So Is This Christmas?

Written in the small hours of Christmas morning, 25th December 2007, in a silent London suburb

Is it merely a feeling
Or the truth most appealing?
Did God come to Earth
Through the journey of birth
Or is man the worst fool
with no hope at all?

Is it carols and candles
And carrier bag handles?
Or Mince pies, roast turkey
And bright winter jersey?

Is it a baby, a manger-
Or is there a danger
That we abandon the boy
Who would sin's power destroy

Is it family and blood ties
Or spotted blue neck ties
The man in the gutter
Or spuds smeared with butter?

Some Christmas, some year
Should we come to our senses
And let the day speak
For Jesus, our Lord, who was the defenceless

Who came to a land, where no peace there yet dwells
Where the deafening bomb blast
Replaces the bells

Should we not see him in the eyes of a child
Or any new mother, so tender and mild
Should we not know him in words of goodwill
Should we not hear him- for he cries to us still

Should we not smell him, in sweet smells of spice
Remembering too, that he carried our vice
Should we not know him, for know him we must
To witness the saviour, the righteous and just

If these few things we can believe
Then surely Christmas will achieve
The wonder of wonders
Miracle of miracles
God is with us, Noel, Noel.

Wherever you are, I wish you a peaceful, happy and joyful Christmas, and may your day be merry and bright.

God bless all my readers, new and old

Hark the Herald Angels Sing
Glory to the New Born King!

Silent Majority

"At the going down of the sun, and in the morning
We Will Remember Them"

This is Remembrancetide, in the UK- and most of the Commonwealth. It's easy to overlook that unique family of nations' part in two World Wars, as we observe this annual pause for reflection. We are asked to remember all those who have given their lives for freedom and liberty in war and conflict, both now and in the century past.

How muted those words "freedom" and "liberty" can sometimes seem these days, like the muffled bells of mourning. Yet we remind ourselves again this weekend, it was for these causes that many millions gave their lives, and we should never forget them. In a world of constant rush and chatter, the best way we can respect the precious lives cut short in too many theatres of battle, is to fall silent ourselves, even if only for 120 seconds- about as many heartbeats as each of these fit young lives once knew before the true horror of war silenced them.

For those who have never lived through a whole world at war, the post-1945 generations to which I belong, remembrance could seem an irrelevance. Some,taking a different view,even say that the red paper poppies of remembrance which adorn so many British jackets and jumpers each November are a symbol too far, glorifying rather than villifying the sad facts of war.

Yet for the majority of Britons, the poppy is worn with pride. Not the red component of a national flag being jingoistically celebrated by a nation obsessed with past glories, but a reminder of the preciousness of life itself, and the grief we should all feel that war has so often, particularly in the last hundred years, prematurely ended lives with potential- lives that might even have contributed voices of sanity and wisdom which would help to end all wars,like the "Great War" was supposed to do.

Like Lawrence Binyon's famous poem I've quoted above, poppies are for the fallen. Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. Politicians can argue the rights and wrongs of many causes but often their career in democracies is brief and easily forgotten. Like the former British defence secretary described by legendary TV interviewer Robin Day as "here today, gone tomorrow". Not so the servicemen who have to defend our nations. Ordinary people- fathers, brothers, uncles, sons and nowadays female relatives too- robbed of their loved ones, are those who can never forget those they have lost.

Don't we owe it to them -always- to remember, with gratitude, yet sadness, their sacrifice? Earlier this evening, I watched with my younger brother the perpetually moving and poignant Royal British Legion Festival of Remembrance. There is more information on this event, and Britain's biggest service charity, if you follow the link in the title of this post. The ceremony, which has been held for eighty years now, has at its finale thousands of poppies falling from the roof of London's Royal Albert Hall. It is a solemn time which needs no words- silence speaks volumes.

Tomorrow, at the eleventh hour on the eleventh day of the eleventh month, the nation will respectfully and collectively observe two minutes of silence, commemorating the exact moment at which the guns finally fell silent in 1918 in the armistice of the "Great" war which robbed so many of the breath of life. It is a scene which will be repeated at countless war memorials in villages and towns not just in the UK, but across the commonwealth, and most particularly in those places where the fallen lie. I intend to remember my Great Uncle Clifford, a private in the Royal West Kent regiment, who I never knew, at our local service.

Yet the bible reading at the Festival of Remembrance by His Royal Highness the Duke of York, Prince Andrew, himself a veteran of the British Navy task force in the Falklands Conflict of 25 years ago, perhaps portrays even more eloquently, in the words of Jesus Christ, the "Prince of Peace", the price that love sometimes has to pay. "Greater Love has no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends".
Actions speak louder than words. Jesus' actions, his whole life and death- and what followed- did that more than any ceremony at a simple cenotaph or a grand hall. May his supreme example, of triumph over evil, bring about the end to war for which we all yearn. When the majority will no longer need to be silent, for peace will prevail throughout all the earth.

This is the Page of The Train

What's the French- or indeed the Flemish- for 'Awayday', does anybody know?

Readers of a certain age should have no problem spotting in today's title the slogan of one of the most fondly remembered advertising campaigns of the 1980s for Britain's former train network, British Rail, then state-owned. Jimmy Saville, before the sovereign's sword of state bestowed on him a knighthood, abandoned the clunk-click, every trip of his equally famous campaign for car seatbelts, for the clickety clack of carriage on track to extol the marvellous possibilities of the newish InterCity 125 services, capable of traversing Britain at 125 miles per hour.

If you're in nostalgic mood, you can click on the title for a link to one of the original TV ads, courtesy of Youtube. Oh joy: a streamlined loco could bring families and loved ones together quickly and smoothly, whether you were in Aberdeen or Yeovil! Ignore for the moment the inevitable engineering works, strikes, and broken down power cars, and a railway utopia lay ahead of you, and all thanks to your cheap Awayday ticket. But your train of thought would have to be shunted back a very long way now to revisit those halcyon days of BR.

Spurred on by the Iron Lady's determination to privatise the iron rails of Britain's mass transport system, the Conservative government of John Major proceeded with the splitting up of the railway network in the mid-1990s, some years after Margaret Thatcher's premiership was de-railed, and even when many were labelling this a privatisation too far.

The Railways Act left Great Britain looking like a lawyers' dream, ruled by intricate inter-company rather than inter-city contracts, but a travellers' nightmare much of the time, with a unified railway replaced by around 25 Train Operating Companies (TOC's), three Rolling Stock Companies (Roscos) to lease out locos and carriages to the TOCs, and the ill-fated public limited company Railtrack who (theoretically) took perfect care of the infrastructure of track, signals and points, together with stations, bridges and tunnels. Their failure to do so led to the nearest Britain's now likely to come to a publicly-owned railway, with its replacement by the stakeholder-run Network Rail which now re-invests all its profits in much-needed improvements to the system.

Most railway industry professionals and analysts soon recognised the arrangements left by the Railways Act were a mess. This bureaucratic bungle might well have signalled the end of the line for Britain's claims to be a great railway-running nation, even though the UK invented the passenger train and has now lent the rest of the world BR's brilliant brand- InterCity (though sadly it's no longer liveried on this island's own trains).

Fortunately, however, more forward-thinking minds were at work, both in government and the civil engineering industry, and it now looks as though Britain actually could be at the start of a new golden age of rail travel. At a time when aircraft are starting to be seen as something of the bete noir of global warming- rightly or wrongly-, travelling by train suddenly looks more green and more appealing than causing the carbonised airways to cough and splutter even more.

Yesterday evening, Her Majesty the Queen, just a few hours after opening another session of the UK parliament in the Victorian splendour of Pugin's Palace of Westminster, opened a new era of rail travel at another gothic architectural icon, which seems set to become a palace of the permanent way: St Pancras International. London's new gateway to Europe will see High Speed 1 services beginning, appropriately, in just a week's time on the heir to the throne's birthday. I wonder if he'll be celebrating with a short 135 minute hop over to Paris: the prince of rails as well as Wales?

I was speaking to a couple of friends this week who'd had the privilege of being part of an exercise organised by the owners of St Pancras International, London and Continental Railways, who are also responsible for the British arm of the Eurostar service which has hitherto served London Waterloo international albeit at a speed more akin to British Snail this side of the channel before the full opening of HS1. From 14th November, the journey from central London to Paris might remind many of another great InterCity slogan: Eurostar becomes the journey shrinker.

My friends told me that they were absolutely awe-struck by the restoration of the train shed roof,once the biggest single-span iron structure in the world. They described it as a masterpiece of powder blue ironwork which, they said, matched the perfect blue of a cloudless autumn sky. Meanwhile, the gleaming sun shining through the hundreds of self-cleaning glass panels onto the gilded clock below, and the carpenter's craftsmanship of the parquet floors of the undercroft below the platforms, left them in no doubt that this is an achievement which ranks with the best railway architecture in the world: a stunning station. It's surely worth a visit even if you're travelling nowhere, and I agreed with them as I watched the new terminus unveiled by her majest in a life webcast yesterday evening.

Rail travel from its very beginnings has been marvellously liberating. Indeed, the great age of railway building in the mid-nineteenth century gave whole communities throughout the world a freedom of movement they could never have dreamt of previously and even gave us the first Awaydays courtesy of one Thomas Cook esquire, who started his world-famous business in July 1841 with a shilling [5 pence] a head rail excursion for a group of churchgoers from Loughborough to Leicester- towns both served by the rail franchises of 2007 from St Pancras International.

But perhaps the real liberation that a rail trip, whether for a day or a month, can bring is in the changed view of the world it gives you. Down to earth, yet inspiring wonder as you gaze upon hills and mountains, coastlines and forests, deserts and arctic wastes, rivers and streams, bustling towns or isolated villages. All these vistas are possible from a train. You could be following a journey which may lead to happy reunions and new discoveries, or you could be on your way to your chosen work in life.
It may seem like an over-romanticised portrait of the railway scene to the claustrophobic commuters struggling to find a seat on the 8.21 each morning, but I think there's an analogy in train travel to the journey which is life itself. See it for what it can be, with all its possibilities no matter which branch lines you explore along the way, and you'll perhaps have a positive view of journey's end. Jesus Christ described himself as "The Way"- and those who follow him see as the permanent way to a life of fulfilment and peace at journey's end. I wonder if this is why so many vicars love trains?

wireless western words

THIS IS MY FIRST POSEY POST! Welcome aboard the 15.11 Reading- Cardiff train, courtesy of First Great Western.

Up, Up and Away

Now here's something you don't see every day! This really was a Boeing 747-400 passenger aeroplane passing over Eastbourne Pier on 18th August 2007- and I haven't been tinkering in the photoshop either! Incidentally, that ever-enchanting character,
"The Snowman" can clearly be seen to be whooshing over Brighton Pier, also in Sussex, with his young admirer in the Christmas classic if you look closely. This visitor however was seen over Eastbourne's shoreline at the world's biggest and free- seaside airshow, the cleverly-named AIRBOURNE, which had its 2007 finale about half an hour ago when a myriad of fiery delights lit the sky in the mammoth closing firework display.
The pyrotechnic artistry rounded off four days which, if not exactly blessed with the best of summer weather, once again drew appreciative gasps and fixated the eyes of young and old on the skies to witness the gravity-defying antics of the world's top aviators, and for others kindled poignant memories of The Battle of Britain, a defining event of ariel combat in the second world war, fought in this very airspace sixty-seven summers ago next month.

When I saw the 747 of Oasis airlines, making its maritime visit before flying a scheduled service from Gatwick to Hong Kong later in the day, I was immediately taken back 38 years to 1969, and my first ever sight of a "jumbo", which we delightedly dashed into my junior school playground to watch flying over from Heathrow as the now defunct TWA, Trans World Airlines- or as it was whimsically called in the industry "Try Walking Across"- proudly earned the prestige of being the first transatlantic carrier to bring these huge beasts to British skies. TWA's slogan at the time took Jimmy Webb's big pop hit for The Fifth Dimension of two years earlier and turned it into a memorable jingle, with the associations of these new giants of the skies now offering the tantalising prospect of cheap, worldwide air travel for everyone.

What actually keeps planes in the air is as much a marvel in 2007 as it was in 1967, or indeed in 1907, for it is easy to forget that powered flight has been with us for only just over a century. What can be done with the mega-powerful jet engines of the 21st century when married with the skills and courage of the best pilots still brings childlike wonder to me. The crowd-drawing top of the bill event at Airbourne once again had to be the nine magnificent men in their flying machines from the Royal Air Force Red Arrows. They are indisputably the best and most famous aerobatic display team in the world, and it brings tears of pride to my eyes just to write those words. I never tire of watching them.

But looked at not through rose-coloured binoculars but with another viewpoint, the continued existence of airshows and the ever-gorwing ease of air travel is a cause of great concern for some, not celebration. While Airbourne draws thousands to add something spectacular to their holiday enjoyment, in a thistle field a mile and a half or so from "the world's busiest intennational airport", hundreds have spent the last week in uncomfortable conditions endured for the sake of their cause, the halting of further expansion at "LHR". A sixth terminal and third runway are proposed, but would destroy hundreds of homes in the process. The protestors are amongst a growing number who see the kerosene-consuming monsters as among the biggest villains of the piece -and indeed the peace- when it comes to global warming.

Meanwhile, fantastic though their aerial antics may be, The Red Arrows only exist at all, ultimately, because man's in humanity to man demands that most developed countries decide they need air forces to defend their shores and their skies, and to deter would be aggressors or keep the peace in the world's trouble spots. Airbourne 2007 had less military jets than usual, because so many of them are currently involved in the controversial British campaigns in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Mass travel has certainly helped to broaden the mind, some might say, but has it brought us any closer to a day when there will be no more warfare, no more surface to air missiles and no more terrorist bombs being made harmless by the brave personnel of the RAF Bomb Disposal Squad whose tools of the trade were also on display today? I fear not. The flying warhorses of the skies may be able to develop ever more thrust and carry even more sophisticated fly by wire technology, but ultimately they do little to ameliorate the worst effects of human beings flying off the handle with each other.

Man continues to be at war with man. Fools continue to rush in where angels fear to tread, let alone fly. It's easy to despair with hate in the air. But I continue to enjoy airshows because I know a time will come when there will be no more war, no more suffering. When, just as man has always longed to fly like the birds, he will mount ujp on wings of eagles and will be changed forever by the experience. And a time will come when all humanity agrees that we "ain't gonna study war no more". It will be down by the riverside, it will be down by the seaside.

Meanwhile, up in the air again, or so many Christians believe, the man crucifed by another Pilate will return, like a wing commander gathering his aircrew. Jesus was surely the one man who rose above our real limitations, our earth-bound thinking full of selfishness and even evil intent. Like a search and rescue helicopter, he will and does stop us drowning in our own woes. He will not need a Typhoon or a Hurricane, but will take us all to a higher plane. I can't wait to see that spectacle and to be on that flight, one day soon.

Be Preprayered

It's a mega birthday blog today, as a new month also crowns a landmark celebration for the biggest youth movement in the world. Happy Hundredth to Scouts everywhere!

Scouting's global success is a quite incredible story of what the human race can aspire to be today, and what it can hint at becoming, when it looks to a better future. That future, as it always has done, begins with its children and young people.

On this day in 1907, Robert Baden-Powell, or BP, started a movement which now has some 28 million members worldwide. The oil company which shares his initials may once have claimed to be 'Britain at its best', but this occasionally eccentric yet passionate British champion of youth arguably did more to help youngsters internationally "Do Your Best" than any other person of his century.

Baden-Powell was a military hero, famous for his courageous defence of Mafeking during the Boer wars. Yet he was no warmonger and nor did he have any social pretensions. But in his way, he was as much a social reformer as any politician. Lloyd George no doubt knew Baden Powell.

The first ever scout camp, this week in 1907, was held in the tranquil and beautiful setting of Brownsea Island, located a mile from the Dorset coast of England in the second largest natural harbour in the world. It provided a safe haven for around 20 boys from very diverse backgrounds- some private schools, and nearly as many from slums and tenements. Little did they, or he, know then what they were pioneering.

Scouting today provides challenges undreamt of by Baden Powell and his boys. Every activity from abseiling to zoology is offered somewhere in scouting's world, which stretches across barriers of creed, culture and colour from Aachen to Zambia. Indeed, this week a representative selection of forty thousand Scouts have turned Hylands Park in Chelmsford, Essex into Scouting City, UK as they celebrate the Centenary World Jamboree, carrying on a tradition inaugarated by Baden Powell in 1920.

Elsewhere, scouts are gathered for their own celebrations on every continent. In mainland Europe, for instance, my younger brother, who has been a scout leader for a quarter of a scouting century,is one of thousands attending the tenth "Haarlem Jamborette" outside the historic Dutch town 20 kilometres from Amsterdam. Scouting's BIG in Holland!

What can explain this incredible success story, in a world which on the one hand is becoming ever more a global village, yet on the other seems so fractured by the clashing of cultures and the worst of man's dealings with his fellow men and women? It must be more than the vision of one moustachioed chief scout of a different era that has done all this.

Dare I suggest it's partly because scouting everywhere pays homage to the best patrol leader of all. One who has shown a way for all humanity, and when followed as he should be, helps not just young people, but all people to march on with strength and courage through the sometimes tough terrain of life to journey's end. Along the way, he encourages us to do our best, and as we do find our true selves in fun, in sharing, in working, living and- yes- loving together.

The devastated flood-hit communities of Gloucestershire were last month extremely grateful for the efforts of scouts in the historic town of Tewksbury who were prepared to offer them not just the use of their scout hut as a refuge. but free food and drink and above all, a welcome and friendliness at a time of great devastation.

"B-P" would have understood, and been proud, of the way Scouts responded in England's west country, but its typical of the efforts of boys and girls and their leaders in the movement around the world, in war or in peace. B-P himself was greatly influenced by the devastation of the so ironically named 'Great War' that he pledged to do his best to build a better world based on international brotherhood and understanding.

I'm sure Lord Robert Baden-Powell would forgive me for slightly amending his famous words which became the scout motto. Yes,we all need to "be prepared" for whatever lies ahead, whether we can see it or not. But maybe even more important is to Be pre-prayered. Baden-Powell was very influenced by the Boys' Brigade, the movement founded by William Smith which enjoys many similar activities to scouting backed up by a distinctly Christian ethos.

Scouting does not limit itself to any particular 'religious' tradition, but faith remains an essential part of its ethos and raison d'etre. The Scout "law" in its way makes a nod to some of the 'ten commandments' given to Moses familiar to all in Jewish, Christian and Muslim communities. Loyalty, Trust, a sense of family, courage, respect for self and for others. Values which seem to have become almost dirty words in some sections of society are as vital a part of the Scout philosophy in 2007 as they were in 1907.

But above all, perhaps, the best summary of what Scouting means to me- once a timid 11-year old who after enjoying cubs chickened out of Scouts because of too many then frightening-looking "bigger boys"- is what I am about to go down and join other supporters of the movement young and old, as well as today's Scouts worldwide, at 08.00 local time today at numerous Sunrise Ceremonies. They recall the exact moment one hundred years ago, when B-P sounded the Kudo horn to inaugarate that first Brownsea Island scout camp. And I might say, with pride in my scouting connections:

On My Honour, I promise that I will do my best
To do my duty to God and to the Queen,*
To help other people
And to keep the Scout Law

Amen to all that, and keep on Scouting!

[Note: "The Queen" is replaced with appropriate wording in countries and territories which have different heads of state ]

Ici Londres

Bonjour tous le monde- especialement les gens Francophone! Please excuse my very rusty schoolboy French, but you could be forgiven this July weekend for thinking that the British capital and its environs had been spirited away by Tardis to mainland Europe- but Who's complaining?

Well the good time traveller isn't for one: Dr Who is expecting a dose of Australian glamour come Christmas day when Kylie Minogue moves into the famous police box for the now obligatory Christmas special, while last year's guest companion, Catherine Tate, will be taking off on new adventures as a regular companion with the last of the Time Lords come next Spring after a truly spectacular season finale to the world-renowned sci-fi series last Saturday.

Whovians could have felt bereft the following Saturday night, i.e yesterday, now that their hero has vacated the screen, but there was more than enough spectacle around the metropolis this weekend to keep them occupied. So much in fact, that I'm going to wait til later this evening to update this blog and perhaps add a photo or two to tell you more about it!

Free news

No, nothing more needs to be said here about Tony Blair who has been out of office exactly a week today- but already it seems like a lifetime ago, and he's one of yesterday's men. However, he's been officially appointed already as the new Peace Envoy for the Middle East. But so what? The man of the moment is neither Blair nor Brown, but another proud Scot and a very fine newsman. I write of course about Alan Johnston, the BBC's Gaza correspondent who had been held captive for 114 days until the great news came in a couple of hours ago of his freedom.

As his colleagues on the BBC's World Today, put it a few moments ago "it's one of those days when it's good to be at work".

I know what they mean and how they feel, along with the two hundred thousand around the world of all faiths or none, who have been praying and hoping for Alan's safe release and have been putting their messages of support on the BBC's website.

How ironic- and appropriate- that this modest, unassuming newsman should gain his freedom just a few hours after the BBC itself was in the spotlight with the release of its annual report, and the first AGM of the BBC Trust, its new sovereign body. The BBC, as a public body which every UK citizen supposedly owns, is much maligned and has to face charges of "dumbing down" practically every day. Its journalists on home territory are seen by some as raging liberal lefties, while others see it as a tool of the establishment. Curiously, some have even accused it of anti-Palestinian bias much in recent years.

Alan Johnston's release, and his dedicated work, put all the puff, praise and pejorative prattlings into their proper place. The words "I'm Free!" may for long have been associated with the late BBC comedy icon John Inman in his Mr Humphries role but now they properly and mercifully belong to Alan Johnston. It is his day, and how overjoyed we all are to see it.

God -Allah, Jahweh, call him what you may here- has heard our prayers. As I said in my parallel posting to my radio blog RadioFar-Far (link on right) a few hours ago, the BBC motto is "Nation shall speak peace unto nation". Please God it may be so,not just in Gaza but throughout the Earth.

Midsummer Mire-Doers

You have to feel more than a tinge of sorrow for the hundred and fifty thousand or so soggy souls who paid £150 each and ventured down to the watery West Country this weekend, for the world-famous Glastonbury Festival.

Once again, what claims to be the world's largest contemporary arts and music festival was accompanied by torrential rain, which turned the normally green fields of this part of historic Somerset into a muddy mire. What has happened to our summer, which right now we're supposed to be in the middle of, literally?

The irony is all the greater, given that the Glastonbury festival began as an event to celebrate the June Summer Solstice, the time when in the Northern Hemisphere the sun appears to "stop" for several days as it reaches it's farthest point north, at the tropic of Cancer. Sadly, it seems to have disappeared altogether for much of the last 72 hours.

At Britain's latitude, this point in June brings the longest day, which occurred last Thursday and did at least see an impressive sunrise even here in the London suburbs, eighty miles or so from the UNESCO world heritage site of Stonehenge, Wiltshire, where the solstic takes on mystical proportions and thousands of revellers were able to gather to greet the dawn on 21st June.

Henge and homestead however were hardly the hotspots they were this time last year in what was actually a truly flaming June, preceeding one of our warmest summers ever. The chilly start to the day saw me staying cosily in my bedroom, apart from a brief venture outside to the garden, but dawn was none the less awesome for all that I viewed it through two panes of glass.

Sunrise and sunset still awaken some primeval sense of awe and wonder in most of us, be we painters or poets or ordinary Josephs. The Glastonbury focus came about because this legendary spot was supposedly visited by one of the New Testament Josephs, possibly the foster father of Jesus, along with his young son. This tale is the origin of the famous lines in William Blake's seminal song, married so stirringly with Hubert Parry's music to produce the ever-enduring "Jerusalem".

Whether those feet ever did tread on England's green and pleasant land, who can ever really say with certainty, though I suppose it's not beyond the realms of possibility. Nothing can be, when a child is born by miraculous virgin birth, and goes on to defeat even death itself. The Christian view of life and death may appear on the surface in contrast and conflict to that of the pagans who parade around ancient sacred sites in the west at this time of the year, and yet a recognition of the power and purpose of earthy and celestial symbols is common to both.

Maybe Jesus too got muddy feet, rather than smelling summer meadows and picking daisies to make childish chains, as he enjoyed the seasonal delights of his father's creation in England. But the songs that continue to celebrate him, as they have done for centuries, will continue to echo through fields and towns, not just at midsummer but every day. The events of two thousand years ago, at Gethsemane, Golgotha and Garden tomb, launched Jesus Christ, superstar, on to the world stage. What Christianity has done, and continues to offer all men and women free of charge, far surpasses any Acts the Glastonbury pyramid stage can offer.

Please Release Him

On Sunday, I wrote about freedom. Today, this page is dedicated to freedom of expression and of those who report the news. Mercifully only rarely, do reporters unjustly lose their liberty in doing so, but today is a time for remembering one of those horrible occasions.

It was 100 days ago exactly, to the hour, that Alan Johnston, the BBC's correspondent in the Gaza strip, was abducted by anonymous captors as he went about his business, He was not taking sides but merely doing his job, so that his audience might know and better understand what was happening in this troubled parcel of land in the Middle East where for so long there has been anything but good news.

All that any journalist of integrity can do in confict zones is to report events. The solution of complex problems and just solutions are for others to decide. And sometimes all we can do is sit in our comfortable armchairs and weep. Yet we are not powerless.

A few moments ago, journalists from media all over the world paused. At the BBC itself, directors, producers, cameramen, and doubtless many other staff took time out to keep vigil for their missing colleague and to keep his loved ones in their thoughts. Many of them will have held up posters of Mr Johnston while they did so, while his elderly parents in Scotland released one hundred balloons.

This is not the place today to make devotional points. Enough of the trouble in the area Mr Johnston had come to know and understand finds its roots in religious intolerance, and misunderstanding between peoples. Instead, this blog today has followed the BBC news website suggestion to add this picture of Alan Johnston to websites, in solidarity with those of many political persuasions around the world pleading for his safe release by whichever faction is holding him.

Alan Johnston is a man who means no harm and has caused none. He was due to end his posting to Gaza shortly anyway. Whatever the rights and wrongs of your people's situation, please give Alan Johnston back his freedom, now, in the name of peace. And if you are but a viewing bystander too, stand with him please whether in silence or words, for the sake of the free word.

Royalty-free Tree

Feel free to use this tree. Apparently, that's just what twenty-five bellicose barons and the 'baddest' King of England, John, did this very time 792 years ago , as the first Magna Carta, or 'Great Charter', was sealed,purportedly on this very spot beneath this ancient yew which is probably older than England itself.

Could it have been more than mere coincidence that led to me driving just seven miles or so from my home to the pleasant village of Wraysbury, in the Royal Borough of Windsor and Maidenhead, on the 'official' birthday of the present sovereign- which this year was just one day after the anniversary of that monumental event in British history? Maybe, but as I waited for the friends who'd invited me to meet them here to arrive from another Thameside location some twenty miles further west, my mind was filled with thoughts of just what that historic event meant for individual liberty, but also with loftier remembrance of a liberty that no prince or premier, nation or natterer has power to grant.

Magna Carta set out on paper, if not in stone, the nearest thing England has ever had to a 'Bill of Rights'- although it was never intended to be this and in fact failed initially to achieve its purpose of averting a minor civil war. Later revisions and constant reference to it as precedent however, mean it now forever vindicates the freedom of the individual citizen under law. No more could men be accused of wrongdoing and cast into the hands of unaccountable and tyrannical monarchy, nor their liberties and property be taken from them, without the fair trial of their peers and due process of law. The charter's two most famous provisions are as clear as the nose on Bad King John's face:

'No free man shall be seized or imprisoned, or stripped of his rights or possessions ... except by the lawful judgement of his peers.'
'To no one will we sell, to no one deny or delay right or justice.'


No wonder Magna Carta has proved to be a proof text for the world's most significant democracies ever since. Politicians may come and go- as Tony Blair will do, funnily enough, on my birthday later this month. There is ample reminder at present both sides of the 'pond' of how their practices often reek as much as the now stagnant pools of water where once Old Father Thames flowed either side of Magna Carta Island. But the rule of law and the independence of the judiciary are rightly seen as much as the crucial accessories of just society, as crown and sceptre are the tangible symbols of constitutional monarchy in the present day United Kingdom. Saturday 16th June 2007 turned out to be a day when I realised I am still very proud to be British, once all the media meddling and false witness about our national life is discounted.

King John had abused his assumed divine right to the extent that his barons would have no more of it, but a June day in 1215 ensured that no future monarch could ever get away with such a display of contempt for what we would today call 'human rights'. And yet, unjust imprisonment is still the fate of all too many in an unending stream of justice-starved regimes in the 21st century world. So many of these poor souls, only standing up for what they believe, have never had a fair trial. Were it not for the tireless efforts of Amnesty International et al, many of them would never have the hope of liberty.

Yet true liberty is surely more than a freedom from physical chains, it is a freedom of mind, body and spirit which no monarch can decree or celebrate with earthly honours, as the latest recipients of "gongs" will have done yesterday in Her Majesty's Birthday Honours List. Among them was (Sir) Salman Rushdie, who receives a knighthood nearly two decades after his seminal work The Satanic Verses put a price on his head from one particularly harsh interpretation of Islamic teaching.

Religion has been the object of so much abuse, torment and misapplication through the eight centuries since King John swore his oath before twenty-five bellicose barons on an English summer afternoon, that it can almost make his calamitous acts seem like kindergarten antics by comparison.

Yet 'true' religion - or as many prefer to describe it, faith- remains the only real solution to man's enduring mis-treatment not just of his fellow human beings, but of the natural world itself. After taking a somewhat roundabout route to get to the object of our search today, my arboriphile friends and I were able to gaze in wonder at the sight of a natural specimen which existed centuries before environmentalists came to this spot to launch a 'green' magna carta, or those who assumed the mantel of the great and the good got together in Germany for an ultimately rather ineffectual G8 summit as they sought to grapple with the world's pressing issues of the moment.

Only one man ever really got to grips with the earth's real problem- and he did it by hanging on a tree in agony and finally giving up his life, because of all the awfulness of our human nature. Yet like the freshness of a summer rainstorm on the long, lingering hours of daylight at this time of year in England's green and pleasant land, Jesus Christ drained our stagnant places by that death. At Easter he rose again, and in the next forty days until he ascended to his rightful throne, he showed, nay proved, to people of faith that there is more to life than meets even the most discerning eye.
The National Trust, of which I'm a member can work wonders with Runnymede, Ankerwycke, Churchill's Chartwell and many hundred other historic places, but only trusting in Jesus, I believe, can change hearts of stone into hearts of love. And indeed, this is all that God, requires of us in a precious prophetic passage given to Micah probably even before that Berkshire yew was a bird-carried seed:

He has showed you, O man, what is good.
And what does the LORD require of you?
To act justly and to love mercy
and to walk humbly with your God.


I will try to post to this blog more again soon, at least monthly, but meanwhile you might like to check out some of the links on the right where you can find some of my other writing and the contributions of other websites I find both informative and inspirational.

The Lord bless you and keep you, the Lord make his face to shine upon you, and give you peace.

Things can only get...?

Fill in the missing word yourself, according to your preference, or read on.
Here we are at this early hour- or is it late- on Election Night 2007, or rather post-election morn. Due to various procedural changes to protect against postal voting fraud, many of the results of the local council elections which took place in England and Scotland yesterday will not be declared until later today. May the fourth be with you!
The process which is democracy, however flawed, will bring new stars onto the political stage today, while others will just have to hope that the warring words will soon die down, at least until the next election. Yet some of the customary dynamic drama of the dark hours, waiting for the winners and losers to be revealed after the people have had their say, is lost in the chore of checking- though in Scotland, the story seems to be one more of a farce than a force, with allegedly over a hundred thousand spoilt ballot papers caused by the confusion of voters and tellers getting to grips with mainland Britain's first attempt at proportional representation for local elections but not for the Scottish Parliament elections, which were also held yesterday in the same week as the 300th anniversary of the sealing of the union between the Scottish and English realms.
While a more representative voting system in any form is to be welcome, these failings are a sad confirmation that trust- not just in politicians but in general- has become a devalued currency this last decade, while ironically the pound seems stronger than ever against the once mighty dollar.

Things can only get wetter might be the forecaster's choice of words for a song this week, as the record Spring temperatures which have held sway over the UK for five weeks with hardly a drop of rain seem set to finally disperse over -you've guessed it- the coming Bank Holiday weekend (our belated British celebration of Mayday). But for Anthony Charles Lynton Blair, it seems like the autumn of his prime ministerial career is nearing it's nadir, as his long-trailed resignation announcement seems imminent following the elections and his own promise that a "definitive" statement on his future will come next week.

The eulogies for Blair are unlikely to be as fulsome as the tributes seen yesterday in Winchester, one time capital of England, as Alan Ball, one of the "heroes" of the 1966 England soccer world cup squad was given a proper sending off at his funeral to the accompaniment of choristers, and chanting reminiscent of old Wembley's terraces. Will Tony Blair's reputation survive as long as "the boy" (Ball was the youngest England player at just 21 in that glorious cup year of 1966)? Somehow I doubt it. Where footballer's fame lives for ever, Joe and Josephine Public are renowned for their fickleness when it comes to their affection for their leaders.

You've got to feel a certain sadness for Mr Blair, as the easily-forgotten achievements of his ten years at Number Ten seem set to be buried under the forest of newsprint devoted to his exit through the blackest door in London. Press and public alike are more likely to focus on his fateful decision to take Britain into war in Iraq, a tragedy which still claims the lives of British servicemen and civilians of all nationalities alike in the post-saddam anarchy of that sad state.

It all seems a very different climate to the winds of change which you could palpably feel blowing that weary May morning with the post-election euphoria of the Labour landslide after eighteen years of Conservative rule. There was a very real sense of optimism and hope,and for my part, I was full of that as I retreated to the Pavilion Gardens in Brighton for a time of prayer after spending the night in the excited bustle of a BBC news bureau on election night alongside an old friend working for their regional TV service that night.
But, as fallen Tory star Enoch Powell famously remarked "Every political career ends in failure". Sadly, it's part of the job description. Only death in service, which befell Mr Blair's pre-decessor as Labour and opposition leader, the far from ordinary John Smith, is guaranteed to win plaudits rather than brickbats. Such is the nature of politics. Even Margaret Thatcher, whom history will record as Britain's first ever woman prime minister and respected as a great stateswoman internationally- not least by the late Russian leader Boris Yeltsin- fell by well-plotted backstabbing by her erstwhile colleagues, albeit not in Rome but in Paris.
Yet if politicians have to leave office followed by less than glorious clouds, at least Tony Blair can depart in the knowledge that he has tried his best, to adhere to his principles and in so far as it was possible, to mix pragmatism with idealism. Mr Blair claims Christian allegiance, though was mercilessly chided by the media when it was suggested he prayed with the man some would see as his nemesis, George Walker Bush.
But 28 years ago today, Margaret Thatcher entered Downing Street by that same black door, pausing on the doorstep to quote words attributed to St Francis of Assisi- though subsequent commentators have suggested "where there is discord, let me bring harmony" actually comes from a prayer written in France in 1912. Truth and fiction seem blended here as is ever the way with politics; it seems to be becoming harder by the day to work out what's really going on in those gothic towers beside the Thames, let alone in the machinations of international dealings across the sea with Washington.

At least the Queen is celebrating the "special relationship" in Virginia, USA at the moment in a somewhat more dignified manner than the backbiting and caterwailing which so often accompanies the parlaying of representative government, whether at local or national level. Maybe the queen knows better than most that service is what really matters. As fallible, fallen humans, we can only try to make things better, for everybody's sake. Whether they get better depends as much on faith as action. Many would say that Britain has not got better over the last decade, but worse. More violent, less peaceful. More greedy, less sharing. More cynical, less caring. There may be an element of truth in this- but what's new.

The truth in my eyes is that as long as we rely on our own wisdom and strength to accomplish anything of worth, we get nowhere. Pride, arrogance and self-interest or just expediency will always be the enemies of lasting achievement for the betterment of humanity- which surely should be the motivation of all politicians, whatever their political colour. But what can happen instead if you put the needs of the world and the nation in the hands of the man from Galilee rather than Westminster first?
Jesus too knew failure and an inglorious departure from general favour-and for three heart-stoppingly awful days for his followers. All the power and hopes they had harboured seemed lost on the rude cross of Calvary. His only epitaph seemed to be the inscription scrawled in Latin initials as cynically and quickly as a satirists's barb on that obscene instrument of unbelievable torture: INRH: The King of the Jews. He was hastily buried in a borrowed tomb, and the powers that be thought they had restored order.
How wrong they were. Jesus' resurrection on Easter Day, his forty days of teaching to his renewed followers who believed him dead but saw him alive- over five hundred of them- is something I believe really happened, and in which we can truly trust. Jesus himself did not promise days of cloudless sunshine- he was a realist as much as the living hope of better things- but the promise is that one day, he will come again, and then all mankind will see him, and things truly will be better, not just for ten years but for all time. It's about the only promise we can really trust; therefore, I at least will take up my cross for the man of the cross not just on a warm May day at election time, but every day.

Forgive our Foolish Ways

No, your eyes do not deceive you: this really is a new posting to Anyway - no fooling! If you were one of my regular readers and have been disappointed with the lack of any output from me at this URL these past three months, I apologise. I'll try to get back to blogging more regularly now; please check out the site if you can though I can't promise to post as frequently as in the past.

Can we really be a quarter of the way through 2007 already, though? Well, computer says yes, and so does the calendar, believe it or not. Many did not, it seems, in the second half of the sixteenth century in France. That was when Charles IX declared that his realm should in future keep the Gregorian calendar, and the date for the start of a new year should be moved from around the beginning of Spring to the middle of winter, i.e to January 1st. Folk who continued to observe the old celebrations on the first of April however became known as "April Fools"- or for some bizarre reason only the French can account for I guess, as 'April Fish' "Poissons d'Avril".

Well, whether the custom began with the French or not is open to question; Wikipedia, my source for the above account, mentions many of the traditions ancient and modern which have made "All Fools Day" a popular day for hoaxers and jokesters all over the world- one reason why the on-line encyclopaedia's team limit editing of the "April Fool's Day" entry to established users on this day- in case people are led even further astray by reading untruths than they have been already.

Come to think of it, I could even have tried to fool you by saying this was the reason for a lack of postings from me since the end of 2006- i.e that this is really my New Year's Day blog,and follows on from the previous one headed "New Year's Heave". But I don't think I'd get away with that one, particularly as it's now well past mid-day in the UK. In Britain, at least strictly speaking, it's April Fool's Half-Day: any attempts at perpetrating a prank after the sun is directly overhead today supposedly backfire on the would-be fooler: "April Fool is dead and gone, but the rest can carry on".
Nevertheless, I love April Fool's Day- as long as nobody catches me out and I become the victim. When I worked in the catering industry, I should have known that some of my colleagues were being unusually kind in making my morning break drink for me; supposedly a cup of tea, it actually included coffee, cocoa powder and the savoury substance Marmite as well, all in the same mug. Yuk! Much as I love Marmite, this particular fool did not amuse my tastebuds.
I also couldn't wait to see what pranks the British press and their online editions were attempting to palm us off with today- April 1st is also Palm Sunday this year, of which more later. According to The Observer, Britain's oldest Sunday newspaper and not inclined to the regular truthless ways of the "redtops", Tony Blair is to take up a new career on the stage when he retires as Prime Minister sometime this year.

The story goes on to say that so impressed was the director of the Old Vic theatre company in London, Kevin Spacey, that he offered Blair an important role in an upcoming run of Arthur Miller's "The Crucible". Oh yeah, right, along with the guest starring role in an Only Fools and Horses Christmas Special? Tony might have suprised many viewers with his performance in a recent comedy sketch alongside catchphrase queen Catherine Tate in her role as the schoolgirl with attitude, Loren, but really, whether this is true or not (come on, do us a favour!) as Blair said in his Comic Relief cameo," I ain't bovvered!"

On the other hand, I think Samuel Langhorn Clemens, or should I say Mark Twain, had it right when he gave his verdict on this day:

April 1. This is the day upon which we are reminded of what we are on the other three hundred and sixty-four.

He was a wise man, was Tom Sawyer's creator. The world's foolishness has continued much as it always has since I last wrote, day after day. Man's inhumanity to man astounds with its incredible awfulness, warring factions bring grief to thousands of innocent families caught up in their petty or long-standing fights, and our obsession with using and abusing the limited resources of planet Earth have made it a rare day when global warming did not make the headlines.
Meanwhile, in Britain trust in the media has taken a tumble, with revelations of numerous scams on premium-rate phone line quizzes on TV and umbrage has even been taken as Songs of Praise was forced to admit next Sunday's Easter Day special was recorded immediately after an Advent service last November, with false lighting and unseasonal clothing, to save money. It's proving harder and harder to know what is the truth these days, and what is pure fiction or fantasy. And politicians seem to be among the least trusted of any group in our apparently democratic society, with the ongoing scandal of "votes for honours" and even the PM himself interviewed by police.

But is there anything new in the folly of the ways of man? Last weekend, Britain commemorated the 200th anniversary of the passing of the Abolition of the Transatlantic Slave Trade Act in the UK parliament, and the sickening conditions that free-born human beings were subjected to.

Here at least was something to celebrate, wasn't there? Maybe- but it wasn't to everybody's tastes and Tuesday saw an African disrupt a national service of commemoration in Westminster Abbey in front of the Queen brought to an embarrasing unscheduled break by an African demonstrator making a non-violent but very public protest indeed at what he deems the hypocrisy of attempts to offer an apology on behalf of the nation to the outrage of the slave trade. On the other side of the Irish Sea, meanwhile, last Monday brought a scene many thought could never be seen: firebrand Ulster Unionist veteran Rev Dr Ian Paisley and Sinn Fein's leader, Gerry Adams, sitting next to each other round the same table. It is to be hoped that their historic agreement truly is an answer to the prayer of centuries, but it would be a fool that pretends there won't be difficulties and setbacks along the way.


April Fool's Day this year also falls (pun intended!) on Palm Sunday. This is the commemoration of the week when the folly of humanity was revealed for what it really is, but God's forgiveness of the world he loves so dearly was made most evident. Palm Sunday starts Holy Week, the most solemn and yet moving event on the Christian calendar. Today commemorates the 'triumphal' entry of Jesus into Jerusalem, where he was greeted by Jews of every age as their king, come to overturn the oppression of Roman occupation and to bring them deliverance. Hearts were full of hope and the air was resounding with "Hosannas" and the cheers and greetings of devoted followers.

Five days later, all of those devoted followers had left Jesus of Nazareth, whom billions believe was God in human form, to his fate in a cold Jerusalem garden on the darkest night in human history. The next day, only a helpless, some would say foolish, few followers were there to see him crucified mercilessly on a crude Roman cross the most ignoble of deaths. The people of God were allowing the one they had only recently lauded -and who, believers say, is our one true hope for humanity- to be slaughtered. Could anything more foolish have ever been witnessed?

Yet this was God's way; the "foolishness" of God is greater than man's wisdom. There was no other good enough to pay the price of sin. So my emotions today, and that of all who believe Jesus is the best friend anyone can have, who never fools with us, are mixed. There is that nervous, uneasy laughter you have when you are trying to pretend that everything's all right in your world, but something fearful is about to happen. There is joy and the shared experience of the Palm Sunday procession and worship-but there is the recognition that without the salvation of Good Friday and the merciful miracle of Easter Day, life itself is a foolish thing. These foolish things, this year, remind me of Him, our saviour Jesus Christ the holy 'fool' who died for all. Will you bring your own mistakes and foolish behaviour to him this holy week, knowing you're forgiven? I know I will, with tears of both laughter and sorrow.