounding the cape of the same name, though that day I thought of it rather more as the "Escape of Good Hope".
Human awfulness can often beach us on the shores of desperation but this is because we so often set our course with the wrong sails aloft. Faith, hope and love should power our three-masted schooner to lead us to the sea of tranquility found only in God's harbour.
Yes, sometimes, there will be laughter along the way, often there will seem to be disaster, war and tragedy. But, as one memorable sixties portrayal of Jesus had it, casting the Messiah as a clown, there can be 'happy endings' to the human stories behind Gitmo and Norman Kember et al. As apparently happened for John Profumo in his latter years, there can be release, redemption and even the promise of resurrection in the face of death. And, for those who believe, God will always have the last laugh.
TW3 was daring stuff, even in that decade famed for liberation, though it started before the height of free love and flower power from 1967 onwards. Instead, TW3 blossomed in the wake of the Cuban Missile Crisis at a time when the Cold War was at its peak and concerns about 'Reds in the Bed' were everywhere. No more so in fact than when those reds might have the wrong sort of connections with both KGB officials and Tory Government ministers, as a certain John Profumo -who has just died at the grand age of 91- was to discover at the cost of his career after his brief dalliance with call girl Christine Keiller.
"It's over, let it go", intoned Millicent Martin each week, I gather, at the end of each TW3 show. I say I gather, because I've only seen the show in archive footage, being too young to remember its original screenings. Satire has a long tradition in British life, and indeed my birthplace in the next postcode area was home to one of the most famous political cartoonists of his era, William Hogarth.
Some things in the news though are always more tragic than funny, and to treat them as satire is of very questionable taste. The news in the last seven days has featured two very different groups of people, but each of them precious to the God who made them and so they should be to all right-thinking human beings with any sense of the dignity and sanctity of human life.
At long last, the obscenity which is apparently Guantanamo Bay, the US holding facility in Cuba for alleged terrorist suspects, is back in the public eye. In the face of worldwide condemnation at the indignity of the detention facility and the purported tactics of its staff, the American government has been forced to release the names of detainees, if not the prisoners themselves. Meanwhile, the inmates of "Gitmo" as it has become known are said to be enduring a regime of torturous force-feeding as they attempt to make their protests in desperation by hunger strike.
A week ago, I first heard about this latest outrage on BBC Radio 4's Today programme: for its effect on me, follow the link by clicking on the title of this post, which directs you to the following Saturday's Thought for the Day on the same programme. It was delivered by a friend of mine who knows how to use both humour and the power of the Word as occasion dictates. On this occasion, it's nothing to laugh about.
The same week saw an overdue reminder in the media of other captives equally precious and needing to be remembered. It's now just over one hundred days since the 74-year old British Christian peace campaigner Norman Kember was abducted, along with three of his fellow workers, in the tragic hell hole which is post-war Iraq. Supporters of Mr Kember and his compatriots had been gathering regularly near London's monuments to hard-won liberty to pray and pursue this case of four human beings only seeking the peace and freedom of their fellow human beings. They do so regardless of creeds and colours, or ideologies and isms. They do so out of love.
On Sunday afternoon, I knew I just had to join these supporters. It was the natural complement to my actions last Friday. The fact the vigil ended up being shown on Tuesday's TV news, a day when a recently-filmed video of Mr Kember and the others gave new hope was not what motivated me. Maybe what did, instead, was looking over to the peak of the building opposite the square where around 100 souls stood in liberty to remember four others who are not at liberty.
That building was South Africa House. What greater sign can there be of the ability of a higher power than avarice and hatred to overcome evil as once reigned in that country which became so villified by the world for its policies of division and apartheid. That peak had two words "Good" and "Hope", either side of the embossed image of a sailing ship presumably rounding the cape of the same name, though that day I thought of it rather more as the "Escape of Good Hope".
Human awfulness can often beach us on the shores of desperation but this is because we so often set our course with the wrong sails aloft. Faith, hope and love should power our three-masted schooner to lead us to the sea of tranquility found only in God's harbour.
Yes, sometimes, there will be laughter along the way, often there will seem to be disaster, war and tragedy. But, as one memorable sixties portrayal of Jesus had it, casting the Messiah as a clown, there can be 'happy endings' to the human stories behind Gitmo and Norman Kember et al. As apparently happened for John Profumo in his latter years, there can be release, redemption and even the promise of resurrection in the face of death. And, for those who believe, God will always have the last laugh.
Thursday, 9 March 2006
Snowdrop
Puzzle of the day: what is the image on the left of this blog's masthead supposed to be? Most people I suppose would say, "easy, it's an asterisk of course!" OK, but that's a puzzle in itself: where did the asterisk come from? And no, don't tell me Gaul!
I look at this little symbol in rather more picturesque terms though: I think it's a snowflake or if you prefer, a snowdrop.
Snowdrops from the sky have been a regular sight in many parts of the UK this cold, dark season. We were warned back in the autumn that a long, hard winter lay ahead and the meteoro-prophets seem to have been proved right. It seems like a longer watch than usual for Spring, so I hope Bill Oddie's got plenty of nice hot Thermos flasks with him.
Our perception of time and its passage is an odd thing though, as a BBC TV series is currently examining. Astronomically speaking, Winter is no longer or shorter this year than it has ever been. It still lasts three months. But a succession of mornings scraping the ice from the car or regular TV news footage of kids enjoying themselves in the snow can make the coldest season seem to go on forever.
Perhaps that's why God created the other type of snowdrop, the mini blooming delight which has usually exploded from the ground in the second month of the year. It's a visual delight to the jaded winter eyes of any soul observant enough to spot it's tiny floral form.
Daffodils have a similar effect on me. They are the flower of Wales and of March, and every time I see one my heart fills with joy. Indeed, so fond am I of these yellow-trumpeted splendours that I have one on permanent display in my Eastbourne kitchen in the form of a poster. It bears the wording "But as for me and my household, we will serve the Lord" (Joshua Chapter 24, Verse 15). Amen to that!
Lent is a time of patient waiting. It will always have forty days (OK, it's actually a few more because Sundays don't count but let's not be pedantic!). It can seem long and hard at times, particularly if a favourite activity or food has been forsaken for the duration.
But God has promised he will never leave us or forsake us- even in the darkest days, as I endured in Lent last year during my Mum's final illness. The hope of Springtime is embedded in the DNA of every flower piercing the barrenness of our garden deserts,as the elusive sun heads northwards on its course towards the equator. But the promise of Easter is in every buried bulb bursting from the soil, as new life is offered by the rising son year after year.
I look at this little symbol in rather more picturesque terms though: I think it's a snowflake or if you prefer, a snowdrop.
Snowdrops from the sky have been a regular sight in many parts of the UK this cold, dark season. We were warned back in the autumn that a long, hard winter lay ahead and the meteoro-prophets seem to have been proved right. It seems like a longer watch than usual for Spring, so I hope Bill Oddie's got plenty of nice hot Thermos flasks with him.
Our perception of time and its passage is an odd thing though, as a BBC TV series is currently examining. Astronomically speaking, Winter is no longer or shorter this year than it has ever been. It still lasts three months. But a succession of mornings scraping the ice from the car or regular TV news footage of kids enjoying themselves in the snow can make the coldest season seem to go on forever.
Perhaps that's why God created the other type of snowdrop, the mini blooming delight which has usually exploded from the ground in the second month of the year. It's a visual delight to the jaded winter eyes of any soul observant enough to spot it's tiny floral form.
Daffodils have a similar effect on me. They are the flower of Wales and of March, and every time I see one my heart fills with joy. Indeed, so fond am I of these yellow-trumpeted splendours that I have one on permanent display in my Eastbourne kitchen in the form of a poster. It bears the wording "But as for me and my household, we will serve the Lord" (Joshua Chapter 24, Verse 15). Amen to that!
Lent is a time of patient waiting. It will always have forty days (OK, it's actually a few more because Sundays don't count but let's not be pedantic!). It can seem long and hard at times, particularly if a favourite activity or food has been forsaken for the duration.
But God has promised he will never leave us or forsake us- even in the darkest days, as I endured in Lent last year during my Mum's final illness. The hope of Springtime is embedded in the DNA of every flower piercing the barrenness of our garden deserts,as the elusive sun heads northwards on its course towards the equator. But the promise of Easter is in every buried bulb bursting from the soil, as new life is offered by the rising son year after year.
Wednesday, 8 March 2006
Taking a Second Look..(and a third, and a fourth...)
Now there was me thinking it was only women who'd spend hours trying out a new outfit only to leave the shop unsatisfied!
I've spent much of the morning so far trying out various new looks for this blogspot, using the various templates that are available from the infinite-floored department store of ideas which is Google. I've tried red, I've tried blue, I've tried green- all favourite colours of mine.
OK, superficially they looked appealing in the "mirror" of the Google samples- but try to fit them to my figure, or should I say my words, and they just don't look right on me. However, I did allow a few alterations to my current suit- such as the links now added to your right, and a new profile and description.
Otherwise, we're back to the same template I've been using for most of the last eighteen months, at least for the moment. If any design geeks out there have any bright ideas, I'm open to suggestions. Maybe really though it's weighty words rather than outer clothing I need to change: I'm still working on that one folks, as I attempt to work out my waistline and work out my own salvation too.
In fact, every Lent provides the opportunity to stop and look at ourselves in the mirror of the life of Jesus, who spent forty days listening to the beguiling sales pitch of the tempter, before rejecting it all because he knew he had to put on the garment of rejection. He knew where he had to look for that. It was not to a catwalk nor was it a pec-talk, but his was the most important purchase decision anybody has ever taken in this world- of blood.
The hanger of the cross on Good Friday, where God shed his human clothing in naked awfulness, is where Lent is ultimately focussed. If we fix our eyes on Him, it doesn't matter what we look like on the outside when those spiritually-minded intentions to cut out the fat have failed. Our inner clothing will be transformed; no makeover show could ever do that but a simple decision of faith can.
I've spent much of the morning so far trying out various new looks for this blogspot, using the various templates that are available from the infinite-floored department store of ideas which is Google. I've tried red, I've tried blue, I've tried green- all favourite colours of mine.
OK, superficially they looked appealing in the "mirror" of the Google samples- but try to fit them to my figure, or should I say my words, and they just don't look right on me. However, I did allow a few alterations to my current suit- such as the links now added to your right, and a new profile and description.
Otherwise, we're back to the same template I've been using for most of the last eighteen months, at least for the moment. If any design geeks out there have any bright ideas, I'm open to suggestions. Maybe really though it's weighty words rather than outer clothing I need to change: I'm still working on that one folks, as I attempt to work out my waistline and work out my own salvation too.
In fact, every Lent provides the opportunity to stop and look at ourselves in the mirror of the life of Jesus, who spent forty days listening to the beguiling sales pitch of the tempter, before rejecting it all because he knew he had to put on the garment of rejection. He knew where he had to look for that. It was not to a catwalk nor was it a pec-talk, but his was the most important purchase decision anybody has ever taken in this world- of blood.
The hanger of the cross on Good Friday, where God shed his human clothing in naked awfulness, is where Lent is ultimately focussed. If we fix our eyes on Him, it doesn't matter what we look like on the outside when those spiritually-minded intentions to cut out the fat have failed. Our inner clothing will be transformed; no makeover show could ever do that but a simple decision of faith can.
Sunday, 5 March 2006
Simultaneous transmission
Today's first post to Anyway is a new departure for this blog: a "simulcast" as they're known in broadcasting with my other weblog, RadioFar-far. I woke up around 4.40 and caught what sounded like a very strange programme at first, but I was soon hooked. It was called...
Object of Insane Desire
On BBC progs I'm full of flattery
Perhaps it's time I change my battery
Those bad news shows in t'middle of night
Why sometimes, they give such a fright
The play's the thing, Oor Willie said
Enough to keep me from my bed
A Play of the Week, entirely in rhyme
Quite word perfect, how sublime!
It's really quite fun, this comedy made play, doh!
I thought I was listening to English by Radio
From Bush House controllers, you still can depend
At least for such drama, throughout the weekend
A laptop dilemma, an object of trauma
And heated debate, in the shop getting warmer
This object you see, lest you hadn't guessed
A micro computer, can cause such distress
But some of us know, even PM's like Tony
That in radio terms, there's no-one like Sony
And Short Wave listeners could be quite bereft
Without for their toy, a new ICF
So now must be time, to the wireless to go
And start listening to another show!
(c) Mark A Savage March 2006. Title credit to the author of the play, Marcy Kahan!
If you haven't a clue what I'm on about, check out
http://www.bbc.co.uk/worldservice/programmes/play_of_the_week.shtml
before 11th March.
Although written as a comedy, as is so often the case with the best comic writing it makes some serious points, in this case about our all-consuming...consumerism. Definitely worth a listen if you've time.
Object of Insane Desire
On BBC progs I'm full of flattery
Perhaps it's time I change my battery
Those bad news shows in t'middle of night
Why sometimes, they give such a fright
The play's the thing, Oor Willie said
Enough to keep me from my bed
A Play of the Week, entirely in rhyme
Quite word perfect, how sublime!
It's really quite fun, this comedy made play, doh!
I thought I was listening to English by Radio
From Bush House controllers, you still can depend
At least for such drama, throughout the weekend
A laptop dilemma, an object of trauma
And heated debate, in the shop getting warmer
This object you see, lest you hadn't guessed
A micro computer, can cause such distress
But some of us know, even PM's like Tony
That in radio terms, there's no-one like Sony
And Short Wave listeners could be quite bereft
Without for their toy, a new ICF
So now must be time, to the wireless to go
And start listening to another show!
(c) Mark A Savage March 2006. Title credit to the author of the play, Marcy Kahan!
If you haven't a clue what I'm on about, check out
http://www.bbc.co.uk/worldservice/programmes/play_of_the_week.shtml
before 11th March.
Although written as a comedy, as is so often the case with the best comic writing it makes some serious points, in this case about our all-consuming...consumerism. Definitely worth a listen if you've time.
Friday, 3 March 2006
Radio matters
Just a reminder of my companion blog at www.RadioFar-far.blogspot.com, where I've just published a new posting.
Thursday, 2 March 2006
It isn't over while the fat lady sins
Music's in mind again tonight, but at least the images of rock n'roll in surplices seems to have passed off for the moment. Instead, grand opera is lurking somewhere close by in the Savage thought processes, after hearing of BBC Radio Three's bold decision to transmit the whole of Wagner's Ring Cycle in one day, all fifteen hours of it. It would take an Olympian effort to listen to the whole thing at one sitting I think, but no doubt someone will manage this feat.
Talking of things Olympian, who could forget the tour de force of diva Montserrat Caballe and the late Freddie Mercury in their chart-topper arising out of the 1992 Olympics, their homage to the host city, Barcelona? Farokh Bulsara, to give him his real name, actually spent his latter teenage years living with his parents a mile or so from where I am writing these words- and Brian May went to my junior school! Not a lot of people know that.
The roots of the super sound of Queen may lie here in Middlesex, but the "genesis" of my commitment to Christ came 21 years ago this week, following a holiday in Barcelona. Not that Freddie Mercury had anything to do with it, you understand, but I guess the music he was responsible for might well have been playing on the world's radio stations as I enjoyed a holiday there with a couple of my mates from the British DX Club.
Well, perhaps enjoy is not quite the word for it. Endure might be more appropriate, as on this day back in 85 I had the somewhat comic task of trying to report a crime which had occurred in Spain, in schoolboy French to a non-English policeman at Barcelona airport and occasionally lapsing into German. The hire car which my friends had rented was broken into the night before and some aircraft tickets were stolen, along with my one of my friend's favourite radios and my own 21st birthday present containing half my wardrobe. To cap it all, I wasn't insured.
Such adversity could have ruined a holiday, but although my vacation was ending, my new life was about to begin. One of my friends was an avowed Christian, the other a lapsed believer. Noticing the difference in their temperaments at a time of trouble was a very telling lesson for me, and drew me to want to know more about the faith which kept my Christian buddy so seemingly peaceful despite outward circumstances.
Far from ending my eventful holiday as I waited for my plane to fly me back to the familiar territory of Middlesex, I was actually beginning the greatest adventure of my life, the journey of faith. Barcelona may be an elegant city full of wonderful buildings, but the city Christians are headed for is finer than anything Europe can offer. Indeed, the eternal Holy City is more beautiful than anything Earth can show.
One day, giving account for their sin, that unfashionable word which sums up the basic nature of man, all will be sight-seers in the great auditorium before the whole show's director, at the end of the marathon opera of human history. It won't need a Wagner or a Mercury to put music to the story then, but thank the Lord it will have the happy ending that a survey today shows most people want in their books- or at any rate, even for the vilest offender who truly believes. Give me that ending over musical mythology and fat ladies any day.
Talking of things Olympian, who could forget the tour de force of diva Montserrat Caballe and the late Freddie Mercury in their chart-topper arising out of the 1992 Olympics, their homage to the host city, Barcelona? Farokh Bulsara, to give him his real name, actually spent his latter teenage years living with his parents a mile or so from where I am writing these words- and Brian May went to my junior school! Not a lot of people know that.
The roots of the super sound of Queen may lie here in Middlesex, but the "genesis" of my commitment to Christ came 21 years ago this week, following a holiday in Barcelona. Not that Freddie Mercury had anything to do with it, you understand, but I guess the music he was responsible for might well have been playing on the world's radio stations as I enjoyed a holiday there with a couple of my mates from the British DX Club.
Well, perhaps enjoy is not quite the word for it. Endure might be more appropriate, as on this day back in 85 I had the somewhat comic task of trying to report a crime which had occurred in Spain, in schoolboy French to a non-English policeman at Barcelona airport and occasionally lapsing into German. The hire car which my friends had rented was broken into the night before and some aircraft tickets were stolen, along with my one of my friend's favourite radios and my own 21st birthday present containing half my wardrobe. To cap it all, I wasn't insured.
Such adversity could have ruined a holiday, but although my vacation was ending, my new life was about to begin. One of my friends was an avowed Christian, the other a lapsed believer. Noticing the difference in their temperaments at a time of trouble was a very telling lesson for me, and drew me to want to know more about the faith which kept my Christian buddy so seemingly peaceful despite outward circumstances.
Far from ending my eventful holiday as I waited for my plane to fly me back to the familiar territory of Middlesex, I was actually beginning the greatest adventure of my life, the journey of faith. Barcelona may be an elegant city full of wonderful buildings, but the city Christians are headed for is finer than anything Europe can offer. Indeed, the eternal Holy City is more beautiful than anything Earth can show.
One day, giving account for their sin, that unfashionable word which sums up the basic nature of man, all will be sight-seers in the great auditorium before the whole show's director, at the end of the marathon opera of human history. It won't need a Wagner or a Mercury to put music to the story then, but thank the Lord it will have the happy ending that a survey today shows most people want in their books- or at any rate, even for the vilest offender who truly believes. Give me that ending over musical mythology and fat ladies any day.
Wednesday, 1 March 2006
Wild Thing
Do you know how it is when you get a tune or an image sticks in your head and you just can't shed it? Right now as I write this, I can't help thinking of the guffaw-making episode of The Vicar of Dibley where dippy Alice gets married and one of the songs the church choir sing is the 1977 hit Wild Thing! Sounds an unlikely choice typical of the slowest wit in Dibley, but if you look at the words, it's actually very akin to a hymn of praise to the creator who makes everything- including the wild fowl that are worrying everybody sick at the moment with the spectre of bird flu.
Why did I think of this particular arrangement? Maybe my mind's still thinking about the remarkable Jim Wallis who I heard speak a fortnight ago at LICC on the launch of his new book God's Politics. That man is indeed a prophet that believers and non-believers alike need to hear, both sides of the Pond. He doesn't mince his words, but he's also a regular kind of guy and I was amused to learn that he's married to Joy Carroll, supposedly the real life model on which Dawn French's wonderful lady vicar was based.
More likely though is that I'm thinking of this song because the start of Lent naturally draws us to the Wilderness in which the prophet asked God would build him a safe nest. The wild place, where vicious beasts and scavengers no doubt waited to attack Jesus much the same way as the Devil did for forty days and nights as Jesus wrestled with the temptation to let his his unique gifts and powers run wild.
Thankfully, the carpenter of Nazareth who was to become saviour of the world did not give in to the temptation to abuse his ministry, but by contrast we are still fallible creatures who need to face up to our own wild selves every day and especially during this season.
I've experienced about two and a half months of quite incredible spiritual growth- but I'm still rotten to the core really- like every other being on this planet- without the transforming power of our Lord.
Lent's a time for self-examination, of where we're going, and more importantly why we bother to make the journey in the first place. Along the way we'll no doubt find stumbling blocks, as wise friends have counselled me I may well do as I see the dawning of a new light over my own previously wild, untamed places. But remembering that God loves us beyond measure just as we are, as I was reminded in the sermon at an "Ashing" service tonight at our local parish church, is all the re-assurance I need on the journey. We're being led all the way by an infallible guide who will not let us fall.
Why did I think of this particular arrangement? Maybe my mind's still thinking about the remarkable Jim Wallis who I heard speak a fortnight ago at LICC on the launch of his new book God's Politics. That man is indeed a prophet that believers and non-believers alike need to hear, both sides of the Pond. He doesn't mince his words, but he's also a regular kind of guy and I was amused to learn that he's married to Joy Carroll, supposedly the real life model on which Dawn French's wonderful lady vicar was based.
More likely though is that I'm thinking of this song because the start of Lent naturally draws us to the Wilderness in which the prophet asked God would build him a safe nest. The wild place, where vicious beasts and scavengers no doubt waited to attack Jesus much the same way as the Devil did for forty days and nights as Jesus wrestled with the temptation to let his his unique gifts and powers run wild.
Thankfully, the carpenter of Nazareth who was to become saviour of the world did not give in to the temptation to abuse his ministry, but by contrast we are still fallible creatures who need to face up to our own wild selves every day and especially during this season.
I've experienced about two and a half months of quite incredible spiritual growth- but I'm still rotten to the core really- like every other being on this planet- without the transforming power of our Lord.
Lent's a time for self-examination, of where we're going, and more importantly why we bother to make the journey in the first place. Along the way we'll no doubt find stumbling blocks, as wise friends have counselled me I may well do as I see the dawning of a new light over my own previously wild, untamed places. But remembering that God loves us beyond measure just as we are, as I was reminded in the sermon at an "Ashing" service tonight at our local parish church, is all the re-assurance I need on the journey. We're being led all the way by an infallible guide who will not let us fall.
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