Homeward Unbound

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"

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Radio matters

Just a reminder of my companion blog at www.RadioFar-far.blogspot.com, where I've just published a new posting.

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.

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.

Fat Chews Day

It sounds much better in French, doesn't it: Mardi Gras and Carnival- literally "fat Tuesday" and "without meat".

It's supposed to be the prelude to Lent, forty days where the finer things of life including fat-filled fare are sacrificed for a period of deep contemplation before the joy of Easter. Pancake Day or Shrove Tuesday, as it's known in Britain, was once the occasion when all the forbidden foods of the Lent season, including eggs and fats, were used up conveniently in a frying pan, before the fasting began.

Sadly today, it's largely become just another scoff-up, with little thought for what follows. I'm not denying the enjoyment of a tasty pancake, especially when it's filled with maple syrup or lemon juice, but wouldn't it be good if a few more folk stopped to ask "what's it all about?" not just about what we put in our bellies, but what comes out of our hearts. But that's a subject for chewing over another day.

Who is my neighbour

No question mark in my posting title: it's a statement. It could be what the Dalek said to his fellow warring wheely bins when asked who owned the strange blue "Police" box about the size of an average human male which had just pitched up next to him.

It is not good for man to be alone; even 900-year old time travellers need their companions on the journey. So why does neighbourliness in 21st century Britain so often appear to be regarded as a quaint phenomenon destined for the dustbin?

It should be the most natural thing in the world to want to know those who breathe the same air as us under the same sky during this all too brief sojourn we call life. Neighbours should indeed be there for one another, both in their troubles and their joys. Something in the human condition cries out for it and we are naturally social creatures.

It's a bizarre paradox then that in 21st century Britain, too many people get to know their neighbours in fiction rather than in person. EastEnders, getting the key to the Queen Vic at 21 this week, challenges Emmerdale and Corrie as the TV ratings hits week after week. And once student life has introduced you to the Neighbours of Ramsay Street, it's very hard to leave- as I've found getting back into the Aussie favourite after seven months working away from Erinsborough.

Why TV soaps should be such a hit is in some ways a mystery to me. You get the most unlikely hatches, matches and despatches and some of the most disreputable characters around prove to be the biggest hit. But maybe the scriptwriters are tuned into a truth which the writers of the Bible knew twenty centuries ago, before even the(fictional) Dr Who was a lad.

People love a good story and they love to meet intriguing characters within the story. We little understand ourselves, yet by another paradox we perhaps wipe a little of the mist from our vanity mirrors every time we get to know somebody else or help them in some practical way. Jesus used this to great effect not so much in paradox as parable, and perhaps one of the best known is that of the "good Samaritan", otherwise known as the "good neighbour".
I've had fun this week helping out a neighbour who's lived across the street for over thirty years. First I got asked to sort out a problem with her phones, while on Thursday I was challenged with some Latin proof-reading of a Christian message delivered before I was born. In return, my brother and I got a very tasty curry, and I found my mouth had more of a fireproof lining than I'd thought!

Thought of reward should never be our motivation for doing some kindly act and indeed it will never get you into heaven, even in a tardis. Love your neighbour, as you love yourself.

Frozen Fish Fingers

How does anyone end up with the name "Clarence Birdseye?" It's a mystery, but the aforementioned gentleman most certainly existed and I'm one of many millions who grew up with the frozen fare he made his name from.

These days, I don't buy fish fingers very often, especially while I'm currently trying to cut down on my calorie intake to shed some of my ample girth. Like too many people in the affluent West though,I'm often thinking of food, which is understandable given that there is such a tempting array of it in super-sized hypermarkets run by the giants of the grocery world in modern Britain.

While there's nothing wrong with variety, particularly when it introduces us to the cuisine of other cultures, much of the problem of the 21st Century World is we have too much choice. We've opened a Pandora's chest freezer which does both our bodies and our spirits no good at all.

Television's love affair with the cookery show is abundant testimony to both the good and the bad in matters culinary. The BBC's latest variation on a theme, which ended its first run last night in between the latest calorie-burning thrills from the frozen rinks and runs of Olympic Italy, is "Two Hairy Bikers". This bizarre pairing, no doubt inspired by the Two Fat Ladies stable of programme making, has actually proved to be a bitter-sweet show, and I'm not talking chocolate or Seville oranges here.

The unlikely duo of two-wheeled Geordie petrolheads have been focussing this fortnight on Romania, a country with a sad past which is still struggling to shake off the evil legacy of Ceaucescu. To the credit of the two hirsute presenters, in between concocting mouth-watering delights they visited a museum about that nation's evil tyrant who met his fate while in a turning- aside West millions feasted on Christmas Day 1989.

The bikers' visit to the museum was an emotional experience not normally associated with indulgent food programmes. One of them understandably vented his anger at how the complicit West yielded to the temptation to eat at the table of this madman, while his actions ended or shattered the lives of millions, not least helpless children, the sight of whose pitiful existence still produces more tears than an onion.

Food fattens, but power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Thank God then, that the one who saves our souls from our own awfulness did not yield to the temptation to eat, or even drink, for forty scorching days and frozen nights in the wilderness, which we now commemorate as the Christian season of Lent.

As observance of Lent 2006 rapidly approaches and Britons look forward to the delights of Pancake Day on "Fat Tuesday", I'm glad that the sign of the fish can lead even my frozen fingers this chilly night - our central heating's broken down- to prayer to the one who never yielded to the temptation to sin. He alone was nice but never naughty. Instead, he gave up his life to the hands of an evil regime and an angry, ignorant mob- even forgiving them as he did so. Thanks be to God that as he thawed from the stone-cold tomb, the lives of those who choose to believe in his unique life and name can be preserved for evermore. That's a mystery which should be on every menu.

Good morning, and here is the news...

While work continues on the re-launch of Anyway, I've just started a new blog dedicated to one of my main interests and a hobby since boyhood. You'll find it at www.radiofar-far.blogspot.com.

Meanwhile, if you read this in time and are within reach of a TV capable of picking up BBC ONE from the UK, do watch or video my fellow scribe, Brian Draper, who's appearing today on The Heaven and Earth Show , the national broadcaster's main Sunday morning show on issues of faith and ethics.

It promises to be an interesting and stimulating show today, also featuring Jim Wallis, renowned US preacher and commentator on the issues that really matter. He's been much in the news too this week, while he's been over in the UK to launch the British edition of his book God's Politics, a best-seller in the US for over a year.
Meanwhile, after doing what really matters to me on a Sunday morning, I'm off to join my fellow radio anoraks in Reading. Keep reading and listening- and 'Turn Your Radio On' (Ray Stevens, where are you now?) for the good news that's really worth hearing!

Me

It never really quite caught on as the ideal product name: "Windows Me." It was the software so adaptable to the needs of individuals in the 21st century that Microsoft wanted everybody to pronounce it as a word rhyming with "twee", rather than initials standing for "Millennium Edition". But I've yet to find anyone who calls the program version I'm using by its proper name, and thanks to Silicon Valley's unquenchable thirst for the next new thing, it's a name that will soon be forgotten anyway with a replacement for its successor Windows XP supposedly due for launch sometime soon. Perhaps Bill Gates got it wrong and people were chronically fatigued at seeing a post-viral software package which always makes me think of a rather unpleasant medical syndrome called Myalgic Encephalomyelitis.

Launches and re-launches. The marketing and ad man's stock in trade. If brevity is the soul of wit, there's often little evidence of wit in the torrents of words gushing "new"" every year from the men and women who invest giga-loads of cash in trying to convince us of the virtues and value of their product, whatever it may be.

Even the humble potato crisp is not immune to the attentions of the marketers. Britain's leading brand has just been foil-wrapped in stylish noughties garb with a new logo and unashamedly chanting the lower fat mantra. Gary Lineker's paymasters no doubt decided to change their image before some nanny in the Food Standards Agency tries to ban us from eating these savoury delights altogether.

Everybody likes a makeover once in a while. It helps to re-vitalise our sometimes drab lives and give new value to the best qualities of old favourites. And it can work as well for the person as for the product, the idea as much as the tangible. But it needs to be done with care and caution, lest we throw out the baby with the bathwater.

This blogspot is, I feel, due for a re-launch. The dis-interested advice of trusted friends has made me realise that my words are not always working for their readers or for me as well as I had intended. Anyway has become far more than I ever imagined it would for me when I first wrote some comments on the Athens Olympics eighteen months ago, and it's been a pleasure to post.
But, just as munching rather too many potato crisps in the past has caused me to pile on the pounds to the extent I've now re-launched my diet, I'd like my first web presence to have less verbal calories and to put more cerebral nutrition into what I do write.

You, dear reader, can be part of my focus group and, no, I am not asking you to pile into a Ford family car to do so. Just hit the "comments" button instead or, if you know me, send an e. Henry Ford may have been a genius in some respects, but he made a big mistake when he tried to limit his buyers to just one colour, black.

Life is neither black, nor white, and its expression can and should come in many colours too. I'm currently on a mission to "sell" my own best points as I seek a new occupational direction, possibly a vocation even, and trimming down the portly forty-something figure is just one aspect of it. But the wisest marketer knows that some things never change and word of mouth can be far more powerful than words of flannel. Google has become the world's most influential company by little else.
The most important launch and re-launch in history happened with little ceremony and unpromising beginnings in a small country in the Middle East at the beginning of the first millennium. Unknown celebrities from afar took two years to reach the launch but knew it was the most important journey they'd ever make. 33 years later the young man they'd come to see was re-branded a blasphemous criminal and given the most excrutiating, humiliating punishment possible at the time. Despite the love and attentions of his backers of three years, his future seemed as hopeless as a well-regarded slimming product did when their name started to sound like a fatal illness. He died.

But the maker of this product knew what he was doing from the beginning. Had he relied on his focus group to fulfil his marketing plan, he would have given up the ghost long ago, just like his own son did when he hung on a cross on the first Good Friday.
Unlikely as it seemed, the death of the old was crucial to the birth of the new. And only this man could then -and still does- point the way to life which makes no false claims, but can be lived to the full with no artificial additives. Its a high-risk strategy, but for millions of believers around the world it's the answer to life, the universe and everything. You'll never find a finer "brand" than the name of Jesus and indeed, if you believe what it says on the "packet" called the Holy Bible, then one day every knee shall bow in his presence. Any way you say it, JC is the name for me.

Lovers of the World Unite

Lovers of the world unite; you have nothing to lose but your inhibitions. This could well be the rallying cry of Clinton and Hallmark, Thorntons and Interflora or even Marks and Spencer for the next frantic four days. With Christmas but a distant memory, retailers need a boost to their coffers, especially when the feasting of Easter has to wait until late April this year.
Right on cue, along comes Valentine’s Day and the opportunity to pledge undying love to Mr or Miss Right, with only a little help from the cash card companies. “Hang the expense” seems to be the thinking behind the giving for those that want to pledge their passion – and yet tradition dictates it should all be done anonymously. Not very practical though if you fancy spending a hundred thousand on a night of sweet nothings between yourselves at the Oxo tower, as went on offer this week to London lovers.
This year though, however much is spent, sweethearts and passion-seekers will need to remember their number in a little red book, albeit a well-disguised one. Unforgettable Valentine’s Day has been chosen by the money industry to get normally reticent Britons to wear not just a heart on their sleeve but a PIN. On that date, at least nominally, signatures become a thing of the past as four little numbers hidden in a tiny piece of metal secure the price of love. Woe betide any man or woman who forgets their digits!
It’s just as well then that the numbers that matter to God are things like the number of hairs on our head, every one of which is counted. He could never consign our secret details to the back of a diary or some other anonymous place, and actually he already knows every one, such is the unique identity of his love. In fact, his love was demonstrated in flowers of mourning turned to dancing, in nails rather than PINs. Or, as Charitie L Brooks, an aptly-named Irish hymn writer, put it in the nineteenth century
A great high priest whose name is love
My name is graven on his hands
My name is written on his heart
My life is hid with Christ on high
With Christ my saviour and my God
That kind of love will never be forgotten by numberless Christians, whatever the date.

More than a LICC and a promise

Occasionally, I dedicate these blog postings to individuals; today, my scribings are dedicated indeed to the dedicated, my hard-working, creative and ever-enthusiastic erstwhile colleagues at the London Institute for Contemporary Christianity.

LICC as it is known for short, understandably, or pronounced "lick" by those who have abbreviationophobia has been my employer for the past seven months. Although there have been liberal clues to their identity in these postings, I've hesitated to name them publicly before now. Firstly, because it can be a risky business to talk about your employer on such a publicly-accessible medium as the world wide web, as one employee of a well-known British bookstore chain found to his cost. Secondly, it's a matter of courtesy perhaps to remain tight-fingered on such details.

However, I feel a positive plug for Licc is well overdue through this channel, which is why you'll find out more about them by going to www.licc.org.uk. Licc was the inspired vision of Dr John Stott, CBE (the "gong" came in the 2006 New Year Honours), back in 1982. At an age when many men in secular employment would be thinking of settling down their cardigan and slippers, John Stott's second career was just beginning. Today, in his mid eighties, he remains the life president of the Institute, which is housed in a fine eighteenth century listed chapel in an incongruous setting off London's Oxford Street.

St Peter's chapel itself is an amazing building to work in, with it's classic vaulted ceiling, modelled on several other London churches of the period by James Gibb, a pupil of the inimitable Sir Christopher Wren. Gibbs' church may lack the grandeur of Wren's masterpiece of St Paul's, obviously, but what it lacks in scale it more than makes up for with its sense of peace and spiritual permeability. Used today by a couple of church congregations since ceasing to be a chapel of ease to nearby All Soul's, its main occupancy is to the small but ever-resourceful and busy team of LICC that make up the part-time faculty and full-time administration of its world-famous ministry.

John Stott's is a name renowned throughout the world for his classic evangelical ministry, and he has a string of books to his name expounding on subjects ranging from the skills and arts of preaching to the exposition of many of the bible's 66 books. He is especially renowned for his introductions to Christianity, which remain in print and popular with new and established believers alike.

Dr Stott himself remains a much-admired figure in the institute's history, but the infirmities of age and orders from a doctor to take it easy mean that his preaching these days is somewhat limited. However, his legacy of creative Christian communication lives on in the legacy of his successors, several of whom feature regularly on national radio and TV as Christian commentators. Brian Draper, who merits a mention of his own elsewhere in these blogspots, is but one of them, while Mark Greene, the institute's current executive director, is much in demand for his creative, insightful teaching (he is a former principal of the London School of Theology, formerly London Bible College) honed through his many years working in advertising both sides of the pond.

In recent years, the focus of LICC has been on the important concept of "Whole-life discipleship", the idea that you cannot compartmentalise the Christian life into the sacred and the secular but, actually, every moment of every day matters to God and a follower of Jesus is actually a Full Time Christian Worker. Not that this need be an onerous responsibility; it can be remarkably liberating, fun and fruitful, but can be a challenge to live out at times, particularly in the workplace. This is well catered for by another of LICC's current emphases.

This is the sort of background against which yours truly has been privileged to work since the summer of 2005. Sadly, the time has come to move on, but I go with many happy memories of the many events and people I have met in my brief but very rewarding time with LICC. Indeed, I'd go so far as to say that the colleagues with whom I have worked have been among the most loving I've ever encountered. As followers of Jesus, if their faith means anything, how could it be otherwise? Oh, not perfect of course- far from it, and just like me.
The London Institute's ideas and insight, their commitment and enthusiasm are the exact opposite of one dictionary's definition of that rather strange feline-inspired phrase " a lick and a promise".: A superficial effort made without care or enthusiasm. Rather, the whole team give their contribution to carry out John Stott's original and highly quotable idea of what Christians should be doing which he termed "double listening" - listening to the Word of God, AND to the world. With its attention to the complex issues of 21st Century culture, coupled with the historic mission of Christianity which aims to reach a nation for Christ, long may their mission prosper.
If you're a seeker or a follower, why not follow the link and learn more about LICC today, from its regular Monday evening public events dealing with everything from CS Lewis to a destiny beyond death, to bi-weekly words of inspiration and insight from its team of knowledgeable and highly readable writers, to its latest venture, the Imagine project, which has the bold challenge to Imagine how we can reach the UK. With prayer, and with pounds and even more with power- from God, it can be done. That's not just a hope, it's a promise. And organisations like the London Institute will do their utmost never to stop working at winning, until the salvation of a nation is licked.

Seven Days without X Makes One Weak

Now that's caught your attention, hasn't it! Quiet at the back there! What can the rambling Savage be going on about today; surely he's not about to launch into sordid territory here?

Quite right- not my style at all, though latest statistics do seem to show that married men and those who enjoy their marriage to the full live longer and are happier than unmarried men. Oh dear, time I start feeling like Marvin the paranoid Android again, maybe? Pass the Prozac, brother? Certainly not. Maybe Miss Right is still out there for me, but finding her is not the most important task in my life.

So what's X the unknown tonight then? Seven days without singing maybe? Mmm, listening to the dirge which passes for entertainment from some of our TV wannabees or even accomplished singers- sacred or secular- makes that questionable. But actually, research does show that singing is good for you, and who am I to disagree. I've inherited my late Mum's love of a good warble and it's one of the things that keeps Sunday special for me to sing a belting hymn, chorus or too. Indeed, church music can be full of surprises. Tonight, I was surprisingly delighted to hear- and later to sing- that classic Amazing Grace, to the tune of the Animals' old hit House of the Rising Sun. Clearly someone learning a lesson from William Booth here: why should the Devil have all the best tunes. It works amazingly well!

Seven days without beer or wine prompting lassitude, maybe? No, I can't agree with that either, though I enjoy my little tipples in moderation. My brother recently joined the Tesco wine club: both of us enjoy our Sunday sampling of the fruit of the vine but we must be careful not to become wine snobs.

Seven days without laughter? Could that be it? Well, there's not much to laugh about in the news at the moment, really. Tragedy in the Red Sea, where hundreds of poor souls drowned in a ferry accident; continuing tension in the Middle East and disturbing Muslim outrage at the publication of cartoons depicing the prophet. Even satire is dangerous territory, it seems, though Britain's masters of this genre must be as relieved as we believers that the bill which could have outlawed poking fun at religion or even preaching the gospel in some contexts, was defeated earlier this week. Ironically, the bill was lost for want of the vote of a certain Anthony Charles Lynton Blair.

Certainly, Christians who take their faith seriously can laugh at its excesses and themselves as heartily as the satirists, without ever compromising the heart of it, a liberating, tender relationship with God. That is a precious freedom which needs to be preserved at all costs.

Seven days without Big Brother maybe? Well, thank goodness, the annual farce which is Celebrity Big Brother is over for another twelve months, but it won't be long before another dose of throwing them to the lions, or should that be the lens, returns in some other guise. Anyone in the public eye is fair game these days, it seems.

Perhaps, then, seven days without blogging makes one weak? At least, that could be the conclusion from research this week which purports to show the benefits of sharing your thoughts, opinions and frustrations on the net for one and all. The computer monitor has become the new confessional. I can't deny I much enjoy writing these postings on a regular basis, but I think one look at the dates they've been published show that I don't rely on them for my spiritual well-being and to get all my frustrations off my chest. That's not to say those frustrations are not there, mind, particularly this week when I face big uncertainty again over where I'll be earning my living and, I hope, fulfilling at least part of my vocation from now on. But that's still in God's hands at the moment.

Which brings us back to the opening question and what must be my final answer- even if it doesn't bring the questionable riches bestowed on three Europeans this weekend as the Euro Millions multi-rolledover jackpot was finally won. Seven days without PRAYER makes one weak; I can't claim it as an original pun, but it's as true as ever. Prayer is the lifeblood of the believer and, actually, many would argue that it's a natural human instinct to pray- though the method of doing it and to whom it's will of course vary. It's been compared to breathing, actually- and without breathing, we wouldn't just be weak, we'd be dead- and very rapidly. So not just seven days, but seven hours, without prayer can make one weak. That's one reason I have so enjoyed the daily prayer meetings at my current employer- and why I should so miss them if I have to leave my employment there later this week.


I try now to include deep prayer as part of my routine in some form every day- and it doesn't have to be formulaic, oft-repeated or liturgical for it to be efficacious. True prayer is sharing your heart with God, the Father of the universe and the most important person in any life. Anyone that seeks to grow spiritually should spend more time in prayer, difficult though it is with our modern lifestyle. If you seek to be no longer weak, spare a prayer and you'll find your strength renewed. Who needs press-ups when you can pray up!

Whacked!

Not a post on the current national campaign in the UK to ban the smacking of children, even by their parents. Nor am I complaining that I'm tired, though Sunday's the best day of the week for a lie in and another nap later- it's well named the day of rest.

My "whacking" came courtesy of that magnificent beast which is Google, who own the gigabytes of storage space you're now reading alongside the world's most popular search engine. I've been Googlewhacked!

Laud Google as we may, it's not a perfect search engine, if such a commodity can ever exist. I think it would be a sad day for mankind, really, if just by inputting a word or two into a computer you could find the sum of all knowledge on everything known to man. When I was a young lad of 9 or 10, I remember the dreams I had with my friend Michael over the road about putting together a book which would contain absolutely every bit of knowledge ever, ever, ever. Maybe at that tender age, we were just aspirant encyclopaedia salesmen both.

Algorithms and sophisticated computer code can do its best, but it can still be beaten. That's the fun and the challenge of the strange new pursuit of "Googlewhacking". The object? To find any two search terms which, when grouped together, produce only a single hit on Google.

Much to my amazement, that's what happened to me after a quick check on the sitemeter at the bottom of this page a week ago. Someone somewhere had keyed in a search in cyrillic for "Andry Moneyphilia": Anglicise that, and much to my amazement it brought up only a page in this blog which contained the words "Andrew" and "Moneyphilia" in close proximity.

Of course, it won't work now, because I've done the search myself- there should be at least two hits there. But maybe it shows the way to win the game- come up with a neologism or a contrived word like "moneyphilia" and link it with a common or garden male name! Try it and see- it's a great way to waste time on a chilly Sunday morning.

Yet there are still so many things I find you can't always track down on Google. My question to leave you with this morning is: whatever happened to Tivvy? Does anyone remember him? And can you Google me an answer? I'm not talking about Tiverton Town football club either!
But the truth is out there, or should it be out, where? It's been a week for a lot of revelations which some would say have no place in the public domain- nobody's business. Does it all really matter what politicians get up to in their private lives, or when closeted together with other wannabees and nobodies in an ersatz house on a studio lot in Elstree close by the faux square which masquerades as a part of Walford, E20.

What really matters is how we behave towards each other in this brief span of years we get given on this planet, in other words how we love, not who we bed. It's how we show Respect towards our fellow men and women and above all to God. It's turning the other cheek when we are whacked, literally, or going the extra mile when we are tired and whacked, figuratively. It's the most rewarding thing on earth, and that's why I must leave you now to go and learn a little bit more of the googol of things there are to know about Him which make Sunday morning the time for church. Thank Heavens that his search engine always hits the heart with delightful, life-changing results!