So, here we are then, at the climax of another 365 days, when Old Father Time, AD2006 version, has to surrender his throne to that young upstart 2007. Already in the Antipodes, the famous fireworks over Sydney Harbour Bridge, which created such a memorable image seven years ago for the millennium, will have fizzled out and jaded revellers will be feeding the new babe with tinnies and prawnies as their Summer also reaches its height. Having made contact this year (by which I still mean MMVI for the moment) with paternal cousins in Oz for the first time, I've a special reason to think of them with affection at this time.
Back here in Blighty, though, the celebrations won't be getting into gear for another four hours or so at least yet. New Year's Eve, in England at least, is a strange beast. Everybody feels they ought to be celebrating it, but a great many people don't seem to know how. And if Christmas Night seems over too soon, then the significance of this night is even more short-lived. Twelve bongs, a few thousand simultaneous bangs and then the ringing headache after too much booze, and for many- that's it. I've often thought that, actually, 1st January is just a public hangover cure masquerading as a public holiday.
Perhaps part of the problem is that this has become such a long break in the UK that most folk are tired out come midnight on the 31st. Tuesday the second will indeed have to be a heave for some,- though not those in North Britain, aka Scotland-back onto crowded commuter trains and the further shock to the wallet of the London Congestion Charge resuming, after all the festive excesses and credit card overtime. New Year can certainly bring folk down to earth quicker than a rocket stick.
Maybe it's also the case, though, that the start of the recognised civil New Year throughout most of the world now, has absolutely no significance beyond an arbitrary date on the calendar. 31st December and 1st January no more celebrate an actual astronomical event than the constellation of the Great Bear depicts an actual ursine. The earth's annual transit of the sun actually takes up rather inconveniently a little more than 365 actual days so there never was or is a point when we can truly mark the passing of this unit of time.
Maybe, in some ways, the Judaic and Islamic faiths have a more accurate calendar by focussing on the lunar year rather than the solar one, but this does lead to the somewhat inconvenient occurrence of some of their feasts and fasts at the most incongenial time some years- though this year's Hajj to Mecca, reaching it's climax co-incidentally on 1st January in the Western Calendar, seems to have attracted as astounding a number of pilgrims as ever. No doubt everyone is praying that there will be no repeat of the tragedies of recent years where sheer weight of numbers has led to stampedes and many fatalities.
For most of us, though, the turn of the year offers a convenient point for our own "annual assessment", whether in employment or not. It's the time to look back on what has been achieved and what has not during the previous twelve months, and it's the time to look forward to what the new year may offer. If ever a Christian feast were to be created for it, I guess it could be the feast of Hope: "O God Our Help in Ages past, Our Hope for Years to Come" certainly seems to have been a prevalent post-Christmas hymn heard on radio services this week.
Some may see hope in the year ahead for changes in the world's worst trouble spots. I'm no supporter of capital punishment, but the execution of Saddam Hussein on 30th December certainly brought to an end one chapter in the history of the pain-filled nation which is currently Iraq. But it hasn't solved the problems, which remain, and many must still be filled with fear, not just in Iraq but throughout the Middle East, as a new year begins.
On the other hand, it's a new beginning for the United Nations, with a new Secretary-General about to take over from Kofi Annan. Ban Ki-Moon certainly looks like being a very different personality to his pre-decessor, being described in a BBC News Article as a "mild-mannered" man more interested in administration than diplomacy. But mild manners can maketh man and can lift nations from despair to hope. Superman's alter ego, Clark Kent, after all, was definitively meek. I certainly don't envy Ban Ki-Moon his job, but I do pray and wish him well in it.
When all is said and done, each new year brings the hope that we are drawing closer to the return of another superman- one who, literally, was man but was also above the limitations of man and his petty, hateful, mindset. Jesus, the boy born in a lowly manger in that ill-regarded outpost which today suffers surrounded by the brick walls of fear and division which is the modern day Holy Land, grew up to be a man who offered more hope to humankind than any dictator, international leader or statesman ever can. He offered people the chance to be their real selves, to discover life in all its fulness, to be rid of enslavement to our own shortcomings- aka sin- and to find new life in him.
I don't know what this next year will bring, either for me, for you, or for the world. I could be the guy with the half-full glass of optimism, or the misanthrope with the half-empty poisoned challice of fear. I'm neither. Reminded this morning at my church's last service of 2006, I turn again to John Betjeman's lovely poem, Christmas, for a reminder of what to celebrate on New Year's Eve. Being part of the family of man, of course, and the community of nations, but more so, being one of those many billions that God so loved that he gave his ONLY son for us:
No love that in a family dwells,
No carolling in frosty air,
Nor all the steeple-shaking bells
Can with this single Truth compare -
That God was Man in Palestine
And lives to-day in Bread and Wine.
I wish you a joyful, peaceful and prosperous time ahead- and thanks for reading my ramblings in 2006. Keep journeying with me, anyway, as we tread into 2007. Happy New Year!
Sunday 31 December 2006
Thursday 28 December 2006
Blank Holidays
These last days of December are a peculiar phenomenon in the UK. In three-sevenths of years (disregarding leap years for tidiness), the 27th and/or the 28th are designated as "Bank Holidays", and financial service workers, at least, either endure or enjoy the continuing Christmas festivities with a clear conscience as they take their legal entitlement to extra leave. Whenever one or both of the original December holidays- the 25th and 26th- fall on a Saturday or a Sunday, the next weekdays are observed as the official holiday(s).
This arrangement seems to have received royal assent sometime in the 1970s, but it probably would have happened anyway whether or not it had official sanction. 2006 is not one of those years where the calendar and the largesse of the Department of Trade and Industry cause extra bank holidays to occur after Christmas, but for industry at least it's still laid-back Britain until the 2nd January. So many firms, small and large, take a winter break and in my view that's no bad thing.
Some, of course, rail against the now established tendency to take nearly a fortnight's absence from the workplace between Christmas and New Year's Day, claiming it has an adverse effect on the economy and favours our competitors. What Scrooge-ish rot; I'm all in favour of it. This is probably about the closest 21st-century Britain will ever come to keeping the original "Twelve Days of Christmas" immortalised in the carol of the same title but originally reflecting a Christian festival which emphasises so much more of the whole Christmas story than can fit into the too swiftly passed 24 hours of Christmas Day.
Each of the four days after Christmas Day has a feast or commemoration associated with it in the church calendar. Good King Wenceslas has helped to ensure that everyone knows about the Feast of Stephen, the first Christian Martyr, which is more commonly observed in Britain and it's former colonies as "Boxing Day". For those outside the UK, I should perhaps explain that this is not a governmental edict to indulge in post-festive bare- knuckle fighting, but refers to the tradition of the church opening it's alms boxes on this day and then distributing the contents to the poor of the parishes. By extension, it soon became also the day when tradesmen hoped to be favoured by the seasonal generosity of their clients in gratitude for a good year's service to them.
Today though, and regrettably, about the only boxes you'll see being opened on 26th December are the night safes of the banks as the biggest names in the high streets and malls deposit their takings for what more cynically might now be called Buying Day. Whereas once you could rely on two days freedom from the trend to spend, today's 24/7 world allows only the briefest of amnestys from the passage of cash and the worship of mammon, it seems. And for the viewer of commercial television, there's no let up even on Christmas Day as we're reminded constantly on screen that "sale starts 9 a.m Boxing Day".
For heaven's sake, do we really need all this? Are we so desperate or greedy for a clothing or homeware bargain that we will leave homes and families on Christmas night to queue for the Next sale to open it's doors, and start fighting with fellow mad shoppers when it doesn't do so on time? It speaks volumes, I think, of how far British society has fallen from one of respect, courtesy and reverence to an every man for himself mentality which is the polar opposite of the spirit of the season.
I don't want to appear so other-worldly that I won't admit to enjoying a bargain, even after the excesses of spending and giving of Christmas- but it can wait another day. On the 27th and 28th, I was out there too, rummaging among the designer labels or the Waterstone's bookshelves for cannily reduced products I probably wouldn't have got before Christmas. But there's a price to pay for our bargains which is every bit as obscene as the sweatshop rates still so prevalent in the two-thirds world where most of the garments are manufactured these days. And the days of leisure of some are gained at the expense of the quality family time that shop workers too should be able to enjoy with their loved ones on Boxing Day. Governments hark on about the breakdown of family life, but given this largely unchecked descent into unfettered till-opening, is it any wonder that so many suffer through our long hours, overwork culture?
Meanwhile, for those not tied to the barcode and the stockroom, the respective "feasts" of St John the Evangelist, The Holy Innocents and The Holy Family provide more opportunity to spend time in rest and, dare I hope, reflection. Few churches these days will have special services for these events, but at least there is a special feeling in the air, still, which if you take time to breathe it in adds much spiritual rather than financial value to this protracted sequence of Holy Days.
You could feel it today in the winter sunshine which has at last replaced the gloomy grey cloud which has afflicted much of the British Isles for the last couple of weeks. You could breathe it and smell it in the seasonal fragrance of the somnolent shrubs and hedges of the Walled Garden in Sunbury on Thames where I grabbed an hour or so of fresh air this afternoon. You could sense the festive essence still in the sights of wildfowl who've escaped the Christmas feasting to enjoy their natural habitat on the waters of the nearby River Thames.
And after dusk, though the solstice has now passed and sunset already becomes later each day,for the moment you can still observe and enjoy that wonderful Christmas spirit in the comforting lights of many different colours that still adorn so many homes, shops and public buildings and surely should do til next Monday, the start of the New Year, at least. Unless you happen to be a certain pub chain which seems to have decreed Christmas ends on Boxing Day so down come the decorations. Shameful.
For once this year, the post-Christmas blues can still be enjoyed more illuminating a Christmas tree rather than sorrowing an anti-climaxed soul, for me at least. We can, as one of the carols says "keep a Christmas in our heart". Indeed, it's right that we should do so, really, until January 6th, which is the "Feast of the Epiphany". We may moan about many of the ways mainland Europeans seek to change our national ways at times, but I rather wish that some EU edict would decree that 6th January is recognised as it should be here, as it already is there. That feast commemorates the visit of the magi (wise men, or three kings) to the infant Christ and is symbolic of his revelation to all the world.
"Twelfth Night" therefore is the time when, as another carol puts it, "need they no created light". Our celestial ball is starting to bring more hours of daylight, but there's still much darkness in the world. It will take more than a fibre optic or a mini-watt bulb to illuminate, or should I say eliminate, that. What we really need is for our inner selves, our spirits to be fed as much as our tummies will have been come that date when the feasting stops for the time being. Maybe if we once again start to enjoy and observe these "holy days" until then, we might catch a little glimmer of that light to see us through til next Christmas.
This arrangement seems to have received royal assent sometime in the 1970s, but it probably would have happened anyway whether or not it had official sanction. 2006 is not one of those years where the calendar and the largesse of the Department of Trade and Industry cause extra bank holidays to occur after Christmas, but for industry at least it's still laid-back Britain until the 2nd January. So many firms, small and large, take a winter break and in my view that's no bad thing.
Some, of course, rail against the now established tendency to take nearly a fortnight's absence from the workplace between Christmas and New Year's Day, claiming it has an adverse effect on the economy and favours our competitors. What Scrooge-ish rot; I'm all in favour of it. This is probably about the closest 21st-century Britain will ever come to keeping the original "Twelve Days of Christmas" immortalised in the carol of the same title but originally reflecting a Christian festival which emphasises so much more of the whole Christmas story than can fit into the too swiftly passed 24 hours of Christmas Day.
Each of the four days after Christmas Day has a feast or commemoration associated with it in the church calendar. Good King Wenceslas has helped to ensure that everyone knows about the Feast of Stephen, the first Christian Martyr, which is more commonly observed in Britain and it's former colonies as "Boxing Day". For those outside the UK, I should perhaps explain that this is not a governmental edict to indulge in post-festive bare- knuckle fighting, but refers to the tradition of the church opening it's alms boxes on this day and then distributing the contents to the poor of the parishes. By extension, it soon became also the day when tradesmen hoped to be favoured by the seasonal generosity of their clients in gratitude for a good year's service to them.
Today though, and regrettably, about the only boxes you'll see being opened on 26th December are the night safes of the banks as the biggest names in the high streets and malls deposit their takings for what more cynically might now be called Buying Day. Whereas once you could rely on two days freedom from the trend to spend, today's 24/7 world allows only the briefest of amnestys from the passage of cash and the worship of mammon, it seems. And for the viewer of commercial television, there's no let up even on Christmas Day as we're reminded constantly on screen that "sale starts 9 a.m Boxing Day".
For heaven's sake, do we really need all this? Are we so desperate or greedy for a clothing or homeware bargain that we will leave homes and families on Christmas night to queue for the Next sale to open it's doors, and start fighting with fellow mad shoppers when it doesn't do so on time? It speaks volumes, I think, of how far British society has fallen from one of respect, courtesy and reverence to an every man for himself mentality which is the polar opposite of the spirit of the season.
I don't want to appear so other-worldly that I won't admit to enjoying a bargain, even after the excesses of spending and giving of Christmas- but it can wait another day. On the 27th and 28th, I was out there too, rummaging among the designer labels or the Waterstone's bookshelves for cannily reduced products I probably wouldn't have got before Christmas. But there's a price to pay for our bargains which is every bit as obscene as the sweatshop rates still so prevalent in the two-thirds world where most of the garments are manufactured these days. And the days of leisure of some are gained at the expense of the quality family time that shop workers too should be able to enjoy with their loved ones on Boxing Day. Governments hark on about the breakdown of family life, but given this largely unchecked descent into unfettered till-opening, is it any wonder that so many suffer through our long hours, overwork culture?
Meanwhile, for those not tied to the barcode and the stockroom, the respective "feasts" of St John the Evangelist, The Holy Innocents and The Holy Family provide more opportunity to spend time in rest and, dare I hope, reflection. Few churches these days will have special services for these events, but at least there is a special feeling in the air, still, which if you take time to breathe it in adds much spiritual rather than financial value to this protracted sequence of Holy Days.
You could feel it today in the winter sunshine which has at last replaced the gloomy grey cloud which has afflicted much of the British Isles for the last couple of weeks. You could breathe it and smell it in the seasonal fragrance of the somnolent shrubs and hedges of the Walled Garden in Sunbury on Thames where I grabbed an hour or so of fresh air this afternoon. You could sense the festive essence still in the sights of wildfowl who've escaped the Christmas feasting to enjoy their natural habitat on the waters of the nearby River Thames.
And after dusk, though the solstice has now passed and sunset already becomes later each day,for the moment you can still observe and enjoy that wonderful Christmas spirit in the comforting lights of many different colours that still adorn so many homes, shops and public buildings and surely should do til next Monday, the start of the New Year, at least. Unless you happen to be a certain pub chain which seems to have decreed Christmas ends on Boxing Day so down come the decorations. Shameful.
For once this year, the post-Christmas blues can still be enjoyed more illuminating a Christmas tree rather than sorrowing an anti-climaxed soul, for me at least. We can, as one of the carols says "keep a Christmas in our heart". Indeed, it's right that we should do so, really, until January 6th, which is the "Feast of the Epiphany". We may moan about many of the ways mainland Europeans seek to change our national ways at times, but I rather wish that some EU edict would decree that 6th January is recognised as it should be here, as it already is there. That feast commemorates the visit of the magi (wise men, or three kings) to the infant Christ and is symbolic of his revelation to all the world.
"Twelfth Night" therefore is the time when, as another carol puts it, "need they no created light". Our celestial ball is starting to bring more hours of daylight, but there's still much darkness in the world. It will take more than a fibre optic or a mini-watt bulb to illuminate, or should I say eliminate, that. What we really need is for our inner selves, our spirits to be fed as much as our tummies will have been come that date when the feasting stops for the time being. Maybe if we once again start to enjoy and observe these "holy days" until then, we might catch a little glimmer of that light to see us through til next Christmas.
Sunday 24 December 2006
Waiter, Waiter!
Last night, I went out for a "bonzer" scoff of some Aussie-themed tucker with two friends and my brother to celebrate his birthday. My younger sibling has always been very gracious about having to celebrate his natal day amongst all the other distractions and busy-ness of the week before Christmas, but I can't help feeling a bit sorry for him. You wait all year for it to come round and then it can almost get lost under the postman's pile of Christmas cards and festive goodies filling the fridge. And it's over before you know it.
I wonder if we treat Christmas a bit like that? Today is Christmas Eve, a day with a unique atmosphere which you cannot bottle like the Cointreau I finished my meal with last night. There is a buzz in the shoppers thronging the streets in a last minute dash to get gifts for their loved ones, or more likely enough vittals to see them through to, ooh all of 24 hours or so. Maybe even 48 if you count Boxing Day.
But it is also a Sunday. A special Sunday too: the fourth Sunday in Advent. Ask most ordinary Joes or Marys on the street today what Advent means, and you might if you're lucky get the response "chocolate calendars"! The last of the doors will have been most eagerly opened today by wide-eyed children everywhere in the parts of the world that celebrate Christmas. But will they have a clue why they have to wait so long to open number 24, or so it will have seemed to them.
Advent is about waiting. The trouble is, we live in a society that doesn't like waiting for anything. It's got to be instant- instant messaging, instant winning with the lottery or instant mash for hard-pressed Mums today who haven't the time to cook anything for tonight's meal because of all the preparations for tomorrow.
Britain is a land famed for it's polite queueing or as Americans would have it, waiting in line. But the tradition shows signs of cracking. Time is the new gold, it seems and people no longer want to wait to get their goods. They'll give anything to save time. The Argos chain of catalogue stores are alert to this, and today their hard-pressed staff will be frantically bringing out orders placed on-line, by phone or even by text by folk too lazy or too impatient to take their turn in the queue in store but just want to pick it up later.
Yet sometimes, nature has a habit of reminding us that, actually, we can't always have what we want instantly and we just have to wait. Harrassed travellers at Heathrow Airport, just to my North from where I sit, had to learn that this week as the thickest December fog Britain has seen in many years grounded many internal and short-haul flights. Mercifully for people travelling to their beloved families this Christmas, the fog has now lifted and flights were expected to be back to normal today, but a lesson will perhaps have been learnt.
I wish the same could be said for our society as a whole and that people would re-learn some of the true meaning of Advent. As Christmas Eve, today is a wonderful treasure, but to benefit from its full joy, everywhere that celebrates it has to wait a few more hours before the reason for the season finally brings forth the most precious gift of all. For believers, it's the Christ child. For those who profess no faith, love will still come down and reveal itself again to most in loving families.
But not to all. Still we wait for the day when there will be no more tears from the lonely and deserted, no more grief from the bereaved, no more sickness or sadness, no more pestilence or poverty. Will we ever see that day? Well, the writer of one of the Bible's Psalms, possibly King David himself, one of Jesus' earthly ancestors, certainly believed so. He said "I believe I shall see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living".
In a world that lacks so much, yet assumes it has plenty, there is still a real hope of a better tomorrow. There is hope because in the Northern winter, the season of dead nature and cold, people still celebrate the warmth and light of life in all its fulness- even when that fulness might mean a bloated belly for a little while. And Advent is all about hope. Not just anticipating the celebration tomorrow of the birth of Christ, but of his promise of coming again and bringing all things in history to completion, instantly.
This is a promise which keeps me and other believers going and celebrating every day of their lives, not just on the 25th December (or early January in the Orthodox tradition). But the promise was bought at a price greater than any Harrod's price tag, in blood redder than a santa claus suit on the Good Friday cross- but taken back to the creator and replaced with new, everlasting life on Easter Day. Even Duracell can't promise that with their essential batteries.
If you've been a regular reader of Anyway, I thank you for your support and interest this year- and for waiting! I know it's been a couple of months now since I last posted anything, partly due to other writing commitments recently. But I still love sharing these thoughts with you from time to time, and if you've been helped or touched by them in any way, or have any questions, please hit the comment option at the bottom of this posting. Otherwise, I hope you'll stay visiting and I wish you and your families a joyful, peaceful and Happy Christmas.
I wonder if we treat Christmas a bit like that? Today is Christmas Eve, a day with a unique atmosphere which you cannot bottle like the Cointreau I finished my meal with last night. There is a buzz in the shoppers thronging the streets in a last minute dash to get gifts for their loved ones, or more likely enough vittals to see them through to, ooh all of 24 hours or so. Maybe even 48 if you count Boxing Day.
But it is also a Sunday. A special Sunday too: the fourth Sunday in Advent. Ask most ordinary Joes or Marys on the street today what Advent means, and you might if you're lucky get the response "chocolate calendars"! The last of the doors will have been most eagerly opened today by wide-eyed children everywhere in the parts of the world that celebrate Christmas. But will they have a clue why they have to wait so long to open number 24, or so it will have seemed to them.
Advent is about waiting. The trouble is, we live in a society that doesn't like waiting for anything. It's got to be instant- instant messaging, instant winning with the lottery or instant mash for hard-pressed Mums today who haven't the time to cook anything for tonight's meal because of all the preparations for tomorrow.
Britain is a land famed for it's polite queueing or as Americans would have it, waiting in line. But the tradition shows signs of cracking. Time is the new gold, it seems and people no longer want to wait to get their goods. They'll give anything to save time. The Argos chain of catalogue stores are alert to this, and today their hard-pressed staff will be frantically bringing out orders placed on-line, by phone or even by text by folk too lazy or too impatient to take their turn in the queue in store but just want to pick it up later.
Yet sometimes, nature has a habit of reminding us that, actually, we can't always have what we want instantly and we just have to wait. Harrassed travellers at Heathrow Airport, just to my North from where I sit, had to learn that this week as the thickest December fog Britain has seen in many years grounded many internal and short-haul flights. Mercifully for people travelling to their beloved families this Christmas, the fog has now lifted and flights were expected to be back to normal today, but a lesson will perhaps have been learnt.
I wish the same could be said for our society as a whole and that people would re-learn some of the true meaning of Advent. As Christmas Eve, today is a wonderful treasure, but to benefit from its full joy, everywhere that celebrates it has to wait a few more hours before the reason for the season finally brings forth the most precious gift of all. For believers, it's the Christ child. For those who profess no faith, love will still come down and reveal itself again to most in loving families.
But not to all. Still we wait for the day when there will be no more tears from the lonely and deserted, no more grief from the bereaved, no more sickness or sadness, no more pestilence or poverty. Will we ever see that day? Well, the writer of one of the Bible's Psalms, possibly King David himself, one of Jesus' earthly ancestors, certainly believed so. He said "I believe I shall see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living".
In a world that lacks so much, yet assumes it has plenty, there is still a real hope of a better tomorrow. There is hope because in the Northern winter, the season of dead nature and cold, people still celebrate the warmth and light of life in all its fulness- even when that fulness might mean a bloated belly for a little while. And Advent is all about hope. Not just anticipating the celebration tomorrow of the birth of Christ, but of his promise of coming again and bringing all things in history to completion, instantly.
This is a promise which keeps me and other believers going and celebrating every day of their lives, not just on the 25th December (or early January in the Orthodox tradition). But the promise was bought at a price greater than any Harrod's price tag, in blood redder than a santa claus suit on the Good Friday cross- but taken back to the creator and replaced with new, everlasting life on Easter Day. Even Duracell can't promise that with their essential batteries.
If you've been a regular reader of Anyway, I thank you for your support and interest this year- and for waiting! I know it's been a couple of months now since I last posted anything, partly due to other writing commitments recently. But I still love sharing these thoughts with you from time to time, and if you've been helped or touched by them in any way, or have any questions, please hit the comment option at the bottom of this posting. Otherwise, I hope you'll stay visiting and I wish you and your families a joyful, peaceful and Happy Christmas.
Saturday 7 October 2006
Moonstruck
There was a full moon last night- or more precisely, very early this morning here in the UK, at 04.13 British Summer Time; make the most of that time zone for in less than a month it will be back to our standard time zone of GMT and the long hours of winter darkness beckon.
But why fear winter? I was way off in the land of nod when our earth's diminutive brother, lifeless yet full of power and light, reached another peak, but I'd caught a glimpse of it just after midnight and likewise earlier in the week on the Sussex Coast. In both cases, it left me awe-struck, or should I say moonstruck.
I don't know how many full moons I must have seen as my own seasons of life have come and gone as our terrestrial ball has spun and orbited in space for over four decades. Looked at like this, I am a mere pinhole camera, taking snapshots of a tiny moment in the eons of the universe. I am a crude observer, trying to capture the wonder of it all, yet still experiencing joy, surprise and peace much as the ancients must have felt too at another month's passing and the coming of the full moon.
No matter how much science, technical progress and the discoveries particularly of the late twentieth century have altered our view of the lunar landscape, it has yet to explain beauty. Science cannot answer why the moon over water is one of the most romantic sights man or woman can ever see. Who needs elaborate special effects and artificial lighting when what is really a giant reflector in the night sky can offer more than the finest film camera can ever see.
You've never needed the cinema, TV or VDU screen to marvel at the moon. One thing I was, shamefully, unaware of until this Thursday, when BBC Two repeated a fascinating documentary about our only natural satellite, is that the full moon appears the same at every point on earth. No corner of our globe escapes it's benevolent beaming.
It's been over a mo(o)nth since I last wrote to this blog- in fact, just slightly longer than the lunar cycle. During that period, one group of believers has celebrated the harvest, as many Christian churches have yearly been doing since the Victorian era though echoing a tradition dating back to ancient times. Another faith, Islam, has begun it's holy month of fasting, Ramadan, the duration of which is intimately tied in with the phases of the moon. And for the third of the patriarchal religions, the Jewish community, a new year has just begun and the old one has been remembered and people have repented en masse as remembering the creation of the earth with joy at Rosh Hashanna, and then the most solemn festival of the year at Yom Kippur passes. Long may these things be observed.
As a now-departed senior friend of mine once said, we're all different- and thank goodness! We differ in our beliefs, our observances, our creeds, our hopes, our dreams. We sometimes argue about them passionately, though mercifully mostly short of war. Nevertheless, in the past couple of days, a respected former British Foreign Secretary has incurred the wrath of some people of faith for daring to express his own opinions about the difficulties of communicating with some of the his constituents who choose to wear the burkah, the face veil worn by some Muslim women.
Yet we still all inhabit the same, fragile, delicate, beautiful, complex, fascinating spaceball which we call The Earth, and watch its bosom buddy the moon. Bound together by their mutually dependent physical forces, and our planet's eco-systems, its climate, its rhythms, its tides. We did not create these so how can we dare we allow ourselves to be a vehicle of its destruction.
But sadly, man turns too late to reason so often, to understand the vitalness of co-dependence, and the special gift of life we have been given, by some power we people of faith choose to believe in while others feel no need of. Lunar love-in turns to lunacy when a crazed gunman slaughters five beautiful little girls in a peaceful Pennsylvania community with the painfully ironic name of Paradise.
Paradise lost. It lost the bodies of young lives who might yet have contributed something beautiful to this earth. It robbed its mothers and its fathers of the heart-warming joy of raising their daughters and replaced it with the obscenity of burying them before they'd even reached their teens. Can anything be salvaged from the senselessness of acts like this which are seldom out of the news from more than a few months?
As long as the moon shines, I believe it can. As long as man has hope in his heart of a better tomorrow, is sorry for all his wrongdoing to others and gives thanks for what this wonderful world is and can be, there is the possibility of redemption. I believe the outworking of that is found in the life of one man, who came that we all might have life, in all its fulness- but how he chooses to deliver that promise, is the stuff of faith.
BBC One television, long associated with a circling globe against a sea of space as its logo, has today launched a new series of channel idents to a mixed reception. I've seen about four of them so far already, including a scene of some fishermen somewhere in Asia against a moon-drenched sky glimmering on a silvery sea. It's a simple yet powerful image- as delightful to a tiny child as the most world-weary adult. It reminded me of how I felt at midnight yesterday, as the clouds of night were kissed by the moon of day. The powers of darkness had once again been overcome by pure, white, milky light.
As surely as we have faith that the waning moon will again be full, may we always be awed - or rather, changed- by the Light of the World, as nearer and nearer draws the time when the Earth shall be filled with the glory of God, as the waters cover the sea.
But why fear winter? I was way off in the land of nod when our earth's diminutive brother, lifeless yet full of power and light, reached another peak, but I'd caught a glimpse of it just after midnight and likewise earlier in the week on the Sussex Coast. In both cases, it left me awe-struck, or should I say moonstruck.
I don't know how many full moons I must have seen as my own seasons of life have come and gone as our terrestrial ball has spun and orbited in space for over four decades. Looked at like this, I am a mere pinhole camera, taking snapshots of a tiny moment in the eons of the universe. I am a crude observer, trying to capture the wonder of it all, yet still experiencing joy, surprise and peace much as the ancients must have felt too at another month's passing and the coming of the full moon.
No matter how much science, technical progress and the discoveries particularly of the late twentieth century have altered our view of the lunar landscape, it has yet to explain beauty. Science cannot answer why the moon over water is one of the most romantic sights man or woman can ever see. Who needs elaborate special effects and artificial lighting when what is really a giant reflector in the night sky can offer more than the finest film camera can ever see.
You've never needed the cinema, TV or VDU screen to marvel at the moon. One thing I was, shamefully, unaware of until this Thursday, when BBC Two repeated a fascinating documentary about our only natural satellite, is that the full moon appears the same at every point on earth. No corner of our globe escapes it's benevolent beaming.
It's been over a mo(o)nth since I last wrote to this blog- in fact, just slightly longer than the lunar cycle. During that period, one group of believers has celebrated the harvest, as many Christian churches have yearly been doing since the Victorian era though echoing a tradition dating back to ancient times. Another faith, Islam, has begun it's holy month of fasting, Ramadan, the duration of which is intimately tied in with the phases of the moon. And for the third of the patriarchal religions, the Jewish community, a new year has just begun and the old one has been remembered and people have repented en masse as remembering the creation of the earth with joy at Rosh Hashanna, and then the most solemn festival of the year at Yom Kippur passes. Long may these things be observed.
As a now-departed senior friend of mine once said, we're all different- and thank goodness! We differ in our beliefs, our observances, our creeds, our hopes, our dreams. We sometimes argue about them passionately, though mercifully mostly short of war. Nevertheless, in the past couple of days, a respected former British Foreign Secretary has incurred the wrath of some people of faith for daring to express his own opinions about the difficulties of communicating with some of the his constituents who choose to wear the burkah, the face veil worn by some Muslim women.
Yet we still all inhabit the same, fragile, delicate, beautiful, complex, fascinating spaceball which we call The Earth, and watch its bosom buddy the moon. Bound together by their mutually dependent physical forces, and our planet's eco-systems, its climate, its rhythms, its tides. We did not create these so how can we dare we allow ourselves to be a vehicle of its destruction.
But sadly, man turns too late to reason so often, to understand the vitalness of co-dependence, and the special gift of life we have been given, by some power we people of faith choose to believe in while others feel no need of. Lunar love-in turns to lunacy when a crazed gunman slaughters five beautiful little girls in a peaceful Pennsylvania community with the painfully ironic name of Paradise.
Paradise lost. It lost the bodies of young lives who might yet have contributed something beautiful to this earth. It robbed its mothers and its fathers of the heart-warming joy of raising their daughters and replaced it with the obscenity of burying them before they'd even reached their teens. Can anything be salvaged from the senselessness of acts like this which are seldom out of the news from more than a few months?
As long as the moon shines, I believe it can. As long as man has hope in his heart of a better tomorrow, is sorry for all his wrongdoing to others and gives thanks for what this wonderful world is and can be, there is the possibility of redemption. I believe the outworking of that is found in the life of one man, who came that we all might have life, in all its fulness- but how he chooses to deliver that promise, is the stuff of faith.
BBC One television, long associated with a circling globe against a sea of space as its logo, has today launched a new series of channel idents to a mixed reception. I've seen about four of them so far already, including a scene of some fishermen somewhere in Asia against a moon-drenched sky glimmering on a silvery sea. It's a simple yet powerful image- as delightful to a tiny child as the most world-weary adult. It reminded me of how I felt at midnight yesterday, as the clouds of night were kissed by the moon of day. The powers of darkness had once again been overcome by pure, white, milky light.
As surely as we have faith that the waning moon will again be full, may we always be awed - or rather, changed- by the Light of the World, as nearer and nearer draws the time when the Earth shall be filled with the glory of God, as the waters cover the sea.
Sunday 3 September 2006
What's in a name?
No, I really am "Mark A Savage", honest guv'nor. It says so on my birth certificate so it must be true. No hiding behind a pseudonym on this blog, though whether I should or not is another matter.
I had to laugh when I turned on for the Daily Service on BBC Radio 4 last Tuesday, to hear the end credits for the previous programme: "Mark Savage went to 'Meet the Bloggers'". Did I? I must admit that I don't remember those particular encounters, and if I did- where's my lovely cheque for 15 minutes of BBC airtime- I could do with the cash right now! Still, given my own love of blogging, it seemed really appropriate that he should have put this typical Radio 4 gem together. I seriously feel I really ought to contact my namesake: it's rather spooky that we're both radiophiles, it seems.
Anyway, Meet the Bloggers proved to be really interesting, when I got round to listening to it this Sunday afternoon. You can catch the latest edition if you're reading this in September (it's a series of five) from the Radio 4 website by clicking on my posting title above,and following the link to the "Listen Again" feature. Mind you, it's just as well I'm an honest soul, as I actually did get a cheque which I think was intended for that BBC producer/presenter some years ago while I was working as a broadcast assistant. Needless to say, I rapidly sent it back to it's proper home, though perhaps with a little sorrow that I hadn't managed to make the full-time career in radio that clearly this native Savage had.
The trouble is, you can't rely on your name alone these days to testify to your uniqueness as a person. Even less so can you count on the integrity of others to respect your right to its exclusive use in a financial capacity. We're told that identity theft is rife- yet I can't help wondering if this is sometimes an over-hyped story designed to make money for those same sort of people that made a fortune out of scare stories of the dreaded "Millennium Bug"- which proved to be about as harmless as a ladybird in most cases. The company which tried to sell my brother extra identity theft cover on his insurance policy the other day must think they've found a goldmine in our fears of someone impersonating us.
Then there are the cases where people quite legitimately choose to change their names. Ask when Reg Dwight or Harry Webb last had a hit and many folk would look blankly at you or think you're having a laugh. Tell them that you're talking about Sir Elton John and Sir Cliff Richard respectively and it would be a different story. Clearly, there can be great advantages to changing your name, though sometimes the most bizarre of real family names do you no harm. Yes, there really was a Clarence Birdseye, just as much as a simply named Thomas Cook, WH Smith and even, once, an old McDonald who had some cows before he decided they'd make better burgers (sorry to offend any of my vegetarian readers).
This week's news has included the confusing and ultimately rather sad tale of a girl allegedly kidnapped from outside her school gates in Stornoway on Scotland's Orkney Islands. Her tearful, shaking mother appeared before cameras earlier in the week, emotionally pleading for the safe return of "Molly Campbell" amid claims her father had abducted her to take her to Pakistan to be forced into marriage.
Yet by the end of the week, we saw that "Molly" was safe and well in Pakistan, with her father and siblings. She had apparently gone there of her own accord. Except now she wished to be known by her Islamic name of Misbah Iram Ahmed Rahma, thus carrying with her the surname of her father who had been estranged from her mother for five years. Amid all the tug-of-love wranglings of the story- I found myself really feeling for the mother when the story first broke, and said a quick prayer- for the media there's the new ethical dilemma of what they call the subject at the heart of this story while it's news. Misbah or Molly? What name should she be called? It's her right under British laws to have an identity of her own choosing, after all.
Showbiz celebrities might have even more liberty, to choose names and cast them off again at their whim and fancy. There is at least one pop star fallen from grace who went through several incarnations very different from the name on his birth certificate. In Britain and the US, at least, it's also something the rest of us can do with ease if we choose, traditionally and officially by deed poll. But probably for most it's a complication too far, given that so much paperwork and before long, I fear, compulsory identity cards carry the names we were born with.
Yet God who carries "the name which is above all other names" recognised that nomenclatures can harm or heal, bless or curse. Is that maybe why Abram gained a syllable and became Abraham, the father of many nations- especially in the Jewish, Christian and Islamic worlds? Whereas the hated persecutor and executor of Christians, Saul, changed a consonant and overturned his life, and became one of the greatest apostles of Christianity and writer of much of the New Testament.
"John Mark" wrote the first of the gospels but most of us know him as Saint Mark, presumably to avoid confusion with Saint John. His familiar name means "warrior" or "warlike", somewhat ironically in homage to the Roman god of war, Mars. And I'm a Savage by name (my late father's) but not by nature- anything but. But perhaps the name's not so inappropriate after all. I would give up anything and everything- even the fame of seeing my by-line in print (as I have done several times this year) or at the end of a radio programme, for the namesake of Our Father, whose name is hallowed indeed, and his son, Jesus the Christ. I suppose I like to see myself as a warrior for Christ, in fact.
I'm not telling you here what my "A" stands for- but it's not actually Anthony like a certain present premier who's garnered a lot of column centimetres in the last couple of days and all because of a mug which suggests the personal qualities of all who bear this name, even if many of them like number 10's current occupant prefer the diminutive "Tony". But does his name alone mean we can really believe everything Mr Blair tells us about his plans for the future?
OK, so ultimately, what IS in a name? It depends who gave the name and how you prove it, I guess. One piece of paper can't prove you are who you say you are. It can't say anything about who you really are inside, your history, hopes and dreams, or who you yet might be. But a name given by the king of kings and written on your heart can.
I had to laugh when I turned on for the Daily Service on BBC Radio 4 last Tuesday, to hear the end credits for the previous programme: "Mark Savage went to 'Meet the Bloggers'". Did I? I must admit that I don't remember those particular encounters, and if I did- where's my lovely cheque for 15 minutes of BBC airtime- I could do with the cash right now! Still, given my own love of blogging, it seemed really appropriate that he should have put this typical Radio 4 gem together. I seriously feel I really ought to contact my namesake: it's rather spooky that we're both radiophiles, it seems.
Anyway, Meet the Bloggers proved to be really interesting, when I got round to listening to it this Sunday afternoon. You can catch the latest edition if you're reading this in September (it's a series of five) from the Radio 4 website by clicking on my posting title above,and following the link to the "Listen Again" feature. Mind you, it's just as well I'm an honest soul, as I actually did get a cheque which I think was intended for that BBC producer/presenter some years ago while I was working as a broadcast assistant. Needless to say, I rapidly sent it back to it's proper home, though perhaps with a little sorrow that I hadn't managed to make the full-time career in radio that clearly this native Savage had.
The trouble is, you can't rely on your name alone these days to testify to your uniqueness as a person. Even less so can you count on the integrity of others to respect your right to its exclusive use in a financial capacity. We're told that identity theft is rife- yet I can't help wondering if this is sometimes an over-hyped story designed to make money for those same sort of people that made a fortune out of scare stories of the dreaded "Millennium Bug"- which proved to be about as harmless as a ladybird in most cases. The company which tried to sell my brother extra identity theft cover on his insurance policy the other day must think they've found a goldmine in our fears of someone impersonating us.
Then there are the cases where people quite legitimately choose to change their names. Ask when Reg Dwight or Harry Webb last had a hit and many folk would look blankly at you or think you're having a laugh. Tell them that you're talking about Sir Elton John and Sir Cliff Richard respectively and it would be a different story. Clearly, there can be great advantages to changing your name, though sometimes the most bizarre of real family names do you no harm. Yes, there really was a Clarence Birdseye, just as much as a simply named Thomas Cook, WH Smith and even, once, an old McDonald who had some cows before he decided they'd make better burgers (sorry to offend any of my vegetarian readers).
This week's news has included the confusing and ultimately rather sad tale of a girl allegedly kidnapped from outside her school gates in Stornoway on Scotland's Orkney Islands. Her tearful, shaking mother appeared before cameras earlier in the week, emotionally pleading for the safe return of "Molly Campbell" amid claims her father had abducted her to take her to Pakistan to be forced into marriage.
Yet by the end of the week, we saw that "Molly" was safe and well in Pakistan, with her father and siblings. She had apparently gone there of her own accord. Except now she wished to be known by her Islamic name of Misbah Iram Ahmed Rahma, thus carrying with her the surname of her father who had been estranged from her mother for five years. Amid all the tug-of-love wranglings of the story- I found myself really feeling for the mother when the story first broke, and said a quick prayer- for the media there's the new ethical dilemma of what they call the subject at the heart of this story while it's news. Misbah or Molly? What name should she be called? It's her right under British laws to have an identity of her own choosing, after all.
Showbiz celebrities might have even more liberty, to choose names and cast them off again at their whim and fancy. There is at least one pop star fallen from grace who went through several incarnations very different from the name on his birth certificate. In Britain and the US, at least, it's also something the rest of us can do with ease if we choose, traditionally and officially by deed poll. But probably for most it's a complication too far, given that so much paperwork and before long, I fear, compulsory identity cards carry the names we were born with.
Yet God who carries "the name which is above all other names" recognised that nomenclatures can harm or heal, bless or curse. Is that maybe why Abram gained a syllable and became Abraham, the father of many nations- especially in the Jewish, Christian and Islamic worlds? Whereas the hated persecutor and executor of Christians, Saul, changed a consonant and overturned his life, and became one of the greatest apostles of Christianity and writer of much of the New Testament.
"John Mark" wrote the first of the gospels but most of us know him as Saint Mark, presumably to avoid confusion with Saint John. His familiar name means "warrior" or "warlike", somewhat ironically in homage to the Roman god of war, Mars. And I'm a Savage by name (my late father's) but not by nature- anything but. But perhaps the name's not so inappropriate after all. I would give up anything and everything- even the fame of seeing my by-line in print (as I have done several times this year) or at the end of a radio programme, for the namesake of Our Father, whose name is hallowed indeed, and his son, Jesus the Christ. I suppose I like to see myself as a warrior for Christ, in fact.
I'm not telling you here what my "A" stands for- but it's not actually Anthony like a certain present premier who's garnered a lot of column centimetres in the last couple of days and all because of a mug which suggests the personal qualities of all who bear this name, even if many of them like number 10's current occupant prefer the diminutive "Tony". But does his name alone mean we can really believe everything Mr Blair tells us about his plans for the future?
OK, so ultimately, what IS in a name? It depends who gave the name and how you prove it, I guess. One piece of paper can't prove you are who you say you are. It can't say anything about who you really are inside, your history, hopes and dreams, or who you yet might be. But a name given by the king of kings and written on your heart can.
Tuesday 29 August 2006
Betjeman's Bank Holiday Birthday Blog
Monday 28th August was a day for enjoying all things traditional and everything English- like seaside siestas, glorious gardens and fun-filled fairs- not to mention beer and barbecues, cars and queues. It was the last Bank Holiday of the Summer- but also the centenary of the birth one of Britain's most popular poets laureate, Sir John Betjeman.
If you're a regular reader of these blogs or know me well, you'll already be familiar with my love of word play and particularly alliteration. The appeal of successive words containing the same initial letters is one of the many fun things you can do when trying to combine twenty-six letters to make satisfying sentences- there, I did it again!
I've always enjoyed writing about the people and places I've visited, and the emotions and experiences I've had along the way. I suppose when all's said and done that's what all writing's about, whether fiction or fact. It's how we share our humanity, how we can attempt to understand our deeper feelings, trials and tribulations. Somewhere along the way, good writing also has the power to entertain as well as inform.
I love putting words together to form these blogs when - increasingly of late- other writing commitments don't get in the way, but I've never seen myself as much of a poet. With the odd exception, I'm very much a prose-smith. But I can nevertheless appreciate poetry's power to elevate the commonplace to the comment place, where literary criticism and appreciation of the use of language come to the fore.
Some sourpuss scoffers thought during his lifetime that John Betjeman couldn't be judged a proper poet at all, because he so loved rhyming couplets. But so what? The great joy of rhyme is that is memorable, and Betjeman had a gift for condensing the profound into the fuss-free device of a rhyme which everyone could appreciate. That doesn't mean his writing lost any of its power for all that: Christmas, which I paid homage to in this blog last Advent with my own poem, is a work of beauty which portrays the meaning of Christ's birth in a way none of the sugary lines of a Christmas card ever can.
John Betjeman's great contribution to English society was that he was a flawed genius- like so many of the rest of us, no doubt. Twenty-two years after his cruel death from the ravages of Parkinson's Disease, he's been remembered this month in many a television, radio and newspaper homage. At the same time, A N Wilson, his latest biographer, has stirred up controversy over claims about the authenticity of a letter about the poet's mistress.
The words of others can never do full justice to the legacy and the life of any individual. They are but a feeble attempt to explain the mysterious, complex, wonderful creation which is a human being. John Betjeman was a walking contradiction at times; considered quintessentially English in so many of his writings and causes, he was actually of immigrant stock. Always a man of faith, and yet often ill at ease with his Anglicanism. A master of words and yet at times tortured by his thoughts- particularly of death.
I love John Betjeman's poetry. I love his depiction of an England now long gone, of the suburbia I inhabit and the customs I cherish. He wrote some lovely words, worthy of celebration at this centenary time. But a man's a man for all that- as another great British poet,Robert Burns, famously declared with his homage to humility two centuries before Betjeman. Only in faith and trust, and in the love of Jesus do we really find what life's all about. Plenty of poetic words in the bible, as well as the journalistic narrative of my namesake Mark confirm that for me, as ultimately it did for Betjeman.
By blood after bird
God kept his Word
From the Ark, the dove sent
That all should repent
Becoming flesh in Palestine
Jesus came for all mankind
That love should prosper, in souls of the earth
And everyone know the joy of new birth.
If you're a regular reader of these blogs or know me well, you'll already be familiar with my love of word play and particularly alliteration. The appeal of successive words containing the same initial letters is one of the many fun things you can do when trying to combine twenty-six letters to make satisfying sentences- there, I did it again!
I've always enjoyed writing about the people and places I've visited, and the emotions and experiences I've had along the way. I suppose when all's said and done that's what all writing's about, whether fiction or fact. It's how we share our humanity, how we can attempt to understand our deeper feelings, trials and tribulations. Somewhere along the way, good writing also has the power to entertain as well as inform.
I love putting words together to form these blogs when - increasingly of late- other writing commitments don't get in the way, but I've never seen myself as much of a poet. With the odd exception, I'm very much a prose-smith. But I can nevertheless appreciate poetry's power to elevate the commonplace to the comment place, where literary criticism and appreciation of the use of language come to the fore.
Some sourpuss scoffers thought during his lifetime that John Betjeman couldn't be judged a proper poet at all, because he so loved rhyming couplets. But so what? The great joy of rhyme is that is memorable, and Betjeman had a gift for condensing the profound into the fuss-free device of a rhyme which everyone could appreciate. That doesn't mean his writing lost any of its power for all that: Christmas, which I paid homage to in this blog last Advent with my own poem, is a work of beauty which portrays the meaning of Christ's birth in a way none of the sugary lines of a Christmas card ever can.
John Betjeman's great contribution to English society was that he was a flawed genius- like so many of the rest of us, no doubt. Twenty-two years after his cruel death from the ravages of Parkinson's Disease, he's been remembered this month in many a television, radio and newspaper homage. At the same time, A N Wilson, his latest biographer, has stirred up controversy over claims about the authenticity of a letter about the poet's mistress.
The words of others can never do full justice to the legacy and the life of any individual. They are but a feeble attempt to explain the mysterious, complex, wonderful creation which is a human being. John Betjeman was a walking contradiction at times; considered quintessentially English in so many of his writings and causes, he was actually of immigrant stock. Always a man of faith, and yet often ill at ease with his Anglicanism. A master of words and yet at times tortured by his thoughts- particularly of death.
I love John Betjeman's poetry. I love his depiction of an England now long gone, of the suburbia I inhabit and the customs I cherish. He wrote some lovely words, worthy of celebration at this centenary time. But a man's a man for all that- as another great British poet,Robert Burns, famously declared with his homage to humility two centuries before Betjeman. Only in faith and trust, and in the love of Jesus do we really find what life's all about. Plenty of poetic words in the bible, as well as the journalistic narrative of my namesake Mark confirm that for me, as ultimately it did for Betjeman.
By blood after bird
God kept his Word
From the Ark, the dove sent
That all should repent
Becoming flesh in Palestine
Jesus came for all mankind
That love should prosper, in souls of the earth
And everyone know the joy of new birth.
Tuesday 1 August 2006
Phew, All Britannia
If the Romans hadn't given us enough names already for the months of the year, we'd surely be inventing new ones by now. Two of the Caesars claimed respectively July and August, otherwise Scorchio and Vacancio might well make more appropriate names for the distinguishing marks of this time of year.
July was the hottest on record in the UK, though not quite exceeding the record high of 10th August 2003 when the Fahrenheit century (around 37 degrees Centigrade) was breached for the first time ever in the British Isles at my late mother's birthplace, Faversham in Kent. Now Midsummer has given way to High Summer as we've entered the eighth month of the year, yet already I find moments of melancholy as sunset now gets back to before 9 p.m and the shops are full of Back to School gear hardly a week after the little loves have finished the school year.
August can be a very strange month; even politicians shut their traps for a few weeks -at least in parliament during the recess. The media go all silly, but normally nobody cares as most of Britain breathes a collective sigh of relief to enjoy a few weeks of rest and relaxation and a chance to chill out- literally.
With perfect timing the two-week heatwave came to an end last weekend. Although as I write, it's still a somewhat sticky summer afternoon, the temperatures are at least below the thirty degrees celsius mark again. We Britons are just not made for extremes: we are used to a temperate climate and most of the time that reflects our expressions of our national values too. The rare, but welcome, exceptions are seen in the culture fests of this time of the year here, when Edinburgh brings its Caledonian charm to the largest international arts festival in the world, while Wales celebrates all things Cambrian with the Royal National Eisteddfod, taking place this week around the principality's second city of Swansea.
Here in England, London's Royal Albert Hall plays host to some of the most internationally-renowned orchestras and soloists as the BBC Proms season brings a wealth of music to the nation prior to the Britophile feast which is the Last Night, a tradition much imitated as an evening diversion in August across the land. I love all these events, and wish I could take part in every one in some way.
There's something about summer which is a contradiction: on the one hand, it begs you to slow the pace down to spare the body the fierce heat we are now becoming accustomed to, and yet it's a time where you long to make the most of the great outdoors visiting new places or becoming re-acquainted with ones last seen many years ago. Earlier this week, I was delighted to spend a mini break on the Sussex coast at my "other" home. We tripped through the centuries, taking in Hastings, home of a castle even in Roman times -long before William I launched the last succesful conquest of England- and the next day went to Bodiam, where everybody's idea of a fairy tale castle took me back to my first acquaintance with this heavenly location as a ten-year old.
Children and adults alike love the chance at such places to wind back the film of the imagination to an age before CGI did the imagining for us. It's enlightening and interesting to think back to the times of bold knights, wise kings and fair maidens. But the mind is tricked if it thinks that those times were really so different from the 21st century. Amidst all the chivalry, there was also great brutality, cruel and sudden death, merciless slaughter and pointless destruction of property and persons. Many children did not even live to adulthood.
Sound familiar? Sadly, it's the tale played out this summer not in imagination but in reality on the front pages and the TV screens of the world as the ever-volatile situation in the Middle East approaches a new boiling point. It might not have the outward appearance of the battles and conquests of Roman, Saxon and Medieval Europe, but the net effects are every bit as horrendous for the individual lives war always affects.
Israel is at war once again, not with a sovereign state but with a faction, Hizbullah or the "party of God", seemingly holed up in Beirut, Lebanon. Hence the land of majestic cedar trees is once again tortured by the indiscriminate explosive power of airborne weapons, and the world despairs as both sides make claims about the evil excesses of the other while innocent children and civilians are as ever the powerless victims. Just as the Lebanese capital was once again becoming an attractive holiday destination, the indelible scars of war mar more than facades. They destroy precious human bodies.
Can there ever be an end to all this wretched warfare? Is there a solution to the senseless killing which brings nothing but more tears and bitterness? Politicians will try, and Britain's PM Tony Blair is, somewhat ironically, achieving a measure of redemption amidst the enduring hatred of his part in the troubles of another part of this region, Iran. Britain had a long-standing reputation as an honest broker and peacemaker in the world's warmongering, but such policy now seems to belong to an age long gone.
Nobody can breathe any true sighs of relief while this horror remains. It's about far more than oil and land, it's about man's basic nature. Sadly, we can breathe no sighs of relief or take a holiday from "sin". All three of the religions which have fought over this part of the globe for centuries as "People of the Book", the book being the Hebrew Bible, recognise that "Sin" became an innate part of the human condition long ago. Middle East war is only the most extreme and disturbing part of that within all of us. Normally rapidly cooled down from nothing worse than a hot temper, we're nevertheless all capable of the cold-blooded murder which is the mark of extremism given the right - or wrong- spark. Like a match to parched grass, war brings uncontrollable destruction everywhere in its wake which no firefighter can control for long, it seems.
Yet still there is hope. The Hebrew Bible is an "old" testament, and so often it seems punctuated by violence and hatred. Yet it also speaks of a time when swords will be turned into plougshares- or maybe tracer missiles into tractors. When the lion shall lie down with the lamb. Or when freedom fighting becomes love liberated. There will be no more sickness, no more sadness, no more dying. It's coming, when I do not know, but surely it will. And Israelis, Lebanese, Iraqis, Afghans and all the warring tribes of the world, will lie in green pastures together. Not just all Britain, but all creation, will breathe the biggest sigh of relief ever expired, when that happens. May we see it, one day not for a season, but for all eternity.
July was the hottest on record in the UK, though not quite exceeding the record high of 10th August 2003 when the Fahrenheit century (around 37 degrees Centigrade) was breached for the first time ever in the British Isles at my late mother's birthplace, Faversham in Kent. Now Midsummer has given way to High Summer as we've entered the eighth month of the year, yet already I find moments of melancholy as sunset now gets back to before 9 p.m and the shops are full of Back to School gear hardly a week after the little loves have finished the school year.
August can be a very strange month; even politicians shut their traps for a few weeks -at least in parliament during the recess. The media go all silly, but normally nobody cares as most of Britain breathes a collective sigh of relief to enjoy a few weeks of rest and relaxation and a chance to chill out- literally.
With perfect timing the two-week heatwave came to an end last weekend. Although as I write, it's still a somewhat sticky summer afternoon, the temperatures are at least below the thirty degrees celsius mark again. We Britons are just not made for extremes: we are used to a temperate climate and most of the time that reflects our expressions of our national values too. The rare, but welcome, exceptions are seen in the culture fests of this time of the year here, when Edinburgh brings its Caledonian charm to the largest international arts festival in the world, while Wales celebrates all things Cambrian with the Royal National Eisteddfod, taking place this week around the principality's second city of Swansea.
Here in England, London's Royal Albert Hall plays host to some of the most internationally-renowned orchestras and soloists as the BBC Proms season brings a wealth of music to the nation prior to the Britophile feast which is the Last Night, a tradition much imitated as an evening diversion in August across the land. I love all these events, and wish I could take part in every one in some way.
There's something about summer which is a contradiction: on the one hand, it begs you to slow the pace down to spare the body the fierce heat we are now becoming accustomed to, and yet it's a time where you long to make the most of the great outdoors visiting new places or becoming re-acquainted with ones last seen many years ago. Earlier this week, I was delighted to spend a mini break on the Sussex coast at my "other" home. We tripped through the centuries, taking in Hastings, home of a castle even in Roman times -long before William I launched the last succesful conquest of England- and the next day went to Bodiam, where everybody's idea of a fairy tale castle took me back to my first acquaintance with this heavenly location as a ten-year old.
Children and adults alike love the chance at such places to wind back the film of the imagination to an age before CGI did the imagining for us. It's enlightening and interesting to think back to the times of bold knights, wise kings and fair maidens. But the mind is tricked if it thinks that those times were really so different from the 21st century. Amidst all the chivalry, there was also great brutality, cruel and sudden death, merciless slaughter and pointless destruction of property and persons. Many children did not even live to adulthood.
Sound familiar? Sadly, it's the tale played out this summer not in imagination but in reality on the front pages and the TV screens of the world as the ever-volatile situation in the Middle East approaches a new boiling point. It might not have the outward appearance of the battles and conquests of Roman, Saxon and Medieval Europe, but the net effects are every bit as horrendous for the individual lives war always affects.
Israel is at war once again, not with a sovereign state but with a faction, Hizbullah or the "party of God", seemingly holed up in Beirut, Lebanon. Hence the land of majestic cedar trees is once again tortured by the indiscriminate explosive power of airborne weapons, and the world despairs as both sides make claims about the evil excesses of the other while innocent children and civilians are as ever the powerless victims. Just as the Lebanese capital was once again becoming an attractive holiday destination, the indelible scars of war mar more than facades. They destroy precious human bodies.
Can there ever be an end to all this wretched warfare? Is there a solution to the senseless killing which brings nothing but more tears and bitterness? Politicians will try, and Britain's PM Tony Blair is, somewhat ironically, achieving a measure of redemption amidst the enduring hatred of his part in the troubles of another part of this region, Iran. Britain had a long-standing reputation as an honest broker and peacemaker in the world's warmongering, but such policy now seems to belong to an age long gone.
Nobody can breathe any true sighs of relief while this horror remains. It's about far more than oil and land, it's about man's basic nature. Sadly, we can breathe no sighs of relief or take a holiday from "sin". All three of the religions which have fought over this part of the globe for centuries as "People of the Book", the book being the Hebrew Bible, recognise that "Sin" became an innate part of the human condition long ago. Middle East war is only the most extreme and disturbing part of that within all of us. Normally rapidly cooled down from nothing worse than a hot temper, we're nevertheless all capable of the cold-blooded murder which is the mark of extremism given the right - or wrong- spark. Like a match to parched grass, war brings uncontrollable destruction everywhere in its wake which no firefighter can control for long, it seems.
Yet still there is hope. The Hebrew Bible is an "old" testament, and so often it seems punctuated by violence and hatred. Yet it also speaks of a time when swords will be turned into plougshares- or maybe tracer missiles into tractors. When the lion shall lie down with the lamb. Or when freedom fighting becomes love liberated. There will be no more sickness, no more sadness, no more dying. It's coming, when I do not know, but surely it will. And Israelis, Lebanese, Iraqis, Afghans and all the warring tribes of the world, will lie in green pastures together. Not just all Britain, but all creation, will breathe the biggest sigh of relief ever expired, when that happens. May we see it, one day not for a season, but for all eternity.
Sunday 16 July 2006
New Balls, please
Midsummer in Britain, late June and early July, always means but one thing to much of our nation of armchair sports fans- Wimbledon! It's over now, for another year, and there's a certain sadness at its absence.
2006 brought the usual mixture of hopeless hype followed by inevitable disappointment for our own top players, although Andy Murray looks a force to be reckoned with in future years and he's just nineteen now. But for anyone with an eye for good sportsmanship, the thrill of the contest- and a taste for strawberries and cream- Wimbledon is a delight. Even for the many millions who will never queue for hours to get a seat on the hallowed Centre Court of the All England Lawn Tennis Club (the croquet seems to have vanished from their official title) in London, SW19, it's the perfect way to enjoy the great outdoors, late into the balmy, sunny evenings, of which we've already had a great quota this year.
What a contrast, though, between the fair play of the tennis court and the dirty doings which so often characterise soccer these days. No sooner had we finished watching Roger Federer, the invincible Swiss, roll right over exciting young Spaniard Rafael Nadal, than the TV camera's attention switched to the Olympiastadion in Berlin for the biggest sporting contest of them all, the FIFA World Cup final.
If you've read my posting of 15th June, even if you didn't follow the tournament, you might not be surprised to know that England's national side later left Germany in typically disappointing fashion to the dreaded penalty shoot-out against Portugal. Ironic then that the world-beaters who made it all the way through to the final duel with a ball on the pitch last Sunday night also had their respective fates decided by the one-on-one method rather than the best of teamwork.
In the end of course, Italy emerged Die Weltmeister for the next four years, after France failed to show the flare that had brought them to the goal de triomphe eight years ago. It could though have been a very different story, were it not for the astounding antics of the incredible Zinedine Zidane who ended his professional career in "the beautiful game" with a sending off for the most obvious example of a foul ever witnessed, by head-butting Italy's Marco Materazzi. It later emerged, at least according to Zidane and a legion of Italian lip-readers who suddenly found themselves more precious than the gleaming golden trophy, that France's fading star had been provoked when Materazzi apparently made foul-mouthed taunts about Zidane's ill mother and his sister.
Nevertheless, idolised by so many and recognised as a footballing genius by all, Zidane later apologised for his actions because of the bad example it would have set to the many millions of children watching. At least in part, he redeemed himself and still went on to win the "golden ball" award as player of the championship. Perhaps, maybe and ultimately, all these pri-Maradonna players can recapture something of another very English attitude to sport: it's NOT the winning, it's the taking part- unfashionable though it may be to say it.
Sport at its best is about human beings stretching their God-given bodies to the limit in physical activity and mental dedication to their game. Somebody has to win, yes, by the very nature of competition, but this need not lessen the contribution of the losing opponent. Indeed, at Wimbledon the runners-up still take away a very handsome sum not to be sniffed at, but what's more creditable is the off-court admiration and affection that tennis players so often have for each other.
Perhaps this is closer to the spirit in which Christians "play the game". These days, we might not have to compete against killer lions but believers face every day the fatal attitudes of a secular society where it seems to have become so often every man for himself. Yet St Paul urged the early Christians on despite all provocation to run the race, for the prize which was theirs to be earned at the end. The only victory that really matters to Jesus' followers is that of love over hate. That is even strong enough to defeat death itself. The ball-whacking may have stopped for now, but making a whacking good effort to outlove the other man is a task of a lifetime. Love- All.
2006 brought the usual mixture of hopeless hype followed by inevitable disappointment for our own top players, although Andy Murray looks a force to be reckoned with in future years and he's just nineteen now. But for anyone with an eye for good sportsmanship, the thrill of the contest- and a taste for strawberries and cream- Wimbledon is a delight. Even for the many millions who will never queue for hours to get a seat on the hallowed Centre Court of the All England Lawn Tennis Club (the croquet seems to have vanished from their official title) in London, SW19, it's the perfect way to enjoy the great outdoors, late into the balmy, sunny evenings, of which we've already had a great quota this year.
What a contrast, though, between the fair play of the tennis court and the dirty doings which so often characterise soccer these days. No sooner had we finished watching Roger Federer, the invincible Swiss, roll right over exciting young Spaniard Rafael Nadal, than the TV camera's attention switched to the Olympiastadion in Berlin for the biggest sporting contest of them all, the FIFA World Cup final.
If you've read my posting of 15th June, even if you didn't follow the tournament, you might not be surprised to know that England's national side later left Germany in typically disappointing fashion to the dreaded penalty shoot-out against Portugal. Ironic then that the world-beaters who made it all the way through to the final duel with a ball on the pitch last Sunday night also had their respective fates decided by the one-on-one method rather than the best of teamwork.
In the end of course, Italy emerged Die Weltmeister for the next four years, after France failed to show the flare that had brought them to the goal de triomphe eight years ago. It could though have been a very different story, were it not for the astounding antics of the incredible Zinedine Zidane who ended his professional career in "the beautiful game" with a sending off for the most obvious example of a foul ever witnessed, by head-butting Italy's Marco Materazzi. It later emerged, at least according to Zidane and a legion of Italian lip-readers who suddenly found themselves more precious than the gleaming golden trophy, that France's fading star had been provoked when Materazzi apparently made foul-mouthed taunts about Zidane's ill mother and his sister.
Nevertheless, idolised by so many and recognised as a footballing genius by all, Zidane later apologised for his actions because of the bad example it would have set to the many millions of children watching. At least in part, he redeemed himself and still went on to win the "golden ball" award as player of the championship. Perhaps, maybe and ultimately, all these pri-Maradonna players can recapture something of another very English attitude to sport: it's NOT the winning, it's the taking part- unfashionable though it may be to say it.
Sport at its best is about human beings stretching their God-given bodies to the limit in physical activity and mental dedication to their game. Somebody has to win, yes, by the very nature of competition, but this need not lessen the contribution of the losing opponent. Indeed, at Wimbledon the runners-up still take away a very handsome sum not to be sniffed at, but what's more creditable is the off-court admiration and affection that tennis players so often have for each other.
Perhaps this is closer to the spirit in which Christians "play the game". These days, we might not have to compete against killer lions but believers face every day the fatal attitudes of a secular society where it seems to have become so often every man for himself. Yet St Paul urged the early Christians on despite all provocation to run the race, for the prize which was theirs to be earned at the end. The only victory that really matters to Jesus' followers is that of love over hate. That is even strong enough to defeat death itself. The ball-whacking may have stopped for now, but making a whacking good effort to outlove the other man is a task of a lifetime. Love- All.
Back after the Break
Yes, I know, it's been a long time since my last posting to Anyway...- just over a month in fact. My apologies to regular readers but it's been a hot and hectic time- not that I'm complaining, much. Following are some of the thoughts I'd been meaning to share during these 31 days and I hope you enjoy reading them. Please don't feel shy about adding your own comments on these or any other postings; my site meter lets me know where you are (though does not give full internet addresses) but tells me nothing about what your own thoughts are on some of the subjects I've raised here. I'd love to hear from you.
During my absence, though, I've not been entirely idle at the keyboard: on the links section on the right you'll notice The Interface, an excellent Methodist Church website which features many thought-provoking articles though modesty prevents me plugging my own contributions.
Brian Draper has also recently updated his excellent blogspot which always includes an inspiring photograph alongside Brian's well-chosen words.
Also joining the links this week will be my fellow British DX Club member Stephen Howie, who has a wide selection of enjoyable and informative photos, words and music on his Myspace area.
Now, carry on reading, carry on surfing- and God Bless.
During my absence, though, I've not been entirely idle at the keyboard: on the links section on the right you'll notice The Interface, an excellent Methodist Church website which features many thought-provoking articles though modesty prevents me plugging my own contributions.
Brian Draper has also recently updated his excellent blogspot which always includes an inspiring photograph alongside Brian's well-chosen words.
Also joining the links this week will be my fellow British DX Club member Stephen Howie, who has a wide selection of enjoyable and informative photos, words and music on his Myspace area.
Now, carry on reading, carry on surfing- and God Bless.
Thursday 15 June 2006
The Faintest Show on Turf?
Well, after all the hype and the hope, the might- or should that be plight- of England was finally joined with the tiny nation of Trinidad and Tobago in Nurenberg, Germany, this evening as the Battle of Rooney's Foot finally saw the star striker hit the ground running, and leaving it with his metatarsals intact in England's second match of the FIFA World Cup group stages.
Ironically though for a game supposedly called football, it was the header of lanky Liverpool player Peter Crouch which finally gave England just cause to chant and puff The Great Escape.
Truly it was such a redemption from ignominious defeat, with a final burst of footpower from that star of the FA Cup final, Steven Gerrard. His goal in the closing minutes finished the match off and at the same time rescued it from being a lackadaisical kickabout to deliver something which gives at least a passable hope of success in the second round, which the England side now passes on to regardless of the outcome of next Tuesday's match against Sweden.
It was a pity there wasn't a bit more effective passing on the pitch, mind, but hey we got there, even if by a somewhat circuitous route.
What a contrast tonight's game of soccer was to the astounding precision, team work and sheer entertainment value of the ceremony of Beating Retreat. No, not the hasty exit to the nearest airport which England might have faced if they failed tonight, but the spectacle which was taking place on Horse Guards Parade, London at exactly the same time- and drawing to its conclusion around the same time as the match.
Tonight's ceremony was in honour of HRH Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh's 85th birthday, which occurred last Saturday. However, while the salute to their Captain General by the massed bands of the Royal Marines will undoubtedly have pleased His Royal Highness, he is rather as always basking in the shadow of his wife this rather strange flaming June week, where the mood of the nation has been as mixed as the extremes of the weather: London reached 32 degrees Celsius (over 90 degrees Fahrenheit) on Monday on the hottest June day since 1898.
Nurenberg too has been hot and sultry, and I'm bound to ask why on earth the World Cup has to be held in Midsummer rather than the more comfortable conditions of autumn or spring. But life for a football team as much as an army regiment, marine band or even the sovereign herself -and for all of us- can never be a stream of warm, sunny, relaxed days and there will always be the moments of drama and excitement, tension and worry when the heat is on- as well as days of sheer tedium like those demonstrated for much of the ninety minutes of today's socca warriors against the three lions of England.
The "official" celebrations of Queen Elizabeth II's eightieth birthday have gone into their second half now. Saturday sees this celebrated with the annual Trooping the Colour ceremony on the same London "pitch" as tonight's performance by the Marines, which my brother and I witnessed in all its astounding pageantry and precision movements at it's first performance, a dress rehearsal almost, last night. If only that kind of skill and commitment was carried on to the field of play!
When all's said and done though, soccer's only a game, despite what Liverpool's almost monarchical manager Bill Shankly famously once said about it being far more important than life and death. Whatever happens to our side between now and 9th July, they'll live to fight another day, and many more millions will have been poured into the bank balances of teams and sponsors when the plaudits and praise for Gerrard and Crouch, Rooney et al have died away to a faint echo.
Whereas the praises of the saviour of all mankind ring from heavenly terraces even as I type. The part of the church's year celebrating the events of Jesus's life and the birth of the church have now passed. Easter, Pentecost and Trinity Sunday have come and gone for another year, but today- the feast of Corpus Christi- we are reminded that Jesus gave far more than a healed torn muscle to contribute to the victory that matters over all others. He gave up his whole body and his very life blood, remembered in the elements of Holy Communion, only to find God keeping his promises and raising him from death on a cross (not, it has to be said, a netted crossbar. That's far more exciting than rescue from the jaws of defeat by eleven "Trinibagian" warriors. It's the defeat of everyman's greatest enemy, Sin
Fly the red cross of St George, by all means, but it's the holy cross of Calvary which really brings victory. I'll sing Jesus's praises for evermore, for I know that only he can really save us, just as God's mercy has saved our gracious queen to enjoy eight decades of life and service. Enjoy the footie- not forgetting the cricket and tennis, of course- this summer, but above all, remember the one who offers us all not just a moment of glory after ninety minutes, but life eternal through his hands after the most important substitution ever made.
and his feet-
Ironically though for a game supposedly called football, it was the header of lanky Liverpool player Peter Crouch which finally gave England just cause to chant and puff The Great Escape.
Truly it was such a redemption from ignominious defeat, with a final burst of footpower from that star of the FA Cup final, Steven Gerrard. His goal in the closing minutes finished the match off and at the same time rescued it from being a lackadaisical kickabout to deliver something which gives at least a passable hope of success in the second round, which the England side now passes on to regardless of the outcome of next Tuesday's match against Sweden.
It was a pity there wasn't a bit more effective passing on the pitch, mind, but hey we got there, even if by a somewhat circuitous route.
What a contrast tonight's game of soccer was to the astounding precision, team work and sheer entertainment value of the ceremony of Beating Retreat. No, not the hasty exit to the nearest airport which England might have faced if they failed tonight, but the spectacle which was taking place on Horse Guards Parade, London at exactly the same time- and drawing to its conclusion around the same time as the match.
Tonight's ceremony was in honour of HRH Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh's 85th birthday, which occurred last Saturday. However, while the salute to their Captain General by the massed bands of the Royal Marines will undoubtedly have pleased His Royal Highness, he is rather as always basking in the shadow of his wife this rather strange flaming June week, where the mood of the nation has been as mixed as the extremes of the weather: London reached 32 degrees Celsius (over 90 degrees Fahrenheit) on Monday on the hottest June day since 1898.
Nurenberg too has been hot and sultry, and I'm bound to ask why on earth the World Cup has to be held in Midsummer rather than the more comfortable conditions of autumn or spring. But life for a football team as much as an army regiment, marine band or even the sovereign herself -and for all of us- can never be a stream of warm, sunny, relaxed days and there will always be the moments of drama and excitement, tension and worry when the heat is on- as well as days of sheer tedium like those demonstrated for much of the ninety minutes of today's socca warriors against the three lions of England.
The "official" celebrations of Queen Elizabeth II's eightieth birthday have gone into their second half now. Saturday sees this celebrated with the annual Trooping the Colour ceremony on the same London "pitch" as tonight's performance by the Marines, which my brother and I witnessed in all its astounding pageantry and precision movements at it's first performance, a dress rehearsal almost, last night. If only that kind of skill and commitment was carried on to the field of play!
When all's said and done though, soccer's only a game, despite what Liverpool's almost monarchical manager Bill Shankly famously once said about it being far more important than life and death. Whatever happens to our side between now and 9th July, they'll live to fight another day, and many more millions will have been poured into the bank balances of teams and sponsors when the plaudits and praise for Gerrard and Crouch, Rooney et al have died away to a faint echo.
Whereas the praises of the saviour of all mankind ring from heavenly terraces even as I type. The part of the church's year celebrating the events of Jesus's life and the birth of the church have now passed. Easter, Pentecost and Trinity Sunday have come and gone for another year, but today- the feast of Corpus Christi- we are reminded that Jesus gave far more than a healed torn muscle to contribute to the victory that matters over all others. He gave up his whole body and his very life blood, remembered in the elements of Holy Communion, only to find God keeping his promises and raising him from death on a cross (not, it has to be said, a netted crossbar. That's far more exciting than rescue from the jaws of defeat by eleven "Trinibagian" warriors. It's the defeat of everyman's greatest enemy, Sin
Fly the red cross of St George, by all means, but it's the holy cross of Calvary which really brings victory. I'll sing Jesus's praises for evermore, for I know that only he can really save us, just as God's mercy has saved our gracious queen to enjoy eight decades of life and service. Enjoy the footie- not forgetting the cricket and tennis, of course- this summer, but above all, remember the one who offers us all not just a moment of glory after ninety minutes, but life eternal through his hands after the most important substitution ever made.
and his feet-
Sunday 28 May 2006
Flowers 'n' the rain
Readers of RadioFar-far could be forgiven for thinking I've posted to my wrong blog today; 'Flowers in the Rain' by The Move was the first ever record played on BBC Radio One early on a Saturday morning back in September 1967. No mistake though: this week it could well also have been the theme song for the famous Chelsea Flower Show during what's now being described as "the wettest drought on record". To say May has been moist would be an under-statement.
It could only happen in Britain, couldn't it. We're renowned throughout the world for our love of gardens as much as our dependability in talking about our undependable weather. The combination of these two elements made for a classic Chelsea this year, as right on cue the heavens delivered a deluge for much of the six days of this start to the annual social season in the UK. Even HM the Queen, making her traditional visit with other members of the royal Family on Monday, decided that a headscarf was better than a soggy royal coiff as she toured the showground and admired the awesome achievements of dedicated amateur and professional gardeners from all over the world.
I've only managed a trip to Chelsea once, one evening in the early eighties. Understandably, tickets sell out weeks in advance so thank heavens for the BBC's excellent coverage,anchored by Alan Titchmarsh who himself has become something of a national treasure and a best-selling author to boot. It's only a pity the technical bods have yet to find a way to transmit smells across the airwaves, then we could really enjoy Chelsea in all its glory from an armchair.
Rain too is punctuating the last Bank Holiday of the Spring in what was traditionally known as "Whitsun Week" when the holiday always coincided with Pentecost before it was set for the last weekend in May regardless of religious timings. Yesterday afternoon, I went with my brother to enjoy the Brentford Waterside Festival, except most of the water seemed to be coming from the sky rather than the Grand Union Canal and the River Brent at this historic point where both enter Britain's longest river and, in legend if not in proven fact, Julius Caesar crossed the Thames.
Being British means stiffening your upper lip not with starch but with stoicism whatever the weather. That was evident from everybody at Chelsea this year and it was just as present in the hardy souls who braved the rain to enjoy the Waterside festival. This was once a bustling docks, where all manner of cargoes were transferred from the watery way to the permanent way of Brunel's Great Western Railway, and vice versa.
The steam trains and the horses which once pulled the barges have long gone, but the views of flora and even fauna along the towpath here can be as delightful as anything found in the grounds of the Royal Hospital, Chelsea. Barges painted in colourful floral liveries vie with the wild flowers of the towpath for visitors' attention, and are all the more enjoyable when viewed from on board one of these lovely vessels. I was delighted to take a short ride aboard the "Pisces", one of the craft of the Hillingdon Narrowboats Association along with my brother who knows these vessels well and has a certificate in the delicate art of steering and turning them- no mean feet given that they are up to 72 feet/24 metres long!
For all that the weather has disappointed this week, it's ended with a great appreciation of the English spring in all its variety and colour. The great English landscape painter J M W Turner spent his early years in Brentford, commemorated in one of the town's hostelries, but even he could never have captured the scenes of natural wonder on hilltop or water's edge, as finely as God does in leaf and petal, stem and branch.
Britain has so much to offer the lover of greenery and scenery in it's watery reflections and garden paths, but as Rudyard Kipling put it "the glory of the garden lies in more than meets the eye". Or rather, as Jesus himself put it, "even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed as one of these".
It could only happen in Britain, couldn't it. We're renowned throughout the world for our love of gardens as much as our dependability in talking about our undependable weather. The combination of these two elements made for a classic Chelsea this year, as right on cue the heavens delivered a deluge for much of the six days of this start to the annual social season in the UK. Even HM the Queen, making her traditional visit with other members of the royal Family on Monday, decided that a headscarf was better than a soggy royal coiff as she toured the showground and admired the awesome achievements of dedicated amateur and professional gardeners from all over the world.
I've only managed a trip to Chelsea once, one evening in the early eighties. Understandably, tickets sell out weeks in advance so thank heavens for the BBC's excellent coverage,anchored by Alan Titchmarsh who himself has become something of a national treasure and a best-selling author to boot. It's only a pity the technical bods have yet to find a way to transmit smells across the airwaves, then we could really enjoy Chelsea in all its glory from an armchair.
Rain too is punctuating the last Bank Holiday of the Spring in what was traditionally known as "Whitsun Week" when the holiday always coincided with Pentecost before it was set for the last weekend in May regardless of religious timings. Yesterday afternoon, I went with my brother to enjoy the Brentford Waterside Festival, except most of the water seemed to be coming from the sky rather than the Grand Union Canal and the River Brent at this historic point where both enter Britain's longest river and, in legend if not in proven fact, Julius Caesar crossed the Thames.
Being British means stiffening your upper lip not with starch but with stoicism whatever the weather. That was evident from everybody at Chelsea this year and it was just as present in the hardy souls who braved the rain to enjoy the Waterside festival. This was once a bustling docks, where all manner of cargoes were transferred from the watery way to the permanent way of Brunel's Great Western Railway, and vice versa.
The steam trains and the horses which once pulled the barges have long gone, but the views of flora and even fauna along the towpath here can be as delightful as anything found in the grounds of the Royal Hospital, Chelsea. Barges painted in colourful floral liveries vie with the wild flowers of the towpath for visitors' attention, and are all the more enjoyable when viewed from on board one of these lovely vessels. I was delighted to take a short ride aboard the "Pisces", one of the craft of the Hillingdon Narrowboats Association along with my brother who knows these vessels well and has a certificate in the delicate art of steering and turning them- no mean feet given that they are up to 72 feet/24 metres long!
For all that the weather has disappointed this week, it's ended with a great appreciation of the English spring in all its variety and colour. The great English landscape painter J M W Turner spent his early years in Brentford, commemorated in one of the town's hostelries, but even he could never have captured the scenes of natural wonder on hilltop or water's edge, as finely as God does in leaf and petal, stem and branch.
Britain has so much to offer the lover of greenery and scenery in it's watery reflections and garden paths, but as Rudyard Kipling put it "the glory of the garden lies in more than meets the eye". Or rather, as Jesus himself put it, "even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed as one of these".
Sunday 14 May 2006
Penalty Post Script
Little did I know when I wrote yesterday's posting what a thriller we were in for! After a scrappy start (twenty minutes of nothing particularly impressive), an own goal for Liverpool and then a gaffe from their goalie, things seemed to be going West Ham's way. Yet the match ended at full time with the score line at 3-3 -helped largely by a "hat trick" by Liverpool's Steven Gerrard. It remained so after extra time. Sadly this meant the result had to be decided on penalties, and perhaps inevitably Liverpool then went on to win. As Gerrard himself put it "we summoned up the spirit of Istanbul", referring to The Reds win on penalties in the European Cup just short of a year ago, another nail-biting escape from defeat.
For balance though, I should mention that no less exciting for Scottish supporters was the contest between the tiny team of Gretna, famous for its Green and teenage marriages of yore, and Hearts. The village team with a population of 600 had made it through to the final of the Scottish FA Cup, and their match too was level at full time and went to penalties. Hearts won 4-2, but Gretna surely captured the hearts of many a football crazy Caledonian.
Needless to say, this morning all the talk in the media is of "the greatest FA cup final for ages"- but the real action is yet to come. Love it or hate it, there will be no escape from soccer through til the 9th July with, supposedly, billions viewing the World Cup throughout the world. And English expectations once again move to the hope of lifting the Jules Rimet trophy in Germany, as they did against them forty years ago at the old Wembley Stadium.
The pessimist in me can't help thinking the hopes will all be to no avail despite all the flag-waving, but who am I to say. If a young guy can come from nowhere against the world to win the world, there's hope. Surely I must mean England's hero of 66, former West Ham player Sir Geoff Hurst, showing mixed loyalties this year by advertising for the German Tourist Board on London Underground?
Hardly. The young guy saving the world hung on a cross nearly two thousand years ago. With nails hammered excrutiatingly through his flesh to the post, he was there to save us all not on penalties but from penalty- our deserved red card from God. Yet he rose again in extra time- eternal time- three days later. His match on this earth lasted thirty three years. His legacy and the hope he brings has lasted far more than forty, indeed unlike Geoff Hurst or any sporting heroes, this hero will be with us always, until the end of the age. He has captured, and will continue to capture billions of hearts. He had rescued men and women for twenty centuries from a crushing defeat at the hands of a devilishly red enemy, by his own life given up for his side. Alleluia, what a Saviour!
For balance though, I should mention that no less exciting for Scottish supporters was the contest between the tiny team of Gretna, famous for its Green and teenage marriages of yore, and Hearts. The village team with a population of 600 had made it through to the final of the Scottish FA Cup, and their match too was level at full time and went to penalties. Hearts won 4-2, but Gretna surely captured the hearts of many a football crazy Caledonian.
Needless to say, this morning all the talk in the media is of "the greatest FA cup final for ages"- but the real action is yet to come. Love it or hate it, there will be no escape from soccer through til the 9th July with, supposedly, billions viewing the World Cup throughout the world. And English expectations once again move to the hope of lifting the Jules Rimet trophy in Germany, as they did against them forty years ago at the old Wembley Stadium.
The pessimist in me can't help thinking the hopes will all be to no avail despite all the flag-waving, but who am I to say. If a young guy can come from nowhere against the world to win the world, there's hope. Surely I must mean England's hero of 66, former West Ham player Sir Geoff Hurst, showing mixed loyalties this year by advertising for the German Tourist Board on London Underground?
Hardly. The young guy saving the world hung on a cross nearly two thousand years ago. With nails hammered excrutiatingly through his flesh to the post, he was there to save us all not on penalties but from penalty- our deserved red card from God. Yet he rose again in extra time- eternal time- three days later. His match on this earth lasted thirty three years. His legacy and the hope he brings has lasted far more than forty, indeed unlike Geoff Hurst or any sporting heroes, this hero will be with us always, until the end of the age. He has captured, and will continue to capture billions of hearts. He had rescued men and women for twenty centuries from a crushing defeat at the hands of a devilishly red enemy, by his own life given up for his side. Alleluia, what a Saviour!
Saturday 13 May 2006
You'll Never Blow Bubbles Alone
The venerable John Motson, "Motty" to most, has just announced "the one and only FA Cup Final" on BBC One and indeed it's an event every May famous throughout the world: who needs FIFA and their World Cup every four years? I must confess I'm not really a soccer afficianado, but breaking my habit of recent years, I can't resist watching the build up to the 125th final and the traditional community singing- and I might even watch some of the playing action on the pitch as well.
This year's 22 men - not to mention the subs in the dugout-dribbling and tackling, striking and saving, represent the very vocal fans of two of England's finest teams on Wales's finest turf, the Millennium Stadium in my old university city of Cardiff. It should have been Wembley, of course in my home county of Middlesex, but that's another story. Liverpool and West Ham: the Hammers versus the crowd from the cop.
Whoever wins, at the end of ninety minutes action on the pitch it won't just be the players who are either exhausted or exaltant. The fans, the supporters will no doubt be hoarse from their singing and chanting of their respective anthems. I'm not quite sure how West Ham United came to be associated with "I'm forever blowing bubbles", but surely Liverpool FC's renditions of the Rogers and Hammerstein classic "You'll Never Walk Alone" will as always leave ne'er a dry eye in the stadium, or the house.
SURREY WITH THE FRIDGE ON TOP
I couldn't help thinking of the music and the match as I spent several afternoons this week bowlderising another Rogers and Hammerstein song, as I went out into Surrey, one English county without a premiership soccer side but with no shortage of other top class sporting venues. The annual Christian Resources Exhibition was held somewhat incongruously in another grandstand at Sandown Park Racecourse, on four of the loveliest Spring days so far this year. As a friend of mine wonderfully described it this week, "when May is firing on all cylinders, it can be exquisite". It certainly was, though it was pretty warm and I could have done with a fridge on my top to keep cool at times.
Instead, my half-time refreshment was a reviving coffee or cuppa as I took in the inspiring long view across a lovely part of the Thames Valley and my spirit soared with encouragement and imagination as I attempted to visit some of the 300+ exhibitors while sitting in on just a few of the 110 plus seminars on offer.
Christians of today have almost an embarrasment of riches on offer to present the gospel and to grow with God. Yet so often the media paints a picture of a secular society and of a church in decline. The success of this event, going now for some 20 years, belies that conceit and proves that the church of Christ in the UK is alive and growing, thank you very much.
Yet maybe it's time to remember too that much of what we think secular started with "Christian" activity. In medicine, education, the rehabilitation of prisoners- and yes even in sport, Christians were in the vanguard. What motivated these pioneers, as Gerald Coates, the founder of the Pioneer stream of new churches, noted in his seminar on Friday, was their commitment to Christ. Some of today's soccer teams began as church initiatives. Maybe today, if the church could get its act together and commit to mission rather than survival, yet again Britain could be a nation walking with Christ, who promised "I will never leave you or foresake you" , rather than walking alone on the road not even to Wembley or Cardiff but to nowhere.
This year's 22 men - not to mention the subs in the dugout-dribbling and tackling, striking and saving, represent the very vocal fans of two of England's finest teams on Wales's finest turf, the Millennium Stadium in my old university city of Cardiff. It should have been Wembley, of course in my home county of Middlesex, but that's another story. Liverpool and West Ham: the Hammers versus the crowd from the cop.
Whoever wins, at the end of ninety minutes action on the pitch it won't just be the players who are either exhausted or exaltant. The fans, the supporters will no doubt be hoarse from their singing and chanting of their respective anthems. I'm not quite sure how West Ham United came to be associated with "I'm forever blowing bubbles", but surely Liverpool FC's renditions of the Rogers and Hammerstein classic "You'll Never Walk Alone" will as always leave ne'er a dry eye in the stadium, or the house.
SURREY WITH THE FRIDGE ON TOP
I couldn't help thinking of the music and the match as I spent several afternoons this week bowlderising another Rogers and Hammerstein song, as I went out into Surrey, one English county without a premiership soccer side but with no shortage of other top class sporting venues. The annual Christian Resources Exhibition was held somewhat incongruously in another grandstand at Sandown Park Racecourse, on four of the loveliest Spring days so far this year. As a friend of mine wonderfully described it this week, "when May is firing on all cylinders, it can be exquisite". It certainly was, though it was pretty warm and I could have done with a fridge on my top to keep cool at times.
Instead, my half-time refreshment was a reviving coffee or cuppa as I took in the inspiring long view across a lovely part of the Thames Valley and my spirit soared with encouragement and imagination as I attempted to visit some of the 300+ exhibitors while sitting in on just a few of the 110 plus seminars on offer.
Christians of today have almost an embarrasment of riches on offer to present the gospel and to grow with God. Yet so often the media paints a picture of a secular society and of a church in decline. The success of this event, going now for some 20 years, belies that conceit and proves that the church of Christ in the UK is alive and growing, thank you very much.
Yet maybe it's time to remember too that much of what we think secular started with "Christian" activity. In medicine, education, the rehabilitation of prisoners- and yes even in sport, Christians were in the vanguard. What motivated these pioneers, as Gerald Coates, the founder of the Pioneer stream of new churches, noted in his seminar on Friday, was their commitment to Christ. Some of today's soccer teams began as church initiatives. Maybe today, if the church could get its act together and commit to mission rather than survival, yet again Britain could be a nation walking with Christ, who promised "I will never leave you or foresake you" , rather than walking alone on the road not even to Wembley or Cardiff but to nowhere.
Tuesday 2 May 2006
Great Great Great Dott Com
From the tear-jerking drama of inspired fiction to the emotionally-charged thrills of great sport, this morning's posting moves on to the world of the balls, the balls. Yes, this morning's; the final of the 2006 World Snooker Championship has just ended after a last session which broke all tournament records by lasting five hours and eventually finishing well after midnight. More details at the official World Snooker website-click on the title above.
Into the Crucible Theatre in Sheffield, the city of sword and steel, strode two players who'd made it through eighteen days of play to show steely determination to win the coveted trophy, and a first prize of £200K (about $US350K). It was the first world championship in the game to be sponsored by an on-line gambling firm after years associated with the smoke-filled world of the tobacco magnates. The company certainly got their money's worth, as did the bleary-eyed spectators who stayed to watch the gripping, nail biting match between former world champion Peter Ebdon and young Scot, Graeme Dott.
Yet maybe the television viewers who stayed the course -even if they did lapse into slumberland for quite a while during the marathon evening, like me- got the best deal of all. Every nuance of emotion and almost every bead of sweat, was brought out by the lenses of the cameras as much as the physical brilliance of the playing duo in hitting their target balls with stunning accuracy through 31 frames over two days. If it's already riveting viewing, how much more so will it become when High Definition TV becomes the norm.
Peter Ebdon came back from being seven frames down to within three frames of victory by a last burst of brilliance on the night. In the end, however, he was beaten by the new champion with flair and yet grace. Perhaps this is what makes snooker such a gripping and entertaining event at this level. While the game has had its more notorious characters, tonight's final was the antithesis of mis-spent youth with which it has often been linked. Instead, both Ebdon and Dott showed true sportsmanship and praiseworthy acknowledgement of their rival.If only more could be like these two gentlemen in an age saturated by prima Maradonnas, bitter adversaries on the field of play and others who seem to have forgotten "it's not the winning, it's the taking part" that matters.
That's surely as true of life generally, as it is of sport; one reason maybe why St Paul uses the analogy of sporting pursuits when he encourages his hearers to press on towards the goal. Those who follow this spiritual precept with discipline and training, and the supreme coach's command to "love one another" to the end will find themselves in front not of a multi-million betting supremo, but of God made man, Jesus Christ. And that's a glittering prize worth more than any earthly trophy.
Into the Crucible Theatre in Sheffield, the city of sword and steel, strode two players who'd made it through eighteen days of play to show steely determination to win the coveted trophy, and a first prize of £200K (about $US350K). It was the first world championship in the game to be sponsored by an on-line gambling firm after years associated with the smoke-filled world of the tobacco magnates. The company certainly got their money's worth, as did the bleary-eyed spectators who stayed to watch the gripping, nail biting match between former world champion Peter Ebdon and young Scot, Graeme Dott.
Yet maybe the television viewers who stayed the course -even if they did lapse into slumberland for quite a while during the marathon evening, like me- got the best deal of all. Every nuance of emotion and almost every bead of sweat, was brought out by the lenses of the cameras as much as the physical brilliance of the playing duo in hitting their target balls with stunning accuracy through 31 frames over two days. If it's already riveting viewing, how much more so will it become when High Definition TV becomes the norm.
Peter Ebdon came back from being seven frames down to within three frames of victory by a last burst of brilliance on the night. In the end, however, he was beaten by the new champion with flair and yet grace. Perhaps this is what makes snooker such a gripping and entertaining event at this level. While the game has had its more notorious characters, tonight's final was the antithesis of mis-spent youth with which it has often been linked. Instead, both Ebdon and Dott showed true sportsmanship and praiseworthy acknowledgement of their rival.If only more could be like these two gentlemen in an age saturated by prima Maradonnas, bitter adversaries on the field of play and others who seem to have forgotten "it's not the winning, it's the taking part" that matters.
That's surely as true of life generally, as it is of sport; one reason maybe why St Paul uses the analogy of sporting pursuits when he encourages his hearers to press on towards the goal. Those who follow this spiritual precept with discipline and training, and the supreme coach's command to "love one another" to the end will find themselves in front not of a multi-million betting supremo, but of God made man, Jesus Christ. And that's a glittering prize worth more than any earthly trophy.
Sunday 30 April 2006
Who? What? When? Where? Why?
Questions, I've got some questions. So runs the catchy musical mantra accompanying a BBC ONE trailer on TV at the moment for their local politics coverage on Sunday lunchtimes, the day of rest now providing no rest for budding and thudding residents of the corridors of power. Very appropriate, in a week leading up to elections for local councils in much of England (including my own home borough of Hounslow).
We all want our democratic representatives to give us some answers to persistent political posers, and we like to kid ourselves they'll provide solutions too. Sadly,reality, or at least that version of it presented by the media which so often has its own agenda, has reminded Britons this week that those we elect to govern are still just men and women with feet of clay. They will fail us, they will short-change us, they may even -horror of horrors- be economical with the truth. In short, they don't and never can provide answers or solutions to life's hardest questions.
Maybe another piece of music which I can't get out of my mind even at this early hour gives more of a clue though to where searchers might seek the answers that really matter. The BBC National Orchestra of Wales renders a tour de force performance of Murray Head's superb arrangement of Ron Grainer's timeless Dr Who theme over the closing titles of the second series of this revived science fiction classic. The Saturday night of another Bank Holiday weekend in the UK brought the third episode of what has become a Springtime "must see" on the BBC's flagship channel.
BBC ONE's station ident may sometimes be suggestive red flamenco dancers, but this family viewing ratings "banker" handled issues of love and passion, good versus evil and some eternal questions and human certainties - memento mori (remember you must die)- with great sensitivity last night.
At the same time, as has now become expected of the much-acclaimed revival of a forty-something show, it offered gripping drama, blockbuster action, polished performances and superb writing and character development. I won't spoil the plot for those who have yet to see the show, either in the UK or abroad, but "School Reunion" has to be one of the best ever episodes. I'll have no hesitation watching it again, soon. More details on this episode and the series at the official BBC Dr Who website (click on post title above for link).
Nevertheless, Who is the guy may well have been the answer for one of the ancient Doctor's most popular female companions on the journey, but for believers only Jesus Christ is the Way, the Truth and the Life- a man who will never fail any man, woman or child who He chooses as his companion (literally, sharing his bread), and who willingly goes with him wherever it may lead. We may still have more questions than answers, of course- anybody who tries to pretend that faith brings all knowledge, all at once is self-deluding. But unlike the Doctor's companions, we can confidently know that as he promised "I will never leave you, nor forsake you". And that's an answer I'm so glad I've heard!
We all want our democratic representatives to give us some answers to persistent political posers, and we like to kid ourselves they'll provide solutions too. Sadly,reality, or at least that version of it presented by the media which so often has its own agenda, has reminded Britons this week that those we elect to govern are still just men and women with feet of clay. They will fail us, they will short-change us, they may even -horror of horrors- be economical with the truth. In short, they don't and never can provide answers or solutions to life's hardest questions.
Maybe another piece of music which I can't get out of my mind even at this early hour gives more of a clue though to where searchers might seek the answers that really matter. The BBC National Orchestra of Wales renders a tour de force performance of Murray Head's superb arrangement of Ron Grainer's timeless Dr Who theme over the closing titles of the second series of this revived science fiction classic. The Saturday night of another Bank Holiday weekend in the UK brought the third episode of what has become a Springtime "must see" on the BBC's flagship channel.
BBC ONE's station ident may sometimes be suggestive red flamenco dancers, but this family viewing ratings "banker" handled issues of love and passion, good versus evil and some eternal questions and human certainties - memento mori (remember you must die)- with great sensitivity last night.
At the same time, as has now become expected of the much-acclaimed revival of a forty-something show, it offered gripping drama, blockbuster action, polished performances and superb writing and character development. I won't spoil the plot for those who have yet to see the show, either in the UK or abroad, but "School Reunion" has to be one of the best ever episodes. I'll have no hesitation watching it again, soon. More details on this episode and the series at the official BBC Dr Who website (click on post title above for link).
Nevertheless, Who is the guy may well have been the answer for one of the ancient Doctor's most popular female companions on the journey, but for believers only Jesus Christ is the Way, the Truth and the Life- a man who will never fail any man, woman or child who He chooses as his companion (literally, sharing his bread), and who willingly goes with him wherever it may lead. We may still have more questions than answers, of course- anybody who tries to pretend that faith brings all knowledge, all at once is self-deluding. But unlike the Doctor's companions, we can confidently know that as he promised "I will never leave you, nor forsake you". And that's an answer I'm so glad I've heard!
Sunday 23 April 2006
Of Quaintness, Queens and Quasimodo
Happy St George's Day! A five-day feast of patriotic passion and affectionate tribute concludes today in England, with the celebration of our patron saint happily coinciding with the eightieth birthday weekend of probably the world's most recognised living woman, Queen Elizabeth II.
As "Defender of the Faith" and titular head of the Church of England, appropriately Her Majesty was honoured with a family thanksgiving service earlier today in her own "house [of Windsor] church", the Chapel of St George within the grounds of Windsor Castle. It is also the chapel to the oldest British Order of Chivalry, the Most Noble Order of the Garter, the motto of which is 'Honi Soit Qui Mal Y Pense'- meaning 'Evil be to him who thinks it'.
It was an appropriately spiritual hour to give thanks to her maker and ours for the enduring life and service of a woman who, though not 'born to be queen' has carried out her duties tirelessly through a long reign matched only so far in female monarchdom by her great-great grandmother Victoria. Just as in Queen Victoria's day, Elizabeth's has seen many startling changes, both for good and bad.
Meanwhile, co-incidentally, on the streets of the nation's capital, thirty-three thousand hardy souls fought the annual battle against the dragon of "the wall" for the sake of sport, achievement and noble aims. At Windsor, the penetrating lens of the TV camera revealed that the queen does, actually, carry cash, as she placed her offering in the collection plate for the benefit of local hospices. In London at the same time, many from all over Britain and indeed throughout the world were nobly running for the benefit of charities big and small, or in remembrance of personal loss.
These were the valiant foot soldiers who were striving to complete a twenty-six-and-a-bit mile course to trudge wearily to the finish line of the 2006 Flora London Marathon, past a sea of union flags- our national emblem itself being 400 years old this year - in the shadow of the Victoria memorial close by the monarch's London front door at Buckingham Palace. The extra "bit" tagged onto the marathon is no mere metric mistake, but the legacy of an earlier British king for whom the race was specially extended so that it could finish in front of the royal box at the London stadium in the 1908 Olympic Games. The distance has stuck ever since, but the "people's marathon" with runners dressed in costumes weird and wonderful as well as more conventional running attire, has been catching the public imagination ever since the strains of Ron Goodwin's "The Trap" first accompanied the TV pictures of this remarkable event 25 years ago.
These are just some of those many quaint facts about our national life and ways which make me love being an Englishman, eccentricities and all. Sporting occasions aside, we're not really great ones for flag-waving in this corner of Britain, unlike the other nations making up the UK. It's rather a shame, really, so I'm happy to fly the flag of St George on this web page today-even if the feet of the middle-eastern soldier whose patronage we share with several other lands never touched these shores. So much of the folklore surrounding him and his saving of a maiden from an evil beast is, sadly, just myth.
Maybe however the ringing of bells throughout England would be a more appropriate celebration this Sunday- they certainly rang out at Windsor after this morning's service, which can be heard until 29th April by following the link above. The BBC almost grudgingly maybe chose today to give the last airing to the "Radio 4 UK Theme", but it was the bells of another St George's church - Benenden in Kent- which on the same radio station heralded the Second Sunday of Easter today , known quaintly in former times as Quasimodo Sunday. Victor Hugo's hunch-backed bellringer failed to save his love from a tragic end, but the victory of the resurrection is salvation, a happy and glorious end indeed, for even the vilest offender who truly believes, as eventually did "doubting" Thomas, remembered on this day in the church's post-Easter calendar.
Christians believe that the dragon, or rather the serpent, of sin -man's evil nature- has been slain with the red blood of Christ on the cross and his triumph over death that first Easter is surely worth celebrating every day- with bells and smells if that's your preference, but surely with a thankful heart.
Monday 17 April 2006
The Noisiness of the Lambs
What could be more appropriate and lovely a way to end the Easter holiday than a trip to a sheep farm. Lambs are of the essence of the season, and it was a delightful sight to see two of the fluffy darlings being born today at a sheep farm in the great English countryside. The picture above though shows a little artistic licence, as these were Devon lambs snapped on my recent visit to Lee Abbey.
The farm I visited nestles at the foot of the Sussex Downs. This beautiful part of England has long been a favourite retreat of writers, painters and poets. It's also a place I know well, and have had some very special moments with God and with people over the last eighteen years or so. At this time of the year, though, there's an extra joy in the air. Somehow the soil itself seems to sing re-birth now, echoed in the lovely Easter carol to a French tune, Now the Green Blade Riseth.
The arrival of these aahy animals, helped into the world by human midwifery, or rather midewery, was a highlight of Easter Monday for me. The place was also full of wide-eyed wonder from numerous Bank Holiday under-10 spectators and indeed from their Mums, Dads and assorted other visitors.
Little children and the way they see the world with such awesome wonder bring so much more to the enjoyment of life. Maybe it's no wonder that Jesus himself then said theirs is the kingdom of heaven. But as the Resurrection continues to be celebrated, the sweet taste of the new wine of the kingdom is now on offer again to one and all. Now that's something worth making the loudest noise about, whether adult or child!
Sunday 16 April 2006
Open up!
Happy Easter! Today is the climax of everything for Christians: a victory parade, in fact. Few greater songs can be sung than those I've just been warbling at the top of my voice in the dining room, watching the BBC's long-running series Songs of Praise in their celebration of Easter from Lincoln Cathedral, in Eastern England. Probably one of the most popular of Easter hymns, set to the tune Judas Maccabeus by Handel, says it all:
Thine be the glory
Risen Conquering Son
Endless is the victory
Thou o'er death hast won.
Easter Day celebrates the wonderful possibility and potential of humanity that, no matter how low we may seem to sink-even into the grave itself- there is the tantalising, exciting possibility of a life that never ends if we but recognise the meaning of the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.
April is the month of openings- that's what the word originally meant. Out in my back garden, the silver birch has burst forth with its catkins and all around trees and gardens are springing to life. But no matter how marvellous each springtime catwalk of daffodils, bluebells and blossom may seem, the greatest marvel is that God so loved the world that he gave his only son, that we might live and love forever. And that's surely something to sing about!
Thine be the glory
Risen Conquering Son
Endless is the victory
Thou o'er death hast won.
Easter Day celebrates the wonderful possibility and potential of humanity that, no matter how low we may seem to sink-even into the grave itself- there is the tantalising, exciting possibility of a life that never ends if we but recognise the meaning of the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.
April is the month of openings- that's what the word originally meant. Out in my back garden, the silver birch has burst forth with its catkins and all around trees and gardens are springing to life. But no matter how marvellous each springtime catwalk of daffodils, bluebells and blossom may seem, the greatest marvel is that God so loved the world that he gave his only son, that we might live and love forever. And that's surely something to sing about!
Friday 14 April 2006
A Nail of Two Cities
Good Friday. A major cosmopolitan city, full of races and faces up for a jolly on one of the big holidays of the year. Around the city centre, the sounds of music and the hustle of celebrations jostle for public attention.
Meanwhile, at the centre of local government, voices of reason are drowned out with "treason!", as a mob in the miasma cast their inevitable verdict on the innocent young man standing before them. The Roman occupation of this city leaves the passage of sentence to Pontius Pilate, who despite the warnings of his troubled wife who'd dreamt of trouble from the 33-year old before him, says "crucify!". Washing his hands, the civil powers with riot shields carry away the young teacher to be left for dead on rotten wood at the city rubbish dump.
This could be Jerusalem: how ironic it's name means "city of peace". It could be 1973 years ago, but tonight the BBC chose to move the drama, the pathos and the tragedy to another city which has known violence, agony and death at the hands of terror and life cut short. This is Manchester, England, AD2006.
As I type this, BBC TWO is airing the "as live" repeat of The Manchester Passion, a controversial but imaginative 21st century reworking of the story of the betrayal, trial and death of the Lord Jesus Christ. Gone are the sacred soundtracks of Handel and Bach, in are the often despairing music and lyrics of the Gallagher brothers of Oasis and the words of Williams, Robbie, minus the voice.
Is this reverent, is it appropriate? As M-people's Search for the Hero Inside Yourself echoes across the rain-washed streets of the North-West, should Jesus' people be mourning or moaning tonight with this radical re-working of the familiar passion narrative?
My own view is it's very appropriate. If anything causes a cynical, secular nation to look again at the most important event in history, it's to be welcomed. The message of the cross cannot be weakened by the creative licence of the 21st century, it can only be strengthened. It is timeless and free of cultural bias. Like the seminal Franco Zeffirelli film of a quarter of a century ago being shown again this weekend on ITV3, Jesus's story can bear re-interpretation in a thousand different ways without loss of its power.
Now, it is finished. Jesus is dead, taken down from the cross. How do you see him: Mad? Jester? Untied.
Buried in a borrowed tomb,the world now waits again for the answer. Promised passionately in the hero of heroes own words, one day soon it will get it.
Meanwhile, at the centre of local government, voices of reason are drowned out with "treason!", as a mob in the miasma cast their inevitable verdict on the innocent young man standing before them. The Roman occupation of this city leaves the passage of sentence to Pontius Pilate, who despite the warnings of his troubled wife who'd dreamt of trouble from the 33-year old before him, says "crucify!". Washing his hands, the civil powers with riot shields carry away the young teacher to be left for dead on rotten wood at the city rubbish dump.
This could be Jerusalem: how ironic it's name means "city of peace". It could be 1973 years ago, but tonight the BBC chose to move the drama, the pathos and the tragedy to another city which has known violence, agony and death at the hands of terror and life cut short. This is Manchester, England, AD2006.
As I type this, BBC TWO is airing the "as live" repeat of The Manchester Passion, a controversial but imaginative 21st century reworking of the story of the betrayal, trial and death of the Lord Jesus Christ. Gone are the sacred soundtracks of Handel and Bach, in are the often despairing music and lyrics of the Gallagher brothers of Oasis and the words of Williams, Robbie, minus the voice.
Is this reverent, is it appropriate? As M-people's Search for the Hero Inside Yourself echoes across the rain-washed streets of the North-West, should Jesus' people be mourning or moaning tonight with this radical re-working of the familiar passion narrative?
My own view is it's very appropriate. If anything causes a cynical, secular nation to look again at the most important event in history, it's to be welcomed. The message of the cross cannot be weakened by the creative licence of the 21st century, it can only be strengthened. It is timeless and free of cultural bias. Like the seminal Franco Zeffirelli film of a quarter of a century ago being shown again this weekend on ITV3, Jesus's story can bear re-interpretation in a thousand different ways without loss of its power.
Now, it is finished. Jesus is dead, taken down from the cross. How do you see him: Mad? Jester? Untied.
Buried in a borrowed tomb,the world now waits again for the answer. Promised passionately in the hero of heroes own words, one day soon it will get it.
Thursday 13 April 2006
Love Unknown
More songs have been sung about it, and no doubt more words written, than on any other subject. Great paintings celebrate it, sculpture captures it in metal, stone or wood. Great minds have sought to explain it, some have even gone out of their minds for want of it.
Love. A four letter word, and yet the most powerful weapon in the universe.
Where does it come from? What is it anyway? Is not a better question, on this cusp between "Maundy Thursday" and "Good Friday" Where did it go?
To a kangaroo court and a timid Roman consul. To religious officials with eyes blinded to any view but their own. To a crowd shouting praises to their king a few days before on Palm Sunday, now baying for his blood. In less than 24 hours, they got it.
This is love unknown. This is the force that brings me to tears, as I write this in my loneliness this late Thursday night, with my brother away at Scout camp and my mother no longer with us. Perhaps I feel more lonely tonight than I have ever done since I was a nine year old boy longing for a friend, and to whom the Passiontide hymn of my title meant then, and still means, so much.
This is Savage bearing his soul. I hope perhaps my British, male readers will give me forebearance. We just don't tend to do things that way here. We're not supposed to show our feelings but instead keep a stiff upper lip and never betray our emotions.
Yet this is folly. Maundy Thursday was when He whose hands flung stars into space knew the absence of love, sweated and wept with worry for fear of death and want of a friend. Even his closest companions of three years, those who earlier that evening had shared the sacred family feast with him, would not stay awake with him as he anticipated the agony of what was to come. When the "authorities" came to arrest Jesus of Nazareth, they all fled. Not one, even the most professedly loyal, would follow him to his fate nor defend him in public.
The saddest fact of life is that, ultimately, we are all alone. We seek love in all its many forms throughout life, but nobody can come with us on that most painful, final of journeys.
Except one, who did- alone, deserted even by his God (his own father, in fact). He was to die the cruellest death imaginable, reserved for the most heinous of criminals.
Jesus wept. Jesus bore injustice, sorrow, desertion. This is love.
This is the reason I live, and its why I need to blog tonight. May you too know this love this holy season.
He came from His blest throne
Salvation to bestow;
But men made strange, and none
The longed for Christ would know:
But O! my Friend, my Friend indeed,
Who at my need His life did spend.
Love. A four letter word, and yet the most powerful weapon in the universe.
Where does it come from? What is it anyway? Is not a better question, on this cusp between "Maundy Thursday" and "Good Friday" Where did it go?
To a kangaroo court and a timid Roman consul. To religious officials with eyes blinded to any view but their own. To a crowd shouting praises to their king a few days before on Palm Sunday, now baying for his blood. In less than 24 hours, they got it.
This is love unknown. This is the force that brings me to tears, as I write this in my loneliness this late Thursday night, with my brother away at Scout camp and my mother no longer with us. Perhaps I feel more lonely tonight than I have ever done since I was a nine year old boy longing for a friend, and to whom the Passiontide hymn of my title meant then, and still means, so much.
This is Savage bearing his soul. I hope perhaps my British, male readers will give me forebearance. We just don't tend to do things that way here. We're not supposed to show our feelings but instead keep a stiff upper lip and never betray our emotions.
Yet this is folly. Maundy Thursday was when He whose hands flung stars into space knew the absence of love, sweated and wept with worry for fear of death and want of a friend. Even his closest companions of three years, those who earlier that evening had shared the sacred family feast with him, would not stay awake with him as he anticipated the agony of what was to come. When the "authorities" came to arrest Jesus of Nazareth, they all fled. Not one, even the most professedly loyal, would follow him to his fate nor defend him in public.
The saddest fact of life is that, ultimately, we are all alone. We seek love in all its many forms throughout life, but nobody can come with us on that most painful, final of journeys.
Except one, who did- alone, deserted even by his God (his own father, in fact). He was to die the cruellest death imaginable, reserved for the most heinous of criminals.
Jesus wept. Jesus bore injustice, sorrow, desertion. This is love.
This is the reason I live, and its why I need to blog tonight. May you too know this love this holy season.
He came from His blest throne
Salvation to bestow;
But men made strange, and none
The longed for Christ would know:
But O! my Friend, my Friend indeed,
Who at my need His life did spend.
Wednesday 12 April 2006
The Spirit is Willing
Yet the flesh is all too weak, this week. And yet, frail human flesh clothed the deity at this passover period in Jerusalem, twenty centuries ago.
Here we are, half way through Holy Week already. From the joy and expectation of Palm Sunday, we've already moved on to the fast-paced, familiar saga of love and betrayal which this most solemn of Christian remembrances recalls. The last week of life of Jesus Christ, before he was mercilessly crucified "to make us good" saw the climax of his ministry, yet all his friends turning away from him in his most needful hour.
Forgive me if my own flesh is weak, i.e mentally tired, to offer too much by way of reflection at this special time. But really, it has already been said so much better by the words of grace of the Holy Bible. Read the gospel of John's final chapters this week, and you meet the deep, deep love of Jesus revealed in his final days and hours. If you've a spirit willing to receive, never will you read more precious words.
Here we are, half way through Holy Week already. From the joy and expectation of Palm Sunday, we've already moved on to the fast-paced, familiar saga of love and betrayal which this most solemn of Christian remembrances recalls. The last week of life of Jesus Christ, before he was mercilessly crucified "to make us good" saw the climax of his ministry, yet all his friends turning away from him in his most needful hour.
Forgive me if my own flesh is weak, i.e mentally tired, to offer too much by way of reflection at this special time. But really, it has already been said so much better by the words of grace of the Holy Bible. Read the gospel of John's final chapters this week, and you meet the deep, deep love of Jesus revealed in his final days and hours. If you've a spirit willing to receive, never will you read more precious words.
Wednesday 5 April 2006
Radio Alert
The Radio 4 UK theme will be lost to the airwaves around the queen's eightieth birthday, somewhat ironically. For more on this, visit my radio blogspot "RadioFar-Far", following the link on the right.
Saturday 1 April 2006
Heaven in Devon
Please excuse the cyber-silence through the last week of March, but your blogger has been in a place where the wonders of Wi-fi, let alone a mobile phone signal, still don't quite reach. I've not actually been taken up to that place where, like the apostle Paul who claimed some experience of it, we all hope to go one day, but spending four days in England's second-largest county during a finally enwarmed Spring has certainly given a taste of it.
Lee Abbey-click on the post title above for more information- was my location of choice for a four day retreat coupled with a visit to an old friend and my uncle and aunt, who have the good fortune to live around this impressive part of the British coastline. Although I'd visited my family in the area several times, it was my first visit to this famous Christian holiday and conference centre, which was founded in the difficult times following the Second World War. Many Christians then were seeking a spiritual renewal for England while the politicians sought to attend to "practical" needs with the founding of the welfare state. Lee Abbey was one result of the Christian vision, and in the intervening sixty years it has thrived to become part of a widely-respected movement with worldwide support.
I'd been meaning to come down to this beautiful location for many years, and I'd known of Lee Abbey for around two decades though only recently discovered just how much more the Lee Abbey movement has to offer. The first week of Spring "proper" though provided an ideal prompting for this young man to 'go West' for my own Lent reflections and something of the wilderness experience, because it immediately followed the first anniversary of my dear Mum's death on 26th March. With some irony, in the UK this year that was Mothering Sunday, which is our equivalent of Mothers' Day and often called that, though its origins long pre-date the May celebration of these precious ladies in several other countries.
I also happened to be asked to preach at my church on the evening of Mothering Sunday, which went well although I had wondered how I might be able to handle such a co-incidence of timing. I should not have worried; God carried me and my brother through the happy-sad memories of that day and the past week has been memorable too as I seek to move on after this loss.
In Devon, as in Heaven, my past, present and possible future were joined as God made his presence felt a little closer to me and the other dear souls gathered in "Tarka the Otter" country. It was good to meet some new folk and have some enriching, intelligent conversations - food for the soul- as well as a delicious selection of great "grub". With the South West Coastal path skirting the Lee estate, though, fortunately I've found I've lost weight rather than put it on in the past week!
High Lee, How Lee, Holy
The ever-inspiring Brian Draper was the main speaker at the group I attended; follow the link on the left of this page to Brian's always blogspot. Though I'm not sure whether he'll have anything to say about Devon, what he does say he always does skilfully and intelligently with far fewer words than me. Although I'd heard or read some of what Brian said at Lee Abbey in other contexts, I nevertheless found so much of it helpful and challenging stuff. It was an excellent encouragement for all those of us seeking to show that the Christian faith is still as relevant in the very different cultural landscape of 21st century Britain as it was in the first century Holy Land. Another lovely coincidence, incidentally, was that was where I was on this very week sixteen years ago.
Besides the questions applicable to our society in general, the loss of a parent, or indeed any close loved one, naturally causes one to look afresh at the often complex, all too brief experience we call life: how have I used it so far, and how am I going to use the rest of it? What can I do, what can't I do? How do I fit into the grander scheme of things and the way the world is going?
At least, these are some of the many questions I have asked myself during the last twelve months, though it has to be said that they are the sort of probing enquiries that thinking, feeling individuals- whether people of faith or not- should be asking regularly if life is to be lived to the full. Sadly in the Western World today, in my view at least, all too many individuals cheat themselves and others by settling for something less and paddling only in the shallows of life, rather than exploring its wonderful depths.
The Exmoor National Park, in which Lee Abbey is situated, is a breath-taking place where appreciation of the beauty of nature should come naturally to anyone circulating the blood of humanity. Steep granite cliffs slope down to secluded, tiny bays on the Bristol Channel, that stretch of sea where the moodiness of the Atlantic Ocean becomes moderated by the warm winds of the Gulf Stream as it kisses British shores for the first time. I can well understand the appeal of the place.
If you're looking for refreshment and renewal, come on retreat to divine Devon. Choose the wonderful Christian community of Lee Abbey for your stay, and you too can experience a taste of heaven, and you won't find it in a Clotted Cream tub.
Lee Abbey-click on the post title above for more information- was my location of choice for a four day retreat coupled with a visit to an old friend and my uncle and aunt, who have the good fortune to live around this impressive part of the British coastline. Although I'd visited my family in the area several times, it was my first visit to this famous Christian holiday and conference centre, which was founded in the difficult times following the Second World War. Many Christians then were seeking a spiritual renewal for England while the politicians sought to attend to "practical" needs with the founding of the welfare state. Lee Abbey was one result of the Christian vision, and in the intervening sixty years it has thrived to become part of a widely-respected movement with worldwide support.
I'd been meaning to come down to this beautiful location for many years, and I'd known of Lee Abbey for around two decades though only recently discovered just how much more the Lee Abbey movement has to offer. The first week of Spring "proper" though provided an ideal prompting for this young man to 'go West' for my own Lent reflections and something of the wilderness experience, because it immediately followed the first anniversary of my dear Mum's death on 26th March. With some irony, in the UK this year that was Mothering Sunday, which is our equivalent of Mothers' Day and often called that, though its origins long pre-date the May celebration of these precious ladies in several other countries.
I also happened to be asked to preach at my church on the evening of Mothering Sunday, which went well although I had wondered how I might be able to handle such a co-incidence of timing. I should not have worried; God carried me and my brother through the happy-sad memories of that day and the past week has been memorable too as I seek to move on after this loss.
In Devon, as in Heaven, my past, present and possible future were joined as God made his presence felt a little closer to me and the other dear souls gathered in "Tarka the Otter" country. It was good to meet some new folk and have some enriching, intelligent conversations - food for the soul- as well as a delicious selection of great "grub". With the South West Coastal path skirting the Lee estate, though, fortunately I've found I've lost weight rather than put it on in the past week!
High Lee, How Lee, Holy
The ever-inspiring Brian Draper was the main speaker at the group I attended; follow the link on the left of this page to Brian's always blogspot. Though I'm not sure whether he'll have anything to say about Devon, what he does say he always does skilfully and intelligently with far fewer words than me. Although I'd heard or read some of what Brian said at Lee Abbey in other contexts, I nevertheless found so much of it helpful and challenging stuff. It was an excellent encouragement for all those of us seeking to show that the Christian faith is still as relevant in the very different cultural landscape of 21st century Britain as it was in the first century Holy Land. Another lovely coincidence, incidentally, was that was where I was on this very week sixteen years ago.
Besides the questions applicable to our society in general, the loss of a parent, or indeed any close loved one, naturally causes one to look afresh at the often complex, all too brief experience we call life: how have I used it so far, and how am I going to use the rest of it? What can I do, what can't I do? How do I fit into the grander scheme of things and the way the world is going?
At least, these are some of the many questions I have asked myself during the last twelve months, though it has to be said that they are the sort of probing enquiries that thinking, feeling individuals- whether people of faith or not- should be asking regularly if life is to be lived to the full. Sadly in the Western World today, in my view at least, all too many individuals cheat themselves and others by settling for something less and paddling only in the shallows of life, rather than exploring its wonderful depths.
The Exmoor National Park, in which Lee Abbey is situated, is a breath-taking place where appreciation of the beauty of nature should come naturally to anyone circulating the blood of humanity. Steep granite cliffs slope down to secluded, tiny bays on the Bristol Channel, that stretch of sea where the moodiness of the Atlantic Ocean becomes moderated by the warm winds of the Gulf Stream as it kisses British shores for the first time. I can well understand the appeal of the place.
If you're looking for refreshment and renewal, come on retreat to divine Devon. Choose the wonderful Christian community of Lee Abbey for your stay, and you too can experience a taste of heaven, and you won't find it in a Clotted Cream tub.
Friday 24 March 2006
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"
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"
Tuesday 21 March 2006
Last of the Winter Whine
I guess I wouldn't be a British Blogger if I didn't hark on about the weather once in a while! It seems to be our most well-known national characteristic, and is a surefire conversation starter whenever meeting someone new- readers outside the British Isles take note if you've never yet visited these shores but intend to some day.
Today is officially the first day of Spring here in the Northern Hemisphere, with yesterday being the vernal equinox when the hours of day and night were roughly equal. From here on in, lightwise at least we're coasting up to the summit of the year and the longest day in my favourite month, June- I can't wait for the longer evenings, especially when Summer time clicks in as the clocks go forward on Sunday.
Unfortunately, though, the climate's got a long way to go yet before it catches up, and today it is still as bitterly chilly as it seems to have been since the end of last year. Everywhere in the media and in the daily chatter of chilly choppers, the topic's the same: when IS Spring going to arrive this year? Even the poor daffodils are staying in hibernation for want of a bit of sunshine- though ironically in South-East England, it's rain we're needing rather more after the driest winter since 1933.
The BBC's weather experts are blaming it on a late autumn, knocking on to a delayed winter and hence a tardy spring. First time I've heard that one, I must admit, but it's a plausible theory.
Life often mimics the seasons in the same way, and indeed the writer of Ecclesiastes, often seen as one of the gloomiest books of the Bible, said that for everything there is a time, and a season for every activity under the heavens (New International Version translation).
Trouble is, it's not always so easy to read the signs of the changing seasons in our own lives- when we should be moving on from one place, activity or relationship, to another. If only we had the same clues, like the previously naked pussy willow now putting on its spring garb with the tree's soft and furry catkins, or the blackbird chirruping away in sheer joy as well as mate-seeking.
In fact, the clues are all around- and in less than a month, Christians will be replacing the long period of reflection, repentance and withdrawal of Lent with the dark events of Christ's passion followed swiftly by the annual marvel and revelation of the April opening of the empty tomb- and the resurrection! I've no doubt that Jesus's resurrection was an actual physical event, but how much more is it- especially with its timing in the Spring of the year in the place it occurred- the realisation of God's promises to us, and the hope that each new Springtime brings.
Why worry about the passage of the years and the fact we're all getting older? Why should age anyway be any barrier to achieving what you want to, or perhaps are even destined to do by the almighty? Why not instead be like the old codgers in Last of the Summer Wine wandering the idyllic countryside of West Yorkshire without a care in the world, taking each day as it comes and making the most of this extraordinary gift called life, as long as it endures. Surely that's no cause for whining, nor for pining, but rather for shining. There may be no sign of the sun, but we wait to be reminded that the dying son became the risen son-and that puts a spring in my step every day!
Today is officially the first day of Spring here in the Northern Hemisphere, with yesterday being the vernal equinox when the hours of day and night were roughly equal. From here on in, lightwise at least we're coasting up to the summit of the year and the longest day in my favourite month, June- I can't wait for the longer evenings, especially when Summer time clicks in as the clocks go forward on Sunday.
Unfortunately, though, the climate's got a long way to go yet before it catches up, and today it is still as bitterly chilly as it seems to have been since the end of last year. Everywhere in the media and in the daily chatter of chilly choppers, the topic's the same: when IS Spring going to arrive this year? Even the poor daffodils are staying in hibernation for want of a bit of sunshine- though ironically in South-East England, it's rain we're needing rather more after the driest winter since 1933.
The BBC's weather experts are blaming it on a late autumn, knocking on to a delayed winter and hence a tardy spring. First time I've heard that one, I must admit, but it's a plausible theory.
Life often mimics the seasons in the same way, and indeed the writer of Ecclesiastes, often seen as one of the gloomiest books of the Bible, said that for everything there is a time, and a season for every activity under the heavens (New International Version translation).
Trouble is, it's not always so easy to read the signs of the changing seasons in our own lives- when we should be moving on from one place, activity or relationship, to another. If only we had the same clues, like the previously naked pussy willow now putting on its spring garb with the tree's soft and furry catkins, or the blackbird chirruping away in sheer joy as well as mate-seeking.
In fact, the clues are all around- and in less than a month, Christians will be replacing the long period of reflection, repentance and withdrawal of Lent with the dark events of Christ's passion followed swiftly by the annual marvel and revelation of the April opening of the empty tomb- and the resurrection! I've no doubt that Jesus's resurrection was an actual physical event, but how much more is it- especially with its timing in the Spring of the year in the place it occurred- the realisation of God's promises to us, and the hope that each new Springtime brings.
Why worry about the passage of the years and the fact we're all getting older? Why should age anyway be any barrier to achieving what you want to, or perhaps are even destined to do by the almighty? Why not instead be like the old codgers in Last of the Summer Wine wandering the idyllic countryside of West Yorkshire without a care in the world, taking each day as it comes and making the most of this extraordinary gift called life, as long as it endures. Surely that's no cause for whining, nor for pining, but rather for shining. There may be no sign of the sun, but we wait to be reminded that the dying son became the risen son-and that puts a spring in my step every day!
Thursday 16 March 2006
Wintry Wesleyan Walking
I wonder if John Wesley was ever frozen to the spot? Unlikely that one of the greatest preachers ever froze with fear with as he preached to the masses, but it must have been chilly atop his horse on his famous jaunts, totalling a couple of hundred thousand miles in all, spreading the Word of God throughout the British Isles. There were no centrally heated equines with all the latest accessories for foot and bottom comfort back then: being one of Ye Servants of God on the move was a jolly uncomfortable lot.
Yet Wesley carried on his world-changing work with incredible stamina, right up to the age of 88 when he died. He did so because he sensed a purpose and God's hand on his ministry. Beyond that, however, many historians believe John Wesley saved Great Britain from revolution in the mid-eighteenth century.
"My Hero" -spiritually at least- came much to mind on Thursday afternoon this week, as I trekked the famous streets of the City of London on a fascinating "Christian Heritage Walk" with my fellow Toolboxers on the penultimate afternoon of this fascinating and stimulating course. Unfortunately, it turned out to be the coldest mid-March afternoon for many years, but despite the discomfort we chilly pedestrians had to bear, the tour included a couple of warm churches and even a flame- of the Spirit, at least, warming the heart if not the body.
Having seen the memorial commemorating the Wesley's conversion on one May evening, as close as possible to where it happened, our tour then took us on to the Labyrinth which is the Museum of London complex and a fascinating memorial- which I'm ashamed to admit as a good Methodist I knew nothing about. The "Wesley Flame" outside the Museum of London is an impressive represnation of the kind of faith Wesley had, which motviated him throughout the second half of his life. Beyond this, there were many impressive and unusual sights, including the oldest church in London, St Bartholomew's, where in the mind's ear it was almost possible to hear the monks chanting. A very different world to the Wesleys, but all part of the rich tapestry which makes up Britain's spiritual past.
If the Christian Heritage walk took us back to London's spiritual past, Toolbox has been an education, and insight and an inspiration to help those of us who believe the time is right for a new spiritual revolution in the UK. A rewarding week gave the hope that we may yet see it happen, and the resources and ideas to help do it. Thank heavens for men and women of vision, faith and commitment.
Yet Wesley carried on his world-changing work with incredible stamina, right up to the age of 88 when he died. He did so because he sensed a purpose and God's hand on his ministry. Beyond that, however, many historians believe John Wesley saved Great Britain from revolution in the mid-eighteenth century.
"My Hero" -spiritually at least- came much to mind on Thursday afternoon this week, as I trekked the famous streets of the City of London on a fascinating "Christian Heritage Walk" with my fellow Toolboxers on the penultimate afternoon of this fascinating and stimulating course. Unfortunately, it turned out to be the coldest mid-March afternoon for many years, but despite the discomfort we chilly pedestrians had to bear, the tour included a couple of warm churches and even a flame- of the Spirit, at least, warming the heart if not the body.
Having seen the memorial commemorating the Wesley's conversion on one May evening, as close as possible to where it happened, our tour then took us on to the Labyrinth which is the Museum of London complex and a fascinating memorial- which I'm ashamed to admit as a good Methodist I knew nothing about. The "Wesley Flame" outside the Museum of London is an impressive represnation of the kind of faith Wesley had, which motviated him throughout the second half of his life. Beyond this, there were many impressive and unusual sights, including the oldest church in London, St Bartholomew's, where in the mind's ear it was almost possible to hear the monks chanting. A very different world to the Wesleys, but all part of the rich tapestry which makes up Britain's spiritual past.
If the Christian Heritage walk took us back to London's spiritual past, Toolbox has been an education, and insight and an inspiration to help those of us who believe the time is right for a new spiritual revolution in the UK. A rewarding week gave the hope that we may yet see it happen, and the resources and ideas to help do it. Thank heavens for men and women of vision, faith and commitment.
Monday 13 March 2006
Give us the tools.
Why do we lionise our heroes to the extent we can't recognise they are still only flawed humans? For surely, in their weakness can often be found their strength.
Winston Churchill is an unexpected example of flawed humanity who nevertheless achieved great things. Controversy has been stirred up this week over a new statue of Britain's great wartime prime minister. Nothing special in that, you might think; "Winnie" has been represented in bronze and stone in numerous locations. Except the new statue in Norwich shows Churchill in anything but the famous "V for Victory pose". Instead, he's shown in a straitjacket, representing the depression, or "black dog" as he called it, which he suffered with throughout his life.
Churchill frequently suffered bouts of dark meaninglessness in his life, yet this was the same man who said "Give us the tools, and we'll finish the job" when war was at its height. The public saw not his weakness, and indeed this and his strokes and heart attacks were kept from them to keep morale high. Instead, they saw Churchill inspiring them, stirring them on to great service and pride in what they could achieve, given the right tools for the job.
This week, I'm trying out a new toolbox myself, the popular regular course run by LICC for anybody in Christian service. I may not have to face the same battles as Churchill, but the tools of effective Christian service are the only way to ensure we can all play our part in winning a new battle, against apathy and nihilism, to finish the job for Christ.
Winston Churchill is an unexpected example of flawed humanity who nevertheless achieved great things. Controversy has been stirred up this week over a new statue of Britain's great wartime prime minister. Nothing special in that, you might think; "Winnie" has been represented in bronze and stone in numerous locations. Except the new statue in Norwich shows Churchill in anything but the famous "V for Victory pose". Instead, he's shown in a straitjacket, representing the depression, or "black dog" as he called it, which he suffered with throughout his life.
Churchill frequently suffered bouts of dark meaninglessness in his life, yet this was the same man who said "Give us the tools, and we'll finish the job" when war was at its height. The public saw not his weakness, and indeed this and his strokes and heart attacks were kept from them to keep morale high. Instead, they saw Churchill inspiring them, stirring them on to great service and pride in what they could achieve, given the right tools for the job.
This week, I'm trying out a new toolbox myself, the popular regular course run by LICC for anybody in Christian service. I may not have to face the same battles as Churchill, but the tools of effective Christian service are the only way to ensure we can all play our part in winning a new battle, against apathy and nihilism, to finish the job for Christ.
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